Girlhood is trying to figure out which fictional man you wanna read a fic abt before bed

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Girlhood is trying to figure out which fictional man you wanna read a fic abt before bed

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Static On The Line ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙïź©ÙšÙ
Pairing: Batfam x Batsis!Reader
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE - READ PART 2.5
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damianâs boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Timâs PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldnât be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
Youâre in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you donât usually pickâbut it made Dickâs eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
fighting the hating the boyfriend final boss(es)
summary: Meeting the parents is always stressing. It especially is so when your dad's Batman, and your mom is what many would consider a terrorist cult leader, while his dad is an alien come to conquer Earth and his mom is... weirdly normal. (Or: four times you meet each other's parents individually, and the one time they all meet.)
pairing(s): mark grayson x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family
word count: 14.8k
warnings: i imagined them to be around 20-ish?, swearing, a smidge of spoilers from the comics but nothing too detailed, au of the two-parter linked down below (it can be read without reading that first, but if you want to understand reader's backstory you'd need to do that), enstablished relationship, suggestive maybe, making out, mark is kinda a sugar baby, oliver is a baby because i say so, nolan and debbie are still together for the same reason (debbie pls take him back), implied suicide, mention of hell and torture, conner kent is mentioned as reader's ex, other than that lots of fluff and banter!!
author's note: i know this batsis sounds cheesy in comparison to the one of the that girl is corrupt-verse, but let me explain: yes, they're the same person, but she's grown since then and has found her peace. also, this is just a funny AU, so don't worry, her and conner don't break up in the original fic!! as always, beta-read by my wonderful @lechelovestoyap <3 dividers from @uzmacchiato!
au of âź that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?
Here's the thing.
Bruce's daughter looks exactly like Martha Wayne. A carbon copy, according to those who knew the Waynes way before they had their son.
Here's another thing.
Bruce himself doesn't notice this because the only version of Martha he met and remembers is the one who was killed in that alley. Therefore, he can't see the resemblance.
Not at first.
its okayâŠig
batfam x batsis reader
They had always been good at fighting impossible odds.
They just werenât very good at remembering the little things.
At first, it was easy for Name to brush it off. They were heroes. Gotham needed them. Emergencies happened.
But eventually, âmaybe next timeâ stopped sounding like an excuse and started sounding like a promise nobody intended to keep.
Bruce had promisedâpromisedâhe would make it to the father-daughter dance at school.
Name had spent an hour picking out a dress because Alfred said Bruce had secretly asked what color would make her smile the most. She even practiced dancing in the manor ballroom while Alfred pretended to step on her toes.
She kept looking at the gym doors every few minutes.
Every time they opened, her face lit up.
Every time it wasnât Bruce, that smile faded a little more.
The dance ended with Name slow dancing with one of her friends dads because they felt bad for her standing alone.
Bruce arrived home just after midnight, still in the Batsuit.
âI got caught up.â
Name only nodded.
âItâs okay.â
It wasnât.
Dick had volunteered to take Titus, Ace, Alfred the catâŠ
ââŠand Tiger too,â Name had reminded him while handing over the cat carrier. âShe has her annual checkup at two.â
âAlready got it handled, kid.â
Heâd come home three hours later.
Titus had a clean bill of health.
Ace got new treats.
Alfred the cat had somehow charmed every employee into giving him free toys.
Dick walked inside smiling.
Name looked behind him.
ââŠWhereâs Tiger?â
Dick froze.
ââŠâ
ââŠDick.â
Heâd forgotten.
Not delayed.
Not rescheduled.
Forgotten.
Her cat had sat at the vetâs office for over an hour before they finally called Wayne Manor asking if someone was coming.
Dick had never felt guilt hit him so fast.
Jason promised heâd read the first chapter of the mystery novel Name had spent six months writing.
She left it on his nightstand.
A week later it hadnât moved.
When she asked what he thought of the twistâŠ
ââŠThere was a twist?â
She quietly picked the notebook up and left his room.
Jason didnât even realize what heâd admitted until the door shut.
Tim constantly borrowed things from Nameâs room.
Phone chargers.
Headphones.
Hoodies.
Pens.
Books.
He always meant to give them back.
Eventually.
Name stopped asking.
One day Tim walked into her room looking for a charger.
Everything was gone.
Every single thing sheâd ever lent him had been returned overnight.
A sticky note sat on the empty shelf.
âNow you donât have to remember.â
Steph accidentally spoiled the ending to Nameâs favorite TV show because sheâd forgotten Name hadnât watched the finale yet.
Cass missed Nameâs art showcase because sheâd mixed up the dates.
Duke forgot Nameâs birthday breakfast because heâd been up all night on patrol.
Damian criticized one of Nameâs paintings without realizing sheâd entered it into a city-wide competition.
