yuezodiaco

[yuezodiaco]

intro. girl with one eye

summary | it takes you losing an eye for your family to realize that they don't want to lose you, to make them realize how much they actually love you, and how much you actually despise them

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!reader.

warnings / tags | angst, literal mutilation, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, reader hates her family so family issues as well. it gets worse and worse actually no better. this is a bit more darker than usual, as reader is not the nicest and the batfamily turns a bit dark for her. NO INCEST because we don't mess with that here 🚫🚫 but future PLATONIC yanderes!

word count | 5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3

bruce is 44-45. barbara is 28. dick is 27. cass is 23. jason is 22. steph is 19. tim is 18. duke is 17. damian and y/n are twins and are 15.

next.

YOU WOULD NEVER FORGET IT.

You could forget a lot of things —or not, actually: your Mother hated it when you forgot about stuff, often reminding you that as a princess and heir, you couldn't allow yourself that—, like one of the many rules your Father had, or that you now lived at the Manor, or how annoying teenagers can be. 

But not that day.

Never.

Years ago, when your brother Damian and you arrived at the Manor alongside your Father, you didn't have much hope. Despite growing up without him, you never wished to know him. You were more than satisfied at your Mother's side, pampered and trained and still so loved. 

There were no differences there. No one treated you as less than what you were: the future of the League. Raised to be a killer, made to be a future wife and a warrior, a protector of your brother. And you were okay with that. Perhaps a bit less with the 'wife' part, but that could be arranged as well.

You grew up with gold, fine silk and swords in your hands. And you were more than okay with that too.

Which is why you hated the Manor so much.

Everything was different there. Everything you knew, every part of your life already planned, crumbled down. Your Father was nothing like your Mother. Nothing of what she had told you as well. He was nothing like your brother and you.

He didn't believe in killing, despised it, and punished the both of you every single time the word was mentioned. He also didn't like the extensive training you had since you were merely an infant. And you would think he also didn't like you a lot.

But it was okay —it wasn't—. You didn't like him much either. It was only fair.

The only good thing you would put on your Father's favor was that he let you be 'Batgirl', a sidekick that started with Barbara Gordon when she was younger. Likewise, he let your brother be 'Robin', as the adopted companions had once been as well.

You loved being Batgirl. You took the greatest of proudness on it. Despite not enjoying your Father's presence, you never wished to disappoint him either, and it seemed he preferred you more as a sidekick than a daughter, as you proved yourself to be helpful and extremely efficient.

Of course. You would very much prefer working alone, or only with Damian, but the old Batman didn't even allow the thought of it. If it was not him who stood by your sides, it was Grayson as Nightwing, or Drake, in the lowest of cases. 

So you still don't know how Damian and you got there alone. How is it that you ended up in that stupid warehouse on your own. You just knew that you couldn't bear you see those men grab your brother, especially when he snarled and tried to kick away.

He couldn't escape.

And you couldn't let them hurt him.

You and your brother had always been far too close. Raised with no social instincts, with poor physical affection from your maternal family, no limits on what was right and what was wrong. You slept on the same bed from time to time still, and when you first arrived at the Manor, barely ten, you couldn't even enter your own room without feeling alone. You missed him even if he was just a room apart.

In school, you joined the art class just for him, and he waited very patiently while you were at your swimming club. You shared the same classes, the same schedules, you both trained with each other, and patrolled together.

So you did what you had to do. You mocked them. You made them so angry they forgot about him, tied him up and left him on the side. But you continued, and continued, and continued. All to make time, to not let them get close to Damian again. You were sure that by any moment your Father would arrive. 

You just didn't know when to stop. 

One of them, eyes red with rage and exclusively drug-lived, ripped your mask apart after a particular mocking got to him. Didn't even bother to actually see your face —if he had, perhaps, he wouldn't have done what he done: he would have taken another choice of torture.

He took his pocket knife, rusty and dull, and smashed down on your face. He didn't even taunt you, he just did it. You turned your face around, as to not let the metal enter your forehead.

Instead, it pushed right into your eye.

Once, twice, thrice. 

You lost the number after that.

It slashed your face, destroyed your whole eyeball. You had never suffered such pain before, nothing of what you had experienced before could compare to having that ordinary knife shoved almost to your brain. 

The pain was not sharp. It was molten. Blistering. A heat that radiated from the core of your skull and exploded outward in pulses. You screamed. You didn’t even realize you were screaming until you choked on your own breath, your voice reduced to something hoarse and primal. 

There was no clarity — only flashes. Red, black, white. The world shook under the weight of it. You clawed at your restraints, wrists tearing against the rough rope, skin breaking. Damian was shouting — his voice was raw and feral, but muffled, as though you were underwater.

Your legs kicked involuntarily, muscles twitching as every nerve in your body revolted. It wasn’t just the eye. The trauma sank into your jaw, your temple, your throat. It felt like he was cutting through not just your eye, but your entire sense of self.

You felt it rupture. Felt it pop.

The pressure released — a grotesque, wet sensation. It was warm. It rolled down your cheek in thick pulses, staining your lips copper. Blood. Fluid. You couldn’t cry — your tear duct had been left intact, but there was nothing for it to cradle anymore.

He kept going.

“Still got that damn mouth on you?” the man barked, voice scratchy with a smoker’s growl and something much worse — glee.

You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Your body was seized in shock, muscles locked. The agony was consuming everything — your thoughts, your memories, your pride. There was no Batgirl here. No League prodigy. Just a child strapped to a chair, skull fracturing under a lunatic’s blade.

“YOU BASTARD!” Damian was screaming. Over and over, his voice echoing, cracking. “I’LL KILL YOU — I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”

“Shut him up,” another voice said. Older. Colder. You heard the wet impact of a hit and the thud of your brother’s body against the wall. He grunted, but he didn’t stop snarling.

They left you slumped, barely upright, head hung low, eye a ruined socket. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, louder than the voices. Louder than Damian’s desperate shouts. Louder than the world.

You were fading.

Not passing out, not yet — that would have been a mercy. But fading, like a flickering signal on a broken radio. Everything became distant. Your fingers stopped moving. Your lips trembled.

But you didn’t cry.

Your mouth opened in a cry, but it was broken. Shattered by the pain. You choked on it. Swallowed it. Your body arched against the chair, against the ropes biting into your arms, and you wished for a moment you could just black out. Just a second. But you stayed awake. 

Then came the second stab. There was no grace to it. Just brute force. The blade twisted, angled wrong, and you felt the serration drag. Something tore again, and it burned. Not like fire, not anymore. It was acid. Acid in your skull. Acid down your jaw. It rippled all the way down to your spine and back up through the top of your scalp. You felt your fingers curl and your wrists strain and the ropes snap skin. You thought you’d vomit — and you did, just a little — down your chin and onto your suit.

You tried to breathe, but it came in hiccupping gasps. You tried to think, but your thoughts were consumed by the horror — not of death, no — but of mutilation. Of being broken.

And then he laughed.

The man laughed like he was carving a pumpkin, like it was a game. He turned your head to the side, gripping your jaw with greasy fingers. He was breathing heavy, sweat slicking his forehead. And he said — so easily, so plainly — “What’s the matter, girl? Thought you were tough.”

You spat at him. Or tried. It didn’t reach.

He hit you. Just once. Across the cheek, opposite your ruined eye. Your head cracked back and hit metal. You think you saw stars. Or maybe it was just the other eye struggling to stay open.

Damian was thrashing, gagged but shrieking behind it. Desperate. You turned your good eye toward him, tried to give him… something. Reassurance. Love. A silent goodbye?

Another hand grabbed your chin again. The knife hovered now, inches from your face. The man wasn’t finished. He wanted more.

You whispered, because it was all you could do, “Go ahead. I’ll still kill you after.”

He laughed again. This time more viciously. “You’re done, sweetheart. You ain’t killin’ anyone. Not like that.”

But he didn’t strike again.

Not because he decided to stop. But because of the noise — a crash — and then another. The door exploded inward. Gunfire, screaming, the unmistakable screech of metal and cape and fury.

You barely saw it. You were already fading.

You heard Damian gag and sob and yell “Father!” before the gag was ripped away. And someone was screaming louder than you now — the man, probably, being slammed into the wall. A sick crunch followed.

Then hands. So many hands.

Hands on your shoulders, your wrists, your jaw. But these were warm. These were careful. These weren’t enemies.

One of them was soft — softer than all the others — fingers brushing your face and muttering something under their breath.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Oh my God—Y/N—can you hear me?”

Grayson. You knew his voice even as the darkness clung to your ears like wax.

You whimpered. It was all you could do.

Your throat burned. “He… he took it.”

“We know,” he said. “We know, sweetie. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”

He was lying.

Because nothing was okay.

You felt someone lift you. The cape, the smell of it, the warm inside lining — it was your father. You knew by the way he moved. Silent but precise. Every breath he took was rage restrained.

“I’ve got her,” he said. Quietly. Too quietly.

You wanted to say something to him. Something mean. Something sour. You didn’t know. The pain was overtaking you again.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

“I know,” Bruce said. And that was all.

You passed out somewhere between the warehouse and the sky.

And when you woke again, it was like drowning.

The first thing you noticed was the smell — disinfectant and something older, like dust and citrus cleaner and the faint hint of metal. Then the lights, too bright and clinical, burning the inside of your one good eye. Your entire skull throbbed, throbbed so hard you were sure it had cracked from the inside. 

There was pressure, a dull pulse that rhythmically pounded against your left browbone, and heat — a sort of sticky, horrible heat like your skin had been wrapped in cotton soaked in your own blood and left to fester.

Your mouth was dry. Your lips stuck to each other. Your tongue felt like sandpaper pressed into raw meat. And yet, none of that compared to the sensation clawing inside your chest.

You were aware.

Of what was gone.

Of what was missing.

Of what you could no longer feel behind the bandage that wrapped half your head like a grotesque imitation of a helmet.

“No—” you rasped. “No, no—”

The left side of your face is numb and too hot at once. Something is wrapped tight around your head, dragging over your scalp, cheek, temple. It itches. It stings. It suffocates. And the longer you lie there, blinking through the blur of the right side, the more you feel the rising panic clawing up your throat.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”

It’s Jason.

“Back with us, little bat.”

His voice tries to sound calm, but there’s a tension to it. A sharpness behind the trembling grin you can’t see.

You try to sit up and the pain hits you all at once. Your skull pounds. Your stomach flips. You collapse back onto the bed with a sharp gasp, and the machines spike briefly.

“Easy, Y/N. Don’t rush it.”

You don’t care. You lift your hand, touch the gauze. It’s thick, layered, taped down hard. Your heart pounds.

“What did they do to me?”

“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in Leslie’s clinic. You made it out. You’re—”

But the words twisted in your ears. Made you sick. You weren’t okay. You weren’t safe. You weren’t whole. You weren’t.

You jerked away from his hand like it burned you. Your body betrayed you, shaking too hard to sit up fully, but you tried anyway. 

“No,” you whisper, fingers trembling as they hover at the edge of the bandage. “No, I’m not.”

And then another voice — clearer, gentler — “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Dick.

Your mind reached toward the sound like a rope in a storm.

“You’re okay,” he said, kneeling by your bedside. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise—”

“No!” Your scream cracked your throat open. You shoved at the blanket, at the sheets, at the wires in your arms. “No, I’m not! I’m not—!”

You clawed at the bandages before they could stop you. You didn’t even know what your fingers were doing — they were frantic, desperate — but you felt the gauze tear. The tape pop. Someone grabbed your wrist.

“Stop—!”

“Let me go—!”

“Y/N—!”

But it was too late.

The bandage dropped to the side of your face like wet tissue.

And you saw yourself.

It wasn’t a proper mirror. Just the reflective metal of a tray table across the room, but it was enough. The lighting caught it just right. And in it — half your face, bright under the fluorescents, pale and wounded and horrifically wrong.

Where your left eye once was, now sat a gaping wound stitched in a rough crescent. The lid was still there, partly, as was the bruising and raw lines where Leslie had sealed what she could. But it was concave, empty, the orbit sunken deep. A pit. A hollow.

You saw it.

And you screamed.

“NO! NO—NO—PUT IT BACK—”

You screamed so loudly the sound tore through your ribs and chest and made your throat bleed. You twisted and flailed and grabbed at the edge of the bed, trying to stand, to do something — but your legs gave out. Dick caught you before your knees slammed the tile.

Jason was behind you now, arms wrapping fully around your back and middle, holding you still. Your body trembled violently, like it wanted to rip itself apart. You couldn’t even breathe. You were choking on nothing, gasping like a fish pulled out of water.

“Let me go—please, let me go—”

“Y/N, you have to calm down,” Jason said into your ear, his voice straining. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse—”

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”

And then Leslie was there. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. You didn’t even feel the needle until it was in your arm. A sting, a push of warmth, and then—

You sagged. Not instantly. Not completely. But your limbs slowed. Your heart — hammering against your ribcage like it wanted to escape — finally began to soften its rhythm. Your voice broke into hiccuped sobs, then whispers, then nothing but silence.

Jason still held you.

Dick still crouched in front of you, his arms around your shoulders.

Your head drooped against one of them. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. All you knew was the absence of your eye. The echo of what used to be there. And the horrific realization that this was permanent.

You would never get it back.

Never.

Leslie sat on the edge of the bed beside you. You could feel her eyes on your face — not judgmental, not clinical. Just sad. Just impossibly, unbearably sad.

“It's gone,” you whispered. “It’s really gone.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

You blinked. Your right eye burned with tears that never came. The left — the one that wasn’t there — still ached. Still itched. You wanted to claw at it, to scrape out the pain. But you couldn’t lift your hand anymore.

“Why does it still hurt?” you asked. “Why can I still feel it?”

“Because the nerves don’t understand yet,” Leslie said. “Your body still thinks it’s there. It’s called phantom pain. It happens to amputees. Eyes too. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. You just laid there.

“Just sleep,” Leslie says, her hand brushing your hair. “Just let go.”

Since there, nothing had been the same. You spent weeks at Leslie's clinic. Weeks isolated from reality, surrounded by the white walls of the clinic, the clink of surgical trays, and the quiet rustle of Leslie Thompkins’s slippers as she moved like a ghost between your room and the halls. The only company you had was your own nausea, your dreams—which bled into nightmares—and the unbearable nothingness inside your eye socket.

No one was allowed in.

Not even Damian.

Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Cass, though she’d tried more than once to slip in silently through the ventilation. (You heard her once. You didn’t say anything. You wanted to, but the words died in your throat.)

The only one Leslie let through the door was your Father.

And even then, only because you didn’t get a say.

Leslie followed his orders when it came to you. She always had. The same way Alfred used to defer to him. The same way Dick never raised his voice when Bruce lowered his. The same way the whole damn city of Gotham bent to Batman’s unrelenting shadow.

And you were no different.

He came in quietly every night—always after dark, always after patrol—and sat in the single chair near your bed. Sometimes he would bring you books. Or your favorite herbal tea, the one Damian swore you loved as a child. Sometimes he would just sit there, silently reading reports or rechecking your medical chart even though he already had it memorized. A few times he tried talking.

But you never responded.

Not once. Losing an eye wouldn't change your distaste of your Father.

It wouldn’t unwrite the years without him. It wouldn’t erase your Mother’s warmth, her fierce pride when you beat your tutors with a blade, the soft silk of your robes as you sparred in the gardens under moonlight. It wouldn’t change the way he treated your training like abuse — it was. How he recoiled from the version of you that wasn’t his.

But the loss changed everything else.

Especially in your heart.

While you had never been extroverted enough to be called anything close to warm, you had still once possessed a fire inside of you. A flame. The heat of your mother’s blood and the League’s training and your own sharpened pride—your defiance, your discipline, your hunger to be great.

Your identity had been built on precision. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, the League’s prodigy. You moved like smoke through shadows, struck faster than most men could blink. You trained beside Damian — and often above him — with pride, discipline, and the terrifying assurance of a child that knew what she’d been built for.

But now?

Now, even reaching for a glass of water made your hands tremble.

You’d gone from warrior to weakling. From fire to ash.

One eye gone, and so was your depth perception. Your balance. Your peripheral vision. Tasks you’d never had to think about now tripped you up at every corner. You couldn’t pour a drink without missing the cup. You couldn’t catch a thrown object — not without tilting your head and praying you judged it right. You’d reach out for a vase on your bedside table and knock it over instead, sending it crashing to the floor, ceramic in pieces.

You’d shove everything off the table. Off the bed. You didn’t even know what you were breaking anymore. You just needed the noise. Needed something to match the chaos inside your chest. Because you couldn’t take it — the constant, aching absence in your skull. The way the gauze would get damp from your tear duct. 

It mocked you. Your own body mocked you.

At night, you'd feel the phantom of it — the memory of having two eyes. The illusion that if you just blinked hard enough, the world would go back to full. But it never did. There was always the dark spot. The void.

Even walking became different. Subtle, strange — like your body forgot how much space it occupied. Corners caught your shoulders. Doorways felt too tight. You’d turn your head too fast and flinch, not because you were in pain, but because your brain was still learning how to be broken.

And the migraines. God, the migraines.

Leslie explained them calmly. “Your brain is adjusting to monocular vision. That left orbit was traumatized, and even though the nerves are dead, the tissue’s still healing. It’ll take time.”

But nothing helped.

Light became an enemy. Flashbangs in the dark. Shadows where there should be none. You stopped trusting your sight entirely. Your right eye twitched sometimes, under the pressure of carrying everything alone. You couldn’t bear the feeling of someone coming up on your blind side — it made you flinch and snarl and lash out.

No one told you that losing one eye meant you'd feel like less than one person.

Once Bruce decided it was “time,” you were taken back to the Manor.

You didn’t say goodbye to Leslie. She didn’t expect you to.

The car ride was silent. Damian sat beside you, his arms folded, his jaw locked in that tight, uncomfortable way that meant he was trying not to speak. Bruce was driving. You didn’t know why he didn’t just send Alfred or Dick, but maybe he thought he was doing something by showing up. Maybe he wanted to be the one to bring you home.

Home.

What a joke.

You didn’t say a word the whole way there.

The Manor looked the same when you arrived. Of course it did.

Gothic arches, heavy stone, windows like darkened eyes. Alfred opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, as if he’d sensed your arrival from a mile away. His expression softened the second he saw you. His age showed more lately — his hair was whiter than you remembered, and his eyes crinkled more with sorrow than sternness.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “Welcome home.”

You didn’t reply.

You walked past him. Your boots were too loud in the entry hall.

You were fifteen. You’d been raised by assassins. You were trained to kill before you were trained to write. And now you couldn’t even grab a damn vase without guessing where it actually was. You couldn’t train. You couldn’t patrol. You were off the roster.

You weren’t Batgirl. You weren’t anyone.

You weren’t sure when exactly Damian started sleeping in your bed again. One night blurred into another, your dreams stitched together by broken lights and phantom pain. You woke up from one of them, gasping into your pillow, only to find the weight of something curled against your side. Small. Familiar.

Damian.

He was facing you, eyes shut but his brow furrowed, his fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve like a lifeline. His breath was slow but shallow, like he was fighting off some nightmare of his own and refusing to let it show. He hadn’t cried, not once, not since the night in the warehouse. But he’d been quieter. Rougher around the edges. Quicker to snap at the others and always within arm’s reach of you. You weren’t sure if he was guarding you, or himself.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him for a long moment, your one eye adjusting to the dark, your vision split permanently in two.

And then you let him stay.

Because he was still half of you, and probably the only part left that still made sense. You didn’t know what kind of person you were anymore. Not Batgirl. Not a warrior. Not anything that felt familiar. But you were still a twin. Still his sister. Still his.

Damian was still there. Still yours. Still half of you. And maybe, if you closed your good eye and lay there long enough, the rest of the world would fade. Maybe, for just a while, you wouldn’t feel so unbalanced. So ruined.

You moved just enough to rest your hand on his hair, fingers slipping into the familiar black strands. He didn’t stir.

He started showing up every night after that.

Sometimes early, sometimes after patrol. You’d hear his soft footsteps before the door opened. Always without a word. He’d slide under the blankets, press close to your side, and fall asleep with one hand curled near yours.

You never stopped him.

You never would.

You shared too many things with him — your first steps, your first blades, your first blood. You were born together, trained together, made together. And now you were broken together, too. Even if only one of you bled for it.

He never mentioned your eye.

Not once.

But when you got frustrated and knocked something over again, or walked into a wall, or missed your footing — he was there. Steady. Silent. Sometimes he picked things up for you. Sometimes he just placed a hand on your wrist until your breathing steadied.

And when the nightmares got bad — yours or his — you curled together like you had when you were small, nothing but soft breath and bruised ribs and shared, smothered pain between you.

Damian always curled inward when he slept. Like he didn’t trust the air around him. Fists tucked under his chin, knees close, spine slightly bent even when the mattress gave him space. But since the warehouse, since the night you lost your eye — your eye, God, that phrase still made you sick — he had stopped pretending to sleep alone.

Once, he whispered: “It should’ve been me.”

And you whispered back, “It wasn’t.”

You didn’t talk about it after that.

Eventually, Leslie said it was time.

Your orbit had healed. The worst of the inflammation was over. There were still sutures inside your skin, layers of muscle and bone trying to knit back together. You’d need follow-ups. Long-term scans. Some of it might never fully recover. But the gauze? The gauze could finally come off.

You should’ve felt relieved.

You didn’t.

You felt exposed.

You felt seen.

They didn’t let you do it alone.

You tried to protest, of course. Tried to tell them it was your face, your choice, your eye — or what was left of it. But the moment Alfred stepped into your room with the medical tray, Bruce behind him, Damian already sitting near the headboard like a statue, you understood that it wasn’t up for debate.

Alfred approached like he was performing a ritual. Not a task. Not a job. Something sacred.

The tray was placed beside your bed, a clean cloth folded at the corner, sterile scissors gleaming under the light. You sat propped up with pillows, hands balled into the sheets, your chest tight enough to crack.

Bruce sat in the chair across from you. No cape. No armor. Just him. Plain clothes, face unreadable, eyes locked on yours.

No one spoke. Not until Alfred dipped the scissors into disinfectant and murmured, “Miss Y/N… May I?”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream and hide and throw the blankets over your face. But you swallowed hard and nodded.

He worked slowly, gently. The scissors snipped through gauze like whispering paper. The first layer peeled back, and cold air hit your cheek, your brow, your eyelid. The texture of exposed, healing skin made your stomach twist. Alfred’s hands didn’t tremble once.

Another layer. And another. And then the last. The gauze fell into the tray like old linen, stained with hours of dampness and sterile creams. Your face was bare.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

You just stared straight ahead at your Father’s face, searching it for something — disgust, sorrow, judgment — but it wasn’t there.

There was only quiet.

You kept your good eye trained on Alfred’s collar, on the soft silver of his tie pin. He didn’t comment on the tears spilling from your left tear duct — steady, unearned, grotesque in their asymmetry.

Alfred gently packed the bandages away and said, “The patches arrived this morning.”

You nodded without speaking.

The black one fit best.

Leslie had sent a few to the Manor, no doubt working through one of her reliable medical suppliers. The white patch — classic, clinical — looked absurd. It got dirty too fast. You tried it once and ripped it off within the hour. The beige one disappeared into your skin but made the hollow too obvious, drawing more attention than it hid. The soft cloth one looked like something out of a pirate film.

The black patch was clean. Sharp. Neutral. It didn’t ask for pity. You could pretend it was tactical, even stylish. Something deliberate. Something chosen.

But every time you put it on, you felt the echo of what it was hiding. A whole part of you. Gone.

The world saw it differently, of course.

Wayne’s daughter, injured in a freak accident. The media latched onto the story like it was fiction, spinning it into a tale of bravery and trauma and noble recovery. “A tragic incident,” the headlines read. “Still under investigation.” The official press release said it happened during an off-duty car crash. Gotham clutched its pearls and murmured in sympathy, turning your pain into cocktail party gossip.

But only you — and the family — knew the truth.

Only you remembered the warehouse. The rusted knife. The sound of Damian’s voice breaking as he screamed for someone to help you. Only you could still feel it — that moment the blade went in, that sickening pop, the burn of your own body eating itself alive.

Every look you received now — on the street, in the Cave, in the damn mirror — was a reminder.

They didn’t see Batgirl.

They saw the girl with one eye.

But once, just once, you woke to find Damian already awake beside you, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.

“Would you want it back?” he asked.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “What?”

“Your eye. If you could. Would you want it back?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You thought about what it had cost you — the balance, the vision, the grace.

