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So so sorry to my followers for my sudden disappearance 😭 omg
This year I have to take the national high school entrance examination, which is an extremely important point in my life so I decided to take a hiatus for a while. Sorry for the inconvenience, and I love you guys huhu
Hey so did you at least kiss the brick before you threw it at me? (no but actually The Ones Who Weren't There is so good!!! I'm so excited to see what comes next)
No but I did carve your head and took out the little ol’ you and tossed into another world full of monsters, again (this time is real ones)🥺
Jk, THANK YOU FOR READING OMG💙💙 also Im dead after Karma alnst–
I lowkey want to open/join in a discord server where it serves ideas and opinions from various people about my neglected!reader series because Im awfully on writer block (?)
Like, I have full of ideas and theories for future chapters but it’s too far off and the time hasn’t come yet. Im being completely idealess for the continuation of the latest chapter that slowly entering alnst phase like PLEASE ALIEN STAGE IS A COMPLEX STORYLINE 🥀💔
For you asking why I chose ALNST for the crossover if it’s too hard to write, it’s because the inspiration fic I mentioned before. Familiar vibe and stuff, Im more comfortable with writing something I like.
SO PLEASE SUGGEST ME OR RANTING ABOUT YOUR THEORIES AS WELL FOR ALNST THROUGH INBOX OR ANYWHERE IDC BECAUSE I WOULD HAPPY TO RECEIVE IT‼️
And considering a discord server or recommend me one thank you🥺
Also, everyone who asked for taglist dw if I don’t reply because Im quite lazy to answer each one but yall will get tagged:) but have to wait for idk how long but yeah, next chapter won’t come out soon
[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>
✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt
Again, this is part two for the earlier post SO READ THE FIRST PART FIRST, UP YOU GO🧑🧑🧒🧒🧑🧑🧒🧒
The low murmur of keyboards and coffee machines faded into static the moment the newsroom screen flared to life.
Dick, now just another name on an HR payroll in Blüdhaven’s safer corners at day—was elbow-deep in quarterly reports when his coworker’s voice slithered through the haze of workday monotony.
“God, Gotham’s a cesspool. Did you see the news? Gala turned massacre. Whole damn city’s cursed—wait, isn’t that your sibling?”
The air collapsed.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Like rebooting a jammed system. His pen dropped, clattering loudly against the laminate desk, but it sounded like it came from underwater. A dull echo. The noise of a world beginning to warp.
He turned to the TV.
The news chyron bled across the bottom of the screen:
“BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found After Gotham Gala Massacre. Brain Removed.”
His eyes snagged on the footage.
A stretcher.
A body under a black tarp.
Boots. Flashbulbs. Officers shouting.
Plastic gloves smeared with something dark and glistening.
“That can’t be—no. No. No, no, no—”
Not you.
Not you.
His chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. He was shaking and didn’t even know it. The room swayed. His vision tunneled. Somewhere behind his ribs, a war began—a fight between every breath he couldn’t take and every scream he wouldn’t let loose.
The screen cut to a slow replay: the tarp lifting. A gasp from the bystanders. The gloved hand reached into the body bag—just for a second. A sliver of exposed jaw. Pale skin. Bloodless. Too bloodless.
The top of the skull—
Gone.
A void where a mind should be.
And Dick’s mind broke open with it.
He gasped—violently—as if the TV had just punched air out of his lungs. His hands gripped the sides of the desk. The wood under his fingers warped, melted into the phantom feeling of a gala wineglass. The memory struck like lightning: your laugh under chandeliers, the rustle of your formal wear, the way you’d said, “Bruce is impossible, but he backed out. I’m handling the gala instead—wish me luck, Dickie.”
The memory shattered into blood.
He staggered backward. A chair toppled. Someone called his name but it didn’t reach him.
“They got it wrong. The press—always fast, always messy. It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. That’s not you. That’s not you, that’s not–”
But it was the coat.
The color.
The cufflink—his cufflink, one he’d gifted you last winter, gold and black and one of a kind.
And that’s when the spiral began.
It wasn’t just horror. It was a fracture.
Denial wasn’t a wall—it was a flood, tearing through every cell in his body.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in on itself. His vision pixelated. He clawed at his tie like it was a noose, a foreign object choking him.
“They’re wrong. You’re alive. You’re probably pissed Bruce bailed on the gala and now you’re hiding somewhere, sipping scotch, sulking over bad press. You always hated the spotlight—this is a prank. A test. Maybe Jason’s idea of a sick joke. Or Scarecrow—maybe this is a fear toxin flashback. Yes. Yes. That’s all it is.”
You weren’t-
…missing a brain.
His heartbeat thundered so loud he didn’t notice he was crying until a drop fell onto the back of his hand.
He was halfway out the office before anyone could stop him, breath ragged, lips moving to a name he didn’t dare say aloud.
Not yet.
Not until he could prove the universe wrong.
Because if that body was you–
If your eyes would never open again–
If someone had reached into your skull and stolen the part that made you you–
He wasn’t just going to mourn.
He was going to burn Gotham to the ground to find the monster that did it.
──── ୨୧ ────
Jason had been close.
The sensor tripped—a flicker of red on his gauntlet HUD. Hidden panic clenched his gut, but he was already on the bike. Already tearing through Gotham’s streets like a bullet ripped from the barrel. He’d always told you to keep it low profile, but you insisted on finishing Bruce’s gala.
Always trying to hold the damn family together, even when it splintered.
He was close.
But never fast enough.
When he got there, Crime Alley was already swarming. Flashing red and blue strobed across the soot-stained brick, casting monstrous shadows down the corridor of Gotham’s most cursed street. It looked like a wound split open in the city’s ribs. Blood-slick asphalt. Sirens howling like eulogies.
He ditched the bike two blocks away.
Walked the rest of the distance like a man descending into his own grave.
Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t ask permission.
He walked past two rookie cops. Shaking. Crying. One vomiting against the side of the ambulance, hands braced on his knees, the other whispering frantically into his wrist mic, “It’s like a butcher shop… Jesus Christ…”
He stepped inside.
And the smell hit first.
Iron. Burnt ozone. Copper. And something rotted.
The crime scene was centered under the crooked old lamppost—half-lit, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it should expose or mercy-dim what lay beneath.
He saw drag marks. Two trails. Long. Panicked.
Someone had fought here. Desperately.
The sidewalk bore impact cracks, as if something—or someone—had been slammed into it, again and again.
The blood trail was wide.
Wide and dark and too much.
The stench nearly took him to his knees.
He didn’t throw up.
Didn’t breathe.
He just moved, slow, controlled, rage tightening in every joint, his gun already drawn because this wasn’t a rescue anymore. This was a fucking hunt.
Then he saw it. The ping zone. Right at the mouth of the alley.
Your last stand.
Your watch was there–the screen cracked, but the signal light was still blinking—pathetically, like it didn’t understand it had failed.
“No.”
His voice rasped, caught between fury and a breaking sob he would never admit to.
“You were supposed to ping me. You did. I came. I was here—I WAS FUCKING HERE.”
He crouched beside the watch, blood squelching under his boots. One gloved hand hovered over it—shaking.
There was no body.
Only pieces.
Pieces.
Not enough to say for certain. Not enough to kill hope.
But the blood told him the truth anyway. The kind of blood loss no one walks away from.
And the skull–God, your skull.
Or what was left of one.
The top of the cranium was gone—scooped out like a jack-o’-lantern.
Blood seeped around it, pooling under where the brain should have been.
But there was nothing.
Nothing inside.
They didn’t just kill you.
They desecrated you.
This wasn’t a crime.
It was a statement.
Jason’s throat closed around a scream he didn’t let out. Not here. Not in front of these bastards who’d arrived too late. Not in front of the blinking camera feeds. Not where someone might see the Jason Todd on his knees, shaking like a child and staring at a broken watch like it was a headstone.
“I should’ve been faster.”
The guilt gnawed instantly.
He thought of Dick—what this would do to him.
Of Bruce—how he’d fold it into another stoic silence.
Of himself—and how he wouldn’t survive this. Not again. Not you.
You were his tether. The one person who still called him “Jay” like it didn’t taste like ash. The one who gave him shit about overkill, but still patched his wounds when he came back bloodied.
Now there was nothing.
No you.
No face to hold onto. No soft body to bury.
Just the red blinking light.
And blood.
So much blood.
Jason stood slowly. Every movement hurt.
He holstered the gun. But not the rage.
“I’m gonna find them,” he whispered.
“I’m gonna find whoever did this. I’m gonna look them in the eye. And I’m gonna carve their fucking names into the devil’s guest list.”
Behind him, the lamplight flickered once, then went out completely.
Because someone had taken his tether to humanity—
And now?
He had nothing left to lose.
──── ୨୧ ────
Wayne Manor had gone silent for the night.
No operatic soundtrack echoing from the study. No clink of decanter glass. Just the whisper of firelight crackling in the hearth, and the rustle of papers as Bruce Wayne read through an intelligence report that had been sitting unopened for three days.
He hadn’t attended the gala.
You did.
And instead…
His phone rang.
The line that never rang unless it was bad.
Worse than bad.
Bruce froze.
His hand hovered over the encrypted comm.
Then it rang again.
He picked up.
“Wayne.”
The voice on the other end was tight. Measured.
GCPD.
“We… Mr. Wayne, we need you to come to Crime Alley.”
He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t move.
“There’s been… an incident. We believe your legal signature may be required to identify… remains. It’s your ward. We found credentials. We—please, sir.”
Bruce said nothing.
He hung up.
He didn’t throw the phone. Didn’t scream.
Just stood.
Rigid. Straight-backed. Like a soldier receiving orders from a war he thought was long over.
Crime Alley had never changed.
Still dark. Still narrow. Still reeking of old tragedy and new ones waiting to happen.
The Batmobile didn’t come. Bruce Wayne arrived alone, in a nondescript black town car. His coat sharp. Face pale. Movements exact.
He walked through the barricade tape, not even looking at the officers who parted for him like water.
Some recognized him. Some averted their eyes.
Most said nothing.
One detective—a younger man, freckles, eyes red from crying—met him halfway.
“Mr. Wayne. Sir. This way.”
He was led past the alley’s mouth, to where the cleanup hadn’t even started yet.
Jason’s silhouette stood off to the side. Still. Bleeding at the knuckles. Blood that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was.
His mask was off. Eyes vacant. Rage burned out into the kind of grief that could kill gods.
Bruce looked down.
There was a metal cart draped in a white sheet.
There was the watch—your watch—bagged beside it, cracked but blinking.
And there was a clipboard.
The words “LEGAL GUARDIAN / IDENTIFYING RELATIVE” printed at the top.
Bruce reached for the clipboard. His hand trembled once. Just once.
He forced it still.
The sheet was lifted.
And for a moment, time stopped.
Not because of gore. Bruce had seen worse.
Not because of the horror—though it was there, oh God, it was there.
But because there was nothing behind your eyes.
Because there were no eyes.
No skullcap. No brain. Just a hollow cavity.
A mind stolen.
A child erased.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t cry.
He just stared.
Long enough for the fire behind his eyes to ignite.
Then—
He signed.
B. WAYNE
Block letters. Neat. Final. The same way he signed every mission log, every will, every authorization for body disposal from the League.
But this was different.
This was you.
And paper wasn’t enough.
Jason approached slowly. Quiet. Like even breathing wrong might crack the world further.
“I was late,” he rasped.
Bruce didn’t answer.
“I came as fast as I could, but—”
“I know,” Bruce said. A voice carved from stone.
He looked at the remnants of your watch.
“I should’ve gone myself. It should’ve been me. Not you.”
Jason turned his face away, fists curling again.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
Bruce’s eyes sharpened. Cold. Focused.
“We bury what’s left.”
He looked toward the blood stains drying under the lamppost where his life had once changed.
Then back to yours.
“Then we hunt.”
He didn’t speak the entire ride back to the manor.
Didn’t change.
Didn’t sit.
He stood in the center of the library, coat still soaked from alley rain, the silence heavy like a shroud.
The clock ticked.
4:29 a.m.
He reached for the secure comm device on the desk. His fingers trembled, just slightly.
He called her.
Selina answered after the first ring, her voice still velvet with sleep.
“Bruce? That you?”
Silence.
Then—
“You’re calling late, or early—I guess depending on what disaster you’re cleaning up. What’s wrong?”
More silence.
She sat up. He could hear it—the creak of silk sheets, the shift in her breath.
“Bruce. Say it.”
He stared at the floor.
Where you once sat with a cup of tea and tired jokes about how the manor was too quiet without Damian’s brooding and Dick’s bad coffee.
I should have gone.
It should’ve been me.
He exhaled through his nose. A single sound. Broken.
Then finally, he spoke.
Low. Guttural. Final.
“It’s Y/N.”
Selina didn’t respond right away. But he knew her silence. It wasn’t confusion—it was comprehension. The kind of silence that comes only when the floor drops out from under you.
“How bad?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
“No body.”
“…”
“Just blood. Pieces. Skull damage. Brain’s gone. They took it. Left the rest.”
Another silence. This one hurt more.
“Bruce. I’m coming over.”
He didn’t stop her.
Didn’t say “No” or “Don’t.” Didn’t do anything but drop the comm back onto the desk like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He stood there alone.
The man who taught Gotham to fear the dark now stood powerless against the shadow it had stolen.
He could handle blood.
He could handle death.
But this?
This was void.
And Bruce Wayne had no contingency plan for grief shaped like a missing mind.
──── ୨୧ ────
The sun rose without permission.
Across Gotham, the city exhaled into its usual chaos—sirens, taxis, coffee cups, the sleepy grind of another morning that didn’t yet know someone was gone.
But at 9:06 a.m., Tim Drake did.
He was half-dressed in his dorm room, one hand mid-reach for his tablet, when he noticed the missed calls stacked on his phone screen like a silent scream:
4:52 a.m. – Bruce (4 calls)
4:56 a.m. – Alfred (1 voicemail)
5:03 a.m. – Jason (text: “Answer your damn phone.”)
5:08 a.m. – Unknown GCPD number
He hit play.
“Master Timothy… it’s Alfred. I… I’m sorry. There’s been an incident. It’s Y/N. They were found in Crime Alley last night. We need you at the manor. You were one of the last to see them—please come home.”
He stopped breathing.
Memory rushed in like a flood he wasn’t ready for.
Last night.
You stood just outside the gala entrance, eyes tired but warm. You tugged Damian’s tie loose and made some dry comment about him learning fashion from Bruce. Tim had laughed, and you’d grinned at both of them. Just for a second. That grin.
“Go,” you said. “I’ve got this. I need to head back to my dorm anyway—last gala dance of the season, right?”
So casual. So safe.
He and Damian had taken that as their cue to leave.
And now?
Now Alfred was telling him you never made it home.
•
9:29 a.m. | Gotham Academy Grounds
Damian had only just arrived.
His ride had dropped him off near the Academy gate, and he was heading toward the east wing when he noticed something… wrong.
His communicator buzzed in his coat pocket.
Then buzzed again.
Then again.
He scowled, annoyed at the interruption. Until he saw the message.
“Come home. It’s Y/N.” — Alfred
He froze.
Right there in the middle of the walkway. Students brushed past him, laughing, shouting, alive.
His mind played back your parting words—“I need to head to my dorm anyway.”
He had nodded at the time, smug and satisfied that you’d handled the gala despite Bruce flaking.
But now…
Something in him fractured.
He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the school’s gates without a word.
10:04 a.m. | The Batcave
The manor was too quiet.
Tim entered through the upper floor and instinctively followed the hum of tech down the hidden elevator shaft, down into the heartbeat of the house.
