#platonic reader

Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.

Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—

Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.

Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.

You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—

Oh, she’s probably dead too.

You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.

In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.

He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.

“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.

“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“

Does he have something against breastfeeding?

“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“

Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.

“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“

Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.

But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.

The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.

So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.

(You’d cry later.)

He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.

Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.

Maybe you should have just let him kill you.

His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.

“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“

You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”

That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—

Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.

“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”

You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.

Oh, fuck.

“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”

He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.

“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”

And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.

How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?

*

You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?

The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.

He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.

The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.

Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.

*

You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.

Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.

Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.

It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.

*

“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.

“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.

“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?

Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.

“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.

*

You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——

Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.

“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.

You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.

“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”

“I do not recall when I was born.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment.

“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.

“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”

*

While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.

You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.

So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.

…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.

And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.

So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.

“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"

“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“

“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.

“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.

And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.

At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.

“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“

“Worried?” You tease.

“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”

“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.

*

Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.

You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.

You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.

“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”

He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?

You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.

You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.

A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.

“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.

“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”

You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”

“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.

He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”

“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.

He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”

“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.

“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”

“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”

You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.

You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”

“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.

“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”

You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.

“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.

“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”

With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.

“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.

You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.

*

You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.

Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.

“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.

You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Yes?” You smile.

“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.

“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.

“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”

“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.

When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”

“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”

Okay, maybe you did have it in you.

“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.

“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”

His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“

“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.

Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.

“Can you pass me my top?”

In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!

*

You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.

You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.

“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.

“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.

“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”

“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.

“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”

*

“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.

“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”

“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”

“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”

“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”

That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.

“Why?”

“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”

You’ve seen it, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.

*

“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”

“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”

“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.

“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.

“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.

Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”

*

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.

“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.

“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.

“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”

“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.

“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.

“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.

“Maybe win a fight first.”

“Ohhhh!”

“Shut up, Oliver.”

*

Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.

And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.

“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.

“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.

“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.

“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—

“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“

You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?

Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.

*

The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.

People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.

So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.

When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.

“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.

“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?

“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”

“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.

You really hated when you felt bad for him.

Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.

“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.

“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”

“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”

That’s almost sweet.

“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”

What?

“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.

Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.

“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”

You silently apologize to Mark.

“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”

“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.

“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.

He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.

You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?

Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”

“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”

*

When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.

“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.

“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”

You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”

“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.

“You wanna take me out?” You ask.

“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.

“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”

He chokes, and you bite back a smile.

He’s too easy.

“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“

You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.

“Let’s do it,” he declares.

“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.

“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.

“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?

“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."

“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.

“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.

“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.

This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.

*

“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.

Join the club, you think delirious.

Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off

*

Mc:

Thaedus: what have you done

*

Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?

*

Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy

Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.

*

Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:

Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??

*

Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔

Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else

*

Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses

Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something

Mark: no??

*

GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭

*

Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?

I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime

Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol

But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing

bruce wayne

Bruce acts calm about adopting an alien child, but internally, he is absolutely spiralling.

He reads every alien biology file the Justice League has. He makes contingency plans, dietary charts, safe-room protocols, emotional support protocols, and probably a binder titled “Alien Child: Unknown Customs, Known Needs.”

You call him “Father Bruce” very formally at first. Then “Bat-Father.” Then “Dark Dad.”

Then, after watching him brood on a rooftop, “My beloved nocturnal tree of sadness.”

Bruce pretends not to like this.

He loves it.

You can sense his emotions, so his whole “I’m fine” act collapses immediately.

Bruce: “I’m fine.”

You, touching his sleeve: “You are experiencing grief, guilt, back pain, and the emotional flavour of wet stone.”

Bruce: “...”

You: “Also hunger.”

Alfred: “At last. Someone useful.”

Bruce is extremely protective of you because you’re new to Earth, but you’re also weirdly powerful, so half the time he’s protecting Gotham from your enthusiasm.

You once accidentally levitate during a charity gala because someone complimented your outfit, and your joy “became too large for gravity.”