Each mistake was small.
Each apology was sincere. (gtfo my villa)
Each hurt stacked on top of another.
Then came the plays.
Name loved acting.
It wasnât a hobby.
It wasnât something she was âtrying out.â
It was her thing.
Every semester.
Every musical.
Every lead role.
Every supporting role.
Every curtain call.
She always saved seats.
One for Bruce.
One for Dick.
One for Jason.
One for Tim.
One for Cass.
One for Duke.
One for Steph.
One for Damian.
Sometimes even one for Alfred.
Every program had their names written neatly across the top.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
Reserved.
The seats stayed empty.
Every.
Single.
Time.
There was always a reason.
Joker escaped.
League mission.
Justice League emergency.
A robbery.
A patrol.
A meeting.
Traffic.
âI thought someone else was going.â
âI completely lost track of time.â
âWeâll definitely make the next one.â
Name stopped saving seats after the fifth play.
No one noticed.
That was freshman year.
The breaking point came after opening night of the school production of her senior year.
Name had landed the lead.
Months of rehearsals.
Late nights.
Missed sleep.
Costume fittings.
Lines memorized until two in the morning.
She never asked them to come.
Not this time.
Because she already knew.
StillâŠ
A tiny part of her hoped.
When the curtain rose, she glanced toward the audience.
The entire Wayne family sectionâŠ
Was empty.
Not one familiar face.
After the show, everyone crowded around congratulating her.
Flowers.
Teachers.
Friends.
Parents taking pictures.
Name stood alone backstage, holding the bouquet the drama club had given her.
Alfred arrived nearly forty minutes later.
âIâm terribly sorry, Miss.â
She smiled softly.
âItâs okay.â
Alfred knew that smile.
It wasnât okay.
The next morningâŠ
Name wasnât angry.
She wasnât yelling.
She wasnât crying.
She simplyâŠ
Stopped.
No more waiting in the cave after patrol.
No more asking about everyoneâs day.
No more movie nights.
No more leaving snacks in the fridge with names written on them.
No more sitting beside Bruce during breakfast.
No more hugs.
No more teasing Damian.
No more reading with Cass.
No more helping Tim organize evidence.
No more sparring with Dick.
No more listening to Jason ramble about books.
No more late-night rooftop talks with Duke and Steph.
She was polite.
Kind.
Respectful.
But distant.
Like speaking to coworkers.
Bruce noticed first.
âGood morning.â
âMorning.â
ââŠSleep well?â
âMhm.â
No conversation followed.
Dick knocked on Nameâs bedroom door.
âMovie night?â
âIâve got homework.â
âYou always make time for movie night.â
âNot tonight.â
The words werenât cold.
That somehow hurt more.
Jason held out her favorite candy bar.
âPeace offering?â
âYou can keep it.â
ââŠYou sure?â
âIâm not really hungry.â
She walked away before he could answer.
Tim discovered she no longer texted him reminders to eat.
Or sleep.
Or drink water.
He hadnât realized how much she quietly took care of everyoneâŠ
Until she stopped.
Damian found Titus curled up outside Nameâs room.
Usually Name let him sleep in her bed.
Now the door stayed shut.
Cass hugged Name from behind.
Normally Name melted into every hug.
This timeâŠ
She gently pulled away.
âIâm studying.â
Cass watched her leave.
Something inside her cracked.
Eventually Alfred gathered everyone.
The dining room was silent.
Alfred placed something on the table.
Eight play programs.
Every one of them.
Each with reserved names written neatly across the top.
Bruce.
Dick.
Jason.
Tim.
Cass.
Duke.
Steph.
Damian.
Untouched.
Unused.
Then he placed one final item down.
A small stack of father-daughter dance photos.
Every picture showed Name smiling beside teachersâŠ
Friendsâ dadsâŠ
Or standing alone.
Never Bruce.
Alfred looked around the table.
âI believe Miss Name stopped expecting your attendance long before any of you noticed.â
No one spoke.
Because there wasnât a single excuse left.
Only regret.
For the first time, they realized Name hadnât given them the cold shoulder to punish them.
Sheâd simply stopped expecting the people she loved to show up.
And somehowâŠ
That hurt far more than if sheâd screamed at them.
getting everything posted todayyyy

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toddler sibiling ft. damian wayne
a/n: thanks for the request sweetie!!
dick version jason version
! Damian would scowl when Bruce first tells him about his toddler sibling.
âA replacement already? At this size?â
But when he sees the kid clinging to Alfredâs trousers, staring up at him with wide innocent eyes, he feels something stir. Not that heâd admit it. Ever.
! He never calls them by their name at first. Itâs always âlittle oneâ or âsmall nuisance.â But it sticks, and it becomes oddly affectionate. By the time he does call them by name, it carries way more weight.