The Batcave lights glowed cold and clinical.
Bruce stood in front of the main console, cowl discarded but armor still on—shoulders heavy, jaw locked.
Jason leaned against a table to the side, helmet in hand, eyes bloodshot.
Alfred sat stiffly on a chair nearby, hands folded, a glass of untouched tea beside him.
When Tim stepped off the platform, no one said anything.
They didn’t need to.
“It’s real,” Tim whispered.
Bruce only nodded once.
Tim’s knees buckled.
He gripped the nearest workbench to stay upright, blinking fast, vision swimming. His backpack slipped off his shoulder with a thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.
Then—
Footsteps.
Rapid. Sharp.
Damian.
He stormed off the elevator like it had offended him.
“What the hell happened.”
His voice cracked halfway through, though he tried to bury it under rage.
Jason moved to intercept, but Bruce raised a hand. Let the kid come.
Damian stopped in front of the console. Saw the footage playing in silent loop.
Crime Alley. Blood. The blinking watch. The dragged smear of a body that wasn’t whole.
His jaw clenched. Fists balled.
“We left. They told us they had to go back to their dorm. We didn’t argue. We left.”
No one responded.
The silence was a verdict.
Damian shook his head—hard, as if trying to rattle the truth loose from his brain.
“No body?” he asked quietly.
Alfred answered, voice gravel-rough.
“Only fragments. Part of the skull. The brain… was removed.”
Tim turned away, a hand over his mouth. He was shaking.
Damian just stood there.
Still.
Staring at the watch on the display.
Your watch.
Still blinking red.
“They were fine. They were laughing. They were—whole.”
He looked at Bruce.
“Why weren’t you there?”
It came out like a blade.
Jason inhaled sharply, but again, Bruce said nothing.
Damian turned away, but not fast enough to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.
“We were the last to see them,” Tim whispered, hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”
No one had to say it.
They all knew.
It meant the memory of your smile would be the last one they’d ever have.
It meant your voice would live in their heads like a ghost.
It meant they had let you walk alone into the dark.
And now all they had left was blood, silence, and a blinking watch that wouldn’t stop calling for help.
──── ୨୧ ────
It was the day after.
The news hadn’t broken publicly yet—not fully. Gotham’s media machine was still running on speculation and half-formed headlines.
“Violent Crime in Crime Alley — Sources Say ‘High-Profile’ Victim.”
“Massive Blood Loss, No Body, GCPD Investigating Ritual Angle.”
But at 10:46 a.m., the truth hit the rest of them.
And it hit hard.
Steph was in the middle of a coffee run when she saw the Bat-signal flare faintly across the WayneComm emergency line.
“Wayne Manor. Cave. Now.”
She rolled her eyes. No context. Typical Bat-style.
Still, something gnawed at her gut.
She balanced her tray of coffees all the way to the manor, boots crunching on gravel with every confident step, humming some dumb pop song under her breath. Just another meeting, she thought. Maybe a mission brief. Maybe B had finally figured out who was sneaking cookies from Alfred’s tin.
Then she walked into the cave.
The air was ice.
Bruce stood still by the monitor. Jason wouldn’t look up. Tim was seated, face buried in his hands. Damian was statue-still beside the watch console, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked. Alfred stood near the elevator, red-eyed.
And in the corner, a large display screen—
Crime Alley. Blood. Markers.
The Watch. Still blinking. Still searching.
Steph blinked.
Then blinked again.
A step back. Then forward.
“Wait. Where’s—where’s Y/N?”
The silence answered.
And just beside the elevator—
Selina Kyle.
Black coat. Red lips. Arms crossed, but jaw clenched like she was chewing glass.
She hadn’t said much since arriving. Just showed up after Bruce’s call like a shadow at the door.
She didn’t need directions. She knew where the pain lived.
Everyone noticed her.
No one said anything.
But the thought hung in the room.
Why were you there and not Y/N?
You were supposed to host the gala because Bruce pulled out. You were supposed to make the appearance, smile, keep up the illusion of a still-standing family name.
Selina should’ve been with you.
Should’ve escorted. Should’ve backed you up. Should’ve noticed something.
But no one asked.
Not out loud.
Because grief in this family wore too many masks.
The tray of coffee hit the floor.
And then she was on her knees beside it, sobbing into her gloved hands like it would bring you back.
•
Duke had a sense for things—light, shadows, the moods that lived between words.
When he arrived at the manor, the stillness gave him his answer before anyone said it aloud.
He walked into the cave, scanned the faces, and his chest seized.
“What happened.”
No one lied.
Not even Bruce.
They told him the truth.
Crime Alley. No witnesses. No camera footage. Too much blood to survive. No body.
“The brain was removed.”
That last detail—
That’s when his hands trembled.
Not because of gore. He’d seen worse.
But because you weren’t just another sibling. You were present. You listened. You made time for his questions about identity, legacy, shadows, and light.
You had a mind that made space for others.
And now someone had stolen it.
He didn’t cry.
He sat down, quietly, and started flipping through surveillance feeds, timestamps, power outages.
“If they left nothing,” he whispered, “that means they wanted it that way. That’s a pattern. We’ll find it.”
Grief would come later.
For now, he’d find the gap in the light.
•
Cass knew.
She’d felt it hours ago.
The ping. That cold, sharp, too-late red light.
She’d checked the location instantly, heart already racing before the data finished loading.
Crime Alley.
She knew you’d been at the gala. Knew you weren’t supposed to be there.
Knew something was wrong the second it flared.
She called the comm line.
Then another.
Then tried again.
But she was already too far—in Hub City, two hours out even with the fastest route.
She had screamed once—short and sharp—and launched into motion, already suiting up, already on the bike.
But by the time she got the second update, it wasn’t a rescue anymore.
It was a cleanup.
The guilt wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Still hadn’t let go.
She crouched now by the dimmed display, one gloved hand still resting where the last signal pulsed.
Steph sat beside her, quiet now, eyes raw.
“If I had just—if I didn’t leave…”
Cass didn’t answer.
Didn’t say you told them to go.
Didn’t say you were proud of them.
Didn’t say you joked about dorms and deadlines.
Instead, she stood up. Movements stiff. Precise.
Walked straight past the console to Selina, and stood in front of her like a statue built from everything unspoken.
Selina met her gaze.
No flinch.
No apology.
Just mirrored pain, just as sharp.
Cass didn’t say why weren’t you there.
She didn’t have to.
Her body said it.
Selina didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Just clenched her jaw harder and nodded, like yes—she knew she should’ve been there.
She always knew.
Bruce stepped forward, voice low.
“We’ll find them.”
No one questioned who. Everyone knew.
This wasn’t a mugging. It wasn’t random. This was surgical.
A brain stolen. A body desecrated. A message sent.
“This wasn’t about opportunity. This was targeted. Someone knew Y/N would be alone. Someone waited for the right moment.”
“And someone,” Jason said, voice shaking, “knew how to get past us all.”
Steph looked up. “You think they’ve done it before?”
Bruce nodded once. “Or… this is only the first.”
Cass moved back to the center of the cave.
Her voice—quiet, but firm—cut through the room:
“No more delays.”
“We hunt now.”
──── ୨୧ ────
You wake with a gasp.
Air floods your lungs like water after drowning—sharp, cold, wrong.
Your body arches against the grass beneath you—soft, too soft. The light above is too bright, and it doesn’t feel like sunlight.
You slam a hand against your forehead as pain lances through your skull. Blinding. Like something hot was carved into the inside of your brain and then scraped out.
You can’t breathe for a second.
You squeeze your eyes shut and see red behind your lids.
Panic flares in your chest. You remember—nothing.
A color. A sound. A shape, maybe. A scream—
Then it’s gone.
Your fingers brush something cold and metallic around your neck.
A collar.
You blink. A red dot flickers at the center—glowing. Watching.
You barely have time to register it when you hear the voice.
Soft. Familiar. Somewhere to your left.
“What’s wrong, Y/N?”
You turn.
Your vision blurs at the edges.
Someone’s sitting beside you—legs crossed, concern etched on their face. Familiar. Maybe. But your head is too full of fog and static to name them.
They tilt their head at you.
Your heartbeat’s still trying to climb out of your ribs.
You don’t answer at first. The words feel far away.
But something else answers for you. Something instinctual. Buried.
You shake yours. Lightheaded.
You force a breath.
“Nothing, Mizi.”
The red light on the collar pulses once.
And you smile.
But the pain behind your eyes doesn’t fade.
<<< You are here!! >>>
•Note: GUESS WHO’S HERE
And again grief time, more reactions lol, I combined Steph, Cass and Duke parts together (and cut out Babs–) but it seems too rushed but well, it’s too long and make my literally phone lagging. And this is my inspiration if you feel familiar, word count is 7k for both parts what the helly!!
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[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>
✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.
✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt
You were always “the Wayne heir.”
That’s what they called you.
In interviews.
In society columns.
From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.
“Wayne’s golden child.”
“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”
“Just like dear Brucie.”
And maybe, from a distance, you were.
You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.
A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.
You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.
Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.
You played the part.
Because someone had to.
But every crown leaves a bruise.
What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.
The pressure.
The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.
Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.
And you? His child.
That’s what the headlines said.
But the whispers always followed.
Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.
“Who’s the mother?”
“Some random fling, probably.”
“She was a dancer.”
“Or a thief.”
“Or worse.”
“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”
They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.
In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.
Some said she never existed.
Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.
None of them knew her.
None of them wanted to.
That’s what stung the most.
You learned to hold it all in.
Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.
Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.
Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.
Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.
They’d see you weren’t perfect.
And then the whole façade would crack.
You were proud of what you built.
Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.
You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.
But it still didn’t matter. Not really.
Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.
“Just a name.”
“Just a shadow.”
“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”
And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:
Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?
Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?
You never got an answer.
Not one that lasted.
All you had were trophies.
And silence.
And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.
They could doubt you.
They could doubt her.
But you wouldn’t let them erase you.
You earned your place.
And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.
──── ୨୧ ────
The clock read 3:47 a.m.
You shouldn’t have been awake.
But you were.
You always were—whenever someone was out.
Especially Tim.
You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.
No ping.
No signal.
No return alert from the field.
Your gut twisted.
Something was wrong. Off.
And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.
The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.
But screw that.
Not tonight.
You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.
Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.
He barely looked at you.
But your eyes weren’t on him.
Because a second later, Tim emerged.
He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.
He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.
Because he knew this wasn’t new.
Just the first time you saw it this up close.
Your stomach flipped.
“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.
Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.
But it was.
And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.
“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”
Handled?
Your eyes snapped to him.
“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”
He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.
That’s when something inside you cracked.
“He’s fourteen, Dad!”
Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.
“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”
Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.
You weren’t finished.
“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”
Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.
“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”
Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.
Still, no answer.
“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”
Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.
“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”
But you couldn’t stop. Not now.
“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”
That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.
Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.
And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.
Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.
“Go upstairs.”
His tone was colder than the cave floor.
“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”
Time stopped.
Your breath caught in your lungs.
Not part of something.
Not your responsibility.
The words carved through you like glass.
“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.
Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.
“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”
You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.
“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”
You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.
You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.
His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.
•
The kitchen was dim.
Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.
Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.
The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.
He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.
Just:
“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”
You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.
You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.
Alfred worked in silence.
Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.
Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.
You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.
You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.
And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.
Finally, Tim broke the silence.
“You didn’t have to yell like that.”
You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.
“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”
He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:
“I am part of the mission. You know that.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.
And that made it worse.
“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”
Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.
“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”
You nodded numbly.
As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.
“You did the right thing.”
But it didn’t feel right.
It felt like the kind of right that hurts.
You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.
Finally, he spoke again.
“You were always the one who held it together.”
You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.
“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”
He looked at you now.
“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”
Your throat tightened.
You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.
“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.
The question hit harder than it should have.
Your lips parted. No words came.
Just a slow, sharp inhale.
Because you didn’t know.
Because it was too much.
Because if you said one word, you might cry.
So instead, you shook your head.
And whispered the only thing that still felt true:
“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”
Tim looked down.
And this time, he didn’t argue.
──── ୨୧ ────
The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.
Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.
You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.
You hated it.
The press called the gala a success.
A smooth handoff.
Wayne blood stepping into legacy.
“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”
“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”
And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.
Because this wasn’t your night.
This was Gotham’s.
And you were the mask it wanted.
Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.
A single message through Lucius that morning:
“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”
“They.”
Means you.
But you showed up anyway. Like always.
Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.
You handled it all.
Flawless. Smooth.
Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.
•
By hour two, though… you felt it.
That pressure. That itch.
Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.
You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.
Nothing obvious.
But someone was watching. You knew it.
You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.
There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.
“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.
He didn’t blink.
“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.
You frowned. “Not like that.”
Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.
“…Paranoia?” he asked.
You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”
He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.
Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.
It was enough.
Moments later, a softer step approached.
Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.
“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.
“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.
He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.
“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”
You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.
“Sorry for dragging you out here.”
“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”
But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.
“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”
You looked away.
“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.
He nodded. No judgment.
Damian, sharp as ever, added:
“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”
You met his gaze.
He was right.
“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”
I should have stopped it sooner.
I should’ve fought harder.
I should’ve been more like Bruce.
Tim’s voice pulled you back:
“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”
You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”
•
The party wore on.
And so did the mask.
But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…
You told the boys:
“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”
Lie.
Tim frowned, but didn’t push.
“You sure?”
You nodded.
Lie.
Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.
“Don’t linger.”
You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”
He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”
“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”
He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.
The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.
And you?
You returned to the ballroom.
Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.
Backstage.
Behind the curtain.
Where the lights couldn’t find you.
You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.
You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:
“Maybe I was too harsh.”
The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.
“This isn’t your responsibility.”
“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”
Maybe he was right.
Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.
You didn’t wear a mask.
You weren’t trained like them.
You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.
You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.
A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.
Your voice shook.
“I tried. I really—tried.”
But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.
No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.
Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.
You buried your face in your hands.
I wasn’t enough.
I never will be.
──── ୨୧ ────
The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.
The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.
You were alone.
The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.
No footsteps.
No echo.
Just silence.
You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.
And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.
Muscle memory.
You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.
“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.
“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”
You hadn’t used it.
Not once.
You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.
Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.
But tonight…
Tonight the air felt wrong.
You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.
Until it blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Red.
Your breath locked inside your throat.
You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.
Something was watching you.
But the ballroom behind you was still empty.
The curtains didn’t move.
The marble floor gave no sound.
You stared at the blinking light.
Tapped the screen.
Just to be sure.
LOCATION: This building.
DISTANCE: 28 meters.
MOVEMENT: Advancing.
You inhaled—sharp and shallow.
Your hands started to tremble.
“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.
“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”
But the blinking didn’t stop.
Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.
“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”
Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.
“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”
Back then, you didn’t understand.
Tonight, you did.
You felt it in your skin.
In your bones.
This wasn’t panic.
This was warning.
You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.
The lights flickered.
Just once.
Then again.
A third time—
Then out.
Gone.
Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.
Someone had cut power.
Someone had planned this.
No cameras. No signal. No eyes.
You stood frozen for a full five seconds.
Then—
You bolted.
Not because you were brave.
Because you were trained.
Selina’s voice again:
“Never wait to be cornered.”
Bruce’s, colder:
“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”
You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.
The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.
You could feel it.
Someone was following.
Too quiet to hear.
But close.
So close.
You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.
You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—
Into Crime Alley.
You stopped.
The breath in your lungs died.
Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.
You knew this alley.
You shouldn’t have ended up here.
You couldn’t have.
You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.
The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.
Unless someone rerouted the doors.
