yuyuzi-ling

[yuyuzi-ling]

REBORN

Gotham Cathedral, Spring.

A majestic silence reigns around her, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the giant bell ringing above her.

She would like to think is because people have finally learnt to respect her space and stopped butting their noses into her bussiness.

But no. The truth is that the church is basically empty at this hour. The only other people are old ladies and some last-minute sinner in need of confession. It's quite normal in Gotham. We all become sinners eventually, she thinks. It's unavoidable.

The first days she started to come here for her prayer hours after her accident, people whispered non-stop when she passed by and could barely conceal their stares. Shocked to see her out of all people in a cathedral. A holy place.

"I didn't know Lady Wayne was so devoted."

"I don't think she's ever been in a church before."

"How...surprising of her to step so confidently into the Lord's holy place. She certainly lacks some self-awareness."

The sheer hypocrisy delights her as much as it infuriates her.

Because first of all, who are they to question her faith? Just because she doesn't make a show out of it doesn't mean it's up to debate. She's always been taught that one's faith is meant to be private and personal. It's not a reason to boast.

Which is why she's always looked down on those people who praise the Lord's name and present themselves as "true" Christians just for appearances or to give themselves a reason for their self-righteousness.

In reality, they're the ones completely devoid of any self-awareness.

"Either that or she just doesn't care about seeming direspectful. I mean, we all know the kind of woman she is."

"I heard she's not like that anymore. Apparently, she's changed a lot since the accident. Everyone says so. It's bizarre."

"Yeah. She's behaving surprisingly well lately. There hasn't been a scandal since."

"Maybe she hit her head so badly it reprogrammed her whole personality."

Idiots. If only they knew...

Well, guess she can't really fault them for not knowing. After all, there's no way they can even imagine the truth behind her change.

"Maybe that's not really her and we're just seeing someone else with her face."

"Sure. Or maybe she actually died on the accident and her body is currently possessed by an incredibly nice spirit."

They have no idea.

She raises her eyes to the cross in front of her, its figure looming over her head as if watching, where the image of the Lord was carved in a typical representation of the moment He died for the humanity's sins.

The most remembered moment of His life. This is the first thing that pops into people's minds when they think of Him. Not all the good actions, not His endless kindness, His banter with the disciplines, His sense of humour, how He dedicated his life to help the poor and stood for what was right. Not even His beautiful relationship with His family. His mother, His father Joseph, even His siblings.

No. Instead, He'll be mostly remembered like this. In His death, with iron drilled into His body and bleeding out between two criminals. Sacrificing His life for sins that weren't His.

The Bible is full of passages depicting His humanity, His miracles, yet this moment is what will be forever His symbol.

Most people claim it's meant to be a reminder of how big His heart was. Of how He became a martyr.

To her, it's always felt more like a lesson.

That no matter how good you are and how much of yourself you give for others, you'll still get screwed over by those more powerful than you if they want to. That doing the right thing won't always be rewarded.

In the end, people value life the most when it's gone.

The thing about martyrs, she thinks, is that they have to die to be worshipped.

She makes one last prayer under her breath before standing up, sealing it with a kiss to the cross that dangles from her neck, putting back under her coat. She walks around the bench quietly as to not disturb the others and makes her way to the exit in the shadows.

Her phone vibrates again in her pocket. She pulls it out to see the several missed calls, messages, e-mails and the news.

On top of all, one name persists.

A name she wishes to never think of again.

Mr Wayne🙄 Where are you? Seriously, where are you? Don't you dare ignore me now. You can't be serious. I just found laying on my desk this morning. Is this some sick joke of yours? It better be. I swear to God, where the fuck are you?? You can't just leave like this!

Those gossips don't know how close their little jokes are to the truth.

Because she didn't just change. She wasn't reprogrammed.

She catches her reflection in one of the windows. Her face, her hair, her body, even the way she moves. She still looks the same as before. Healthy and confident.

Except it's not her. Not really.

This body isn't hers. Just like the clothes. Just like the man pestering her on the phone. None of this belongs to her.

It's from that woman with her same name and face that died several weeks ago.

Mr Wayne 🙄 What do you mean with "divorce"??

Gotham City High School

They're still talking.

It's been several weeks but they haven't stopped. In fact, she'll say it's gotten worse.

Before, it was just whispers behind her back and poorly concealed side-eyes. Now, they've taken to brazenly stare at her like she's some exotic animal, even approaching her at times to ask about her health, only to step back when she answers with a gentle smile, their eyes reflecting something between horror and fascination.

She found it amusing at first. Their faces looked so stupid at time she had to supress her laugh a lot.

But it's getting annoying now.

Whenever she goes, whenever she looks, they're there. Muttering, blinking at her, trying to strike clumsy converstations as if she's some long-lost friend who finally returned. All while keeping their distance and staring at her unnervingly.

Sometimes, she feels like a desecrated creature on display.

A pair of girls stand straighter when she passes by, following her with their eyes wide open. She catches the magazine one of them is holding, reading the bold letters in the cover title.

"Wayne heiress's lavish purchases turned into secret charity donations? Follow Vicky Vale's interviews to witnesses for more!"

Of course. The media doesn't help the insanity.

(Good to know Vale is a monumental pain in the ass in every life)

She sighs, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder. It's flashy and clearly expensive. Something made to draw attention to the teenage girl who wears it...and subtitly brag about her money.

In another life, she wouldn't have ever come to school with this thing, not even her mum wouldn't allow it. But everything is different now, isn't it?

To be honest, she can't really hold it against these guys for acting the way they do. From their perspective, this must be some kind of fever dream.

She knows her current behaviour clashes greatly with what everyone else is used to from her.

"She's gone mad. There's no other explanation."

"I don't know. She seems to be the same, but nicer."

"Seriously? She's already made three teachers cry from arguing about the lessons with them. Poor Miss Terris was about to faint!"

Yeah, well, she's not going to stay quiet when people who are expected to educate and prepare them for the future teach their damn subjects wrong.

Plus, Miss Terris's lessons were poorly structured and boring anyway. It was for the best.

"Didn't she also disagreed with Mr Johns so badly that he took a whole day off in the middle of class?"

"Oh my god, yes. Luke told me about it. She questioned his thesis for the PhD and started scrutinizing each point like she was grading the damn thesis herself. Apparently, half the arguments didn't stand and it lacked solid references."

"I saw the poor man afterwards. He looked like he was rethinking his whole existence."

That guy should've thought better before writing his thesis on cybersecurity, the one field she’s studied, mastered, and dominated for years. Reading that thing hurt her eyes more than her correction hurt his feelings.

Next time, he won't ignore her questions and shame her in front of the whole class. A time off sounds perfect for self-reflection.

"How can someone like her know so much about cybersecurity anyway? Enough to criticise a professional about it?"

"It's weird. I mean, do you remember the last time she talked back to teachers?"

"No. She's never interrupted lessons, much less to call them out on it. And she's actually right most of the time! It makes no sense."

Because she was a spoiled little brat who lowered her head at the first sign of dissapointment from adults and ran off to her mother to fight the battles for her.

Now she's a spoiled brat with a backbone.

But she understands their confusion. They have every reason for it. Ever since her return, she's been a walking contradiction of everything they've seen and known from her. A mystery.

Really, she's only annoyed when they invade her space with their antics. If you're going to speculate and gossip, do it quietly when the person in question can't hear you. Otherwise you look stupid and attention-seeking.

Or even better: Keep your thoughts to yourselves and let people live, geez.

She wonders if this the kind of attention she would've liked, once upon a time. Maybe this is what that part of her craved so bad. Or maybe she was content either way. Bad attention is still attention and all of that.

From afar, she spots Stephanie staring at her, arms crossed and eyebrows pinched in suspicion. She's no doubt thinking the worst of her, expecting a tantrum at any moment or anything that exposes whatever "scheme" she must have in mind.

Anything to remind everyone how rotten the spoiled Wayne heiress is.

"Do you think...she lost her memories somehow and doesn't remember how to act?"

"Don't be stupid, Kevin. If she lost her memories, she wouldn't even know where she is. Nah, this girl is perfectly fine. Probably just faking for attention again."

She snorts quietly. She can't help it.

Their theories aren't so far fetched. Just lacking a little twist.

Because it's not that she lost her memories.

She actually gained more.

As they wonder about her true motives and the reasons behind her change, none of them can come close to the truth.

That the girl they know died. Literally. Several weeks ago, her heart stopped beating as she bled out in the ice.

And somehow, she came back....with her soul and conscience fused to someone else's.

Wayne Manor

She hasn't moved from the greenhouse in twenty minutes.

Or so she thinks. She hasn't checked the time once since she arrived.

Everyone else is out, doing whatever they usually do at this hour. School, work, send criminals to the ER. Only Alfred is still around the manor.

And herself.

She should be at school now too, but claimed sickness and refused to leave her room. Alfred was worried about her and tried to pry, but her mother and sister covered her. They understood.

How can they not?

It wasn't until she knew for sure it was only Alfred left that she gathered courage to step out, heading towards the one place that has always made her feel safe.

The manor's greenhouse.

A botanical dream come true that only rich people can afford, and her personal paradise. It's supposed to be one of the Wayne's prides, but no one is interested in caring for plants in this family anymore. Only she and Alfred.

Well, maybe Damian too, but he barely shows up since she frequents the place, sticking to his precious farm instead.

She prefers it this way. It allows her to have the place all for herself. It's her corner to hide in when the world becomes too much, the familiar scent of her beloved flowers soothing her like a lullaby just for her ears.

And right now, the world is a lot bigger and more devastating that it's ever been.

It's been days. Long, excruciating days of processing what happened, what it means. Assimilating how things are now. Trying to get through the new routine without crashing out, despite being all she wants to do since she woke up.

Mum jumped right into action as soon as she got a hold over their new situation, and her older sister handled it as she handles everything: Adapting and somehow finding a way to benefit from it.

She envies them for it. For being able to go on with their new lives almost normally while she's still stuck repeating the same scene in her head over and over. What she saw, what she felt.

That's why she needed to come here. Nature has never dissapointed her. She loves her plants and all the green that surrounds her in a explosion of beauty she's nurtured over the years. In times of sorrow, it's her passion what comforted her, along with her family.

When you learn about mother nature, you understand everything follows a pre-established cycle that pushes it all forward, regardless of whatever obstacles there might be. It's about balance within the chaos. No one can evade it.

It's reassuring, to know that no matter what happens, you can trust nature to always find a way to fulfill its rules.

It's a shame my favourite color in the world is the same as certain asshole's eyes. Such beauty wasted on that demon, she bitterly recalls.

She inhales, taking in the scent of wet grass and some freshly bloomed flowers. It's the middle of Spring, after all. The season of life and rebirth, when all that died in winter blooms back with the same beauty as before, as if they never withered in the first place.

Just like she did.

Like the three of them did.

How deliciously ironic that it happened in Spring out of all. Maybe this is really mother nature's work, once again finding a way to restore the balance.

Or maybe it's some wicked game from the universe to make our lives even harder, her inner voice supplies.

She has no idea.

All she knows is that she should be dead. In fact, she vividly remembers dying, exhaling her last breath. Right on cue, she feels a sharp sting from her inner wrists. She rubs the pained zone over the bandage she put on herself.

It's a reminder of the incredibly dark motive behind her new life. Her second chance, as Mum said it is.

The death she remembers happened a lifetime ago....but the pain on her wrists belongs to someone's else death.

This greenhouse has been her paradise in another life, and her grave in this one.

And still..

What a beautiful place to part from, she can't help but think.

All of it, without ever noticing the shadow watching her back, still and silent in a corner of her sacred place. Waiting. Guessing. Or just looking.

a/n: Prologue for my uncoming Yandere! Batfam reincarnation au...with possible other Yandere! DC characters and my other ocs included in it because why not lmao I've been reading too many reincarnation of villainesses webtoons recently, so, here we are now

@la-patrona-magdalena (la culpable de este au, the enabler)

Taglist (for those who showed interest in this au first, thank you for the comments!): @therealme13posts, @coldilikeit, @like-thechocolate

[yuyuzi-ling]

“Stay in Bed”(Yandere Platonic! Batfam x Reader)

A/N: I made this based on two asks. And I’m sorta satisfied with the outcome. Could be better but it already got so long.

It started with something small — it always did.

She was sitting in the kitchen, curled on one of the tall barstools with a textbook propped open in front of her and a mug of tea in her hand. Her usual favorite — honey and chamomile — untouched. Dick had only been passing through the Manor that morning, en route back to Bludhaven, until he paused mid-step, his eyes locking on her.

“Little Flower,” he said, almost casual, but his voice hitched on the end.

She didn’t lift her head. Her cheek was propped against her palm, and her lips were slightly parted, breath too quiet. Her lashes trembled. Her eyes were unusual dull.

He crossed the kitchen in two strides. “Y/N,” he said again, this time softer. Concern bled through. “Hey.”

That got her attention. Her head snapped up — too fast — and she blinked at him like someone just waking from a dream. She smiled automatically, and he hated (and also loved) that about her — how she always smiled like it was her job to put everyone else at ease.

“I’m fine,” she croaked.

Dick’s brows furrowed. “That’s funny,” he murmured, crouching beside her and pressing the back of his hand to her forehead before she could stop him. “Because you feel like a fever wrapped in fleece.”

“It’s not bad,” she mumbled. “Just a cold. I still have to get to school—”

“No, no, nope. Absolutely not.” He was already pulling his phone out. “You’re staying home. That’s final.”

“I have a presentation.”

“I’ll present it for you. I’ll wear a wig. Get surgery and makeup to be half as cute as you and shorten my legs. It’ll be great. I’ll cry on cue.”

She gave a weak laugh. Her shoulders sagged.

Dick leaned forward, gently tugging her against him. “You don’t have to push yourself, okay? You’re allowed to be taken care of.” His voice dropped lower. “Let us take care of you.”

And just like that, the first domino fell.

⸻

She had expected more fight from Dick. But the real battle came twenty minutes later, when Damian came storming downstairs in his uniform and found her still in the kitchen, pale and swaying like a paper daisy in the wind.

“What is she doing here?” he asked Dick sharply, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your uniform downstairs and waiting for me?”

“She’s sick,” Dick answered for her. “Fever. Sore throat. Lethargic.”

Damian made a sound of pure contempt. “A minor inconvenience. My sister is stronger than a mere virus.”

“Your sister couldn’t stand up straight five minutes ago.”

“I’m not fragile,” Y/N said — but it came out more like a whimper than a protest, and she immediately went into a coughing fit.

“Tt,” Damian said, disgusted. “You sound like a dying goose.”

Dick smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not going,” he said, more firmly this time.

Damian crossed his arms and glared. “Fine. But I’m sending Titus to stand guard. Can‘t trust any of you with her safety.”

“That’s not—”

But Titus was already at her side, nuzzling into her with a soft whine, curling around her legs as if she might disappear again.

Y/N’s heart tugged. “Thanks, Dami.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and stalked off with his usual drama. But she caught the way his ears turned red.

_______

“Bed,” Dick said sternly, standing at the edge of the couch with his arms folded, looking every bit the overbearing parental figure he’d once sworn he’d never become. Not even ten minutes after Damian had left to go to school, Y/N had gone to the living room. She wanted to do some schoolwork and not slack off even when she felt like shit. But to her surprise (not) her oldest brother would not allow that.

“I said I’m fine,” she mumbled, blanket half-hugged to her chest. But Dick had her in his arms already. Her head to his broad chest.

“And I said bed.” His voice was gentler this time, but it brooked no argument. “Now.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Ten minutes later, she was tucked beneath two layers of blankets in her room — the same room that had only recently been refilled with her things. The elephant plush was nestled against her pillow. Titus lay sprawled at the foot of her bed, assigned by Damian with militant precision before he left for school.

Dick stood over her with a mug of tea in one hand and a digital thermometer in the other. The look on his face wasn’t warm — it was too tense, too strained. Every time he looked at her, it was like he was trying to count her breaths.

She rolled her eyes but drank the tea. He sat beside her and tucked a hand against her temple.

“Still hot,” he muttered. Then, half under his breath: “Still too hot.”

“Are you gonna take my vitals every five minutes?”

“If I could shrink myself down and fight the virus directly, I would.”

She laughed weakly, then coughed harder than she expected to. Her ribs hurt.

Dick’s eyes darkened. He pressed a hand gently to her back and looked like he was about to break down her immune system with sheer older-brother rage.

⸻

By mid-afternoon, her temperature had climbed.

“She’s at 39.4,” Alfred said in a hushed voice, leaning beside Dick in the hallway. “She’s sleeping, but her breathing is shallow. I don’t like how warm her hands are.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I should’ve called a doctor.”

“You did everything right,” Alfred said. Then added, more quietly, “But perhaps you should inform your father.”

Dick hesitated.

He didn’t have to decide. Alfred already had.

Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne was out of a board meeting and halfway home, leaving Lucius Fox behind with nothing but an insincere apology and the glare of a man who’d just been told his daughter was sick and hadn’t been informed immediately.

He arrived at the Manor like a storm.

“Why,” he asked as he stepped into her doorway, coat still flung over his arm, “did no one tell me my daughter was burning up?”

“Bruce—” Dick started, but Bruce was already moving.

She stirred when he entered. Blinked sleepily. “You’re home early,” she mumbled.

He went still. The sight of her was worse than he expected.

Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her lips dry, eyes half-lidded and glassy. She looked impossibly small beneath the layers of bedding. One hand clutched her elephant plush like a lifeline.

Something inside him cracked. He crossed to her and sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her face.

“I’m here now,” he said quietly.

“Daddy,” she whispered sleepily. The word was hoarse.

He froze.

And then he didn’t leave her side for the rest of the day.

⸻

Tim dropped into the cave late that night, eyes hollow from another twelve-hour stretch in front of every digital system he could access. Between corporate work and vigilante patrol, he’d still made time to set up two separate medical monitors for her room — just in case anything went wrong while she was asleep.

He also installed a retinal scanner at her door. Just in case.

He stepped inside her room under the guise of checking her fever, but lingered longer than necessary. Her breathing was soft. Her skin still too warm. She stirred occasionally, muttering things in her sleep that made his fingers twitch toward his tablet.

She was always too good, too pure — and none of them deserved her.

But she was theirs. And she was staying.

Even if he had to put tracking software on her toothbrush.

⸻

By the next morning, she was worse.

The fever hadn’t broken. Her throat was raw. Her nose was congested, and she barely touched the soup Alfred made.

The change was visible across the entire family.

Dick stopped his forced smiling. Damian barely spoke. Tim didn’t blink during his patrol.

And Bruce — Bruce stayed at the Manor. He read to her in low, grave tones. He wiped her forehead with a cloth. He held her hand and stared at the pulse in her wrist like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Even Jason checked in.

Not through the door. Not loudly. But at midnight, when the house was still, the window creaked open and the floorboards whispered beneath his boots.

He sat beside her bed, hands gloved, movements careful.

“Don’t you scare me like this,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You hear me, Bloom?”

She didn’t answer. But she breathed — just enough.

The doctor came.

Private. Discreet. Paid well enough not to ask questions about the growling dog in the hallway or the collective glower of Gotham’s most dangerous men all crowded outside a feverish girl’s room.

“It’s not viral,” the doctor concluded with a quiet voice. “A severe immune response, most likely. But with proper rest, hydration, and this medication—” he tapped a slim white bag “—she’ll recover just fine.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Dick nodded. Tim took the bag.

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on his sister with a silent, sharp glare.

“She’s too weak because she doesn’t eat right,” he muttered. “I keep telling her—”

“We’ve all been watching her eat,” Dick said, voice tight. “She eats.”

“Not enough protein. Not enough iron. You think tea and cookies will make her stronger?”

Bruce only murmured, “She sleeps too little.”

Tim added, “She gets cold too fast.”

Jason, from where he stood in the shadows, snapped, “Maybe because she grew up being ignored in a stone mansion, freezing her little hands off while everyone played hero.”

Silence followed. No one argued.

But all their eyes went to the bed.

⸻

The moment the door closed behind the doctor, the interrogation began.

“I don’t like the pills,” she mumbled, burritoed in her blankets and turned to the wall.

Dick knelt beside the bed. “They’ll help your fever.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to. They taste weird.”

“You’re not taking them for the taste.”

She burrowed deeper into the pillow. Her voice muffled. “I’m not sick. Just tired. Let me sleep.”

Damian let out a breath sharp as a blade. “You are sick.”

“You’re being dramatic—”

“And you’re being ridiculous, brat. Tt. Open your mouth.”

“No!”

He reached for the pill bottle, already halfway prepared to pinch her nose shut if she wouldn’t swallow on her own.

Dick stopped him with a hand.

“She’s scared,” he said gently.

“She’s being stubborn.”

Tim crouched by the desk. “We can crush it in honey—”

“She’ll taste it,” said Dick.

Bruce stepped into the room again, looming large in the doorway like a final verdict. “Give them to me.”

He approached her, slow and careful, but his presence was too heavy. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she immediately shifted away, curling tighter into herself.

“Princess,” he said. “You need to take the medicine.”

She shook her head.

He sat beside her. “If I have to make you, I will.”

She didn’t believe him.

She should have.

⸻

It was Dick who held her in the end. His grip tight but not hurtful. She struggled — weakly, sickly, with tearful defiance — but her arms were too light. Her body too hot. She whined, kicked once, and let out a sob when the pill was pressed into her mouth and the bitter syrup followed behind it, held between firm fingers and cradled limbs.

And then Tim’s soft voice: “Just a little sedative, to help her rest.”

Her eyes fluttered.

“Why?” she whispered. Her voice broke. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we love you,” Dick said into her hair.

She looked at him, dazed, betrayed. “This isn’t love.”

But she was too drowsy to keep speaking

________

When Jason returned that night — just past 1:13 a.m. — he didn’t expect her to be awake.

But she was.

He pushed open the window and landed softly on the carpet. Titus raised his head from the rug but didn’t bark. He knew Jason.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.

“You’re supposed to be knocked out.”

She smiled faintly. “Guess your little flower’s stubborn.”

Jason didn’t laugh. He crossed the room, knelt beside her bed, and studied her too-hot cheeks and glassy eyes. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll find out who gave you this.”

She blinked. “It’s a fever.”

“Still. Someone coughed in your direction and I’ll rearrange their lungs.”

She laughed, but it turned into a cough. He leaned over and brushed her hair back, palm pressing gently to her forehead. She leaned into his touch, liking the coldness of his hands.

Still too warm. He didn’t speak for a while. Just stayed.

And then she said softly, “You guys overreact too much.”

Jason didn’t argue. He looked at her, eyes sharp and a little wild.

“I overreact because I remember what it felt like to lose you once,” he whispered. “I’m not doing it again.”

She stared at him. Eyes wide.

He leaned closer.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think we should lock you in a nice, warm white cell. No windows. No exposure. No people. Just books and music and plants. I’ll bring you cookies. You’ll be safe.”

She laughed again, nervously. “That’s… extreme.”

“But you’ll be alive.” He crawled onto the bed, pulling her gently to him. “And that’s all I care about.”

She didn’t answer. Just pressed against his chest, too tired to resist.

He held her there.

And he didn’t leave until morning.

________

The others had patrol.

Dick had retreated to Bludhaven for an overdue meeting. Tim had returned to the Cave to track movement reports. Jason… well, Jason never reported anything. But he’d texted a blunt “You better not let anything happen to her” at 3 a.m.

Which left Damian. The least emotionally expressive. The most overbearing.

The perfect jailer.

He sat stiffly at her desk, legs crossed, scribbling something on school documents, half-watching her from the corner of his eye every third second. She lay bundled in bed, propped up by pillows, face still pale, still recovering.

But her eyes were clearer.

Too clear.

“You’re bored,” he muttered before she even said anything.

Her lips quirked. “Maybe.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask to leave the bed,” he said without looking up. “Or to go outside. Or to play some insipid game. None of those are acceptable.”

She frowned at him. “You’re no fun.”

He smirked. “You’re no doctor. Stay put.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“You’re still coughing.”

“You’re literally watching me like a hawk while doing your little paper assignments.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “This ‘little paper’ is an annotated comparative essay worth thirty percent of my literature grade.”

“Wow. You actually take grades seriously? Thought you didn’t need school because you’re a born genius.”

“Not when you’re around to be a walking medical hazard,” he snapped.

She stuck out her tongue. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re an idiot if you think you’re walking anywhere.”

Despite the bickering, the corners of her mouth twitched. There was something oddly familiar—comforting, even—in this dry, tightrope exchange. But Y/N wouldn’t be a Wayne if she wasn’t stubborn. The girl did try to sit up anyway, just to prove her cocky brother wrong. And the moment her feet touched the ground, the dizziness hit like a wave. Her limbs felt weak.

Her knees buckled.

But she didn’t fall.

Because Damian was there before gravity even finished its threat, arms tight around her waist, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Are you brain-damaged?” he hissed, lowering her back onto the bed with too much care. “Are you trying to collapse? Do you have any sense of self-preservation at all?”

She looked up at him, blinking. “I just wanted—”

“I don’t care what you wanted,” he growled. “You take one more step out of this bed and I will chain you to it.”

Her breath caught.

He noticed.

“…Tt.” His voice dipped, the edge blunting. “You know I would. Don’t test me.”

She bit her lip. Eyes shifting. But she nodded.

He sat beside her on the bed, silent for a while. She fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

“…I’m bored,” she said again, quieter this time. “And lonely.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“But you’re doing homework.”

He scoffed. But when she shifted slightly toward him, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he let her lean. He even tugged the blanket around her shoulders a little tighter and muttered something about her temperature. Her head settled against his arm. He stared at the wall, as if pretending not to notice how soft her breathing had become.

Minutes passed.

“…You can lie down, you know,” she whispered sleepily. “If you’re gonna be here.”

“I’m not—”

But she was already curled toward him, eyelids fluttering shut, breath warm against his side.

And Damian—after one more glance around the room, after one more stubborn sigh—lay down beside her. He let her arm rest against his. Let her cheek press into his sleeve. He didn’t move when she wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

Didn’t complain when Titus padded in and curled up by the foot of the bed.

Didn’t say a word when she sighed in her sleep, a whisper of “Dami” on her breath.

He watched her, for a long time.

He would never say it aloud. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But if she ever collapsed again like that—ever turned pale, ever broke into sweat, ever coughed until her voice cracked—he would burn every lab that sold her medicine. Destroy every hallway that made her walk too long. Fight the world’s air itself if it dared to make her lungs hurt.

He would become her walls. Her ceiling. Her gate. Her cage.

Because some flowers were too delicate to bloom in the open.

And no one would touch this one again.

Not under his watch.

[yuyuzi-ling]

Pre bedtime thoughts-

Imagine a clingy dami au except your mom never died and you grew up without knowing Bruce was your dad.

Imagine you find out while donating blood, doing a 23&me thing or something and you have to have a very uncomfortable talk with your mom and dad.

“I just didn’t think he’d be a good father figure for you.. we met when we were both so young, I was doing research in another country and he was also there to study. We weren’t careful one night and when I got back home I was pregnant with you,” your mom explained gently while the man you thought was your dad sat next to you, comforting you.

“And when he returned to Gotham he started to party a lot, got into fist fights, drank and slept around with so many models that I just.. I just didn’t trust him to be a good and active father in your life… I’m so sorry for not telling you baby, I-I just didn’t want you to get your heart broken..” your mom said, tearing up a little as she held your hands. “I met your dad when you were 1 and we just fell in love,” she continued as your dad reached over and held her hands, smiling softly.

“We wanted to tell you when you got older but…” your dad sighed, gently squeezing your mom’s hand. “But we were scared. We didn’t know how to tell you so we put it off. ‘Just one more year’ we kept telling ourselves, but one year became two, then three then so on. We are so sorry for not being honest with you.”

I think it takes you a couple months to process it all, I mean you just found out you were the first born child to one of the most powerful men in the country, THE playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. That man owned the city of Gotham practically and his humanitarian work is what inspired you to pursue your dreams and studies. It was a hard pill to swallow.

But after those months you came to a conclusion, this changed nothing. You understand where your mom was coming from and your dad, even though you weren’t his by blood, was your dad. He was there for you sing you could remember and nothing was going to change that.