! Damian tries to hand the toddler a practice sword.
Bruce: âAbsolutely not.â
Damian: âItâs foam.â
Bruce: ââŠFine.â
Toddler waves it wildly, smacks Damian in the shin. Damian just glares. âUnrefined. Weâll work on it.â
! Damian brings the toddler to see Batcow. âThis is Batcow. She is nobler than most people youâll ever meet.â
The toddler immediately tries to climb on Batcowâs back. Damian panics: âNo! She is not a steed forâ fine. Just this once.â He hovers nervously while Batcow stands perfectly still with the toddler giggling on her back.
! Toddler falls asleep on the couch, toy still clutched in hand. Damian notices, huffs, then drapes his cloak over them.
If anyone walks in and comments, he growls, âSay a word and youâll regret it.â
! Damian pretends to hate when the toddler grabs food from his plate. âThis is mine. Not yours.â But he always pushes something over anyway, muttering, âFine. Take it. But only because youâre weak and need the nourishment.â
! The toddler is scribbling nonsense with crayons. Damian sits beside them, pretending to be disinterested.
Two minutes later, heâs fully invested, sketching elaborate dragons while the toddler shrieks happily.
When Alfred walks by, Damian slams a hand over the paper. âThese are⊠tactical maps. Not⊠doodles.â
! Toddler is pulling random books off the shelves. Damian storms in. âCareful! That tome is older than you by centuries.â
Toddler just hugs the book to their chest. Damian sighs, takes it gently back, and replaces it. Then he fetches a childrenâs storybook instead, sitting stiffly beside them while he reads in his clipped, formal voice.
! Toddler wants to play hide and seek. Damian rolls his eyes.
âYour hiding skills are abysmal.â
But then he spends an hour teaching them how to breathe quietly, how to fit under furniture, how to stay perfectly still. Bruce walks in later to find the toddler crouched like a mini-assassin under a table. Damian just says, âTraining.â
! Toddler repeats something Jason says like âDami is bossy.â
Damian freezes. âWho taught you this slander?â
But when the toddler giggles and pokes his chest, Damian actually⊠smiles. Just a little.
! No one knows this, but when itâs his turn to watch the toddler, Damian tells them old League of Assassins stories (carefully edited for violence).
His voice softens in the dark, and the toddler drifts off mid-sentence. Damian always pauses, staring at them with a strange, warm ache.
! The first time the toddler says âDamiâ instead of Damian, he freezes.
âThat is not my name,â he insists.
But later, when no oneâs around, he kneels down and quietly says, âYes, little one. Dami is...okayâ
! Toddler refuses to eat broccoli. Damian refuses to yield.
âYou will not leave this table until you finish.â
Toddler crosses their arms. âNo.â
Ten minutes later, theyâre both glaring at each other like generals in a standoff. Jason walks in and bursts out laughing.
! When the toddler manages something small, like building a block tower or climbing onto the couch by themselves, Damian crosses his arms and nods solemnly.
âImpressive. You learn quickly. You will surpass the others in no time.â
The toddler beams, not realizing Damian means it.
! Damian draws the toddler sleeping sometimes. Not portraits, but sketches that capture their tiny hands, messy hair, or the way they clutch their stuffed animal. He never shows anyone.
Itâs his way of protecting the innocence he knows he lost too soon.
! The toddler toddles into the training room, dragging a blanket. Damian pauses mid-sword swing.
âYouâll trip in here, little one.â
The toddler plops down on the mat and claps. âAgain, Dami!â
Damian exhales, then executes the move flawlessly, finishing with a bow. The applause makes him hide a smile.
! Alfred pours tea. The toddler gets a little plastic cup. Damian lifts his own, clinks it against theirs.
âProper etiquette is crucialâ he says, dead serious.
The toddler blows bubbles in their cup.
Damian sighs. ââŠWeâll try again tomorrow.â
! Toddler: âNo sleep.â
Damian: âSleep is essential for combat readiness.â
Toddler: âNo.â
Ten minutes later: the toddler is snoring in Damianâs lap while he sits cross-legged, book in hand. He hasnât moved a muscle, afraid to wake them.
! The toddler takes one of his sketchbooks and scribbles on a page. Damian snatches it back.
âYouâve ruined the shading!â
Toddler beams, proud of their âart.â
Damian pinches the bridge of his nose⊠and later tucks the page away in his desk instead of throwing it out.
! Toddler presses their hands against the glass, watching raindrops race. Damian silently picks a droplet and traces it with his finger until it wins.
The toddler gasps. âYours won!â
Damian smirks faintly. âOf course it did.â
! Toddler waddles into the bathroom where Damian is brushing his teeth.
Without a word, Damian lifts them up onto the counter and hands them a tiny toothbrush.