Locked the others.
Funneled you.
Your hands clutched the sensor.
It was still blinking.
“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.
“Please, someone…”
Your thumb hovered.
Trembled.
You activated the emergency beacon.
Pulse sent.
Silent. Invisible. Immediate.
But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:
No one’s coming.
If they were, they’d be here by now.
If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.
Someone would’ve stayed.
Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.
Would’ve felt the silence closing in.
But they didn’t.
And now you were here.
Alone.
In the alley that made Gotham what it was.
Where the myth of the Bat was born.
You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.
“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”
A sound behind you.
You turned.
And the last thing you felt…
…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:
“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”
<<< You are here!! >>>
•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!
✰ A/N: Happy (belated) Father’s Day, here I present you some fluff moments after the first sobbed chapter lol (sorry not sorry)
You wake up to your own alarm–the rarest of Gotham miracles. No explosions, no blood, no Batarang-shaped holes in your walls. Just peace. You swing your legs out of bed with purpose, because this year, you’re hosting Father’s Day.
And you’re not just talking Bruce.
You’ve summoned everyone (not literally everyone, just in the family). Every semi-adopted, occasionally estranged, emotionally constipated member of this patchwork nightmare of a family.
You are either a genius or a masochist.
──★˙🍓̟!!
By noon, Wayne Manor’s kitchen is a battlefield.
“Why is there glitter in the waffle batter?” Damian glares, holding the bowl like it personally insulted his ancestors.
You shrug, flipping a pancake shaped like a bat. “Aesthetic.”
“Are we poisoning Father for dramatic effect?” he deadpans.
From the other side of the kitchen, Jason cackles. “Finally, someone asks the real questions.”
“I told you guys we should’ve just grilled,” mutters Tim, already halfway through a bottle of cold brew, looking like he hasn’t slept since 2003.
“Tim, it’s brunch, not a crime scene,” you say, grabbing the glitter-batter from Damian. “Go outside and touch grass. Or Dick.”
“I will not be touched,” Dick yells from the living room, tangled in streamers. “Also, I think I’ve been wrapped into the curtains.”
“Just lean into it, man,” Jason calls. “Be the décor.”
──★˙🍓̟!!
Bruce arrives at exactly 12:01 p.m. You swear he does it on purpose, so no one can accuse him of being punctual.
He walks in, eyes flicking over the chaos:
Dick dangling from a curtain rod, Damian sharpening a grapefruit spoon, Tim curled on the couch like a feral cat, and Jason eating waffles off a frisbee.
Then he sees you.
You smile too brightly. “Happy Father’s Day!”
Bruce blinks. “…Should I be concerned?”
“Nope. Just sit. Don’t ask questions. Eat your heart-shaped toast and pretend we’re normal.”
He sits.
He doesn’t question the cat-themed paper crown you place on his head. That’s growth.
•
When Alfred walks in with a tray of mimosas, the entire room goes silent.
“Father’s Day is for fathers, not god-tier butlers who raised us better than our actual parents,” you announce.
Jason raises his mimosa. “To the only dad who didn’t emotionally repress me.”
“Jason, I taught you how to make pipe bombs,” Bruce says, sipping coffee like it’s vodka.
“Exactly,” Jason grins. “And he taught me not to use them.”
•
“Speech!” Dick shouts at some point, already tipsy off orange juice.
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “No.”
“You have to,” you insist, setting down a plate of glitter-battered pancakes and tofu bacon. “It’s law. I googled it.”
Damian looks up from stabbing fruit. “Google is not a valid legal source.”
“Says the kid who used Wikipedia to prove cats are superior to dogs.”
“Because they are.”
“Fight me.”
“Gladly.”
“I will tase you both,” Tim mumbles, holding the remote to a shock collar you’re pretty sure is a modified grappling hook.
“B,” Dick pleads dramatically, “if you don’t give a speech, I swear to God I will climb on the roof and start singing Cats the Musical.”
Jason perks up. “Wait, I want in on that–”
“No,” you interrupt. “We just fixed the chimney.”
•
Bruce finally stands, holding his coffee like a lifeline. The cat crown is still on his head. No one mentions it.
He looks at all of you.
All his kids.
All the chaos.
The mess. The glitter. The literal smoke alarm going off in the background (which you casually silence with a kitchen towel).
And then he says, in that gravel-and-regret voice of his:
“I used to think I’d never have a family. That I’d die in the cave alone, surrounded by bats and files and unfinished vengeance. And now…”
He looks around the room.
“At least I know I’ll die under a collapsing ceiling because one of you idiots tried to microwave metal.”
Jason raises a hand sheepishly. “That was me.”
“No regrets,” you say, grinning.
Bruce sighs. But it’s a warm sigh. The kind with weight behind it.
“Thank you,” he finally adds, softer. “For making something… I didn’t know I needed.”
Tim mimes wiping a tear. “Someone hold me.”
“Not it,” you and Damian say in unison.
Dick jumps up. “GROUP HUG!”
Jason throws a waffle across the table
•
You take a picture before the moment dissolves.
Bruce, coffee in one hand, arm around Alfred with the other. Dick dramatically leaning across both. Tim half-asleep. Damian stabbing a fork into a fruit bat carving. Jason flipping off the camera. And you, right in the middle.
Smiling.
Because for a family built out of grief and secrets and trauma—
Today?
You did good.
Even if the glitter pancakes taste like regret.
──★˙🍓̟!!
“Technically,” you say, holding up a spatula like a judge’s gavel, “we now proceed to Phase Two of Father’s Day: Honoring the man who has probably bandaged more wounds and emotionally parented more of us than anyone else alive.”
Alfred, ever composed, glances up from setting the table with actual silverware—something you all completely forgot existed. “Mx Y/N, I told you I require no such celebration.”
“That’s cute,” you smile. “But this isn’t a request.”
•
As if summoned by the laws of chaos, the rest of the Batfam begins to arrive.
“Is that smoke?” Barbara says, stepping in and pulling off her jacket. “Or am I having a stroke?”
“Both,” Tim says flatly, holding a burnt waffle like it betrayed him.
Stephanie appears behind her, waving a glittery card. “I made Alfred a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ certificate. It’s legally binding.”
Duke strolls in next. “Someone tell me there’s real food. Not… this.” He pokes the bat-shaped tofu with a chopstick.
“I thought it was art,” Cass says, appearing beside him silently, like a beautiful, terrifying ghost.
•
Alfred looks over the room and you swear–he actually pauses.
The table is crowded. Too many bodies, too many voices, plates mismatched, food mostly burnt or experimental. The Batkids, in every variety, shape, and neurosis. And right in the middle of it all: him.
The glue.
The gravity.
──★˙🍓̟!!
You clink a spoon to your glass. “I’d like to raise a toast to Alfred Pennyworth, the only man alive who’s been through every single era of the Batcave and didn’t die, quit, or commit arson.”
Jason lifts his mimosa. “Yet.”
Stephanie leans in. “You do realize you’re basically our shared emotionally stable Victorian vampire granddad, right?”
“I resent the implication,” Alfred says, sipping tea calmly. “I am emotionally selectively stable.”
Barbara chimes in: “I have security footage of you wrapping Bruce in a blanket and calling him a ‘soggy orphan burrito.’
“That footage is sealed.”
“It is not.”
•
And yet.
Amid the quips and sarcasm and (someone’s?) attempt to make “Batdad Bingo,” there is reverence.
Cassandra stands and walks to Alfred quietly. She presses a hand over his, then signs something with her free hand—slow and sure.
“Safe,” you translate softly, catching the gesture. “She says you made her feel safe.”
Alfred doesn’t speak. Just touches her hand back with his thumb, once.
──★˙🍓̟!!
“Honestly,” Duke adds, “I didn’t think a mansion full of masked vigilantes would feel like home. But you made it that. Even before Bruce tried.”
Barbara nods. “You were my first safe call. And my first hot tea.”
“You let me sleep in the foyer after I crashed a stolen bike into the koi pond,” Stephanie says brightly. “Didn’t even yell.”
“I did, in fact, yell. But you passed out from blood loss before hearing it.”
Tim just raises his mug. “You never told me to get over it. Even when I should’ve.”
Jason shrugs. “He stitched my corpse. Top that.”
Everyone groans.
“Too soon,” Duke says.
“Never too soon,” Jason grins.
Then Bruce stands.
Quietly. No fanfare. Not even the crown on his head anymore.
He places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, one of those rare gestures he never makes unless the world’s ending or someone’s being buried.
And says, simply:
“Thank you, Alfred.”
Alfred’s lips press into a line, then soften. “Always, Master Bruce.”
──★˙🍓̟!!
The toasts end. The table’s wrecked. Glitter somehow made it into the salad. You think someone’s shoe is in the dishwasher.
But for one golden hour, the house—the family—feels full.
Later, when the noise dies down…
You’re stacking mismatched plates in the kitchen when you hear the softest footstep behind you.
Bruce.
He’s holding a teacup. Still half-full. Somehow still warm. He doesn’t speak at first. Just sets the cup down beside you.
Then, low and hoarse:
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
You glance up, smirking. “I know. I wanted to.”
Silence.
Then he adds, without looking at you, “You brought them together today.”
You pause. “We are together.”
“Not always like this.”
You study his face. It’s tired. Lined in ways even the cowl can’t hide. But there’s something soft in the corners now. Something human.
“I didn’t know if I deserved this kind of family,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But I’m glad you reminded me we’re still one.”
You say nothing. Just lean in and nudge your shoulder against his.
He doesn’t flinch.
“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper.
“…You too,” he says.
You blink. “That’s not how–”
But he’s already walked off.
You laugh. Alone in the kitchen. Because of course. Of course Bruce Wayne thinks you deserve a Father’s Day.
Maybe… he’s not wrong.
──★˙🍓̟!!
The house is quiet now.
Which is, frankly, suspicious.
You stand at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water, staring at a mug that proudly reads #1 Crime Dad, glitter peeling at the edges.
Alfred stands beside you, towel in hand, drying plates with an efficiency only decades of cleaning after masked vigilantes could produce.
“Of all the strange, catastrophic events to occur within this household,” he says calmly, “this one ranks in the top ten least destructive. You should be proud.”
You snort. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is. Marginally.”
You pass him a fork shaped like a bat. You don’t know who made it. Probably Damian. Or Jason. Or you, in a moment of glitter-fueled madness.
Alfred dries it without comment.
For a while, it’s just dishes and the hum of the dishwasher—loaded entirely wrong, but you did your best.
Then, softly:
“They love you, you know.”
You blink. “I mean, yeah. They also threw pancakes at me.”
“In our family, affection is often expressed via pastry-based projectiles.”
You laugh. He smirks, just slightly.
“Still,” he adds, voice quieting, “what you did today… I don’t believe any of them will forget it.”
You shrug. “I just wanted them to feel… whole. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re not always talking. Even if we’re all a little broken.”
Alfred gently sets a plate down, then looks at you–really looks.
“You’re not broken,” he says. “Not even slightly. You’re simply carrying pieces that haven’t found where they fit yet.”
You pause.
That one hits.
You offer him a damp smile. “That sounded suspiciously poetic. Who are you and what did you do with Gotham’s most sarcastic butler?”
“Temporarily offline. I’ll be back to criticizing your dish stacking momentarily.”
“Can’t wait.”
You pass him another plate. He dries it.
Then, out of nowhere:
“I’m proud of you.”
You freeze. Just for a second.
He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but that’s Alfred. It’s always the most important things he says sideways.
You turn to him and bump your hip gently against his.
“Love you too, old man.”
“I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
•
The sink finally empties. The dishes are done. The kitchen is… still glitter-covered, but whatever.
The family’s asleep.
The night holds.
And for once, the Manor feels less like a museum for grief and more like a home.
Even if the waffles were terrible.
(Like Gabriel’s pancakes but we’re not talking about that here)
✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Masturbation, Voyeurism, Obsession, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Jason Todd is a Mess™, Jason Todd Has Issues, Erotic Art
It began with a heist. But not the usual kind. Not one of jewels, or gold or oil-rich paintings sold to private devils with cold wine and colder hearts. No, this was a theft of something much worse. Much more sacred.
A portrait.
Not just any portrait–you.
Painted in soft, reverent strokes from surveillance footage that should’ve been grainy, robotic, soulless. But somehow–somehow it had become holy.
There you were: spread across the dented leather couch in Jason’s loft like a vision carved from light. The choker bell shimmered delicately. Your tail-belt curved up behind you like the halo of a fallen seraph. Your lips, parted just enough to suggest a moan still echoing in memory. Cheeks flushed with the kind of peace you couldn’t fake. A silent psalm in a painting. Ecstasy, preserved.
But the artist… the artist had made a choice.
Jason was in the painting too. But not soft, not exalted. No, he was carved in jagged, bitter lines. The shadows around his body were too long, too sharp, crawling like jealousy across the canvas. His eyes were half-lost under messy strokes, mouth parted in a silent scream–not of pleasure, but of grief. Of hunger. Of knowing he was only allowed to touch holiness, not be holy himself.
There was pain in the brushstrokes. Raw, obsessive envy.
“That should have been me,” it cried.
Not him. Not Red Hood. Not the ghost of a boy who came back wrong. The artist painted him like he wasn’t the one inside her that night—but a voyeur, forever outside, peering through glass.
He found it in the gallery three nights after the heist. No signature. No plaque. Just the piece, hung without honor, hidden in a back room like a confession too scandalous to frame in daylight. But he knew. He knew who it was about. Who it was for.
He stole it.
No hesitation. No explanation. Just the sound of glass shattering and guards shouting and Jason Todd dragging the portrait back to his hideout like a madman dragging home a corpse that still smelled like love.
──── ୨୧ ────
It sits against the far wall now, shrouded under a dusty black cloth. But he knows what’s beneath. He doesn’t need to look. He’s memorized it.
And he’s not alone.
A new surveillance camera hums softly above the room’s main entrance, hacked, installed by Jason himself, pointing directly at the painting. A gift. A challenge.
For the artist.
He looks into the lens every night, shirtless, unmasked, covered in sweat and blood or paint or both, and whispers:
“You want her that badly? Then watch what she did to me.”
And then, on the nights when the heat in his bones won’t cool and the painting sings too loud from the corner, he sits in front of it.
And he breaks.
He peels his gloves off first. Then the belt. Then everything else.
He kneels before the canvas like it’s an altar, spreading his thighs wide in defiance–back arched, hips rutting into his palm with savage, desperate friction. His teeth dig into his bottom lip until it bleeds, imagining you there in brushstrokes and memory, whispering filth in that smoke-laced purr:
“Paint me, tough guy.”
“I’m high just looking at you.”
“You’re the only canvas I want to ruin tonight.”
The sounds are obscene. Slick. Wet. Sloppy.
Schlick. Schlick. Slap.
The kind of noise that echoes off brick and metal and memory, as if trying to summon your name.
His head tilts back, throat bare, moaning into the dark. Eyes wild, locked on the painting. His hand doesn’t stop. Faster now. Harder. The ache between his legs nothing compared to the one in his chest.
“I’m yours,” he breathes into the camera. “I’ve always been yours. Is that what you wanted?”
He finishes like a curse, a prayer, a surrender.
Mess dripping down his knuckles.
Panting like an animal before a shrine.
But the muse? You don’t know.
You haven’t seen the portrait yet.
You never even knew it existed.
It was stolen before your eyes could touch it, before your voice could say, “That’s not how he looked at me.”
Or worse… “That’s exactly how he looked at me.”
──── ୨୧ ────
Jason cleans his hands on a rag and sits back in the shadow of the stolen canvas. The camera still records. Still watches. A single green light blinking.