But that didn’t stop the curiosity and slight worry. You were curious about how similar to Bruce you were as well as concerned about possible medical conditions that you might develop one day, so after going through the proper channels, you get in contact with Bruce.

It was a email at first, a polite introduction of who you were and why you were emailing it. You showed the dna proof that you two were related and expressed that you did not want anything from him other than his family’s medical history and possibly a chance to meet face to face.

I like to think that Bruce is way more into getting to know you than you are into getting to know him. Like he’s so excited to know you exist, offering to pay for whatever schooling or trade you’d like, offering to house you if you plan to go to Gotham university any university for that matter and your just like.. chill dude.

Like you don’t hate him, you just don’t know him and he’s trying to play a paternal role in your life when you already have a dad. The man who married your mother is your dad in your eyes and in your heart, no amount of money can replace that, but it seems like Bruce is trying.

But after a while of being in communication, he invites you to Gotham for the summer so that he can get to know you, his first born, and so that you could meet Damian and the others.

I think Damian would be very hostile to you at first, after all you threatened the whole structure of the family. You made him nervous, because what if father liked you more than him? What if everyone liked you more than him? He doesn’t want to be replaced… especially not with someone who clearly couldn’t do what he could.

He would act passive aggressively to you at first, ignoring you when you talked or being exasperated as if when you asked questions it was the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

He’s so angry at you and your existence, stealing his place as Bruce’s first born. He’s angry at show inferior he feels compared to you bc you just seem so… unbothered by this all while he can’t even focus on patrols anymore. And he hates that. He hates how bad he feels with you around him, he hates it all, he hates you.

… well he thought he did.

What changed for you two was one night you accidentally bumped into Damian in the hallways and asked him what he was doing up so late and Damian just couldn’t hold back anymore and demanded to know why you were here, why are you barging into his home and life!? You’re a stranger and you will never be apart of HIS family!

He’s so angry that there’s tears in his eyes. He hates you. He hates you! HATES that you’re stealing all of his father’s attention now!! Hates that he can only spend time with his father on patrols and even those are getting rare now bc YOURE HERE in HIS HOUSE!!

You let him rant, watching the boy as his words get wobbly and his voice gets a little choked in some parts. You watch and wait, feeling bad for this asshole kid in front of you.

You wait until he’s done and nod, thinking for a moment before you pulled a set of car keys out of your pocket.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

I like to imagine you and Damian ‘borrow’ one of Bruce’s not as nice cars and go for a ride on the back roads outside of Gotham, I like imagining that the only time you two stop is at a gas station where you both get some drinks and snacks. You let him have control of the radio, you let him talk if he wants to or not if he doesn’t, your patient and answer questions if he asks you any.

You don’t return to the manor until early in the morning, with him asleep in the passenger and you ready to pass out yourself. Hell neither of you make in back to your bedrooms, parking the car in the manors garage and turning the car off and falling asleep in the driver’s seat with the windows cracked open a little.

But after that night, Damian begins to cling to you, you remind him of Dick a little, but better? He knows you won’t snitch on him to Bruce, he likes that you try to include him and the others when Bruce tries to do some father child bonding with you and he especially appreciates the drives you two start doing together… it makes him feel like you truly see him like a brother, not a teammate, not a Robin, not a assassin.. but a brother..

He’s never been a brother before.

So imagine his reaction when you prepare to leave to go back to your home state? Imagine the betrayal he feels when he over hears you telling Bruce that you don’t plan to go to Gotham for university?

No, he just started getting use to you, you can’t leave him now! You can’t abandon him, not now!!

And Bruce doesn’t want you to leave either, he’s missed out on so many chances to be there for you. Yes your mom was generous enough to show him pictures and videos of you when you were little, but that doesn’t change the fact he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there for your first steps or words. He wasn’t there to teach you how to ride a bike or to pick you up when you fell. He wasn’t there and now that he knows you exist, he wants to be there so badly it hurts.

This these two joining forces to keep you in Gotham, to make sure that they don’t miss out on anymore opportunities to be apart of your life and your family.

[yuyuzi-ling]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 10: Do You Wanna Hear About The Deal That I’m Making?

Masterlist Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 (Here!) /

A morgue is always cold.

Morgues are cold to slow down decomposition and preserve bodies until they are needed for autopsy or other procedures. Refrigeration helps to reduce bacterial growth and enzymatic activity, which are the main causes of decay.

Jason hated the cold. And morgues.

But he was sucking it up for the sake of finding answers. 

That encounter with her had left him with questions. Many questions. 

Jason hadn’t expected Dick’s rambles of delirum to be true, just some exaggerated tantrum over not having attention him for more than a five minutes. But now, he was starting to understand some of the fuss running rampant amongst the family.

He knew she’d be different, that she would become angry. Resentful. Full of spite.

Just like him. Finally. Someone who knows the same pain. The same resentment. The same anger.

But it wasn’t like that with her. It wasn’t the same.

Jason had some expectations set the moment he found out about the murder attempt. That all of those involved would be killed by his hand (because it’s what he she would have wanted). That he would shove it all over Bruce’s face (what he should have done for him her). And that he would be the only person to truly understand him (because she thinks like him, feels like him, she needs him-)

He had accomplished the first two.

The third one, however, was coming on a bit more complicated than expected.

Jason expected fury, fists flying, screaming, crying, yelling, biting. He expected fingers pointed at the old man, claims of revenge, a need for blood and justice to be served.

Instead, he got a sleepwalking fugitive who looked at him with the same fear as before.

That same weary look was on the corners of the manor whenever he visited. That tremble of shoulders whenever he spoke, as if his voice spooked her. Those flinches whenever he stepped a bit closer in her direction. 

The only thing that was gone was the quietness of her voice, now replaced by a firmer, louder tone that lessened the boiling frustration underneath his skin.

Where was the anger? Where was the thirst for revenge? She was supposed to be like him now. Broken and hurt. He was supposed to pick the pieces and rebuild. Be like him. Because she is like him now. They are the same, and he wants her to act out and yell and stop lookiNG AT HIM IN FEA-

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Red Hood?”

…That’s right. He’s here for answers.

And for those answers, he had to get them from the only person who was able to provide them.

Dr. Rio Vidal was an unsettling woman and more. She had been the one to do the autopsy on the bastards that bullied his sister (after dumping what was left of the bodies right in front of the station with incriminating proof tapped on their chests), and just one small talk was enough for Jason to decide that he would not spend more than it was necessary around that woman.

He didn’t like how every hair underneath his armor stood up when he crossed looks with that woman.

Something about her wasn’t… right.

But he would ignore the knot in his stomach that twisted tighter and tighter with every second that passed in her presence until he got what he wanted.

“I need a medical file on one of your patients.” His modulator hid very well the tension in his voice.

The doctor turned around, locking one of the small metal refrigerator doors in the wall with a fake smile. “And instead of taking it from my office, you came straight to me? I am very flattered, Red Hood.”

He did not like the dark glint in her eyes when she drawled out his name.

“Didn’t find the patient that I’m looking for.” His fingers gripped the holsters strapped to his belt.

“And that would beee?” She blinked repeatedly with a sharp, unsettling smile.

Jason felt cold sweat dripping down his temple, the longer he continued to keep direct eye contact with the woman. He could feel the smugness coming out of her when he diverted his gaze towards the fridges.

“The Wayne girl.” He uttered, ignoring the exaggerated gasping of Dr. Vidal as she clutched her hand to her chest.

“How silly of me! I was carrying it with me today!” She boasted, turning back around towards a table that had neat, clean files. Flipping through them until she grabbed a thick file and waved it eagerly at him. “They were requested to be taken out for comparisons of blood analysis.”

That got his attention, grabbing the file, but Dr. Vidal’s grip on it caught him off guard. “Who requested such a thing? Was it the commissioner?”

He tried to take the file from her, but she held onto it with a tight smile. “No, that would have been me.”

“What for?” Jason didn’t like the fact that this person, in particular, was going around doing tests with his sister’s samples.

“Easy, Red,” she eased, finally letting go of the documents and crossing her arms. “I was just curious about how advanced her healing was coming along. Not everyone heals from a deadly head wound that fast, and I’m sure you are well aware of that... due to your line of work, hm?”

There. That was it.

Healing. His sister had sleepwalked from Wayne Manor to Chinatown in the middle of the night while barefoot and in pajamas, and there wasn’t a single scratch on her feet, nor woken up the next day sick (because last time he checked, she got sick easily. He remembered the various times she got sick for staying outside in the rain for a bit. It was ridiculous-) by what Alfred told him when he called to check up.

Most people would have put it as luck, but Jason knew better than that because of various reasons.

One of them being how the hell did she make 12 miles in less than five minutes. 

He had a theory, multiple ones, actually. 

One of them being that the water of the pool she fell into when she was attacked was lazarus’ pit water. It was far fetched and proved wrong when he ran some tests with the samples he had gathered from her old school bag. 

There was another one that it could be related to the pool as well. That it could have some odd chemicals and had altered her or something amongst that line. But it was also discarded when all the test showed that it was just old still water that could only have given her a nasty virus.

Which lead to the next theory that none of what was going on with her was happening because of outside elements or sources.

But it could something more internal. 

Bodily kind of internal.

And that was just a whole new pipeline he wasn’t sure he was ready to go down by.

“Any changes I should keep an eye on, Doc?” he pried, gloved fingers tightening on the edges of the file.

Rio hummed out loud with pursed lips, before shrugging. “Nothing special. I’m pretty sure all of her progress is tied to her bloodline. She certainly has quite the strong family. Strong genes, if you catch my drift.”

‘Definitely from Old B’s side,’ he thought bitterly, nodding at the woman and making his way out as fast as possible without bringing attention to himself from the cold freezer.

The green witch simply shook her head, grinning from side to side as things finally started to get more intense.

She needed to plant that small seed of doubt so everything could start to grow and stretch out some roots of chaos on the too comfortable Maximoff. It was very exciting for her to see how her new favorite pet would be able to manage the new obstacles coming on her way.

But nothing that the girl couldn’t handle, she even had some help on her side without noticing.

And, Rio still needed her to find her things.

All according to the plan.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“I’m honestly surprised he’s still standing.”

Conner scoffed, scraping out his food plate in the trash can. “More surprised that Damian didn’t hose him down the moment we got here.”

Barbara smiled as she sipped her coffee, sitting at the main table that was low enough for her wheelchair, letting her gaze wander off to the young man who began to clean up his dirty dishes in the sink.

Both of them had arrived early in the morning at the manor, with Barbara getting there first and then followed by the younger titans.

She had gotten asked by Dick yesterday to meet up for a relaxing outing that day in the evening along with his sister, thinking it would be a great way to bond and spend more time with the younger girl. 

Since said girl seemed to prefer talking with Barbara over Dick himself, judging by their last interaction earlier that week. Barb found it hilarious how Dick was clearly trying to get her attention just to get ignored by a very talkative girl that was set on asking Barbara tons of questions.

If Barbara was being honest, she thought Dick was making the wrong move. 

He couldn’t just force her to spend time with him, especially if he was using Barbara as a middle ground, which pissed her off to no end. Did he honestly believe he wasn’t being that obvious?

Was she going to follow along with his plan? No, obviously. If he wanted to fix his relationship with his sister, he would have to do it on his own and earn her trust back with his blood and sweat. 

She was not helping him out in this, not this time.

Besides having sent Dick a text saying that she was going to be busy during the day, Barbara had also come to the manor with other intentions.

Something was up with Cass, and she was worried.

The girl had been acting odd on patrol, something that seemed to only be detected by Barbara and Bruce. 

Looking over her shoulder every minute. Her vitals spiking on the screen whenever a noise was heard in the background. Hearing the sharp breath intakes as she heard a group of girls passing by on the street. Sudden moments of stillness on her tracker, and when Barbara pulled on the body camera, Cass’s position showed her the view of a music store where a soft piano melody played to attract customers.

Maybe she needed a break, to get some time out of the house. And Barbara was more than willing to offer that if it meant avoiding strangling Dick by the neck.

“Don’t you think the case has been taking too long?” Conner’s voice got her attention, responding with a hum. “Usually, they would have been done with it after a few days.”

The young Kryptonian had gotten here about half an hour after Barbara, with a muttering Tim in tow, going directly to the Batcave with most of the recently made coffee in his giant mug and leaving his friend without another word in the kitchen.

To which Alfred extended him the invitation for breakfast, trying to excuse his master’s rude behavior. Conner refused at first, knowing the dark knight wasn’t exactly fond of his presence, but the butler had already served him a plate and disappeared into the halls without another word.

Barbara shook her head, a wry smile on her lips as she leaned back on her chair. “They’re a bit… focused on other issues at the moment.”

Conner gave her a short look before biting inside his cheek, eyes focused on the sink. His fingers flexed on the edge of the counter. I took a few moments of silence before he decided to just be straightforward. 

“Is it about their sister?” his tone was hesitant and low. Taking a glance towards the hall and looking back at Barbara with expectation.

“Did Tim mention anything?” She asked, shifting her body a bit towards Conner.

The boy shook his head, drying his hands by wiping them against the rough material of his jeans (like a heathen-) and walking towards the table. “No, but he seems to forget that I have sharp ears, and he has a habit of muttering to himself out loud.”

Barbara nodded, sighing softly as her fingers wrapped around the warm cup while Conner leaned his crossed arms on top of the back of one of the chairs.

“It’s complicated,” she offered with a shrug. “I’m not sure if I should say it, but she was recently in an accident. It has been a bit tense, as to say-”

The squeaking of sneakers running down the hall made both of them look towards the source of the noise. An understanding look between them, making it clear that their conversation would have to wait.

Then, the same person they had been talking about made her appearance, her excited manner settling down for a moment when she realized there were people in the kitchen.

Connor’s first thought, from the moment he set his eyes on her, was that she looked completely different than what he had pictured in his mind.

There were very few articles on the internet about the blood daughter of Bruce Wayne. Most of them were from tabloids that made sure to put her in a bad light for the public. He had heard many rants from both Lois and Clark about how unprofessional and cruel it was for Gotham media to hound such a young girl from an early age. And he had heard even more angry rants from Lois about Bruce’s lack of action on the situation.

Most of the pictures taken of her were either blurry, unflattering, or showing a spooked expression due to the flashes of the cameras.

Much of what Conner imagined about her was a very socially awkward girl who probably preferred to avoid the spotlight.

The girl in front of him was brighter than the spotlight. 

Wild, long curls pulled in half-up style with a few strands purposely framing her face on the sides. Her roots with faded black hair dye, letting him wonder what her true hair color was like. A white short top, accompanied by an open green track jacket and wide-leg pants. White old sneakers that stood out because of the silver tape surrounding the bottom and edge of the shoes.

“Didn’t know we had visitors today.” She muttered, a smile returning to her face once she realized Barbara was there. The redhead returned her smile, motioning for her to come closer, and both of them hugged quickly. 

“I like the style! Going out today?” Barb asked, holding back a tick in her eye as her mind began to put some pieces together.

“Yeah,” she answered, glancing at Conner for a moment and going towards the kitchen to serve herself a plate before Alfred appeared to do it for her. “I’m gonna hang out with my friends today.”

Connor could hear Barb’s heart rate going up, her smile tightening. He could only imagine what was angering her so much that it made her act like that.

That was when his ears picked up a sound similar to the fluttering of the wings of a hummingbird. Fast paced, almost like a buzzing sound.

“Any plans you guys have?” Barbara’s question snapped him out of concentration, his eyes landing once again on the girl as she took a seat with a serving of eggs almost as big as his daily meals.

She shrugged, taking a few quick bites from the plate as if it were her last meal. “Shopping at the mall. Bobby and Warren are picking me up in a few minutes.”

“Which was why I insisted on getting you up early, my dear,” Alfred’s voice took their attention. An amused look towards the girl’s plate as she grinned at him with a shrug, diving once again into her food. “I would prefer you go out with a full stomach, since who knows what ungodly hour you plan on coming back.”

“I promise to be here around ten, Al.” She recited as if it had been something she had heard multiple times, making Barbara and Alfred chuckle.

“As long as you give daily updates, I don’t mind the hour.” He said, bringing her something to drink as she finished up her plate. “Just be mindful and careful of your surroundings.”

“Will do,” She nodded, giving him her plate and drinking from her cup of juice.

“Didn’t take you as the shopping type…” Conner muttered, gathering the girl's attention, her eyebrow quirked in confusion.

“And you are?” Her tone wasn’t hostile, but it was sharp enough to make Conner adjust his posture, flushing as he took his arms off the seat and offered his hand.

“I’m Conner.” He uttered, smiling when she took his hand. Ignoring the sudden rush under his skin when she let go, that hand went directly to rub the back of his neck. “I’m Tim’s best friend.”

“Huh,” she nodded, getting up from her chair. “Thought you were new sibling, since you kind of fit in all the requirements…” 

She gestured at him, making Barbara snort and Alfred call her in an exasperated tone to which got a laugh out of everyone. The girl took her drink and walked to the sink. 

“No offense, but I think this family has enough testosterone for a lifetime.” That made Conner snicker, avoiding the pointed stare from Barbara by getting closer to the kitchen counter.

“I’m not exactly Wayne material.” He offered, noticing the short and quiet scoff under her breath. Along with the muttered lines ‘neither am I’ that got him frowning and intrigued to ask her more questions.

But that was pushed aside when the sound of beaten-up speakers blasting some Ariana Grande song from the outside was heard pulling up to the front of the manor. 

“I believe that would be Mr. Drake, my dear.” Alfred pointed out after a moment of silence, handing her a small towel to dry her hands.

She quickly dried herself, giving Alfred a short hug and then giving Barb one as well. “I’ll text as soon as I get to the mall,” she promised, starting to walk towards the hall.

“Remember,” Alfred pestered, his voice rising. “Be mindful and be-”

“And be careful, I got it!” She laughed, turning around and walking backwards and blowing him a kiss. Alfred shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Then, she waved at Conner. “See you around, Conner. Don’t become a Wayne while I'm gone.”

Conner looked at Barb in disbelief, sputtering before speaking in a higher pitch. “I’m actually a-”

The sentence died in the air because she was already gone from the hall. The front door closing echoed on the walls, just as the loud music from the outside started to pull away, along with some laughs and cheers.

“...Not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting that,” Conner muttered, making Barbara sigh with a smile.

“She is like a whirlwind now.” She mentioned. “It wasn’t like this before, it's a new development.”

 ‘Yeah, so I figured.’ Conner’s mind exclaimed. 

She just came in, ate, made an impression that Conner was sure would stay in his mind for a while, joked around, and left without another word.

A tornado would be a more accurate description.

“Word of advice?” He nodded at Barbara, shoving his hands in his pockets as Alfred cleaned up the kitchen, pretending he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Keep your eyes to yourself. Especially for now.” Barbara’s gaze became serious, making Conner tighten his jaw.

He tried not to feel offended at the implication of her words. He knew he had a reputation of being a bit of a flirt (all in fun! He had never actually gone beyond flirting with anyone. Not enough time for commitment to relationships.), but he had respect. And he respected Tim a lot. He was his best friend and trusted him completely (No matter how odd he had been behaving lately), and Conner wouldn’t dare mess around with his sister of all people.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious about her. Intrigued, even.

Why had Tim never talked about her? They were around the same age, if he was judging well. They probably shared something in common.

Was she in the family business? It didn’t seem like it, she looked like a normal civilian from his point of view. 

Why wasn’t she in the family business?

Now that he thinks about it, the whole family barely mentioned her in the past. 

Barely, as to say never at all.

Something was up, but he was smart enough to know that it wasn’t his call to make.

“I'd rather keep my eyes in my head for now, thank you.”

For now.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Around 1:30 pm, Maximoff had decided that the mall was one of her favorite places to hang out.

Gotham Mall was like a time capsule, stuck in the glory days of the eighties, by the state of the artificial lights and that distinctive smell of cherry cola and bubble gum that got stuck on your nose and made you dizzy until you got used to it.

Stores of all kinds: clothes, shoes, high-end and low-end brands, jewelry, sports, toys, swimwear, video games, and even movie rentals. There was also a movie theater, a roller skating rink, a few music and record shops, an arcade, and a whole top floor filled with food places.

Warren had taken the role as their guide since Bobby had only gone to a few stores, and Maximoff… well, she was another case.

Wayne had also decided to stay back at the manor once again, malls were not really her thing. And, she had another ‘unfinished task’ that she had to do by herself.

Maximoff knew exactly what that meant, and she was more than okay with staying away from the manor while her companion did her own thing.

Just because she was friends with a ghost, it didn’t mean she liked being around spooky, haunting stuff.

Wayne had her hobbies, and she respected them… from afar.

“What about Aquaman? He’s kind of cool.”

Warren gave Bobby a deadpan stare, who was sipping on his milkshake with an expectant look. “Do I look like the type of guy that would be a fan of Aquaman of all people?”

Bobby shrugged, stealing fries from Warren’s plate to dip them in his sugary drink. “You’re asking the wrong person to judge by appearance.”

“Right,” Warran nodded, dragging his plate closer to him. “Should have known by your horrible taste in pants.”

That got him a pout from the freckled boy, “I have good taste in pants!”

“You only wear jeans, Bobby.”

“They’re comfortable!”

After visiting stores for almost the whole morning, the trio finally decided to eat at the food court. They settled on Bat Burger. Sadly for Bobby, Chili’s was way too full, and Maximoff was halfway through a low-sugar episode and needed food fast.

They sat in a booth, all their bags shoved on the corner of the side where Warren had taken his spot, plastered against the crystal window that gave a view to the sidewalk of the mall just by the electric stairs, while Bobby and Maximoff sat on the other side of the booth.

She had dozed off by staring at the view, her headache settling after scarfing down around ten orders of burgers and fries, two jumbo sodas, and three vanilla milkshakes. 

The boys could only stare in amazement and disbelief while she basically inhaled the food as if someone was going to steal it away from her.

They started some small conversations about mindless themes. About school work, the current films in the theater, the amount of clothes that they bought (well, more like Warren bought for everyone. The moment he found out Bobby was going to use the savings from his scholarship, and that she forgot to bring her credit card [Apparently, Wayne did not have a credit card. Alfred was the one doing all of her money transactions, which was… weird. He had given her some cash for the trip, but she had forgotten the money back in her bedroom.] Warren had slammed down his black card without another word and even dragged them to the high-end stores and went nuts with paying them new sets of clothes.) and many other things.

Which led to their current subject.

Favorite superheroes.

Bobby had brought it up first. Since he was from New York, Metropolis, to be specific, he had a very obvious preference for The Man of Steel. He had even gushed about getting to see him fly by once because of a nearby fire in his neighborhood. 

It would fall short to say that Bobby was a huge Superman fanboy. (As if those ten minutes of probably the longest description ever heard about the hero’s appearance weren’t clear enough.)

This put Bobby on the hunt to figure out who Warren’s favorite hero could be, since the blonde wasn’t interested in giving out such information so easily (meaning, he was making Bobby guess).

“We already discarded the local heroes,” Bobby groaned, “and Flash, Green Lantern, and Aquaman are also out. You’re giving me nothing, War!”

“Get creative, Boo,” He snickered, drinking from his soda with a smug look. 

The brown haired boy sank into his spot with a grumble, crossing his arms and glaring at Warren, who winked at him with a cocky grin while biting the plastic straw of his cup. 

Bobby then gave his attention to the now food-coma girl beside him, sipping on her milkshake absently with a faraway look as her head lay back against the red cushion of the booth. “Give me something to work with, babes. I need content!”

She rolled her head towards Bobby, still sipping from her drink. “What could I possibly offer?”

“What about your favorite hero?” Warren asked, his eyebrow quirking while Bobby jumped on his seat and grinned with expectation, his attitude switching once again.

He did not wait another moment to begin listing off heroes. “Any of the Bats? Maybe a Supe? Oh, how about Wonder Woman?!”

She stayed silent for a few moments, humming to herself while biting on the plastic straw with a frown.

It hadn’t crossed her mind. The whole hero thing.

Her mind was still very muddled. She knew certain things. Basic stuff. And even more, because of all the show references and quotes she says on a daily basis. But where did she learn them from? It came and went, however, it felt like it. Most of the time, it sat on the tip of her tongue. So close to saying it and acknowledging it, but never fast enough to process it. Letting slip right past her.

Which was why having Wayne as a guide was extremely helpful. 

Even if she omitted certain information.

Maximoff would never push her to say anything Wayne didn’t want to share. That girl had had enough of shoving and pushing for a lifetime.

Part of that missing information was about heroes.

Wayne was…avoidant about them when the subject was eventually brought up by Maximoff. It was expected, since she had considered that Batman could be of help in some way. He was a hero (vigilante, but it’s basically the same, right?), and heroes were good guys and helped out people. It was logical.

The hellish screeching and crashing of Alfred’s old Chinese teapot was a clear indication that going for Batman’s help was a big no-no.

Maximoff still tried to research them (she wasn’t going to go around Gotham without knowing about its protectors), and she found their whole dynamic unique and that they somehow still made it work to keep the city protected from bad guys and criminals.

Kudos to them and their work, but she wouldn’t place any of them as her favorite hero.

Don’t get her wrong. They were doing good work, and their suits looked sick and cool, judging by the pictures going around the internet, taken by bystanders throughout the years whenever any of the vigilantes let themselves be viewed by the public.

But, they didn’t strike a chord with her. None of them stood out to her enough to catch her attention.

“I don’t know,” She mumbled, finally taking out the disfigured straw from her mouth. Her gaze moved towards the view of the mall, fingers tapping around her empty cup. “No one calls my attention.”

“C’mon,” Bobby insisted, “There has to be at least one that is your favorite.”

Warren hummed, giving her a furrowed look, “Are vigilantes not your style?”

“Are they yours?” Bobby quipped back, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Yeah, nice try. Still not telling you my favorite.”

“Ughh, you’re so boring! Just give me a hint! A tiny one! Anything, ple-”

“Flash.”

The boys turned their heads, both looking at her, confused at why the sudden mention of the speedster hero. She wasn’t even looking at them. Her stare was fixed on the outside view, her eyebrows twisting in a frown as she adjusted her slumping posture to an upright one.

Bobby was the one who talked first, taking advantage of Warren’s diverted attention to steal more fries. “The Flash? Guess it fits you! Fastest man alive, you like to run, and you’re rather fast while doing it too-”

“Not The Flash,” She interrupted him, getting up from her spot and sticking her face to the glass. “I meant a flash.”

Warren got up from his seat, going around the booth to see right behind her point of view, while Bobby scarfed down the leftover fries and looked over her shoulder.

From the first floor of the mall, a series of camera flashes pointed at the food court floor stood out from their view. It was almost impossible to see the people behind the cameras due to the numerous flashes popping up quickly.

The moment a few of those flashes started to move towards the electric stairs, Warren cursed and quickly began to pick up their bags, shoving a few in Bobby’s hands and pulling him out of her way. She instantly moved and picked up the last bags, leaving their discarded trash on the table.

There was no time to clean up, sorry!

“Dude, what is going on?” Bobby questioned as Warren ran out of the fast food place with the others following him closely behind.

“Of all the things that could have slipped my mind,” The blonde muttered angrily as he guided them in the opposite direction of the electric stairs. Some yells and calls of the people with the cameras made Maximoff look over her shoulder, glaring at the annoying flashes as those people continued to take pictures of them while taking the stairs.

The words began to register in their ears.

“It is them!” “It’s Worthington!” “Quickly, they’re getting away!” “Just a few pictures, sir!” “It’s that Wayne?!” “Miss Wayne, look this way!” “Please, let us ask as few questions!” “Wayne, what are you doing with Worthington? Are you friends? Is it a setup by your fathers?” “Who is the other boy? A friend of yours?” “Miss Wayne! Mr. Worthington!”

“Oh god,” Bobby gasped, suddenly accelerating his step as a mob began to form. “Are those paparazzi?!”

Warren took a right, their shoes squeaking against the polished floors and yelling over his shoulder. “Bloodhounds without souls would be more accurate, but yeah!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-” She repeated over and over again, easily taking the front of the group, with Warren just behind her and Bobby at the end as they skipped the passersby with excuses and apologies.