Bruce calmly puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “Feet on the floor.”

You beam. “Yes, Father Bruce.”

The press loves you because you answer questions too honestly.

Reporter: “What’s Bruce Wayne like as a father?”

You: “He is very loving but pretends to be furniture.”

Bruce nearly chokes.

dick grayson

Dick immediately decides he is your emotional support human.

You adore him because his emotions are bright, warm, and acrobatic.

You call him “Brother of Flips.”

Dick: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

He teaches you slang. This is a mistake. You start saying things like, “That villain’s vibes are rancid,” and “Father Bruce, your coping mechanisms are not slay.”

Dick is so proud.

He also teaches you hugs, high-fives, fist bumps, and dramatic entrances.

You love hugs. You become terrifyingly good at them. Like, emotionally healing bear traps.

Dick notices you can sense when people are hiding sadness, so he gently teaches you boundaries.

“Sometimes people aren’t ready to be read,” he tells you.

You take this very seriously and start asking, “May I perceive you?”

Dick cries laughing the first time.

You become one of the only people who can get Dick to admit when he’s overwhelmed.

You simply sit beside him and say, “Your smile is doing too much work today.”

That gets him every time.

jason todd

Jason does not trust you at first.

Not because you’re an alien. Gotham has weirder things on Tuesdays. He doesn’t trust you because you’re too sweet, too open, and too good at seeing through him.

You touch his hand once by accident and freeze.

Jason immediately pulls away. “What?”

You stare at him with huge, sad eyes. “You are very angry. But underneath it is a small boy holding a crowbar-shaped shadow.”

The room goes silent.

Jason: “Don’t do that.”

You: “I am sorry. I did not mean to open your sorrow cabinet.”

He avoids you for three days.

Then you show up at his apartment with soup because you sensed he was “emotionally crunchy.”

He tells you to leave.

You ask if that is “a real leave” or “a wounded animal leave.”

Jason hates that you’re know the difference.

Eventually, he becomes one of your fiercest protectors.

He teaches you swear words and then gets offended when you use them incorrectly.

You: “This soup is bitchin’ with despair.”

Jason: “Close enough.”

You think Jason’s helmet is wonderful.

You call him “Red Bucket Warrior.”

Jason: “Do not call me that in public.”

You, immediately at a Justice League meeting: “Red Bucket Warrior has arrived!”

Clark loses it. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Jason considers exile.

Secretly, Jason loves that you’re never scared of him.

You once tell him, “Your anger is loud, but it does not make you monstrous. It is only pain wearing armour.”

Jason leaves the room.

Later, he brings you a book and says, “You might like this.”

That’s Jason for I love you, kid.

tim drake

You are fascinated by Tim. You think he is “small, fragile, and powered by forbidden bean water.”

Tim says he’s not fragile. Then he passes out standing up.

You scream because you think he has “entered death mode.”

Tim becomes your Earth Culture Tutor, which is deeply ironic because he’s barely functioning as an Earth citizen himself.

He explains memes to you. You misunderstand them constantly.

Tim: “So ‘no thoughts, head empty’ means—”

You: “Ah. Like when Father Bruce attends a social event.”

Tim: “Exactly.”

You and Tim become dangerous together because he has plans and you have zero impulse control.

Tim: “We need a distraction.”

You: “I will scream in seventeen languages.”

Tim: “That could work.”

Bruce, over comms: “No.”

You adore Tim’s detective brain. You call him “Brother of Many Tabs.”

Tim pretends to hate it, but he changes your contact name to Alien Gremlin and yours for him is Sleep-Deprived Oracle Bird.

You can sense when Tim is anxious before he says anything. You’ll quietly hand him a weighted blanket, coffee, or sit beside him without touching.

He appreciates that you learn not to pry.

One night, Tim asks, “What do I feel like?”

You think carefully and say, “Like a candle pretending to be a lighthouse.”

Tim is silent for a long time.

Then he says, “That’s actually devastating. Thanks.”

damian wayne

Damian declares you suspicious immediately. “You are not human.”