Somewhere, someone is watching.
And Jason doesn’t care.
Because every night he gives them a show.
A performance.
Of grief. Of lust. Of obsession.
Of being the monster who touched the angel,
but never got to become part of the myth.
And if they wanted to own you on canvas–then they’d have to watch him fall apart in front of it.
Over and over again.
Until you finally see it.
Until you know.
That he is not the man in the painting.
He’s worse.
Next up: Saints don’t steal. But cats do | <<< Part 3. >>>
✎ My works mainly are Yandere so please consider to read!
✎ Some of these are NSFW works so MDNI, if you’re 18+ then put it on bio!
✎ I recommend no hate nor criticism towards my works and any other readers in my blog, but you’re welcome to make/fix suggestions and comments about my mistakes!!
✎ I know this is long but I prefer my works stay where it belongs because it’s not that great to steal…
The Manor’s old chapel smells like wax and lavender.
It always has. But today, the scent drapes heavier than usual—settled into the dust like memory, like grief with its coat hung up and staying awhile.
The wood beneath Alfred’s shoes creaks with every step. He walks slowly, reverently, like if he moves too quickly, the air might shatter… or worse, wake you. As if somewhere inside this hush, you’re only sleeping. Just tucked away behind one of the pews, knees up, head bowed, breath misting against a story too big for your age.
You used to sit here when the rain was too cruel outside.
Legs swinging, nose buried in a battered mystery novel you’d found in Bruce’s library. Your feet never touched the floor, not even once. You always wanted to look solemn, look wise. But your eyes would keep flicking toward the stained-glass windows, chasing the colored light. Your lips would twitch every time Alfred pretended not to notice.
“This candle,” he used to say, striking the match with practiced grace, “is for those we miss.”
You frowned the first time. That very serious, very you kind of frown.
“But what if they come back?”
He’d smiled then—slow and warm, like melted sugar in tea.
“Then it’ll still be burning.”
Today, he lights that candle again.
Not for Thomas Wayne.
Not for Martha.
But for you.
It flickers. The flame dances uncertainly, casting soft, trembling light against the dark wood pews.
Your pew–the one closest to the far window, where your rain-drenched umbrella used to lean. The rug beneath it is still faintly stained, a muddy crescent Alfred never quite got out. He’d never really tried.
He stands there for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
Just breathes.
Just remembers.
•
Later then he’s preparing tea for tea time at dining room.
The tea is already steeped when he sets it down–your favorite blend. Two sugars. No milk. A little too sweet for anyone else’s taste, but you always claimed it made your brain sharper.
The cup sits across from him at the end of the long, too-empty dining table.
No one sits there anymore.
Except for one.
A gray stuffed cat, fur matted with age and affection, slouches in the high-backed chair. Its seams are loose, belly bulging slightly from years of bedtime wrestling.
You loved that thing more than any of the designer plushies Bruce ever tried to substitute it with. Said it “understood things.”
Alfred smooths the cat’s fur with steady fingers, then adjusts the lopsided ribbon you once tied around its neck. Crooked. Purple. Fraying. He never had the heart to retie it properly.
“There we are,” he murmurs, satisfied.
And then he sits.
He doesn’t look at the tea. Not right away.
Instead, he talks to the cat.
To the chair.
To the air, heavy with your laughter. With your scent. With the echo of a life too short, too bright.
“I polished your room today,” he says softly. “Even dusted the top of the bookshelf. Folded your blanket just the way you liked– military corners, heaven forbid. Picked the lint off that ridiculous green sweater you always wore on rainy days.”
His voice begins to shake, just slightly.
“I don’t know why.”
He pauses.
His hand comes to rest against the table, knuckles pale. His eyes sting, but the tears don’t fall yet. Not here. Not in front of the cat. Not where you might still be watching.
“I just thought you might…” he swallows. “Need it.”
The tea cools.
Outside, rain begins to tick against the windows, just like it used to.
Alfred closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of lavender and bergamot.
Pretends for a second–that your muddy shoes will squeak down the hall, that your voice will call his name with sleepy cheer, that you’ll flop down beside him with a sigh and a smile, asking for toast.
He opens his eyes.
Stillness. Still.
Then, finally, he speaks—not to the room, not to the candle, not even to himself.
But to you.
“As long as I remember,” he whispers, “you’re not gone.”
And the candle burns.
───── ୨୧ ─────
Dick’s fists split open again.
He doesn’t feel it, not right away–doesn’t notice until the sweat dripping from his jaw darkens where it lands. The mat beneath him is smeared with it now: blood, sweat, ghost-shadows. Guilt that bleeds through his skin like poison.
He keeps going.
Jab. Cross.
Hook. Elbow.
Repeat until the rhythm drowns out the silence in his chest.
He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t yell. He trains with a silence so loud it buzzes in his ears, fists slamming into the bag like he’s trying to fight God. Or fate. Or himself.
The room smells of iron and regret. It stinks. The old kind. The kind you can’t wash out. Not even with fire.
When he finally stops, it’s not because the pain hits—it’s because he can’t breathe through it anymore.
He stumbles back, drops against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched low, fists resting uselessly against his knees. His chest heaves. Sweat stings the corner of his eyes.
“Goddammit,” he mutters.
And then, quieter–barely audible, like a breath leaking from the deepest part of him, he whispers your name.
Sometimes it sounds like an apology.
Sometimes like a question.
Always like a wound.
•
When you were small.
You used to throw yourself at him the second he walked in the door, sticky hands, tangled hair, face lit up like Gotham had never been anything but safe.
He always smelled like leather, sweat, and the overwashed cotton of his favorite t-shirts. You said he smelled like “outside” and “fun.” He said you smelled like cereal and trouble.
You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, tiny arms choking his neck. He’d pretend to stumble, groaning, “You’re getting too heavy, kid—gonna squish me like a pancake,” and you’d scream with laughter, daring him to fall.
“You’re my favorite person,” you once told him, curled into his side after patrol, your voice gummy with sleep.
Not ‘brother.’ Not ‘hero.’ Just person. Like that was the most sacred title in the world.
He laughed. Ruffled your hair. “Don’t let the others hear that,” he said.
And then he left.
Blüdhaven called. So did the idea of being more than a shadow. He needed distance from Bruce. From the cave. From the mission. He told himself he deserved to carve his own path.
You’d cried. Like a child. Because you were one.
He kissed your forehead and promised, “I’ll be back all the time, dummy.”
He wasn’t.
Not that night.
Not when it counted.
Not when you needed him most.
•
Now.
Sometimes he walks the rooftops just to feel closer to you. Retracing steps from that night you begged to see Gotham from above–your first time.
The look in your eyes as the city spread beneath you like a secret. How your hands clutched his arm, not out of fear, but awe.
Once, not long ago, he swore he saw you.
Just a flicker. A shape turning the corner. A shadow with your gait. A laugh that echoed and shattered him.
“Y/N!” he shouted, lunging forward.
Nothing.
Just smoke.
•
Now he hears you sometimes. When the wind moves right. When the city’s quiet. When the guilt inside him claws too loud to ignore.
Your voice.
“Dick.”
He always turns. Always.
Nothing’s there.
He doesn’t tell anyone that the hallucinations are back. Not even Alfred. Not even Bruce. Because this time, it’s different. This time, it’s you.
Jason’s death gutted him.
But yours?
Yours stole something he never had words for.
You weren’t a symbol. You weren’t the mission. You were his little comfort. His anchor. His reason.
You were the soft thing that came after pain. And now you’re gone.
•
Wayne Manor. His room. 3:17 a.m.
He sits on the floor. Legs crossed. Forehead pressed to the photo frame like a prayer.
You’re laughing in it, out of focus. He took it mid-giggle—caught you by accident, and never deleted it. It’s his favorite.
“I should’ve stayed,” he says.
His voice breaks around the words.
“I should’ve taken you with me.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Hurts. Waits.
And somewhere, in the silence, in the ache of it all–
He believes you would’ve forgiven him.
But he doesn’t forgive himself.
──── ୨୧ ────
Jason’s quiet this year.
He doesn’t make a thing of it—doesn’t storm in, doesn’t throw punches at ghosts. But he shows up more than he used to. And when he’s there, he’s almost always in your room.
He never turns on the light. Just cracks the window open like he’s pretending he still has manners, even though the smoke curls in anyway, soft as snow. It drifts onto everything you left behind–your bookshelf, your game controllers, the hoodie he used to “borrow” and never give back.
The hoodie still smells like you. Or maybe that’s in his head.
He doesn’t sleep here, not really. Just sits.
Sometimes with the lights of Gotham blinking against the windowpane. Sometimes with his head pressed against the edge of your bed like he’s waiting to hear you breathing again.
He acts like he’s over it. Like he’s past the point of breaking. But his jacket always carries this ratty envelope—creases worn white at the edges, the paper inside frayed and curled.
It’s full of your notes.
The kind you used to leave him everywhere, absurd places.
Tucked inside his helmet, slipped into the pockets of his jacket, wedged beneath the clip of a gun or folded into a boot.
Some are nonsense:
“Eat something or I’ll break your kneecaps.”
“Extra pickles in the fridge. You’re welcome.”
“I saw you smile. I’m telling B.”
Some are softer:
“Get some sleep, grumpface.”
One, he reads more than the others. Ink faded. Folded and unfolded so many times it’s practically tissue.
“I’m glad you came back.”
He doesn’t tell anyone about that one. Not even Alfred. Not even Dick. Especially not Bruce.
Because that one—that one undoes him.
•
Cemetery. Late evening.
Your grave is clean. Someone’s been here before him—probably Alfred. Maybe Steph. The flowers are fresh. The stone smooth, your name etched deep and clear like the world needed a reminder of how real this loss is.
Jason stands there, helmet tucked under his arm. The wind brushes past him, low and sharp. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip burning orange in the dim light.
He doesn’t talk, not really.
He never has much to say around here.
But he pulls another cigarette from his pocket—lights it, just like yours—and places it next to the flowers. Lets it burn down in silence.
A strange ritual. But it feels like you’d understand. You always understood the parts of him that didn’t know how to be soft without cracking open entirely.
He stays until the stars come out.
Then, without ceremony, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bullet. It’s not bloodstained or marked. Just smooth. Polished. The kind meant to promise, not threaten.
He sets it gently at the base of your headstone.
“I came back,” he mutters.
His voice is raw. Low. Not meant for anyone but you.
He waits a beat. Two.
Then quieter–
“Next time, I won’t be late.”
And he means it.
Even if it kills him.
──── ୨୧ ────
A tiny café tucked between 7th and Bristol.
The table is still the same—slightly lopsided, with a chipped ceramic sugar jar and two mismatched mugs.
You used to call it “your spot,” like claiming it made it more real. Like a trio of underage vigilantes sneaking lattes and stolen pastries were just another group of high schoolers with nowhere better to be.
Now there are only two seats filled.
Tim stares down at his coffee like it might spill answers into the foam. His hands are wrapped around the cup even though it’s gone cold.
Stephanie sits across from him, one leg pulled up into the booth, arms tight across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together with elbows. She hasn’t touched her drink.
The air smells like cinnamon and burnt beans. Someone’s playing a crackly vinyl in the corner—some jazz that doesn’t quite reach their corner of the café.
They haven’t spoken for ten minutes.
They don’t have to. You were always the talker. The mood-setter. The one who made the silences feel intentional, cozy even. You’d come here and poke fun at Tim for his caffeine dependency, steal a sip of Steph’s drink and declare it too sweet, and then pay the tip in exact change just to irritate the barista.
Now the air sits heavy. Like a ghost still ordering a caramel macchiato.
Tim exhales, shaky. “They always reminded me to eat,” he says, voice hoarse, like it had to be dragged up from somewhere deep and raw. “Even when we were mid-mission. They’d shove a protein bar in my hand and say, ‘Eat this or pass out, your choice.’”
Steph snorts through her nose, but her smile doesn’t hold. Her chin quivers, and she looks away.
“They’d be pissed if we cried in public,” she says. Her voice is light, teasing, almost defiant—but her eyes are glossy, throat tight.
Tim looks at her.
She looks back.
And there’s a flicker of the old rhythm. That space where you would’ve made a joke. Broken the tension. Called them “emo” and suggested getting cupcakes.
But you’re not here.
Steph nods slowly, more to herself than anyone else.
“We’ll cry after.”
Tim nods, too. Silent agreement. An old pact, rewritten.
And they do.
Not right there—not loud, not breaking—but when they leave the café and walk around the corner, past the alley where you once spray-painted a smiley face on the brick wall because “it looked like it needed a friend,” Steph presses her forehead to the cold concrete.
Tim stands beside her, eyes closed.
They don’t speak.
Tears slide down without permission. Quiet. Steady.
Because the glue is gone.
And the rift is real.
And neither of them knows how to fix something that’s been buried.
But for a moment—just one—they let themselves fall apart. Together.
────୨ৎ────
Gotham Community Center, Friday afternoon.
The rug beneath Duke’s knees is a chaos of colors—bright reds, sunny yellows, thick stripes of green and blue curling like vines. It’s sticky in places. Crayon wax is crushed into one corner. A juice box leaks quietly behind him, forgotten in the flurry of small limbs and louder voices.
He’s not wearing armor. No cape, no domino mask. Just a hoodie and jeans and a name tag that reads “DUKE 🦇 Volunteer” in glitter pen.
You’d made that. You always used the glitter pen, even when he protested. “Heroes don’t sparkle,” he’d said once.
“Batman doesn’t,” you had grinned, “but you do.”
Now the glitter’s faded, but the ache hasn’t.
Kids crawl over him like he’s playground equipment. One clings to his shoulder, firing off questions in rapid succession.
“Why do you talk slow sometimes?”
“Why’s the sun yellow and not green?”
“Why do bad guys wear capes too? That’s cheating.”
Duke’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s practiced. Not quite fake. Not quite real.
“I talk slow when I’m thinking,” he says, answering the first.
The other questions blur together. His brain drags behind his mouth. It’s always like this lately. Like thinking is something he has to wade through.
You dragged him here his first week in the family. He’d been stiff, unsure, still clinging to the idea of what being a hero should look like. Crime-fighting. Patrol. Glory.
But you–
“Be a hero out of costume too.”
That’s what you’d told him, apron tied backwards, glue in your hair, helping two five-year-olds make pasta necklaces while explaining Newton’s Third Law in baby talk.
He hadn’t realized then how those words would come back like broken ribs every time he breathed.
A little girl with pigtails and a unicorn sticker on her cheek clutches his arm.
“Where’s the one who wore the silly apron?” she asks, her voice small but certain.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They had to go away,” he says.
She frowns. “Why?”
Duke hesitates. The right words don’t come. The truth is too big for this room.
“They were tired,” he finally says. “So they’re resting now.”
The girl nods solemnly and squeezes his arm. “They were funny. They made the macaroni dragon.”
“I know,” he whispers.
When the last parent signs out their kid, when the art bins are put away and the lights dim, Duke slips into the janitor’s closet like muscle memory. Quiet. Familiar.
The air smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. The floor is damp from a mop someone forgot to rinse. He lowers himself onto the cold tile beside the mop bucket, back against the wall, head in his hands.
It starts with a sniff. Then another. Then his whole chest caves inward like a collapsed tunnel.
He tries to stay quiet.
He’s not wearing the mask. But he still doesn’t want anyone to hear a hero cry.
Fists pressed to his eyes, knees tucked to his chest, he sobs into the sleeve of his hoodie. Muffled. Shameful. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to feel.