Now it made sense why Wayne didn’t like malls.

“Go for the normal stairs! Left side of the hall!” Warren yelled, looking over his shoulder to make sure Bobby was still with them. 

Bobby was struggling with switching the bags to his left hand while running, glancing back at the paparazzi, and cursing when he noticed how close they were. He finished moving the bags, his right hand now free as he searched in his jeans pocket and pulled out his car keys.

“War, catch!” 

Warren caught the keys, pulling the girl back by her jacket before she took the wrong corner, hearing Bobby’s yell and making her look back at the chaos.

Everything suddenly moved in slow motion.

The mob was almost catching up to them, the cameras flashing slowly, and the people moved as if it were zero gravity, and slowly. So slowly, to the point they almost looked like those stop-motion figures for films that were still getting put together for a scene.

Bobby had stumbled with a rack of fabrics that was on display outside a store, the cloths floating around the air and blocking a few cameras from their view.

Bobby, who was with one knee on the floor and a hand about to touch it, looked panicked and pale.

It made her sick to the stomach.

Without thinking too much, she ran.

And it was like never before.

Warren’s grip on her jacket slipped off with ease the moment she took off. It almost felt like floating when her feet made contact with the ground, a sharp ringing in her ears getting pitchier and pitchier, but she put no mind into it. Her free arm shot out to the front, reaching towards Bobby’s arm that was near the ground and lifting him with ease. His weight was almost paperweight in her hands.

Still cold, even colder than before, but still very light.

Once she got him upright, she almost dragged him towards Warren, linking their elbows together without looking back at the paparazzi.

Reaching the stairs was like walking on the moon.

Going down them felt like jumping on a trampoline.

The parking lot was right in front of them, the moment everything came back to normal.

It took a few seconds for Bobby and Warren to fall to the floor and heave out so they wouldn’t throw up their food. Panting and groaning with their eyes closed, faces pale, and fingers trembling.

Maximoff was on some kind of euphoria, skin tingling, and ears blocked by the ringing that grew quieter little by little.

She felt so fucking good.

“Oh. My. God.” She uttered, a cackle of disbelief slipping out of her grinning lips.

The adrenaline. The motion. The ringing. The blood pumping. It all felt so good. It felt so right.

“Did you guys see that?! Did you see it?!” She turned towards them, eyes glinting in excitement and glee.

“I think I went blind,” Warren babbled, on his hands and knees with his bags scattered around him.

Bobby wasn’t any better, all sprawled out on the asphalt, tummy up and taking deep breaths. “Where am I? Am I dead? Is this hell?”

“That was fucking insane! Everyone was moving so slowly! Everything was frozen, and when I moved, it felt like floating! It was so freaking cool! I don’t know how, but- Ow!” She began to explain, hands moving around in exaggerated and fast movements and gestures, until she winced out loud due to a sharp pain in her right hand.

Her palm felt like burning. A cold type of burn. It was cold to the touch, the skin was numb and a bit red. Some flakes of frost began to melt down her hand, making her shiver from the freezing sensation.

Warren had gotten up from the floor, stumbling a bit with his long legs before reaching her, taking her hand carefully and looking at the skin with a frown. Bobby had sat up, looking at her with wide eyes, concern, fear, and confusion on his face as he held his right arm close to his chest.

His arm was blue.

Ice cold blue.

It looked like it was made of glass. Of Ice. Transparent around the edge and deep, cold blue in the center.

That had been the arm that she had grabbed.

“It’s an ice burn,” Warren muttered, disbelief written all over his face, looking between Bobby and her. “But it’s speedrunning through the healing-”

“Are you okay, Bobby?” She asked, taking her hand back from Warren and stepping towards Bobby, who looked spooked and on the verge of tears.

He gasped shakily, not being able to choose between shaking his head or nodding. His shoulders were trembling as he got up from the floor, stumbling a bit and flinching when she grabbed him by the shoulders to help him settle.

“...you’re not afraid?” He stuttered, eyes not moving from her hands, still remaining on his shoulders.

Maximoff frowned, shaking her head while Warren came closer to them, looking around to make sure nobody was watching them.

“Why should I?”

“I hurt you.” Bobby took a shaky breath.

“You didn’t mean it. It was an accident.” She said, reassuring him softly, fingers gently grasping his cold arm. It had changed back to his normal pink skin, still cold but not like before.

Bobby just looked at her before nodding slowly, gulping down some saliva. They stayed like that for a while, until Warren rattled their scattered bags while picking them up, gathering their attention. “We gotta move. The paparazzi are still around, and they’ll love getting their hands on this news material.” He gestured to the three of them.

Somewhere back on the mall, a complaining mob of paparazzi was questioning how they could have lost view of the kids for just a few seconds, get tangled on a bunch of fabrics, and slipped on a random patch of ice.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Patrol night did not go so well Dick Grayson.

He had gone to Bludhaven earlier in the week, having to commit to his day job despite the current family crisis happening back at the manor. If it were for him, he would have stayed in Gotham and spent more time around his little sister, had some heart-to-heart talk with her, made sure those boys bothering her remained far away, and everything would go back to normal.

But reality had to strike him and make him go do his work back at home.

Hours upon hours, paperwork after paperwork. Days dragged on and on, boring him and making him lose his nerve more than once around his coworkers back at the police station.

Why should he be around these idiots when he had a bigger issue going on?

He was very tempted to turn in a small leave. Just for a few days. He was confident that in just a few days would be enough to solve the issue.

Nothing beats a good quality time with his precious sister, so she would let down her guard and confess that all she needed was her favorite brother to give her some care and attention. Beg him to take her away from those mean boys and that dreadful school with even more dreadful teachers.

And he had gotten that leave! Two beautiful, long weeks back in Gotham sounded heavenly to him.

If it weren’t for Bruce dragging him back on patrol because ‘crime never takes a break’.

And God, was last night’s patrol just awful.

The comms were failing, pure static was heard, along with the channels getting switched around every five minutes. He tripped so many times on bare air or sudden wet patches on the rails and edges of buildings. Not to mention the absence of the two younger vigilantes of the clan, who apparently were off that night by their own volition and command, if Bruce’s scowl was enough of an answer. And lastly, Jason finally decided to make an appearance the moment Dick fell flat on his back from a firescape.

He still felt sore, no matter how much ointment Alfred passed over his back before he fell dead asleep in his bed.

The deep tiredness in his bones didn’t let him get up from his bed until the afternoon of the next day came around. Sleeping right through Barb’s calls and texts without a care in the world.

His sight was blurry, still heavy with sleep, slipping closed, and unaware of his surroundings. The silk sheets cool against his skin and limbs. The soft cushion of his pillow made it harder to lift his head and finally get up from the bed. The cold drops of water, hitting his forehead every once in a while-

‘…Drops of water?’ His mind supplied quietly.

A quiet moment passed by until he felt another drop hit his skin, sliding down his temple and sinking into his dark hair.

Then another.

And another.

And three more followed, one after another.

Dick tried to move his head away from it, but for some reason, his head remained on the same position.

More drops fell over him.

Starting to get annoyed, Dick tried to lift his hand to wipe away the water just to find out he also couldn’t move it. With a knot in his stomach, he tried to move his other hand, but the result was the same as before. It felt like they were pinned to the bed by weights.

The next drops dragged out grunts and whimpers out of his throat, a pressure on his jaw similar to the grip of long fingers keeping him shut.

His body felt so heavy, it was suffocating. As if boulders kept his lungs trapped under their weight. His legs and arms were constricted by cold hands with sharp nails that scraped against his skin and gave him a very unpleasant sensation, breaking shivers and goosebumps all over his body.

‘Get off Get off Get off Get off Get oFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF-’

As if his thoughts were heard, an ear-piercing shriek that seemed to resemble a butchered laugh got him snapping open his eyes.

Hanging upside down from his headboard, a shadowed figure hovered over him. It’s pale, wet hand gripped his jaw closed, nails digging into his cheeks. Long, drenched, black hair covered its face, the tresses making him yelp as they made contact with his skin and soaked his sheets.

It tilted its head to the side, showing a gaping head wound dripping with deep red blood and a grey eye that stared deeply into his own eyes. The blood continued to drop down it’s face, falling off and staining Dick.

Falling right into his forehead.

It crept closer, the air cold and dead around it while Dick felt tears going down his cheeks. His chest was about to burst in fear, his body drenched in his own cold sweat.

“I thought you liked physical contact, Dick.” It whispered with a horrifying skin-splitting grin right in his face.

Then, the door of his room slammed open. 

In the blink of an eye, it was gone.

“Grayson, we need you downstairs right now,” Damian ordered, his frown deepening as he watched the pale man lying on the bed.

 Dick sat up quickly, feeling nauseous and head pounding along with his heart beat. He began to pat around the bed, his other hand going over his face as he looked around for it.

All that he found was dry sheets and sweat on his skin. 

No blood. 

No water. 

No it.

“Get dressed, Drake and I require your thoughts on an important subject.” With that, the boy closed the door and went down the hall.

Dick put a hand against his chest, panting as he stood up in shaky legs and stumbled towards his bathroom to throw up all the contents in his stomach down the toilet.

Dark hair disappeared behind the door of his closet.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“Down the hall, take a left. Room 374. There’s supposed to be a guard outside the door.” A bored nurse said while handing the girl a lanyard that said ‘Visitor’ in bold, dark letters.

Bobby and Warren sat in the waiting area, both dozing off from tiredness after their earlier escapade, and still unsure of how to address the whole success that had happened at the parking lot.

She nodded and began walking down the long white halls of the Psych Ward of Gotham’s General Hospital. It smelled of disinfectant, sterile and cleaning chemicals, making her try not to take big breaths through her nose so her eyes wouldn’t water from the strong smell. 

Bobby had been quiet the whole drive, no matter how much she tried to reassure him that she was fine. Her hand had healed in record time, too! She had shown it to the two of them, but Warren stressed that it wasn’t about that at all.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

“I don’t get it! I am fine!”

“It’s more than that! You have a mutation! And it awakened in public! Do you know how much trouble that could bring to you?!”

Bobby took a deep breath, driving his truck and muttering to himself while focusing on the road. Maximoff turned to look at Warren, with visible confusion in her expression.

“What mutation? What is that?”

The truck screeched to a stop, rattling everyone inside and making them scream and hold onto something. 

Bobby whipped his head towards her, a dry gulp echoing from her throat at the serious expression on his face. He took a deep breath, fingers gripping the wheel before letting go of it, leaving traces of frost where his hands used to be.

“I am your friend,” he began to say. “And we haven’t known each other for long, so I don’t expect you to tell me everything about you the same way I haven’t told you everything about me.”

He waited until she nodded slowly back at him to continue.

“And I know you’re hiding something. Something big, and I won’t push you to say it until you’re ready to do so.”

Warren bit his tongue, switching looks between the other two as she sank into her seat with an uncomfortable expression. Bobby then gave a heavy sigh, his hand going through his hair.

“But not knowing what a mutation is? I’m sorry, but I know for a fact that we have discussed it in class months ago. So I will ask you for only this time to explain to me what is going on.”

The silence reigned over the three of them. The boys patiently waited for her to respond, noticing her shaking leg and wide stare, fingers rubbing harshly on the cuffs of her jacket as she took a shaky breath and closed her eyes.

“...I’m not even sure you guys will believe me.”

Warren came up closer, right behind Bobby’s seat, so he could stare at her directly. “Try us.”

She looked at them, lip trembling and shoulders tense.

“I’m still looking for answers. I’m not even sure if I’ll get them. That’s why I’m going to visit Bianca.”

Bobby furrowed his eyebrows. “You mean your mom?”

She shook her head, wrangling her fingers as they began to sweat. “Not my mom. She is someone else’s. She can help me out.”

“So, if we get you to Bianca, you’ll explain what is happening?” Warren asked, voice softer than expected.

“If she gives me the answers that I need, then yes.”

Bobby started up the car once again and drove without another word.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

She was so excited to explain the brain-numbing story of what she had been dragged into.

(She wasn’t)

Maximoff was filled with so many thoughts. It was meant to be a relaxing day! A normal hangout! Disconnect from the reality of her situation and enjoy life a little before heading right into finding answers and get the hell out of Gotham and find Billy, for fuck’s sake-

“Room 374, Miss?” A deep, gruff voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

Looks like she reached the room without noticing. That was fast.

Maximoff nodded at the guard, showing her visitor tag and taking a step back as he indicated to do so. He began to put in a digital code on a lock by the door, the thing beeping loudly twice before a hissing mechanical sound echoed down the hall and opened the door.

“Knock three times to get out. You got twenty minutes.”

That was a weird warning, but she still walked inside the room. 

There was a small window that barely let any natural light in, the sun starting to set to give start to the evening and extending the shadows of the trees outside into the floor of the room. A small light bulb on the wall, just above a small and messy bed, made her eyes hurt from the artificial lighting. Her gaze wandered around, taking notice of books scattered around the floor, with pages ripped off and lying all over the place. Odd markings, some scratched on the walls and others made with a black marker, surrounded the whole room.

Kneeling on the floor with her back turned, as she mumbled to herself, a woman in grey scrubs.

‘Yeah, I’m out,’ She thought, about to take a step back and walk out.

But the door closed right behind her, the metallic hiss making her almost tear up on the spot.

“I expected you to drop by sooner.”

A melodic voice said, the woman getting up from the ground and patting her clothes down with a sigh. Long loose curls going down her back, turning around to face the frozen girl by the door.

Before Maximoff, a thin and beautiful woman stood before her. Tall, bronzed skin, a mole on the corner of her left eye, and deep brown eyes that held dark eye bags beneath them.

Wayne’s Mother. Bianca.

She could see all the resemblances between them, with the exception of the height. Since Bianca easily towered over her by two heads. Hell, she was probably around the same height as Bruce.

“Come closer,” Bianca demanded, eyes stuck on the young girl as she took a few steps forward.

Maximoff tried not to step on the symbols on the floor, not wanting to piss off the woman that did not seem in right space of mind.

When she stood a few feet in front of her, Bianca began to walk around her in circles, Gaze calculating and unshakeable, as if Maximoff was some type of fascinating artifact that appeared in front of her.

Long fingers touched her hair, Bianca humming with a frown. She suddenly leaned forward, getting right in the girl’s face and making her flinch out of reflex. The woman stared at her face, taking in her eyes, her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks, and her lips.

“...Fascinating. You have the same face, but it’s so much different now.” She muttered, eyes softening suddenly around the edges.

Bianca’s hands cradled her cheeks, cold fingers tracing the features with gentleness and delicacy. A sharp breath intake and her eyes watering, the more she continued to look at her.

“Was it painful for her? For you?”

Maximoff made the decision to lie to the woman.

She shook her head, a tear slipping down both of their cheeks.

Bianca took a moment to hold her for a bit longer, letting her hands slip down slowly. Maximoff wiped away her tears quickly, clearing her throat as she scratched the back of her neck with a rough sigh.

“We need your help,” she said. “ We are looking for-”

“You’re looking for Rio’s vessels.”

The woman sat down on her bed, fingers going through her hair and making the curls bounce around with a weird smile on her lips. “She is making you get them to fulfill the deal I made with her, right?”

Maximoff was caught off guard, nodding slowly with a shrug. “Kind of. More like she wants to make the Waynes miserable and gets her precious retribution… or whatever a mafia boss wants, I guess?”

“Rio as a mafia boss? Mother, you’re cute,” Bianca chuckled. “You've got no idea of who is pulling all the strings, are you?”

“I don’t care as long as I can go to my real family.” Maximoff declared, lips thinning.

“It doesn’t work like that, Maximoff.” The woman drawled, crossing her legs as the girl bit her tongue.

How did she know her last name?

“You need the bigger picture to understand what you are getting into, so sit down and listen.”

Since she did not have any other choice, Maximoff sat down on the floor with a grumble and crisscrossed her legs with a frown. Bianca ignored her attitude, moving her feet in circles as she leaned back a bit.

“What exactly do you know about witches?”

“Like Harry Potter?”

Bianca sighed and shook her head, “No, but we don’t have the time to explain all of that. So, let’s summarize a-”

“I was joking! Your daughter gave me the gist of it already!” She quickly butted in, getting a glare from Bianca in return.

“Fine, then,” Bianca rolled her eyes. “Anyway, sixteen years ago, I made a deal with death.”

Before Maximoff could interrupt once again, Bianca gave her a pointed stare that made her shut her mouth closed. With that done, she continued.

“I was expecting.” A nostalgic glint in her eyes. “Twins, actually. A boy and a girl.”

This time, Maximof stayed silent.

“My family had been through a rough path at that time. My parents were no longer with me, and my twin brother had also gone into a life of crime.” She let out a sarcastic, short laugh. “He used to be a lawyer, and I would always say that this city would drag him down with it… and I was right.”

“I was alone, well established in my career as a singer in the opera. And money wasn’t a problem either, my folks left me a good sum, and my brother took care of me from afar. What I lacked was security.”

Bianca uncrossed her legs and leaned forward with a tired expression. “I didn’t want Bruce to know about the pregnancy; he had his problems, and I didn’t want anything to do with his name. The Wayne name is a cursed name.”

Maximoff took note of that last part. Something to look up later.

“So, I summoned Death with a deal. The safety of my children, and she would get her own apprentices.”

Bianca rubbed her eyes with a groan. “That didn’t work out, since one of the twins didn’t make it. He was stillborn. I cremated him.”

“But she survived, that’s like half the deal, right?” Maximoff stuttered, mind reeling with the fact that Rio was apparently Death? How does that even make sense?

Then again, she was not exactly normal either, and she also had a ghost companion, so she should really stop questioning stuff when her day-to-day life was straight out of Casper, the friendly ghost, if it were a teen drama.

“Almost,” Bianca muttered. “In exchange, she gave some vessels to guard while I taught my daughter the basis of witchcraft so she could become Death’s apprentice. And that also did not work out.”

“Why?”

“Because I tried to break the deal.”

“Oh.”

Bianca got up with a chuckle, a weird look in her eyes as she walked around the room. “And Death did not like it one bit. She cursed me, drove me insane, insane enough to make them lock me away in here!”

She began to yell, a maniacal grin on her lips. Maximoff got up from the floor, stepping far away from the woman until her back met the wall.

“You got what you wanted, Rio! You got it!” She screamed out, banging on the walls with cries and yells and claims.

It continued for a bit, scaring Maximoff shitless as she moved towards a corner, dragging herself to the side of the wall as Bianca dropped down to her knees with sobs and laughs. Hugging herself as her nails scratched at the material of her clothes.

“My baby, my baby,” she sobbed. “She was never meant to be for the Wayne name. She was mine, all mine.”

Bianca snapped her neck toward the pale girl, still gripping the wall with shaky legs and trembling fingers. The woman let out a cracking sob, face stained with tears.

“I was never going to be able to see her grow. Not like she was meant to be. Not with my last name. Not with me.”

“But,” she shuddered, “If it was not going to be me, it would be with family. My family.”

In the back of her head, despite the scary situation at hand, Maximoff connected a big, important dot in this whole conversation. 

Wayne was never supposed to go with Bruce Wayne. 

She was supposed to go with her uncle. 

“I signed it. I know I did.” Bianca muttered. “It took a while for me to sign it, but I gave it to Harvey, I know I did! He knew I didn’t want my baby with him, but she was still there and she wasn’t meant to be there-”

What happened next was straight out of a horror movie.

Bianca’s eyes rolled back into her skull, showing only the white part of it. She threw her body back in an abnormal arch as the light bulb began to flicker as if it were a throbbing light. Groaning and moaning words that were either in another tongue or completely gibberish.

She suddenly stood up on her feet, standing on the tip of her toes as she pointed a finger at the screaming girl, following her as she scattered to the door and tried to force it open with her body weight.

Bianca’s head snapped forward, looking directly at her despite the lack of pupils.

“Wheel of fortune,” her voice sounded distorted. “Find the ashes of The Moon beneath the Four of Wands, get The Sun its Hierophant, and reunite with the Reversed Tower.”

‘Oh, fuck this and everything else. Get her out of here!”

With the three bangs against the door, Bianca dropped to the floor as if a puppet whose strings had been cut, groaning and whimpering while the light stopped flickering. Maximoff could hear people yelling outside, recognizing Bobby and Warren’s voices, which made her cling to the door with desperation.

The sudden hand on her shoulder made her scream and jump to look at a completely normal-looking Bianca, despite the scowl on her face.

“Stop yelling,” she growled. Maximoff, feeling a bit dizzy from the whole ordeal, shut up.

Bianca took out a piece of paper from her back (how the fuc-), and shoved it in the girl’s hand, closing it in a tight fist. “I had it written down before you came in. Follow it to the letter and don’t skip any steps.”

Maximoff nodded with a weird sound, feeling lightheaded as the door behind her hissed open.

Before she got dragged out by the guards, Bianca whispered to her an important name with a request.

“Harvey Dent. Find him. Find him and he will make sure the Waynes never interfere with you ever again.”

Find Harvey Dent, huh?

That should be easy, right?

Right?!

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Author's note: I lied, this became over 9,900 words lol. Hope you all enjoy this bc chapter's will not be this long again, I just got really inspired for this chapter and couldn't stop writting. Started summer class last week so hopefully I'll survive. Many things happened and I can't wait to see what are everyone's comments and thoughts! Remember to follow the asks rules and to be respectful!! Lots of love and hugs, GG✨

Tag List:

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Bonus Memes:

[yuyuzi-ling]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 1: I Could Be The Eye Of The Storm

Masterlist Chapter 1 (Here!) / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 /

It has been said that when a person is on the verge of death, their brain shows various memories of their life for seven minutes. Seven minutes of beautiful, happy memories that marked your life.

From the moment you gave the wailing, shocking cry as the cold air of the outside world hit your wrinkly, red skin, fresh out of the womb, until the very last few moments, you keep on fighting to keep air down your lungs, and your heart slowly stops pumping blood into your veins.

A way of welcoming the end of your life peacefully, if you can see it that way. 

Most people become cynical when it comes to the end of the cycle of life. Either for loss of faith or not wanting to think about what comes after it. 

It’s probably because of fear.

No, it’s definitely because of fear.

Everyone is afraid of what happens when you cross to the other side. That’s a fact. A human fact.

That’s why the seven minutes are such a comforting idea. Seeing all the good things you have lived before going away into a black abyss of uncertainty. 

A last ray of warm light. 

(Y/N) Wayne doesn’t get her seven minutes.

Well, not her own seven minutes.

From the moment her body sank to the bottom of the water, Wayne knew her seven minutes would not be of warm, happy memories.

They would be of dark, cold hallways. Empty chairs on her birthday table. Short excuses and empty apologies for any type of tournament they didn’t assist. Cold shoulders and annoyed stares whenever she spoke or made ‘dumb��� questions.

Her dad’s empty silence. Dick’s soft avoidance. Jason’s burning anger. Tim’s sharp cut-offs. Damian’s freezing hatred. 

Perhaps Death would allow her to have Alfred’s warming smiles and compassion. Maybe even the sweet melody of her mother’s humming voice as she laid on that small bed in the asylum.

Instead, she gets seven minutes of a complete acid trip.

A small town with overly nice people.

A woman and a man who are completely in love with one another. A house that changes from black and white to color, the furniture changing with the decades.

Two babies, twins, a girl and a boy.

The rush of the wind against her skin as she runs in a complete sugar rush with a man with silver hair and then the woman saying ‘if she was to break the sound barrier, she would take her brother with her’.

A huge fight with blows of red and purple and guns ending in with a warm family hug with the twins, a scarlet witch, and an android with a soul.

A good night scene, the woman kissing each of them on the forehead before turning the lights off.

The boy crawling into the girl’s bed and both of them holding to each other tightly as their world crumbles around them in a red dome.

‘Good night,---’

‘Good night, Billy.’

That name gets stuck in her brain as life slips away from her lungs. It echoes in a gentle, childish voice as it grows farther and farther away. Just like the air bubbles escaping from her mouth and nose.

‘A twin,’ a final thought muses. 

‘I always wanted a twin.’

‘Please, let me have that life next time.’

‘Please, let it be–’

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Billy!”

Those are the words (Y/N) Maximoff tried to say as her mouth graggled and vomited all the water from inside her lungs once she fought to remain afloat in the deep, dark water. The left side of her head throbbed like hell, making her dizzy and tired while swimming in a puppy-like style on her right side to finally reach the edge of the nasty pool she woke up in. 

Climbing it was another gigantic chore, but she refused to remain on the murky (read as definitely contaminated) water any longer.

Coughing up her guts and wheezing for air while drenched in nasty water and bleeding wound on the head was so going to the ‘Situations I Never Wish To Repeat Ever in My Life’ list. 

It would be the only one on it, but with the way things are looking at the moment, she is pretty sure that list is only going to keep growing.

She lay on her right side once she no longer felt like she was choking. Or maybe because her adrenaline finally crashed and her strength just gave up. 

Taking deep breaths, the situation began to sink in.

She was supposed to be dead. Gone. Kaput!

Or at least that’s what she thought. All that she remembers is Billy.

Half of her, never too far away. Always together. It’s how it is supposed to be.

Billy is not here. She is alone.

Alone. Cold. Wet. Hurt. 

Did she mention being wet? She hates being wet. She hates how heavy it makes her clothes (a uniform, from what she could see?). She hates how cold it makes her skin. She hates how it reminds her of the empty floating space she was held in before Billy brought her back.

Took him long enough! Billy knows how much she hates empty dark places.

With a groan, she sits up on the cold concrete, her wet figure leaving an imprint of water forming her silhouette as if it were a murder scene. All that was left was the white tape, the thought of it making her snort.

She came to regret it once the wound on her head gave a sharp ping of pain, almost as if her body was punishing her for thinking such morbid things.

Wincing as her hand went up to touch where the wound was throbbing. The groan that was about to come out turned into a rough cough once her fingers came up bloody. 

Her fingertips rubbed the clogged blood between them, eyes moving from them to look around her.

It was an abandoned place. By the looks of it, back in its former glory, it would have been a public pool. The sun chairs were all broken, rusted, and twisted in ways that left the tubes looking like some abstract sculpture. Some umbrellas were scattered around; either closed, open, or broken in various degrees.

The pool was still filled with water, if you call it that. It was a deep green that switched between brown and black depending on which angle you looked from.

A wired fence surrounded the place, some noticeable holes that indicated people would sneak in to do graffiti, drink or smoke if the clear signs on the walls and scattered around the floor weren’t enough.

A wave of nausea came over her as she looked back againg at the pool. She scattered on her knees as quick as possible to empty her stomach once again on a overgrown bush by the fence.

She clung to the fence, finally gathering the strength to stand up on her feet. Shivers went down her spine at the feeling of her socks squashing water on her pretty much ruined school shoes. Her head hanged for a few moments, head ringing from all that transpired in the last few minutes.

Billy. She needed to find Billy.

He has all the answers. She was a hundred percent sure he was the one that put her here. Not sure why he left her on her own and hurt and drowning in a pool that pretty much looks like the dark plague made in a liquid, but he would explain. He has an answer for everything. Always. And he will probably know where M–...

Her head suddenly went blank. As if it where a clean slate that left her in a dazed state. Once it was over, a groan of pain was heard from her, a splitting headache forming behind her eye balls.

…Wait. What was she thinking?

…

Billy. She has to find Billy.

She clung to that name, scrunching down a hole on the fence big enough for her to slip out. A few loose wires scraping against her uniform and legs. One even managed to snag at her skirt once she stood up fully on the other side.

Grumbling under her breath, taking the now broken cloth and finishing ripping it off.

‘Now she has an improvised bandage!’ A very animated thought came to her mind making her smile pleasantly.

Thankfully, the blood stopped flowing a while back so wiping the residue wasn’t that bad. She was a little bit hesitant to use it as bandage due to it being soaked with the water of the pool but she had no other choice.

Either get an infection or walk around looking like a murder victim.

“Infection it is,” she muttered while moving her hair away from her left temple and wrapping the cloth around her head.

She probably looked like Rambo if he was a pathetic wet child.

“Now, which way should I go?” she wondered out loud as she looked around the alley way. The building walls were too tall to see beyond them, and the sky was already turning pretty dark.