You gasp. “You noticed! You are very clever.”

Damian does not know what to do with sincere praise. It disarms him more effectively than any weapon.

At first, he sees you as an intruder.

You see him as “small blade brother.”

Damian: “I am not small.”

You: “You are emotionally small in a way that bites.”

Damian: “Tt.”

You adore his animals. Titus loves you instantly. Alfred the cat tolerates you (which is high praise). Bat-Cow accepts you as kin after you solemnly bow and call her “Honoured Milk Beast.”

Damian pretends not to like you, but he starts teaching you about Earth animals.

You take everything literally.

Damian: “This is a robin.”

You: “Like Brother Dick? Was he once bird-shaped?”

Damian: “Unfortunately, no.”

You are one of the few people who can make Damian laugh accidentally.

You once ask if murder is considered “bad manners” or “illegal seasoning.”

Damian laughs so hard he has to leave the room.

Eventually, Damian becomes quietly possessive of you as a sibling. If anyone insults your alien habits, Damian appears like a tiny storm cloud with a sword.

“They are adapting. You are merely stupid.”

You cry because that is the nicest thing Damian has ever said to you.

He panics. “Do not leak from your face. I defended you adequately.”

duke thomas

Duke is one of the easiest people for you to be around. His energy feels steady, bright, and grounded.

You call him “Sun Brother.”

Duke actually loves it.

He helps you adjust to Gotham because he knows what it’s like to enter the Batfamily later and feel like everyone else already knows the choreography.

He tells you, “You don’t have to become like them to belong here.”

That hits you hard.

You ask, “Even if I am strange?”

Duke smiles. “Especially then. This family runs on strange.”

You and Duke bond over light. Your alien biology reacts to certain kinds of sunlight or starlight, and Duke’s powers feel comforting to you.

Sometimes when you’re homesick, he sits with you at sunrise.

No big speech. Just warmth.

You tell him his light feels “like a door remembering it can open.”

Duke gets quiet. Then he says, “That’s beautiful.”

You grin. “I am very wise before breakfast.”

stephanie brown

Steph adopts you emotionally within five seconds.

She calls you “space bestie.” You call her “Purple Joy Warrior.”

She teaches you about waffles, glitter, sarcasm, prank wars, and reality TV.

This is catastrophic. You become addicted to makeover shows and start rating villains by “emotional renovation potential.”

Joker: “Why so serious?”

You: “Because your aura is mouldy and your outfit lacks narrative cohesion.”

Steph falls over laughing.

You and Steph prank the entire Manor. Nothing harmful. Mostly glitter, googly eyes, and changing Bruce’s ringtone to dramatic opera.

Bruce: “Who did this?”

You, glowing faintly with pride: “I participated in bonding crime.”

Steph: “Snitches get stitches, bestie.”

You: “I do not want stitches.”

Steph teaches you that sometimes “crime” means “family fun with plausible deniability.”

Bruce bans this lesson immediately.

It does not work.

cassandra cain

Cass understands you better than almost anyone.

You read emotions through touch. Cass reads bodies like poetry. The two of you can communicate without words almost immediately.

You sit together often, shoulder to shoulder, watching people move through the Manor.

You call Cass “Quiet Star.”

Cass smiles every time.

She likes that you do not expect her to speak. You like that she understands feelings without needing them explained.

The first time you touch her hand, you feel calm, discipline, grief, love, and a deep, deep loneliness.

You simply squeeze her fingers and say, “You are not empty. You are full of quiet light.”

Cass hugs you.

Everyone pretends not to cry.

You and Cass become terrifying in combat together. She moves like shadow; you float, dodge, and occasionally knock enemies over by accidentally blasting them with emotional energy.

You once shout, “Your hostile feelings are unpleasant!” before launching a goon into a dumpster.

Cass gives you a thumbs-up.

That’s basically a standing ovation from her.

clark kent

Clark is delighted by you.

He gives off such warm, golden energy that you immediately trust him.