“There's a debt to be paid,” you whispered. “With his eye.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but his fingers pressed into yours, hard, and pressed again, a promise that, one day, he'd give it to you.

[yuezodiaco]

Blood Between Us

ׂ╰┈➤ Damian Wayne x Female League of Assassins Reader x Platonic Batfam

𖤓

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

SYPNOSIS: She was born in the shadows, raised by blades, silence, and blood on her hands from the League of Assassins. He left that life behind. You never did, never had the chance. Years after Damian Wayne walks away from the League to join his father in Gotham, you reemerge colder, sharper, and loyal to Ra’s al Ghul. When a mission brings you face to face with the boy who abandoned you, old wounds reopen and this time, you don’t bleed easily, not like when you were a child. But when you're framed for betrayal, Damian and the Batfam are forced to confront the League and to see how much of you truly remains, how much was left behind in the ashes of your shared past.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

𖤓

WARNINGS: Violence, assassin themes, manipulation (emotionally and caused by the league), trauma, kissing, language.

𖤓

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Part I - Trained to Disappear

Part II - Eyes on the Rooftop

Part III - The Target Changes

Part IV - A Blade Between Us

Part V- The Unspoken Trial

Part VI - Sanctuary Denied

Part VII - What Was Never Said

[yuezodiaco]

αηgєℓ σн ѕнє'ѕ ƒαℓℓєη кєєριη' нєя нєαят gυαя∂є∂

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected!reader who regressed back in time story.

act 1, act 2, act 3, act 4, act 5

MDNI 18+ Only

[PLEASE READ: This chapter details Starling's suicidal thoughts and descriptive attempts during her past life as well as the abuse she suffered by members of the Batfamily. If that could be triggering for you in any way, please do not read. Please prioritize your mental health and well-being.] ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴡᴇ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ.. Welcome back to where you took your last breath and to the people who pushed you to that point over and over again. Take a moment to recount the injustices you suffered and the fleeting moments of sweetness that made you believe that there was still good in this world. Summon your courage. Don't look back. ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇɢᴏɴᴇ. ❥ TW: past suicide, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, bullying, emotional and mental abuse, bodyshaming, disordered eating and habits, future incest

You strutted down the halls with a sure footed swagger you didn't have in the past. It should’ve been unfamiliar, this confidence, the sway in your hips, but your mannerisms had changed since the day you awoke in the hospital and you finally felt right. 

Once upon a tragic time, you walked without making a sound, breathed as quietly as you could even if it made you dizzy, and never spoke unless spoken to. After a while your voice stopped coming; It was like you woke up one day to find it had disappeared. 

But now? Your footsteps were music to your ears and you eyed the slimy tendrils sliding down the walls with irritation as they writhed and receded as you passed.

You could barely hide a sour expression behind your impassive mask as you could taste rotten eggs and death in the air as you put more distance between you and Bruce’s study. 

It was true what they said about demons and hauntings having  a smell and you held your breath as you powerwalked to get away from it. The odor had been concentrated in his study, one of his many broody corners, and you were getting lightheaded during your “talk.” 

You’d almost smashed a paperweight through one of his windows because it was so overpowering. 

No one could ignore that smell of death, but you realized that you were the only one who could smell the rot, see the tendrils, and hear the cries. 

You were all alone in this but for some reason you were unafraid. Being alone and getting by with your own strength was thrilling and you couldn’t wait to see how far you’d go.

You finally spotted a bathroom and went in and locked the door behind you. Composure cracked as you hacked the last tastes of the spoiled smell away and rinsed your mouth and face with cool water.

You looked at your reflection and there you were.

In the mirror was your 16 year old self: Fresh from devastation and reeling from a series of events that you’d never truly heal from, but you were still here. 

Your heart was still beating. 

So many times you had prayed it’d stop and you’d go cold, but now hot tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you thought of your mother and loved ones and how it felt like you were given a second chance. Maybe they had given you this second chance.

Your eyes were tinged with a melancholy that you might be able to hide in time, but there was also excitement and mirth in them. You smiled as you admired yourself and sniffled. ‘Thank god I didn’t take after him.’

No one had ever been able to tell you were Bruce’s biological daughter and you were grateful for it in this life. You had truly been the physical black sheep back then, but while caressing your right cheek you thanked everything out there that you got your good looks from your mother’s side. 

That’s right. Good looks. It’s funny how it took dying to clear your eyes of the undeserved self-hatred 10 years caused you. You were gazing at yourself as the way you were, not the way they wanted you to see yourself. You were good looking and your mom’s side did the heavy lifting.

You didn’t see Bruce through the rose tinted lenses that everyone else did. If they were ugly on the inside, it bled through to the outside and you couldn’t ignore it. Maybe you were just too honest like that. You knew which side of the family you got that from too. 

In your critical eye, as someone who saw Bruce in the way he never showed the cameras, his apparent beauty was warped by his bad attitude and repugnant personality. 

If you were being completely honest, he had a shovel chin and non-existent lips on a toothy mouth that lied more than he breathed. 

His blue eyes were flat like the dead’s and as cold as a shark’s and his perpetually furrowed brows only pronounced a neanderthal-esque brow ridge and accelerated wrinkle development.

‘Hottest man alive, my ass.’ 

You saw everyone you had ever loved in your looks and if you ever felt alone, maybe you could just look in a mirror. 

You noticed the bandage near your left eye and tugged to slowly peel it and the super strong adhesive from your tender skin. What lay beneath was a silvery crescent with a shimmery cast with both of its tips pointed away from your eye. 

The scar was a few shades lighter than your natural tone and you tilted your head to watch it catch the bathroom’s light.

Your eyes widened and pupils trembled with emotion as you realized that it was pretty. You had hated everything about you, everything that showed what you’d been through—what made you broken—but you realized too late that there was never anything wrong with you.

You eyed the bandage around your neck and knew what was hidden behind it. A gnarly scar that wrapped around the front of your neck and was at least two inches in height and looked exactly like what it was—evidence of barbed wire having wrapped around your throat, wrenched your flesh, and nearly sawed your head from your body. 

It was a reminder of what you survived and what was taken away. A permanent choker, but this time you wouldn’t constrict yourself.

It was healing incredibly fast and you’d keep the bandage on a few weeks longer until the wound was fully healed, and you wouldn’t hide it when it did. You weren’t hiding away for other’s comfort anymore.

Looking back, the scar had been a massive insecurity, especially when you were surrounded by unrealistically physically beautiful people. 

Your skin had been one of your biggest insecurities and comparison had been the death of your happiness. You remember it like it was yesterday, the you of the past losing her mind over her skin not being as flawless as Barbara’s or Starfire’s.

Even Cass and Stephanie who fought hard every night were unfairly pretty with their scuffs and scrapes. You’d felt like there was something you lacked compared to them, and it was something you could never get no matter how hard you tried. 

You lost yourself, and no one was there to help you find your way back.

You covered your neck and hands until the day you died with sweaters, hoodies, and turtlenecks no matter the season. You concealed your skin and the figure you’d been blessed with and for what? You didn’t have an answer because there wasn’t one. There was never a good reason to make yourself small to make others feel big.

You rolled up the thin sleeves of your top to expose your bandages, wiped your face, and gave the 16 year old you one final grin. 

Her eyes sparkled back and you could see the woman you were just beneath the surface. She wanted to sink her teeth into something and let the juice run down her chin but you lightly persuaded her to cool it. All things in due time.

You left the bathroom with a slight smile on your lips and plans on your mind when you nearly bumped into Cassandra.

You blinked until you recognized her. She stared back at you unnervingly and you would’ve wondered what she was thinking of like you often did in the past if you actually cared. 

You had been so curious about her in the past. She was a mystery to you, but so sweet and loving to the ones who earned her respect and you weren’t one of them. 

It had hurt, but did it now? ‘Not at all.’

You were so over the doom and gloom and edginess of it all. You wanted open books, not the brooding mystery and darkness. These people needed to stop being allergic to healthy coping mechanisms and therapy.

You didn’t bother to smile, but you still didn’t exactly hate her. It was actually a good thing she was around since she could be Bruce’s little princess (it was always obvious she was the favorite) and they could distract each other while you went about your business. 

You liked that idea as a corner of your mouth nearly curled before quickly being concealed. You turned your back and nearly turned the corner when she called out to your retreating form. 

“Y/n.”

You paused and turned to her with no expectations. She didn’t know why she called out to you, but she really wanted—no, did she need?—to reach out. 

There was something about you she couldn’t understand and her curiosity was piqued the moment you waltzed into the manor and clearly knew who was worth your time.

Your expressions were ever changing, and your eyes conveyed a keenness that spoke of much more beneath the surface. She needed to know more.

“Welcome.” She said awkwardly with eyes that searched your face for a lifeline, to grab hold of the olive branch she was extending and start a conversation because she didn't know where she was going with this. This wasn't lost on you. She didn’t “try” to reach out to you like she did the others.

She never had or wanted to, and she was the one to stare you down until you lost your nerve and scurried away in the past. Now, it was your turn to raise a brow.

‘I prayed for this for 10 years?’ Your eyes went cold as you turned your back. 

It was a little too late, wasn't it?

Your heart fluttered with excitement—something you hadn’t felt in over 10 years—and it wasn’t with the delusion of being part of a big happy family or even being acknowledged.

No, there were bigger and better things that thrilled your heart and made you feel like you were walking on air. An uncertain future lay ahead but you were going to grab it with both hands.

Amidst the darkness that encased the manor, something sweet was calling out to you and telling you that you needed to go to the park. It was strange because you don’t recall ever going in the past—actually you don’t recall getting out much at all in the past—but you felt like that place was where you could kick off some of your plans. 

You knew there would be key players you’d need to meet and places you’d need to venture to make your dreams come true, and you weren’t going to benefit by being a shrinking violet in this life. 

Searching online, you found that you could get to Gotham Park by bus and the nearest bus stop was around a 3 mile walk from the manor. The weather was pleasant this time of year so walking the distance wouldn’t be a problem, and you could even get a bus pass online. 

One little hitch is that you’d need bus fare and didn’t want to ask Alfred for money so soon. 

You didn’t feel like answering any questions about leaving the manor when you hadn’t been out of the hospital for one day and huffed in annoyance. 

Maybe if you buttered him up delicately over the next few days you could slip in the bit about needing a few dollars. The sweet hum tickled your ear, and gently called you to the next step. Gotham Park was the next stage of this game.

You walked familiar halls to the kitchen and looked back on the time you had avoided it—along with every other part of the mansion—completely. 

It got to the point that even the thought of coming across a member of that damned family would make your heart seize up. You began to isolate yourself more and more until you stayed put in your room, the little bathroom in the same hall, and to the kitchen late at night when all was quiet or they were on patrol. 

You snuck around like a thief in your own ‘home.’ The anxiety made you reclusive and being reclusive exacerbated the issues you already had and birthed even more. You were a complete agoraphobe by the time you were 20.

You frowned sadly. You couldn’t waste away in this house a second time. 

The purple tendrils slithered down the sides of the walls like blood in old horror movies and wriggled with minds of their own. It was truly disgusting and you held your breath to keep from gagging.

You finally turned a corner and found salvation in Alfred who was in the kitchen and embraced by the light from the large bay window overlooking the garden. He was wiping a glass when you walked in.

“My, Young Mistress, I wanted to meet you and bring you back.” He checked his watch, “I’m so sorry. How did you find your way?” 

“No need to apologize, Mr. Pennyworth. I retraced my steps no problem.” You typed.

Alfred was still disappointed in his miscalculation, but kept on, “How was your talk with Master Bruce?”

“It went well.” You swiped on your phone before pulling yourself into a seat and adjusting the bandages on your wrists. Alfred gazed at your face and found that the bandage beside your eye was now gone. “Ah, there’s my Young Mistress. I knew she were very pretty.”

You gasped and turned away so he couldn't see the smile that hurt your cheeks. The thing about compliments from Alfred was that they were always sincere as was everything he said.

 If he called you pretty, it was because he genuinely thought so and that warmed your heart. Your family would’ve loved him.

“So, is this where you work your magic?” You texted, and Alfred let you change the subject with a knowing smile.

“I wouldn’t say it’s magic, but I haven’t had a complaint yet.”

You tried to rest your arms on top of the island and lean on them as comfortably as you could so that you could watch him. 

The way he moved across the kitchen was nothing short of graceful. How could he make chores look elegant? It’s funny how you avoided the kitchen and the sunlight it let in because of fear when you felt so safe in this warmth now. It took you back to a time where you belonged somewhere and you knew that the people loved you.

You watched him in a daze and any remaining stress melted away as the image of him busy in the kitchen began to mesh with memories of your grandmother doing exactly the same. Being around him, around someone that made you feel so safe, made life’s challenges seem conquerable.

“I’m looking forward to what you’ve got planned. Something about you tells me that you know how to season your food.” You grinned and he chuckled. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”

You were so comfortable as the soft clinking of dishes, the running of water as he rinsed vegetables and the low bubbling of saucepans became sleep sounds to you. 

“Where’s my head today?” Alfred sounded truly disappointed in himself. “Let me show you to your room, Young Mistress.” You looked up at him half awake with a trickle of drool nearly slipping from the corner of your parted mouth.

“Come on. Someone needs to rest before dinner.” You allowed him to guide you off the chair and towards your “new” room.  You'd be lying if your said you hadn't been dreading this moment.

Your room had been your prison cell and sadly it was half self-imposed. Your room had simultaneously been your safe space where no one treaded after a few years and the place where the darkness concentrated the most.

‘Not again. Not again.’ You stood up straight and stepped to the side where you took Alfred’s arm in yours. You’d be brave. This wasn’t your prison. A lump formed in your throat that you could barely breathe around but you wouldn't let the shadows know it.

“My apologies, Young Mistress, but this’ll be a temporary fix. I’ve recently gotten permission to start renovations and plan to have a room made just for you.”

You think you remembered this. Alfred promised to work on your room, and he even got the go-ahead from Bruce but it was never completed. There was always something going on. 

Some members of the family needed saving or all hell was breaking loose on actual hell on earth and Alfred was spread too thin. 

You placed a gentle hand on his own reassuringly and expertly swiped with the other. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Pennyworth. I know you’re always busy. I’m happy just to have a roof over my head.”

This wasn’t just lip service to look good even though it certainly didn’t hurt to score more brownie points. You’d only be here for 2 years and planned on banishing demons and being outside for the most part. No need to stress Alfred over something so trivial.

Alfred froze like you had insulted his cooking. “What do you mean, Young Mistress? You deserve more than just a roof over your head and I’d thank you not to settle for the literal bare minimum.” He sucked in a breath between his teeth, “I already have catalogues and swatches for you to choose from.”

‘These plans will fall through, Alfred. It’s never going to happen.’ You smiled placatingly and patted his hand as you continued down a hall to a set of rooms reserved for uninvited guests. 

You could feel a petty and sarcastic energy saying “Welcome Home” mockingly and it made your skin crawl, but you did one thing that your mother told you when you were having a panic attack at school, “Turn that fear into anger.”

Alfred opened your bedroom door and gestured for you to enter first.

He tried his best just like always. The duvet and pillows were freshly laundered and matched your favorite colors. He had washed and replaced the curtains and thoroughly dusted everything and aired out the room. 

It was pleasantly plain save for the bundles of flowers, cards, small plushes and little goodie bags displayed on the chestnut desk. They were all gifts from the people who took care of you in the hospital.

 

You made a show of admiring the room and the care Alfred put into arranging it for you and looked at the names on the cards.

Not a single one from your new “family.”

 It’s a good thing things hadn’t changed; this would make it easier to be as much of an ass as you wanted to be.

You looked over to Alfred and a wide, heart-melting smile spread across your face. Your eyes glistened and you looked away towards the window to wipe them as you sniffled. 

“I knew it…” You whispered more to yourself and Alfred urged you.

“Knew what, my lady?”

“That I could count on you.” Your voice was a weak rasp that could be carried away by the wind but he hung on every word. He couldn't wait for the day he could hear your voice as it really was. He could imagine your full laughs and playful jokes clear as day.

You sat on the bed and looked genuinely happy with how soft the duvet was and his heart ached as he watched you be so pleased with a plain guest room. You were entitled to so much more, but you were just glad to be given a room and Alfred could hardly bear it.

“I’m going to get better soon so we can garden together. My mom had a green thumb and I think I do too.” You looked like you were trying not to brag as you texted and Alfred smiled, “It’ll be nice to have a little helper. I’ll prepare your gloves.” 

A comfortable silence passed between you before he remembered the saucepan and pots he had simmering on the stove. “I’ll continue preparing dinner, Young Mistress. Please rest and I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” You nodded as he left with a soft click of the door as he took the warmth with him.

It wasn’t even a second before you heard waves crashing in your ears and suddenly the bed felt like it was tilting sideways and you had to grip the sheets to keep from tipping over.

Swoosh, swoosh

You could hear the gale winds from that night and nearly feel the flood's spray misting your face. 

It doesn’t waste time, huh?

Dark clouds were looming in the far corner of the room. Yard-long tendrils hung low and limp for now as the house was waiting to feed on you. 

Had it been like this in the last life? Everyone in the house, save for the one man who actually met you outside of it, had already disliked you before you even arrived. Was it always the house?

You could hear whispers of the dead with the loudest being the most recent—The drowned and lost. 

‘Your problem is with him. Not me.’ You thought, feeling that the energy could reach them.

Tension was building in the back of your head and your temples were beginning to pound. You inhaled deeply and exhaled all of the negative energy you could. You wouldn’t let it in. 

You laid back and your muscles immediately relaxed against the mattress that Alfred must’ve replaced before you came. Your thoughts cleared and you tried to organize the facts. Was the miasma and the haunting the cause of everything? 

Yes and No. You knew in your bones that a hint of loathing must’ve been in their hearts from the start or it wouldn’t have been so easy for the dead to manipulate them.

 It only exacerbated their most negative qualities and the biases they already had against you, and with that realization you knew you couldn’t give them grace.

The haunting needed your misery because feeding off of Bruce wasn’t enough after being a stagnant food source for almost 4 decades and you were the sensitive sacrificial lamb. 

You were the survivor who got a billionaire father while countless innocents lost their lives because he couldn’t put one maniac to sleep or get off his high horse.

‘Sins of the father…’ 

You stared at the ceiling and thought of them all–The members of Bruce’s family who made you ashamed to even be alive. You clasped your hands over your stomach and willed yourself to be strong.

Damian had been the physical one from the beginning. From the kick when you had just arrived, to shoving you against walls, and making you fall flat on your face—something about you tempted the violent nature he overcame in the years before you showed up and he couldn’t resist.

 

You developed a fear response and could detect when he was near even if he was rooms away. 

You recognized his steps, his breathing patterns, and the way the air shifted around him. You were more aware of his presence than your own, and the mere thought of him inspired the most primal fear in you more than the first humans feared the dark. 

Maybe it’s because you suspected if he “accidentally” killed you no one would question it. Maybe it’s because if he amped up his cruelty and did something truly criminal, there’d be no justice for you. 

He made Wayne Manor a 24/7 battlefield but a hell that was too familiar to escape. If you ran, where would you go? You had no life skills or safety net. There was no place for you in the manor or the outside world.

Damian was the instigator of many shameful memories that’d haunt you in your subconscious but one thing that you’ll never forget for as long as you live was the time with your Nana’s picture. 

You had found an old photo of your Nana online that you printed out and kept with you. It was your keepsake and absolute treasure, especially after you’d lost all your possessions in the flood. 

When you looked at that picture, you saw someone who looked like you. That photo was an anchor that kept you from completely losing yourself and proof that even though you didn’t belong to this family, you had indeed belonged somewhere.

It was a quiet and good day because you hadn’t seen anyone all day. You had let your guard down and you recall looking back on that moment and hating yourself.

 

You’d been standing in front of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s portrait and gazing up into Martha’s face while wondering what she had been like. Her eyes were soft but undoubtedly intelligent. She didn’t want for anything, but she didn’t hold on to her wealth with her history or charity. She was truly noblesse oblige.

Her smile made you smile back as you held your Nana’s picture in one hand. ‘I wonder if you two would’ve got along.’ You honestly felt they would’ve hit it off.

You reached forward with your Nana’s picture to tuck it into the picture frame. It was a little 3 by 2 photo that didn’t take any space at all and you weren’t going to leave it there. You just wanted to set the two women near each other so you could look at the resemblance. 

Your two grandmothers.

You were so at ease that you didn’t notice Damian had been watching you from down the hall until he stormed at you when he saw you touching the portrait. 

You were usually hyper-aware of him but had been lost in the warm feeling that thinking of your two grandmothers had brought and your heart almost jumped into your throat when he burst onto the scene. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone was accusatory and you felt like you’d been caught stealing. He wrenched your wrist and bent it painfully while ripping your Nana’s picture out of your grasp. 

He scanned the small photo. “Who’s this?”

“M-my N-Nana.” You didn’t mean to squeak but he scared you and his hold on your wrist had you curling up in pain. If you had to speak anymore, you knew you’d end up blubbering.

“Hm,” He stared down at the photo but something in his eyes changed. The razor blade cruelty won.

“Then she’s nothing.” He dropped the photo and then stomped down and ground it into the floor leaving a shoe print.

“No!” You pulled away and he let go, almost causing you to fall back. You dropped to your knees to recover the picture and he stomped down on your hand. You shrieked and felt knuckles crack and dislocate. Your cries echoed in the hall and he hissed “Stop whining.” as if you were a child throwing a tantrum in the toy aisle.

He took hold of your hair and looked down at you. 

“Don’t think that because your whore mother tempted father into bed that you’ll ever be one of us.”

You were struck speechless and felt like you were submerged in ice cold water. You wanted to retort but so many thoughts overwhelmed you at once. 

How could anyone say that? 

Why would he say that? 

What had you done wrong? 

You want to defend the two most precious women in your life but words failed you as you doubled over in a panic attack.

“Pathetic.” 

He wiped his hands on his pants then turned on his heel and left you there to pick up the pieces.

Over the years, he mellowed out and just ignored your presence. He’d scowl when you were near or exude an aura that said ‘Don’t speak.’ but at least he didn’t attack you like before or ransack your room and rip up your books and anything of personal value.

For a while after you came to the manor and before he decided you were nothing, every book, notebook, sketchbook, or anything else you cherished would be torn apart and left in your room for you to find. He was mocking you. Goading you to tell someone.

 

He knew no one would listen.

No one believed you or offered to speak to him about it and actually, most everyone (minus Alfred and Jason) thought you were trying to pin your own bad behavior on him, trying to frame him for attention, or were genuinely going crazy and wrecking your own stuff.

He used Titus to intimidate you, and instigated Stephanie to harass you by saying you were talking about her or messing with her things, and she’d always believe him and fly off the handle. 

You had tried to clear up the misunderstanding once or twice but you’d overwhelmed with tears and couldn’t speak during these altercations. 

In the end, you always looked like the guilty party who could dish it, but couldn’t take it and every case was closed with you as the bad guy. 

It was like Stephanie relished in hating you. You were her prey. A way to assert dominance and maintain her place in the family. You were never invited to things and when you were, it was to the wrong location or the wrong time and you always missed it or stood up. 

“Y/n! Why didn’t you come? We waited for you.” Her eyes were mocking but her voice was concerned and almost wronged as if you stood her up. 

She had a gift for projecting her voice so all could hear her side and assume you were in the wrong. Your voice only shrunk in anxiety, and her manipulation worked every time.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” No the fuck she wasn’t. 

“We would’ve invited you, but we didn’t think it was your kind of thing.”

“Why are you always looking so sad, gosh!”

“You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter. You’d think you’d have something to smile about.”

“You’re like a vacuum that sucks out all the fun in the room.”

You were in social danger any time you were in her sights. Every interaction had to be in front of an audience and she laid into you with no one to intervene. The few times you tried, you were ganged up on for being too sensitive and not getting the joke.

You remember her getting up in your face shouting and you could feel little drops of spit hitting you. You remember that disgusting memory vividly. She was yelling at you to never touch her stuff again but you never did to begin with.

 

You could see Damian smiling devilishly behind her as she did exactly what he wanted. He was the devil on her shoulder and she was too stupid to see it. Maybe part of her knew but she always bit the bait giddy to have a reason to go off on you.

God, you should’ve popped her in the mouth even if she would’ve beat you up after.

Cassandra was always witness to the social humiliation. She was the toughest in the family, the only one that could best Bruce in combat, but she did nothing to protect the weakest person there.

 She watched, she judged, she ignored when you weren’t actively being a victim, and you felt like a ghost. 

Sometimes it felt like you were already dead.