Walking carefully as she used the bricked wall as support, the next thing that came to view was a busy street.

People going from side to side, not even giving a spare glance at others. Some on their phones scrolling or on calls. Others simply walking while staring at a destination but never at another person. Men, women, kids, teens, of all ages.

Nobody spared a glance at her.

Which is honestly the best scenario from her point of view. No time to delay on her search.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a gruff voice asked from her side.

Busted!

She moved her head to the side to look at the man. Tall, a bit round but more like a dad bod. Greying brown hair on the sides along with a mustache. Old fashioned glasses and a thick coat with a insignia on the left side.

A police insignia.

‘Stand down!’ ‘Handle the military, I’ll be right back!’ ‘Nice tricks.’ ‘Like yours too’-

Voices scattered around her head in flashes. She didn’t see who were saying them, only blurry silhouettes of color moving around before she was brought back to the present moment.

She took a step back. The man frowned. Not in anger but it looked like worry.

His gaze moved over her, checking her until he reached her face. Then he looked almost shocked for a moment.

Or was I something else?

“Wayne? What are you doing all the way down here? And alone?” He began tossing questions as he took another step closer and grasping her shoulder gently but firmly.

‘So it was a worried expression, got it.’

“What happened? You’re soaked to the bone!” He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. It was way bigger on her but she couldn’t complain over the warmth it brought her. She hadn’t realized how cold she actually was.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it, dear girl. But you haven’t answered my question, Wayne.” His voice turned a bit firm.

Damn. What was she supposed to say? And who the hell was Wayne?!

“Um, I don’t remember?” She lifted her shoulders with an awkward smile.

Best thing to do when you get caught by the police is too always act dumb. Or pretend amnesia. Which isn’t that far away from the truth, but hey, A win is win!

The man frowned, rubbing his temples as his glasses knocked up to his head with a sigh. An exasperated one. Then he took a deep breath and began to move her by the shoulders and start walking.

“You obviously got a wound on the head, so it could be a concussion. I’m driving you to the station so the Doc can check on you, alright?”

He asks as if she had a choice, which she clearly didn’t.

But, she let him walk her to the patrol car. Weighing her options, this was the better choice. Her main plan was asking around for Billy and maybe even climbing into the ceiling of a building and yell for him…

She wasn’t the best at planning. Sue her.

Now, she has better options. At the police station, she could get a change of clothes (maybe even get a quick shower if she begs?), get her wound checked out and also find information on where Billy is. All of that before they find out she is not whoever this Wayne person is.

Three birds in one shot! (Hopefully four birds. She stinks like a sewer rat.)

“Can I sound the alarm?!” She asks as soon as both of them get in the car.

He looks a bit startled at the sudden excitement. Even a bit off putting. But he just shakes his head with a quiet laugh and shows her the switch.

“Just wait until we get to-“

The alarm started blasting at full volume along with manical squealing.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Yes, thank you so much for the call. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The old phone clicks the end of the call, a moment of silence interrupted with a sigh from Alfred as he walks away to gather his coat and keys of the car. He is grateful the call came in just as he finished seasoning the dinner for the night.

The boys are grown enough to know where the utensils and plates are to serve themselves. He doesn’t know how long this would take and traffic in Gotham is a living nightmare.

But before leaving, he made a quick detour through the manor. His destination; the master’s office. He had to be informed about this.

Even if it has been years since he actually made an effort for Lady (Y/N).

The young lady of the house has always been deemed as a quiet presence by the members of the family. Keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself. Polite and well mannered. Willing to do any type of chore if it meant having at least someone to notice her.

A greeting word, a gentle touch or even a warm hug. But all of that were for nothing.

She wasn't deemed loud enough amongst her peers to matter.

But to Alfred, she was the loudest presence to ever set foot in the Wayne Manor. It was almost sad how deaf the rest of the family was when it came to (Y/N).

Three sharp knocks on the door were enough for Master Bruce to let him enter the office. The curtains were already closed, almost giving a dark atmosphere if it weren't for the warm light lamps on his desk and by the corners of the room.

Master Bruce didn't even lift his head from the documents he was revewing.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?" his deep tired voice rumbling in the air as he switched documents. Sounds of papers being moved around made Alfred frown for a second.

Always a messy man when it comes to papers, that's why he does everything in that blasted computer in the cave.

"Yes, Master Wayne," he cleared his throat before continuing.

"Dinner is ready but hasn't been served. The young masters can serve themselves while I go to the police station to pick up the young mistress."

Silence.

"...The police station?"

His tone remained the same. As if talking about the weather. It irked Alfred how his master didn't seem to react accordingly to the situation.

"Yes. Chief Gordon was the one to call. Said he found Lady (Y/N) wandering around by herself by Grant Park. Completely drenched and out of it. He mentioned she was getting checked by their doctor in case she got a concussion."

Master Bruce took a few moments to finally lift his gaze from the papers. Alfred had spent many years besides Bruce, but sometimes he couldn't place what his masters nonverbal actions meant.

Just like right now.

"...Bring her. I'll talk to her later." his gaze turned down once again.

Alfred nodded and left the office without another word until her reached the car. Once he closed the driver's door, he let out a very deep and exhausted sigh.

He could feel the disappointment flowing up inside. It felt almost like failure. Failure for not being able to drag Bruce by the ear and make him drive to the station. For not having the audacity to scream at him for how he acts towards his own flesh and blood.

Anger at himself for not being able to do more for his young mistress.

As Alfred began to drive through the gates of the manor, he took notice of how the sky had turned already dark.

But what stood out was the quick flash of green and silver striking in between the black clouds. It was gone in just a second, the loud rumbling of thunder almost making the car windows shake.

He couldn't help but feel like it was omen.

Good or bad, that was to be determined.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

Author's note: First chapter done! Please reblog and like. Do let me know what you guys think of it and what theories come up to mind with all the hints I left around the chapter! Hopefully, next chapter will be up next sunday if college doesn't kick my ass lol. Lots of love! GG✨

Bonus Memes:

[yuyuzi-ling]

Masterlist

Last updated: 6. June 2025

will be improved with time!!

YANDERE BATFAM:

Blossom Reverse. ( yandere Batfam)

if you want to be on the taglist... click here.

Prompt

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

more coming soon…

Drabbles:

"Take it off" - Damian Wayne

"You're not supposed to bleed" - Dick Grayson

"Both Ways“ - Yandere Dick & Damian

"Midnight Ride" - Yandere Jason Todd

"Stay in bed!“ - Yandere Batfam

JJK

Nightmares

HxH

coming soon…

ONE PIECE

the Sweetpea entries….

Prologue

Sweetpea warms up to them

A normal day

How the Strawhats became Yanderes for Sweetpea

"Strawberry Fingers” (Yandere Sanji x Reader)

"Mental Training“ (Yandere Zoro x Reader)

Post time skip

„Girls Just Wanna Have Fun“

more coming soon...

Multifandom:

The Dead Poets Department

Fandoms I write for:

JJK

Demon slayer

Star Wars

Marvel

DC

OCs

BNHA

Death Note

CoD

Harry Potter

lowk anything 😓

[yuyuzi-ling]

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

Chapter 8

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

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

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

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

And yet—

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

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

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

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

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

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

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

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

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

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

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

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

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

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

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

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

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

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

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

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

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

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

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

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

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

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

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

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

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

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

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

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

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

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

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

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

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

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

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

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

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

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

The birthdays.

The school plays.

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

The “I got picked for science fair!”

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

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

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

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

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

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

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

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

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

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

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

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

I hope the city treats you kindly.

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

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

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

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

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

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

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

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

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

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

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

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

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

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

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

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

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

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

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

Bruce didn’t move.

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

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

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

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

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

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

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

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

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

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

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

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

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

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

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

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

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

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

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

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

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

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

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

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

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

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

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

The chess box.

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

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

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

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

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

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

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

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

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

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

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

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

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

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

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

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

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

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

All of it—

For them.

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

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

That never happened.

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

Even ones for Bruce:

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

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

The drawings were aged.

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

Most were never opened.

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

No one spoke.

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

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

Tim stared into the box.

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

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

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

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

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

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

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

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

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

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

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

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

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

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

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

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

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

And Dick—

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

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

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

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

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

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

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

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

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

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

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

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

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

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

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

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

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

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

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

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

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

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

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

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

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

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

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

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

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

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

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

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

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

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

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

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[yuyuzi-ling]

Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven (here)

TW: mentions of cannibalism and rotting and all that stuff. Though, this is our zombie story so I’d be surprised if it didn’t have that.

I’d also like to say this Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you” and when they are referred to by other people, its “they” so… Yeah! Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense.

Chapter Seven

“Red!? Red!? Where are you!” Jill yelled wildly, running through the museum. She’d checked the Egyptian, Medieval, and the Native American Exhibits and was now heading to the artwork one. It was miscellaneous pieces apparently. Just really old paintings.

There, she finally found you. You were staring at a painting, you knew she couldn’t tell what you were thinking due to the mask. You turned to her.

“That’s gonna be us one day, isn’t it?” You asked, quietly as you stared at the painting. The plaque underneath read: “Dying Together”. The painting depicted man and woman, side by side, noose around each of their necks. One of their hands was clasped with the other, showing off wedding rings. The two were likely married. The execution also suggested they did something terrible.

Like you and Jill did with all the cannibalism.

Speaking of Jill, she gently grabbed your hand and stood in front of the painting with you. “We’ll be fine, [Name]. I promise.” She whispered.

“Don’t promise. Sooner or later we’re gonna either make a mistake or somebody’s gonna realize that criminals are going missing.”

“And when that happens we’ll still be fine. We’ll— We’ll get out of town and… I dunno travel around.” She spoke, her thumb moving back and forth on the back of your hand.

“What about your mom?” You asked, giving the hand a small squeeze.

“I’ll leave her a note.”

“And school?”

“We’ll wait a couple years for this whole thing to blow over and get GEDs.” She sounded so sure of herself, you almost wanted to believe her.

A small silence befell on the two.

“Thanks, Jill. I mean it.”

“I know.” She started tugging you away from the painting. “Now come on, we have to get out of here. I took some photos of the pages of the book so we should be good unless we run into Batman.”

The two of you ran along the halls looking for an exit. You both almost made it to one too, yet speak of the devil and he shall arrive. There was Batman, in all his menacing, terrifying glory. He just stood there, assessing you and Jill before he rushed forward. You pushed Jill out of the way of a punch, but were kicked in the stomach in the process.

Wow, you think one of your ribs cracked. That’s not good. A zombie’s lack of pain was probably the only thing saving you from doubling over. Also, was it presumptuous to say that the Batman looked annoyed at you for not doubling over?

“Pink, get outta here! Find another exit, we’ll meet up back at the apartment!” You yelled, causing her to startle. You had no idea how you were gonna get away from Batman of all people, but it was important that Jill at least get out of this unscathed and not on the way to jail.

At your words, Bats pulled out a batarang and threw it at her. You rushed over, taking a hit to the side from the man once more. You stuck your arm out in front of the projectile. While it didn’t pierce your arm, it did shock you which left you twitching, but relatively unharmed. “Didn’t I say go?!” You exclaimed and finally, although you could tell it was begrudging, Jill left, leaving you and the Batman alone.

The man stared for a long time, not moving. “So it’s you.”

What?

“My scanners tell me you have no pulse. Nor body heat. I’ll admit, I thought we’d meet under different circumstances.” The gravelly-voiced man spoke.

“What are you talking about?” You asked hesitantly.

“You’re undead.”

The silence between both you and the big-dog vigilante was so loud.

“…What circumstances did you think we’d meet in?” You asked, trying your best to keep the panic out of your voice. This is Batman. The Batman. While, you know he has a no kill rule, does that apply to zombies? You know he hasn’t killed Solomon Grundy, so there might be a chance he won’t, but still! Not only that, but if he finds out who you are, he’ll most definitely connect you back to Jill!

And you can’t have Jill get in trouble for you. No way Jose. You refuse to let that happen.

“I thought I’d have caught you in the middle of a kill. Either that, or I would’ve caught you while you were feral.”

You scoffed at that. “Why would I be feral?”

That seemed to cause the big, bad vigilante to pause. “Because that’s what happens when your kind doesn’t eat. You become aggressive and start rotting.”

Your kind? That felt vaguely racist. Can people be racist against zombies?

“But you? You’ve had to have been at this for months. How many people have you killed? How many lives have you ruined?” The man sounded angry. An angry Batman sounded horrible. Oh my God.

“Six?” You answered. “No offense, but I think they ruined more lives than me. Do you even know the people I’ve killed?” You had to see if he had any leads yet. Anything at all that might give away yours and Jill’s identities.

Unfortunately, the Bat didn’t answer and instead opted to stare at you with narrowed eye slits. (He didn’t have anything yet other than the fact that two people had bailed out Peter Michaels and their faces were unfortunately turned away from any of the cameras in the Jail. He also didn’t know that was a complete accident and not at all on purpose and just that the two were extremely lucky.)

Batman seemed like he was about to say something again, but was unfortunately interrupted by a kick straight to the face by none other than Catwoman. He blocked it, but was pushed back significantly. The lady gave you a wink and started fighting the man. You stood stun for a moment before running off in the direction Jill ran. (Jill later told you it might’ve been because she liked that you both were “new thieves”. Either that or she knew that neither of you stole anything and she was just covering for you.)

You ran through the museum and eventually came across an exit door. You burst through it and smacked right into Jill. Your Power Ranger mask was knocked off as you both ended up bracing awkwardly against the back alley wall. Jill sort of pinned against the grimy bricks. You both stared at each other for a long bit. Jill was breathing heavily and you couldn’t tell what her expression was under her mask.

You eventually pushed off the wall and pulled off your ski mask and ruffled your hair. “Fuck, that was terrifying.” You never wanted to come face to face with the Batman again.

Jill said nothing, probably in shock, probably with that traumatized expression on her face again. You just grabbed her hand and started to lead her out of the back of the museum. You shoved your ski mask in your pocket and threw the Power Ranger mask away in a dumpster. You also shrugged off the jacket to your very suspicious outfit™️ and tied it around your waist, showing off the random Star Wars shirt of Jill’s that you threw on randomly.

There, now you looked less suspicious.

Now you just looked like a non-suspicious holding hands with an extremely suspicious person.

As you both walked, you noticed a fuse box slashed in from what looked like claws. Did Catwoman do that? Did that mean there was no electricity? Therefore no cameras for those Bat guys probably track you with?

Nice!

You felt a little lighter as you approached the exit of the side alley of the museum when suddenly a figure jumped down from the roof of the coffee shop next to the museum.

No! Was it Batman aga— oh wait no it’s Robin.

Wait, shit, it’s Robin. The one who uses katana like your little bitch of a brother.

“I can’t believe this.” The boy sounded exasperated.

Both you and Jill tensed.

“[Name] you aren’t using a mask?” The kid sounded like he wanted to smack some sense into you.

A small silence followed.

How in the hell did this kid know your name?

“And in plain clothes? I thought you were better than this.” Robin shook his head. “Not having the proper gear, not using a mask, what, were you in civilian clothes when you apprehended the criminal or what?”

What the hell was this kid talking about?

Should you go along with this?

“Yeah— yes. Yes I was. I was minding my business and then I saw her leave the museum so I caught her. I’m taking her to the police station so I can turn her in myself.” You paused for a moment, awkwardly standing there for a bit until you walked behind Jill and grabbed both her arms and started walking her forward. “Now if you don’t mind me.”

Robin surprisingly let you pass him. “You’ll be coming to dinner tonight, right?”

Both you a Jill stopped. “Huh?” You said rather dumbly.

The kid sounded more impatient this time as he spoke. “You’ll be coming to dinner tonight, right? Gr— Nightwing is back in town and Red Hood has been guilt tripped by Alfred. Orphan is back from Hong Kong as well. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Jill looked back at you and you looked forward at her. You were pretty sure you both held eye contact for a bit before you looked back to the kid again. “Yup. Totally. See you later, little man.” Whatever to get the murderous Robin off your back. You started pushing Jill forward again, just barely catching the kid’s mutterings as you both passed him.

“…ittle man?” The kid sounded confused. No matter.

The two of you made it a half a block away before the Batman found Robin still standing in the side alley.

“Where are the criminals?” Batman asked the boy.

“One is on their way to jail, but I didn’t encounter the other.”

“So they split up?”

“Likely.”

Batman let out a grunt at that and turned around to walk deeper into the alley, eyes glancing around the grimy walls and floors until they stopped on the fuse box. It was still slashed with

“These are Man-Bat’s marks.” The man muttered before his hand went to his comm. “Oracle, can you track both of the perpetrators?”

“The two Power Rangers?” She asked, keyboard keys clacking as she typed.

“Yes.”

“No can do, sorry. It seems that all the cameras in about a two block radius are down.”

Batman couldn’t help the growl that left him. “Kirk…” He spat the name out.

While still halfway down that block, Jill finally remembered she was also in a very suspicious outfit™️ and did the same as you, throwing her mask in the nearest dumpster and taking off her suspicious jacket and tying it around her waist. She had a hello kitty shirt on, also most likely randomly thrown on in their haste too.

By the time you both made a block away, you had both slowed down and were now just speedwalking to Wayne Manor.

Yes, Wayne Manor. Because as much as you wanted to simply crawl into Jill’s bed and have her hold you like a damn baby, you also didn’t wanna lead anyone back to Jill’s apartment. You also didn’t like your family either so you had no problem implicating them in the crime of running away from Batman.

It was three hours later that you were now both in your room, doing what you wanted to do those three hours ago. You had your head resting on Jill’s chest, kinda shellshocked because HOLY SHIT, you just ran from Batman. As for Jill, she was definitely shellshocked and absentmindedly running her hand through your hair.

That felt amazing, by the way.

You’d both been lying like that for the past thirty minutes. The two of you should be looking at the pages, finding a cure, yet instead here you both were. It’s just that Bats was most definitely going to bust down the door any minute now and drag the two of you to Gotham’s Prison. You decided you’d rather be in Jill’s arms when that happens, but you didn’t know what Jill was thinking.

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock. You were facing away from the door so you didn’t see the head that poked itself in, but judging by the voice and the reflection in Jill’s eyes, it was Stephanie.

“[Name], Alfred told me to tell you dinner’s rea— Oh, I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend.” She sounded surprised. You begrudgingly turned around, forcing your chin to leave where it rested on Jill’s tits.

“I don’t. I’m not going to dinner.” (By now you had forgotten about what the Robin said about dinner. How coincidental was it that they happened on the same night.)

That made the blonde girl frown. “But you always come to dinner.” She said. “Granted you always sit there gloomily but you always do.”

“Guess I’m not feeling gloomy enough.” You said as you turned right back around to rest a cheek on Jill’s chest again.

“Damian said you’d come.” She sounded impatient now.

“Well, I don’t remember even talking to him so clearly, he’s lying.” You waved a dismissive hand at her. “Bye now.”

“Bu—”

“Bye now, Steph.” You said a little louder. You heard a huff and the close of a door.

It was about a minute later that someone burst into the room again. You’d been on the verge of dozing off against Jill’s chest, her hands now simply hugging you against her chest. It startled you fully awake.

“Oh, it’s you again?” Fuck, that sounded like Damian. Was he addressing you or Jill?

“You say that like you have a problem me with me.” Jill’s expression probably twisted as she said that. So he was addressing to Jill.

“[Name], you said you’d eat dinner with us. Get up.” The little brat demanded.

You groaned. “But I don’t wanna! I don’t even remember doing that anyways!” You yelled, words slightly muffled by Jill’s tits.

“Too bad!” He yelled back. You felt a hand on the back of your shirt literally pull you off the bed, out of Jill’s warm, amazing arms. You were now on the floor staring up at the little bastard while he looked down at you, not even bothering to hide his annoyance. “Don’t make me drag you to the dining room.” The boy all but growled which made you groan again, and sit up.

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Keep the bed warm for me, Jill?” Her face turned red as soon as you finished asking that question.

“Don’t phrase it like that.” She bit out, turning away from you and Damian with a huff.

“Yeah, okay.” You slightly grinned at her reaction until you felt a small kick in the back from the little shit still standing behind you. A clear signal for you to get your ass moving.

You reluctantly stood up, and walked out of your room with him. What followed was the usual silence between the two of you. It didn’t feel as awkward as it did since before you became a zombie though. When the two of you got to the dining room, it was as lively as ever. You’ll never understand how it was always so lively too, especially when these dinners normally took place at three ‘o clock in the fucking morning. (You remembered forcing yourself to stay up late so that you could attend them with the others, even when you were too tired for normal conversation. Thankfully, you didn’t need to do that anymore, as mentioned a while ago, you only needed about two hours of sleep a night.) Everyone was here this time too which made this worse in your opinion.

Except for Duke of course. He was never here for these things for some reason. Fuck him for never showing up. He was probably tucked in and sleeping like a baby just like how you wanted to be with Jill!

Gah! You’re so jealous!

You sat your chair, sandwiched between Damian and Tim and just kinda stared at the food in front of you. You can’t eat this shit, remember? Non-GMO human diet and all that? You poked at the celery sticks on your plate, trying to at least pretend like you were eating.

You listened to the chatter around you, barely bothering to listen. You wanted to be back with Jill. The fact that Batman could burst through a window at any second was annoying. Like you said earlier if you’re going to get caught, you’d rather it be while in Jill’s arms, not surrounded by your buttfucking family. You kept pushing food around on your plate, watching Alfred out of the corner of your eye now. You didn’t want to make the man upset because he didn’t eat his food. Your eyes then drifted to Damian.

You spoke in a monotone voice as you lifted your plate and fork. “Damian, take my celery sticks. You’re growing boy, chum.”

The twerp looked a cross between annoyed and confused. Then again, he always looked annoyed so he might just be confused. “Excuse me?”

You ignored his words and scraped them onto his plate. “Don’t worry, they didn’t touch the meat.”

After a more few minutes of pretending to eat, you tried this tactic again.

“Oh Tim, you’re a growing boy too aren’t you—”

“I’m nineteen years old—”

“Here, take some mashed potatoes too. You need more meat on your bones.” You barely let him talk and scraped all your mashed potatoes onto his plate too.

You barely waited a minute until you deployed this tactic for a final time. You leaned across the table, ignoring Alfred’s chastising for leaning over the food.

“Cass, you look like a carnivore.” You had a hand on her shoulder as you dumped all the meat on your plate onto hers.

“She looks like a carnivore…?” Dick muttered from beside the mute girl.

At that, you plopped back into your chair and took a very tiny sip of water, forcing yourself not to retch at the taste before putting the glass down. “Well, I am just stuffed.” You pat your stomach. “I think I’m off to bed.” You stood up.

Your father looked at you from where he sat beside Damian. “Sit back down, [Name].”

You found yourself sat.

“I’ll be honest, I’d been looking for a chance to bring this up, but I’ll admit I’ve been busy. You also stopped attending family dinners as well too so that’s an added factor.” Bruce wiped his mouth with a napkin before setting it down next to his own plate.

Wow, he’d been holding whatever this is in for three months? Impressive.

“Three months ago, I got a call from your school. You quit all your extracurriculars. Why?” Bruce spoke in that blank tone he’d always addressed you with. (Little did you know, it was actually laced with concern, not that you could tell. It’s not like you ever got to really know the man.)

It was such a simple question too. It also had a simple answer. “…Well, why would I waste my time on stuff like that?” You made it sound like a question.

“Pardon?”

“I said, why would I waste my time on stuff like that? Because, I mean, most of it was for you guys, but now that I don’t really care about you guys at all, I don’t wanna do it anymore.”

A small silence filled the room.

“So… yeah. I’m gonna go now.” You stood back up again. “Got tits to snuggle up to, y’know?” You jutted a thumb behind you. “I’m sure you understand.” With that, you walked away without turning back…

… before turning right back around and marching straight over to Tim so you could grab his plate of food from right in front of him. You then loaded more food onto it and grabbed your own fork.

“Sorry, it’s for the person with said tits.” You said, turning right back around to continue walking off.

When you got back to your room, Jill was still on your bed, but this time on your laptop. Oh, and would you look at that? This time she was wearing one of your shirts.

Wow, that should not have made you feel tingly.

When she saw you, she immediately beckoned you over, and like a dog, you immediately followed. "Look at this!" She exclaimed trading the laptop for the plate of food.

What greeted you was a Reddit post from some guy, VeryRealMan-Bat, basically saying that if you help him control “the bat”, whatever that meant, so he can make a definitely illegal serum, he'll help you in return. It was on the r/Henching page. Did this mean you were gonna be henchmen?

"So you wanna do it?" You asked. This seemed a little out of character for Jill. A little too reckless.

"Yes! Well, maybe. We'd have to see just to be sure. But if this guys actually a scientist, judging by the serum stuff, he could help us make a cure and you could go back to being human!" She said between bites of food.

You sounded awkward as you spoke, "Uh... maybe?"

"So we're gonna go then." She traded her plate back for the laptop and started typing to the guy. After a bit of waiting the dude replied apparently. Jill got this really cute excited expression because of it.

Did she really want you to be human that badly again?

You didn't know if you wanted to be human again. Not if it meant you had to go back to the way you were before.

After some back and forth where you lied limply beside her, awaiting. She eventually closed her laptop. "We're going to meet him at six tomorrow.”

“In the morning?” Even if you wouldn’t be tired, you hated the sound of that.

“Yup. So you better take your little power nap.” She said as she pulled the covers back up and over her.

The next day, the two of you now stood outside a suspicious looking warehouse in the, get it, warehouse district. It was a Monday and you’d both skipped school to be here. Jill finally looked like she was questioning her decisions in meeting up with a random budding villain. In Gotham of all places too. The warehouse groaned warningly.

“Alright! Let’s go meet up with this stranger from the internet!” You tried to sound cheerful as you pushed open one of the doors and was met with complete and total darkness.

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” You grabbed her and pulled her inside before she could say anything else.

The inside of the warehouse was just as dark and dank as you expected. Though, you didn’t actually expect to run into a lab once you both walked farther inside. You and Jill examined the test tubes and burners and other sciencey equipment until a… rattling sound broke the relative silence. Actually, it sounded more like gargling mixed with someone trying to crack their jaw. Then it turned high pitched.

You looked to Jill who looks like she was regretting every decision she’s made in her life. Then, the next thing you knew you were being flung by something, which had its claws still embedded in you, by the way, so it was more of a tackle.

There was now a lovely gigantic bat on top of you trying to bite your face off. Lovely. You punched it in the nose, but that only seemed to make it more angry. It kept trying to eat you for a long while. You were so focused on not dying a second time that you didn’t notice Jill jump on its back and inject it with something until it turned into a shriveled, old naked man.

Emphasis on the naked because oh my god. Ew.

Jill got off both you and the old man so you could shove the old man off of you.

The guy laid on the ground for a long moment as you two stared down at him. You honestly thought he was dead until he shot up with a large gasp. He looked between you and Jill a bunch, expression cycling through an array of emotions.

“Ah… so you’re the two that responded to my post.” The old guy sounded way too casual for having almost killed them.

“…Yeah. We did.” Jill said slowly. “You’re actually Man-Bat? Like, the Man-Bat? Kirk Langstrom?”

“Yes? That’s my name, isn’t it? I also recall my username being something along the lines of ‘real Man-Bat’.” The man shrugged.

“Well, yeah, but we didn’t think you’d actually be the real deal!” You exclaimed, shaking the man by the shoulders. He seemed to momentarily shift between man and bat for a moment before shoving you off him.

“Don’t do that you dolt!” The man commanded, though it wasn’t very effective when he was naked. “In my post I said that I was having troubles with the bat! I keep shifting into it randomly! I’ll also have you know I shift into it upon aggravation.” The doctor was looking a little bat-ish again.

“I am so sorry for my friend here, Dr Langstrom.” Jill butted in with a forced smile. “Your bat-form just happened to take them off guard is all. Now, from what I remembered you wanted us to stave off your transformation whenever it gets amped up so you can make the serum to stop the bat-episodes?”

“That’s correct.” The man huffed. “I’m assuming you’re the one who actually read the post and they’re the one who just went along with it?” He asked Jill.

“You couldn’t be more correct!” She spoke cheerfully. “Now, onto making that serum? I’m sure you want to be rid of these episodes as soon as possible.” She lead him back to the lab.