But the pain doesn’t care about permission.
He presses his forehead to the wall, breathing fast, like maybe he can sob it all out before anyone notices. Like grief is something you can squeeze into a janitor’s closet and leave behind with the mop water.
You would’ve hated this.
You would’ve found him, offered a juice box and a dumb joke, like “The mop’s name is Jeremy. Respect him.”
You would’ve stayed.
But now it’s just him. Glitter fading on a name tag. Salt on his cheeks.
And silence.
────୨ৎ────
Gotham Clocktower. Afternoon light bleeds through the high windows.
The room is too quiet. Not peaceful—hollow.
Cass sits on the floor, spine against the leg of Barbara’s work desk, knees drawn up. Her hands hover in the space between them, fingers twitching with unspoken words. Barbara is beside her, wheelchair angled slightly, as if ready to catch a thought falling apart mid-air.
Cass blinks at her own hands like they belong to someone else.
“I…”
Her fingers move, slow. Unsure.
“I can…”
She hesitates. The sign falters.
“…say…”
She stops. Arms fall into her lap. Her throat tightens. No sound comes. Only the silence pressing against her skull, thick and suffocating.
Barbara leans in, her hand a warm weight over Cass’s.
“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, breaking like glass at the edges. “Take your time.”
Cass shakes her head, eyes narrowed with frustration. Her breath hitches, chest pulling tight in a way words never learned how to describe.
You used to guide her—tap her wrist gently, shape her fingers, smile with that crooked grin when she got it right. You didn’t speak over her silence. You didn’t rush to finish her sentence. You waited. You listened. Even when she couldn’t listen to herself.
Cass signs again. Slower this time. Deliberate.
“They helped… me say.”
Barbara’s mouth trembles.
“I know.” She reaches over, fingers curling around Cass’s hand. “You’re still doing it. You’re still saying things, Cass.”
But it’s different. The shape of silence is different now. Before, it was full—filled with your laughter, your patience, your voice reading aloud from some book you barely understood just because Cass liked the rhythm. Now it’s just silence. Unanchored.
Cass lowers her gaze. Her hands fall still. “Harder now,” she signs. Her lip quivers. “No… no one hears fast. Like them.”
Barbara nods. “I know. I feel it too.”
They sit like that for a moment, fingers clasped. Still.
Beneath the desk, Barbara’s other hand finds something—a notebook. Your notebook.
Half-filled pages, messy diagrams, unfinished attempts at sign language jokes. One of them is a dumb pun involving the sign for “grape” and “great.” Cass had hated it. You kept doing it.
Barbara opens to the page and shows her.
Cass breathes out a laugh, small but real. “Stupid,” she signs.
Barbara chuckles wetly. “Yeah. God, they were annoying.”
Cass nods. The grin slips, then wavers, then collapses again into grief. Her face folds in on itself, chin tucked to chest. “Miss them,” she signs. “Miss how they looked.”
Barbara touches her chest. “Me too. I still think they’re gonna walk in. Say something ridiculous. Like—‘Hey, what’s up, danger?’”
That one makes Cass huff. “Dumb.”
“You loved it.”
Cass nods.
There are no more jokes. No more signs. Just the weight of everything unsaid.
Barbara shifts, pulling herself closer. She cups Cass’s cheek with one hand. “You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to get it all right. I’m here. I’ll wait for your words. However long it takes.”
Cass blinks. One tear slips down. Her fingers rise again. Tentative. Trusting.
“I will keep… saying,” she signs. “Even if they’re gone. For them. With you.”
Barbara squeezes her hand. “Then we’ll learn again. Together.”
Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer. Shared. Not empty. A space you once filled now held between them, remembered.
They’re still trying.
For you.
────୨ৎ────
The cave is colder than usual.
Damian sits cross-legged on the stone floor, bare feet pressed to the earth, spine arrow-straight. He’s been meditating for hours—long past sunrise. Long past when Alfred would’ve called him up for tea or breakfast. But there’s no Alfred here.
Just the ghost of your laughter echoing off the walls, like water dripping in an empty cistern.
Titus rests nearby, his massive head laid solemnly over his paws. Every so often, his ears twitch at some noise—an air vent hum, a bat fluttering in the high dark rafters—but he never strays far.
The dog knows. He always knew when you were near.
Alfred the cat—named with stubborn irony—circles Damian’s still form once, then curls tightly in his lap without asking. Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just rests one hand over the cat’s arched back, steady. Controlled.
The only sound in the room is the low, almost bovine breath of Bat-Cow, tucked in her special paddock at the back of the cave. (Yes she still alive)
She’s been oddly quiet today too, as if the animals can feel it.
It’s your death anniversary.
Another year without you.
Another year where the world has kept spinning and Damian has kept sharpening his blades.
But this morning, all he’s done is sit. Until now.
His breath hitches—a crack in the calm.
He opens his eyes slowly. The light from the Batcomputer behind him casts just enough of a glow to catch the shimmer at the corner of his lashes.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
Instead, he looks at the sword across his knees. The hilt is worn with years of use—but at the very base, carved in tight, decisive strokes, is your name.
Etched deep.
Deep enough to splinter the grip if he ever loses control.
Deep enough that it cannot be erased, even if he tried.
He’d used his own dagger to do it. The same one his grandfather once gave him.
Precision work. Clean lines. The kind of carving done not in a fit of grief, but with total, surgical focus.
“You’d have mocked me for how dramatic it looks,” he murmurs, voice low. Almost hoarse. He scratches gently behind Alfred the cat’s ears. “Then insisted it was still sweet. That I was secretly sentimental.”
Titus raises his head, as if hearing your voice too. His tail thumps once, hopeful.
Damian exhales. Then speaks again. This time to you. Wherever you are.
“You were the first one to ever hug me.”
The words leave him like a confession. A whispered sin.
He remembers it like it just happened.
You’d been younger than he is now—maybe fourteen, fifteen. He’d been a child barely taller than your chest. Angry at the world. All jagged reflexes and rigid posturing.
You had launched at him. No warning. Just barreled into his side and wrapped him up like you belonged there.
He’d gone stiff as a board. Every muscle tensed. Ready to lash out and throw you across the room.
You only laughed. Hugged tighter.
“You little assassin nerd,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. “You need, like, ten more of these per day.”
And the next day, you did it again.
And the next.
Eventually… he hugged back.
You were the only one he let drag him to museums. Art galleries. Rooftops for stargazing and hot chocolate. He used to roll his eyes the whole time, but you’d catch the edge of his smile in the glass of a display case or in the shimmer of moonlight on his face.
No one else could ever make him go. But he always went with you.
“I hated most of it,” he lies now, just to hear himself say it. “Except I didn’t. You knew I didn’t.”
He leans forward and presses his forehead to the hilt of the sword. Your name is cold against his skin.
“We share the same blood,” he whispers. “And I still couldn’t protect you.”
The breath leaves his body all at once. Like a blow to the ribs.
His fingers curl tight around the hilt. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move.
But when he finally stands—quietly, with Alfred leaping down from his lap—his steps lead him not upstairs.
They lead him to the training floor.
Titus watches from the edge. Knows what’s coming.
Damian doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t speak.
He draws the sword with a sound like lightning splitting through bone.
And then—he moves.
Every strike is a memory. A fracture. A sin. A promise broken.
When he finishes, the training dummy is sliced clean in half. Not jagged. Not splintered.
Clean.
There’s a moment of stillness as the pieces fall to the floor.
Damian’s chest rises and falls. Sweat beads at his temple. His hands tremble now, only now, when the damage is already done.
He doesn’t look at the sword again.
Just drops to his knees beside Titus. Bows his head into the dog’s fur and breathes like it might be enough to pull you back from wherever you are.
“You were my favorite,” he admits into the dark. “I never told you. But you were. Always.”
Titus whines, soft and aching.
The cave is quiet again.
And this time, Damian lets himself grieve—no blades, no masks, no training.
Just your name carved in steel.
And a family of animals who still remember the warmth you left behind.
────୨ৎ────
Wayne Manor. Surveillance Room. 3:17 A.M.
The monitor hums softly in the dark.
Everything else is still. No clocks ticking. No comms buzzing. Just static-light flickering over Bruce’s unshaven face as he sits hunched forward, eyes locked to the footage like it might change if he wills it hard enough.
He presses play again.
There you are.
Walking into the gala.
Nervous.
You tug self-consciously at the collar of your formal suit—the one Alfred insisted looked “dignified” and you called “fashionable punishment.” You shift your weight like you want to bolt. Straighten your shoulders just like Alfred told you to.
A forced smile. Then a real one. You laugh at something someone says just off-frame. You tilt your head toward a voice calling your name, mouth parted in response.
Then:
“I’m not ready.”
And then–
Static.
Bruce freezes the frame. Rewinds. Plays it again.
That moment.
That voice.
The tiny tremble in it.
He watches it over and over. Not the whole clip. Just that fragment. You fidgeting. Speaking. Glancing over your shoulder like something might be following. Like you already knew.
You did.
God. You knew.
You’d begged him.
•
Memory, Two Nights Before.
You stood by the cave exit, arms crossed, voice small beneath all the steel.
“Don’t go out like this. Something feels wrong tonight.”
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
“We can talk when I’m back.”
“What if I’m not here when you are?”
You had said it lightly. Like a joke.
He hadn’t laughed.
He didn’t say “I love you.”
Didn’t say “thank you” or “I hear you.”
He was already gone.
•
“I thought you were safe,” Bruce murmurs, the words barely audible. As if saying them too loud might make them even less true.
“I thought you were safe… inside these walls. Under my roof. Inside the gates.”
His jaw clenches. His throat works. He doesn’t blink.
“You were supposed to be safe.”
His eyes are bloodshot. The footage crackles. His hand hovers over the keyboard, knuckles taut, veins visible. He’s memorized every angle of your smile, every hitch in your breath in those last moments, every fraction of unease in your body language.
And it wasn’t enough.
None of it was.
•
The silence is unbearable.
He walks through the halls like a ghost, barefoot and aimless. Every footstep is muffled on ancient carpets. Every turn reminds him of you—sitting upside down on the staircase railing, trailing your fingers along the banister, laughing too loud during dinners no one else found funny.
He still hears your voice sometimes. The echo of it. The lingering shape of your presence carved into the silence.
He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.
•
He makes his way to your room’s door.
He pauses there.
Doesn’t open it.
Can’t.
Instead, he stands outside it like a soldier posted at a tomb. Like he’s guarding what little remains.
His hand lifts halfway toward the doorknob. Then falls.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly it doesn’t echo.
And still the house groans in reply. The silence doesn’t forgive. The halls do not answer.
•
Back in the cave.
He sits again. Hits play.
“I’m not ready.”
He knows now you were right. Not about the gala. Not just about that night.
About everything.
Neither of you were ready—for the way things would break. For the silence afterward. For the finality of a child dying before their father.
And yet here he is.
Alone. With the flickering image of a child who looked back one last time.
And with all the ways he didn’t listen.
────୨ৎ────
Crime Alley. Midnight.
Rain traces down the gutters like veins. The alley is quiet now—emptied of police tape and flashing lights, but the memory of it burns brighter than any crime scene spotlight. Gotham’s heart never stops bleeding, but here—it gushed.
Selina stands at the edge.
Her heels click once against wet stone, then fall silent. She walks further in. No mask. No costume. Just a long black coat, tailored like grief, soaked at the hem.
She stops where the scorch marks begin.
The brick is still charred, dark veins of soot climbing like vines toward the broken fire escape. The bloodstain is barely visible now—diluted, washed down the drain, but she sees it. She knows where it was.
She kneels.
Gloved fingers skim the wall, right where it happened. She doesn’t flinch at the soot that stains the leather. Doesn’t wipe it off. She presses her palm flat to the stone.
Her breath catches.
But she doesn’t cry.
She hasn’t cried since the call. Not even when they showed her the evidence bag with the charm bracelet. Not when she saw the tooth-blackened bone. Not when Alfred held her shoulder so tightly it bruised.
Because if she cries, it means it’s real.
Instead, she breathes you in. Or what’s left.
Ash. Smoke. The faintest memory of your shampoo—lavender and mint—and the strange way it mixed with Gotham filth. She swears she can still smell it in the stone. Still feel the hum of your laughter ricocheting off the alley walls.
You used to chase her through alleys like this. Little boots pounding behind her, giggling as she pretended to vanish over the rooftops.
You’d call:
“I saw your tail, Mama!”
And she’d shout back,
“Then keep up, kitten!”
God. You tried so hard to keep up.
•
She whispers now, voice barely there, like she’s afraid the rain might swallow it:
“I left you once.”
Her fingers tremble. She flattens them harder against the wall, grounding herself, biting down on her lip so hard it breaks skin.
“And I never got to come back.”
That’s the truth. The only one that matters.
She left you. A mother’s greatest crime, wrapped in good intentions and selfish fear.
She thought you’d be safer with Bruce. She thought love meant stepping aside.
But you needed her. And she was gone.
•
The wind picks up. Carries smoke from somewhere deeper in Gotham—a chimney, a car fire, a signal.
But in the twist of air through the alley, for just a breath, it smells like you.
She inhales sharply. Eyes flutter shut.
A hand rises to cover her mouth.
And for one cruel, fleeting second, she imagines you’re there. Hiding behind the dumpster like you used to. Waiting to leap out. Playing some awful joke. Laughing that reckless, raw laugh that sounded too much like hers.
The shadows flicker like cat’s tails. Her kind of magic.
But you’re not there.
Just the stone. The ash. The guilt.
•
She stands slowly, knees stiff, spine aching with years of running from consequences. But she doesn’t wipe the soot off her glove. She lets it stay—like a mark, a bruise, a promise.
She doesn’t say goodbye.
She never has.
Instead, she turns her head to the wind one last time. Listening. Reaching.
Just in case.
In case you’re still near.
In case ghosts really follow bloodlines.
In case your soul is clever enough to linger.
And in the stillness, she whispers:
“I should’ve stayed.”
────୨ৎ────
They only found pieces of you.
Bone fragments. Teeth. A sliver of jaw. Skin fused to fabric in a way that made the coroners turn away and breathe through their sleeves.
Bruce signed the report without flinching. Selina refused to.
Some of it wasn’t even yours.
Gotham chews its children and spits out what’s left.
And you—you were never meant to be in its mouth in the first place. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t a sidekick. They trained you just enough—to recognize danger, to escape if it came too close. You knew how to vanish down alleys. How to disappear behind curtains. How to run.
Your last call was panicked static. Muffled breath. A sob that stuttered into a gasp. Someone shouted your name—maybe through the phone, maybe in the street. You’ll never know. The line went dead before you could answer.
You remember the way your chest locked. The heat. Not flames yet, but pressure—a vacuum before the collapse. The sound of splintering bone. Concrete. Something wet.
Then stillness.
Your final thought wasn’t of vengeance or glory.
You want none of that.
It was: Did he hate me when I left?
It was: Did she know I loved her, even after everything?
It was: I’m not strong enough.
But you were.
Maybe not in the way Gotham needed.
Maybe you should have run faster.
But enough that, today…
They still speak to you.
In tea cups. In worn hoodies. In cracked knuckles. In candlelight.
You were not a soldier.
You were not a vigilante.
You were the heart.
And no one—not Gotham, not even death—can erase that.
•Note: holycow it’s over 5k words in 72 hours💀💀 I have rewritten over and over but still not satisfied enough with 10+ drafts in my Apple Note LMAO. If you’re wondering why the fic published so fast and long then it’s because Im in summer vacation, I’ve been writing through days till nights so yeah the outcome might come after 1-2 days.