They brush side by side, both scowling at their reflections like itâs serious business.
! Toddler proudly hands Damian a crayon drawing: a stick figure with a cape and a smaller one holding hands.
Damian stares. ââŠThis is supposed to be us?â
Toddler nods furiously.
Damian clears his throat, softer: âAcceptable likeness.â He pins it above his desk.
"THIS IS ME TRYING"
Chapter 2: Family Dinners Suck
neglectedbatsis! reader x batfam
batsis! x Wally west
Part two of my first ever series guysđ„č
<Prev> <next>
summary | your family realizes how much theyâve missedâtoo late. the problem is that youâre grown now, and whatever they didnât notice in you as a kid has already turned into distance they canât easily close
pairing | platonic Batfamily x neglected! batsis reader, Wally West x reader (not platonic lalalala)
warnings/tags || SH, please do not read if descriptions of self harm trigger you, panic attack(s), uhm bruce pmo, poor reader, everyone is highkey ooc, also i wanna make dick nicer but we just need him to be kinda stupid for the plot, female reader, trauma, family issues, angst, uhm comfort I think, it gets darker, oooh future Wally West x reader, this is highkey a Wally west fanfic disguised as a batfam one BUT THERES still a lot of batfam. Not a lot in this chapter, reader is not suicidal but isnât not suicidal either, some kid has an stdi but no one talks too much about it, uhm swear words,
Authorâs note: this is my first ever fic and Iâm terrified BUTTT I got my first ever requestâ which is crazy đđđig they just sensed that I would agree to write?!? Anyways yeah guys I hope u like it!!! Please feel FREE to give me any suggestions bc Iâm aware this isnât that goodđ„č. I wrote this as soon as I got the request cuz I was so honoured. since i have no school i already wrote part 3 too smh.
To be added to the taglist: click here, go to my taglist and comment there :) Iâm sorryâ I know itâs extra work, it just makes it easier for me to remember who Iâm tagging and which taglist im tagging them for. :) tysm for all the love
You make your way downstairs slowly, still rubbing leftover eye pencil from the corner of your eye as the sound of voices grows louder the closer you get to the dining room. The manor always felt strange this late at night, especially when family was over. Softer somehow. Less like a museum. The lights were dimmer, shadows stretching longer across the marble floors, the usual stiffness of the house worn down by exhaustion.
Dick is talking about something dramatically with his hands while Jason looks deeply unimpressed and annoyed. Tim is half-awake over a coffee, and Damian looks vaguely irritated at the volume level of the room in general.
Your father glances up briefly when you enter. âYou made it.â
You pull your chair out and give him a cold stare, âYes, unfortunately. It is a family dinner for a reason.â
That gets the smallest hint of amusement from Dick as you sit down. Alfred sets a plate in front of you almost immediately. âI assumed you had not eaten yet,â he calls you by your name, because he knows how much you hate when he calls you anything else.
âActually, I have. Thanks, though,â you smile. You had always been very grateful for Alfred and his understanding. You glance toward the clock on the wall. 12:41 AM.
ââŠWhy are we having dinner at midnight?â
âBecause I said so,â Bruce says before taking a drink.
The words ring in your head. It should just be a phrase, but to you it wasn't. You've done everything to scrub away the ghost of that little kid who did anything because an adult said so. You hated the lack of control you had, especially around your father.
The conversation keeps moving naturally around the table after that. Nobody interrogates you about being out late, but they donât ignore you either. Itâs more like thereâs an unspoken understanding that you can handle yourself. Youâve never given anyone a reason to think otherwise. And part of you hates it. It sounded stupidâ but part of you wanted to be grounded, or in trouble. It was selfish, but sometimes you wanted them to be worried about you. Deep down, any ârebellionâ was a plea for acknowledgement, as if to say, âPlease worry about my safety. FEEL something for me.â
Jason, however, glances toward you while stealing food directly off Damianâs plate. âYou were out with friends?â
Damian grabs his spoon and roughly whacks Jasonâs wrist with it.
âYeah.â
âAt midnight?â Jason winces clutching his wrist.
You should feel annoyed at this, but instead you feel happy. Jason might've treated you like a kid, even though you were only three years younger than him, but he made you feel cared about in a way no one else ever did. Not that he did that a lot, or spoke to you. He didn't say I love you, or good job, but he did show concern. One had to laugh at the stupidity-- for someone with such high standards, you immediately succumbed the moment you felt even the tiny bit cared about.
Jason looks at you briefly. âYouâre still in school. Enjoy having a concept of weekdays while you can.â
âIâm in twelfth grade, not in prison.â
âYou say that now.â
Dick leans back in his chair slightly, looking at you with mild disbelief again. âI still keep forgetting youâre in twelfth grade.â
âYou literally brought it up upstairs,â you roll your eyes coldly. The shock at your achievements was getting old, "try to keep up."