It was three hours later that you and Jill staved off five transformations with the injections the man just happened to have on standby. (Presumably the same ones Jill used to un-turn the doctor when he first attacked you.) The man was almost done with his special serum when you were interrupted by your phone ringing. The man gave you a glare as poured some drops of something into a beaker.

You walked away to answer it.

“Y’ello?”

“[Name] why are you in the warehouse district.” Wow, Bruce cut straight to the point.

“…no I’m not.” You tried for a lie.

“Don’t lie to me. I got a call from the school saying that you never showed up to class.” He actually sounded irritated at you for lying. “…Are you being held for ransom?”

“What? No— No! Hold on a second.” You turned the phone away so you could yell for Jill to come over. You explained to her the situation.

“Mr Wayne, I can assure you that [Name] isn’t being held hostage. We’re just helping a friend with a… science project.” She said dryly into the phone.

“A dangerous one?” Bruce asked.

You groaned. “No!” Well, actually now that you think about it, yes? Was helping a man-bat stay human dangerous?

Bruce’s line went silent for a moment. “Put this friend of yours on the line.”

You and Jill shared a look at that and slowly looked to Dr Langstrom. “Okay… Just gimme a sec.” You both hesitantly walked back over to Langstrom and it was Jill’s turn to explain the situation.

“Wha— I’m not going to—” The man cut himself off with a sigh, momentarily pausing his work to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked like he wanted to die as he put on a somewhat high pitched voice. “Yes, Mr Wayne?”

“What are the three of you doing in an unowned warehouse?”

Langstrom rolled his eyes and pulled some shit out of his ass for an answer. “We’re making elephant toothpaste. It’s gonna be a big one and that’s why we picked this warehouse. That way no one will get hurt.”

Bruce went silence once again. You wondered if he didn’t buy it. “…Will you three remember to run when it goes off?”

“Yes sir.” The two words came as a chorus from all three, yes even Dr Kirk, of you.

“…Good. And [Name]?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be having a chat about you skipping school as soon as you get home.”

“Yes sir.” You repeated the words from earlier in a bored tone.

Hah! Like you were coming home!

Then again, you might have to. Who knows how long it might take to throw of the trail of the Batman of all people?

After that, you hung up and both you and Jill went back to watching Langstrom in case of any bat-episodes. Eventually, by the time the fourth hour rolled around, he completed it and stuck it into his arm with almost no hesitation.

Wow. You’ll admit the guy’s got guts.

Though, the only difference you noticed with the doctor was that he was less twitchy now. Eh. Whatever.

Now it was time for the guy to fulfill his side of the deal and make the cure. Jill showed him the pictures and the part of the book that contained the recipe for said cure too.

That took a lovely two hours of which you and Jill started playing connect four on her phone while the man worked. You had no idea how he could stay on his feet for so long. You should honestly buy him some bat burger too. He, unlike Tim, actually needed some meat on his bones. Like the man actually looked starved.

Say, is he a vampire bat? Does he need to eat humans too?

No matter. The man was approaching you with a startlingly big syringe now. “You can’t feel pain, yes?” The man asked, flicking the syringe a couple times.

“N—” You didn’t even get to finish your two-lettered word before he stuck it straight through your neck and injected you. Jill looked horrified as he pulled it out. (She also took advantage and got herself a connect four too)

“Well, that should be all then.” Langstrom walked back to his lab and started packing it up.

“Wha— That’s it?” Jill asked, startled. “They’re human again?”

“What? No.” The doctor looked at you both like you were stupid which made you and Jill pause. (You got her back by getting your own connect four) “The book doesn’t say it turns you back into a human. It roughly says “unable to rot and slow to anger, yet it will still eat.” So I suppose you won’t rot, nor perhaps get aggressive, but you will still need to eat flesh.” The man spoke casually as he tucked away the last of his beakers and closed his Mary Poppins looking bag.

With that, he strolled out of the warehouse, whistling a tune.

Huh. You never noticed any rotting. Well, sure, your bullet wound from months ago had been getting worse as of late. To which Jill stapled it closed again a bunch of more times. And sure, one of your toes fell off, but you’d stapled that back on too. As for the aggression, you never noticed any of that either… (The lunging at that one girl, you almost eating Broflinski’s little dog, and you nearly trying to bite your landlord’s ear off were examples you conveniently forgot in that moment.)

Eh. Whatever.

You were pretty sure that meant you wouldn’t go back to the meek little tryhard you once were.

And wasn’t that just lovely?

I love Jill and Reader so much in case you can’t tell.

Taglist: @shinning-stars @tuabuelaenvinagrexd @lettucel0ver @holderoflostmemories @cherrydaisymanic @11queensupreme11 @vanessa-boo @darktrashpoetry @nyra-42 @horror-lover-69 @chemicalwindexbottle @sadslasher13 @mintynilla @otakusimp1 @1abi @exactlynumberonekryptonite @ceramic-raven @depressed--therapist @nisarelle @justannie18 @time-shardz @dandelion-delusion @capcryooo @tenswife @klutzymermaid @jjoppees @cupid73 @noone1233nobody @ihavenomuse

[yuyuzi-ling]

Neglected Santa Clarita Diet (Zombie)!Reader x Yan!Batfam

Prologue, Chapter One (Here)

Tw: So much blood, mutilation, brief mentions of vomiting in this chapter, definitely not as much as the last time.

I’d also like to say this Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you”. Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense!

Chapter One:

“Oh my God.” You muttered, looking down at the bloody mess of the burglar’s carcass.

Would you look at that? You just killed a man.

“OH MY GOD?” Jill’s voice rose looking between you and the body

“OH MY GOD!” You rose your voice in return because apparently you were both yelling now?

“YOU JUST ATE SOMEONE.”

“I KNOW.”

“LIKE YOU TORE HIS FUCKING FACE OFF.”

“I KNOW!”

“WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO WITH HIM?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

“[NAME] HE’S STAINING MY WOOD FLOORS.”

“I’M SORRY! I’LL PICK HIM UP!”

“I’LL HELP YOU!”

That’s how the two of you ended up stuffing the man into giant plastic container. It had originally been used by Jill to store old school or art supplies. Now… well, all that stuff was emptied on the ground of her room and you were both trying to brute force the burglar into it. The forcefulness of the two of you caused the already torn apart body to be mutilated further from being pushed into what was comparatively a tiny space compared to the body. In then end, a good chunk of the guy’s head and his entire leg were still sticking out.

Was this a good time to mention that said container didn’t have a lid?

The sight was quite… inefficient to say the least and it ended with you both dragging the dead guy, still in the plastic container, which scratched across Jill’s floors by the way, to the bathroom. You pulled him out and dumped him in her tub.

Your eyes narrowed at the burglar in the tub. You and Jill stood before him until you turned to her with a grave expression. “Get me something… sharp.”

Jill screamed into her hands.

Nearly an hour later, you were both struggling down the street, carrying a the same plastic container from earlier. It was refilled with the burglar and thankfully was only slightly overflowing now instead of having entire limbs sticking out. It sloshed with each step. It was more liquid than human.

Who knew people had so much blood in them?

Remember how the container didn’t have a lid? Neither you nor Jill ended up finding it. The only thing protecting you both from having the man spill all over your shoes, which really would’ve been a pain because the two of you showered before you both left (you went first to get rid most of the blood left in the tub), was a thin of piece of seranwrap. Looking at how the man threatens to topple out of it with each step makes you think you should’ve at least put another layer instead of the single flimsy one.

Right now though, you had more important things to worry about out instead of getting rid of the guy. Like the current conversation between you a Jill. Earlier, after you finished chopping the burglar up, you went to Jill’s freezer to grab more chicken drums to nibble on, but you couldn’t eat them anymore. They tasted gross.

“Jill.” You started before you both grunted as you moved the container again. It was so heavy.

“Mm?” She grunted out as you both moved it again. The two of you were going at a snail’s pace. It was a miracle you’d both gotten it down the stairs but it seemed like that would be your only miracle of the night. You were both moving it in short bursts, picking it up and moving it at about a foot at a time.

“I don’t think I can eat meat anymore.” You quickly glanced at her and then back at the container.

“What?” She stopped trying to move it as you picked up your side and moved it. The container, sloshed dangerously and was now sitting diagonally against the grimy Gotham sidewalk. She didn’t seem to notice as all of her attention was focused on you instead.

“I don’t think I can eat animal meat anymore. I ate some of the chicken and it tasted like baby shit. Then, I didn’t ever get to try the beef before I almost vomited from its smell.”

“My kitchen cannot handle you vomiting.” She muttered.

“I know.” You nodded solemnly. “But all the meat I tried has repulsed me since I had this guy.” You jerked your head at the remains of the burglar.

She stared at you for a solid twenty seconds before she stood straight up, letting go of the container. “Well, we can’t start killing people. As soon as we get rid of this guy, I thought we were gonna go back to normal, and killing people isn’t normal, [Name].” She had a forced grin and her hands were clenched at her sides.

“Well, I know tha—”

“Then as soon as we get home, you’re gonna dig in to the tilapia back at my place!” She bent back down to grab the container again and you both got back to moving it one foot at a time. You did that in silence for about a minute until you spoke up again.

“Jill, what if, once I’ve tasted human flesh, I can’t go back?” You asked as you spied Gotham’s Harbor up ahead. The end was in sight. Thank god. It was a such a good thing Jill and her mom lived near it.

She stared at you for a nearly minute, eyes darting to the side every now and then as you both kept moving the container of the burglar until she let go and rounded it to grab your shoulders.

“Okay. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the freshness of it, not the human-ness. Because that guy was super fresh. Maybe you can only eat an animal if it’s just been killed! Could that be it?”

“What if it’s not?”

“What if it is?”

“What if it’s no—” You were cut off once more, not by your best friend this time, by a car speeding past the both of you and hitting a couple pidgins on the road.

The two of you looked at each other, then at the pidgins, then at each other, then at the pidgins, then at each other before Jill gave you a look that said you might as well go for it.

That’s how you let out the loudest sigh possible. “Please?” You begged. You really did not want to eat the pidgin. It was probably super radioactive from all the shit it ate off the ground and has like fifty million diseases.

“For me.” She said seriously.

You let out another sigh, walking over to it, stopping every now and then to give pitiful glances back at her.

Only Jill could make you take the walk of shame to go eat a flattened and freshly killed pidgin.

So that didn’t work.

You barfed over its body just at the whiff of it. Thankfully, you didn’t have a repeat of last night, but still. Gross. Jill tried to say that maybe it looked disgusting and that was why you didn’t want to eat it, but then you brought up the argument that the guy you ate was pretty disgusting too. Inside and out. That got her to forcibly accept you needed to feed on humans now.

Also, some guy in a red helmet, you were 50 percent sure it was a motorcycle helmet based on the fact he was holding said motorcycle so it wouldn’t tip over, watched you as he stood across the street. So not only did you barf, some guy saw you.

Lovely.

On the bright side, now you were both now at the pier and steadily making your way to the end of one of the wooden docks.

“So, I was thinking, if and only if you can’t eat animal meat anymore, because I’m going to make you try some more later, we have to do this right.” Jill said between grunts as you both moved it.

You both ended up taking a break halfway up the dock so she could talk without being interrupted. “We can’t just kill anybody. We have to kill someone who won’t be missed.”

“Someone without a family.” You chimed in.

“Right. And someone bad who deserves it.”

“Ooh! Yeah, like who?”

“I don’t know… I guess the prototype would be a young, single Hitler.” She crossed her arms and sat down on the dock. You followed her example and now the both of you were leaning against the container as you talked.

That was a pretty stupid idea now that you thought back on it.

“And when we do find someone, we have to be prepared. No more impulse killing, it’s too risky.” She waved her finger around.

“True. The cops suck and are mostly corrupt, but if it gets to someone actually good and they pursue it, we could get busted.” You murmured.

“Exactly. We also have to get tarps, gloves, tools,” Jill spoke, and you could slowly see the despair in her eyes as she thought of how much all of that would cost.

“I’ll pay!” You chirped.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, my dad may be a deadbeat piece of shit, but at least he was willing to throw a black card at me to get me to stop bothering him.” You shrugged as an angry look crossed her face at the thought of an eight year old you, just lost your mom, begging for attention only for him to literally throw some money at you to get you to go away.

“Right… anyways, we also need mops, sponges, bleach to clean up the blood…” She trailed off. “All the blood. So much blood. Blood everywhere.” She looked to the side, resting her cheek on her hand, sounding shellshocked.

“Jill?”

“Yup?”

“You don’t have to go with me.”

She looked back to you, almost offended. “I’m not sending you out to do this alone, [Name]. We’re doing this together.”

“Awe.” A sweet smile crossed your face. She wouldn’t leave you alone. She was the best. “But I’ll do the actual killing, okay? Don’t even worry about that.” You moved your arm to try and elbow her in the side only for said arm to tip over the container behind you.

You both stared at each other with the blankest faces possible as you listened to the burglar spill all over behind the two of you. You then both slowly looked behind to the mess.

““Shit.”” The single word left the both of you simultaneously.

That started the mad scramble of shoveling the remains into the water.

You were both now both walking back to Jill’s apartment. Both of your arms were covered in the guy’s blood. The same could be said for a little bit of your torsos and pants. You felt a little bad to say the least. The clothes you were wearing were Jill’s. The clothes you ate the burglar in had been Jill’s as well after you changed out of your vomit covered ones. You really had a track record for ruining her clothes, huh?

The two of you were walking in pure silence.

You were carrying the container as punishment for spilling the damn thing in the first place, but you’d both washed it out earlier with some definitely chemically altered water from a random person’s hose in the front of their yard so at least it was blood-free now.

“At least you can reuse it?” You offered.

“For what? More bodies?” She spat.

Ouch.

Jill sighed and then started to speak fast and apologetically, one of her hands almost running itself down her face before she caught herself and let it drop back to her side. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, but come on, we’re covered in blood right now and I’m trying my best to ignore the smell and the fact we have to start killing people soon.”

That made you frown. Jill shouldn’t have to apologize for something you dragged her into. “I’m sorry too. If only I hadn’t turned into… whatever I am.”

“A zombie?”

“I might as well be. I eat people, can’t bleed, and don’t have a pulse.”

“You don’t have a pulse?” She whispered, sounding like she couldn’t believe there was more to this shit show.

“No?” You placed a hand on your chest. Nothing. Then your neck. Also nothing. “When we were in the bathroom didn’t you say you couldn’t feel one too?

“Well, yes but…” She trailed off and then threw her head back in a groan as the two of you stepped around some random man standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What the fuck happened to you two?” The man asked which caused the both of you to stop in your tracks. The two of you looked back.

This guy, this weirdo, was wearing a bright red helmet, which was a little familiar to you. Hey, wasn’t this the guy who saw you vomit over the pidgin earlier?

Both you and Jill shared a look.

“We… almost got mugged.” Jill spoke, which didn’t sound convincing at all, you thought.

“Really?” The man didn’t sound convinced either. “Is that why you’re so bloody?”

You snorted at that. “You should see the other guy.” Those words earned you a sharp elbow to the ribs from Jill and the helmeted guy turning his head to you. It was hard to tell what expression he was making exactly, but you got the distinct vibes it was similar to the weird looks Jill gave you earlier.

“Right… Listen, why don’t I walk you two home?” The man offered, but it honestly sounded more like he was stating it.

“Uh…” You looked to Jill, who looked back at you with an equally perplexed expression. This was the most blatant attempt at a kidnapping you’d ever come across. You could tell she was thinking the same.

“We’re good, creepo.” Jill said, grabbing one of your hands.

“Creepo?” The man sounded like he’d never been called that before and you honestly have no idea how he hasn’t if he’s been approaching strangers the same way he approached you two.

“Yeah. Creepo.” Jill repeated before grabbing a glass bottle that probably had syphilis and throwing it at him. She pulled you along to run away with her so you didn’t get to see if the bottle connected or not.

“Bye, Creepo!” You shouted as you both turned around a corner.

So, you guys know how I said Jill will be our Joel in the last chapter? I think I actually might make her your love interest. It depends. We’ll have to see where the story goes. Also for those you still don’t know what a Joel is, what I mean is that she’s going to be our partner in crime.

Taglist(?): @shinning-stars

[yuyuzi-ling]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[yuyuzi-ling]

✰ 06. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 06. take a bite.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: hi lovelies!!! unmmmmm its been a very hot minute. sorry!!!! my job and uni prep have taken me hostage not to mention math exams woooowweee. im gonna try and be more active now and post a bit more, so hopefully look forward to that!!! also ill answer any asks asap 💞💞 ily all ok muah

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

You think you mayyy have gotten ahead of yourself. A very slim maybe.

Sure, all these things probably needed to be said at some point, but jeez, you'd never met the guy before. You could've given it at least a day or two. Now, you're stuck in this situation. Cringing at yourself in the mirror, holding back from slamming your head against the mirror to rid yourself of these crippling memories.

Your eyebags—they speak for themselves—and your expression is anything but pleasant.

Last night was awkward. Awkward can't even begin to describe it, actually. It was excruciatingly awful, looking back on it. You have no idea what he is or was thinking, ir even how he acted outside of those diary entries. Maybe these assumptions were wrong. Maybe you were biting off more than you could chew.

(But it was hard to think this way when his expression; his words, they seemed to resonate with it so deeply).

Regardless, you can't dwell on this forever. You have a mission to do. Mission being; not failing school and incurring the wrath of your father. And getting back home. But that was a given.

You barely feel like yourself. You don't even look like you. This house isn't yours, nor are these clothes. The scent you spray onto your body isn't familiar, and even the shampoo on your nightstand is tacky and strange feeling.

All this time, you had never felt this lost. You may not be alone, but in this giant mansion, away from all your friends—you may as well be.

Your siblings were strange and unlikeable to you. You had barely even seen your father since you'd gotten here. Alfred was the only person you seemed to be able to even have a semblance of a normal conversation with. The knowledge is daunting, but not painful. You don't care.

It's all temporary, anyway.

... You hope. But knowing Reed, you'll be back before you can say, Hello, New York.

In a math class you've already done a year ago, you find yourself beginning to doze off with these thoughts plaguing the forefront of your mind. Cheek squished upwards in your hands, you aren't worried.

Your spidey sense is really handy; your head will tingle with that familiar static when the teacher's suspicions grow to large and you've already done your work, anyway.

But Harry doesn't seem to be doing so hot, you note when your eyes snap open and your pen finds a home in the dips of your fingers. As the teacher walks past your seat, you glance back at Harry's spot. Away from you, and on purpose, for sure. (At least, knowing you and your Harry—the amount of mischief whispered behind your hands was impalpable and certainly not appreciated by your teacher.)

He looks distressed by the worksheet in front of him, and small bits of laughter rumble from your chest. You feel gleeful, the best you'd felt from this crummy morning.

Those blue eyes meet yours and are practically screaming for help, to which you have to hide your smile behind a hand. The girl beside you shoots you a confused look, but nevertheless focuses on the math in front of her.

He mouths, Help me. It's a bit difficult the sound the rest out, but you think it's a mix of, This is impossible and I can't do this anymore.

Without much else of a clue on what you could possibly do to help him with that dictator of a math teacher around, you shrug your shoulders.

I'll help you out at lunch, you wordlessly mouth to him back, making a small heart with your index finger and thumb to go along with a sly wink. A teasing gesture, something you'd find yourself doing with your own best friend back home. Nothing more, nothing less.

His cheeks flush with a bright red before he chuckles to himself, lowering his head as if you couldn't still see that he was grinning stupidly to himself. Hand resting at the back of his slim neck and pen limp in his hand, not even pretending like he was actually doing something.

The reality dawns on you again and you turn away.

Once again, your stomach sinks. Not at him. Not at the prospect he thought you were flirting. Just at how, even for a second, you were unable to forget that this was not your home.

Once again, you feel lost in your own skin and nothing about you seems to sit just right.

... Even through your years of crime fighting, even through the hate and backlash from the public, even when a Skrull had stolen your face and you had looked yourself dead in the eye—not once have you felt as estranged as you have now.

"I hate teen drama." MJ moans dramatically, draping her arms on your shoulders and slumping, putting all her body weight onto you and you find yourself having to cling to her shoulders to keep her upright. If you didn't have that enhanced strength, you think you'd fall right down with her.

Harry slams his locker door shut and shoots her an amused look, "What happened now? That guy you were talking to ended up having a girlfriend after all?"

"Even worse." She tilts her head up to look at him from where it still lay against your shoulder, cheek smushing against the fabric of your shirt, "His ex is cuckoo. Like seriously,"

She spin her index finger around her head and then knocks against it with a closed fist. "There's something up with her. She hasn't stopped glaring at me since third period. I think she actually wants to kill me."

"That makes two of us," you speak, pushing her up so that it doesn't look like she's trying to fuse into you Steven Universe style.

She crosses her arms and frowns, red brows narrowing down at you, "I'm serious! What are you gonna do if I die? You can't take the comedic relief out of an already-established trio."

"You think you're the comedic relief?" Harry asks, genuinely surprised. MJ doesn't seem to take this too kindly—understandably.

You'd say you're pretty funny. Or your version of yourself, that is... this you. You aren't sure about the other you. Seemed pretty glum, but you digress. You'd be mad at the world if you were born here too, as harsh as that sounds.

Students pour out around you and you hear the bell chime around you. The day is over, as fast as it began. Too bad. You almost found yourself enjoying school.

Because at least that meant you didn't have to go back home, a place where you felt the least like yourself than anywhere.

"[name]?"

A hand waving itself in front of your face makes you blink back to reality, staring up at its owner. Harry looks concerned, an expression you think you've been seeing a lot of on his face and it's ridiculously defined cheekbones lately. "Are you okay? You spaced out again."

Again? Has this been happening lately? You hadn't even realised. Even your base instincts, your enhanced senses, hadn't even snapped you out of it.

"I'm okay. Sorry. Just uh..." You press your lips tightly together, gaze lowering. "Having some trouble at home."

You say, and you really don't want to elaborate.

"Is it with your brothers again?" MJ speaks softly, quietly, even though there's barely anybody left in the hallways after school hours. Your eyes widen a tad. You're sure you'd never told them anything, and you guessed this original you wasn't too keen on sharing their personal life either, so...

"How...?"

"They're not exactly subtle in sending you to the poor school then never bothering to pick you up in one of their fancy cars." MJ rolls her eyes. "You literally take the public bus home. Bruce Wayne's kid. It doesn't really take a genius to figure it out."

You chew down on your lip. They're right. It's not as subtle as you thought. A strong pair of arms wrap around you and your face heats up when your chin digs into Harry's woollen sweater.

"[name], we don't care. Their loss. You don't need them, you have us. Always, no matter what."

... Does he think you're upset about this? Embarrassed? Really, you aren't. But the gesture is sweet and you really do love your friends, so you don't hesitate to hug him right back.

"Thanks," you murmur, eyes not meeting his as MJ places a soft hand on your shoulder. Maybe you should be sad? It's a bit unnatural to appear so stoic when you talk about something like this, no? "But it's fine. It doesn't bother me anymore. You're right. I have you guys, and you two are more than enough."

"Since when did you get so good with words?" MJ slyly eyes you up and down, thoroughly amused. "You know, the old you would've just told us it's nothing and everything's okay. What happened?"

A smile forms across your lips. This time—a real one. "I guess I just had an epiphany. Not even my ego's more important to me than you guys."

My family.

You walk out through the gates laughing. A few other students still surround the building and even fewer walk out behind you and your friends—probably those bothered enough to take up after school tutoring programs and clubs and anything of the sort.

The ones that linger at the gate are frantically texting on their phones—probably spamming their parents to hurry and pick them up, because it was starting to get cold again. The clouds fog up the clear sky and blocks the sunlight from hitting the ground, so the world around you is dim as well. Not a good look for Gotham.

"We're so gonna get jumped." MJ blurts out, gripping the straps of her bag tightly. "Me and [name], I mean. You're totally safe, Harry. You and that driver of yours. Tell him I said hi, by the way."

"You're throwing shade now? I told you both you're welcome to drive with us if you want to."

You shake your head, no matter how much MJ's eyes brighten. "You live all the way on the other side of Gotham. We don't want to bother you. We all know how your dad gets when you slack on your homework."

Harry hums, "Yeah, but he likes you both, so it cancels out."

"Norman likes me?" MJ looks positively flabbergasted at this news, as if she hadn't even considered it before. "He always gives me the strangest smiles. I thought he secretly wanted me out of your life."

"Trust me, if he wanted you out, he wouldn't keep it a secret." Harry sighs, exasperated. "Actually, he respects you a bunch. He's seen you on TV a few times with your reporting work experience. Dad thinks you're the kind of reporter this city actually needs."

MJ places a hand over her heart, as if it were suddenly warmed by this strange act of kindness showed by The Normal Osborn.

A loud rev grabs all of your attention before you can even think of what to ask next. Whether Norman liked you, or even superheroes in general. Whether the Green Goblin was even a thing. So many questions, and such little time.

You turn to where the obnoxious bike noise came from, and your blood runs cold. All warning signals in your head go off and you can't help but instinctively ball up your fists.

Your (?) brother. Jason. He sits atop a stationary motorcycle, a strange smile atop his lips and a black helmet snug under his bicep. He's wearing a black biker outfit you'd never once ever imagine would exist in real life and MJ is literally gawking.

His eyes seem to have caught yours before you'd even noticed he were there. Now, when you're staring at him in such dumb looking shock—he gestures toward you, "C'mon. I'm takin' you home today."

"Wh... what...?" You splutter, fingers digging into the toughness of your palm. "Why? Nobody said anything about..."

Jason swings his leg over the seat of the motorcycle and adjusts his rear view mirror absent-mindedly, "Spur of the moment. I wanted to spend more time with you."

Harry and MJ, from beside you, coo quietly at you, teasingly. Despite your love for your friends, you really wished they could see the dread slowly seeping into your skin.

You feel like you're on your last leg when you conjure up the lamest excuse you could possibly come up with. "... I don't have a helmet. It's not safe."

"You're with me. You think I'll let anything happen while I'm here?" His words are sweet, like those of a regular elder brother. Normal sounding, to your friends who give you a small nudge to your side.

But you know better. You've seen him covered in sticky crimson blood and you've seen the shiny metal of the mask that covers his face.

You know that his words aren't as sweet as they are a promise. A promise you're entirely sure he is willing to uphold and keep at any means.

... But what can you say? Nothing that won't give away his identity, or even your entire family's. You're left in a corner, with nowhere to go but forward. Right into the lion's den.

Taking his hand feels more like a sort of demonic deal with the devil than it probably should've. Still, his gloved fingers wrap around your own, carefully and practised, with all the warmth of a human and all the delicacy of an older brother.

He slips his helmet on as you settle behind him on the seat, tentatively holding him so you don't go flying back. "Hold on tight. You're not gonna fall, trust me."

You know you won't, and even if you do, you'll be fine. Still, when he revvs up the engine and drives off into the cool Gotham air, you feel a strange hardness of your limbs start to build.

The wind bites at your cheeks as he revvs his bike up. Your arms are wrapped snugly around his waist, leather feeling rough under your fingertips. Despite the physical need to hang onto him so you don't go tumbling off the seat, you find yourself wanting to put as much physical distance between you and Jason as possible.

Your head is awkwardly bent back so it isn't squished against his back, and you have a feeling he's a bit miffed about this fact. That you're still so unwilling to be beside him. But that's just your guess. You'll never know what he's thinking with that helmet blocking out each expression and his head facing straight to the road.

Even with this concentration, he still decides to speak. "Didn't know you were still friends with that guy. Harvey?"

"Harry," you correct him, though you aren't sure why.

"Yeah. Harry. That rich kid who gave up the exhilarating life of Gotham Prep to go to school with you." Jason's tone is light, and he doesn't seem to be too serious with his words. He's trying to make conversation, and it's strange, because you can tell he isn't really sure on how to do it. "I always thought he was good for you. He hasn't got a stick up his ass like the rest of those snobs at Bruce's galas."

"At least you approve of him," you say quietly. Barely even hearing yourself over the sound of the wind hitting your ears.