This is the inspiration I talk about here, there’s also some of my concept in comment. This series strictly platonic towards the Batfam but there also some love interests.
Ngl Im gonna take a rest after this for awhile and fulfill promise by working on Descent Into Shadows, hope you enjoy this fic! If you have some questions after this, leave a comment/through inbox to let me know💙
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I have ideas and inspired by this on AO3 (again). Please read and support their works!!
I know Im delaying on Descent Into Shadows (Jason) but I promise I’ll publish next chapter soon after my first neglected reader trope.
Also kinda want to post my works on AO3 but I scared of ‘AO3 author curse’ lmao because I already have weak immune systems, my friend got into car accident after he posted on there too (he’s fine dw)
You guys can give me opinions by commenting I don’t mind actually I would be very happy
ღ A/N: Ena Shinomnomme and Mizuki Akiyama kinnie but this time I let someone died (but mention briefly). Reader dress up feminine clothes but not set as Female, they are gender neutral. Enjoy!
✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Isolation, Mental Health Deterioration, Obsession, Emotional Surveillance, And The Bitter Truth Of Failing To Become Friends.
It happened.
A call at 2AM.
A hospital room.
A silence that never ended.
• • •
You lost someone.
Someone real. Someone grounding. Someone who kept you tethered. They were gone. And with them, you started to go, too.
At first, no one noticed. You still showed up. Still wore your bows and little pearl bracelets and dainty heels that clicked with purpose. You still turned in your critiques. Still kept your head high.
You tried to hold the shape of yourself.
But grief doesn’t rip. It rots. Slowly. Quietly.
Like ink bleeding through expensive paper, you began to blur.
You stop dressing up after the funeral.
Not immediately. At first, you double down. Lip gloss. White tights. Those stupid velvet Mary Janes that click on the lecture hall stairs. You wear bows every day like bandages–one for every time someone tells you they’re sorry, one for every time someone stares too long without asking how you’re doing.
It’s not for comfort. It’s camouflage. The same reason you still turn in assignments with delicate handwriting and smile at your professors when they say your midterm felt “emotionally raw.”
What they mean is: Are you okay?
What they don’t say is: We’re afraid you’re going to die like this.
Because they’re right.
You aren’t okay.
And it’s starting to show.
When they stopped asking, you didn’t miss them.
Tim watched. He always watched. But he never asked.
You skip studio for the first time in early November. You lie and say you’re sick.
You’re not.
You’re in bed, in the dark, chewing at your nails and ignoring your ringing phone. There are three unread messages from your department mentor. One from a classmate. One from Tim Drake.
You don’t read his. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.
Where were you?
That’s not like you.
You’re smarter than this.
He never asks you if you’re okay. He just catalogues your decline like a data set–measurable, methodical, inevitable. The way some people study heat maps or war zones. Like you’re a puzzle or a problem. Like you’re no longer real.
Maybe you’re not.
Maybe you’re just… after.
Until you started skipping lectures more often.
Until the piece you’d been preparing all semester–a visual trauma narrative built on recurring color and texture–was submitted unfinished. Blank. Canvas gessoed white, like you’d erased something sacred and dared them to notice.
You didn’t care if they did.
But he did.
He cornered you outside the psych building, his face tight in that frustrated, academic way. As if he was mad you were ruining his hypothesis.
“You’re unraveling,” he said, not as a question. Like a scientist naming a specimen. “I’m not the only one who sees it.”
You laughed. You hadn’t heard yourself laugh in days.
“So write a paper about it, Drake.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t move.
“You’re not well.”
“And you’re not my therapist.”
Silence. Not heavy. Just hollow.
“You used to wear pink,” he said quietly.
You looked at him then. The way he said that–like it meant something. Like it was some kind of code. Like the loss of softness equaled loss of self.
And maybe it did.
But you didn’t say that.
You said: “And you used to mind your own business.”
You left him standing there. And it felt good, for five whole seconds.
You used to be coquette. You used to love the way light pink caught on your cheeks or how hearts looked drawn in gel pen on your wrists.
Now your skin feels too thin for any color.
You don’t wear bows anymore. You can’t even look at them. They sit in a little box at the back of your desk drawer, and every time you open it to find a pen or a charger, they’re just… there. Bright and untouched and wrong.
So you stop opening the drawer.
By December, you wear black every day. Not cute black. Not stylized, witchy black.
Just blankness. Oversized hoodies. Long sleeves. Jeans that don’t hug you right because you’ve lost weight you weren’t trying to lose. You smell like dry shampoo. Your eyes stay rimmed in red, but there’s no makeup anymore to cover it.
No one says anything.
But Tim watches.
Of course he does.
He keeps sitting two rows behind you in lectures. Keeps tracking your attendance. Starts submitting “group assignments” that aren’t assigned in groups, just so he can CC you and say “Thought you might want to contribute.”
You never ask him to stop. But you do start turning off read receipts.
Weeks passed.
You stopped attending studio altogether. The world dulled like overexposed film. Your professors reached out. You ignored them. Your roommate left sticky notes on your mirror. You peeled them off one by one.
The only constant was him–Tim.
Emails. Messages. PDF attachments at 3AM. Journal articles about grief regression and executive dysfunction. No “how are you.” Just clinical concern, thinly veiled as academic interest.
Emotional surveillance.
You start dreaming about him.
Not romantically. Not sexually.
In your dreams, he stands at the edge of your bed and watches you sleep like he’s studying you for symptoms. His eyes are empty. His hands are full of sharp things.
You wake up and start crying before you know why.
There’s a moment in late January when he finds you in the back corner of the library, curled up behind the stacks, your phone off, your sketchbook empty.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Watching.
You can feel the weight of it, like being stared at by your own autopsy photo.
Eventually, he sits down.
And says:
“You know, I used to think you were pretending.”
You don’t answer. Your mouth tastes like metal. You want to cry but your eyes are dry again. Your body doesn’t even have the energy to grieve anymore. Just a low hum of self-hatred under your ribs.
Tim keeps going, voice low, like he’s talking to a ghost:
“I thought the bows and the sweetness were performance. But I think… maybe this is.”
You turn your face toward the bookshelf.
“I don’t care what you think.”
“I know,” he says.
And then:
“But I still think it.”
Later, he sends you a document. Not a message. A full analysis.
You open it out of spite.
The Psychology of Identity Loss in Trauma Victims: A Working Hypothesis.
By T. Drake.
Inspired by case subject (Y). [REDACTED].
You want to scream. You want to set your laptop on fire.
Instead, you scroll. And read. And choke.
Because he gets it.
Because he sees it.
Not you, not really. But the fracture. The post-mortem of your former self, broken down into citations and behavioral regression tables.
He’s dissecting you like a cadaver.
You don’t reply.
But you read it again.
And again.
There’s a point in February when it’s so bad you stop going home for weekends. You stop answering your mother’s calls. You don’t even open your email anymore, except to mark things unread so you won’t be dropped from class.
Your world shrinks to your room, the inside of your hoodie, and the thin knowledge that Tim knows exactly how far you’re falling.
He’s stopped intervening. But not watching.
Always watching.
You imagine his notes. His folders. His timelines of your breakdown. You imagine him cataloging the way your hair started tangling, or when you stopped wearing rings, or the precise lecture where your hands stopped sketching in the margins.
And it’s awful.
And it’s disgusting.
And it’s the only thing that makes you feel seen anymore.
The last time you speak is in March.
You find him outside a seminar. He’s alone, reading. And you stand there in your too-long sleeves and chewed lips and ask, flatly:
“Are you still studying me?”
He doesn’t flinch.
He looks up.
“Are you still letting me?”
Silence. Cold and long and final.
You say, “I hope your research is worth it.”
He says, “I wish I didn’t need it.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment.
That’s where it ends–not in flames, not in tears, not even in a scream.
Just two people who almost saved each other.
Who failed.
Who now carry the weight of that failure in silence.
You don’t talk again.
You don’t get better.
You just get quieter.
And one day, someone asks Tim about you.
“Didn’t you know them?”
“Didn’t you two used to…?”
And he shrugs.
Like it doesn’t matter.
Like you weren’t something he watched die in real time.
He never answers.
But he keeps the paper.
And he never deletes your name.
Next up: No one else gets to save you | <<< Part 2. >>>
ღA/N: I haven’t finished the Jason’s one yet but already started on Tim, I don’t have any excuse your honor. Dividers are made by @cafekitsune ! Also there’s a familiar name, I wonder why it’s there👀
Note: This is a Yandere story but for the start off the chapter it’s just a life of being student in university. You’re an art major with a psychology focus, and he’s in another major likely something strategic, analytical, or tech-heavy. Academic rivals are ruled.
No gender mention for reader, just “You” and “Y/N”. Enjoy!
You see him again.
Fourth time this week. Fifth if you count the reflection in the library window Monday night, where he didn’t notice you watching him stalk through the neuroscience wing like he had a hitlist tucked in his backpack. He probably did. Probably alphabetized, color-coded, timestamped. You don’t know what his major is, exactly. You just know it involves enough data and silence to make your teeth itch.
You’re not even sure how it started, this thing between you.
Maybe it was the day he tore down your entire color-theory thesis in front of the honors seminar like you hadn’t poured eight weeks of insomnia into it. Or maybe it was when you psychoanalyzed the subtle ways he corrects professors, like he’s trying not to challenge their authority outright. A boy raised in the shadows, needing to be smarter than the room but invisible at the same time.
He hated that.
You liked that he hated that.
It made things interesting.
Now you both sit two rows apart in the interdisciplinary lecture you don’t need, but keep taking anyway. You, because it fulfills a loose psych elective. Him, because–well, you’re still figuring that out. You suspect it’s just to keep an eye on you.
His laptop is open. Of course. Always typing, even when the professor is off-topic or ranting about Kantian frameworks like anyone in this generation gives a damn. You sketch while he types. His fingers never pause. Neither does your pencil.
You don’t know what he’s writing. He doesn’t know you’re drawing him. (He probably does)
Sometimes you wonder what it’d be like if you weren’t circling each other like dogs bred for war. If you weren’t two kids with too many ghosts and not enough peace. If you weren’t chasing two versions of control in different languages–his clean, hard logic versus your bleeding, beautiful chaos.
“Drake,” you mutter when he passes by your table at the campus café.
He looks up. Neutral expression, polite voice.
“Y/N.”
The way he says your name–it’s never soft. Like it’s a task. Like he’s filing you under ‘problems to solve later.’
You sip your coffee. He doesn’t sit, but he also doesn’t leave.
“I heard you’re presenting at the symposium next month,” he says. Tone clipped. “Didn’t think postmodern expressionism was ready for prime time.”
You smile over the rim of your cup. “I didn’t think future CIA agents attended art showcases.”
His lip twitches. A crack in the porcelain. You almost write that down. Instead, you offer a shrug.
“It’s about trauma translation in visual mediums,” you say casually. “Memory distortion in painted narratives. Thought you’d be into that, don’t you guys love poking at trauma?”
“I don’t poke,” he says. “I dissect.”
“Wow. That supposed to impress me?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m guessing that’s your default response to feeling threatened.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m not threatened.”
“Sure.”
You hate that you want to throw your coffee at him and kiss him at the same time.
There’s no label for what you two are. You share a dozen classes. Compete for the same awards. Sit on the same late-night panels when professors need overachievers to flex for alumni donors.
You’ve even been grouped for the occasional cross-discipline project where you talk, and he listens, and then he talks, and you sketch the slope of his mouth when he forgets he’s performing.
Sometimes you work in silence for hours.
Sometimes you fight.
Sometimes you wonder what he dreams about when he forgets to pretend he doesn’t dream.
You catch him reading your analysis paper once. The one you left out in the shared research lab. He doesn’t know you’re watching from the stairwell. He reads it twice.
You never mention it.
Weeks pass. You win the campus-wide art grant. He wins the dean’s medallion. You both pretend not to care about the other’s win, but neither of you stop looking. Comparing. Weighing.
During one particularly brutal review, your advisor calls your piece “Catharsis in Crimson” emotionally erratic.
You leave class furious, chalk-stained fingers clenching your coat.
Tim’s outside already, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting. You scowl.
“If you came to gloat–”
“I liked it.”
You blink.
“What?”
“I liked your piece,” he says. “The one they tore apart.”
Your voice is smaller than you want. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I know.” He nods. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
It’s quiet for a beat. You look at the sky to avoid looking at his face. The clouds are heavy and gray and stubborn. You think, Maybe we’re like that too.
“I don’t know what we are,” you admit.
Tim exhales slowly. “Neither do I.”
You laugh softly but the bitterness already etched on your tongue.
“Must drive you crazy. Not knowing.”
“It does,” he says. “You’re an outlier. I don’t have a model for you.”
You look at him then. Really look. There’s something honest in the way his hands curl at his sides. Something tired in the slouch of his shoulders, like he’s been fighting a war no one sees.
“I could say the same.”
“I know.”
And there it is again. The space between you, small and sharp and unbearably loud.
✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Emotional Manipulation, Yandere Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Disturbing Intimacy, Toxic Relationships, Possessiveness, Gore And Psychological Decline.
✮ Dick Grayson when he smiles at you too long.
You think it’s sweet, the way his eyes linger like they’re drinking you in. How his hand finds your lower back in crowds, how he always somehow ends up between you and anything that might breathe too close. Protective, you call it. Gentlemanly. Your Dickie is just old-fashioned like that.
But there’s something underneath.
Something that makes his fingers grip too tight when someone else says your name.
Something that makes your throat feel dry when he says “You don’t need anyone else.”
You giggle it off. You call it love.
Love is intense. Love is like this.
You call him cute. You call yourself the luckiest girl in the world.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when you accidentally ignore his text.
He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.
You feel it though–like a storm waiting behind a calm sky. His lips are still soft when they kiss your forehead. His arms still wrap around you when you sit in his lap. But his grip is stronger. There’s a ghost of pressure beneath his thumb when it traces your jaw. A lingering pause in his breath when he smells your perfume and doesn’t find only his cologne.
You apologize before you know what you’re apologizing for.
“I didn’t mean to–”
He just hums, stroking your cheek like you’re breakable. Or like you already broke something.
“Just don’t let it happen again, baby.”
And you won’t. Of course not. You’d never want to hurt him.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when you talk to someone else.
He watches. Smiling.
Blue eyes soft. Voice warm. Jokes easy.
And yet something in the air tightens–something you feel wrong and it’s not in a good way.
Because you know the laugh he gives isn’t real. You know the way his hand on your waist is no longer gentle. It’s a brand. A warning. You lean in closer to him because it’s easier than the silence that waits after.
Later, when the man you’d spoken to is found bloodied in an alley, you don’t ask questions. You just tuck yourself deeper into Dick’s arms and let him rub your back while you tremble like the fragile girl everyone thinks you are.
You whisper, “I was scared.”
He kisses your hair. “I know. I’m here.”
And he always is.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he buys a second toothbrush for you and leaves it beside his. His drawer’s already got your lotion in it. Your perfume. Your favorite lip gloss that he stole from your purse—not to use, he says, just to have. You giggled when he admitted that. You told him it was weird. Then kissed his cheek and let it go. That’s what makes you soft, sweet, pliant. You blink big eyes at him like he’s the only one who’s ever mattered. You cry when he gets mad. You cry when he leaves.
You cry, and he folds.
He lives to comfort you. You know that. You built him that way.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he begs you not to leave.
You hadn’t even planned to. You just wanted some air. Space. But his face falls like you’d shot him straight in the heart.
“You don’t love me anymore?”
And you know that’s a trap.