Tim got you mentally and Dick got you emotionally. You thought you could be friends with Tim with him being closer in age and sharing similar interests. He got along with everyone so why couldn’t you?

Simple. He was already biased.

 After reading up on you and fighting the media circus from the moment you were discovered, he’d seen enough of you for a lifetime and didn’t hide it. 

Attempts at conversation were met with withering looks that made the words die in your throat. Questions were met with exaggerated sighs as if you were the most mentally incapable person he had ever met. 

When you started homeschooling because your mental health declined, he mocked your course work and why it was hard for you to keep up. “I guess intelligence isn’t hereditary,” Something dark took over in him, “Or this is the best your mom could do.”

He embarrassed you in front of his friends and even made them feel awkward about it. Connor and Bart were disturbed by his behavior, and couldn’t get a real reason from him for why he was acting this way.

“Just ignore her.”

“She’s no one.”

“When is she going to get out of here? Why’s she even around?” 

One time, Tim caught you struggling over a very difficult math problem when you felt someone staring at you. You turned to meet his eyes and he said something that killed a part of you that you thought had already died. 

“I wish you hadn’t been found.” 

His eyes said he meant it.

Dick was apparently physically flawless if you asked anyone. He was considered a true hero, the de-facto leader of any team he joined or at least the most trusted advisor, and countless people and respected heroes trusted him as an equal. 

Surely someone as big hearted as him could just treat you like a person, right?

Wrong.

Your weight fluctuated with your mental health and your skin changed too. Stress breakouts and pimples were a common occurrence and your skin was either too oily or too dry at any given time. 

His eyes never really saw you, or let you in like a person he accepted. He looked at you like a half finished sketch that the artist had given up on. You weren’t worth finishing, but he figured he’d take pity and steer you in the right direction. 

He was so nice like that.

“You know that’s really bad for you.” He would say when you’d grab for anything you could eat quickly as you rushed back to your room.

“You’d look and feel better if you lost some weight, you know?”

“Look at everyone. You’d really benefit from some exercise.” 

He pinched at your sides to emphasize his words. “Steph and Cass are so active. Maybe you could workout with them?” As if they’d even let you. If you tried with them they probably wouldn’t go easy on you and you’d be battered in minutes.

Or when you starved? He was proud of you. Of course, now you lost weight in some of the ‘wrong’ places and your hair was thinner and you were even weaker, but you were going in the right direction! Keep it up, Y/n! 

He was confused that you didn’t glow like the others. You didn’t look like the others. Damian was so good looking so how were you the awkward step-sibling when you had Wayne blood in your veins? Dick shrugged. Maybe it just skipped a generation.

It had weighed on you. 

The misery had been too much to carry and you had attempted to take your life several times during your decade at Wayne Manor. 

You smiled wryly. You’d thought you were such a loser that you couldn’t even kill yourself right, but maybe it never worked because there was still goodness in the world that reached out to you when no one else would. 

You hadn’t failed. You had been saved.

The faces of those special few crossed your mind, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest and to your belly. 

The horrors of the past and the attempts invaded your mind as if to overwhelm you and force you back on that lonesome path to your end, but it couldn’t force you again. Those kind faces and selfless eyes made you smile as tears prickled the corners of your closed eyes.

It all went like this…

❥

You had gotten addicted to exercise and any way to lose weight. Images of Barbara’s and Starfire’s perfect bodies flashed in your eyes whenever you blinked and Dick’s “advice” kept you awake at night. It hadn’t been an attempt, but a consequence of your pain.

You’d been doing exercises on your bedroom floor, going too fast, pushing too hard, when you went into cardiac arrest. You and Alfred don’t know how he did it, but he felt a pain in his own heart when you were having the attack and he nearly flew to your room before he knew it. 

He performed first aid and rushed you to bed where he tended to you. He took you to doctor’s appointments and put you in therapy. He managed your diet and watched you like a hawk.

Once again, no one visited. 

❥

Tim’s cruelty had become too much for you to bear. It’d been a beautiful spring day and a gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine all the way up to the third floor balcony. 

You stood at the railing and a great sadness and bitterness consumed you. Why were you the one pushed to the edge like this? Frustrated tears blurred your vision. Why were you so hated when your only sin was living?

 Even now on such a beautiful day you were going to end it all while they were all having fun together.

It wasn’t fair.

You climbed the railing and angled yourself so you’d land on the stone below and without another thought you pushed off and tilted head first.

Bart had watched it all in disbelief from the backyard, and hoped that he was just being dramatic until he saw you climb the railing. 

Tim had been prattling on about some new tech thing he was working on while Bart’s body was vibrating with unreleased energy. 

‘She won’t…’

She did.

He was racing to you and catching you in his arms in a flash. He caught you just in time before your head was cracked open on the stone patio and your tearful eyes fluttered open and found his petrified face. 

His heart was pounding in his throat and his hands felt numb. He had never seen you so up close before. He didn’t even remember the last time you spoke or if you’d ever spoken to each other without Tim interrupting and shooing you away. 

His mind was going crazy trying to find you in his memories and he realized he hadn’t been able to make any with you with Tim around. All that came to mind were anxious eyes and an insecure smile before darting away. 

You blinked through the tears and a strangled gasp slipped out as your face broke into disappointment, “Why?”

“What?” Bart was dumbstruck. Did you mean why’d he catch you or were you just confused. He hoped it was the latter.

“Why’d you save me?” You cried and Bart stared down at you as you fell apart in his arms. 

He didn’t treat Tim the same after that. He tried to tell Tim about your attempt and Tim waved it off as an accident. “She’s crazy.” He’d said and Bart couldn’t let it go. 

He felt like he needed to avenge you in some way, but he didn’t know how. It was a family thing, wasn’t it? People always said not to get into other people’s business, especially family matters.

He stopped coming around as much and even Tim realized he was being ghosted but didn’t get why. Bart tried to keep tabs on you when he’d ask Barry to mention you to Batman but nothing ever came of it. Barry knew something was up but was stonewalled hard by Bruce whenever he tried to be a good adult and float the idea that, hey, maybe his daughter needs help.

None of the adults intervened, and he carried that with him and wondered what he could’ve done differently for the rest of his life. 

News of your death had hit him personally. He saw it coming. He knew if no one had intervened it would end up like this, but he prayed someone in your family would come around and see the signs if they wouldn’t listen to an outsider like him. 

He was too hard on himself. He had been a kid like you were, but he hated himself for not saving you,

He never forgave himself or the batfamily. 

❥

It had been a gorgeous winter day and the pond had frozen over into pure crystal. You should’ve been enjoying nature, but you weren’t here for sightseeing.

Damian’s words and actions had gone too far regarding your mother and what made it worse was that no one defended you. 

You’d had enough.

You were wary of large bodies of water since the storm, but something about drowning to meet your end seemed right. Like finishing what had been started.

You were numb, almost robotic, as you walked to the middle of the pond, kicked on the ice, and let it swallow you whole. The icy cover slipped back in place seamlessly and it was like you’d never been there at all.

Connor was always aware of you when he came over. Tim dismissed you and you were too afraid to meet Connor’s eye no matter how disarmingly smooth he tried to be with you, but he was still always aware of your presence. 

It was like he was unconsciously keeping track of you, something he’d never done for anyone else unless required for a mission. For some reason, due to a completely foreign feeling, he needed to make sure you were there. 

He could feel you getting farther away, and used his x-ray vision too look through Tim’s bedroom wall, through the mansion and out in your direction.

His eyes found you immediately and he stilled as he saw your figure getting smaller and smaller as you got further away from the manor and farther into the brush. ‘Where’s she going?’ 

He half-rose from his chair as dread began to set in and leaned forward as he watched you get farther away and then suddenly your heat signature dropped and disappeared. 

He jumped from his chair and bolted out of Tim’s room, clipping doorframes and knocking off wooden panels along the way. Once outside, he took to the sky in the direction you were and found the point where he’d lost you.

His heat vision melted the ice above you and he dove in and dragged you out in seconds. His heart was racing the entire time as he gave CPR like he’d seen in the movies, kicking himself for not knowing how to save someone when he called himself a hero. 

What if he didn’t make it in time? What if he wasn’t doing CPR right?

He flew you through the cold and gently lay you in front of the fireplace where his heat vision had it lit and raging instantly. Alfred rushed to gather blankets, but besides that, they were the only two in motion. 

Connor realized that he was screaming for someone to help, for Tim to get his ass downstairs. His mind was so loud he couldn't even hear his own screams until he became aware of his throat going hoarse.

Tim ambled downstairs and gazed at your pale, violently shivering and barely conscious self. 

“What’s the big deal? She fell.” 

Connor looked Tim in the eyes for a hint of a joke or just a simple tale of Tim putting his foot in his mouth once again but Connor’s heart plummeted when he saw that the man he called a friend was dead serious. 

‘What the fuck is wrong with these people?’ 

There’s a shouting match after that, but Tim didn’t understand what the problem was. Y/n fell in the pond, and of course she’d be out there all alone because she’s dumb and just wants attention. 

Connor saw red and it all happened so fast. He may have hit Tim, and he may have gone on a minor rampage in the manor before storming out to never return again. 

And that was the end of their friendship. 

Connor would fly as far away from the manor as possible but close enough to see you using his x-ray vision. Sometimes he’d just watch you all night just to know you were still there. Just to know you were still alive. 

Metas were barred from Gotham and when Batman and the others found out about Connor’s bodyguarding, they ramped up anti aerial measures that forced Connor to stay farther away until he couldn’t enter Gotham airspace at all. 

The one night he slacked off on watching you was the one night he lost you.

❥

Jon had been over and innocently passed by the lounge when he heard Stephanie yelling in your face, “Don’t touch my shit again!” Her voice was shriller than he had ever heard from her even when yelling at bad guys, and you were as quiet as a mouse with wide glassy eyes. Even a naive boy could tell that this was unfair.

He peeked inside and saw Damian grinning like he was watching his favorite show. “She falls for it every time.” Jon didn’t know if he was talking about you or Stephanie as he frowned in confusion. 

His brows knitted together and his face burned hot when he saw your mouth trembling and heard you choking to speak. 

“Get Bruce to buy it for you. Why do you always take my stuff?”

“Maybe that’s how she always was.” Damian offered from the background, gleefully fueling the fire. 

Jon snapped. 

He wasn’t sure what was going on but he knew this was wrong. His inner sense of justice told him so.

“Leave her alone!”

Damian startled beside him, not expecting the outburst and the sheer force the shout gave out, and Stephanie leaped up and whirled around with wide eyes like she had been caught in an embarrassing moment. 

“W-Wha-, you were there?” Jon ignored her question and marched forward, “What are you doing?” He puffed up his small chest, his fists balled. 

“W-well, she took my thing…” She was suddenly slightly aware of how immature this seemed, but pride wouldn’t let her give in.

Jon was younger than her, but stared up at her like she was a simple child. “Did you see her do it?”

Stephanie and Damian held their breaths.

“No, but Damian said—”

Jon turned around to his friend, “Did you see her do it?”

Damian sneered indignantly, “And if I said yes?” Jon stared at Damian like he was seeing his true self for the first time. 

Had he been mistaken about his friend’s character this whole time? 

“Th-thank you.” You choked out pathetically to Jon and hurried from the room.

It was a screaming match between Jon and Damian and Stephanie that shook the walls, and even though Damian was one to always get the last word, Jon’s voice shook pictures from their hooks and threatened to knock over priceless art unless he composed himself.

He had to calm himself down because he had a feeling the more he fought with them, the harder it’d be for you later. He knew that he could leave and go back to his safe warm home, but you had to stay here with them. 

He didn’t want to leave you in a worse position than he found you. Clenching his fists and screwing his eyes shut tightly, he counted to 10 like his dad had showed him.

Maybe it was something Kryptonians shared because just like Connor, Jon couldn't let this go as he felt a grudge forming for you. Jon stalked away from the argument with no answers or guilt from the people who harassed you, one of which he’d called a “friend,” and he wanted to see you one last time before he left.

He pushed open what he thought was your bedroom door and anything he wanted to say died in his throat as only a pitiful “Y/n.” tumbled out.

His voice had been so small then, and it came clearly through the eerie silence that surrounded you in your room. You had fashioned a noose and hung it over a low hanging beam and Jon had walked in on you standing in place. He knew what it was for.

“Don’t do it.” 

Your eyes were red and glassy. They begged for help but they wanted even more to not cause some innocent kid distress. You tore down the noose and tossed it to the dirty clothes hamper. “I wasn’t, I promise.”

He didn’t believe you, but he wasn’t prepared for a situation like this. What would his dad do? It finally hit him how young and inexperienced he was, and he felt like a sorry excuse for a hero.

“I’ll be okay.” You hurriedly tried to rub the snot from your nose and rushed to grab tissues and move the stool away. “Thank you for saving me, Jon.”

He thought back to that altercation in the lounge and thought it didn’t count. “I didn’t save you.” He said more bitterly than he intended. 

He didn’t make anything better! The people who hurt you didn’t care and he had even misjudged someone he thought was a friend this whole time! 

You looked over at him, “Yes, you did, Jon. You saved me twice.”

Jon’s chin quivered and he was too ashamed to cry in front of you. He never visited Damian again and after hearing about the insanity at Wayne Manor and Superman himself trying to talk to Bruce, the relationship between the Supers and Bats was never the same.

Your death caused a rift between the two families. Superman treated Batman like a coworker and stopped acquiescing to his eccentricities. 

He went toe to toe with the Bat and didn’t back down on many things.

Connor and Jon focused on Metropolis and growing into men you could be proud of. 

They’d never forget the one they didn’t save.

❥

You hadn’t had him the first 16 years of your life and you’d thought you outgrew needing a father. You didn’t know him, and didn’t want him so why did it hurt so much when he obviously didn’t care about you. 

Why was one child loved and the other wasn’t? Was it because of your mother? He loved Damian’s and not yours? Damian was blue blooded and you were a statistic?

You did it the old-fashioned way in the tub and Jason and Titus were the ones who found you. 

It’s funny that the dog that put you on edge was the first to notice something was up. . 

He’d never attacked you, he was a good boy and unlike dogs bred for fighting and assault you knew he didn’t have bloodlust, but he intimidated you with his sharp knowing eyes. 

However, contrary to his master’s wishes and the evil dead that surrounded you, he couldn’t hate you. He saw the spirits of beloved pets floating around and following after you and he knew you were a good human with a loving heart. 

He wanted to get near but the malicious energy concentrated around you knew he could see them and that put him in danger. So, he steered clear of you and watched the tendrils and the dead that hated you for surviving from a safe distance. 

He was the only one who could see what you were going through, but couldn’t do a thing about it. Who could he tell?

And things remained like that until one evening he felt a shift. The walls were groaning and the wind howled but as always he was the only one who could hear it. His tail went straight up and his hackles raised.

Something was wrong with you. 

Titus bolted for Jason, one of the few humans he could sense had good feelings towards you, and took bit down on his ankle and tugged hard.

“Titus! What the hell?” Jason pulled back but Titus dragged him clean out of his chair and to the ground. The dog dragged Jason a little more to make sure he got his point across and then dropped Jason’s leg.

 

Titus rushed to the door and turned back to Jason expectantly, barking when Jason wasn’t getting up fast enough. 

“What kind of Scooby-Doo bullshit is this?” Jason mused as he pulled himself to his feet and chased after the anxious dog, his blood going cold as he realized he was heading to your room. 

Something in him knew what this could be about.

‘No. Please, no!’

Titus ran towards a door and barked and scratched desperately. Jason was close behind, almost overtaking the dog and broke the door down with a shoulder charge. It sounded like a bomb went off as the wood split and splintered, sending its remains scattering across the tiled floor.

There you were.

Your eyes were closed.

“No, no! Y/n, why would you?” He knew why, actually. He’d always had a feeling that there was a darkness you shouldered that was even darker and deeper than he knew, but he just assumed he had more time! 

More time to come around and finally talk to you, more time to work his way into your life and get you out of the manor. Why did he take it all for granted? Why did he, like everyone else, take you for granted?

He hauled your soaking wet body out of the bath and to a room nearest to the front of the house all the while screaming his head off. 

“Help! Alfred! Someone fucking help!” 

Alfred stitched you up and treated you in the med bay, and Jason fought Bruce in a way he never did even when he first came back as the Red Hood. 

Walls collapsed, bones were broken, and several had to jump in to try to separate the two but none were strong enough to end the struggle.

It finally ended when Jason realized he wanted to kill Bruce, and he almost succeeded.

He withdrew when he realized it’d feel so good to kill Bruce for you.

After that, Red Hood and Jason Todd officially broke away from Bruce Wayne and Batman. It was like Jason had died a second time as a quiet gloom was once again cast over Bruce’s life, but he wouldn’t acknowledge his failure. He wouldn’t acknowledge that he had any fault in your attempt or that that was the reason Jason would never forgive him.

The one time Jason came back to try to build a bridge to cross over to you, was the night you ended your life in front of him.

He thought he had more time.

Your eyes flew open and you inhaled a shuttering breath that struggled down your throat. Your lungs felt like they had been shriveled up and you turned your head over the side of the bed to throw up water. Where had it come from?

You coughed while wiping the tears from your eyes and looked up to see long tendrils like thick black hair reaching out and surrounding you from all sides. It was like you were a juicy fly entangled in a web and the widow was creeping closer and closer knowing that you had nowhere to run.

It should've scared you.

It pissed you off.

"You motherfucker!" You reached out and took hold of the black mass with both hands.

With two unbandaged arms and weaving scars that healed over the course of 10 years.

You didn't waste time wondering why you were an inch or two taller or why you felt stronger than ever before. You didn't take notice of the clothes that were far sexier and fantastic than your wildest dreams.

All you could feel was the raw hatred you had been holding on to for 10 long years as golden chains shimmered and wrapped around the writhing black mass that struggled in your hold. The moment a chain touched the mass, it sizzled and popped like bacon touching hot grease.

The mass let loose a horrific shriek from a nonexistent mouth like several pigs being slaughtered at once and your eardrums felt like they'd popped. It writhed desperately as the chains from your scars tightened and squeezed around it.

It shook in your grasp but you held tight and wouldn't be knocked from your feet.

"Go to hell!"

The chains clenched tighter until the mass was eviscerated into nothingness.

Your bedroom shook and you could hear the walls and inner beams shifting around you as other entities cried in horror and retreated farther into the mansion and away from you.

Your clenched fists shook as you caught your breath.

You ran your tongue alone a pointed canine and smiled salaciously.

Then, you looked up and saw your reflection in the plain vanity mirror. The 26 year old you who you had never seen so radiant and powerful before stared right back and winked.

❥ Tag list~

@kore-of-the-underworld @simpingpandas @delusiontown-exe @ottjhe @therealme13posts @yuezodiaco @fernwehraarta @crispybelieverworld @c4xcocoa @alishii @linasrosetown @oxt3n @omgfangirlland @nxdxsworld @chaoticmoontimetravel @marmalemon @rythespy @sassam @bellethesleepypotato @oliviaewl @lovebug-apple @sydneyyyya @pearlyribbons @nirvanaxx1942 @teabutnerdy @mourart7 @galaxypurplerose @holderoflostmemories @aelxr @magdalenacarmila @romancedeldiablo @addieverse18 @dirtydiavolo @ironsaladwitch @1nfinity-void @llikeballs @bit-subway @celesteelysia @kksmush @plsfckmedxddy @dannyisdying @inkdelicious @candyluck05 @mazixxss @wonderlace19 @lilithskywalker @eyeless-kun @treeeeeeefrog @yandere-enthusiast @soriansick @dumpsterdiverinc @ecto-800-1 @the-bookish-artist @ghostxmio @crunchycereals @hopingtocleaemedschool

[yuezodiaco]

Do you think you could do a Damien family dinner aged up like when the older or just a teen pregnancy the family reacting to the pregnancy ?? (if you’re not comfortable with this, it’s Okok!) also I love your works😽😽😽

Family dinner IX✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. Jon Kent)

summary|teen pregnancy— damian finds out.

word count|2451

warnings|teenage pregnancy, angst, puking, teen romance.

notes|next part will be the family’s reaction<33 Family dinner masterlist

It was the most typical way to find out.

Jon had invited you and Damian to stay over for the weekend.

Ever since meeting Jon, you’d clicked instantly—his easy-going energy balancing out Damian’s sharp edges—and you were ecstatic to go. After convincing your parents and begging Damian to take a weekend off from vigilantism and just have fun with you, you found yourself on a road trip to Metropolis.

There were faster ways to travel—Damian had even offered to fly you in the Batplane—but this was supposed to be fun. A road trip, music blasting, snacks in the backseat. At least, that was the plan.

“Beloved,” Damian said, one hand still on the wheel as he passed you another paper bag, “you are not throwing up in this car again.”

You groaned, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “I can’t help it, Dami. I think it’s the jerky. Or—or maybe the chips?”

“You’ve eaten those same snacks dozens of times,” Damian muttered, eyes narrowing at the road. “You’re never carsick. This is… unusual.”

“Gee, thanks, Doctor Wayne,” you grumbled, rolling the window down.

He glanced at you briefly, his sharp gaze softening for half a second before returning to the highway. “We’ll stop soon. Get some water, stretch your legs.”

You nodded, but your chest felt tight. You already knew it wasn’t carsickness. Not really.

A late period. Nausea. Mood swings. Headaches. Strange stomach cramps.

It all led to one terrifying possibility.

At a gas station stop, you slipped into the bathroom and took three tests, each one making your heart drop.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.

You sat on the floor for what felt like hours, head spinning, tears blurring your vision. When Damian’s voice broke through the doors, you almost screamed.

“Beloved? You’ve been in there for ten minutes. Are you—are you ill?”

You quickly wiped your face. “I’m fine! Just—uh, fixing my hair.”

“Fixing your hair?” His voice was skeptical. “It’ll mess up again, there’s still an hour to go-“

“Damian!” you snapped, panic making your voice sharper than intended. “Just give me a second, okay?”

There was a pause, then a reluctant sigh. “Fine. But if you’re not out in two minutes, I will break the lock.”

You emerged moments later, trying to look normal.

“I’m here,” you said, breathless.

Damian frowned, stepping closer, his sharp green eyes scanning your face. “Were you crying?”

“No,” you lied, crossing your arms and straightening as if that could hide the redness in your eyes.

“Beloved…” He leaned down slightly, his voice low. “I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m fine, Damian. Can we just go? And give me your hoodie.” You stated as you walked over to Bruce’s car.

His brows furrowed but he handed it over, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird. Just drive.” You pulled the hoodie over your head and curled into the seat, avoiding his gaze.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.

By the time you arrived at the Kent farm, guilt was bubbling in your chest like acid. What were you supposed to do? How would you tell your parents? How would you tell his parents? How would you tell him?

When Damian opened the car door and went around to the back, you caught the way his head was down, his frown deeper than usual. He wasn’t angry—just… hurt.

You stepped out rushed to his side, grabbing his hand. “Damian, I’m sorry,” you sniffled, your lips trembling.

His gaze softened instantly, confusion replacing the frustration. “It’s… okay. Don’t cry, please,” he said, voice low and careful as he let you pull him into a hug.

“You’re so sweet,” you mumbled against his shoulder, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re so sweet, and I’m such an asshole”

“Don’t call yourself that, beloved,” he interrupted firmly, his hand sliding soothingly along your back.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he tried again, but you just shook your head and walked toward the front door, wiping your face.

“Hey! You made it!” Jon grinned as soon as you stepped inside.

You hugged him instantly, grateful for a familiar face. “Jon! I missed you.” Damian brought your luggage with, obliviously scowling.

“Whoa, I missed you too Damian,” Jon teased, shooting Damian a grin before pulling him in a hug as well.

The evening was… nice, at first. Lois and Clark were at work, so it was just the three of you snacking, telling stories, and playing video games.

Until the pillow fight.

It had started off fun—Jon barely using any strength while you and Damian play-fought—but then Damian tossed a pillow a little too hard, and it hit you square in the stomach.

“Damian, what the hell?!” you snapped, clutching your middle as a flash of panic rose in your chest.

His face fell, his hands half-reaching out. “I’m sorry, beloved. Did I hit you too hard?”

“Yes. Yes, you did,” you bit out, standing abruptly.

Jon froze, the air going uncomfortably quiet as you stomped upstairs. Damian sank into the couch with a frustrated huff, running a hand down his face.

“So…” Jon said after a long pause. “Trouble in paradise?”

Damian shot him a glare. “I don’t know what’s going on with her,” he admitted finally, rubbing his temples. “She’s been… off. For weeks. Moody, picking fights, crying over nothing. I asked her what’s wrong—she won’t tell me anything.”