"That's more than you can say for a lot of those other brats you used to hang out with, you know." He almost sounds amused, despite how dead your tone was. "Hated all of them. These two ain't bad."

You wonder what those so-called brats were like. Other rich children all couped up together for the sole fact they're all born from wealth? Jason not liking them didn't really discern much about them to you, because you got the impression Jason didn't like many people.

You had the impression Jason didn't like you. But looking at your situation now, you couldn't be furthur from the truth, it seemed.

Silence fills the space between you both for a bit. Driving down the busy highways into darkening skies, as the clouds start to grey and the sun waves its last goodbye. When there no longer lay any witness but the moon itself, watching over the crime-riddled streets of Gotham, where you, somehow, were taken away from without a second thought.

Red fills the sky. Red, like Jason's helmet—not currently being worn, but an image you could never really remove from your head when you'd look at him.

Red, like your suit. Red, like the blood flowing through your veins. It colours the ground above you and will eventually turn into an array of violet hues. That's how it all concludes, in the end.

Jason takes a turn off the busy street and it goes quiet. He slows down a bit to match the speed limit—which feels strangely out of character for him, but you digress. He takes this opportunity to finally have his voice be heard above the onomatopoeia of cars and angry honks of the drivers within them.

"... This is nice. Never picked you up from school like this, huh?" Despite not being able to see him from where you sit behind his back—you can practically feel his smile. "We should do this more. How do you even get home usually, anyway? Alfred never goes around these parts."

... You debate on telling him or not, but assume it doesn't matter whether you do or not in the end. If he wants he know, he'll just find out. No use in delaying the inevitable. "I take the public bus."

If he could stop in the middle of driving, he would. Even if he was driving, without a car behind him, you're sure he'd brake abruptly and send you flying off the bike. His hand twitches around the handle and panic is sent flaring through your nerves like electricity. "What? You actually go on that shit?"

You know he probably didn't mean for it to sound the way it did, but you're annoyed nonetheless. "Well, not like I had much of a choice. Would you rather me walk the way?"

His lack of a response tells you all you need to know. You aren't keen on continuing this conversation, so for now, it's just silence.

Slipping off the motorcycle, you shake the wind out of your hair and brush down your clothes. Jason barely even looks at you as he places his helmet on the table beside the front door and slips the keys into his jacket pocket.

"Thanks for driving me." Despite your... complicated feelings towards him and the rest of your family, you are a polite person. Your aunt had always raised you right like this. "But you don't have to worry about doing something like this again... I'm fine taking the bus."

You say, with all the subtlety of a man dying of thirst. Practically yelling for him to just leave you the fuck alone. At least putting it in a mildly kind way.

He hums, expression unreadable to you. Then, he smiles. A stark change in his features from when you'd first gotten a glimpse of that contempt face. When you'd first saw him. "Don't be so humble, okay? I'll take you home every day from now on. Even if there's crime, I'll finish it up quick and we can ride home together. Just you, and me. With your big brother. That's fine, right?"

... You didn't realise when he had started moving closer to you while speaking, but now he was standing right in front of you, a hand on your shoulder and a dangerous glint in his eye (that, yoy aren't sure even registers to him at all).

Your brain buzzes with static sirens. Warning. Yelling for you to run away, move, fight him, do anything except stand there frozen like a deer in headlights. Fingers twitching with the urge to punch, claw get away—but you don't.

You grip the sides of your shirt, knuckles feeling weak under the pressure. No longer can you force the words you want to say out of your mouth. "... You don't have to bother. I'm serious."

He smiles. "Alright. I have some errands to run. Wasn't supposed to be here today, anyway." Changing his biker helm out for his signature red one, he pats your shoulder a few times before walking past you. "Goodnight, [name]. Don't stay up too late, yeah? Study for that test you got."

You can't even begin to question how he knows you have a test coming up when you're sure you'd never told him, when the thought pops up in your head that no, he absolutely did not listen to you. And yes, he absolutely will continue to keep waiting outside your school for you to drive you home with uncomfortable conversation.

You almost fall over in the hall's entrance when Jason shuts the front door behind him. You shove your face into your hands, squeezing your eyes shut and willing the memories of that drive into the back of your mind, where you wouldn't have to think about it.

But... he is right. You do have that test, and that simple fact is the reason why you pick yourself up, just as Spidey does, and decide to go to your room. Down the first living room, into the kitchen and dining room, and past—

"W—whoa!"

You're going to cry. You genuinely might start bawling. After that godawful moment, you've now crashed straight into a fucking brick wall. A moving one, at that. ... But it can't be just brick, because you think your nose is starting to bleed from the impact (if the warmth dripping down your chin is anything to go by), and you've slammed head first into concrete before with no reaction.

Just what the hell is—

"Shit!" A guy's voice curses. Unfamiliar, different from anything you'd heard here in this house before. When you crack open your eyelids, you see... Shaggy black hair, a very strange style of clothes, and the brightest blue of eyes you'd ever seen. "Shit, I'm so sorry! I should've looked where I was going—"

"Kon? What—"

Tim's face pops up from behind him just as you stand up on your own two feet, and the look on his face is something you can't even begin to describe. As soon as he gets an eyeful of you, and sees the trail of red seeping slowly from your nose down to your chin—where it drops down to the floorboards below—his entire demeanour shifts.

Subtly, but not subtle enough. At least, not to you. You don't think this Kon notices it.

"What happened here? What did you do to my sibling?"

Kon raises his hands in defence, eyes widening, "I'm so sorry, I didn't look where I was going, and—"

"Are you serious?!" Tim's brows furrow deeply and he almost growls like a damn dog as he sneers, "You hurt my sister, and all you can say is that you didn't look where you were going? Don't be stupid, Kon!"

"Look, I'm really sorry—it was an accident. Why are you getting so worked up—"

"You made her nose fucking bleed, dumbass! You know she's not like the rest of us! I told you to be careful around her, and look what you've done!"

Before Tim can tweak out even worse, you speak up, in the most monotone voice you can manage. "I'm okay. Don't worry. I'll just go clean it up."

The two boys look to you in shock, seeing a tissue already shoved up your nose and your face clean of any bloodstains. Void of anything except the drip of red on your shirt.

"But... But—" Tim's tone wavers a little as he steps closer, "What if it's broken? I'll help you—"

You hold your hand out, stopping him in his tracks as it collides with his chest. Shaking your head, you clench your jaw to try and alleviate the throbbing pain. "It's not broken. It's just injured. I'm okay."

The boy with piercings—Kon—he presses his fingers into his palm from his face behind Tim, looking rather guilty. "Sorry, um... Kon. I didn't look where I was going, either. That's my bad."

That name sounds strange to say in your mouth, and Kon himself seems surprised to hear you say it. "No, no, it was my bad. I'm so sorry, [name]."

His expression and words were genuine, enough so that your head starts to clear from its panic and you feel a sense of calmness finally wash over you.

But, your fingers still twitch when Tim gives you a forlorn look of almost longing.

You don't say another word, rushing past them snd going to your room—where you could bury your face into your pillow and pretend like none of this existed. Where you could climb out the window, suit clinging to your frame, and become the you that you'd always loved most.

The one who was free, swinging through the skies and cutting the wind like it meant nothing to you. The you that only ever felt like the real one.

And even if just for a moment, you could believe that this was your only you.

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taglist is open!

[yuyuzi-ling]

Batsibling!reader who’s the true middle child as they are a close age between Tim and Jason but further from dick and Damian.

They think they have no use around the house, but everytime they try and go out for their own thing, suddenly Damian wants to do puzzles with his older sibling.

Suddenly Tim wants help with a case, he locks his door subtly while you stare at the board filled with pictures and notes.

Suddenly Jason wants to take you out for dinner, or maybe a little stay home lunch as he has an apron on already. That’s weird..

And then dick suddenly wants to watch a movie with his cute baby bird! I mean who can deny such a good hang out with him.

What’s the point when Batsibling!reader is insecure, having the boys force them to depend on them even if they’re all grown up.

[yuyuzi-ling]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission

Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

previous chapter - Next chapter

Masterlist

Chapter two - See them Truly

This was going to be hard. In moments like this, you wished you had inherited some of your siblings' intelligence— well, Bruce's kids', really. It would also be hard to stop thinking about them as family.

You realized that while trying to fall asleep. You don't know anything about the outside world, or how to manage money nothing. You're only 12! You just wanted to worry about getting a good grade so Alfred would give you ice cream, not about getting tortured by some clown-painted lunatic. The upside is, that won't happen for a few years, so you have plenty of time to hide from the Joker's eye and think about what you're going to do with your life once Serelith shows up… unless you end up bringing her into this yourself just to get out of this strange family as soon as possible. The downside is that you want to figure something out now, and it's really hard to think when Tim's trying to brush your hair in front of the mirror in his room, where he dragged you earlier this morning.

—If you’re doing this so I won’t say anything about— He cuts you off before you can finish. —I'm doing this because I want to. I trust you enough to know you won't tell anyone… That includes Bruce and the others, okay?—he asks as he keeps trying to make your hair look somewhat decent.

After reading the comics, you learned a lot about everyone else's skills. Sure, you already knew Tim was smart—you'd asked him for help with your homework more than once just as an excuse to spend quality time together. But you didn't know he was on Batman's level, or that he figured everything out when he was nine. Yeah, you're way out of his league. If you were him, you wouldn't bother teaching some kid basic algebra either, not when you've got complex cases to deal with. …Although, he’d probably teach Serelith if she asked him…

The point is, once you woke up with a clear head and your emotions under control, you'd decided not to tell anyone about the comics. Which means you'll have to be really careful around someone like Tim.

—I won't tell Bruce or anyone else. I promise.— You give him a half-smile, one he definitely notices… When did you stop calling Bruce “dad”? Wasn't it just you and Damian who used to call him that?

Maybe Damian had something to do with your anxiety attack—now that Tim thinks about it, Damian’s so-called “company” probably just means fights and arguments. It was really stupid of him to think Damian treated you differently just because of some fight from years ago. Besides, you don’t know anything about Damian’s past! To you, he probably just seemed like a troubled kid. Tim should’ve paid more attention to you. He shouldn’t have kept his distance just because of his own issues with Damian. He shouldn’t have looked away just because everyone else did.

He won’t take his eyes off you, not until he’s sure you’re not close to another breakdown like last night’s. Not until he knows nothing’s going to hurt you again.

—Ow!— You wince as he tugs too hard on your hair with the brush. He mutters a string of repeated apologies, mixed with complaints about how hard it is to deal with your hair, though really, it’s just lack of experience.

After some struggle and a few tips from you on how to do it right, he managed to do a decent job brushing your hair and even put in a slightly crooked flower clip.

—Thanks,—you mutter, somewhat indifferent. Tim wasn’t exactly close to you not that anyone in this family really was, unless you counted Damian’s short conversations with his arrogant attitude. So Tim’s strange behavior today is a surprise. A part of you wanted to hug him and tell him about your day, ask about his likes, and knit him something out of wool with a design he might like, now that his eyes were on you. But the other part of you, the bigger part, wanted to throw in his face how, in the comics, he was so desperate to find Serelith, sleepless nights without rest, with such a tired and loving look aimed only at her, never noticing your absence. Why was he looking at you now? Was it because of what happened last night? He was surely making sure you wouldn’t cause any trouble. Once he was certain you wouldn’t make another “drama,” he’d go away. You shouldn’t get your hopes up about him; you can’t look at him with love because he won’t look at you that way. That belongs to his real sister, not you. You have to try to act normal about his sudden concern; you’ll only make things worse if you tell him what you saw.

Tim swallowed hard at your tone, yet he kept his eyes fixed on his task. He would make sure to learn properly later.

—I’ll walk you out,—he gave you a half smile, though it looked more like a grimace trying to escape the awkwardness. You just nodded, letting him accompany you to your bedroom door. —I homeschool,—you replied, returning the same awkward smile, which in your case looked more like a dry smile— —I just have to go to the study room. —Ah…— His uncomfortable smile faltered a bit. Why don’t you go to school? Did you even go once? Now that he looked at you properly, he should have known—you’re not wearing any uniform. —I’ll walk you there then.

You nodded, and Tim led the way to your door, then stood there still. Which was your study room inside the mansion? Maybe you studied in the library? Apparently, you noticed his confusion and walked past him, now leading the way yourself. In a few minutes, you showed him how to get to your study room. It was near the library, and he didn’t waste time analyzing the place as much as he could with a quick glance. It was a slightly small room compared to the usual rooms in the mansion, with several of your study things near a small worn-out stool, scratched in bright colors with different little animals. Inside was an older man, unknown to him, accompanied by Alfred, who gave a somewhat surprised look upon noticing him.

—Master Drake?—Alfred asked, while the man, who Tim assumed was your teacher of some unknown subject, looked at him with curiosity. —Oh… hello, Alfred. I didn’t mean to interrupt.— He looked at the stranger in front of him suspiciously while nodding in greeting. Could this man be the reason for your near breakdown? —Good afternoon. I didn’t mean to impose.

you entered the room, walking right past him, , and sat on your little stool in silence. Had you always been this quiet? Or were you only acting this way because the teacher was present? Did he intimidate you?

—Can you leave so I can focus?—you asked. You didn’t mean to sound harsh, but your tone wasn’t exactly gentle either. You just wanted space and to study without his strange behavior weighing on you. If he stayed, you felt like at any moment you might break down in front of him—run to hug him without caring about Alfred or your teacher being there. You didn’t want that. You couldn’t do that. You didn’t have the right.

Tim blinked once. The request caught him a little off guard. First you kicked him out of your room, and now your class? You? Didn't you know that he could teach you the same class you were taking without any problem? He lowered his gaze a bit, didn’t say anything right away, wondering if maybe he was overthinking it all. —Of course,—he finally replied, with that same smile that, after seeing it so much, gave you a strange chill. —I don't want to bother. He took a step back. Then another. Carefully, trying not to make unnecessary noise, like he was afraid of being a distraction even as he left. —Good luck with your studying,—he murmured before turning fully and disappearing down the hallway, his footsteps nearly silent.

He was already thinking about quickly finishing the case at hand to start investigating you, and all your teachers. Maybe he could even convince Bruce to let him take you to his apartment and homeschool you himself. That way he could be absolutely sure no teacher was hurting you. He didn’t trust any of them. Even if he investigated every teacher in Gotham, you’d still be safer if he was the one doing the teaching.

Alfred followed him with his eyes for a moment, then turned his gaze back to you, one brow slightly raised. Your behavior lately had been… unusual. You hadn’t come down for dinner last night or for breakfast this morning. He’d also noticed how young Master Drake had rushed through his breakfast and ran straight back upstairs. At first he thought it was because of the case he was working on—until he saw you with him.

Normally, he would’ve been glad to see the two of you spending time together. That finally, after all these years, someone in the family was looking at you the way you’d always wanted… But your behavior, the way you spoke to him, and that empty, pained look you gave him…

Alfred could only politely bid farewell to your teacher and to you, leaving you to study alone while he headed out to take young Master Damian to school. Who, by the way, was in a foul mood today—more than usual. Ever since he noticed your absence at dinner last night, and all the way until he got into the car this morning.

Grumbling in the back seat, the green-eyed boy sat with his arms crossed, not even bothering to hide his annoyance from Alfred, who glanced at him now and then through the rearview mirror.

Where the hell were you?

Damian hadn’t seen you since you returned from your shopping trip with Pennyworth, jumping around excitedly after buying some ridiculous comics. He had hoped, really hoped, to at least see you at breakfast, hear you talk about what you’d read while he pretended to be annoyed. But you weren’t there. If Pennyworth hadn’t told him you were fine, he would’ve gone to look for you himself. And if it weren’t for his father, he would’ve stayed home to study with you.

Not that he needed to. Obviously. He already knew everything they taught. But at least he would’ve listened to you, would’ve looked at you when you asked about something you didn’t understand, and then he could’ve mocked you and explained it himself afterward.

But Richard says “you need to make friends,” and his father agrees. He can’t argue against both of them, so if he has to socialize, why aren’t you coming along too? You, who don’t even have a double life as a vigilante, should be the one socializing more, getting friends in your civilian life, not isolating yourself in a room.

Though… part of him was glad you didn’t have anyone else. And he suspects that’s exactly what his father wanted when he decided you’d be homeschooled.

With a grunt, Damian got out of the car when Pennyworth parked in front of Gotham Academy.

—She’s acting like an idiot,—he muttered with a rough, irritated tone.—It’s not normal.— He glared at the butler for a few seconds, his annoyance clearly showing—though beneath it, so did his concern.

Alfred watched him for a moment before answering, his face composed as always, though carrying that same faint concern.

—I’ll take care of her. Master Damian should focus on school for today.

Damian turned his gaze away, jaw tense as he realized Pennyworth was trying to calm him down about his half—no, his sister.

—I’m not a child. I don’t need to be calmed.

—Yet you throw tantrums like one,—Alfred replied with his usual sarcasm. Damian only scoffed in response and started walking away, pausing only briefly to mutter something under his breath.

—She shouldn’t lock herself up like that. It’s pathetic.

When Damian first arrived at the mansion and met you, he thought you were pathetic.

Everyone else was a vigilante, everyone went out to fight at night—even Gordon found a way to stay useful after losing the ability to walk.

You weren't. You were just someone he shared half blood with. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn't pay attention to you for a while, just insulting you and telling you what a nuisance you were whenever you came near. It only took two interactions for you to realize you didn't want to be around him. It bothered him a little for a while, more than the others' attitude toward him.

He didn’t know why you, specifically, annoyed him—until eventually, he realized you were just like him in this family.

Clearly, compared to him, your combat training was nonexistent, your intelligence was average, and your hands were clean. He was the son of a devil, and you were just the daughter of a pretty model. He was a child whose father never knew existed, and you were a child who was always planned.

And yet somehow, the family treated you both the same. Except for Pennyworth, he seemed more familiar with you.

You were two kids who didn’t fit. Two kids the family didn’t quite know what to do with.

You both reacted differently to being treated that way. He fought back when necessary, every time someone dared to mess with him. You, on the other hand, smiled… and then ran off to cry. It was pathetic—but he hated it. He hated how you cried from the way others treated you. He understood, to a degree, that he came from a very different world than this one. But you? You were born here. You were supposed to be more loved, because you were cleaner, because you were wished for.

But somehow, the opposite happened. Eventually, he adapted. And somehow, they adapted to him. he made a place for himself. And somehow, they ended up loving him.

And though he’d never admit it, and he’d rather cut out his tongue than say it out loud, he loves them too.

And he knows, somehow, he knows, this family loves you. And he hates how, even so, you still don’t have a place here. They never adapted to you, not even when you keep trying to adapt to them.

Eventually, he chose of his own willto be around you. He found a way to make you interact with him again. It was difficult and strange at first, but he made it work

You weren’t close. You never have been. And he won’t allow it… not yet. Not when his mother put a price on his head and was capable of killing him. Not when that man is capable of putting Gordon in a wheelchair, capable of killing and torturing Todd, and capable of nearly doing the same to Thomas.

He wasn’t going to risk you. He’s already risking too much with the Joker knowing everyone’s identities. He’s already risking too much just by sharing a last name with you. Getting closer would only put you in more danger.

You have to stay in your place—clean, untouched.

Reluctantly, and only after Richard explained things to him, he came to understand that somehow, the situation you were in was the safest way to keep you alive.

So for now, he only comes close enough so you don’t cry because you feel lonely. He’ll send Titus to play with you, let you pet Alfred the cat, and listen to you rant about your latest wool creation or how tough a particular class was. He’ll come near and keep his eyes on you during breakfast, lunch, and dinner—even if his father doesn’t come down to eat with you. He’ll be there, talking with his usual attitude and way of being. He doesn’t act differently around you; he treats you the same as the others. And that probably doesn’t bother you… does it?

He’ll keep up that same routine until one day, he’s completely sure you’ll be safe. That you won't suffer for the life this family you were born into chose. When that day comes, he’ll allow himself to get close to you the way he’s always wanted.

If his grandfather saw him now, he’d tell him how pathetic he is for getting attached to you. And to some extent, he is. It’s pathetic how he gets angry when you don’t attend classes with him, even though he knows it’s a thousand times safer for you, according to his father.

It’s pathetic how he sneaks into your room at night just to steal a wool keychain you made and didn’t have the courage to give him. It’s pathetic how he keeps it in his pocket and carries it everywhere, wishing you’d make more wool creations for him, like you did with the oven mitts or Pennyworth’s scarf.

It’s pathetic how much he hates Drake after finding out he stayed the night in your own bed. Doesn’t he see that puts you in danger? And why did you even let him into your room in the first place?

And it's even more pathetic that he keeps thinking about all this. I'm sure by the end of the day you'll get over that attitude of yours, and at dinner you'll finally talk about the comics you brought yesterday.

He just hopes you don't look at him and think he's pathetic, how pathetic he is just because of his beloved sister.

Okay, two weeks as I promised… plus a two-day delay, dear god. The worst part is that this chapter was already written since the synopsis...

Ahem, even though I still plan to keep the two-week schedule for each chapter (now every Saturday), for now it'll be every three weeks, mainly because I’m planning the direction of the story better and figuring out how I want to develop it. I also prefer publishing chapters with a good chunk already done, not just writing as I go. And unfortunately, under my hyper-fixation on the Bat-Family, which makes it very difficult for me…In fact, I wasn't even sure I'd put Damian's thoughts on Reader so quickly, but I think they'll be important for the rest of the story. So yeah, thanks for your understanding.

On another note, I’m really grateful for all the support! I wasn’t expecting so much love and such sweet messages. I love you all, internet strangers. I tried to tag things as best I could, but one or two might have ended up mislabeled. Well… love you lots!

Taglist

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[yuyuzi-ling]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission. Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

prologue - Next chapter

Masterlist

Chapter one - A glimpse into the family secret

The knight of the night, the man with a thousand plans, Gotham's greatest detective, was holding his daughter, Serelith, with such tenderness and delicacy. She was crying in her arms, scared. And rightly so: Serelith had never lived through anything like this before. Her other siblings had some pity for her now, even Damian showed a hint of sympathy, probably because of the fear they all felt over what could’ve happened to her at the Joker’s hands.

Then there was the other daughter. Batman's illegitimate child, the youngest of the Waynes, no, the youngest of the Valfinsas, watching with tearful eyes from behind the bars as the family she grew up with held their blood daughter close. Leaving her alone.

The Joker just laughed, shoving the girl hard against the bars. -Hahaha! Looks like Batsy's got his favorites- he laughed louder. All the girl could do was stare through tearful eyes, praying, just once. for someone to turn around. To look at you.

-The Joker can wait. Priority is getting Serelith out of here- That’s what Dick said. The perfect big brother. Someone who, like her, had also been adopted. He handed Serelith a pill and a bottle of water. Carefully, they took Serelith away, leaving the building where the two of them had been held captive.Leaving you there. Not looking back. Not noticing you were missing.

The Joker let out a cold laugh, already getting ready to have fun with the new toy Bruce had left behind. -Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you- he scoffed, looking right at you as you cried. How you wished you had gotten out of here, out of a place where no one ever looked at you.

You threw the comic across the bed, looking at it like it was the devil himself.

A few weeks ago, you'd decided to try reading comics to bond with your family. You'd once overheard Stephanie teasing Damian about reading and drawing manga, and maybe Tim might be into it too, right? After all, there are games based on comics. So, you spent your allowance on one, hoping it'd at least end with you arguing with Damian about the difference between manga and comics, or maybe Tim would recommend one based on one of his games.

You'd gone to a store after finishing your homeschooling session with Alfred, browsed a few comics, and then, suddenly, felt a strong bump against your side, right where your bag was hanging. When you looked down, you noticed three comics had fallen to the floor. You tried putting them back, but couldn’t figure out where they were supposed to go. With no other option, you looked for help from the clerk—who didn’t even bother to pay attention to you.

-Another kid trying to sneak in their hero stories? Listen, girl, you're not going to get famous just because someone randomly reads a comic drawn by a 12 years old-.

No matter how much you insisted they weren't yours, he didn't believe you. You got kicked out of the store. Great. But hey, at least you had three new comics to read for free! And not just any comics, they were about Gotham's great vigilante himself! Not exactly what you were going for, but maybe you'd get to connect with someone in your family by talking about the city's crime and its paper version.

You got back to Wayne Manor all excited, and started reading the three comics that had literally fallen from the sky.

And that's how you ended up here.

Batman: Bloodline. That was the name of the comic saga you just finished reading, the one that left a bitter taste in your mouth. At first, after reading the opening pages, you thought it was fake, a bad joke, some prankster who thought it would be hilarious to realistically draw the millionaire playboy dressed as a bat, acting as Gotham’s nocturnal hero. No wonder the shop clerk didn’t believe you. This probably wouldn’t help you get any closer to your brothers, but maybe if you showed it to Dick or Jason, they’d make fun of Bruce with you. So you kept reading.

But then all your siblings showed up, as the Robins and the Batgirls. And then you appeared. Not playing any role, not as a hero, just you. The daughter born from one of Bruce’s deepest loves, a model beautiful both inside and out, who had died just days after giving birth to you. A child who looked nothing like her mother, and even less like her father.

Everything was… eerily accurate. The mannerisms, the backstories, everyone’s personalities, they were spot on. Even the inside of the manor was a perfect match! You kept reading, uneasily, and that’s when she showed up: a girl with Bruce’s same stoic seriousness, and your mother’s same warmth. The drawing copied her features almost perfectly.

The comic was about her; Serelith. How she was found, as the original daughter. How she adapted to the family. And finally, how you and she were kidnapped by the Joker. How the family saved her. And left you behind.

You don’t want to believe it. Even if that girl crying behind the bars looked so much like you. Even if every detail lined up so perfectly. You didn’t want to believe that this family, the same one you beg and plead for even a crumb of love, forgot about you in such a horrible moment.

You hide the three comics under your pillow. You refuse to eat when Alfred calls for dinner, and you fake being asleep until the night falls.

You check the time on your phone, waiting for the right moment to come. You get up from bed and carefully make your way through the giant manor, until you’re standing in the same room where the old clock is. If it’s true, if they’re really Gotham’s vigilantes , they would notice immediately, and all of this will have been for nothing… or maybe they won’t even glance in your direction.

You didn’t see anyone for a few minutes from your hiding spot. You thought maybe they’d glanced in your direction, and were just waiting for you to leave.

Until you saw Tim, Zesti drink in hand, clear signs of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark circles, and wearing his Red Robin suit, walk up to the clock and set the time to 10:47. The same time as in the comic.

You felt your heart beating faster and faster. You wanted to cry just from seeing that time there, right in front of you. Mocking you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off, tripping over a few things along the way.

You got to your room and threw yourself into bed. You could feel the comics crinkle beneath your pillow as you laid your head down, just like your heart crumbled when you realized… that part of the comic was real. Which meant not only that you weren’t the daughter of that woman, but that all these years, and all the ones still to come, meant nothing to your family.

You feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. You want to do something, think of a plan to avoid the day you end up in the Joker’s hands, but your mind is clouded. You try to sit up, feeling the anxiety course through your body. You need to start planning how to escape the Joker, how to live away from the Waynes. You don’t have time for whatever’s happening to you. Your trembling hand goes to search for the comics under your pillow, but it freezes when you hear someone knock on the door and then open it without waiting for an answer.

You turn to look at the entrance, finding Tim there, clearly exhausted. Your hands shift to clutch the sheets, gripping them tightly as you see Tim in his Red Robin suit standing in front of you.

Tim’s had a rough few days. He hasn’t slept well due to a case, and there’s a small crisis at Wayne Enterprises. He almost went without a shower for more than a week, he was close to breaking his own record. The lack of sleep made his instincts and everything he’s learned as a Robin falter. Even so, he insisted on going out tonight to look for clues. He got dressed and ready to leave with the others, and with a brain half-asleep, he didn’t realize something, or someone, was watching him as he was about to leave. Until he heard a noise that alerted him. By reflex, he turned to look and saw your smaller figure collide with a couch, then get up and keep running.

The sleep vanished in an instant, and on instinct, he ran after you, thinking about how he would convince you not to tell Bruce you’d seen him.