You touch his hand once and gasp. “You are made of kindness and solar explosions.”

Clark blushes.

Bruce: “Don’t encourage him.”

Clark becomes your guide to being alien on Earth.

He understands the homesickness, the loneliness, the weirdness of learning human customs while everyone assumes you’re fine because you look mostly okay.

You ask him if he ever feels “too not-from-here.”

Clark gets very soft.

“All the time,” he says. “But Earth became home anyway.”

You think about that for days.

You also adore his cape.

You ask if it is a “formal blanket of heroism.”

Clark says yes. Bruce says no.

You believe Clark.

You and Clark sometimes float together above the Kent farm and look at the stars. He tells you about Krypton. You tell him about your planet.

Neither of you has to pretend not to miss what you lost.

Clark is also the one who gently explains that Bruce adopting strays is basically his love language.

You ask, “So he collects wounded beings and gives them bedrooms?”

Clark: “Pretty much.”

You: “That is beautiful and concerning.”

Clark: “That’s Bruce.”

extra

You struggle with Earth sometimes. The food is strange. The customs are stranger. Gotham is loud and wet and full of fear.

Some nights you sit on the roof of Wayne Manor staring at stars that do not form the constellations you know.

Bruce finds you there.

You tell him, “I am happy here. But I am also sad there is no here that contains everything I miss.”

Bruce sits beside you.

For once, he doesn’t try to fix it. He just says, “I know.”

You lean against him.

He lets you.

After a while, you whisper, “Your sadness is quieter tonight.”

Bruce says, “So is yours.”

That becomes your thing. Sitting together. Saying nothing. Letting the night hold both of you.

Because somehow, impossibly, the alien child with too much heart and the human father with too many ghosts learn how to be family.

Not perfectly. Not easily.

The first time it happened, you didn’t realize anything was wrong.

It felt like waking up in your room just like any other day. You got up, ate breakfast, saw your family, went through the usual routines, and eventually went back to sleep. Life simply continued without any strange premonition. A few moments felt oddly familiar, like you had already seen them before, but you brushed the feeling aside—it didn’t make sense, so it couldn’t be real.

And then you died.

End...

The second and third times left behind something stranger: a lingering sense of familiarity you couldn’t quite explain. Certain moments made you pause, confusion settling in your chest as if something was trying to surface from your mind but never fully did. You frowned slightly, whispering to yourself,

“Hasn’t this already happened…? Or am I just imagining things?”

You wake again, stiff and disoriented, lying in your room with eyes slowly opening, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling comes into focus first, then the familiar creak from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds. Gotham looks exactly the same as it always does.

By the sixth time, the feeling became impossible to ignore.

Something about the world felt too rehearsed, too familiar—like a story repeating itself while pretending it was new. Confusion slowly crept in as you began to notice things unfolding exactly the way you expected, even though you had no memory of learning them. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“What… is happening right now?”

Things that 'should not exist' appeared again. A fallen tree you had watched collapse days before now stood tall and unmoving, as if it had never touched the ground. Graves you were certain had been there, names carved into cold stone, dirt still fresh—were suddenly gone, leaving nothing but smooth earth behind.

And the people…

The ones you knew had died were suddenly standing in front of you again.

The ones who had died.

The ones you had watched die.

The ones you had killed.

They stood there like nothing had ever happened, speaking, breathing, living their lives as if the world had never broken in the first place.

Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Again, again, and again..

________________________________________

Life kept repeating itself, 'again'.

It had happened so many times that eventually, you started to do things differently. Small changes at first, then bigger, more reckless ones.

In the haze of confusion, you chose different paths, made different decisions, disobeyed orders you had never dared to question before. Sometimes you left without explanation, disappearing for hours or days, only to return with no clear reason even you could understand.

And each time, the world felt the same… yet somehow, nothing was ever quite the same.

Sometimes, your family noticed.

More than once, they stopped you with worried expressions, their voices edged with confusion—sometimes even frustration. You would act strangely without explanation, leaving and returning at odd times, making choices that didn’t make sense to anyone but you.