Jon winced. “Maybe she just needs space?”

Damian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I don’t want space. I want answers.”

Jon sighed, standing. “I’ll talk to her.”

Damian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What makes you think she’ll talk to you?”

Jon shrugged with a grin. “I’m just better with girls.”

The thing was—Jon already had an inkling. From the moment you arrived, he’d been hearing an extra, faint heartbeat whenever you were close. At first he thought he was imagining things, but now?

He walked into his room, expecting to find you sulking. Instead, his breath caught when his x-ray vision flicked on without thinking.

There it was.

A small, faint fluttering in your abdomen.

Oh.

“Uh…” Jon scratched the back of his neck. “I’m guessing hot chocolate isn’t gonna fix this?”

You groaned, clutching his Superman plushie to your stomach. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

“(name)…” Jon said softly, sitting next to you.

Your lip wobbled. “What is it?” you asked, voice trembling.

Jon swallowed. “You know how I have… powers.”

“Yes…” you said slowly.

“And… one of them is x-ra—”

“Jon,” you gasped, hands flying to your mouth, eyes going wide.

“(name)…” he winced, trying to find the words.

“Jon!” you half-sobbed, grabbing his hand.

“Damian’s an idiot,” Jon said flatly.

You let out a tearful laugh. “Jon… I don’t know what to do. I just found out today.”

“That… explains a lot,” he said awkwardly.

“Don’t tell him,” you begged, smacking his arm when he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”

“When’s that going to be?” Jon asked softly.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“C’mon,” Jon said gently. “Wanna go play with Krypto?”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The weekend had gone by in a blur of dinners with the Kents, tourist spots in Metropolis, and a handful of awkward moments trying to avoid Superman’s eyes.

But for Damian, something felt… wrong.

You and Jon were whispering, giving each other knowing looks, and he couldn’t stand it. He was a detective—one of the greatest, trained by both the League and the World’s Greatest Detective himself—yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure this out. Why were you closing off to him? Why was Jon the one you confided in?

He trusted you both. He did. But it still burned.

That night, Damian sat on the edge of Jon’s bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. You’d gone to bed early again without saying anything—something you never did when he wasn’t with you—and left him feeling like the unwanted third wheel.

Jon leaned against the doorway, watching him with an uneasy look. “You okay, dude?”

Damian exhaled, a long, sharp sigh. “No. Not really.”

Jon raised a brow, stepping inside. “That’s a first. Usually when I ask, you say something like, ‘Of course I am. Don’t be an idiot, Kent.’”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t test me right now.”

Jon sat down across from him on the bed. “So… what’s going on?”

Damian gave him a look. “You tell me. You seem to know more about what’s wrong with her than I do.”

Jon flinched, guilt washing over him. “Dude, it’s not like that—”

“Then explain why she barely looks at me anymore but spends hours talking to you.” Damian’s tone was sharp, his green eyes narrowing. “What did I do wrong?”

Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong, man. She’s just… going through something. And I think she’s scared to tell you.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “She has no reason to be afraid of me.”

“Not afraid of you,” Jon said quickly. “Afraid of your reaction. She doesn’t want to make things worse.”

Damian blinked, his mind whirling. “Make things worse? What could possibly—” He cut himself off, running a hand down his face. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t know what’s happening.”

Jon hesitated. He couldn’t do this anymore—the secret was eating at him. “Look… maybe I can get her to talk. She should tell you.”

Jon found you in the guest room, sitting cross-legged on the bed and absentmindedly playing with the hem of Damian’s hoodie. Hair messy like you’d try to sleep but didn’t. You looked up when he stepped in, trying to force a smile.

“Jon,” you said softly. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs with Dami?”

He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, about that… you know you’re killing him, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

“He’s losing his mind. He thinks you’re mad at him or… I don’t know. That you don’t trust him anymore.” Jon leaned forward. “You have to tell him.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jon, I can’t. I don’t even know where to start. What if he—”

“(name)” Jon interrupted gently, “he loves you. Like, annoyingly so. He might freak out at first—he will freak out—but he’ll want to help you.”

You hugged your knees to your chest. “I’m scared.”

Jon sighed, glancing at the door. “Then let me stay here and—”

The door swung open.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Kent?”

Damian stood in the doorway, his sharp green eyes darting between Jon sitting on the bed and you hugging yourself like you were hiding something. The tension in the room spiked instantly.

“Damian—” you started, but he cut you off.

“No,” Damian said firmly, stepping inside. “I’ve had enough of this secretive behavior. What’s going on? What are you hiding from me?”

Jon stood quickly, holding his hands up like Damian was a wild animal. “Look, dude, just calm down—”

“Calm down?” Damian’s voice was low, almost a growl. “My girlfriend has been avoiding me all weekend, and you—my best friend—are sneaking off with her? Explain. Now.”

Jon glanced at you. “…You should tell him.”

Your breath hitched. “Dami, I—”

“What is it?” Damian’s voice cracked slightly. He looked at you, not Jon now, his expression shifting from anger to raw confusion and fear. “Beloved… what’s wrong?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears spilling over. “I… I’m pregnant.”

The room went silent.

Damian’s face went pale, his mouth opening slightly like the words didn’t compute. “…What?”

“I didn’t mean to hide it,” you sobbed, covering your face. “I just found out. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

For a long moment, Damian didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and crouched in front of you, his hands trembling as he reached for yours.

“Beloved… look at me,” he whispered.

You lowered your hands, meeting his wide, stunned eyes.

Jon shifted uncomfortably by the door, looking like he wanted to disappear. “Uh… I’m just gonna…” He motioned to leave, but Damian’s sharp voice stopped him.

“Stay,” Damian ordered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He turned back to, immediately softening.

“I…” Damian swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what this means. But I swear to you—I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone. We will figure this out. Together. Do you understand?”

Your lips wobbled, and you nodded, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. He brushed them away with his thumb, his hand cupping your jaw with a gentleness that contrasted his usual sharpness.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Me too,” he admitted, voice low. “But I would rather face this fear with you than let you carry it by yourself.”

Jon, awkwardly standing by the wall, cleared his throat. “Uh, for the record… I didn’t want to keep this from you. She just needed someone to talk to.”

Damian turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “…Thank you,” he said finally, his voice clipped but sincere. “For being there for her.”

Jon gave a sheepish nod. “Yeah. No problem.”

Damian turned back to you, his thumb still brushing the back of your hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. Not tonight. All I want… all I need… is for you to know that I’m here. Whatever we choose to do, whatever happens—we’ll face it together.”

You let out a shaky laugh that was half a sob. “You’re too good to me.”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong. This is my fault.”

The words hung between you two and it went quiet for another moment.

“Sooo…” Jon’s voice broke the heavy silence, and both you and Damian turned to him with matching glares. He held up his hands like he was surrendering. “Uh, wow, okay. This is definitely a thing. Big moment here. But… am I the only one who’s insanely hungry right now?”

Damian didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at Jon’s face.

“Hey!” Jon sputtered as the pillow bounced off his head. “That’s not very dad-like behavior.”

“Say that again, Kent,” Damian growled, his ears turning red as you let out a wet laugh behind your hands.

“Too soon?” Jon grinned, ducking another pillow that Damian lobbed at him. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop! But for real, I’m finishing that cake from last night”

[yuezodiaco]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character

PART ONE | Bruce liked his routines. Alfred had his cleaning system optimized down to a science. And the Batkids—well, chaos followed them often, but even they liked their chaos scheduled. So when a child appeared out of nowhere, no one was quite sure what protocol applied.

PART TWO | She talked like they’d all been there—like every story she shared belonged to them too. About a greenhouse with Uncle Dickie and Aunt Star where they got stuck in the gift shop because of a thunderstorm. About Uncle Jason teaching her to sneak cookies without letting Grandpa Alfred know and failing cause Alfred always knows. 

PART THREE | She didn’t know yet that the city she was about to land in held more than just another gig. That the man she’d met once in Metropolis would soon become unavoidable. That somewhere in the same skyline, a little girl with her smile was waiting for a mother who did not know her yet. She just knew she had a show to put on. She had no idea that the most important act of her life was already waiting for her in Gotham.

PART FOUR | She’d handled press ambushes, persistent paparazzi, even that one award show collab stage where her co-artist had proposed on stage unprompted. She’d been coached on how to smile through invasive questions, how to steer conversations away from controversies, how to cry artfully in interviews about rising fame and artistic integrity. But nothing—nothing—had taught her how to respond when a stranger’s child ran into her arms and called her “Mommy.”

PART FIVE | ???

PART SIX | ???

divider: @enchanthings

[yuezodiaco]

he’s so silly in those issues

[yuezodiaco]

It's A Beta Life, Not A Better Life | Part 3

A platonic yandere Batfam x neglected beta reader story

Bad news: You presented as a beta in a world where betas were second-rate citizens.

Good news: Nobody but you knew about it.

Bad news again: You needed to escape because living with a beta-less pack as an unclaimed beta was just tempting fate, but you were still sixteen.

Good news again: The Wayne pack had always ignored you and chances were high that they wouldn't change anytime soon, so as long as you lay low you should be able to hold on until you turn eighteen.

Okay, that balanced everything out. The current situation might be–was awful but you could deal with it.

Now, objectives:

1) Hide the truth that you were a beta.

2) Leave as soon as you became of age.

3) Never, ever let yourself be forcibly bonded as any pack's beta.

You looked at your reflection in the mirror. You appeared... normal. A little messy and exhausted, but otherwise normal. No different than usual.

No one should be able to tell that you had a dozen of the best scent blockers plastered over all your newly developed glands. On either side of the neck, on the inside of both wrists, on the inner thighs, double patches over each part. Everything covered up with a turtleneck sweater, a denim jacket and slacks, all of them–as well as all your clothes and bedding–having been laundered twice with a special scent-removing detergent.

Moving towards the corridor door, you took one last glance and sniff into the nursery where you lived. All clear–nothing incriminating to see and, far more importantly, no newly presented beta scent to smell, thanks to the high-grade scent-removing spray you'd used a bottleful of.

Good. Not even Mr Pennyworth had stepped a foot into the nursery since you were thirteen and he was swamped with duties involving the then recent arrival of Damian, but you refused to take a risk. You walked across the corridor, down the stairs, through the side entry door, and straight into Damian.

Between enough mental curses to make a Crime Alley goon blush, you wondered if even alluding to Damian could summon him before you.

Fortunately you managed to keep an impassive face. You nodded casually to the boy and tried to walk around him.

Tried being a keyword. Little alpha boy Damian crossed his arms and deliberately stood in your way.

"Reader."

"Damian."

It took your all to maintain the nonchalant air as Damian swept an imperious eye over you. Shit, did he remember it was your sixteenth birthday and so you should have presented? Did he know what you presented as?

Your knees almost buckled in relief when Damian proceeded to click his tongue and say, "Sloppy. You are still a pup at your age and act in such a lowly manner? You ought to refrain from further disgracing the Wayne name."

A wry smile very nearly appeared on your face. Damian, when not treating you like air, always criticized you for being 'disgraceful' as though you weren't–by blood, on paper–his older sibling but his wayward child. Grandchild, even.

Reminiscent of how alphas and omegas tended to treat their pack betas.

The realization chilled you. You forced yourself to shrug, self-deprecatingly so not to anger the kid, and point your thumb at the side gates. "Well, if you'd let me pass so I could reach school in time and thus not disgrace myself...?"

Damian clicked his tongue once more, but did shift ever so slightly for you. You dashed past him, freedom almost within reach, only to notice Damian's nostrils flaring and his hand snatching your arm.

"What scent is that?" He demanded.

CALM DOWN, you screamed at yourself. You pretended to be confused before 'realizing' what Damian meant. "Oh, you mean my perfume? I'm surprised you noticed it."

"My olfactory sense is superior to the presented, moreover to a pup as yours." Damian scoffed. "What brand is that and where did you procure it?"

You shrugged again, this time apologetically. "It was one of those blind box stalls in Chinatown. The bottle didn't have any mark or label. Do you really like that scent?"

"I am above such juvenile impulses," Damian scoffed, then entered the manor without another word to you. You observed his figure through the windows until it vanished at the turn that would lead him to the main building, then ran out into the street.

Damian – Clear.

You went to school by bus, as you'd been doing since you were ten. You sat at the very back next to the door and clutched your backpack to your front, making a mental note to research military-grade scent removers.

That near-escape with Damian was alarming; you hadn't anticipated him or anyone having 'superior' olfactory sense. You doubted Damian was a prime alpha–that kid would've announced it without hesitation otherwise–but if even he could smell you after all those scent removers, wouldn't Bruce realize your secondary gender the second he saw you?

You were still thinking about how to research military-grade scent removers without arousing suspicion–would it arouse suspicion? If you bought them, would it put you on some kind of list of suspicious individuals, under scrutiny, at even higher risk of being found out...?–when someone took a seat next to you. You glanced and almost had a heart attack spotting Tim.

Tim also startled upon seeing you. He blinked, opened his mouth, looked at the bus route, then looked back to you. "You didn't go in the car with Alfred?" He asked before adding, "Hi. Uh. Long time no see, huh Reader?"

True enough. The last time you interacted with each other was maybe two years ago when he rambled half-incoherently to you before falling asleep at the dining table.

"Hi, Tim," you replied with the most even tone you could muster. "I've been going to school by myself for years actually."

"O, oh?" Discomfort flickered in Tim's eyes. "So... Uh. How's school?"

"Good, thanks. How's work?"

"Good, good, it's... good."

You wanted to jump off the bus. You wanted to throw Tim out of the bus. You wanted him to stop trying to find topics of conservation and especially to not ask–

"Say, have you presented? As what?"

–that. You really wanted him to not ask that.

You deliberately sighed in disappointment and gestured at your turtleneck sweater, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim even though your heart was beating fast as a hummingbird's the whole time.

Tim flushed. "Oh yeah, it was–obvious huh? My bad."

"Don't mention it." The bus finally reached your stop. You practically dove down the steps with a muttered "Bye" Tim's way.

Daring to look back, you were relieved to see Tim was already shutting his eyes, probably for a nap. You walked the rest of the way to school with a lighter heart.

Tim – Clear.

You didn't go to Gotham Academy.

Oh, you did initially, but starting high school, you'd been a student of Park Row High, deep in Crime Alley.

Sometimes you wondered if anybody at the manor knew about it. You didn't wonder if they'd care–they wouldn't beyond the possibility of you, to quote Damian, 'disgracing the Wayne name'–but you were half-certain they had no idea. It could've been funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth was, according to Bruce and his chosen kids, basically omniscient.

It wasn't funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth didn't think you worthy of attention to begin with.

Your day at school went by peacefully, and you blessed every single second of it. Due to Crime Alley having plenty of... colorful personalities, it was mandatory for Park Row High students and staff alike to wear scent blockers and not flaunt their secondary genders. No one looked at you weirdly, the administration staff and the nurse didn't approach you about updating your file or getting a medical checkup. It was a breath of fresh air after so much stress.

So, naturally, things turned bad the moment you got out of school. Jason was at the gate, sitting on his parked bike.

You could strangle someone. Meeting any of the Waynes was a once in a blue moon event. Sure you knew Jason was from Crime Alley, that upon his miraculous resurrection he'd been living here again, but why here at your school, today of all days?

It didn't seem like he'd seen you. You blended in with some other kids streaming out of the gate, hoping to pass by unnoticed. Almost there, just one turn to the bus stop–

"Reader!"

You already knew you had an awful luck to be a beta, but guess it was worse than anticipated.

"Jason? Why are you calling me?"

Jason didn't answer you, but asked you back with a fierce glare, "What the fuck are you doing here? Did the old man send you to spy on me?"

He spat out the accusation. You couldn't help yourself reflecting how, once upon a time, you yearned so badly to have Bruce spare you the attention Jason now treated as garbage. That thought slid off like water off a duck's back as you remembered that now you also considered attention from Bruce and his pack as garbage.

Smiling wryly, you told Jason, "I sincerely doubt Bruce even knows I attend school here."

For a while Jason looked askance, then became doubtful, then what might be angry or upset or something you couldn't decipher, at last settling into impassivity as he jerked his head to the back seat of his bike.

"Get on," he ordered.

You stared blankly at him. A perfectly normal reaction to a perfectly abnormal act. Since when did Jason ever give you a ride?

Jason didn't seem to share your opinion. He let out a curt, bark-like noise that alphas made to wayward pups.

Their wayward pups.

Later on you would berate yourself for this. As of now, however, being treated as a pack member by Jason made your hackles rise. Without a second thought, you snarled and took a step–backward, not forward, because thankfully you still had a sense of self-preservation even when your basic common sense abandoned you.

Nevertheless it was so obviously a disobedient move, and dread filled you as you noticed how Jason's hand–draped over the front of his bike–curled lazily as though intending to scruff you.

An eternity passed during the couple of seconds Jason seemed to debate whether to actually scruff you here in public or not. You felt yourself having aged when he eventually decided to feel amused and warn you instead,

"Fine then, alpha pup. Just remember that your daddy isn't the ruler here, I am. Capiche?"

He didn't wait for your response, just revved his engine and left trailing exhaust smoke that made you cover your nose.

You would've been more irritated had you not been relieved he didn't linger on.

Jason – Clear.

Once an accident, twice a coincidence, thrice a pattern. Having encountered three of Bruce's children today, you were grimly unsurprised to see Dick right after entering the manor.

Dick on the other hand was surprised to see you.

"Reader?" He began, sounding... disbelieving? "You still live here?"

You levelled him a look. "I haven't moved out of the manor, yes."

"No, wait, that's not what I mean!" Dick hastily waves his hands. "I mean–you still live here, in the nursery wing?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," you said.

"I know, I know," Dick nodded soothingly before giving you a smile–the fake beaming smile he gave you whenever you interacted. "So, haven't presented yet, huh? I've been wondering about that!"

Sure he did. You believed him completely.

"Need to store some things in what should've been an abandoned wing?" You questioned, meaningfully glancing at the heap of boxes at Dick's feet.

He coughed, cheeks flushed. "I'll find another place to put them in."

You shrugged. "Just use the downstairs rooms, nobody uses those."

Dick perked up. "Thanks, pup!"

He went to put an arm around your shoulders, but you dodged. A frown marred his face before it smoothed back into the fake beaming smile.

"Say, Reader, if you present as an omega feel free to hit me up! I'd be happy to show you the ropes!"

You gave him an equally fake smile back. "Sure, thank you, Dick."

Sometimes you couldn't help but wonder why Dick kept making these empty promises. It was practically pathological lying at this point.

Dick – Clear.

The nursery wing really occupied an entire wing of Wayne Manor, next to the omega's side of the main building, opposite the elderly wing next to the alpha's side. It was huge, unnecessarily so for such a small pack without any mated members moreover pups of their own. Once upon a time, however, all those rooms were apparently really necessary:

The ward for home birth. The bedroom saved for the midwife or other medical staff. Another of said bedroom for medical staff dealing with pups suffering contagious disease. The isolation ward for said pups. The bedroom with enough cribs and changing tables to open a shop with. The nanny's bedroom. The dorm-style bedroom for pups aged 1 to 7. The series of individual rooms for older pups. The private tutor or governess' bedroom. The schoolroom. The playroom. The nursery dining room. The nursery kitchen and laundry. The dorm-style bedroom for the other domestic staff–housemaid, footman, cook and chauffeur detailed to attend to the nursery only. The spare bedrooms for visiting pack's pups and their attendants. The six bathrooms.

Having lived here for a year short of a decade, you feared you had developed agoraphobia. So much space with only you occupying it. Many times you thought you would've loved for there to be ghosts haunting this wing.

You had one of the bedrooms for older pups and the bathroom next to it. Over the years you had bought a small washer-and-dryer combo to put in the bathroom, a mini fridge, a microwave and an induction stove for a makeshift kitchenette in the bedroom. It was like your own little house, except you figured a real house would not make you fear that you'd be kicked out of it when the owner remembered your existence.

Or, now, that you'd be forbidden from leaving it if the owner knew what you were.

You showered with a scent-removing body wash and made sure to apply triple scent-blocking patches instead of just double like you did in the morning. You cooked your dinner, ate, brushed your teeth and washed the dishes. You were just sitting down to look up 'military-grade scent-removing spray' on your laptop when something unexpected happened:

Someone knocked on your door.

For a moment, you froze in place. Then a voice followed the knock and you hadn't known it was possible to feel more beyond freezing like that.

"Reader? May I enter?"

The voice belonged to Bruce.

Of fucking course. Nine years and you doubted you had conversed with him nine times–half of them happening before Jason's death when Mr Pennyworth still pushed you, gently yet firmly, into playing house with the pack and pretended not to notice them pushing you aside every time. And now of all times he actually came to you?

You didn't tell Bruce to come in. You closed your laptop, looked hard around your room and self for anything that would even whisper I recently presented as a beta and am still unclaimed, and it was only after double-checking there were no such hints that you opened the door.

Looking Bruce in the eye, you absently noted that he was shorter than you remembered. More like a real human being than a colored shadow lengthened by specific light arrangement.

But still a prime alpha. Still the most dangerous to you.

As subtly as possible, you shifted so that most of you was hidden by the door. "Can I help you?"

Bruce's expression was unreadable. The smile he put on afterwards was as fake as Dick's.

"Hey, chum. Dick mentioned to me you were still living here, so–"

He paused. You didn't prompt him to continue.

"So... Ah. Would you prefer staying here?"

"...I don't mind it."

"Well," Bruce visibly hesitated. "If you'd rather move to the main building–well, make sure to tell Alfred first, okay, chum? It's up to you, just–ah, I'm afraid you would have to take a room on the next floor. The ones not used by me and your brothers on the main floor were rather damaged by lack of use, I'm sorry to say."

That was a lie.

Not that you actually knew it; by your first year here you'd been discouraged from exploring. But Bruce's statement made no sense, all of those remaining rooms damaged? But the next floor ones weren't despite being equally unused?

Had it been before, hope might've soared within you. Maybe Bruce and his children shared a secret. A huge secret that you weren't privy to, that was the sole reason you were excluded by everyone all the time.

Your mind was clear now. Whether they really shared this huge secret that existed or not, it did not absolve them from their neglect. No family secret ought to justify you having to take a cab alone to the hospital for an appendectomy and pay the staff extra because you couldn't reach anyone to sign your medical forms.

Unclenching the fists you didn't remember clenching to begin with, you replied, "I prefer staying here, thank you."

Once, it would've hurt to see the palpable relief in Bruce's face.

"That's–good, that you stay here. I mean, that you prefer to stay here and get to stay here." He let out a forced laugh. "A growing alpha has to get to choose their own space, after all! I won't bother you anymore then, Reader. See you at dinner."

You didn't tell him you'd eaten. That you hadn't joined the pack for dinner since Damian came to live here. That you weren't an alpha or an omega or unpresented, because you weren't stupid.

Bruce – Clear.

Having encountered every member of the pack but Mr Pennyworth today, you refused to tempt fate. Bruce's prime alpha might've been unable to detect your beta scent under triple blockers and scent-removing body wash, but it very well could've meant that Mr Pennyworth's supposed omniscience would work on you.

You wrote Already ate. Busy studying. Please do not disturb on a post-it note, stuck it outside the door, and locked the room shut, shoving a chair under the door handle for good measure.

You didn't know it, busy as you were researching late into the night, but Mr Pennyworth did come to your door in order to fetch you for dinner. He frowned reading the post-it note, but wordlessly heeded it and turned back to the main building.

Mr Pennyworth – Clear.

A/N: I'm finally done ahhh!!! I won't say sorry for the late update bc knowing me it should've taken like weeks for me to update each new chapter but in my defense this time I really did mean to finish writing yesterday :/ Unfortunately my bestie abducted me to keep her company getting her phone repaired in the neighboring city and we finished so late I stayed overnight and was too exhausted to write anything until today 😔 I'd reminisce on the days I was young and not so easily downed but tbh those days seemed like a dream.

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick

Please tell me if I missed anyone else! I just copy-pasted the first taglist and added the new ones but hopefully it's still working 🙏

[yuezodiaco]

Interrupted Dates

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune 

Dick

The rooftop was aglow with fairy lights, strung haphazardly between a rusted chimney and a disused antenna. It gave the space a dreamy sort of charm—romantic if you squinted and ignored the faint smell of city smog.

You sat cross-legged on a blanket, sharing a plastic container of pasta salad with Dick. He was barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled by the breeze and the kind of smugly radiant that only came from retelling stories of childhood chaos.