He opened the door without asking, just knocking out of courtesy, expecting to find you excited, shouting with joy at the discovery that your older brother was one of Gotham’s heroes. But instead, he saw you, breathing heavily, clutching the sheets tightly, crying.

You’ve always been sensitive, crying over the loss of your mother or because Bruce didn’t give you attention. He’d always agreed with Steph and Jason that you might be overreacting. Everyone in the family had lost someone, and it’s hard for Bruce to give more attention with so many kids and the mantle of Batman weighing on him. Even if you didn’t know the latest, you should be more patient. Besides, didn’t you have Damian keeping you company? And he was sure that at least once, you’d gone to the library with Babs…

Even though part of him thought you were exaggerating, the way you cried now, the way you trembled and avoided looking at him like he was a traitor, told him this time was different. And it made him feel something pressing inside of him.

He slowly approached the bed and sat next to you, studying you more carefully. You seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. He tried calling your name to get your attention, but you didn’t respond.

Tim quickly thought about how to calm you down. You weren’t quite in the middle of an anxiety attack yet, so he might be able to stop it from escalating. He scanned your room, searching for something that might help him hold you steady.

…

Has your room always been this… empty? For being the daughter of a model and a millionaire, one would expect your room to be full of toys and luxuries. But it’s almost bare. There are a few things visible: misshapen cushions with exposed threads, a blanket of mismatched colors, and some decorations hanging from the shelves and walls, arranged from the ugliest to the most beautiful.

For your luck, he manages to spot a small blue plush dog on a shelf. He quickly grabs it and forces it into your smaller, more fragile hands.

– Squeeze – He orders. You obey. Your mind, at some point, kept replaying the comic's drawings, where they abandoned you, where the same person in front of you did nothing.

– Breathe with me, at least once, breathe – Tim's voice reaches your ears. By instinct, you follow, tightening the plush toy even more in your hands. The images slowly fade from your mind, what you felt could’ve been worse begins to vanish, and your tearful gaze meets a pair of blue eyes looking back at you with concern.

Tim feels a small relief inside him that you didn’t end up in a full-blown panic attack, but he's still worried about you. Why did finding out it was Red Robin cause that reaction? Why, all of a sudden, aren’t you looking at him with pleading eyes wanting attention, but instead, avoiding his gaze? The silence between you two forms slowly, becoming more noticeable, until you wipe away your tears. You summon strength to look at him and break the silence with a voice firm but trembling slightly.

–I won’t tell anyone you’re Red Robin… I promise… you can leave now – You didn’t feel like explaining to Tim that you found a comic from the future, you weren’t even sure he would believe you, or if he would listen.

He, on the other hand, was shocked. Were you kicking him out of your room? Was this your reaction to finding out he's Red Robin? Did you not care? What's wrong with you? He looked at you, still incredulous. Why were you acting like this all of a sudden? Or had you always been, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention to you? He replayed the events of the week in his mind, remembering that you once talked about going to buy comics, maybe like you tried to talk at dinner… dinner from… how long ago was that? He kept going over what he remembered, what could’ve triggered your near panic attack? Why weren’t you looking at him like before? And why, now that you did, was it with coldness and pain? Then it clicked. Maybe you heard his recent conversation with Jason? Both had mentioned what he talked about with Steph, how sometimes you cried too much and seemed exaggerated. Was that it? That was probably it, right? Maybe not the reason for your near anxiety crisis, but it was definitely why you wanted him out of your room. You didn’t want him to keep seeing you like this, did you? Well, he wasn’t the best at handling emotions, that was more Dick’s thing, but still, he couldn’t leave you emotionally constipated. They already had enough of that from Bruce, Jason, and Damian. So, he left your room, informed Bruce that he wouldn’t go out with them tonight, changed out of his suit into pajamas, and came back to your room. You looked at him confused. He didn’t blame you, he had never been close to you like this before, but now, he wanted to be. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that.

Thank God you took the opportunity when Tim left to move the comics. You couldn’t do much, just toss them under your bed. You were hoping he wouldn’t look there now that it seemed he wanted to sleep in your room. He lay next to you, and you gave him his space. You both stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until he finally decided to break it.

–Are you okay?–

It was a simple question, short and direct, yet you just stared at the ceiling. Thinking about his question and everything else.

Some comics, from who knows where, revealed to you that this isn’t your biological family, that they’re also Gotham’s vigilantes, and that for a girl they’d known for only a few months, they abandoned you; To the daughter who, even if not by blood, had been part of the family all its life

Should you have seen it coming? Yes. Ever since you can remember, no one in this family has really worried about you, paid attention to you, or even looked at you. No parent events, no movie nights, nothing. You don’t have memories of anyone except Alfred giving you ice cream for every good grade on your tests.

Why were they different with you? More than half of the family doesn’t share blood, yet they still love and care for each other. Couldn’t you get just a little bit of that affection? What was different?

Was it because you took the place of your mother’s true daughter? Maybe they always felt like you didn’t belong, like you weren’t what they expected.

Serelith was the original, the real one. That’s why she earned their affection. That’s why everyone else cares about her. Not even your brothers… No, not even Bruce’s adopted sons or his two biological children lied. Only you. You were the only one who entered the family through a lie you never even told.

They’re detectives. Even if they don’t say anything or investigate, their instincts probably tell them you’re not who you’re supposed to be…

And now that you’ve confirmed the comics are real, it means you’re destined to suffer at the hands of the Joker.

In the comics, he finds out about Bruce’s “beloved” daughters, the only ones in the family who aren’t vigilantes, and kidnaps both of you. The family quickly comes up with a plan to search for you… to search for her. Bruce and the others completely forget you exist, leaving you at the mercy of one of Gotham’s worst criminals.

Were you okay? …No, you weren’t. Not while you remained in this family that doesn’t really feel like yours. What you want most now is to get out of here, for the Joker to never see you as Batman’s daughter, for no one to see you at all, until you’re far from where you never belonged. Only then would you be okay. But for now…

– Yeah, I’m fine – you answered, sounding a little too calm for Tim’s liking. He just sighed beside you and turned to face the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at you. Tomorrow, he’d make sure to finish the case and the situation at Wayne Enterprises as fast as possible, so he could focus entirely on figuring out what was going on with you. – Good night – Tim said as he tried to fall asleep. – Good night – you answered, turning your back to him as well, already thinking about how you’d make a plan tomorrow to leave this place as soon as possible.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I had trouble concentrating and translating it into English. I’ll try to update this fic every Friday, or at least every two weeks if time allows. If for some reason I can’t stick to the two-week schedule (which probably means I have writer’s block and won’t be writing for a while), I’ll let you know. I’ll probably update on Ao3 first because the fanfic was originally written in my native language, and I’m posting everything there in its original form, in case anyone wants to check it out. On another note, I wonder if anyone will notice that the section dividers are different, one has Batfam and Philomel images in the background, and the other is empty…

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[yuyuzi-ling]

❝DOCTOR, I'M CHASIN' A GHOST, DO I LOOK LIKE HIM?❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

You were in the same corner as always, sitting by the desk, your feet dangling slightly from the seat, elbows resting on the wooden surface, an open notebook in front of you and a pencil between your fingers. You weren’t writing at that moment. Just reading. One of the many pages you seemed to have copied and rewritten over and over again.

Medical records. Detailed, meticulous, with personal notes and small fragments of thoughts the patients themselves had said out loud without realizing it. Those were your favorites. You liked jotting down those details, even when they were repetitive or confusing. Masashi always said that was a good thing, that using boredom for something “productive” was a valuable habit for someone like you.

Back then, you almost laughed in his face. Not out of any personal contempt, really, it just struck you as funny, ironic, that Masashi, of all people, would talk about productivity like he actually knew what it meant.

Sometimes you wondered if he even understood what work really was. You loved him, of course you did. After all, he had saved you, given you a purpose, a name, a pretty room, white coats with sleeves that were just a little too long. But you also knew that, no matter how fond you were of him, he was downright hopeless at certain things.

If anyone was shouldering the responsibility in that clinic, it was you. Always you. The one who organized the files, the one who remembered to clean the instruments, the one who had to go fetch him because he forgot he had surgery scheduled with a new patient. The worst part wasn’t his messiness—it was the way he reacted when you tried to point out the problem. He laughed. Apologized. Sometimes he picked you up and spun you around like an angry little pet. “Oh, my grumpy little doctor, you scold me more than my supervisor in med school,” he’d say, as if that were somehow endearing.

You were grateful to be here, away from him. At least for now. Sometimes it was just too exhausting to deal with his pleas. You supposed it was because Masashi had a very peculiar way of asking you for things. They weren’t orders. He never phrased them that way. It was more like… “Wouldn’t you like to wear this for me?” or “Wouldn’t it be nice if you sat on my lap while I read your reports?” And since it wasn’t an order, it wasn’t that easy to say no. He asked with that gentle voice, like it was for your own good.

You, of course, wanted to do things right. You wanted him to be happy.

Even with Charlotte around, a girl who was brilliant, efficient, and didn’t have the annoying habit of talking in her sleep, Masashi still kept chasing after you to accompany him in things that had absolutely no clinical purpose. As if only you could meet his ridiculously specific standards for companionship. He said Charlotte was “too artificial.” That he could actually talk with you. That your complaints were endearing.

Charlotte was useful, sure, but she didn’t have a “soul,” he sometimes said. She lacked your charisma and sweetness. Masashi said it while laughing, but also a little too seriously. You, on the other hand, had a soul. And expression. And soft hands, he’d say.

You theorized that maybe that’s why Masashi preferred asking you to try on a new dress in front of the mirror, or to sit with him while he fed you like an ill infant. Sometimes he even held the spoon for you. You always said you could do it yourself, but he insisted you’d get tired.

It was obvious he cared about you deeply. You knew it because he said things like, “Can you smile a little more? My head hurts when you look sad.” And you didn’t want him to hurt. So you smiled, even if it didn’t always come out naturally. He noticed, of course. But he’d say you’d look beautiful when you smiled for real.

Still, you thought it would be wonderful if he put that same level of care and enthusiasm into his work as a doctor. He had so much talent. You’d seen him operate. When he focused, he was brilliant. But it was rare. Lately, he seemed far more preoccupied with you than with his patients. Sometimes you worried he wasn’t sleeping well because of you.

Once again, all you truly wished for was that he’d put that same effort into his medical duties. How many times had you had to remind him that scalpels don’t belong in drawers with pencils? Or that lab reports do not make good bookmarks? It frustrated you sometimes, how he didn’t seem to realize just how important he could be if he simply did what he was supposed to do.

But instead, he came looking for you to ask how you’d slept. Or to fix your hair with those combs he collected like they were family heirlooms. “You look so serious when you frown. It’s adorable,” he’d say. Adorable? What part of asking him for the fifth time to prep the operating room was supposed to be adorable?

But he said it with such affection that it felt rude to say no. Besides, who else would go through so much trouble just for you?

Still, there you were. Sitting with your feet dangling, going over a page full of names and symptoms, trying not to think about the fact that you kind of missed having to scold him.

Just a little. A very, very little.

You quickly straightened up in your seat when you saw Alfred entering your room silently, carrying a box of tissues and a set of fresh bedsheets. Not because anything was dirty, you hadn’t stained anything, or made a mess, or moved a single thing in all those days, months, but because he found it unbearable that your room felt so... inert.

Almost as if you were purposefully avoiding leaving any trace behind.

“Good afternoon, master Y/N.” He greeted in a soft voice.

You didn’t answer. You only lifted your head a few centimeters and gave the faintest nod, as if speaking would have been asking too much of you.

Alfred walked over to your desk. He began wiping the edges with a dry cloth, even though there wasn’t a speck of dust. He adjusted the pencils that were already perfectly aligned. He picked up a folded sheet of paper with a tiny butterfly drawn in the corner.

“You don’t have to do that.” You murmured suddenly, without looking at him.

Alfred gave a faint smile. “I assure you, this is part of my job, master Y/N.”

“There’s nothing to clean. I don’t make a mess. I don’t even use the desk. You can skip this room.”

“Impossible.” He replied with a slight bow of his head. “It would be a grave discourtesy to a resident of this house. Everyone has their space. And their space must be properly cared for.”

You shrank in on yourself a little more. Your shoulders dropped slightly, as if the mere presence of another person in your room made you uncomfortable. As if someone choosing to spend time with you was some sort of overdue obligation.

Alfred didn’t say it out loud, but he’d thought it before: she’s just like Master Bruce.

The way you withdrew. The silence that clung to you. The expression of someone who had accepted that they shouldn’t ask for anything, or need anything. Who believed that simply existing was already a burden to others.

It was the same look he’d seen on a little boy standing in front of two coffins, with an empty face and trembling hands doing their best not to reach out for comfort.

Only now, it was on the face of his daughter.

It was like watching time in reverse. As if the past had returned with a new face—but the same eyes.

And it hurt. He didn’t say it. He never would. But it hurt.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Alfred?” you said suddenly, your voice soft, seeking permission.

“Always. And there’s no need to be so formal with me, Master Y/N.”

“Why… do you help me?” You asked out of nowhere. It wasn’t a question laced with bitterness or sadness, and certainly not with scorn or hatred toward the butler.

It was a genuine question. You were simply curious about the strange and direct care Alfred always showed you. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this, you’d long since lost count of how many times you’d tried to make him stop, tried to let him know you didn’t need to be treated like someone who belonged to this family.

You can’t understand it. You thought you’d made it perfectly clear that your relationship with this person was strictly formal. You didn’t need him to clean anything in your room or help you with anything, no matter how small or insignificant. You had no power over the city, and you didn’t do anything like your other siblings.

You’re not useful in this house.

And you’re definitely not anyone in this family.

Alfred paused for a second, without lifting his head. He pretended to adjust the corner of a notebook.

“I do it because you live here.” He said with all the solemnity of a butler. But his voice was lower than usual—gentle, as if he were speaking to a small, frightened animal. “And because you deserve to be comfortable. It doesn’t matter if you don’t think you need help. Sometimes, it’s simply okay to receive it. After all, you’re family.”

You lowered your gaze. You didn’t argue. You just sighed, with a kind of childish resignation.

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him.

It was that you didn’t even know how to believe it in the first place.

Because the moment you show your true self… will Alfred really be able to look you in the eyes and say those same words? Gotham is no place for beings like you. This city, your own family, they would all deny your power, your purpose, your very existence and reason for being alive.

It’s painful, suffocating even, to think about what will happen if Bruce or anyone else in this house ever finds out about your powers. You don’t think they’d be capable of understanding. You had to find Masashi just to give meaning to everything you were, something to keep you sane and delay your inevitable collapse.

But was that enough? Was it really worth having that purpose at the cost of your innocence?

You can’t save yourself, so how do you still expect to save anyone else?

Alfred finished straightening the desk, crossed the room, cracked the window open to let in a bit of breeze, and then moved to check the wardrobe to make sure everything was in order. There was no need, of course. Every garment was folded as if no one had ever touched them.

“Would you like me to prepare something for tea?” He asked softly, pausing near the door. “Perhaps some vanilla cookies. Or a bit of fresh fruit.”

“I’m fine.” You murmured. “Thank you.”

You always said that. Always with that same awkward tone. As if being around him, or anyone else in this family, was somehow improper.

Alfred nodded. He didn’t press.

As he closed the door, he stopped in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob. He allowed himself a sigh.

Have I failed her too?

I failed Bruce… and now I’m failing his daughter?

Or is this family simply doomed to grow up believing they’re not allowed to ask for anything?

He knew Bruce was doing everything he could. That he was obsessed with that figure in the shadows, the nameless man who might still be out there, posing a threat to your safety while he remained free.

From the moment you arrived, you kept to the sidelines. Not out of rebellion, or visible pain, or even shyness. You simply acted like someone who was… passing through. As if it didn’t matter whether you got used to this place or not, because you weren’t planning to stay.

According to the files, you’d been through several families. None of them were especially terrible. No marks, no signs of neglect—just returns. The kind that never get recorded as damage, but leave scars on the soul. Families that “didn’t connect,” or “weren’t ready.” Families that got tired.

Alfred had read those reports on a night when Bruce couldn’t sleep. Because he couldn’t sleep either.

And yet… something didn’t sit right. Something felt artificial about the entire sequence of events. Alfred was far too old not to suspect when a story seemed too carefully designed to be harmless.

You… you knew it wasn’t true.

You had seen those documents by accident, stumbled across them by mistake. You flipped through those reports like they were silly stories someone else had written about your life.

You’d never been in any family at all. You don’t even think you’re capable of remembering your own mother.

Masashi had mentioned that he knew your mother. Apparently, they were close friends. Unfortunately, the woman died during childbirth, and poor Masashi took a couple of years to learn of your existence so he could help you.

Of course, there’s no reason for your newly discovered family to ever know about that.

Alfred knew Bruce felt guilty, for whatever you had been through and whatever uncertain future might still await you—even without knowing the details.

He understood.

Because he felt it too.

Maybe you would never see him as more than an old butler. Maybe you’d never understand why he changed your sheets every week or left a glass of warm water by your bed. But he would do it anyway.

Because you are part of this house.

Even if you didn’t believe it.

Master Bruce, he thought as he finally stepped out of the room, this time you won’t be able to postpone the conversation. She looks too much like her for you not to see it.

He closed the door carefully.

The tray remained on the table.

The cookies, untouched.

The tea, lukewarm.

You looked at the butler for a brief moment, then at the snack, a quiet gesture of goodwill. You lowered your gaze. You didn’t nod, didn’t refuse. You just went back to writing a note in your notebook, as if the conversation had never happened.

Eventually, Alfred would forget this conversation.

At least, that’s what you hoped.

Damian knew before the others. Not because Bruce told him first, but because he noticed.

The hushed voices between Alfred and his father. The long phone calls. The sealed file on the Batcomputer with restricted access. The closed-door meetings that not even Nightwing knew about. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together—not when you’d been trained by the League of Assassins.

A daughter.

A biological daughter.

Another one.

He said nothing for an entire day. He just thought about it.

He remembered his mother’s voice, sharp as a blade over tempered steel, repeating for years what he already knew: “You are the only son of Bruce Wayne. The rightful one. The heir.”

But it wasn’t true.

Now there was another.

A blood daughter.

A sister.

Damian felt a strange stab in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy exactly. It was… disorder. Something was wrong with the world, and it needed to be corrected.

He met you three days later.

He expected something. A threat. A fraud. Someone who walked with the arrogance of someone claiming what wasn’t theirs.

But no.

He saw you sitting in the corner, feet dangling from the couch, a cup far too big between your hands. Your gaze still, almost vacant.

You didn’t try to speak to the others. You didn’t approach when he walked in. You didn’t even look at him properly.

Damian felt irritated by that. By your calm. By your weakness. By your silence.

You were… soft. Fragile. Kind, even. When you spoke, your voice was patient. Nothing like what he expected.

You didn’t challenge him.

You didn’t confront him.

You didn’t look at him like an equal.

She knows her place, Damian thought with satisfaction.

That was good. That was right. The world needed order.

And you weren’t part of his world. Not really.

He watched you for days. Always on the sidelines. Never interrupting. You didn’t train. You didn’t ask for missions. You didn’t even complain when the others ignored or interrupted you. Not a grimace. Not a single unnecessary word.

You weren’t useful, but at least you knew you weren’t.

Damian clung to that idea tightly. He needed to believe it.

Not necessarily because he hated you. Not yet.

If you weren’t a threat to his family, then there was no need to eliminate you.

Only to keep an eye on you.

Sometimes he found you alone, reading medical reports or staring out the window. You always pulled away when someone entered. Including him.

That bothered him, too.

Not because he wanted to talk to you. Not because you wanted to talk to him. But because you were supposed to be his sister. Blood. And yet you slipped away like you weren’t.

He convinced himself that it was fine. That it was for the best. That you knew your place. That he, as the true son, the one meant to protect the legacy, would protect you, too.

Even if you were weak. Even if you didn’t deserve it.

Because now, you were part of this, too. And he wasn’t going to let anyone else touch what was already his— his family.

Not even you.

Damian couldn’t fully explain it. It was irritating. Exasperating.

The way you were always there, so quiet, so… out of place.

He had expected anger. Competition. A challenge. Something to prove you had the right to be under the same roof as him. But all he got was that damn look.

That look that held no fear, no defiance, not even a hint of submission.

Just… pity.

The same look he sometimes saw in civilians’ eyes when he returned from a mission covered in blood, before they recognized him as Robin. A blend of judgment and unwanted sympathy.

But from you, it was worse. Because you kept it to yourself. Barely looked at him, and still, you knew. As if you understood before he even spoke.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” He asked once. His voice low, barely a whisper.

It wasn’t a real question. It was meant to provoke.

You only looked at him from the floor, rubbing the arm he had twisted. “…Because you didn’t want to kill me.”

The answer froze him. Froze his chest and burned his ribs all at once.

What the hell did you mean by that?

You had said it in the same voice one would use to list a dosage, to recommend rest, professional. That’s what sickened him the most. That it sounded like you’d lived through it before. Someone yelling at you. Someone hitting you. Someone hurting you.

You just... accepted it.

"...It’s like you’ve dealt with tantrums before." He muttered later, alone in the training room, throwing his katana with such force that one ended up embedded in the steel wall.

Tantrums, he thought bitterly. You made him feel like a spoiled child, not the blood heir to the Assassin League’s throne he once was, not the son worthy of his father.

Still, no one said anything. No one took your side at that moment.

Not even Alfred.

As if everyone agreed. As if you had done something to deserve it.

And that sealed his idea.

You weren’t worthy. You weren’t strong. You weren’t useful. You had no training.

You had no instinct. You had no history. You were just... Bruce’s biological daughter.

That was enough.

Enough to be in his house. Enough for everyone to pretend they cared about you. Enough to take a seat at the table you hadn’t earned.

Damian didn’t want you in his house. He didn’t want you near, but he wasn’t going to let you go either.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want you. It wasn’t because you were his sister. Damian had already seen what the world does to the weak. If you were going to be so stupidly fragile, so pathetically useless, then he would handle it. He would watch you. He would decide what to do with you.

You were his responsibility. His burden.

His sister.

Later, when he recalls that first time he threw you to the ground, he realizes that what made him angriest was your emotional distance. You weren’t a victim. You didn’t cry. You didn’t run away. You didn’t even shake.

You just... waited for it to pass.

As if you already knew him. As if you knew that this too, over time, would heal.

The worst part was that, deep down, he was right.

Cassandra was never good with words.

Nor did she care to be.

She never considered them reliable. She saw them as disguises: fragile tools people used to hide, not to reveal themselves. She had learned from a very young age that lips could lie with elegance, but the body rarely knew how to do the same.

That’s why she didn’t need them.

That’s why she never relied on them to understand someone.

She preferred silence. The stillness between one breath and the next. The tremor in the fingers, the tension in the shoulders, the stiffness of a back, or the way someone avoided a glance. All of that spoke louder, with more sincerity, than any carefully crafted conversation.

With you, from the very first moment, everything was painfully clear.

No greetings or long introductions were necessary. Just a few seconds. Barely ten. That was all she needed to understand you.

You didn’t want to be there.

You didn’t want to talk.

You didn’t want company.

And the most obvious thing: you didn’t want her.

But she didn’t take it personally. It didn’t feel like a direct rejection. It was more like an old barrier, a resistance built with years of experience. A discomfort without a clear name, but dense, thick… as if you had been carrying a weariness for so long that you no longer knew how to let it go.

You were no stranger to the feeling of not fitting in.

She, who also understood that weight, decided not to push you. She didn’t force closeness. She didn’t try to sit next to you at the table, nor did she offer you forced conversations while you flipped through a book or ate in silence. She kept close, yes, but always on the periphery. She measured her steps. She guarded her presence like someone trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Because every time her footsteps got too close, you would tense up.

And that, though she tried not to admit it, hurt.

Not out of ego. Not because she felt rejected by you. What truly hurt her was seeing how that discomfort seemed more directed at yourself. As if being there, surrounded by people who wanted to accept you, was some kind of punishment you had to endure in silence.

Cassandra understood that. And decided she wouldn’t add her shadow to the pile. She wouldn’t be another burden, nor a presence that forced itself.

As the days passed, something started to change. Very little. Almost imperceptible, like the first hints of dawn after a long night.

Your eyes would follow her briefly. You lingered in the common spaces for a few seconds longer. Sometimes, you stayed in the living room, behind the couch, saying nothing, as if simply being near her was already an effort. A silent way of saying you wanted to belong, even if you didn’t know how.

As if you were trying to fit into a home you still found too painful to face directly.

Cassandra didn’t reproach you for it. But she noticed.

She observed how each of your attempts seemed to be born out of exhaustion. How your smiles seemed borrowed. How every word you spoke seemed to come from a corner of obligation, never from a genuine desire to be part of things.

You were forcing yourself to fit in.

That... that was what frustrated her. Not the fact that you kept your distance. Not your silence. Not your emotional awkwardness.

What infuriated her was the falseness of your effort. That lukewarm performance that tried to show affection, but only revealed your guilt. Or your fear.

Cassandra, who had spent her life deciphering these masks, couldn’t ignore it.

One night, she just couldn’t take it anymore.

She found you in the kitchen. You were holding your notebook tightly, pressed against your chest like it was an invisible armor. She had only gone to get a glass of water. She wasn’t expecting anything. She wasn’t looking for a conversation.

But you spoke.

"Do you like jasmine tea?"

It was a light phrase. Empty. Like a rope thrown into the abyss, with no intention of anyone grabbing it.

Cassandra, who had been watching you pretend a closeness you didn’t feel for weeks, responded without embellishment. Without softness.

"Why are you pretending you want to be here?"

The question wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t sharp. But it cut deeper than any scream.

And she knew it.

You didn’t answer. You just lowered your gaze, as if you’d been caught hurting someone, when in reality, you were just lost. Confused. Unable to fully understand why you were pretending something you didn’t even get yourself.

The silence that followed was thick, unbearable.

"You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to." She added. Her voice was still firm, but it no longer sounded like an accusation. "Just… stop pretending you’re trying. It’s fake. And you know it."

That’s what hurt the most.

Not your distance. Not your walls. What really stung was your insistence on faking an affection you didn’t feel. That small lie, repeated in every gesture, every look, every awkward effort.

For Cassandra, who could recognize good intentions disguised as lies, it was the breaking point.

She didn’t speak to you again. For days, not a word, not a glance, not a greeting. Nothing.

If she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t remember looking at you the same way after that.

Cassandra didn’t hate you.

It wasn’t hatred.

It was incomprehension.

It was helplessness in the face of your silent pain and your determination to keep pretending you wanted to be a part of it, even though every action screamed the opposite.

What bothered her the most… was that she still wished you would try for real.

But she did the right thing. She repeated that to herself many times.

You, on your part, never sought her again. There were no more words directed at her. Not even a glance, not even one of those tense sighs you used to let out when her presence overwhelmed you. You became a shadow that avoided hers. You slipped through the house as if she were a presence that hurt you.

In a cruel irony, that hurt even more.

Cassandra clung to the idea that she had done the right thing. That telling the truth, even if it was brutal, was better than continuing to feed a comfortable lie. That at least now you were honest. That you no longer pretended you wanted to be close.

Clearly, you didn’t want her company. Clearly, you couldn’t stand her. Clearly, you had stopped pretending.

So… why didn’t it feel better?

Why did she wake up in a foul mood? Why, when she saw you walking down the halls with your head down and your steps measured like you were an intruder in your own home, did she feel a twinge of frustration she couldn’t shake off?

Why did she keep watching you in the room, alone, hugging that notebook like it was an excuse to exist, her eyes lost in a dead point... and filled with rage?

It wasn’t at you.

She had already resigned herself to your presence. To the way you didn’t truly be there. To your absences even when you were right in front of her.

The rage was with herself.

With that part of her that kept waiting. That wished, at least once, you would turn around. That you would look at her. That you would say something real. That you would make that rejection, at least, feel personal. That it would hurt for the right reasons.

Because before, you used to pretend you wanted to stay.

That hurt.

But now, she couldn’t even have that.

Now, you were a wall.

Cassandra knew she should feel at peace with it.

She should.

Because she hadn’t pressured you. She hadn’t insisted. She hadn’t become a burden. She had done what was supposed to be right: leaving you in peace.