âYeah, but every time I remember it feels fake again.â
âItâs because sheâs fifteen,â Tim says.
âYou skipped grades?â Bruce asks like this information has only just fully processed. Dick and Jason nod as well.
You blink-- then roll your eyes. Of course they didnât know that. âYeahâ no big deal.â
You said that, because it wasnât. At least not to your family. Because no matter how hard you tried, you would never be a big deal. You would always be average. You always felt like a glass of water around them. You were there, you were acknowledged-- but you weren't special. Not when there was wine, and juice, and soda.
âI knew you were smart, I didnât know you were âfinish high school before you can legally driveâ smart,â Jason mutters.
Damian looks up from his food. âHer academic record is publicly accessible.â
âOkay, stalker.â
Ur father finally speaks again before the argument can properly start. âThereâs a gala Sunday evening.â
Dick mutters, âYou couldnât have warned us before?â
You start to speak before your phone lights up beside your plate.
Nova: bro im gonna GENUINELY end it. my mom just said im âacademically unseriousâ she says im grounded till i get my grade up to a fucking bđ
You: because you ARE academically unserious
Nova: am not⊠IM JUST NOT A NERD UNLIKE u
Nova: NERD NERD NERD
She continues to spam you with random stickers.
You: okay then im not tutoring you.
Nova: fine fine fine mb im sorry twinÂ
Across from you, Jason is still complaining about the gala while your father calmly ignores him, Alfred moving around the room collecting dishes with practiced ease. The conversation keeps flowing around you naturally, and you canât help but roll your eyes. Your family truly was sickening.Â
âI canât go Sunday,â you say. Itâs quiet for half a second, like the room is just registering it.Â
Your father looks up. âWhy not?â
âI have a performance,â you add, then, âcity theatre. Opening night. I canât miss it. Iâm the lead and uhm, my understudy is sick.â
Jason glances up a little. âSick with what?â
Thereâs a half-second pause where it feels like the question shouldnât have been asked out loud. You hesitate, then shrug slightly like itâs nothing. âJust sick.â
âYeahââ Tim says, âwe got that. Sick with what...?
âFine. She has an STD? You gonna ask me how she got that too orââ
Dick stops mid movement. âIâwhat? At 15? Thatâs insane.â
You roll your eyes, âof course not. Sheâs 16!â
Tim looks up properly now. âThatâs notââ
Your father doesnât react much, just glances up briefly. âThat is⊠not relevant.â
You shrug again, a little tighter this time. âWhat I mean is, she canât perform. Meaning I have to be there. And itâs not just because Iâm the lead. Iâm also stage manager.â Your father sets his glass down. âyou are attending the gala. I donât want to hear any thing else.â
âWell⊠too bad. You donât get to choose what I do for me.â
âIt is a required event.â
âAnd this is a required performance.â
âThat is not equivalent.â
âIt is to me,â you say immediately.
You ignore the sudden sting behind your eyes. Of course itâs not equivalent. When would your accomplishments ever be equivalent to anything?Â
And just like that all you remember is the night you stopped calling Bruce "dad." You were six, and overly excited about the talent show at your school, you were going to play the piano, and sing a song you wrote. And all you wanted was for your dad to come see you. "Just this once." You had begged, over dinner. But there was no use, not only would he not see you, he refused to let you perform your song because there was some event, and you had to be there. You had cried that night, for hours. At first at the table, and when Bruce showed no remorse, into Alfred's arms, and then in bed. And you still couldn't go, all because Bruce 'said so'. You wouldn't have reacted like that if it was the first time this happened, or if it was just some song. You were used to being disappointed. You were used to constantly being exceptional just so you could be treated like you were average. That night instilled something in you. Bruce was your father-- not your dad. He was your father because you had the same blood as him, but he wasn't your dad. Dads love their kids. Bruce never told he loved you. Dads felt proud of their kids. Bruce felt disappointed in you. He might've not seen further into it, but you did. It left an unhealed scar, and moments like these made it sear again. You push your emotions down and direct your attention to the argument.
Jason leans back. âThis is just going in circles again.â
âIt is not optional,â your father says, voice still controlled but firmer now.