Dick was usually the first to approach you, his brows drawn together in concern. “Hey… what’s going on with you lately?” he would ask, clearly trying to keep his voice gentle, like he was hoping you’d open up if he didn’t push too hard.

But it was obvious that your behavior was starting to trouble him too. The careful tone didn’t quite hide the tension in his expression, the way his eyes searched your face a little too closely, like he was trying to read something you refused to say out loud.

Other times, the concern turned sharper.

Jason would cross his arms, irritation clear in his voice. “You’re acting weird,” he’d say bluntly. “You gonna explain, or are we just supposed to guess what your problem is?”

Even Bruce had stopped you more than once, his voice low but firm.

“What’s going on?”

But every time they asked, you found yourself hesitating.

Because the truth was… you weren’t sure what was happening either.

'Were you just exhausted ? Had all of this finally caught up to you? Or were you slowly losing your mind?'

You had asked yourself that question more times than you could count. Was this some kind of curse, karma for something you didn’t remember doing or was it meant to be a gift? An opportunity. A second chance (??) repeated endlessly.

At some point, the answer stopped mattering.

________________________________________

More than once, in those countless lives, you tried to end it yourself.

Sometimes it came from frustration an unbearable weight pressing against your chest after realizing the cycle would not stop, no matter what.

You wake with a jolt, sitting up immediately and ignoring the sharp headache pounding behind your temples.

'No… not again… please…',

The thought rushes through your mind as panic claws its way up your chest, your eyes darting quickly around the room as if searching for something. Anything. Different.

Then you hear it. Creeeak… creak.

The familiar sound of the window frame shifting in the wind. Your gaze slowly drifts toward it, dread already settling heavily in your stomach.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds, exactly the same as it always is. Just like every other time.

A humorless laugh escapes you as your shoulders sag slightly, frustration twisting in your chest. “Of course,” you mutter bitterly under your breath, staring at the window with growing disgust. “Of course it’s the same again.”

Your hand reaches toward the nightstand without hesitation, fingers already curling around the handle of your weapon. The motion feels automatic now, almost routine.

You don’t even sit up.

The gun lifts slightly.

A breath. A pause.

And then, Dark.

...>>>

Other times it happened randomly, like a quiet experiment you carried out just to see if anything would finally change.

You experimented with things you normally wouldn’t touch—mixing strange compounds together, studying poisons, even testing venom from creatures that should have never been near your hands.

More often than not, you became your own test subject.

Stupidly… you didn’t stop there.

There were lives where you invited others—family, guests, friends, anyone who had simply happened to be there that day. The dining table would be set like any other evening, plates neatly arranged, glasses filled, conversation drifting casually through the room.

And somewhere in the meal… the poison would be waiting.

The endings were never quite the same.

Sometimes everyone drank. Sometimes someone arrived late.

They would stood frozen in the doorway of the dining room, watching in silent horror as bodies slowly collapsed around the table, one after another—until the room fell into a terrible stillness.

And in the middle of it all, you would still be sitting there.

Watching them.

Waiting.

Your eyes would lift toward the lone figure in the doorway as you raised the final glass to your lips, the same quiet mixture already swirling inside.

A small, tired breath leaving your chest.

Then you drank.

And followed the others into the dark.

...>>>

There was lives where you stood on a rooftop with Dick, watching the city lights scattered beneath you like distant stars.

The night had been calm for once, patrol already finished, the air cool against your skin. Dick was leaning against the ledge beside you, talking about something trivial—maybe a mission, maybe something Jason had said earlier that day.

You barely remember.

What you do remember was laughing.

“See? That’s what I’ve been saying,” Dick said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You worry too much sometimes.”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling faintly.

For a moment, everything felt nice..

Then you leaned back.

Dick blinked. “—Hey, wait, what are you—”

Your body tipped over the edge before he could finish.

The last thing you saw was the shock on his face as the distance between you and the rooftop widened, Gotham’s wind rushing past your ears as gravity pulled you down.