“So then I yell, ‘Ta-da!’—naked, mind you—because I was four and thought I could fly,” Dick said, stabbing his fork into a piece of tomato like it had personally wronged him. “Bruce was mortified. Alfred just... nodded, like he’d seen worse.”

You snorted into your drink. “How are you not traumatized?”

“I am. But charmingly so.”

Meanwhile, twelve feet below, chaos brewed.

Behind a nearby billboard, a truly absurd stack of Batfamily members wobbled dangerously. Stephanie was on top, phone in hand and already live-streaming to a private group chat titled #OperationDickDates??!. Jason had the binoculars. Tim was beneath him, trying to triangulate audio with a dish he may or may not have stolen from the Batcave. Damian, at the bottom, bore the weight of them all with the bitter fury of a betrayed acrobat.

“This is a disgrace,” Damian hissed. “Grayson’s form is off. His landing on the blanket was a ten-degree deviation from optimal angle.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?” Tim whispered. “Not the fact that we’re spying on our grown brother having a date like we’re the Scooby-Doo gang on meth?”

Stephanie shushed them. “Shut up, I think she’s laughing. That’s like, third laugh. Fourth laugh is when I declare it true love.”

Jason adjusted the focus on his binoculars. “Is she feeding him? Bro. She just fed him a tomato. That’s a couple move. This is disgusting.”

“Why are you even here?” Damian growled.

“I was promised chaos and snacks. So far, I have neither.”

Above, Dick paused, brows knitting. “Do you… hear whispering?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe it’s wind?”

“No, that’s definitely someone whispering ‘move your elbow, I can’t see his dumb face.’” He squinted into the shadows. “Give me a sec.”

In one effortless flip, he vanished into the dark like some sort of spandex-clad raccoon. A loud yelp followed.

Moments later, Dick returned, dragging Jason Todd by the back of his leather jacket like a particularly mouthy duffel bag.

Jason looked entirely unrepentant. “Hi. Love what you’ve done with the vibe. Very ‘Pinterest meets crime alley.’”

You sighed. “Hi, guys.”

Stephanie popped up like an excited meerkat. “Hi! You’re really pretty, by the way.”

Tim climbed over next, holding what looked like a home-wired parabolic mic. “Please don’t hate us. I had nothing to do with this. Except the part where I helped rig the surveillance array.”

Damian dropped from the billboard last, landing in a perfect crouch. “This entire endeavor was idiotic. But I recorded Grayson’s subpar trapeze flip for future blackmail purposes.”

You blinked. “Wait—how long have you all been watching?”

Jason shrugged. “Since the pasta salad.”

Stephanie nodded. “She laughed four times. That’s how you know it’s real.”

Dick stared at all of them. “You built a totem pole. Behind a billboard. In a wind tunnel.”

Damian sniffed. “It was Tim’s idea.”

“Lies,” Tim said. “I organized it. There’s a difference.”

You glanced at Dick, who looked like he was oscillating between mild amusement and full-on big brother meltdown.

He sighed dramatically, then turned to you with a hand outstretched. “Would you care to join me in fleeing the scene of the crime?”

“With pleasure.”

As the two of you retreated—blanket in hand, pasta salad container tucked under your arm—you heard Stephanie whisper behind you:

“I’m giving this a nine out of ten. Docking one point for no kiss.”

Jason grunted. “Give it five minutes. They’re totally going to kiss on the next roof.”

 “So…should we… follow?��� Tim whispered.

 “NO.”

Jason

You were tucked into the coziest corner of the bookstore café, the one with the overstuffed chair that made ominous creaking noises when you sat in it, but held firm like a trusted secret. The golden afternoon light pooled on the hardwood floor, catching the soft steam curling from your shared cappuccino. Jason sat beside you, strangely gentle today, his leather jacket shrugged off, sleeves rolled, as he thumbed through a battered paperback of Pablo Neruda.

He cleared his throat—gruff, a little self-conscious—and then looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,’” he read, voice low and slightly husky. Not quite polished—more like poetry scraped over gravel. Honest.

You smiled, fingers brushing his under the table, and he blinked like maybe he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this—this calm, this softness, this weird, wonderful stillness.

Then—

“Is he blushing?” came a stage whisper from the bookshelf display to your right. You both froze.

From behind a rotating rack of pastel-covered romance novels, Dick and Tim peeked out, both wearing oversized, obviously fake glasses and pretending to browse.

Jason closed the book slowly.

Dick leaned sideways with all the stealth of a golden retriever trying to sneak a sandwich. “Look at him go. He’s quoting Neruda. Neruda, Tim. My angry cactus of a brother has feelings.”

“Do we have this on video?” Tim hissed, digging in his coat like he might’ve bugged the café.

Jason squinted. “Are they... wearing mustaches?”

Sure enough, both of them had slapped on wonky adhesive mustaches. Tim’s was starting to peel. Dick’s had migrated halfway up his cheek.

“They think they’re subtle,” you whispered.

Jason reached for the sugar packets, calmly selected one, then flicked his wrist like a sniper on a sugar-fueled vendetta. The packet arced cleanly over the romance display and smacked Tim right between the eyes.

“Ow!”

Dick choked on his latte.

Tim ducked behind the display, rubbing his forehead. “Did he just bean me mid-sonnet?”

You turned to Jason, impressed. “Did you seriously just assault your brother with sweetener while reading poetry?”

He grinned. “He deserved it.”

“Fair.”

From behind the shelf came Dick’s voice, unbothered and very much still spying. “Hey, we’re just trying to witness emotional growth.”

“And possibly blackmail material.”

Jason raised an eyebrow and called over his shoulder, “Get out before I start reading Yeats in a threatening tone.”

“Threatening Yeats?” Dick said. “You are in love.”

Tim emerged, dramatically clutching his sugar-packet injury. “This is how I die. Not in battle. Not in a tragic lab explosion. Murdered by Splenda™.”

“Get out,” Jason said, standing halfway. “Or I swear to God, I’ll recite sonnets until you sob.”

Dick raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, no need to traumatize the civilians.”

They backed out, knocking over a cardboard cutout of Jane Austen and leaving a half-eaten croissant on a poetry display. The barista glared. Someone in the back clapped.

When it was quiet again, Jason sat down with a long sigh and opened the book again. He didn’t look at you for a moment, just flipped a few pages like nothing had happened.

You leaned in, brushing his hair gently behind one ear. “You were blushing, by the way.”

He met your gaze, eyes warm and half-lidded, lips twitching. “Yeah, well... you’d blush too if you were reading love poems to someone you liked in front of two idiot brothers dressed like a community theater production of Sherlock Holmes.”

“True,” you admitted.

He found the page again, cleared his throat, and murmured, “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where…’”

And for once, no one interrupted.

(Not even when Dick and Tim snuck back disguised as a couple on a painfully awkward first date. But that’s another story.

Tim

  It was a clear night at Gotham’s old observatory—cold enough to see your breath, warm enough to be out without freezing, the kind of in-between that made you feel suspended in time. You were perched on a folding blanket with a thermos of hot chocolate between your knees, wrapped in one of Tim’s oversized hoodies, watching him fine-tune the telescope with all the reverence of someone handling a sacred artifact.

“This model’s based on the Cassegrain design,” he murmured, adjusting the focus ring, eyes narrowed in concentration. “The mirrors inside reflect the image back to a focal point—it’s more efficient for deep-sky observation. Which is perfect because Orion’s Nebula is peaking tonight, and you can see the whole trapezium cluster if—”

He stopped, mid-ramble.

“Too much?”

You grinned, sipping the hot chocolate. “Never. I like when you go full-nerd.”

Tim flushed just a little, half-hiding his face behind the telescope. “Right. Well. You’ll see it better if you look around there—” He gently guided your hands. “—past Rigel. That’s the blue supergiant. It’s—”

“—Eight-hundred sixty light years away,” you finished.

He looked at you like he might die a little from fondness. “I think I love you.”

A crunch echoed above you.

You froze. Tim’s shoulders tensed. Another crunch. Muffled whispering. Something—or someone—was shifting behind the dome’s inner wall.

Tim sighed, not even looking up. “They’re watching.”

You tilted your head. “Should we invite them down?”

He shook his head solemnly. “No. Let them suffer in their self-inflicted cringe.”

Inside the observatory’s mechanical guts, Damian muttered, “You’re breathing too loudly.”

Cass responded by flicking him on the head.

Steph hissed, “I told you to bring snacks. You said popcorn was ‘too loud,’ and now look where we are. Starving. Cold. Emotionally invested.”

“I am not emotionally invested,” Damian said with the conviction of someone absolutely emotionally invested.

A beat.

“They’re holding hands,” Steph whispered. “Look. Right there. Hand. On. Knee.”

Cass’s voice: “Aww.”

Damian gagged audibly.

Tim adjusted the telescope again. “Bruce is here too.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Tim just nodded toward the corner of the dome where, sure enough, Bruce stood in a trench coat and fedora like a noir film detective, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Possibly proud. Possibly plotting. Definitely out of place.

You whispered, “Why is he in a trench coat?”

Tim didn’t look up. “He thinks it’s ‘subtle.’”

Another creak. A hushed “Shhh!”

Five minutes passed in silence. Tim showed you the Andromeda Galaxy, soft-spoken and a little breathless as he described the gravitational pull between it and the Milky Way.

Then—

CRASH.

The trapdoor on the upper level flung open. Damian Wayne fell through it like a cat yeeted off a counter.

He hit the floor in a roll, popped up in a dramatic stance, and declared—very loudly—“That was intentional.”

Cass landed beside him a second later in a perfect superhero crouch. “We tripped.”

Damian hissed. “You tripped. I performed a tactical descent.”

Tim didn’t even blink. “Welcome. There’s cocoa in the thermos. Please keep the stalking to a minimum.”

Steph peeked her head down the ladder, grinning and holding her phone up. “I’ve been filming this whole time, by the way.”

Bruce descended the stairs silently like a disappointed cryptid.

You looked around at the chaos, then at Tim, who was now sitting with his head in his hands.

You gently patted his back. “You okay?”

“I was trying to explain redshift,” he muttered into his palms. “Now my little brother has announced his ‘tactical descent’ like he’s a D-list Avenger.”

From the floor, Damian snapped, “I heard that.”

Tim looked at you. “Please kill me.”

You offered him the cocoa instead.

“Same thing,” he mumbled.

Steph flopped onto the blanket beside you. “So... on a scale from one to tragically adorable, how serious is this?”

Cass stated calmly “Eleven.”

Damian made a face that would make the sun turn green as he stated that everything was disgusting. Bruce tried to argue that the kids were simply bonding, which resulted in Damian making yet another disgusted face at them.

You looked at Tim, smiling. “Want to get back to the stars?”

He nodded quickly, tugging you gently back toward the telescope, his hand slipping into yours like it belonged there. “Yes. Away from the goblins.”

“You love the goblins.”

Tim’s smile twitched. “No, I tolerate them. With... grudging affection.”

Behind you, Cass whispered, “He’s so in love.”

Steph whispered loudly  “Like... epic poem in love.”

“Please.”

Tim ignored them, realigned the telescope, and said softly, “Okay. Your turn. Let me show you something beautiful.”

And he did.

(The goblins mostly behaved. Until Damian tried to sabotage the cocoa supply. But that’s another story.)

Damian

It started with an invitation tucked beneath a hardcover book you’d left at the manor: On the Aesthetic History of Violence. Inside, in impossibly neat handwriting:

“You are cordially invited to a private tour of the Gotham Museum of Modern Art. After hours. Dress appropriately.”

Signed only: D.W.

You showed up in a black coat and clean boots. Damian arrived ten minutes early in a bespoke turtleneck and the kind of dark wool coat that whispered money and museum quiet. No cape, no scowl. Just a calm nod and a half smile when he saw you.

“You’re late,” he said, not unkindly.

“You’re early,” you countered.

His eyes softened like a secret.

The museum had shut its doors to the public at 6:00. By 7:15, it was yours alone. Echoing floors, tall ceilings, marble columns leading to hushed rooms, all flooded in warm golden light. Damian walked you through the Impressionists first. He spoke softly, almost reverently—about oil brushwork, the interplay of light and motion, how Manet weaponized color. There was something about hearing him—Damian Wayne, child of war and shadow—talk about atmospheric perspective like it was something holy.

“Look at the emotional architecture,” he murmured, pausing before a muted Chagall. “The structure of grief in the way the lines collapse toward the left. You can see the subject wants to leave the room, but the room will not let her.”

You turned toward him. “That one reminds me of you.”

He blinked. No quip. No snort. Just...stillness.

A breath. Then another.

You watched the silence settle into his shoulders, unsure if he was flattered or panicking. You were about to joke it off—when suddenly—

“HhhHKKk’CHHSHH!”

A violent sneeze echoed across the entire museum like a grenade in an empty cathedral.

You both turned slowly, as one.

From behind a marble bust in the Romanticism wing, a crackling voice came over the coms: “Sorry—allergies!”

“Stephanie,” Damian said in a voice usually reserved for supervillains and disappointed Shakespearean monologues. “This is why I don’t take them anywhere.”

You barely suppressed a laugh. “You knew they were here?”

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hoped I was wrong.”

Down the east corridor, two distinct silhouettes peeked out from behind a 9-foot sculpture of Artemis. Jason was wearing a museum security badge upside down and holding a clipboard he was clearly using as a tray for takeout. Stephanie—crouched beside him in a trench coat and baseball cap—was whispering into a walkie-talkie with the stealth of a small rhino.

“I told you the mic was too close to your face,” Jason muttered.

Steph hissed back, “Sorry, I sneezed. It’s dusty in here!”

Back in the Impressionist gallery, Damian rubbed his temple like this was all personally offensive.

“And why,” he asked the universe, “is Todd carrying egg rolls in a museum?”

“Because,” came a crisp British voice from the main atrium, “someone has to maintain standards.”

You turned to see Alfred Pennyworth—immaculate in a faux security guard uniform—holding a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres like it was wartime Versailles.

“Would you care for a prosciutto puff?” he asked you, deadpan.

Damian looked like he wanted to dissolve through the floor.

Alfred added, with a glance toward Steph and Jason: “Miss Brown tried to bribe the actual docent with a Crunchwrap Supreme. I had to intervene.”

You took a puff pastry and tried not to laugh.

A voice from the shadows: “Pfft. Amateur.”

From behind a false wall, a gloved hand polished a modern sculpture. You blinked. “Is that... Dick?”

“Richard has infiltrated as a janitorial subcontractor,” Damian muttered, sounding so tired. “He insisted it was ‘part of the immersive experience.’”

“I’m wearing coveralls and everything,” Dick’s voice called proudly from behind a giant steel cube. “Museum chic.”

Damian turned to you, exhausted. “Please believe me when I say, I wanted this to be romantic.”

You looped your arm through his and smiled. “It still is.”

He paused. “Despite the surveillance?”

“Because of it,” you teased. “It’s very us.”

Damian blinked. Then—slowly, reluctantly—smiled. A real one. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but was still a rare and quiet thing.

“I loathe you,” he murmured to the empty air.

“Love you too, baby bird,” came Jason’s voice over the coms.

“I have no siblings,” Damian muttered, guiding you toward a post-modernist piece shaped like an unraveling staircase.

From behind the bust, Steph whispered: “Did he just blush?”

Dick whispered back: “I’m so proud.”

Jason: “I’m gonna cry. That’s our boy.”

Steph: “Wait—can we do a slow clap?”

Alfred: “If you start clapping, I am tasering everyone and leaving.”

Back in the gallery, Damian took your hand and placed it over his heart. “Ignore the interlopers. This painting reminds me of you. Bold color. Sharp lines. Impossible to look away from.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “Now you’re being romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You started it.”

Behind you, Steph sneezed again.

Damian didn’t even flinch. “I will burn this museum to the ground.”

[yuezodiaco]

My Heart — Part Three

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

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

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

word count | 5.3k

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

conner makes his first appearance :pp

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

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he pauses in the living room.

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

His brows furrow.

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

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

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

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

And you’re there.

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

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

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

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

He doesn’t remember this.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

His throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

Only the music.

Only you.

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

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

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

You were so small then.

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

Finally be proud of.

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

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

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

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce swallows hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

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

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

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

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

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

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

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

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

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

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

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

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

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

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

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

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

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

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

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

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

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

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

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

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

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

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

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

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

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

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

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

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

“You think it’s too late?”

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

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

But your ghost lingers.

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

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

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

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

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

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

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

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

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

But from the rest of them? Silence.

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

Four years.

Four. Years.

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

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

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

And she was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Bruce…

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

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

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

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

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

You hide at first.

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

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

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

You don’t care.

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

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

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

And then you see them.

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

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

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

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

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

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

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

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

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

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

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

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

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

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

“You and me both.”

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

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

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

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

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

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

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

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

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

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

You turn.

Damian.

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

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

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

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

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

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

But still yours.

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

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

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

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

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

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

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

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

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

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

You've always had that power over him.

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

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

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

Dick Grayson.

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

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

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

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

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

You don’t hug back.

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

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

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

You nearly laugh.

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

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

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

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

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

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

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

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

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

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

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for wishing to be in another's arms. 

[yuezodiaco]

My Heart — Part Two

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

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

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

word count | 4.4k

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

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels—the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint. 

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,” you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . .  . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

[yuezodiaco]

My Heart — Part One

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

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

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

word count | 4.9k

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

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about? 

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life. 

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished. 

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father,              I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick. 

                I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason,             You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest. 

Cass,          There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes. 

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian,                You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come. 

You sign that one with less happiness. 

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred,            I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box. 

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

[yuezodiaco]

— ♡ my pretty neighbour.

PART 01.

PAIRING: jason todd x witch! reader

CONTENT WARNING: afab reader, blood, violence, alcohol, mention of assaults, more to be added.

CATEGORY: shit ton of fluff and sfw, maybe angst?

SUMMARY: a witch trying her best to lay low and live her life, while being out of every gothams vigilante's radar. turns out red hood had been her neighbour all along. also they have cute little pets.

WC: 4k

A/N: another jason fic yep. i didn't really have a solid idea but i just really wanted to write something so.... enjoy!

fic masterlist. next.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

gotham is filled with all kinds of criminals, masterminds, lunatics, druglords— you name it. each has done such horrible deeds that it has scarred hearts and souls of every innocent, each has a certain level of craziness in them that requires insane amount of intellect to even catch them. and despite the vigilantes giving their utmost best, everyday having to push themselves to think better, be faster... criminals still hide in those dark alleys, unbound and free.

so you can't really blame the protectors of the city, as they like to call themselves, to be cautious of every activity that goes on in the city. they are understandably hostile to superheroes who try to help, a bit too hostile sometimes in your opinion, but maybe the massive workload makes them snippy.

being a witch and living in gotham is a bit tough therefore, you not only have to hide your powers from the normal people but also from the vigilantes. you do not want to be evicted out of the only city where you can afford the rent, that too without any dignity since witches are sort of still discriminated by the myths and fake stories. still, its understandable, mankind has always been afraid of what they can't control or understand.

you had been ridiculously meticulous in your choice of residence, not like you had much choice to begin with. but you had scouted out the area as best as you could to your needs, and upon confirming that there wasn't much vigilante sighting in the neighborhood, you had finally settled.

a barista's salary didn't really help much, but you didn't really have much needs. your only goal was to live a drama free, quiet life where you could experiment with your little spells (harmless ones.. of course) and, the most important, provide for your little gentleman, alfred, a cute little doberman (he's huge). that was your goal, the ideal life you chased— should chase. but often a heart's desire overwhelm the logic of mind.

you have a penchant for getting into trouble. having promised to never get involved in anything that might shed light upon your existence, you strayed from that promise more often than not. all for good deeds, mostly.

"this is the third time this month. i have got to practice some self control." you sigh as you nudge the body of the man on the ground, groaning and coughing up blood. your brows furrow in mild annoyance as you kick his thigh this time.

"i didn't even use a strong spell! come on you wuss!" you softly groaned to yourself before sighing as you looked away for a moment, scratching your brow with your nail. the blood wasn't a problem, to be honest you wouldn't give a crap if he died. he was assaulting a sweet old man, punching him to death— you just had to step in.

...maybe you stepped in too much. now his arm is twisting at an odd angle, you were supposed to teach him a simple lesson. just give him some scare that'll scar him for life. now he got a bonus broken arm.

you've left one too many mens like that lying and crying, and it'll only be a matter of time before they lead those pesky vigilantes to your doorstep.

you put on a spell that altered his memory of your face, in case he saw it, before turning around to be on your merry way. but cue gotham weather's shitty timing, it starts pouring hard.

"mother nature you're really teasing me today..." you murmured sarcastically to yourself, yet sauntering off unbothered, rain never bothered you much anyway. you just hate how the clothes get all damp and clingy, weighing down your body.

by the time you reach your place you're visibly drenched to the bone, humming some tune under your breath, totally not seeing the man walking ahead of you. and so consequently you bump into his back, eyes widening for a moment as you stepped back with an apology right on your tongue.

but they die on your lips when you see the most brilliant bluish green eyes glance back at you, bitter and hostile. but you've always had a weak spot for pretty things, and when the man turns fully, you note he is the most prettiest man you've ever laid your eyes on.

you're far too lost in admiring him that you fail to notice the slight shift in his demeanor. after all, jason was already in a wretched mood and the next second he turns around to see an absolutely drenched women staring back at him. he isn't that easily fazed, your skin glistens, the damp and dripping hair clinging to the side of your face, that makes you look gorgeous but he's seen gorgeous. your eyes though— they seem unreal. feel unreal. there's just something otherworldly about it— ethereal even. and he's not among those to be poetic.

you realise you've been staring for a second too long and the silence becomes awkward real quick, you blink and step back with a polite smile. "sorry. i uh— wasn't looking where i was going." his brow raised slightly at your politeness, seemingly even more sweet due to your low and honeyed voice.

"no problem." he murmured casually, his voice even more grumpy and rougher than usual, a tough night and patrol hasn't even started. he then turned around and ascended the stairs, and so did you, lagging behind by two steps. you couldn't make the pretty man uncomfortable after all.

but he noticed you following him floor after floor, stopping right when he did at his floor before your steps softly followed behind him again. when he reached his door he turned around, and found you looking back at him with the same confusion.

"...hi neighbour?" you jokingly whispered with a hesitant smile but he didn't.

"how long have you been living here?" that came out more as an interrogative question than a confused one and it made your brows raise in amusement. this one's got a feisty side.

"a few months. wasn't aware anyone lived there." you replied back coolly with a smile that bordered serene yet sultry. his eyes dropped down to it for a small second, narrowing slightly as if the smile irritated him. it indeed irritated him because of the shiver that ran down his spine at the sight of it.

"I've lived here for more than a year. never seen you before." he retorted like he's insinuating an accusation and your lips pull to a slow grin.

"you're awfully stingy for a pretty neighbour." you remark, your nose scrunching up in fake disappointment as you unlock your door.

stingy?

"pretty? " he didn't know what of those words baffled him more, yet that was the one that had to come out of his mouth.

"and interrogative. are you in the gcpd or something?" you asked as you leaned your weight against your door which was slightly ajar.

"no. you're the one interrogating now." he scoffed quietly as he turned around, fetching his key out his pocket.

"seems like you don't know the difference between making conversation and interrogation." you lightly chuckle and thats when he realised its your voice thats the root of the irritation being caused in his already irritated mind. its irritatingly sweet and honeyed— addictive may be the right word.

"that's your version of making conversation?" he scowls as he opened his door and stepped inside while your grin widened, he finds your amusement at his expense really insulting.

"only with pretty, grumpy neighbours."

"and is that your way of flirting? cus its not effective."

"slow down, pretty boy. if you think this is flirting then clearly you haven't been properly flirted with before. how sad." if he can't handle your teasing, he'd be a downright mess when you actually flirt then. and those reddened embarrassed cheeks simply intensify the want to flirt with him.

he gives you one last scathing glare before shutting the door on your face. a chuckle quietly escapes your lips as you call out a loud "goodnight!" which you're probably sure he heard and frowned even more.

you step in your apartment and close the door, flicking on the candles with a swish of your hand. you could just switch on the lights but you secretly love the theatrics. a quick spell could dry you but a warm shower would probably help you more.

and it does help you, you're more relaxed and less tense. your muscles feels like mush just like your head. and yet, as you lay on your bed, your eyes are open wide and awake. you're a bit of an insomniac. its a bother and inconvenience but just like ever other nuisance in your life, you've gotten used to it.

just like always you get up, grab a grimoire and your reading glasses, learning a spell or two. it usually takes you more than an hour to understand and practice and most nights it ends up with something getting on fire or your own self. you suppose that's the fun part.

and again, like always, you get bored and lay back on your bed. this time the pretty neighbour occupies your mind, beauty aside, it is a question that you met him just today when he claims to have been living for a year. why didn't you bump into him before?

you hoped for no trouble, yet something tells you he'll make you be neck deep in one.