You shake your head once. âNeither is opening night.â
Dick exhales quietly. âOkay, this is literally just a scheduling conflictââ
âIt is a priority issue,â your father cuts in, his eyes stay on you. âYou will attend the gala.â
Your jaw tightens slightly, but your voice stays level. âIâm not missing opening night.â
You close your eyes slowly and think for a second. There was no doubt that in the end, you would have to attend the gala. Whether you liked it or not. This was the sad truth about your life. Everyone always expects you to cooperate, and move yourself to make more room for them. Because it's you. And you always figure it out. Youâre never difficult or pushy.Â
âOkay,â you swallow, remembering that you were supposed to have everything under control. you stand up. âI will attend the gala, and the play. I will manage it myself. Iââll just move some things around, and tell Caden I cant go out with him on Saturday.â you continue mumbling to yourself before clearing your throat, and collecting yourself. âYeah, okay. Iâll come to the gala. sorry for being difficult. Now, if youâll excuse me, I need to sleep. I have volleyball tomorrow morning.â
And then you just turn, like itâs settled, like itâs fixed, like everything can be reorganized the same way it always is, and leave the room before anyone can say anything else. The moment you leave, you let the tears stream out of your eyes. You didnât know why you were crying. Was it exhaustion? Was it a lack of acknowledgment? Was it the fact that no matter what you did it wasnât good enough? Was it because no matter what you did, it didnât get recognition from the people you craved approval from?Â
The door clicks shut behind you, and an awkward second passes before Jason turns in his chair. âWho the fuck is Caden?â
Tim looks up confused. âWho?â
Jason leans forward slightly. âCaden. The guy she mentioned. Who is he?â
Dick pauses. âI donât know, man.â
Jason stares at him. âThatâs not an answer.â
Dick exhales. âMaybe heâs just a friend.â
âRight,â Jason says, leaning back a little. âAnd if he was the friend she was out till midnight with? Doesnât seem like just friends to me.â
Tim shrugs slightly. âWe donât really know that part.â
Jason frowns. âSo sheâs just out with a guy âfriendâ till midnight? Bruce, why haven't you-- you guys just--?â
Tim rolls his eyes, âWell, when you put it like that you make it sound like sheâsââ
âExactly," Jason replies.
Damian looks between the two of them for a second before saying, âCaden is a boy from her school who has been using Taylor Swift as a means to get close to her. Now, if youâll excuse me, Iâve suffered enough from your idiocy for the night.â
Up in your room, you already know whatâs happening, even before you fully sit down. It starts small, almost easy to ignore, like youâre just tired or overwhelmed, but then it builds too fast to pretend itâs anything else. Your chest tightens first, breath catching in uneven pieces, and your heartbeat gets louder and louder until itâs all you can hear, like itâs filling your ears and pushing everything else out. Your hands shake when you try to steady them, fingers curling and unclenching without permission, and the room feels wrong in a way you canât explain, too big and too close at the same time, like itâs shifting around you.
Breathe in.
Youâre fine.
Youâre not fine.
Itâs okay.
Youâre okay.
Donât be stupid.
You move without really deciding to, ending up behind your door and you slide down it slowly until youâre sitting on the floor, knees pulled in. Your back presses against the wood and you try to breathe the way youâre supposed to, like if you just force it into rhythm it will stop, but it doesnât listen. It never fully listens when it gets like this. Your head tips back slightly, eyes unfocused, and everything feels distant, like youâre not fully in your body anymore, just stuck somewhere behind it watching it fall apart.
And thereâs this part of it that makes it worse, the part you canât really stop thinking about even while everything else is spiraling: no one is coming. No footsteps outside your door, no knock, no voice asking if youâre okay, because there never is. Youâve learned that already. You handle it, you always handle it, so thereâs nothing for anyone to notice, nothing urgent enough for someone to come check. The thought sits there heavier than anything else, sharper than the panic itself sometimes, because it confirms what your brain already knows in the worst momentsâyouâre alone in this, and you have to get through it the same way you always do, even when it feels impossible.
Your fingers press into your sleeve, trying to anchor yourself to something real, something physical, because everything else feels unstable and far away. You swallow hard, try to slow your breathing again, try to force it into something normal, but it keeps breaking apart anyway in uneven waves. And you just sit there behind the door, trying to pull yourself back together in silence, even as it keeps rising and falling inside you, because thereâs no one else to notice it happening.
Then your eyes catch on the eyebrow blade sitting on the edge of your vanity.
You push yourself up slowly, shaky, still not fully steady, and it feels like everything takes more effort than it should just to move a few steps forward. The room tilts slightly when you stand, but you keep going anyway, because stopping feels worse.
Your hand reaches out and wraps around it. And then you pull your sleeve up. Just this once. You tell yourself. Just once. To numb the pain. To calm you down. You convince yourself this is helping you. The cold sharp metal cools your skin as you bring it up to your wrist.Â
Then you press. Lightly, at first, but still hard enough to expose a few beads of blood. Then slowly, you drag it across the same cut again, deeper this time. Then you move the blade to the left of the cut and drag it again and again until you donât feel any pain anymore. Your head feels light now and your arm feels hot and sticky against the fabric of your shirt as you put the blade back down. You analyze your face in the mirror. Your tears had dried up, and you looked more normal again; just tired.Â
âWater. I need water,â you think.