You know it’s a hook he’ll stab through his own ribs if it means he can pull you back in.
So you smile. Take his hand. Place it against your throat like a gift.
“You know I love you very much since the day we met.”
His relief is a tidal wave. It crashes into you with teeth. He kisses you too hard. Holds you too close. You pretend to be dizzy from love instead of how long his hand stayed pressed to your neck.
But you know the truth.
You love how desperate he is.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he cuts off a guy who was “just being friendly.” One warning glance from across the room, and the man suddenly backs off like he saw the devil behind you. He probably did. You’re too distracted twirling your hair and pouting about some minor inconvenience to care. You don’t notice the blood on Dick’s knuckles until hours later, when he runs a hand through your hair and you smell it, coppery and sweet and him. He won’t tell you where it came from.
You don’t ask.
You sigh and snuggle into his lap like a spoiled little thing. “Always stay with me,” you whisper. “Please?”
He breathes so deep it shakes. Like you saying that keeps him alive.
It does.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he talks about the future like it’s a vow. A home. A shared toothbrush. A grave, probably. “You’re mine, Y/N. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me.” He says it like a prayer, right before his hands crawl up under your shirt and his mouth buries against your skin like he’ll die if he can’t taste you.
His grip always tightens when you laugh. He gets scared when you smile too much at anyone else. His kisses are suffocating. He bruises your wrists when he begs you not to leave. Once, he broke a mirror because you didn’t say “I love you” before falling asleep.
You made sure to sob an apology and kiss his bloodied hands raw. “It’s my fault,” you whimpered. “I’m so stupid.”
He hugged you like you were made of glass.
He doesn’t know you cut your palms on the glass before he walked in.
He doesn’t know you were the one who shattered it.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he thinks he’s the dangerous one. Thinks he’s obsessed. Thinks he’s the villain, the one losing grip, spiraling for your love like it’s a drug.
He doesn’t know you’re feeding it to him. Drip by drip. Little doses of sugar and need and trembling smiles. You kiss the rage into him, moan like you’re helpless when he handles you too roughly, reward every outburst with sobs and cuddles and that voice–you know the one he loves–the soft, broken thing that makes him want to ruin anyone who looks at you. Even you.
He thinks he’s controlling you.
He has no idea.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when you tell him he’s your only one.
He moans.
Actually moans. Like it’s sex. Like you just touched the part of him that aches most.
And maybe you did. Because you know what he needs.
You feed that need.
Your Dickie isn’t just possessive. He’s fragile. That’s what makes him yours.
“Only you,” you whisper, and press your lips to his ear. “I’d never want anyone else.”
He believes you.
He doesn’t know you check his messages every night. Doesn’t know you’ve started drugging his vitamins, just enough to make him sleepy when he gets ideas about leaving for missions alone.
He doesn’t realize your perfume is laced with a subtle compound that triggers anxiety if he doesn’t smell it for a few days.
Because you’d never hurt him.
But he’s never going to hurt you either.
•
✮ Dick Grayson when he finally starts to break. Sleep-deprived. Cold sweats. Paranoia. He cries into your lap like a little boy and begs you not to leave him, not to hate him, not to disappear. He doesn’t even care if you’re lying. He just wants you near.
You pet his hair and tell him it’s okay.
It’s not.
It never was.
But this is exactly what you wanted.
You wanted him ruined. Hollowed out. So full of you there’s no space for light. And when he finally looks up at you with eyes that are all shadow, all ache–you smile. Soft. Innocent. Like you don’t know what you’ve done.
You coo, “I’ll never leave you, baby. I’m yours forever.”
He believes you.
You meant it, too.
Just not the way he thinks.
You’re not his.
He’s yours.
•
You were always the monster under the bed that waiting to jump at.
𐚁A/N: weird kink but I seek the thrill. Dividers are made by @cafekitsune !
⚘. WARNING!! NSFW, Gun Shooting, Blood, Violence, Cursing, Erotic Scene, Jason and Reader is freaky, (I will add more..)
Note: Reader obsessed with art. This is a Fem!reader story. Long chapter so prepare!
Gotham Art Museum – 2:03 A.M.
The security lasers were child’s play. The cameras? Outdated. And the guard watching monitors? Asleep with a donut on his chest.
Midnight Miu was already upside down, hanging by a wire from the ceiling, clawed gloves itching to own a glowing impressionist masterpiece with the awe of a worshipper. Claws tapped softly against marble, eyes gleaming focused on a surrealist cursed oil painting titled “Catharsis in Crimson” under a sleek column of glass.
You pressed your gloved fingers against the glass case, felt the coolness of the alarm panel beneath the surface, bell chimed faintly on your choker, a feline giggle in sound form.
Your pupils were blown. Blushed cheeks. Breath fogging on the glass. As you leaned your head against the cold case like getting off on the texture of the colors.
You was high again—not on drugs, no. On art. Pure, uncut creativity. That masterpiece in front of your sights? Orgasmic. A textured orgasm of oil paint and torment, abstract chaos in crimson, slate blue, and streaks of black.
“God,” you whispered with a delighted little shiver then cut through the glass surface, eagerly to obtain the so treasure in hands.
“This looks like someone slashed a dream in half and bled it on canvas. Mmm—this is so much better than sex”
A familiar voice called down from above.
“…Better than our sex?”
CLANK
You didn’t even flinch as Red Hood dropped in from the skylight, landing like a ghost on the marble.
You just looked at him upside down, eyes wide, still laughing under breath like you was seeing something divine.
“Jaybird,” you cooed, purring out the syllables, “You followed me. Again”
He approached slowly, boots echoing in the open hall.
“What’s wrong? Daddy Batman not giving you enough attention?”
“You’re high off art,” he muttered. “That’s a new kink, even for you”
You tapped your temple. “High off meaning. The chaos. The unspoken confessions in every brushstroke. Look at it–it’s screaming, and I want to taste the scream.”
Jason exhaled. “You need help and put the damn painting down immediately”
“Or what? You gonna shoot me?” You asked, hanging upside-down like a devilish chandelier. “Or punish me in other ways, officer?”
“You’re completely deranged,” he said unamused. “Breaking into a historical vault with your ass practically asking to be arrested”
“You say that like you weren’t staring at it”
He stared now. Let himself. “I am staring at it. I’ve shot people for less”
You giggle, relinquishing all caution. “Shoot me, and I’ll bleed pretty shades of scarlet.” You flex on the wire, flipping upside-down, arching your back to tease him. “But darling… you’d miss the fun part.”
“Why do you do this?” He asked impatiently.
“Do what?” You asked innocently, flicking claws over the glass case. “Make you hard while committing crimes?”
Jason’s breath hitched sharply.
You tilted head with that wicked cat-smile. “Gun is not the only thing cocked tonight right?”
Red Hood leveled his gun. “Drop it. I don’t want to break the prized loot—unless you’ve got a death wish”
Your grin widened beneath the mask. You sprang off the pedestal in a single bound, tail swishing behind like a whip. “Always. Don’t let me keep you”
You landed thirty feet away, crouched low. Red Hood’s boot cracked against the floor as he advanced, gun never wavering.
“You know, I could shoot you right now,” he said, voice low and lethal. “But I’d rather…not” There was a glint in his eyes, amusement sharpened with something like hunger. “You really think you belong in my nightmares?”
You pressed the canvas against your chest, so close that you could smell the paint’s faint turpentine tang. “You already live there”
You bolted. Red Hood fired one round—pure intimidation. The bullet shattered a display case behind you. You hopped to the side, letting loose a string of curses that echoed off the polished floors. In one swift motion, you extended a steel claw, slashed the bullet’s trajectory just enough to spray sparks across the walls.
Red Hood grunted. “Impressive”
“Thanks. I try,” you cooed, backing toward a pillar. “Now, if you don’t mind, let me go home with my little companion here”
He holstered his pistol. “I prefer fair fights” He launched himself at you, fists aimed at disabling strikes. You twisted your body, silk-like, and spun away. Jacket flared as you whipped around and delivered a kick that smashed his shoulder. The impact rattled his helmet; he staggered back.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t hurt that badly.” He shook it off. “Your turn”
You moved so fast that Red Hood saw only afterimages. Your blade flashed—once, twice—slicing his gauntlet before he could bring his arm up. Pain lanced through him, but he fought through it, tackling you toward a display of medieval daggers. You then twisted in midair, slipped from his grip, and landed on all fours, cat’s eyes blazing.
Red Hood stared, a dark grin forming. “You like playing rough”
You cocked your head. “I like playing you”
He lunged again; you dodged, one hand brushing his thigh. He jerked—semi-panting. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled.
You flicked a strand of hair from your face. “Your helmet stops you from tasting me” voice dipped to a sultry whisper. “Bet you’d love it”
He advanced slowly, anger and desire tangling inside him. “I don’t like you”
You stepped close, breath warm even through the mask. “You like me. You like me a lot”
Before he could react, you tossed the painting across the floor. It skidded into the darkness. His eyes followed its direction, then flicked back up to her.
“Smart,” he breathed.
You vanished in an instant—no scream, no flash, just empty space where you’d stood. He whirled to catch sight of your silhouette on the catwalk overhead, tail flicking like a question mark.
“Nice trick,” he said into the silence. And then: “Come back” It was a challenge, a plea, half-lost in the shadows.
You perched on the railing above him, the stolen object cradled in your arms. “You lost something?” You asked with false innocence, voice echoing across the high ceiling.
Red Hood stood below, one fist clenched. “Give it back”
You tossed it. Red Hood caught the canvas, finger brushing the cursed object. The moment he touched it, a chill spread up his arm, and he grunted, shifting the weight of it. “I thought you were smarter than this”
Then you dropped to the floor beside him—a soundless landing that sent a tremor through his spine. You flipped the tail, bell jingling. “You didn’t say there’d be no curse”
His jaw tightened. “Hand over my gun”
You grinned. “That’s the best part” In a heartbeat, the bones in your hand cracked, retracting claws from your gloves—three razor-sharp talons glinting. Pointed them at his helmet. “Or do you prefer bleeding?”
Red Hood’s gut twisted in pleasure-pain. “I prefer you begging”
Your laugh was a dark melody. You crouched lower, claws extended. “Beg?” Your eyes darkened. “Why would I beg the Red Hood?”
He stepped forward, fists raised but slack. “Because you want something from me”
You tilted your head. “I want this” tapped the canvas propped under his arms. “And I want you to want me”
He shoved the oil painting into your hands. “Happy?”
You embraced it as hide it behind your back. Then you kissed him. It was brutal—claws pressed into his hip, coat collar snagged around his neck. Her tongue was a challenge, seeking his. He froze, one arm locking you skull in place while the other drifted down, squeezing your hip through the spandex.
You hissed, then yanked back. “Relax,” you whispered, smirking. “You’re tense”
He growled, fingers curling into your hair. “Don’t pull that trick”
You yanked him forward for a swift punch to his abdomen. He absorbed it, chest caving in, but held fast. “You think you can break me?”
“You almost did,” you purred. Claws pressed lightly across the front of his helmet. “But I want more”
He caught you by the waist and slammed you against the display case behind them. Glass cracked; shards fell like crystalline rain. Your breath escaped in a gasp as his body pressed against you, hard. One hand cradled the back of your masked skull; the other slid between them, fingers brushing the bell on your choker.
You arched into him. “Is that… discomfort? Or excitement?”
Red Hood’s voice was husky. “Both”
You twisted sideways, slipping from his grasp like smoke. “Your turn to run”
He staggered after you, pistols drawn again. But you vanished behind a column, bell jingling like a seductive echo. He fired a non-lethal round; you tumbled from a ledge two floors above—landing gracefully on feet, twisting in midair so the painting stayed secure. You sprang toward him, boot burying into his sternum; he punched your jaw so hard head snapped back, bell clattering against throat.
You laughed. Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. “You really are stupid enough to want this, aren’t you?”
He laughed, a low rumble that made your pulse bolt. You dipped into feline grace, slipping past him—he lunged, but you flitted sideways, a wisp in leather, and ghosts of the bell-choker chimed on your throat. His fist sliced the air where you’d been, and you slipped into a dark corridor, fingertips slick with stolen paint still.
Later, after a dizzying chase through artifact rooms and brass railings, you finally come to a halt among scattered white velvet cushions you’ve looted from display stands—now your makeshift throne. Sprawled like a desecrated angel across stolen velvet, the holy relics around you turned into thrones of sin.
The painting leaned crooked against the wall, light from the skylight casting divine gold across the bloodied strokes. Your legs draped over a silk-draped altar, body half-melted into the cushions. Breath slow. Bare shoulder gleaming beneath the loose slide of your jacket.
You was already twitching with impatience, ready to dive back into the canvas, but another presence filled the doorway: Red Hood, helmet in hand, hair mussed from exertion. He watched with narrowed eyes, corner of his lip curled, as though he’d caught you sneaking whiskey in church.
You propped yourself up on one elbow, legs splayed like a feral queen. “Took you long enough,” you said, voice sweetened by mischief and sweat. “I thought you’d given up.”
He pitched the helmet onto a nearby crate. “I almost did.” He kicked one beside you, sat. “But then I remembered how you look when you’re lost in your little art highs. And how much I hate that it turns me on.”
You rolled onto your elbows, smile lazy and wicked. “It’s not the art that gets you, Jay. It’s me. Chaos in a catsuit.”
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he stepped closer, something glinting in his hand—a brush. Wooden, worn. The tip dipped in something thick and white. Paint, probably. Or something more metaphorical. You watched it like prey watches a loaded trap. Licking your lips.
“What’s that for?” you asked.
“I’m painting,” he said simply. “You called this religion. So let’s worship.”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just lifted your chin and smiled like the devil whispering secrets in church.
“Where’s your canvas, preacher?”
“You,” he said.
You rose in one languid motion, skirts of shadow swirling. “Paint me, tough guy? And show me whatever twisted vision you got?” You grin was feral—hungry. “I’m all ears.”
He set up on the loft floor: a small wooden easel, his brush, and a jar of thick, creamy white paint—lead-heavy, sweet-smelling who knows where he got that. You perched on a battered stool, legs parted just enough to tempt him, breathing soft and shallow. Every inhale made the fabric of your shorts cut into your skin, and you danced fingertips over the soft flesh of your thighs, blinking dreamily at the unrolled canvas behind you.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, voice clipped-quiet. You complied, eyelashes fluttering down over eyes already half-lidded with desire. “I want you to imagine you’re floating—no gravity.” He dipped his brush into the paint, tapping it against the rim with a dull thock. You felt a tickle of cool air as he lifted the brush toward your inner thigh. Electricity.
First stroke: a long, lazy swipe of paint across the soft, vulnerable skin above your knee. You gasped, breath hitching, and arched into the touch. The brush dragged slick wetness into you, smearing alabaster white against black spandex.
“Fuck…Jason,” you whimpered, eyes still closed, voice thick with need. You could feel paint sliding up you leg; a fine, trembling prelude to something deeper.
He obeyed your unspoken invitation—the brush dipped again, now heavier, and he slid it higher, closer to the place where the skin was most tender. A single stroke smudged white across the slick seam of your shorts; parted legs a fraction wider. The bristles curved and soaked into the tight fabric, brushing directly against your heated flesh.
Squelch
The sound was wet, sinful. You tilted head back on the stool’s backrest, lips parted, a soft moan slipping free. Your body quivered, as if every cell screamed delicious surrender.
He paused, brush hovering at the edge of the fabric. “Relax,” he murmured. He tore at the shorts—soft rip of fabric—exposing you fully. Your skin glowed pale even in the dim loft light, and he couldn’t help the dark thrill that twisted his gut. He licked his lips, dipping the brush deep into the paint again. “You know I’m not just painting your outside tonight.” The promise in his tone made your pulse a drum.