"again? " jason frowned as he dropped to the ground with a muted thump of his boots, not a noise at his landing, its like second nature to him.

"third this month." oracle spoke through the comms and jason crouched infront of the little blood that was splattered across the gritty pavement, the rain had washed off most of it yet some stayed, seeped into the earth like a taint.

"some random person reported it almost an hour ago and he was taken to get treated." oracle continued and jason scoffed sarcastically, "you're telling me the cops beat me to it? that's a first."

she simply rolled her eyes at that, "i checked his background. a typical small time thief, arrested quiet a few times for mugging and burglary."

he grunted as a response and looked around but nothing else was amiss. with a sigh he got up, "someone's doing our work here. unfortunately for us they're pretty good at it."

"not for long." Jason's brows furrowed a bit on reflex as bruce's voice came in, "they're bound to slip."

"they haven't for the last two month. maybe they might never." course he agreed with bruce, but where's the fun in agreeing?

"they will. and we have to catch them. they're a threat to the city—"

"times like these, wish i was deaf."

"what was that?"

Jason's not that worried about the mysterious person on the loose beating up criminals, he's sure they were probably in the act of committing a crime to deserve this. but bruce's worry has a point, they need to know who it is. not everyone's a protector. they may be saving right now, but is that all they're doing?

jason knows first-hand how times change, how fast people change. how deceiving time could be, how deceiving humans can be.

his mind is immediately pulled to you at that thought, someone who looks pretty harmless, eyes that are both innocent yet alluring like a siren's. you looked even more helpless and naive in your drenched form. yet all it took was for you to smile and that image shattered.

that smile was a warning in itself, an omen as if. innocence might be something of a past to you, your eyes held no fear, no apprehension. your smile was steady and dangerous, he's a man who has fought back death, rendered men almost lifeless with just his fist— and still his gut told him you were not to be taken lightly. harmless you might be, for now, but not innocent.

he returned back at his place at dawn, grunting and groaning at the sore muscles that ached here and there.

"at this point im gonna age faster than alfred." he murmured to himself with an almost pout. a quick shower and some television were supposed to really tire him out, but sleep escaped him. insomnia the trouble of yet another person.

and he doesn't really leave his place much, but today he felt like it. maybe a walk might help him. its still early so he doubts the streets to be that busy.

he really should have thought this through.

"hey pretty neighbour." he gave a deadpanned stare to that same amusing smile of yours.

"ooh you don't seem like a morning person." you pretend to frown, still locking your door before turning around with a wink, "i know you for less than twelve hours and we already have something in common. is this destiny's sign for something more? " you said dramatically, taking huge delight at his annoyance.

"no, but my headache's a perfect sign for nothing ever." he quietly snapped as he slammed his door shut a little too hard tugging on his hood over a bit before walking away.

"so you do have sarcasm." came your voice not too far behind him, but he knows you're not following him. he saw your clothes when he stepped out, formal and perfectly ironed for work. maybe it really was the rain that gave him the innocent illusion last night.

he sighed as he started descending the stairs, shaking his head as he immediately regretted his decision for this walk.

"you talk a lot." he called out and heard your quiet chuckle in response, "you talk too less." his steps became hurried and your grin simply widened.

"would you tell me your name if i ask you?" you asked him, your smile barely contained and he rolled his eyes, "think you already know the answer."

soon both of you stepped out on the pavement and you turned to face him with a teasing smile, "guess I'll just call you pretty neighbour then."

you waved at him goodbye before he could turn the other way, and yelled "bye pretty neighbour!" as loud as you could, making sure it'll turn heads.

his eyes widened for a moment before he glared at you in disbelief, then swiftly turned around to walk away from imminent embarrassment. maybe it was better if he never knew he had a neighbour next door, no matter how beautiful you are. he sighed to himself as your smile flashed in his mind, unfortunately you really were beautiful. damn you.

you loved your barista job, after all it involved brewing and you were, not to brag, quite the master at it. you kept your conversations with the customers at a minimal, there's no need to involve in idle chatter with them. your coworkers though are a bunch of sweethearts, mostly, so its never a headache working there.

but sometimes some assholes walk in, harassing the workers, some be rude to you about the order even when its made just like they want— but you do what you gotta do to survive.

when you're returning on your way back home, your mood's sour than usual. you don't have it in you to even smile. all anyone would want after a shitty day at job, is the damn bed. even if you can't sleep.

but, the world always tests you on your worst days.

you stop dead in your tracks just a few steps away from your unit, whose door is wide open by the way. your senses heightened and every spell on the tip of your tongue. you didn't have to worry about all your witchy things being stolen or affected since they're all safely locked in a cupboard bound by a spell, unseen by anyone other than you. your important things are also spell bound to your home so no thief can take them out of your apartment.

no, what you're worried about is alfred.

you peaked inside in your own home, the lights were on. you slowly pushed the door without making a sound, a little proud at the creaky door to not give you away today.

suddenly your eyes caught the top of someone's head peaking from behind your dining table— alfred's there too! your eyes widened and your brows furrowed into an angry glare.

"step the fuck away from alfred!" you extended your hand, about to cripple the hell out of whoever that is— but then you see your pretty neighbour straighten up fast and alfred perk up before rushing to you, all smiles and happy.

"woah woah chill— wait who??? " his initial shock subsided to one of pure confusion as he stood there with his hands raised.

ignoring him you crouched down to alfred's height, checking him for any injury because heaven knows if there is one, then that pretty neighbour might not leave the world very pretty—

"he's fine." he said as he slowly rounded the table before stopping short at the sight of your glare. it was... a change, different. he had the impression of you being as much of a nuisance as dick is, if not more. but right now all your eyes hold is hostility and distrust.

"i'll be the judge of that." you snapped at him before plastering a helpless smile for alfred who, suddenly, very surprising of him, trotted back to your neighbour. and you just stayed rooted to your position as your mind errored because what the fuck????

alfred barely ever lets anyone touch him. he had a difficult time when he was just a puppy in an abusive household. he only trusted two people, one is you and your best friend.

you look up at the neighbour with the same dumbfounded expression and for the first time he found it in himself to smile, it was a bit cocky but a smile nonetheless.

"you... what.. what did you do to him? and why the hell did you break into my apartment?" you questioned as you rose to your full height, regarding him suspiciously.

he gave you an unimpressed look at your immediate assumptions before sighing, "i was in my apartment when i heard him growling. loudly. then he started barking. turns out someone was lurking outside of your apartment."

"what?"

"yeah. he had already picked the lock actually, acted like he was opening the door and claimed that he lived there. if i hadn't met you last night, i might have been given him the benefit of doubt. when i confronted he said he was dating you. but i knew that was bullshit." he shrugged like it was no trouble.

you were a bit stunned. yes you thought of him pretty, maybe a nice man but you never expected him to be nice, you never expect anyone to be nice. the world had taught you time and time again that humanity is scarce and kindness is a luxury.

"oh." you murmured before lightly shaking your head, "oh that's— thank you. i- where's that man now?"

his lips slightly tugged up in amusement at your stunned look, feeling maybe a teensy bit of pride to wrong whatever misconception you had of him. "he lives two floors up actually. don't worry i made sure he will be kicked out."

"....thanks." you mumbled out before rubbing the side of your face, you hated being in the wrong, and awkward and embarrassing situations like this. how the hell did you miss an asshole like that? you thought you knew everyone from the apartment as a safety measure.

"i- um sorry i assumed and accused you." you took his words as final because alfred was literally sat near his feet. alfred's a great judge of character.

but this time he didn't scoff or smirk, instead there was a soft smile on his face. he understood your anger after all. "s alright. i understand i also have—"

you froze when you felt something brush by your feet, something very soft and— "meow."

you looked down and there it is, a very adorable, very extra soft siamese cat, who is now staring down alfred like he wronged all her ancestors.

you look up at him with raised brows and with a tired sigh he points at himself, confirming your assumption.

"sorry-"

"can i pet?" you asked softly, looking up at him with such hopeful eyes that all he could do was nod. you crouched down and approached the cat carefully, extending your hand. the cat inspected a little before rubbing against your hand.

"who's this beautiful little baby?" you mused, grinning wide as you scratched the cat.

"... miss pearl." he mumbled too quietly but you have good ears, and unlike how he expected you to laugh at that, you simply smiled in great approval.

upon remembering something his brows furrowed again, "um sorry what did you say his name was?" he pointed at alfred and you looked up at him with most proud smile. "alfred."

"huh." that's a really funny coincidence and a small laugh started spilling out his lips slowly. you looked up at him with furrowed brows, "what?"

"no. nothing. great name."

"are you making fun of him?"

"you really think i would?"

"...hm."

you got up finally and smiled at him, it didn't have that sultry undertone— just a smile.

"again, thank you." you said and he nodded suddenly finding his cat more interesting to look at, his ears reddening.

"uh your place. great aesthetic huh." he said, diverting the topic and you looked around. it didn't look that much like a typical witch's home, but there were too many candles everywhere that normally, normal people don't really have.

his eyes narrowed a bit as he smiled amusingly, he did find that... eccentric.

there was a beat of silence as you looked at candles at literally every flat surfaces.

"i just really like candles. they're scented." you said with the most convincing smile you could conjure up. he didn't buy it, but didn't question it either. gotham is filled with every sort of weird after all.

slave to your habit you still ran your eyes around your apartment, while he picked up miss pearl, but everything was at its place. you really gotta put a spell on the damn door now, the lock had already been weak.

he was almost in his unit before you called out behind him, "all this help and you still won't give me a proper introduction?" that teasing tone was back in your voice.

he sighed in exasperation as he turned around, but weirdly enough, to reasons unknown to him, his ears felt warm again.

"jason."

"jason.." you grinned wide and replied back with your name before winking at him. he simply gave a deadpanned stare before shutting his door.

he let pearl go from his arms, while staring off at a distance, his eyes a little hazy as his mind repeated the way you said his name. shaking his head he scoffed, you were nothing more than just a weird little neighbour.

come next morning he's about to head to bed when he heard a knock. his brows furrowed as he wondered who the hell is bothering him this early. but there was no one when he opened the door, nothing but a small little tin box on the floor with designs engraved on it.

he picked it up suspiciously before taking off the lid, in there were some... tea bags? there was also a note, in there was a little message written in neat words.

this helps with insomnia. its my personal favorite too. hope you do know how to brew some tea.

your pretty neighbour ;)

now he realises what exactly feels weird when he sees you, its his silly little heart.

reblogs are appreciated! :))

taglist: @deadbeatphobos @lettucel0ver @fixated29

[yuezodiaco]

ALL IT TAKES IS ONE BAD DAY

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a spending a year in a loveless marriage, you find your husband with another woman. warning: cheating, bruce is an asshole

The manor had never been a home. Not truly.

Its towering halls echoed with silence, its antique chandeliers glinting like frozen stars, untouchable and cold. You’d tried, in the beginning, to warm it—fresh flowers in the vases, candles lit at dinner, even soft music playing in the background some evenings.

But Bruce never noticed.

He came and went like a ghost—impeccable in tailored suits and always busy. And when he did speak to you, it was clipped, distant. A nod. A thank you. A hum of acknowledgment as he passed you in the corridor, the same way one might regard an acquaintance and not someone they chose to bind themselves to.

You’d grown used to the solitude. Learned to fill it with books, walks through the garden, dinners eaten in silence. On rare occasions, Alfred would try to bridge the gap, lingering just a moment longer in the room, a small reassurance here and there trying to cover up for his master, but there was no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes every time he saw the way Bruce treated you.

You were a Wayne by name only.

And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe you would’ve endured it forever—the cold bed, the colder stares, the knowledge that this union was forged for reputation and power, not love.

But deep inside you felt that hollow aching loneliness, the insecurity of wondering why you weren’t enough. You always dreamed of a love that would consume you, of freedom and adventure. You never thought this might be your life, you played your part well but the posh dresses, the pearls, everything that came with being Bruce Wayne’s wife felt like a cage. 

You never wanted his money, in fact you never even took a penny from him, you were wealthy in your own name. You married him because it was arranged yet you had hoped the two of you could find some middle ground or at least be amicable yet he never even tried.

You he had secrets and you tried to respect it. But there was no mistaking the way he seemed to sneak out in the middle of the night, doing god knows what. How he always seemed too tired or too busy to even attend important functions and meeting, always leaving them to you.

It seemed you finally got your answer. It was late when you returned from the charity gala. You hadn’t expected him to come—he rarely did. But the photographers had still clamoured for pictures, still whispered about Bruce Wayne’s wife, wondering if the man even remembered he had one. 

You tried to ignore the humiliation but sometimes it became too much, like tonight, and you found yourself sneaking away early.

The silence greeted you first when you returned to the manor. Then the soft creak of the stairs under your heels.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar.

At first, it was the flicker of candlelight you noticed. Then the shadow on the wall—two forms, tangled together. And then the soft, breathy laugh. Familiar.

Selina Kyle.

Your throat closed. You stepped closer, silent as a ghost. Your eyes met the scene and for a second, you didn’t breathe. Her mouth was against his neck, one leg hooked over his hip, sheets disheveled. The way she touched him, kissed him, it was clear she knew his body intimately and that this wasn’t the first time.

His hands were on her. His eyes—those usually cold, unreadable eyes—closed with pleasure.

The sound you made must have been small, but it was enough. Bruce’s head snapped up. Selina glanced over her shoulder, entirely unfazed.

You stood in the doorway, lips parted, frozen. Your body refused to move. Your mind, however, was screaming.

A year.

A year of silence and patience and pretending that the chill in his eyes didn’t hurt you. That his absence at every dinner, every event, every attempt you made to be more than a burden, didn’t pierce straight through your ribs.

And this was what he gave you in return.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you like you were the one who’d intruded. Selina at least had the decency to look like she felt at least a little guilty but you didn’t want nor need her pity

It was the silence that broke you more than the act.

Not even the decency to lie.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Your gaze flicked from him to Selina then back to him. You tilted your head. “I hope she was worth it.”

Then you turned. Trying to keep the calm and controlled facade, even as the world crumbled around you.

You didn’t look back.

Not even when he called out your name. You’d done everything to keep your sham of a marriage together and you were done.

And for the first time in a year, you were the one who walked away.

You hadn’t even bothered to grab your stuff, you were still in your gala dress as you grabbed the keys to your car, getting ready to get as far away as you could from this place.

“Madame, I’m sure—“ Alfred tried to do as he always did and make it better but for once you were in no mood to listen.

“I don’t care.” You cut off not harshly but firmly. “He’d made it clear since the beginning that he didn’t want this marriage, no matter how hard I tried. I’m done, Alfred. I have more self respect than to stay and continue trying with a man who clearly doesn’t want me and doesn’t respect me. I deserve someone who does,” you finished, voice low but steady, the final word catching ever so slightly on your tongue.

Alfred stood there in the entryway, a halo of warm light behind him, his face drawn with quiet sorrow. He didn’t argue. He only bowed his head slightly in acceptance because what could he say? You were right. You deserved more.

“I’ll have someone collect your things,” Alfred said softly, after a long moment. His voice, always composed, was tinged with quiet regret. “Where should I have them sent?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know—but because saying it aloud made it real.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” you murmured.

He gave a nod, the smallest motion. And though he was just the butler to some, to you, he had always been the one constant in that frozen palace of a home.

You offered him a faint, grateful smile.

“Thank you… for being the only one who ever treated me like I mattered.”

That got him. His throat bobbed slightly, and he looked away, just for a second—composing himself as always. But when he met your gaze again, there was nothing but pride and sorrow in his eyes.

“You always did,” he said. “He was simply too blind to see it.”

You nodded once, then turned on your heel. The dress rustled around your legs as you moved down the steps. You were still in heels. Still in diamonds. Still wearing the same red lipstick he hadn’t once complimented.

You slipped into the driver’s seat of the black car—the one you’d always parked at the edge of the Wayne fleet, never quite part of the collection.

The door shut with a soft click.

And for the first time in a year, you didn’t look up at the manor as you drove away. You didn’t wonder if he’d come after you.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

Even if he did, It no longer mattered.

The city blurred past your windows in streaks of gold and steel. Gotham’s skyline loomed like jagged teeth against the night, familiar and yet cold—just like everything else lately. The gala dress clung uncomfortably to your skin now, a mocking reminder of the life you’d just walked away from.

You tightened your grip on the wheel, trying to breathe through the storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, grief—all coiled in your chest like a venomous thing. But at least you were free now.

Free from him. Free from the expectations that came to being married to him. 

The light ahead flickered from yellow to red. You slowed, fingers tapping anxiously against the wheel, when—

BANG.

The car jolted with a deafening metallic crash. Your head snapped forward as the vehicle was rammed from behind. Airbags didn’t deploy. Your foot slammed on the brakes, tires skidding—but it was too late. A second hit came, this time from the side, and the world tilted as your car spun across the wet street and slammed into a lamppost.

Smoke hissed from the engine. Your ears rang.

You tried to move—unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for your phone—but the driver’s side door was ripped clean off.

A hand reached in—gloved, pale, too fast.

Before you could scream, a needle jabbed into your neck. Cold fire rushed through your veins, and the world slipped sideways.

Voices echoed. Laughter.

A man’s voice, high-pitched and giddy, like a child who’d just unwrapped a present he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Well, well, Mrs. Wayne. What a delicious little surprise.”

You tried to focus through the haze, your limbs too heavy to fight. The world went dark and spinning, but not before you saw a flash of white skin, a grin painted in what looked like blood, and eyes that burned with manic delight.

The Joker.

[yuezodiaco]

αƒтєя мι∂ηιgнт

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1, act 2, act 3

You take the first steps towards your new life and prepare for the battlefield that is Wayne manor. Alfred chooses you. He will always choose you, and Jason Todd starts to move. Fuck the legacy. TW: suicide (past life), parental death, depression & anxiety, pseudo-incest

You were going to need as much codeine as Nurse Patrice could carry. Sprinkle in a little oxy too. Would it look like you had a problem if you asked for a morphine drip?

Willing to risk the suspicion, you tried to raise your left pointer finger towards the nurse call button, but your strength failed you. A strangled growl vibrated around the ET tube.

‘I’d even take a tylenol at this point!’

 

Another night’s sleep in the hospital was another week fighting the dummy in the pocket dimension. That made it two weeks of training and that meant two weeks of pushing your body farther than it had ever gone before. 

You sniffled, 'I knew I wasn't weak.' You had been called that word so many times that you took it as an immutable fact, but that false truth was starting to crack.

That dummy was like the real thing—his moves, his ferocity, the viciousness with trained precision in his youth that tempered with maturity and became a lethal force for good as he aged—it was all so familiar.

You swallowed a nervous lump around the ET tube. 

You had felt enough pain over the last couple of days and finally accepted your predicament for what it was.

This really wasn’t a dream, afterall. 

The beatings you took in the pocket dimension felt like what you got in the real world but on steroids. When you felt your ribs being broken, you actually felt them snap and puncture a lung when you failed to evade him, and then could feel the bone mending itself so you could continue the fight. The internal bleeding ceased and the puncture wound closed. 

You were getting real time consequences of the fight, but healing simultaneously so you could keep going. It was disorienting as you watched your shattered shin bone rip through your skin and felt the white hot pain that brought tears and stars to your eyes, only for it to mend itself and disappear without a trace in seconds.

It’s like something wouldn’t let you give up even if you wanted to, but retreating was the furthest thing from your mind now. If you quit here, you’d never get to where you wanted to be, and all you wanted was to be able to protect yourself. 

To not be a victim. 

To not let anyone make you feel the way you did before. There was no point in getting this second chance at life if you didn’t make it count. 

Besides fighting, your goals also included your education. 

This was one of your greatest shames. You closed your eyes, the soft morning sunbeams suddenly too much.

Your mom and family had been so proud of you. She and nana, and all of your aunts, uncles, and cousins swore you could be whatever you wanted to be, and If there was one thing in your life you were sure of, it was that they believed in you completely with all they had.

Then, you were taken in by Bruce Wayne and the ghouls and wraiths that haunted both the manor and the man set upon you and stole your soul. 

You weren’t a stranger to anxiety and depression before the Waynes, but there was just something about that man and about the ghosts—that were far from just metaphorical—that latched on to you and made you the sacrifice. 

That word. 

 

Ｓａｃｒｉｆｉｃｅ.

Were all the lives lost that day a sacrifice? Four hundred and thirty-two dead, and for what? 

Performative outrage that was smoothed over when a handsome man trotted out his beautiful kids and showed how compassionate he was? 

Was it forgiven and forgotten when the lost princess was whisked away to the castle on the hill by the king?

They all bought what Bruce Wayne sold.

You were starting to hear the waves crashing again and turned your mind back on topic. 

Education. 

You’re sure it broke your nana’s heart that you barely graduated high school. She was long gone but you could feel the guilt weighing you down in this life as well. This isn’t the way she left you. The woman you became under that roof wasn’t who you were meant to be. 

You thought of your worst subject and scowled.

‘I need to get a head start before I go back to school...’

In the past, you begged to go to a regular public school and you barely graduated then with the lax coursework. 

It was hard. there was a target on your back before your first day. So many lunch breaks were spent having panic attacks in the bathroom, but at least lower income to upper middle class was the crowd you understood over the elite. 

Sadly, you couldn’t go back to public school this time. You only had two years to secure a good enough transcript and some accolades for admission to a decent college. 

You were going to fulfill your Nana’s dream of being college educated.

And if you had to be a Wayne to do it? You were going to milk that legacy for all it’s worth.

Just think of getting every penny of the child support your mother never filed for with interest. What’s wrong with collecting your and your mother’s due?

Not a damn thing.

You shut your eyes for a moment and found yourself standing in the pocket dimension. The dirt wasn’t as dry as it had once been, and the grass was starting to sprout green.

The Damian dummy was gone since you wouldn’t need him, but there was a new addition to your space. Sat at the base of the lonely tree, was a short table with several books and notebooks on top of it. Walking closer, they were textbooks in the subjects you were the worst at. You sat on the pillow behind the table and picked up a pencil, not knowing where to start.

You read the cover of the first textbook, and turned to the front page. ‘You shouldn’t be able to read in dreams.’ But you could read it as clearly as if you were awake.

‘Well, I wanted to improve…’ You grumbled, thinking you’d rather take a physical beatdown over a mental one.

You awake after a short nap, blinking the shapes and letters from your vision. The textbook pages were still fresh in your mind and you found that you were still holding the pencil you were using. You brought it to the real world and stared at it in disbelief.

A polite knock resounded through the room, and a familiar face peered in through the gap. “Hello, Young Mistress Y/n.”

You jumped and almost poked yourself with the pencil but it disappeared from sight when you gave it a surprised squeeze. 

The soreness immediately left your muscles when you saw who it was. You perked up and twisted about and Alfred Pennyworth crossed the room in graceful strides to stand beside you. 

“Did you sleep well?” Despite your smile being hidden behind the ventilator’s mask, he could tell you were beaming since your eyes crinkled and softened when you gazed up at him.

“I’ve come bearing gifts.” He took a seat in the armchair at your bedside and put a bag in your lap. Both of your hands were still heavily bandaged and your right arm was in a sling, so he gingerly opened the bag for you and produced a cell phone box. 

“Young people these days and their gadgets.” He chided sarcastically as he powered on the phone and you both watched the animation. 

It was a pleasant silence, a young person and an older person marveling at a smartphone, when he said “It has your old phone number.” 

The air went still, and the only sound you could hear was the blood in your ears and your panicked thoughts.

How did he know?

Why did he think about you?

He was always the one thinking about your feelings. Why did he care? Why didn't he just follow everyone else's lead when they decided you weren't worth the effort? Why didn't he follow his master when it came to you? 

He pulled down the navigation menu and you saw that your main email was already listed and you were signed into the carrier with your old account. 

Your phone had been the last thing on your mind, but months later it would hit you that it was gone. Years worth of texts and memories would be gone without a trace. It was like Alfred was making sure you stayed where he could reach you. 

You tried to wipe the tears that clouded your vision and were race hot tracks down your cheeks, as Alfred took the phone and typed something before showing it to you again. 

“And now you have my number, Young Mistress.” 