And then— You woke up again. yayyy!!!

.....

In some of them, you tried to be good, to be better.

You trained harder. Memorized the patterns of crime across Gotham City. Tried to prevent disasters before they could happen.

Sometimes you succeeded.

Sometimes you didn’t.

Because every change, even the smallest one—seemed to create a different kind of disaster somewhere else.

Saving one person meant losing another.

Stopping one tragedy caused a new one to appear somewhere you hadn’t predicted.

.....

You have saved the city.

You have also destroyed it.

You have rebuilt entire parts of Gotham’s criminal network just to understand how it functioned from the inside.

You have dismantled those same networks piece by piece in other lives.

You have been someone your family trusted.

And someone they hunted.

.....

There were loops where Jason killed you.

Loops where you killed him first.

There were countless lives where you and Damian fought until only one of you walked away. Most of the time, he won. A few times, you were the one left standing, and in some of those lives… neither of you won.

Loops where Tim holding your hand while your breathing slowly faded.

His fingers were always warm, gripping yours a little too tightly, like if he held on hard enough he could keep you here. In those moments he rarely spoke, only watching you with tired, frantic eyes, as if searching for something he could fix.

And in more than one life, those memories stayed vivid.

There were lives where Bruce had carried you through the night.

His arms were locked tightly around you as he ran across Gotham’s rooftops, cape snapping violently behind him. His grip was desperate, almost painful, as he kept telling you to stay awake, to keep your eyes open, his voice low and rough in a way you had rarely heard before.

Pressed against his chest, you could hear it clearly—the rapid pounding of his heartbeat, racing in frantic rhythm, as if sheer will alone could keep you alive.

“Please… just stay with me.”

Your vision blurred, the lights of Gotham smearing into soft streaks of color as the pain in your chest grew heavier with every breath.

“Dad…” your voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. It hurt to speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And every time, the darkness came anyway.

________________________________________

The first breath

always feels like drowning in reverse, lungs that were flat forced to expand, a heart that had gone cold suddenly forced to beat again, a world that had gone dark flooding back with color.

It leaves you disoriented for a moment, eyes searching your surroundings while the memory of your last death still lingers vividly in your mind. 'Was it just a nightmare… or had you died again?'

Every time.

The same sharp inhale, the same moment of confusion before awareness slowly settles in.

Until you recognize the pattern.

Until you realize, You’re alive again.

The ceiling of your room comes into focus first, followed by the familiar creaking from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.

'Wait… the creaking?'

You freeze, trying to catch it again. Nothing. Silence. In every life, every loop, that faint squeak always welcomed you awake, a small but stubborn proof that the world hadn’t yet fully reset. And now… nothing.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray with clouds. Wayne Manor looks exactly the same as it always does. The corridors stretch in their familiar way, the portraits lining the halls staring down at you with that same quiet judgment.

Everything is exactly as it should be—and yet something is off.

You start the day as usual, walking down the halls of the manor. The clock shows it’s already past noon. Gray clouds hang low over the estate, casting familiar comfort, in a strange way.

Heading toward the dining room, you see Tim sitting in the same position he always does in every life you’ve lived.

Though… somehow, he seems different. Something in the way he holds himself, the tension in his shoulders, makes him feel more… unsettled than usual.

Your eyes drift to the table. Some utensils and tools are scattered there. 'Wait, this shouldn’t be here. It’s usually just Tim alone.'

Tim catches your gaze and his eyes flick to the tools, then back to you. “Bruce finally fixed your window,” he says briefly.

“Huh… really? Finally, after all this time…” you reply, a little awkwardly. Then you tilt your head toward him, concern rising. “Are you… okay? Was your mission… rough?”

His eyes lock on yours, unblinking, unnervingly still. “…I… keep having nightmares,” he whispers, the raw, almost pleading weight in his voice catching your attention.

“Nightmares?”

Tim looks away, jaw tight, hesitating as if the words themselves could break something. “…Ah, forget it, Reader,” he murmurs finally, though Tim tries to shake it off, the echoes are already reaching others.