Then he did it: He slid the brush—not the tip, but the full belly of it—inside you. You gasped so loud it echoed off metal beams. The thick white paint slurped and smeared into your depths, the bristles sliding sluggishly, coating your wetness with creamy slickness.
Schhplorp
The sound was obscene: a squelchy, rhythmic plunge. You arched off the stool, hands clawing the leather cushion.
Your voice was ragged. “Holy…shit…Jason.” Every thrust of the brush sent paint further in, flooding you, mixing with your heat. He stroked slow, deliberate: pulling out to drip ivory nectar across the folds, then plunging back until your core was a churned canvas of wet white. With each move, the loft filled with wet cries and the bristles’ obscene.
He pressed his free hand to your hip, steadying your shifting body. “Look at you,” he growled, “all painted up like art.” He pulled you to the edge of the stool, edging your back until shoulders pressed against the hard wood. The brush’s handle nudged your clit, slick with paint and arousal. Squip
A tremor ran up your spine, and you bit your lip to stifle a scream.
“How—does—this feel?” he asked, voice warm but wounded—like he was amazed by your reaction. Your could only arch and moan, paint dripping from the brush tip back into the jar before he plunged once more, your insides a palette of creamy white madness.
When he finally pulled out, your body shivered, lips parted, paint oozing from center in thick, gleaming drips. He set the brush aside and leaned down, kissing your inner thigh where the paint pooled, smearing the last of it into you. Sluuurp
You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into leather as hips bucked.
You whimpered, voice low and shuddering, “I… I thought you were just… painting me white.” Broken laughter. “Fuck, I didn’t know it’d be…like a masterpiece in my pussy.”
His breath warm against your cheek. “You’re the only canvas I want to ruin tonight.” He paused, gaze softening for a flicker. “No gallery would ever hold what I see here.” He dragged his thumb through the paint lingering on your lips, then kissed your mouth—paint-smudged, salty, divine—capturing your moan with his own hunger.
*ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆ *ੈ𑁍༘⋆
Your body still damp with dried streaks of paint that cracked in places as you moved, him shirtless, mask discarded, eyes glittering with something raw. The stolen painting stood silent witness in the corner, its pale curves echoing the contours of your body. You blinked at him, chest heaving, hair matted with sweat. Cheeks were flushed, pupils so dilated you looked like a dream.
He brushed a lock of hair from your forehead. “You…okay?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, as if he worried you might shatter under the weight of you own sensation.
You rolled onto your stomach, head cradled on one arm, tail-thin belt spilling over the couch like a living thing. “Never better,” you rasped, fingers trailing down his spine to brush at the waistband of his pants. “But I’m gonna need more paint tomorrow.” Your grin was wicked, glazed with lust. “Think you can deliver?”
He smirked, shifting to capture your bottom lip between his teeth. “I’ll bring the painting supplies—and maybe a new canvas.” He winked, then kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “You know, I might just paint more than your pussy next time.”
You laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Only if you promise to hang me somewhere afterward.” You tapped at your collarbone where the choker’s bell rested. Ding
He chuckled against your skin. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep stealing those paintings for me.”
You reached back, wrapping an arm around him, dragging him flush against you. “Anything for art…anything for you.”
He pressed a kiss to your painted spine, eyes shining with dark promise. “Good. Because tonight, you belong to me—and to every twisted stroke of paint in your veins.”
You purred, stretching luxuriously, paint cracking beneath fingertips. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Next up: Heaven Was Never For Us | <<< Part 2. >>>
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‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆ A/N: Reader’s suit based on this because I love the clear feline motif and punkness but I add some details too! Color theme mainly black and [favorite color]. (I love you Yun please marry me with your gummy brain and palettes)
໒꒱ིྀ༝⁺ WARNING!! NSFW, Gore (blood, a lot but not too much), Violence, Erotic Violence (imply, not describe too explicitly), Hurt/No Comfort, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationship, Cursing.
This story is a Jason x Fem!reader. No use of Y/N, just “you” AND “Midnight Miu” is your villain identity name. There will be Y/N in the future chapters, just not in this one.
Gotham, midnight. The storm eats the skyline.
The rain slicks down your back like a thousand little knives, carving you open one cold droplet at a time. Lightning flashes like a photographer capturing war crimes, and thunder follows like a judge’s gavel–loud, final, inevitable.
Your boots land silent on the rooftop’s edge, the impact swallowed by the howl of wind. You don’t need fanfare. You’re already infamous.
Midnight Miu.
Masked. Merciless. The black spandex clings like oil to your skin make it glossy, tactical, weaponized elegance. Your utility belt sways with your movement, doubling as a tail, a tease. The yellow bell at your throat jingles once–a warning, not a joke.
You crouch down on the rooftop, feline alike, as your claws slide from your gloves with a satisfying -SHHHKK!
The city is always bleeding. And tonight, so are you, just not yours.
Your claws are wet with someone else’s blood.
Tactical spandex clings to every curve, soaked and painted with crimson where the last fool tried to grab you. The leather of your jacket flaps like torn wings behind you in the wind, the bell on your choker tinkling–a soft, mocking hymn to the chaos you’ve sown.
The vault you just ripped apart is a gaping wound two floors below. The stolen artifact, an obsidian idol etched with arcane glyphs, rests warm against your thigh, hidden in the harness under your jacket. Selina would purr with pride and praise you like divine.
But this isn’t over.
You hear him before you see him. A low, familiar metallic click–the safety of a pistol disengaging.
“Don’t move”
You don’t turn right away. You want him to see you–arched spine, tail curled, steam rising off your shoulders like smoke off a gun barrel. You want him to feel it in his chest: the burn.
“I will shoot you. This time, I swear” Jason growls behind you. You taste the venom under his voice like a forbidden fruit. He’s angry. He always is when it’s come to you.
You finally glance over your shoulder, and there he is in his glory. Red Hood. Jason Fucking Todd.
Rain streaks down his helmet like tears the bastard refuses to shed. The red glows like a wound in the dark, and your stomach coils. You hate him. You need him. You’re not sure which one is worse than others but it surely makes you want to writhe in agony rather than chained down by attachment.
You smile. Your teeth are white stained with some remain blood.
“You always say that. And you never do”
He steps closer. You stay crouched like a predator, tail flicking behind you like a signal ready to pounce, the cut on your thigh still pulsing, dripping onto the rooftop. You think he sees it. You know he does. He always sees you and it makes you just want to hide and blend into the shadow.
“You gutted those guards. You played with them like some priceless rock jewels” he spits. “You even slit one open from crotch to collar”
He steps forward, gun still raised. You notice the limp. The bandages beneath the jacket. The way his eyes drink you in like he’s dying and you’re the last fucking drop of water in Hell.
You lick your lips. “Their screams prettily devastating just how I wanted to hear. I liked the way one of them cried ‘mommy!’ before I slit his throat open. Reminded me of a loving home”
“Jesus Christ, Miu”
You close the distance in three soft steps. Fluid. Predatory. Like you’re stalking prey in your own territory. Like he is the prey you’ve been hunting for so long.
A smear of violet and black under the lightning. Your cat tail whips behind you like it’s sentimental, expressing it is angry and displeased at him too.
Your boots click once as you prowl toward him, heels sharp against the rain-slick concrete.
He doesn’t move.
That’s the worst part. You want him to move. You want to fight! You want to hurt! Instead, he just looks at you like he wants to rip your heart out and cradle it gently in his bare hands despite his fiery rival to you.
Your fingers trail down the barrel of his gun. You press your body against his–wet leather to soaked spandex. Your bell rings softly between you. His eyes drop to your lips, your mouth smeared with someone else’s blood. Not his.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it,” you purr. “That you didn’t get hard watching me work”
His breath hitches. Just a fraction. But you can hear it. You can feel it.
“You’re not some misunderstood kitty, Miu. You’re a fucking monster under the disguise of a stray Cat-Bitch.”
Your claws skim the line of his helmet, delicate as a mistress kiss. “Takes one to love one, doesn’t it?”
He shoves your hand away. Hard. But not before you see it, the way his fingers twitch, like he craves the unwanted to hold you close. Strangle you until out of breath. Pin you down and do unspeakable acts to dawn—
“God, I hate you,” he breathes.
“I know,” you whisper.
You’re nose to nose now, your chests almost touching. You feel his heat, smell the blood still drying on his jacket. Yours? Someone else’s?
Doesn’t matter. At least, not to you.
“Why do you keep chasing me?” Your voice is silken, asking the question in disguise of innocence tone, already knew whatever craps he’ll pull but just teasing or rather, taunting out of him.
Your nails curl around his belt, tugging the accessory slightly. “Afraid I’ll fuck someone else the way I fucked you? Or are you just jealous that I come harder when I steal?”
He grabs your wrist. You twist free in an instant, driving your knee into his ribs make him doubles back, snarls–finally, the game is on. He then pushes you back against the chimney stack so hard your head cracks the brick.
You don’t wince–just curl up a crooked smile instead.
You slam into each other like colliding stars, grappling in the storm. His glove fists your hair tightly, your claws tear through the Kevlar on his chest. Your bodies clash like lovers and enemies, and in Gotham, it’s the same thing.
“I hate you,” he growls. Rainwater runs in streams down his now, bare face without that red helmet. His mouth is trembling, close to yours. “You’re sick”
You laugh, breath hitching against his throat.
“Then put an end to me, if you dare”
You kiss him mid-punch. He bites your lip hard enough to draw blood and lapping all of it then savor the taste ‘till it down to his throat.
You taste like venom and roses. His tongue reeks like rust and regret.
You claw down his shirt–ripping the fabric then drawing blood like you paint him and he’s the canvas himself. You bite his bottom lip until it breaks and split. He moans into your mouth like it hurts to let go. Like it hurts not to.
Your legs wrap around his waist. You slam him into the rooftop gravel. The air stinks of blood, smoke, and gunpowder. His hands are already on your hips, your thighs, pulling your belt tail, snapping straps.
You ride him like vengeance, lips stained red, claws leaving blooming scratches across his chest. His moans echo off the wet brick, desperate and angry. You fuck like two people trying to destroy each other.
You whisper every ugly things you know he wants to hear. You make him live to need you, desperate at the pieces you left behind for him to devour. He thrusts harder inside you to savor the feeling, always bubbling the fear shimmering underneath his helmet that you will leave and never return.
He growls feral, undone and you both know: he won’t stop. Not tonight. Not until the storm dries up or one of you dies.
Maybe both.
Your back scrapes the wet rooftop as he drags your body under his. You tear his suit. He bites your collarbone. Your blood joins his in the rain. It’s violent. Messy. But holy.
Red and black and silver. Rain and teeth and breathless, broken promises.
Somewhere, church bells toll.
You come apart with a scream that no one hears, just as lightning cuts the sky.
Later, you’re both breathing ragged in a ruin of rain and ripped clothing after the heated tension, a trace of weakness. And for one fragile second, clutching him like a lifeline, your heartbeat stuttering against his, he believes it could be different. That this ruin could be loved. Your love.
You curl on top of him, lazy and feline, tracing the scars along his ribs with a pointy claw.
“This one?” you ask, voice syrupy. “Was that me gave you that?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares up at the sky. Thunder rolls again, deep and hollow.
You lean close, just enough for your lips brush against his ear like a harmless peck.
“I hope it was.”
He sits up suddenly. You feel it before you see it–his weight shifts, his hand goes to the discarded gun at your side. But unfortunately for him to proceed the action too slow, too sloppy that you already sneak around behind his back.
Your gloved claw is at his throat, threaten to him slice him open like what you did to the other men. Your breath is faintly warm against his cheek.
“We always end like this,” you whisper. “Too much blood. Too much want.”
He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t flinch.
You kiss his pulse ghostly, fleeting affection under the mask of goodbye and meet each other soon again.
Then vanish into the storm.
Your bell is the last sound he hears. A faint, haunting jingle.
Because you’ll always haunt him.
Because you’ll never worship him like he does to you.
And he was yours the moment they met, long before he even realized.
And you’ll never be owned by anyone. Not Gotham. Not Selina Kyle. Not Jason Todd nor Red Hood. Not him.
•ᨐฅ A/N: I know I haven’t posted anything today and already predicted the result of voting (yes, you Crowbar Jones simpers) but I still let it there for a day to finalize 💀. As a Dick die-hard devotee, Im dead.
Here are some incorrect quotes about their dynamic to help you more understand before the story, enemies with benefits, situationship.
‘Midnight Miu’ is a name I came up for your villain identity after 100+ names, Red Hood and Midnight Miu are the names where you guys call each other outside but real names when you guys are inside (or inside each other-)
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮
Trigger warnings: violently intimate, enemies-with-benefits dynamic full of dark humor, sexual tension, and emotional landmines. And of course, Jason is the main TW.
Enemies. Lovers. Never safe. Never boring.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Sharp like knife but can’t cut through the thick, suggestive air.
Jason: You still bleeding, or is that just your kink now
Y/N: Depends. You still pretending you don’t like it when I scratch?
•
Red Hood: God, I hate how good you are at ruining me
Midnight: Same, babe. But here we are—wet, bruised, and still not learning
•
Y/N: You gonna stop me, officer?
Jason presses you against the wall: If I do, it won’t be with handcuffs
Y/N: Not a threat. That’s a whole damn invitation, baby
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
જ⁀➴ Violent Flirting
Midnight: One of these days, I will slit your throat
Red Hood: Better aim low, sweetheart. You’ve never made me choke before
•
Jason: I don’t even like you
Y/N: Good. Now shut up and take your pants off
Jason: God, you’re toxic
Y/N Says the man who moans when I threaten to stab him
•
Y/N: You hit me harder than most of the rogues
Jason: You make me wetter than most of mine. Balance
🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
•ᴗ• Enemies With Benefits Energy
Jason: This isn’t love
Y/N: I never asked you to name it. Just survive it
•
Midnight: Take your hands off me
Red Hood: Say it like you mean it, or say it while I’m inside you
•
Jason: We’re not a couple
Y/N: Good. I’d stab you in your sleep
•
Y/N: This doesn’t change anything
Jason: God, I hope not. You’re only hot when you’re morally conflicted
✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚
/ᐠ - ˕ -マ Chaotic Dark Humor
Y/N: Keep staring at my ass and I’ll sit on your face.
Jason: Is that a promise or a bribe?
•
Midnight: We should stop doing this
Red Hood: Then stop pinning me to walls like you’re auditioning for a porn with unresolved trauma
•
Red Hood: We should stop
Midnight: And deprive Gotham of the most toxic sex since Joker dated Harley? Tragic
₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.
Mew’s Feral Energy
Midnight: I’m not your pet, Red
Red Hood: You purr when I pull your hair
Midnight: And you whimper when I bite. So?
•
Midnight: I’m not wearing underwear
Red Hood: Jesus-
Girl, why?
Midnight: Tactical advantage
Red Hood pauses: …That’s actually fair
•
Jason: You’re like a bad dream with tits
Y/N: And you’re a wet dream with trauma
──★˙🍓̟!!
꩜ Emotional Edge (Unspoken Feelings)
Jason: Why do you always show up when I’m trying to move on?
Y/N: Because you’re easier to ruin when you’re pretending to heal
•
Y/N: Say you don’t care
Jason: I don’t
Y/N: Say it again without shaking, you coward
•
Y/N: So what are we now?
Jason deadpan: Probably gonna be on a watchlist if someone ever reads our texts