But every time she saw you interact with others in the same distant way, every time you disappeared for hours, every time you avoided any emotional connection as if breathing out loud hurt, she felt something inside her grow heavier.

Sharper.

It wasn’t guilt. Not like what others felt.

It was something else. A dull premonition. Like her intuition, the one that always guided her with such precision, was telling her that the wall was no longer just yours.

That now she was on the other side, too. That she had helped build it. That she, too, hid behind it.

Because it hurt.

Because she didn’t know how to face the pain with words.

So, she did the only thing she knew how to do: she ignored it.

Or at least pretended she could.

She told herself that it was just a matter of time. That you would eventually open up. That you couldn’t stay alone forever. That one day you would sit with them, without fear. That maybe, just maybe, you’d look at her again without that shadow in your eyes.

That one day, you would speak… with truth.

She would be there, waiting.

Because she did the right thing.

Right?

Right?

Even if now, for the first time, she no longer knew how to read you.

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[yuyuzi-ling]

❝OH DOCTOR, THAT’S TOO HONEST! THEN PRETEND YOU DON’T HEAR ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

Gotham was a charming city.

Not for its architecture, nor its people, never its people, but for what it represented: a machine of constant pain, unpredictable, volatile. A city where you could do something truly filthy and, if you did it with the right smile, you didn’t just walk away unscathed, you walked away applauded. Gotham was charming because it suffered.

And suffering was the only honest thing humanity had left.

Masashi leaned back in the chair of his suite, one leg crossed over the other as he observed the city through the window of the building where he had temporarily settled, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. Sirens, screams, flashing lights, helicopters flying overhead.

"Like an infected wound." He thought, with something that resembled a smile.

Gotham was a city screaming for help in every language possible, but its so-called heroes didn’t know how to do anything but slap band-aids over a gaping throat.

What a waste of time.

What annoyed him were the parasites who wanted to cleanse it. Vigilantes, justice seekers, heroes. That obsession with fixing, restoring, healing. Such absurd arrogance. Gotham was beautiful precisely because it couldn’t be fixed. Trying only deepened its fractures.

The vigilantes were a plague. Not because of what they represented—morality, hope, the rigidity of what's “right”—but because of how useless they were to those who truly wanted to build something. Their existence forced Masashi to look over his shoulder more than he liked.

It wasn’t that he feared them.

They bored him.

They interfered with his research, his work. And to him, that translated into contempt.

They almost discovered him once. Just once. And that was enough to make important decisions.

That was how he sent you away.

Y/N.

His dear one. His.

The first time he saw you, he didn’t think you were special. Just another child. Small, quiet, with that broken, lost look in your eyes that made others uncomfortable. But not him.

Masashi was fascinated by it.

You were a broken child, empty, but useful. Obedient, starving for purpose. Masashi liked that about you. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t disobey, and you looked at him as if he held all the answers. For someone like Masashi, it was almost perfect.

Then he knew. The child he had been molding all this time wasn’t just any child, you were Bruce Wayne’s daughter.

Disgust hit instantly.

Not toward you. Never toward you.

His emotions turned to annoyance. Then anger. Then a dense silence that lasted for weeks. How could someone like him have a daughter without knowing it? A part of Masashi laughed. Another part seethed. Not because of the revelation itself, but because it meant he would have to send you away.

The very existence of Bruce Wayne made him sick. And now he had to send you —his little girl, his—to that man, to someone else.

That thing he had so carefully shaped.

You weren’t Bruce’s.

You belonged to Masashi. You were his.

Masashi had wanted to laugh. Maybe hit something. Maybe both.

But in the end, he only looked at you. At that little broken thing that clung to her threads and needles as if they were her only identity. So calm. So eager to serve. So hungry for purpose. And so absolutely his.

That was when he saw it clearly.

Masashi traced a finger along the rim of his porcelain teacup. Still warm—white tea with mint. Gotham didn’t know how to appreciate subtle flavors, but he did. Just like he appreciated you.

You left because he told you to. Because you trusted him. Because you still believed he wanted what was best for you.

And he did.

But what was best for you was to return to your place, by his side.

Masashi turned his wrist and opened a folder on the table. Matte-printed photographs, hacked reports, camera captures: you entered and exited the least-used wing of the mansion, avoiding contact. Slipping through like a ghost.

No one suspected. Not even your own father.

What a fascinating family. So powerful, yet so blind. So full of justice and so incapable of seeing the rot in their own actions.

Masashi gently touched one of the photos. You had just left a pharmacy with a bag in hand. Your face was partially covered by a scarf, but he recognized the stiffness in your shoulders. That restrained expression of someone hurting from the inside out.

You were desperate.

And he knew it perfectly. His poor, sweet Y/N, suffocating and hopeless from not being able to use your powers. Not being able to feel alive must be horrible, right?

Because no one but Masashi could understand you, no one else could interpret your powers. Especially not your family of heroes.

Sending you to Gotham was risky, yes, but brilliant. If Batman discovered something, he’d be distracted. If not, you’d collapse on your own. You’d be forgotten, left aside, just another child without skills or value.

And when that happened, when abandonment took root, when your need to stitch, to heal, to feel useful became unbearable—then you’d return. Crawling if you had to. Crying if it came to that.

Because again, the pieces fit together with beautiful precision.

He watched you for so long. At first, you were just a lost child, broken, desperate for purpose. But when your powers blossomed—when those grotesquely perfect healing techniques emerged, with pain, with blood, and with that childish sense of “helping”—Masashi understood something deeper: he could mold you. Give you purpose. Make you functional. Dependent.

And you… you obeyed him. Every order. Every correction. Even when it hurt. Even when you cried. Even when you laughed. You clung to him with a blind faith that almost resembled absolute devotion. Blind. Perfect.

He made you feel useful. And that was all you needed to stay.

Now you were in Gotham. Surrounded by people who didn’t understand you, who didn’t see your power, who didn’t know you had a purpose. Who would make you feel invisible. Useless. Forgotten. It was perfect. Eventually, you would need to use your ability. You’d crave it. It would consume you. Because your worth, your whole life, depended on it. And when you used it wrong, when you hurt others thinking you were helping, when your hands left scars instead of cures…

Then you could start to break.

Masashi allowed himself a calm smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring it.

He still remembered when you used to scold him with your brows furrowed because he wasn’t “following protocol.” It was funny because you’d puff your cheeks like you were playing at being an adult. A little girl pretending to be serious. And still, so precise. So dedicated. So… his.

“It’s adorable.” He murmured to himself with mocking tenderness, intertwining his fingers with surgical care. “That thought of yours... believing you’re saving lives. Thinking that makes you good. Thinking you're in control.”

He found it endearing. Touching, even. And he couldn’t wait to see you crumble when you realized it was all a lie.

That you never had a choice.

That you weren’t even a complete person.

Just a weapon.

His weapon.

His, again.

Masashi smiled, almost fondly.

Gotham was charming, yes.

But even more charming was how it devoured its own.

And you, his sweet Y/N, were about to be devoured.

Masashi wanted this moment etched in your mind. He had sent you to Gotham so you would remember him.

And it was time to come for you.

Masashi knew he would go after you.

Not because you were ready.

But because you would think you were.

Because that was the perfect moment. When you believe you’re making a choice, when you think you’re choosing—that’s when the success of a mold is truly tested. Not when someone obeys out of fear. Not when someone obeys out of need.

But when they believe they obey by their own will.

And he had worked toward that all along. That was the goal. Not to break you with force, but to make you collapse from within and still look at him with devotion.

Like a dog rescued from a burning house running into the arms of the man who set it on fire.

Masashi could wait for you. He knew you’d come. Maybe with wounds. Maybe with tears. Maybe covered in blood.

But you’d come.

Because no one else would understand what you’d done. No one would know why it hurt so much not to help. No one would see your scars as acts of love.

Only him.

The thought made him smile.

Not because he needed you.

Masashi didn’t need anything from you. Not your affection. Not your voice. Not your gratitude. He already owned you. Every part of you. Every decision. Every thought.

But if you returned.

If you crossed that door on your own, no orders, no chains, no begging...

Then it would be real.

His masterpiece would be complete.

And you... you would think you had chosen him.

“Come for me, Y/N.” He whispered into the darkness of his study, eyes fixed on the monitor where your trembling silhouette exited a pharmacy, alone. “Do it yourself.”

“Make me real.”

Because if you chose him, if your voice called for him, if your hands touched him like it was right...

Then there’d be no denying the truth.

You weren’t his victim.

You were his.

Because nothing is sweeter to a master than a pet who returns by her own will.

The trip back felt longer than it really was.

Maybe it was the accumulated exhaustion. Or maybe it was the anticipation. Because Duke had been waiting weeks, if not months, for this moment. And not just to return home, to his room, to his city. This time was different. This time, he was coming back with a purpose he hadn’t anticipated.

The mission was only supposed to last a couple of weeks. A request for international aid, evacuation, containment, the usual. Just one of many favors extended to allied cities when they couldn’t handle an outbreak, a disaster, or a social crisis on their own. But bureaucratic delays, unstable weather, and an unexpected surge of meta-human activity in Eastern Europe turned his short assignment into a long, tense stretch, where every day felt like a forced extension of the last.

Still, even in the middle of the chaos—even when the radio failed, even when the reports mentioned missing civilians, even when he had to sleep in makeshift shelters beneath collapsed structures—he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.

The news had come with the kind of simplicity that important things often have when said by someone who doesn’t understand their weight.

“We have a new sister. She lives with us now.”

It was a message from Dick, short and without context, as if he were announcing a grocery run. Duke read it three times before reacting. First he frowned. Then he blinked. After that, he simply froze, as if waiting for the phone to buzz again—this time with a joke, a clarification, an explanation. Nothing came.

He stared at the screen. His distorted reflection in the glass, marked by dark circles and raised eyebrows.

A new sister. Just like that.

And technically, it wasn’t like he didn’t already have sisters. Cassandra, Stephanie, even Barbara, if you counted the way everyone spoke of her with such casual closeness. But none of them had joined the family from scratch. None had been a younger sister in the truest sense. They had all come with their own traumas, their own broken pasts, their visible (or invisible) scars.

But you… you were different.

Young. Almost Damian’s age, they told him. You had no training. You weren’t a vigilante. You hadn’t been rescued from a criminal organization or a violent past, and you didn’t seem to be connected to the usual madness that followed the family. You were just… there. As if you'd been left on the doorstep and Bruce had simply said, “It’s fine. She stays.”

At first, that idea confused him. What kind of girl ends up living with Bruce Wayne? What were the adoption criteria now? Where was the tragic backstory? The loss? The dramatic turning point?

But then he thought it through. And he started to feel excited.

Because for the first time, maybe they had a sister who hadn’t been broken before arriving. Someone who wouldn’t look at them with the tired eyes of someone who had already lost everything. Someone who could learn to love them, not as fellow soldiers or fractured figures to fear or admire, but simply as brothers.

He promised himself he’d get it right with you. He’d introduce himself with a smile, maybe a gift. He’d apologize for not being there from the beginning, but do everything he could to catch up. He even began making a mental list of things he could bring you: books, candy, a stuffed animal if you were very young. Would you like music? Comics? Did you have a favorite character? Favorite colors?

During one of his transfers, he took out his phone and texted Tim. Just to be sure.

“Hey. What do you think our new sister might like? Her name was Y/N, right?”

The reply took a while. Long enough for unease to creep in.

Finally, Tim answered:

“Who? Y/N? I don’t know… I think anything’s fine.”

Duke blinked. Pressed his lips together. Texted again:

“What does she like to do? Colors? Books, movies, music, anything?”

The silence lasted even longer this time.

Until the response came:

“She doesn’t bother anyone. She’s quiet. Doesn’t cause problems. Give her anything, she’ll probably be fine.”

And that’s when Duke felt it, an unexpected sting.

Not jealousy. Not annoyance. Something deeper. Colder.

Concern.

Because that wasn’t a description. It wasn’t a thoughtful answer. It was what someone says when they don’t actually know. It was what people say about someone they’ve barely looked at.

And it didn’t make sense. If you’d been living in the manor for so long, how was it possible that no one knew anything concrete? No hobbies? No funny stories? No quirks? A weird phrase? Something?

He thought about how everyone talked about Damian. Or Cass. Even Jason. There was always something. There was always context. But with you, there was only a void.

And the more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he became. Not because it was odd, but because it forced him to ask a question he didn’t want to ask: What if they’ve been ignoring her?

When he got to Gotham, instead of heading straight to the manor, he stopped by a quiet café, sat by the window, pulled out his phone and started searching.

News. Rumors. Photos. Blogs. Anything.

Bruce Wayne adopting a girl, that kind of news should’ve been everywhere. A media bomb. The usual circus. But this time… nothing. Almost nothing at all.

And what little he found was worse than scandal: it was passive-aggressive criticism, veiled mockery. Cruel comments. “The bland new addition.” “Some random girl.” “Looks more like the help than a daughter.” Some headlines were more offensive, others simply dismissive. But they all agreed on one thing: you didn’t stand out.

You were invisible.

And that hurt. Not for him. For you.

Because to be defamed, at least someone has to be watching. But to have nothing… that means you’re completely disposable in the world’s eyes.

He wanted to believe it wasn’t true. Maybe it was part of a plan to protect you. Maybe you’d asked for privacy. Maybe the media just hadn’t caught a clear photo. But then he remembered Tim’s messages, the dry way he answered, the lack of stories, the absence of detail, of warmth.

And suddenly, the idea didn’t feel so far-fetched.

What if it wasn’t the media ignoring you?

What if everyone was?

How quiet, how invisible did you have to be for even the nosiest family in Gotham to be unable to describe you in more than five empty words?

That’s when he made his decision.

It wasn’t just excitement. It wasn’t simple curiosity. It was something bigger. A necessity.

He was going to get to know you. For real. With time, with patience, with intention. Not just as someone who lived under the same roof—but as his little sister.

Because if no one else had bothered to really see you, then he would.

And nothing, not distance, not lost time, not the silence that surrounded you, was going to change that.

Sure, maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. But Duke would make sure to truly see you. It was his duty and responsibility as your big brother.

One he would gladly accept.

Bruce wasn’t a stranger to insomnia. Or to cold coffee, misprinted reports scattered across his desk, or endless searches that led to nothing but empty streets and blurred faces. He had lived his whole life with those things. But that night—and many before it—he realized something was different. This time, he wasn’t just chasing a ghost. He was turning his back on someone real.

His daughter.

His daughter. The word still lodged in his chest, too large and too fragile to hold. Not out of shame, or doubt, but because of what it meant.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to act around you. He didn’t know what to say to you. He didn’t know how to look at you without feeling like he owed you a debt he would never be able to repay. Because you were there, in the mansion, under his roof, among his family… and he didn’t have a single memory with you. Nothing. Just paperwork. A DNA test. A young face in a photograph taken without care. A medical history that felt more empty than complete.

He didn’t have stories from when you were a child. He didn’t know if you had a favorite stuffed animal. If you liked to sleep with the lights on. If you were ever afraid of storms. If you had been sick and no one noticed. If someone had taught you how to read. He didn’t know if you liked hot chocolate or preferred tea. If you woke up early. If you were scared of bats.

He didn’t know anything.

And that destroyed him more than he was willing to admit.

He could pretend he was busy. That the city needed him. That the looming threat that had begun to stir overseas—that faceless, nameless shadow—was more urgent. And, in part, it was.

There was something out there. Something that moved with precision, that knew how to cover its tracks, that manipulated medical, financial, even governmental networks with a level of control he hadn’t seen in years. Something that had been right under his nose, and now was starting to knock at Gotham’s door.

It had started as a rumor. A clandestine medical operation with impossible results. Then a series of disappearances disguised as voluntary transfers. Patients who never returned. People who reappeared healed, yes, but with vacant expressions and wounds sealed in ways that defied logic. Then, an unsigned file. A lead that went nowhere. Just a face distorted by the digital fog of an old camera. No name. No fingerprint. No record in any country. Just a few dead doctors who, in hushed voices, had spoken a single word: him.

And every time Bruce took a step forward, something pushed him two steps back. Databases locked. Footage disappeared. Witnesses recanted. Someone was cleaning up the trail in real time. Someone extremely intelligent. Extremely meticulous. Extremely dangerous.

And still… that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was that Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you had spent years close to someone like that.

Because while the data on that man was a black hole, yours was, too. Every attempt to reconstruct your life led to a wall: medical records redacted, schools that didn’t exist, false addresses. Everything had been carefully erased. The only constant was a name, scribbled on one of the first files: the mother.

That woman.

Bruce clenched his jaw. Closed the file.

He didn’t like holding grudges. He’d learned that anger made him careless. But deep down, he couldn’t help the sting that rose every time he thought of her. Not for keeping him out of the equation. Not for denying him the chance to raise you as his daughter from the start. But for the danger she had put you in.

If your mother had just said something. A letter. A message. A signal. Bruce would’ve moved heaven and earth to protect you both. He’d done more for less. But no. Instead, you, his daughter, had reached him like a distant echo, like a consequence no one had bothered to explain fully.

And now, you were here. In the same house. Sleeping under the same roof. Eating at the same table. Walking through the same halls.

And he knew nothing about you.

Not even your favorite color.

All he knew was that you were quiet. That you never asked for anything. That you locked yourself in your room and avoided everyone. That your siblings treated you with the empty politeness people offer to a well-mannered stranger. That you didn’t complain. That you didn’t make noise.

And somehow… that was the worst part.

Because Bruce recognized that kind of silence. He had seen it before. In children trained to obey without speaking. In victims who had learned to make themselves invisible to survive. In himself, when he was a child and Gotham had torn everything away from him and the only thing he could control was his own silence.

He didn’t want you to be like that.

He didn’t want you to feel like a shadow in your own home.

But he couldn’t go to you. Not now. Not while that thing, that man, that something, was still out there, lurking from the shadows. He couldn’t risk getting distracted. He couldn’t promise you time and then fail you. He couldn’t say I’m here when every part of his mind was caught in that case without a face, without a voice, without a trail.

So he watched from afar.

Sometimes he heard your steps on the ground floor. Or saw you passing by on the security monitors. Sometimes his reports showed up neatly organized on his desk, someone had brought them, and he’d find a note in simple handwriting: Thank you for letting me stay here. No signature. Just that. Short. Calm.

Too calm.

And every time Bruce read those words, he swore he’d fix it. That he just needed time. He just needed to find that man. That ghost. Take him down. Stop him.

And then—

Then he’d give you every minute. He would learn everything about you. Ask how you liked your breakfast. Teach you what it meant to be part of a family. To fight, if you wanted. To defend yourself. He would tell you about your mother, about the Waynes, about the mistakes he’d made. He would tell you that you didn’t have to be useful to stay. That you didn’t have to be quiet to be loved. That you are his daughter, and that’s enough.

Bruce leaned over the files. Closed the notebook filled with nameless leads. Took a deep breath. He wanted to be with you. Wanted to sit beside you and ask how your day had been. See if you liked storybooks. Take you to the park. Help with your homework. Ask if you had a favorite friend. If you were afraid of the dark. If you wanted a bat-shaped nightlight.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not while that man, that someone, was still loose. Not while he didn’t know who he was. Not while he couldn’t guarantee that his daughter was completely safe.

Because this time, it wasn’t Robin. It wasn’t Nightwing. It wasn’t a vigilante.

You were just a child.

And Bruce swore he would do whatever it took to make sure you could stay that way.

Even if he had to hunt a ghost first.

But first…

First, he had to find that man.

First, he had to get him out of the way.

And then, with everything clean, everything quiet, with the shadows gone, he could finally be a father.

Someone better.

Someone you deserved.

After all, Bruce still had time to get to know his daughter.

And he would make sure of it. Personally.

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[yuyuzi-ling]

My take on the neglected spouse trope, but with a little spice. Short and to the point

Yandere Batman Shorts: Adorned In Pearls

Yandere Bruce Wayne x Neglected Wife Fem Reader x Yandere Batboys (platonic)

Tw: obsession, unhealthy relationship dynamic, power imbalance, time rewind, imprisonment (implied), death (beginning), and themes that should not be romanticized

“Put the jewels in the bag!” (Your name) didn’t even flinch when the intruder crudely held up his gun to her while she was in the kitchen. It seems her end was finally near at last. “Did you hear me?! Put your jewels in the bag!”

(Your name) calmly turned off the stove top while the intruder kept his voice raised. She had been working on breakfast for her ungrateful husband and her adopted children since they’d be back from patrol in a few hours. Alfred was in the Batcave which left her up here and vulnerable… not that they’d care.

“Let me turn off the stove so you don’t blow the place up if you shoot.” (Your name) calmly told him. She knew this would be a tragic end… and she looked forward to her suffering to end at last.

(Your name) unclasped the pearls from her neck and placed them in the burlap sack the burglar thrusted toward her with one hand. She then made her way to take off each piece of jewelry that was an empty gift from her husband. Even his mother’s ring he gave her for their opulent wedding.

“Code. Safe. Now.” The burglar demanded as he thrusted the gun in her chest.

“0219.” (Your name) calmly stated despite how terrifying the situation was. “It’s in the third room to the right.”

She could not get another word in before a searing pain filled her chest as a loud gunshot rung throughout the house. She glanced down at her chest at the bullet hole that was now through her chest cavity.

The burglar walked off while she sank to the floor in a heap. Her hands went to her phone to make a final call but… she knew no one from this house would answer. (Your name) was always an afterthought, and she believed she would be even in death.

So she dialed 911 and waited for the operator to answer. Her right hand was stained crimson as the viscous blood pooled around her like a grotesque blanket.

Once she heard the operated answer, (your name) cut them off, “There’s been a robber and murder at the Wayne manor.”

(Your name) then hung up and turned her gaze to the ceiling. If there was another life, she would be selfish and live for herself. She wouldn’t rot away like lettuce in the back of a fridge in this manor. No… she would have more respect for herself.

Breathe in… breathe out. She smiled in peace for the first time in years. She was finally free from this lonely nightmare she had been trapped in for nearly two decades. Maybe, she would finally deserve her chance to be loved as much as she loved back.

How was she to know the nightmare only just began?

.

.

.

(Your name) jolted awake, her wine glass nearly slipped from her hand from the sudden movement. A myriad of voices chattered in the opulent restaurant has her eyes glanced around the almost surreal scene.

This was the restaurant she had begged Bruce and the boys to come to for her birthday with her six years ago…

“ Mrs. Wayne, would you like another glass of water?” The familiar waiter came over with a pitiful expression that she had seared into her memory from all those years ago. The look almost every waiter gave her at any venue she went to.

“Actually, I’d like to order.” (Your name) smiled. “It’s my birthday… and I want to celebrate it for once.”

The waiter seemed surprised but happily took her order. This was the first time she had ordered rather than wait for hours for a family that wouldn’t come.

(Your name) smiled to herself, her gaze focused on the complementary wine glass that was brought to her by the wait staff. How sad was it that the stranger showed her more love than her own family?

She had a second chance… and she’d be damned if she wasted it.

.

.

.

After she had long left and enjoyed her meal, a dashing family of five hurriedly arrived to the restaurant.

Bruce Wayne looked slightly disheveled, but that didn’t take away from his charming good looks. The billionaire and his adopted sons hurriedly glanced around the restaurant for any sign of his wife and their mother. He knew she would be here… just like she always was that she waited for them.

They had all been given a second chance when they came home and found her small, lifeless body on the kitchen floor after patrol.

Never had they all cried so much as they cradled her cold, bloody form as they desperately tried to revive her. Each of them begged for another chance to love her properly.

Each of them had spent so much time finding the perfect gift to make up all the lost time up to her and to finally celebrate her birthday like a family… just like she always dreamed.

They had always kept their distance to keep her safe from their enemies. Yet they had instead created a giant misunderstanding. One that they all desperately needed to make up for.

“Do you think mother is still here? I hope she didn’t wait too long…” Damian muttered, his green eyes nervously searched for (your name)’s delicate form.

“She always waits for us. She loves us.” Dick reassured the others, yet they all knew it was more of a self reassurance. “She will be so happy…”

The wait staff seemed surprised but they did give the boys some glares.

“Jeez, what’s their problem?” Jason huffed as he put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t see her anywhere… he had gotten her a wonderful gift for once.

“I can look up her location.” Tim chimed in as he pulled out his phone. “She’s around, I’m sure.

It was Bruce who seemed to search the hardest for her. A bouquet of roses were clenched so hard in his fists that his knuckles turned white. He would make this all right again.

(Your name) was alive once more… and he would make sure she would never die or be hurt by anyone again. She’d be protected and cherished like she deserved.

“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Wayne left hours ago.”

The men all instantly deflated. She left? But she would always be here for hours for them… was there a possibility she returned in time too?

They all went back to the manor in haste. They wanted to celebrate her birthday with her… they wanted to celebrate so much with her. They wouldn’t let her be alone ever again.

.

.

.

(Your name) dipped her feet in the hot tub at the manor with a content sigh. Her lungs deeply inhaled the crisp night air with a dreamy sigh. This felt so peaceful. Why had she never celebrated her birthday like this before?

(Your name) didn’t even flinch when she heard the boys come home. Perhaps patrol ended early? It’s been so many years of being ignored that she hardly knew what went on in their lives.

She slipped the robe off and slid her swimsuit clad body into the comfortably hot water. Another sigh spilled through her lips, her muscles relaxed. This felt like heaven.

(Your name) jumped when Bruce suddenly slid the sliding door open with a loud whack. She was quick to cover her cleavage with her hands despite how this man was her legal husband.

“ Mr. Wayne? What are you doing here-“ Bruce was quick to close the distance and pull her into a hug. The muscular man shook like a leaf as he held her to him. His heart beats so fast, she swore it was about to burst.

“You’re alive… you’re okay…” (Your name) did a double take at his words. When did he ever care about her well-being?

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” There was no way he came back to the past too, right? Her original, neglectful husband would never hold her and bury his nose in her hair like this…

Yet here Bruce Wayne, her infamous billionaire, Playboy husband, was with his face borrowed into her skin. His nose deeply inhaled her scent like she was his favorite flower. He held her as if she was something precious, something he has never done in their two decades of marriage.

“What are you doing?” She asked, but he only held her tighter.

Bruce pulled back to study her face, is blue eyes were dark like a sea storm. His brows were furrowed in worry.

“Hugging my wife.”

A humorless chuckle bubbled from her chest. So now she was his wife? Since when has he treated her as such.

“Is this a joke?” She asked him despite how serious he looked. “I’m just a decorated house pet-“

Her eyes almost popped out of her head when he planted a searing kiss on her lips. A gasp escaped her as his tongue thrust its way into the cavern of her mouth and tasted every inch of it. His hands greedily grasped at her body.

“Wife… my wife.” Bruce whispered against her lips. “My beautiful wife.”

“Mister Wayne-“

“It’s Bruce.” His voice was authoritative as he cut her formalities off.

“…Bruce.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I want you. I want my wife.” (Your name) squealed when h got into the hot tub with her to hair with her. “It’s your birthday today…”

He… he knew her birthday?

“I didn’t think you ever noticed...” She muttered, but he pressed his forehead to hers.

“All these years, we thought we were keeping you safe by keeping a distance. How foolish I was.” Bruce sighed. “You’re safer in our arms, in my arms.”

(Your name) was speechless when he pulled a gift box from his breast pocket and opened it to reveal an exquisite pearl necklace.

“You deserve to be adorned in pearls and jewels. To be pampered by me.” Bruce didn’t give her the chance to move away as he clasped the necklace around her.

Despite its elegance, (your name) couldn’t help the dread that pulled in her stomach. She could not stop the feeling that this pearl necklace was nothing more than a magnificent collar.

“You look so beautiful in those pearls… they were my mother’s, you know.” Bruce hummed as he picked her up and placed her on the edge of the hot tub.

Bruce placed her robe back over her form.

“Let’s get changed and go celebrate your birthday properly with the boys. They really want to see their mother.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “and after that, I think you and I can finally make up for all the lost time.”

(Your name) felt a tear roll down her face that Bruce took as a tear of joy. Yet only she knew the truth.

She had believed she would escape and find her own happiness, now she realize she would never escape this gilded cage.