You exhale, your breath still shaky. Your water bottle was empty. You pause. You really donât want to see any of your family, but you tell yourself theyâve all gone home.
Dick is already in the kitchen when you come down.
Heâs leaning against the counter like heâs just lingering after dinner. The lights are low, the manor settling into that late-night silence where everything feels stretched out and still.
He looks up as soon as he hears you. âHey.â
You pause at the bottom of the stairs for half a second too long before answering.
âHey,â you say, and your voice comes out shaky immediately. You clear your throat right after, âI just⊠wanted water.â
You move toward the sink before he can respond, but your hands donât fully cooperate the way you want them to. You notice it immediatelyâhow theyâre not steady when you reach for the glass, how small movements feel louder than they should. You adjust your grip anyway, pretending itâs normal, like nothing about you is off.
The water runs while you fill the glass, and you keep your focus on it like itâs the only thing that exists in the room. You make sure not to let your sleeve drop and reveal the fresh wounds you had just bandaged. When you finally speak again, it comes out too light, like youâre trying to smooth over something that already gave you away.
âIâm fine,â you say quickly, and then you let out a small, awkward laugh that doesnât really match anything. âJustâlate night brain stuff. You know.â
Dick doesnât say anything. Thatâs almost worse. And you laugh in your head, your concern that someone would worry about you was once again all in your brain.
Your hand tightens slightly around the glass when you lift it, still not steady, and you force yourself not to correct it, not to react to it, because reacting would make it real in a way you donât want it to be right now.
Dick watches you for a second longer than normal.
âAlright,â he shrugs, like he accepts it at face value.Â
You nod once, quick, like that settles it.
The silence goes back to normal after thatâjust the fridge hum, the soft sound of water settling in the glass. It feels easier now, like whatever little spike of attention there was has passed, and you can slip back into something that looks like normal.
You lift the glass and take a sip, slower this time, and it actually helps a bit just having something simple to focus on. Your shoulders drop slightly without you meaning them to.
âIâm just gonna take something for my head,â you say casually, already moving toward the cabinet like itâs nothing worth noting.
Dick glances over. âYeah?â
âMm,â you hum in confirmation, opening the cabinet and scanning for a second before grabbing the bottle. âProbably just tired or something.â
You donât mention that these headaches are recurring.
âYeah, makes sense,â he says, turning slightly back toward the counter.
You twist it open, take it with water, and lean against the counter for a second while you swallow it down.
Dick doesnât comment again.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, too early for the manor to feel fully awake. Itâs 6:30âre on a Saturday morning and youâre already exhausted.
Everything inside is still in that half-asleep stateâdim light, quiet movement somewhere deeper in the house, the soft hum of morning that hasnât fully turned into anything yet. Your bag hangs off your shoulder a little heavy, and you step inside automatically.
âHey,â Dick calls from the kitchen.
âHey,â you answer back, normal, a little tired but steady.
Tim is already at the table with a mug in front of him, hair slightly messy, looking like heâs been awake just long enough to function.
âMorning,â he says.
âMorning,â you reply, slipping your shoes off by the door.
Dick is at the counter with coffee in hand, still a little worn down from the night before.
Dick opens your mouth, as if to ask you something, when Bruce walks in.
Your phone buzzes.
You glance down. âOne sec,â you say automatically, not really asking, just slipping out of the conversation as you answer it.
Aliyah.
âAliyahâ itâs 6:30 in the morning. Why are you awake? Is everything okay?â
Thereâs a beat, then Aliyahâs voice comes through âI canâtâ itâs too much. I donât know how toââÂ
You immediately tense. âOkay. Listen to me. Listen to my voice okay?â
You sense Aliyah is trying to speak, but canât let it out. You know the feeling all too well.
âOkay, Aliyah, Iâm gonna need you to turn your camera on okay,â you speak softly,âIâll turn mine on too. I just need to make sure youâre not hurting yourself.â
It was hypocritical sure, but that was because you had no one. Aliyah had you.
âI know itâs hard. I know how youâre feeling. Focus on me. Are you at home?â
Aliyah nods. You remember her parents work on Saturdays and suddenly feel a jolt of panic course through you.Â
âIâm coming over,â you say into the phone, already moving as you speak. âJust stay where you are, okay? Stay on the line with me.â
You step toward the door without fully looking back at the kitchen. Your bag gets pulled onto your shoulder in one motion, shoes half-on, half-forgotten until you fix them properly at the last second.
âYour library shiftâ and the tu-the tutoring.â Aliyah speaks
âIâll manage,â you add, quieter but firm, convincing yourself more than her. âDonât worry about me."
Sunday morning came, and you were all over the place, not at all the collected person everyone knew.