The name 'Alfred Pennyworth' was saved there proudly at the top of your contacts as a favorite, right beside your mother's, Nana’s, and closest friends. You laid back in your pillows and cried. Everyone you loved was right there.

It's just that most of them would never pick up again.

Alfred made quick work and pulled up the text-to-speech app he was most excited for and tapped your arm. “Young Mistress,” you pulled yourself together and wiped your blurry eyes. The bandages were itchy against your skin. 

“Would you mind typing something for me?” He presented the smartphone to you and you recognized that it was the latest model when you were 16. It was a flex if someone had this, and the cases for it were the cutest. 

You remember admiring your classmates’ phones. Your mom could never afford a high end model for you, but you were more sad instead of envious. 

Now, Alfred presented it to you in pristine condition and you knew that it was his doing.

He went to the outlet and picked it up himself.

He probably had someone like Tim retrieve your passwords, but he logged into your emails and configured it so it’d be easily accessible to you, so you wouldn't be kicking yourself for not being able to remember a simple login after your entire life had been ripped from you. 

You took the phone at a loss for words. What could you say to him? There was too much to say and so much that hadn't even happened yet that he wouldn't understand. You stared at the text window as the cursor blinked. 

You could never let him know how much he meant to you, not now at least, you'd look insane. However, in time, you would definitely make him proud too. 

You laid the device in your lap and gently entered your message, deleting and correcting several times because your fingers twitched.

After rereading the message you took a shuddering breath and hit “Enter.”

“𝐼'𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒.” 

You held your breath and Alfred was stunned for a moment before a grin broke across his face. “I'm glad to be here, Young Mistress.”

You beamed, “𝑀𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒴/𝓃.” 

“I'm aware, Young Mistress Y/n. Hm," He mused, “Ms. Y/n L/n. It has a lovely ring to it.”

“𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝒶 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝑀𝓇. 𝒫𝑒𝓃𝓃𝓎𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “And please, there's no need for titles with me. Alfred is perfect.”

“𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 '𝒴/𝓃.'”

The smile that rose to his eyes betrayed the professionalism, “No problem at all, Young Mistress Y/n.”

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃.”

“I'm afraid that I don't.”

“𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 '𝒴/𝓃' 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉.”

“I agree, she is.”

You lifted and raised your legs in a mock tantrum. You would've pressed your lips together if you could and your cheeks burned. 

“𝒩𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒!”

“I can't do that, Young Mistress. There is etiquette that I must follow as head butler of the Wayne family.”

“𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃𝑒.” 

His heart clenched, he incorrectly assumed you already felt like you didn't belong. Little did he know, you didn't want to. 

“You are. You are by blood and will soon be in name, and that is something no one can take from you.” He took your hand in his and looked into your eyes in the same reassuring way he would when he told you your panic attacks didn't make you weak. 

“𝐵𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒?”

“Yes, you will soon be Y/n Wayne. We thought it would be appropriate to wait until you woke up and had time to settle in.”

‘’We’ meaning you, right?’ You thought.

You let him think you believed that. 

You hated the name 'Wayne'. You carried it with you like an idiot in the past. A Wayne in name with none of the perks, but since you’ve resolved to use that name to your advantage—you were talking transcripts, college admissions, and scholarships here—you were going to take it again but with some stipulations.

You were going to change it after you accomplished what you wanted to do and didn't need it as a fallback, and you weren't giving up your identity to try to fit in again.

“𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔?” The AI voice sounded particularly pitiful which worked in your favor. 

“Anything.”

“𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒 𝐿/𝓃-𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃𝑒? 𝐼 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝓂𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒.”

And make the Waynes an afterthought.

“Oh.” You are always surprising him, “I don't see why not.” He rubbed his chin as he pondered. “Young Mistress Y/n L/n-Wayne.”  Trying on each syllable for size.

You squinted at him to show the dissatisfaction with the long and frilly title while his eyes held a hint of mischief. 

You switched gears, “𝒟𝑜 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈?” 

This was a subject that Alfred was more than prepared for. He had wished for you to get adjusted and start bonding with you new siblings as soon as possible, and although they didn’t visit, he dropped seeds of interest about you whenever he could, and now it was time to plant those same seeds for your siblings with you.

“Where should I begin?” He exhaled and thought back to the beginning when Dick was brought home. “I was willing to accept the manor being child-free forever with Master Bruce’s bachelor lifestyle, so you can imagine my surprise when he brought home this young boy just out of the blue—”

You rested comfortably and gazed at him. You didn’t take in a word because these people were your least favorite topic, but you enjoyed whenever Alfred explained something. He could make the most mundane feel worth knowing.

“I was more prepared when he brought Master Jason home.”

You made a show of perking up at the name, he caught your renewed interest and continued with gusto.

“He was much smaller than other boys his age, but his heart was far larger than most.” You hugged a pillow as Alfred spoke of Jason like he was his own grandson.

He explained how Jason possessed an inner strength rarely found in grown (it broke his heart someone had to grow up so fast. It hurt every time I see it.), and was an avid reader who enjoyed finding first additions together and studying the craftsmanship. 

“I’m still so proud of him.” and Alfred stopped before getting to the Second Robin’s final chapter, when Robin ended and the Red Hood began.

You knew about it all, but kept quiet. To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne’s second adopted son died by a tragic accident only for it to be revealed to the public to be a misunderstanding.

The public had a way of rolling with whatever it was fed, but you knew that Jason had been a “child soldier” and that was something you would never forgive Bruce for.

“𝒟𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔?”

Alfred smiled, “Once a bookworm, always a bookworm.” 

You peppered him with questions about Jason, coming across as really looking forward to having a big brother to protect you and he was more than happy to indulge. 

You were so good at the game, discussing books and themes, circling back to Jason in some way or other, that Alfred didn’t have a chance to talk up Tim and the others or your only actual blood-related sibling. 

“𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊.” 

Alfred felt like he was splashed by a scalding pot of Earl Grey. “Perish the thought. Speaking with you brightened this old man’s day.” He checked his pocket watch, visibly dimming at the time.

“𝐼’𝓂 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑒𝓍𝒸𝒾𝓉𝑒𝒹. 𝐼’𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝒷𝒾𝑔 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓂𝑒.” You looked down shyly and fiddled with the blanket self consciously. 

“𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝐼’𝓂 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓉!”

Alfred’s heart swelled. “I’m sure he feels the same way, dear girl.” 

He would make sure of it.

You bid Alfred a good evening, and he walked the halls with his heart soaring. He would share everything he learned about you with Jason, and was going to move heaven and Earth to make sure you were loved as you deserved.

You snuggled under the blankets after Alfred left. If all went according to plan you would make a second ally before even reaching Wayne manor. 

A phone that only accepted one phone number vibrated, and ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴅᴅ dropped from the pullup bar knowing exactly who was on the other end. 

“'Sup?” 

“Master Jason, I’m so glad you answered.” The accented voice came through smoothly.

“Of course, Alfred. What’s up?”

“Must something be up, Master Jason?”

Jason raised a brow that Alfred somehow detected. 

“I wanted to share good news.”

“Oh? Are you finally taking that Elder singles cruise?”

“Haha,” Alfred said flatly, “and miss out on our chats in favor of cocktails in Tahiti? Never.” Jason grinned, the sarcasm in Alfred’s voice wasn’t heavy and burdened. He sounded light, actually. Like something caught him from falling. 

“I spent my afternoon with someone and we discussed books and cinema. I almost doubted the literacy of the younger generation, but she restored my faith in humanity.”

“Now, she sounds like an incredible person.”

“She is, and that’s why I’d like you to meet her.”

The record scratched.

“Look, Alfred, I don’t need to be set up—”

“It’s Young Mistress Y/n.”

Alfred didn’t break the silence and let Jason’s mind lead the way. 

ʏ/ɴ.

The girl he had only seen on the news. There wasn’t a channel that hadn’t shown that million dollar picture, or a Gothamite who hadn’t seen the bloodied face of Bruce Wayne’s daughter.

Jason didn’t know how to feel about you. You were discovered because of tragedy and being reunited with your billionaire father should’ve been the sign that things were looking up for you. 

This should’ve been your golden ticket, so why did he feel like things would only get worse for you in Bruce Wayne’s care?

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire…” He whispered to himself. Nothing could ever equal the suffering you were already experiencing, but you would face a new dilemma when you officially became a Wayne. 

First of all, you were a civilian. An extremely vulnerable civilian that Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be equipped to care for in the ways you needed: emotionally. 

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s not like she hasn’t survived one before.”

Jason twitched, he didn’t mean to let that thought slip. “Alfred, seriously. You don’t think this is a good idea, right?”

“It’s a great idea.”

“She needs to be around normal people, Alfred.”

“She needs to be around people who will understand her.”

“Exactly!”

“And who better than someone who’s been to hell and back.”

Jason went silent. Damn you, Alfred Pennyworth.

“She had many hot takes.” The butler offered.

Jason snorted, and shifted the phone to his other ear, settling in for what may be a long chat. “Okay, Alfred, let’s hear ‘em.”

They talked late into the night like how they did so many years before when Jason’s biggest problems were math homework and if Bruce would let him patrol that night. There was laughter, and for a moment they both forgot how cruel the world could be.

These were the moments worth fighting for.

After the call ended, Jason got a text from Alfred with your phone number.

His thumb hovered over the screen, so close to swiping it away, but then he saved it. 

It wouldn’t hurt. Just in case.

The ET tube was removed ahead of schedule and Alfred could finally see your pretty face. The bandage beside your left eye was still there and it hurt to smile too wide, but you were so expressive and he loved it. It was as if he could hear your voice speaking instead of the AI from your phone.

He was looking forward to your laugh. He could tell by the rapport you two had built in only a few days, that your laughter would come easily. 

You two watched telenovelas and he guided you through tactile exercises to strengthen your hands and maintain dexterity. Sometimes a tear would spring from your eyes, but your eyes were relentless as they had been in that photo that shocked the world.

He knew you would thrive at the manor. 

You quickly noticed that Alfred wasn’t your only guest.

After Alfred leaves and the dusk stains the sky in pinks and purples, the creatures of the night begin to stir. A presence cloaked in black, born in the shadows, watches you attentively. 

The first night, he watched from the roof of a medical building far across the campus. He was able to spy you from his scope when Alfred left the blinds opened at just the right angle.

You read and he enjoyed watching your emotions play across your face. He could watch you for hours, following the story alongside you. He stood in position for so long that his legs were on pins and needles. That’s when he realized he had watched you for hours.

The following night, he was closer, just on the roof above the medical pavilion facing your room. He had a knack for avoiding light, natural or artificial, he found the darkness and made it home.

Tonight, he watched you from your window and frowned as you kept rereading the same sentence, unable to concentrate. A frown twisted your lips and you huffed, finally closing the book and setting it aside. 

Anticipation prevented you from focusing no matter how engaging the story was. You officially started PT tomorrow which would be the most physical work you've done in the real world since the flood.

It would hurt just as much as your training with the dummy if not more and you hoped you could shoot through it all and finish on target. 

You remembered the frustrated tears. The trembling, the falls, the hopelessness that came with the creeping fear that you would never have what you once had. ‘What if I had taken it all for granted?’

Jason watched, his brows furrowed as he could sense that you were going to do something you shouldn’t. You sat up and threw the blanket from your legs. You hadn’t taken a step in weeks and you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see if you could. 

You turned to the side and dragged your numb legs to the edge of the bed.

“She isn’t…” Jason was pulling out his phone and swiping to Alfred’s contact without taking his eyes from you. Alfred didn’t make him wait, “We’ve got a runner!”

“Excuse me?” 

“She’s going to—ah, damn it!” 

Jason shoved his phone in his topic and started sprinting across the roof, eyes focused as you dropped your legs over the side of the bed.

He pulled a grapple gun from his belt, shot and secured a good grasp on the roof of your building’s roof, and swung forward with a running leap. He was at your windows in seconds and didn’t have the grace to stop himself with it being such a short distance.

He hit the window with a gloved hand and knee guard and the bang almost startled you off the bed.

You froze before you could set a single toe on the floor. 

You two stared at each other. His red lenses and mask didn’t reveal his feelings, but you could imagine the embarrassed look on his face.

You grinned and silently chuckled. He’s like a bird that crashed into the really shiny window from those cleaning commercials.

You put your weight against the bed and was about to lean forward to take a step before you heard two deliberate taps at your window.

Looking up, you saw the Red Hood shaking his head. Your smile grew more as you locked eyes with his goggles and gingerly lifted a foot to take a step.

He stopped nodding and stared.

You pulled your legs back from the edge. No sound came out, and it hurt too much to speak, but he could see you shake with laughter.

He watched this all, astonished. Why weren’t you afraid?

He knew you weren’t from Gotham, so it'd make sense why you wouldn’t recognize an infamous vigilante from Gotham and The Hill, but why weren't you scrambling for help from a masked weirdo at your 13th floor window?

‘She must be on a lot of meds.’ Jason thinks to himself.

You look at him, with your grin shrinking into a normal half-smile. He wasn’t expecting the attention tonight, Actually, he wasn’t expecting any attention at all.

Giving away his presence wasn’t the plan, but he just had to play the good guy and not let an injured girl fall to the floor in front of him.

He wasn’t a monster.

You chewed the inside of your cheek in thought. He was hyper aware of every move you made.

He would see your smile and your sparkling eyes when he closed his eyes for weeks.

You'd drawn him out, and fought the triumphant grin from spreading across your face.

In your past life, Jason ignored you, but never really ridiculed you. He looked at you from the corner of his eyes, his lips curled in dissatisfaction when you were sad—when you were weak. You always had the feeling that you disgusted him with your vulnerability. And why wouldn't he? He was the type to not break under adversity, but apparently you were the type who did.

Maybe it was hard for him to watch.

You would never know that he avoided you because he thought you were too precious for him to touch.

Your softness, your humanity, your compassion even when the world and your family did everything it could to beat it out of you. The spot of darkness that you sometimes fed and sometimes starved, he knew it all.

He wanted it all.

But he ruined everything he touched.

He convinced himself that getting close to you was a delusion, and that self-sabotage caused him to miss out.

Before he could even act on it, you had sealed yourself in that damned room. He put up a guard between you two, but you locked the padlock and threw away the key.

When your life ended, he realized that he deluded himself into thinking that staying away for you was for your safety, when he was truly just trying to protect himself.

He was the weak one. 

You dragged yourself back against your pillows and tossed the blanket back over your legs. Jason hadn’t thought to pull himself from the window while you weren’t looking since his brain was short-circuiting. Damn you, Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked back at him and smiled dreamily. You waved and closed your eyes.

He hoped the spell you cast on him would wear off soon, and he waited but his legs wouldn’t move on their own. “Oh, fuck this.” He forced his legs beneath him and propelled from the roof and swung across the medical campus and away to clear his head.

He wasn't expecting that. 

He wasn’t expecting you, and your big clear eyes that seemed to see all of him beneath that mask and show no fear. He wasn’t expecting the cheeky grins and easy laughter, and he wasn’t expecting to want to see you again so soon.

“Come on, Young Mistress. You can do this.” Alfred encouraged as he watched you on the parallel bars.

You shook violently and carried all of your weight in your trembling arms because you just knew that if you put even a pound of pressure on one foot you would drop.

Sweat beaded at your brow and you exhaled sharply from your nose. You placed half your weight in one foot and your hips immediately fell. Alfred waited anxiously on the side as the physical therapist helped you. 

His jaw was set tightly, it was so hard to hold himself back but he needed you to improve by your own efforts so you could be healthy when he brought you to the manor. He repeated this to himself, trying to fight back the desire to catch you every time. 

You huffed and carefully placed one foot in front of the other. Your sweaty palms almost lost their grip on the parallel bars and you shook them with your trembling. 

Your ankle twisted and your arms gave out like you knew it would. You fell to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Alfred gazed at you with admiration as you pulled yourself back up and started again. That determination was definitely a Wayne trait and he was sure your mother must’ve possessed the same as she worked hard to raise you well as a single mother.

He had never met her personally, but he meeting you told him that she must’ve been an amazing mother and woman to bring up someone like you.

So your days went on like that. Physical therapy, and cleaning your wounds, never allowed to push harder than your therapists said or you’d be sent 3 steps back in recovery.

In the pocket dimension, you studied tirelessly and trained with the dummy. The thing scowled at you and lashed out with killing intent, but it was an effective teacher. No words were spoken between you two, the dummy didn’t have the ability to speak, and you were glad for it.

You found out you could’ve liked Damian if he didn’t talk. Who knew?

Working hard was always a good thing, and you were making strides in the time in the hospital. You tried to calm your mind. You weren’t expecting a transformation overnight, but you were changing for the better and getting stronger by the day. 

Besides reading, you practiced the arts. You were sure that Gotham Academy had excellent extra curricular programs including an art department so it wouldn't hurt to use it and put together a portfolio.

In your past life, you had given up what made your soul sing. Your hands felt unworthy to touch a pencil, your joints locked up in panic when you tried to press pen to paper. Hands hovered over keyboards at a loss for words and instruments lay silent as the grave. 

One afternoon after therapy, you took a pencil and sheet of paper and sketched for the first time in years. 

Alfred caught himself wondering where he had gone wrong when raising Bruce. He was proud, don’t get him wrong, but Alfred knew that he was guilty of enabling the man until he grew up and was able to disregard the butler’s concerns and advice entirely.

Alfred could only lament as he stitched shut a knife wound on Bruce’s shoulder with expert position. The Dark Knight droned on about protocols that would need to be updated, and chastised Damian for rushing ahead.

It was the same story, different day, and it only frustrated Alfred even more that they chose this monotony when there was a vibrant new life they should be welcoming with open arms. 

Not only that, he hadn’t been able to visit you in 3 days! That first day, he was needed for air support. The second day, he was watching the comms while Batman, Red Robin, and Robin went on a manhunt. You didn’t add to the old man’s stress, though. You were patient and sent him updates on your PT progress, and hoped you weren’t bothering him. 

The texts you managed to share throughout the day eased his nerves.

‘Nurse Patrice said ‘Hi!’ :D’

Or 

‘Did you see the new episode?’

Damian once watched the way Alfred’s eyes lit up at his phone before he could contain himself and sent the butler a quizzical frown. That was a close one. 

 

At least Jason was having a good time. He watched you from afar from the moment the last rays of sunlight retreated from the sky. He was outside your window now, far closer than previous nights, emboldened by your cheerful reception nights ago. 

He still remained one with the night and was undetectable by the naked eye, but he was so close now that it felt little he was there with you. 

He watched every gesture; admired every facial expression. He scanned the covers of the books you held carefully in your bandaged hands and watched you as you watched TV.

He watched you as you slept.

You looked so fragile in the hospital bed amongst the tubing and monitors. The ET tube and neck brace had come off a few days prior, and now what remained was a splint and bandaging. 

It was a quiet moment like this when there was nothing to watch that he finally acknowledged the feeling in his chest. 

You were tucked away in a private hospital, only accessible to an elite class, and no one but Bruce Wayne's family members could get to you. You were safe, so why was he watching? Why did he stand guard like a knight outside of his lady's chambers? He wasn't in the bodyguard business. 

But he wasn't as emotionally constipated as his adoptive father and could see this for what it was. 

Something took root before he knew it, and he felt like he had fallen into a beautiful trap. In a matter of days, he developed an affection for and desire to protect a girl who he originally wasn't going to accept as his adopted sister weeks earlier.

All it took was a smile for you to completely disarm him. 

He had always wanted to protect others, to be what stood between the innocent and the dangerous, but he failed every time he tried. He even accepted that he wasn't meant to be one of the ‘good guys.’

Maybe the kid of a junkie and dealer from Gotham's roughest streets wasn’t meant to be a hero, and he was just the last one to realize.

You stirred in bed and whimpered.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he leaned forward against the glass. You were having a nightmare, tears squeezed through your tightly shut lids as you gripped your blankets like a lifeline. 

Your mouth popped open but no sound came out. He read your lips, felt your silent cries in his blood, 'Mama!' Your face twisted in anguish and he almost bashed in the window. 

'I can't do this alone…' you broke down into silent sobs and struggled to breathe. He couldn't take it any longer and started loudly knocking on the window until you woke up. 

Your eyes opened wide. You gasped for air painfully  before looking to the source of the noise as the nightmare was being pulled away from you by invisible hands.

You looked to the window and saw red lenses on black goggles and a red half mask. Jason watched you and your pouty, trembling lips, and your startled eyes.

He wanted to reach through the window. 

You smiled a soft, teary smile and waved again and mouthed a 'Thank you.' That almost made him slip from the window ledge.

You fixed your ventilator to your face and took steady breaths before you started hyperventilating. He watched as you settled into bed and even more after you closed your eyes. 

Jason Todd had someone he wanted to protect. 

You were being discharged soon after a few weeks of treatment and therapy. Alfred couldn't visit as much as he had wanted but bringing you home was a planned event and he made sure everyone knew he would be busy and that they should free up their schedules as well.

Damian was disgruntled and combative. He wasn't going to arrange his schedule for some “vagrant” and why should he stand on ceremony? 

Alfred wondered if his patience was thinning with age, because at times like these venom coated his tongue ready to retort and thoroughly dress down his opponents, but he kept it under lock and behind his teeth.

Damian was a child, he reminded himself, he was merely taking his cues from his role model and father.

Bruce Wayne was the problem. Alfred hid away correspondence and froze all appointments and reminders on today's calendar. Bruce wouldn't need any distractions.

It wasn't lost on the butler that Jason had been poking around at the manor. He lazed about at the library or home theatre, but he wasn't invested in whatever he was doing. He just wanted to be near, waiting for Alfred to get the call that you were ready to be discharged. 

Alfred, in his benevolence, decided not to tease him. He was going to eventually, of course, but now wasn't the time. 

Jason slipped away for something when Alfred got the call he had been waiting weeks for. He flew as if he had stolen Hermes's winged sandals, jumping in the town car and beating traffic like he was Dom Toretto.

The gentleman was upstairs and at your door before his “visitor” sticker was fully stuck to his jacket, when you were being settled into your wheelchair.

“Ready, Young Mistress?”

You smiled the soft smile that made the space around you glow with sunlight.

Your hair was groomed and styled by Nurse Patrice and the casual outfit that Alfred had brought for you fit well. You felt good, and it was a strange sensation but you looked forward to getting to know the woman you would become.

“As ever.” 

Alfred took the handles and wheeled you down the halls, you thanked the staff as you passed, truly grateful for their care and gave Nurse Patrice the longest hug. She and Alfred both laughed as you tried to drag her with you when Alfred tried to wheel you forward.

It was past the front desk, just before you crossed the entrance into the outside world and felt the sun against your skin, when you saw her.

Peeping from behind a corner was a little girl who was a mix of pale blue and mossy green and soaking wet. 

Her hair and oversized T-shirt dripped water on the floor around her tiny, dirtied feet and your shoulders tensed more with every heavy “drip, drop, drip, drop.” 

Matted hair was plastered to her face, but her large, sunken eyes penetrated the veil and stabbed into your spirit. 

A victim of the flood.

You were a survivor and your father was at fault. Why did his child get to survive? Were the other children not special enough?

It was unfair that you got off and they were just another section on Bruce Wayne's wiki page when the media circus died. You knew the lives lost would be added with all the other ones Batman let slip through the cracks. 

You wouldn’t carry his burden for him.

You stared at the girl, your eyes locked with her bottomless pools as you began to hear the waves crashing and feel the wind blow your hair, and a silent understanding was formed between you.

You reached back and gingerly touched Alfred’s hand as he wheeled you into the parking lot.

ʜɪꜱ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴀʀ.

To be continued.

Thanks sm for wanting to be tagged, and please let me know how I did and stop by to chat <3

@c4xcocoa @rythespy @chaoticmoontimetravel @sydneyyyya @linasrosetown @yuezodiaco @pearlyribbons @nirvanaxx1942 @alishii @galaxypurplerose @mourart7 @shycreatorreview @crispybelieverworld @simpingpandas @teabutnerdy @holderoflostmemories @cherrydaisymanic @victoria1676 @lilithskywalker @aelxr @kore-of-the-underworld @magdalenacarmila @therealme13posts @oxt3n

[yuezodiaco]

ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ɢɪʀʟ ᴇᴠɪʟ

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1, act 2

You wake up nearly 10 years in the past and reunite with the one person you could truly call family. Your path is diverging into strange new directions as you discover your abilities. Will this be a dream come true? ❥ TW: su!c!de mention, death of a parent, depression & anxiety, semi-incest

It’s a struggle to force your eyelids open at first. You confuse squeezing them shut with opening them but finally figure it out as they slowly peel open, breaking the crust that once sealed them shut.