After spending two hours at Aliyahâs house calming her down, you still somehow managed to finish your extra homework, teach your piano students, reschedule your library shift, and stay an extra hour there to make up for the inconvenience. You got home around eleven, exhausted enough that your body hurt, but sleep still didnât come easily. Your brain kept moving long after everything else stopped. Every responsibility replayed itself over and over again until it all blurred together into one giant thing sitting on your chest.
You finally fell asleep sometime around four in the morning.
It wasnât that you had been working until four. That wouldâve almost made more sense. It was just your own head refusing to shut up.
Still, by the time Sunday properly started, you already had a plan.
A very good one, actually.
Complicated, definitely insane, but manageable. It was also something only you wouldâve come up with.Â
The gala started at five. The play started at six-thirty. Youâd spend the day at the theatre helping prepare everything, reviewing lines, running through cues, making sure the younger kids didnât accidentally destroy props or themselves. Then youâd go to the gala, stay exactly long enough to be seen, leave at 6, and get to the theatre by six-fifteen. Ten minutes to change. Five minutes to become somebody else before stepping onstage.
The show itself was two hours long with one intermission at 7:10. It was exactly long enough for you to change in the car, return to the gala, do whatever Bruce needed you to do for appearances, and leave again before anyone noticed you were gone.
Then at eight-forty, after curtain call, youâd stay at the gala properly and finish the night there.
Simple.
Exhausting, but simple.
You could handle it. You always handled it. Everything had been fine so far. You had been there for everyone else and pushed your own issues aside. It feels like your climbing the worlds steepest mountain, but you continue to tell yourself to pull yourself together and keep pushing through.
That was the problem, really. Everyone knew you handled things. So nobody thought too hard about how much you were actually carrying at once.
Unfortunately for you, plans only work when nothing goes wrong.
And things started going wrong very quickly. @chocolatemagazinecupcake @lovebug-apple @laced4her @mewmew222 @higanyuu @everything-fandom @bubblegumblushh @sovereignparker @pxrcyjcksons @httpstoyosi @kiritokunuwu @grlsagun @looha @my-love-all-mine @inesvisible @living-that-chronic-life @rainybooots @cookiepersona @ghostxmio @what-just-happened-to-me @potatis157 @lunarmashroom @jungbaeisdead @spidermansfav333 @yomiyayei @diabolicallydownbad @mosseetrees @heartofpaladinn @missmontiopath @wiishies @sarah-luz @apodyopsisphilia @babydollbunnyy @sxphr2 @ghostlyworld @yoyogirl67 @idontgiveacrap @anjalan @otmyname @yurikokats @cassbass2000 @lexijean @noone1233nobody @g4bbi3xx @jasontoddsfavcrowbar @brinasunlight @yachaejaz @imminentlycanthropy
To be added to the taglist: click here, scroll down to my taglist and comment there :) Iâm sorryâ I know itâs extra work, it just makes it easier for me to remember who Iâm tagging and fir which character/series (or if itâs my main taglist) :) tysm for all the love
thinking of babybat!reader who at four years old decided to cut their hair off in the bathroom before bruce comes back from patrol. but the reason for cutting it is really sweet.
âdada look!â you grin proudly, bouncing up and down on the heels of your feet as you show of your new haircut done by you in the bathroom mirror with kitchen scissors.
bruce freezes right where he is at the sight of the long hair youâd had growing all gone âprobably in a messy heap on one of the bathroom floors.
now youâre cut short, with a proud grin that makes bruce want to melt into the ground instead of scold you.
âsweetheart,â bruce kneels to your level, pulling the scissors from your handâs carefully. âhoney, why did you cut your hair?â he tries gently, brushing some cut hair off your cheek.
you light up like youâve been waiting for that question. âso we match!â you answer like itâs the obvious answer.
and bruce has to admit your hair was cut like his, shorter on the sides, longer on the top, a little choppy and uneven but you look really happy with yourself, so excited to match with your dad, that bruce cannot find it in himself to lecture you.
âoh, i shouldâve known,â bruce hums amused, âbut uh.. maybe next time you want a cut iâll take you to the professionals.â
you only nod along, not actually planning to listen but he doesnât know that, does he?
âcmon, sweetheart. letâs get this fixed.â bruce smiles, his heart melting when you add.
âbut like yours?â
âyeah, honey. like mine.â
BONUS:
âwoah, whereâd your hair go?â dick snorts, looking down at you, running his hand over your short hair.
âitâs always been like this,â you reply, gaslighting.
âvery funny, brat. it hasnât.â
you donât reply, just stare at him in a way that makes himself second guess himself. dick looks to tim who merely nods along, âsheâs right. itâs always like that.â tim also gaslights.
and dick goes home terribly confused.