A greasy film obscures your vision, turning the ceiling lights into a blurred haze, and when your mind finally boots up, all of your senses wake at the exact same time and overwhelm you instantly.

“Ack!”

A muffled cry vibrated around the ET tube placed down your throat. Your throat constricted around the tube painfully as you fought the instinct to throw up. 

Thankfully, the air it provided kept you from choking as you forced yourself to calm down and will away the colorful spots that filled your vision.

The vitals monitor once beeped lazily but now your pulse was picking up. The pulse oximeter on your left middle finger felt like it weighed a ton and what once was a pleasant numbness when you were unconscious, became an ache that made your whole right arm tremble. 

Your arm, the arm you would have given to save your mother, was surprisingly in one piece. It was strapped over your chest and a splint set your wrist straight.

This was such a vivid memory. Yeah, you were haunted by nightmares of the storm, the phantom pains of your mother’s weight pulling at your arm. The first day at Wayne Manor, never feeling more alone since middle school, the words, the violence, the isolation, those dreams felt so real then too. It’s just that this dream–

‘Wait…’

You’re not supposed to feel pain in dreams and the pounding behind your eyes, the burning on your left hand and the sharp throb that shook your right arm were all too real. But, you couldn’t be alive!

You felt the cool steel in your hand, and the pressure it took to feel the trigger. That satisfying shift of it's weight before— 

Then, it clicked. 

'Oh, come on.'

Your vision finally cleared after several more blinks.

Raising your left hand was a Herculean effort and you probably would’ve bit your lips until they bled if the ventilator wasn’t keeping them parted. Trembling, involuntarily twitching fingers were gingerly raised to your cheek where you felt a thick bandage beside your left eye. 

Beneath would be a scar that the past you would be ashamed of for the rest of her life. Your thoughts drifted to the you from before. She was so silly, you thought of yourself, so skittish, so insecure.

You had been surrounded by beautiful, interesting people, and you were so young back then. If only you had understood comparison was the thief of joy.

The scar you had didn't take away from your natural looks, and you actually found it cute. If you took care of it like you're supposed to, it would become a small crescent that turned inward towards your left eye and have a silvery cast to it when the light hit it just right.

You carefully turned your left hand and took in the bandage that protected your palm. Beneath these bandages were lacerations that would take months to finally knit themselves closed and stop oozing blood occasionally. 

Your hands… Even hardened fighters like Cassandra had such pretty, graceful hands, but the you from the past felt like yours belonged to a medieval blacksmith. Your hands didn't belong to a privileged heiress, or a former girl next door; the deep scars revealed too much pain and the savagery you survived. 

You dropped your hand and exhaled a shuddering huff that irritated your throat. 

‘I’m 16 again.’ You looked up and gazed at the crown mouldings along the wall nearest to you. Your hospital room looked more like a master’s suite that took up far too much space to share a floor with other rooms.

It was so overwhelming back then. Your real family would’ve never been able to afford this despite loving you more than Bruce and his brood were ever capable of in their twisted little hearts.

Your old self should’ve known to enjoy it while it lasted. Bruce would never show you so much favor after your hospitalization besides a credit card tossed across his desk and that was only after Alfred pestered him about you needing to have your own finances like the others.

The blackout blinds were shut tightly making it impossible to tell what time of day it was and you didn’t see a clock around. You tried to adjust by raising your shoulders but realized the extra weight on your shoulders was a thick neck brace holding your neck in place. 

You don’t remember how deeply the wire cut through your neck in your past life, but you knew it was a miracle that kept you from losing your head and your voice. 

After your injuries were accounted for, the silence set in and your ears started ringing. 

You heard blood rushing in your ears, and felt wet leaves slapping your face. 

Dirt was blown up your nose and stung your eyes. Your clothes were cold and soaking wet, clinging to your body like a second skin. So much noise. There was so much noise from the sirens blaring, to the winds, to the crashing waves and hale that pounded any roof still above water. 

A woman’s voice cut through it all, begging her only child, the only reason she breathed, “Please, let me go..” 

She struggled at first. She tried to make you drop her. She begged at first, and then when she could tell by the look in your eyes that you wouldn’t listen–that this was the one thing you would not obey your mother over–she demanded you let go. 

She hollered as loudly as she could over the winds, begging, pleading, scolding, trying to talk sense into you. “You won't make it!” The gate you clung to couldn’t support both your weights for much longer.

“I've lived my life!” And you haven’t lived any of yours yet, baby.

She was ready to go. She left you when a pipe came soaring through the air as if it was a javelin thrown by Phrastor himself. 

You would like to think she died immediately. You didn’t know how long it took for her fingers to go slack. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes of agony. Still, you just didn’t know how to let go. 

Maybe that was your problem.

All of the noises blended together until it doubled over and became silent again. “Please, mom. Don't go.”

It felt like your ears were filled with water.

You couldn’t ignore the truth. If you had been brought back to this point in time, it meant that they were already gone. 

She was already gone. 

Tears blurred your vision and a thick sob made your throat spasm around the ET tube. Why couldn’t you have gone back further? At least far enough to warn mom and everyone to leave town! A day—even 2 hours—would’ve been enough if you all just hit the road! 

Even with this one in a million, no–one in a trillion chance–you still weren’t allowed to be truly happy.

So many times you wished you could give Bruce Wayne’s life for your mother’s. He was worth billions of dollars, but your mama was worth more than a billion of him.

The only thing you had ever wanted wasn’t their love or even a bit of tolerance. You just wanted to feel your mother’s arms around you one last time. 

You would’ve preferred a moment in her arms instead of a chance at a new life without her. Your actual desires were so simple.

Wealth? You couldn’t touch a single penny. Affluence? No one truly liked you. They liked your new surname, but it didn’t matter if the person attached to it lived or died. Privilege? You weren’t some WASP, and wouldn’t fit in at the country club even if you were invited.

Whatever was out there truly loved fucking with you. 

Tears trailed down your face while thinking of your mother and left drying tracks. You sniffed up the mucus that threatened to drip down your lip and forced your mind to go quiet.

You had to pull yourself out of this slump before you fell into depression. You tried to lean your head back against the suffocatingly plush pillow and thought, willing a thank you to your mom, your friends, family, acquaintances, and everyone you lost. 

“Please guide me.”

You remained slouched against the plush pillows and closed your eyes. You would need any peace you could get before stepping on the battlefield if you really did go back to the past. 

You only shut your eyes for a second when you opened them again to a foreign plane. You stood on a desolate land lightly shrouded in drifting mist, without a single spot of green in sight. The earth you stood on was tightly packed dirt and any grass you saw was yellow and clearly dehydrated by how sharp the blades were against your bare feet when you tried to take a step. 

Once again, you felt pain in what should’ve been a dream. Here, you weren’t wearing your bandages and there weren’t neck or arm braces to restrict you. You flexed your fingers and balled your fists, admiring the dexterity you once took for granted and the healed scars that lined your wrists and palms in an unsymmetrical but captivating tapestry. 

You touched the scars around your neck and cleared your throat, pleased that there was no pain. You spoke a few words and teared up at the sound of your own voice. “Is that me?” 

It was like reuniting with an old friend. 

You braved the pricks and stabs of dead grass and nettles and walked the terrain you could see amid the mist. You were completely alone here, the only sound being the gentle trickle of a black brook that led nowhere. 

Retracing your steps, you came to the only other landmark, a dead tree with skinny twisting branches that reached to the sky as if pleading to some divine figure for mercy. You plopped down against the base and immediately regretted it when pain shot up your tailbone when you landed on a gnarled root.

However, the pain was quickly forgotten when a sheet of parchment paper fell from above and into your lap. 

“One hour in the real world = one day in the pocket dimension”

It looked freshly written in curling violet font. The ink didn’t bleed on the fine archival paper, and when you looked up to see who dropped it all you saw was a grey, cloudy sky. You didn’t like the clouds. It reminded you of before the storm touched ground.

You shook away the thoughts that threatened to sink icy fingers into your heart, and flipped the paper to look for more instructions.

That’s helpful but how will you keep up with time if there’s no–oh. You looked at your forearm and saw that there was periwinkle writing gently ebbing with your pulse. ‘23 min’

Oh. 

Thanks.

You leaned against the tree trunk and sighed. Honestly, you weren’t really this calm and cool. In your past life, you literally lived in a constant state of anxiety from the moment you woke in the morning until the second sleep finally claimed you and the nightmares began.

It got to the point when there wasn’t an anti-anxiety medication on the market you hadn’t tried and fear would root you to the spot and prevent you from physically stepping through your bedroom door for days. 

So, why were you handling this all so well? If you really went back to in time to after the flood, after you recovered you’d be going back to hell. You could recall every humiliating memory in your last life in chronological order and you were going back to the place where your future diverged into darkness. Why were you so calm?

You looked up at the bleak sky of this so-called “pocket dimension” and sighed. 

You willed the memories that haunted every waking moment in your past life to the forefront. Even if it’s a dream, you couldn't shirk this chance if you had time to prepare. You lived with so many regrets until it didn’t feel like living anymore.

You laid out a mental map, In the past, you woke from the coma after 2 months, and remained in the hospital for another 2. In that time, the only person who visited you had been Alfred Pennyworth who tried to keep a concise schedule for you, despite having higher priorities. 

Physical therapy was hell, and you weren’t able to physically speak for 3 months, but didn’t actually speak for 6 because of selective mutism. Living in the manor left you too afraid to speak.

You grumbled in agitation, mostly at yourself.

When Alfred brought you back, you had only been standing in the foyer for a minute before a kick from Damian Wayne swept your feet from under you and on your still injured right wrist. You writhed and cried from the shock and pain, and only Alfred helped you up.

Richard Grayson attempted a half-hearted “You okay there?” with a pitied furrowed brow, and concern that didn’t reach his baby blues. 

Bruce Wayne seemed disgusted and Cassandra Cain lost interest.

No one gets a second chance at a first impression and that was how yours went down.

“I can’t let that happen again.” But how could you avoid an actually trained assassin? Distress was taking root and locking your limbs in place. Your heart stuttered and air didn’t come easily anymore. How could you fight against someone like that?

Then, an expanse of tatami mats appeared over the dried grass and a figure stood motionlessly in the center of it. Naturally, you were startled and scooted back as if you were trying to force yourself as far into the tree as possible. 

You quieted your breath and stared at the figure trying to get a good look from a safe-ish distance. The lone figure was shrouded in darkness, his back facing the source of light in this realm, a source you couldn’t locate behind the grey clouds. Something about it seemed so familiar.

Dread iced your spine, but astonishment spurred you on. It looked like Damian! 

You climbed to your feet and stumbled forward. It looked exactly like he did when you first met when he was just 13 years old. His hair was spiked and his eyes were menacing and hateful. It was like looking at the real thing and you feared it might actually be. What were the odds you shared this place with the demon?

But something else came to mind. You were worried about being attacked on your first day and not being able to do anything about it, and now here were some tatami mats and the Damian you remember from that time. 

When you needed help, a solution appeared. It was just up to you to use the tools provided. 

‘I’ve seen him fight before.’ The double took a fighting stance, ‘I’ve experienced his skills firsthand.’ And had scars and bruises to show for it.

‘I could read him…’ The double kicked out and you stumbled out of the way. The toes of his boot skimmed your shin and pain erupted up the bone. You didn’t get out of the way completely and dropped clutching your leg in pain, but you had seen it coming, and acted!

You looked up at the double who glared down at you disdainfully. You knew his every move and the skills he’d accumulate along the way. If you really tried…

You staggered to your feet and imitated a stance you saw him drop into hundreds of times. Your eyes met the double’s emerald ones. Eyes almost as green and vile as the Lazarus pit, and just as hateful as those of the real deal’s. You unconsciously held your breath. Those eyes were the scariest things about him in your opinion, and you’d have to get used to looking them all in the eye if you were going to change.

“Again.” You commanded and the double attacked.

You opened your eyes after a week of training in the pocket dimension to it only being 7 hours of sleep in the real world. Well, it looked like you had a restful sleep but your mind and spirit had been wide awake for 7 days straight. You had spent that time training with and studying the double that kicked your butt more times than you could count. 

However, you were getting up easier, predicting every move, and your body was reacting faster. You had caught the double off guard a few times, forcing him to rethink his next moves and counterattack.

Unfortunately, there was a tradeoff. You were sore. Even your blood ached. 'I could use some codeine...' You blinked the sleep from your eyes to find a nurse’s ample chest hovering over your face as she reached to refill your medications.

You quietly stared at the welcomed sight until she pulled back on her heels after completing her task. Her eyes dropped down to glance at you before leaving when she saw you staring and screamed.

“Oh! D-doctor, she’s awake!”

And your ears worked, too.

You counted at least 6 different medical professionals in your room at once and distractedly answered questions by tapping your left pointer finger once for yes and twice for no as your eyes flitted from one figure to the next. They reminded you of busy bees buzzing around a hive. 

You had feeling in all of your extremities and although it hurt enough to bring tears to your eyes, you could lift your right hand the slightest centimeter. 

Dazed from the overstimulation, you blinked sheepishly when you felt something in the air change, and in your heart, you knew why. 

Turning your torso to face the door because you couldn’t turn your neck alone, you saw the man who cared for you when you had no one else.

He was as classy as ever, black jacket perfectly tailored, and pressed pants above freshly polished oxfords. 

His posture was straight and shoulders were back but his composure slipped the slightest fraction and his lips trembled when your eyes finally met.

Your breathing hitched and heart rate spiked, the heart monitor beeping rapidly. At this moment, your limbs didn’t feel like they weighed a hundred tons, and you were starting to pull your legs up and twisting to get out of bed. You’d fall if you tried to take a single step out of it but that was far from your mind. What’s a little more pain?

You reached both hands towards Alfred, eyes shimmering with tears, and the sight struck something deep within him. 

You two had never met before and all that he knew of you came from secondhand accounts as he researched your loved ones and helped with funerary arrangements and settlements for those affected by the Wayne Enterprise Flood Disaster.

He didn’t know you, but for some inexplicable reason, he felt like you’d met before. He knew you. And, to his astonishment, he had even loved you. 

He was crossing the suite in strides and at your bedside before you could fall. His hands were gently lowering your own and settling you into bed as if he had done it for you hundreds of times. 

“Careful, dear girl.” 

The last bit of your composure cracked and you threw your arms around his slender waist, the wires patched onto them were a hindrance and tugged the tape on your skin but you squeezed him as tightly as you could in your weakened state. 'I didn't mean to.' You cried your apologies deep in your heart, 'I didn't really want to.'

He was dumbstruck as you sobbed into his suit jacket, but slowly, he lowered his composure and gently embraced you as well.

Nurse Patrice, the nurse you had taken a shine to since you woke up, wiped her eyes quickly and went to make herself scarce. “They’re thinking they can take the ET tube out in a few days. She’s been doing very well breathing on her own.”

Alfred looked up at the nurse, he hadn’t noticed her at all since all of his attention had been devoted to you, and smiled his gentlemanly smile that seemed to set women’s hearts at ease.

“When she’s cleared in a week, she can start PT.”

You hiccupped around the ventilator and Alfred rubbed soothing circles between your shoulder blades. Nurse Patrice gazed at your trembling back and quietly left you two alone. She would make sure no one bothered you for a while. 

Alfred tenderly smoothed down your hair with one hand as your sobs quieted. You hadn’t had a proper shower, much less washed your hair, since the storm over a couple of weeks ago and you wouldn’t be able to care for your hair until your hands were healed. 

He carefully and discreetly untangled small knots at some of your ends, and made a note to do some research on hair care so he could help you take care of yours. 

“Are you feeling better, young Miss?”  

You nodded your head into his vest, suddenly too shy to show your face.

He pulled out a pristine handkerchief and lightly wiped your cheeks. 

He didn’t mean to say it, but he wasn’t entirely himself while he was in your presence. Maybe he was a different version of himself, and maybe he liked this version of him better than the one he was before he met you. 

“You'll never be alone again.”

You finally released Alfred after you were sure he wouldn’t leave your sight. He tried to hide his grin at you not wanting him to go, before politely pulling Nurse Patrice aside for a private chat.

A good cry was really what you needed, but you hadn’t expected that you’d be so overcome by emotion.

Yes, you loved Alfred and honestly he was the only person keeping you going in your past life, other than the fact you knew your mother would want you to live.

You had cut all ties with the living world the last few years of your life. Friends and acquaintances became strangers and you were too ashamed to reach out to your extended family. 

You succumbed to depression, but Alfred was the only earthly tie you truly regretted severing. He was your strength in your mother’s stead. The only thing you regretted was breaking his heart when you ended it all.

Everything felt right with him near. So peaceful that you turned on the mounted flat screen to a telenovela and watched ridiculously attractive people traverse equally ridiculous situations.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Alfred and Nurse Patrice looking at his phone as she showed him something and he nodded his head in understanding. They were hitting it off, you grinned. Such a charmer, Mr. Pennyworth.

You were in a coma for around 2 months in your last life and that was enough time for Bruce Wayne to do most of the damage control he needed. He acted fast, paying for funerals, sending kids to college, paying mortgages and for living arrangements so that the people who lost everything, citizens who were unfairly branded as “refugees” in their own country, could try to live again. 

Influencers, celebrities, and anyone with an opinion continued to drag him but things were dying down smoothly. Wealth and being a good-looking white man was a hell of a cheat code. The world was moving on without you, and 2 months was more than enough time for Batman’s brood to put you out of mind. 

You blinked owlishly at the thought and the apathy it brought. that thought didn’t hurt at all, when it would’ve–actually it had–cut you down before.

When you were an actual teenager without a friend in the world, the thought of being forgotten scared you to death but as a mentally grown woman who had hit her lowest low in one life already, you were at peace. 

In fact, it’d be nice if they never noticed you were there at all. It would make pawning off some of the heirlooms and portraits around the place all too easy. You wondered if you could learn where all the cameras were…Alfred caught the devious glint in your eye and raised his brows. 

He walked to your bedside and took a seat in the armchair beside you. You opened your hand and he took it without having to be asked. 

There were so many things foreign to Alfred. 

Yes, Bruce had adoptive daughters, but that didn’t mean Alfred did. Yet, for some indiscernible reason he felt like you were his. 

Bruce was your father, but you were his, and he'd do everything you deserved like learning how to care for your hair.

Your texture was so different from his own, but the wheels were turning and he was looking forward to starting the routines Nurse Patrice put him on.

Your eyes crinkled in a smile, content in the silence.  

“You gave everyone quite a scare when you were first admitted,” He couldn’t get to the hospital immediately but he knew you had emergency surgery for your neck. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say you were nearly decapitated, and it should’ve been impossible for the doctors to save your life and your voice. Yet, the impossible was made possible and Alfred would make sure that the research institute would never lack funding.

“But you’re recovering even faster than expected.” You had woken up within 2 weeks compared to the 2 months of the past.

By ‘everyone,’ he meant the medical staff. To his horror, Bruce seemed ambivalent to your condition as long as you didn't die. Sticking you in a private room in an exclusive hospital only available to millionaires was partially for the care, but mostly so he could ensure no paparazzi would find you and cause him more trouble.

You tried squeezing his hand with the fingers on your left hand, the hand that despite being wrecked by the barbed wire, retained almost all of its nerve function. You turned back to the tv to watch the telenovela, but Alfred’s eyes rested on your profile, almost studying you and committing every little pore to memory.

His heart was unsettled, there was this growing fear that he could lose you, as if he already had before. But how, when this is your first meeting?

Being near you brought him so much joy, but his hands also trembled as if to anticipate you falling to pieces. He didn't know why this was, but that only made him want to keep you close and protect you.

Turning his thoughts towards more positive things, he knew just what gift to bring you tomorrow, and was already looking forward to the way your face would light up. 

Only the world's greatest detective could notice the way Alfred's left eyebrow was creased the most miniscule bit in disgust. The greatest detective would if he was paying attention. 

“So, how are your classes, Tim?” Bruce spoke from his seat at the head of the table. “Everything's good. Boring, but good.”

‘imagine how bored Young Mistress Y/n is.’ Alfred's expression was perfectly schooled but his eyes were so over it. 

Bruce nodded his head, “And what about you, Damian?” The young boy scowled. “It seems that just anyone can become an educator these days.” He let loose a rant while Alfred’s gaze burned a hole into the wall opposite him. 

He considered these family dinners a much deserved respite from the fighting, but it didn't feel whole after you came into his life. It would never feel like a family dinner to him unless you were seated among them, telling your father how your classes were going and joking with your siblings. His fist tightened beneath the napkin he held, didn't anyone else feel something missing? 

Could they eat any slower? Alfred covertly checked his pocket watch. Visiting hours were over and although you had no trouble with him leaving and waved sweetly before he left, he could imagine fresh tears in your eyes like when you first saw him. You were there all alone, practically hidden away.

It was a good thing he charmed the director and charge nurses so that he'd be able to stay past visiting hours all he wanted. Unfortunately, his duties as a butler still came first, and so, he waited for the clinking of cutlery and meaningless chatter to cease. 

“Alfred?”

The butler's eyes refocused and landed on Bruce's face who was staring at him from his chair at the head of the table in concern. “Is everything alright?”

Was everything alright? Should he be asking him that? Shouldn't he be asking about you? 

Alfred’s countenance doesn't betray a single thought, “I'm more than alright, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice was clear and strong and caught everyone's attention. “My young Mistress has woken up from her coma earlier than expected and she's already hitting recovery milestones.” The pride in his voice couldn't be repressed.

Damian frowned and Tim tilted his head. Cassandra looked into space while trying to recall anything about a lady in a coma. 

Duke, bless his heart, didn't know, but tried to be supportive. “That's good!”

Alfred turned to him, “Isn't it, Master Duke? Mobility is limited but she's completely of sound mind and she's quite charming.” He smiled fondly before realizing he had to rein it in.

“Great, but who are you talking about?” Stephanie snorted and looked around the table for an explanation, thinking she was the only one out of the loop. 

“Master Bruce's daughter.”

The room went cold.

You were a topic they all danced around, carefully evading. Your reveal hadn't been a positive thing for the family at all; on the contrary, even thinking of or hearing your name would put Bruce and Tim in the state of fatigue they went through when all hell broke loose. Discovering you would be a bad memory for years to come. 

“Oh.” Duke thought about what he had seen on social media the last couple of weeks. You didn't have an online presence but you had been a hot topic when the flood happened. 

Bruce Wayne's daughter was in a lower income area when Wayne enterprises moved in with plans to raise the town’s textile industry back from the dead. We all know how that ended. 

Old friends and teachers spoke of you fondly, and it was clear that many were furious on your behalf. To many, Bruce was a deadbeat who didn't know shit.

Some social media posts weren't the same as getting to know you, but it laid the groundwork and he was curious about you and felt bad for what you’d gone through. He had a feeling no one else shared his sentiments.

“What? Daughter?” Stephanie gripped the dining chair’s armrests and turned to Bruce, ready to go in on him for being a playboy and falling for another assassin milf when it dawned on her. 

The flood, the media, Tim and Bruce's sleepless nights. ‘Oh, so she's alive.’ she simply thought to herself and lost interest.

“That's the least the medical institute can do after all I'm paying it.”

Alfred felt venom rise up his throat. When had the money mattered? 

“I will be visiting Young Mistress Y/n tomorrow—”

Alfred Pennyworth never stepped above his station as dutiful butler, but he had never been cut off before either. Someone changed the subject, most likely Dick who had an insane ability for shifting attention like it was a meta power.

The topic of interest changed and conversation flowed into the mundane but it was a farce of familial normalcy. Alfred's jaw clenched.

To be continued~

@c4xcocoa , @rythespy

Future installments will have semi-incest so please let me know if you want to be untagged!

[yuezodiaco]

Masterlist!!

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝓊𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝐸𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉:

The Prologue Effect

The Athanasia Effect

The Wayne Effect

The Ballet Effect

The Neglect Effect

The Trauma Effect

The Flower Effect

The Metamorphosis Effect

The Aetherius Effect

The Vigilante Effect

The Celestial Effect

The Nightfall Effect

The Forgotten Effect

The Bloom Effect

The Overshadow Effect

The Catalyst Effect

[yuezodiaco]

Masterlist!!

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝓊𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝐸𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉:

The Prologue Effect

The Athanasia Effect

The Wayne Effect

The Ballet Effect

The Neglect Effect

The Trauma Effect

The Flower Effect

The Metamorphosis Effect

The Aetherius Effect

The Vigilante Effect

The Celestial Effect

The Nightfall Effect

The Forgotten Effect

The Bloom Effect

The Overshadow Effect

The Catalyst Effect