________________________________________

Dick is in Blüdhaven when the dreams begin,

Patrols, late nights, brief pauses of sleep, they blur together, but the dreams keep coming. In them, Gotham is different: quiet, almost hopeful, a city he barely recognizes but wishes could exist. And you are there, standing beside him on rooftops, leaning against the stone like this exact moment has happened a hundred times before.

“You ever think the city might actually stay like this?” he asks lightly in the dream, watching warm sunlight spill across the streets.

You glance down at Gotham, calm as always. “hum.. I am not sure, nothing stays good here. But it’s nice enough for now.”

For a heartbeat, it feels familiar. Comfortable. The two of you have shared years of nights together, moving across rooftops and streets.

Dick remembers laughing at you, remembers the strange certainty of it. And then it shifts.

The light dims.

The wind bites colder.

The edges of the city feel sharper.

You stumble backward, losing your balance.

Your body tips over the edge, falling headfirst.

He lunges forward, hands outstretched, but it’s too late.

Your body hits the ground with a sickening crack.

“Hey—Hey, stay with me", he says, dropping to his knees beside you. Panic coils in his chest, tight and raw. "Reader!”

You try to respond, but no words come. Your body collapses, sound echoing too loudly, impossibly, across the quiet of the night. Every detail is vivid, burning into his memory even as he knows it isn’t real.

Dick jolts awake in his apartment, chest heaving, eyes wide. The ceiling stares back at him, ordinary and unchanging, but his hands tremble as they rest on the sheets. He can still feel the weight of your body against him, hear the echo of your fall.

For a moment, the noise of the city outside fades. He clutches at the fragments of the dream, the feeling of loss, the unnatural perfection of it.

Then reality drags him back, the apartment, the faint hum of traffic, the knowledge that you are far away, somewhere in Gotham, probably still asleep or wandering the halls half-aware.

“A dream,” he mutters, voice rough, running a hand through his hair. “Just a dream.”

But even as he forces himself up, he knows it won’t be the last.

......

Jason’s dreams are harsh.

Gotham burns from end to end, smoke curling between shattered buildings, sirens wailing in the distance like they’re useless echoes. Jason moves through the chaos, weapon drawn, muscles taut, heart pounding. The city feels wrong, alive and heavy, as if it’s breathing fire.

At the center of it all, you stand. Calm, relaxed, looking at him lazily.

“Really?” Jason snaps, irritation slicing through the chaos. “You’re behind this?”

You tilt your head, watching him like this confrontation has already played out a hundred times before. “Depends how you look at it.”

Jason fires first.

The fight is fast, brutal, and precise. Every strike he throws, every step he takes, seems predicted—like you’ve already lived through this moment before. Pain ricochets through him, adrenaline and disbelief mixing in a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

“You’re not walking away from this,” he growls, raising his weapon again.

A faint smile curls at your lips, and then a laugh slips out. It grows—longer, louder, harsher—echoing across the burning streets of the dream. You laugh for so long that you eventually have to pause, drawing a slow breath while your eyes remain fixed on him.

“I know. I fucking know,” you whisper, your voice tight, almost trembling with exhaustion. “You’ve said that before.”

This time the laugh that follows is smaller, quieter, your gaze drifting away from him as if the moment itself has already lost its meaning.

Gunfire cracks through the air. A single shot.

And your voice fades, slowly, until it disappears completely.

Dead silence.

Jason doesn’t see you collapse, he refuse to rise his head.

He’s the one trying to steady his breathing now, chest rising and falling as the gun slips from his hand and clatters against the pavement. Only after a moment does he finally glance down at the body lying in front of him.

The words hang in the smoke-choked air, heavier than any gunfire, heavier than the city collapsing around you. Jason freezes, heart hammering, trapped in the memory of it even as the dream begins to dissolve.

Jason wakes with a start, the dim light of the safehouse sharp in contrast to the heat and smoke still lingering in his chest. He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, trying to shake the echo of the words, the clash, the weight of you in that burning city.

“Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath, forcing the memory into the corners of his mind.

'You’re probably in the Manor right now', he thinks, trying to push the dream out of his head. 'Wandering through the kitchen, arguing about something stupid, laughing with someone like nothing’s wrong.'

And yet the dream refuses to release him. The idea of that the version of you in his nightmares could never exist. Yeah.. that is impossible.

......

Tim’s dreams come in fragments.

One night he’s in the Batcave, watching you stand before a wall of screens. Data scrolls endlessly—crime reports, patrol routes, surveillance feeds—all moving in precise, chilling coordination under your direction.

“You’ve mapped the whole network?” Tim asks, leaning closer, heart racing despite the calm in the scene.

You don’t look up. “Every supply line, every front business, every backup location. They’ll collapse within a month.”

Tim studies the projections, admiration mixing with unease. “You’re dismantling half the city’s crime in four weeks.”

“Three,” you correct, voice flat, precise, too certain.

Another dream replaces it the following night.

The room is dim and filled with candles, shadows stretching across the walls while people kneel around your silent, faces pale and empty, eyes wide as if carved into devotion.

The air is thick, heavy, scented with wax, iron, something rotting beneath it. Their attention never wavers as you speak softly about cycles and inevitability.

One of them whispers, almost reverently, “What happens after the city falls?”

You look down at them with an unreadable expression.

“We start again.”

Tim wakes from that one with a slight frown, the words lingering in his head longer than they should. Was that.. a cult??

......

Damian is still with the League when his dreams begin.

His dreams are violent, fragmented, and disturbingly familiar.

Over and over, he sees the same ruined courtyard outside the league, broken stone, dust hanging thick in the air, the smell of smoke and iron biting at his nostrils. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the cracked walls, moving like they have minds of their own.

Someone stands across from him, weapon in hand. At first, he thinks it might be a League operative or maybe one of the assassins, the followers, the children of death he once struck down, manifesting here in a shape he cannot fully recognize.

The battles always end the same way. Damian wins.

Sometimes it’s quick—a precise strike, sending them to the ground. Other times, the fight drags on, blows exchanged in brutal rhythm, each movement answered perfectly. Both of them bleed, both exhausted, and still Damian lands the final strike.

Each time, they die.

Again. And again. And again.

Sometimes the dream changes.

The courtyard looks the same—ruined, silent, dust drifting slowly through the air. Both of them are breathing hard now, weapons raised, sweat and blood mixing with the grit beneath their feet.

Damian moves for the finals strike, certain the ending will be the same as always.

But, they slip out of the way with surprising speed, stumbling back a few steps. Their breathing is uneven, almost reckless, and the way they look at him is sharp, angry.

Annoyed.

Their expression twists as they glare at him, at the situation itself, at the endless repetition, the same fight, the same ending played over and over again.

Their hands tremble faintly around the weapon, chest rising and falling too fast, as though they are exhausted by everything that keep repeating.

They drive their own blade straight through their chest.

No hesitation. Just a quick, deliberate motion.

The body drops backward onto the broken stone, the weight of the fall forcing the blade deeper.

Damian takes step back, watching the figure collapse onto the ground. His hands twitch slightly, but he does nothing.

He simply stands there, staring at the body.

For the first time since these dreams began, tthe ending changes.

And then he wakes.

Cold sweat clings to his skin, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Years of League training should have steadied him, should have forced his breathing back into control within seconds—but for a moment, it all feels useless.

He sits up slowly in the darkness, staring into the shadowed corners of his room, listening to the familiar, mundane sounds of the League quarters. Stone walls. Quiet footsteps somewhere in the distance. The faint whisper of wind through the narrow windows.

He exhales sharply and forces the thoughts away.

'They are dreams. Nothing more.'

And soon enough, they stop.

Or at least… he convinces himself they do.

So when Damian finally arrives in Gotham for the first time and steps into Manor, those dreams are already buried somewhere in the back of his mind—filed away and dismissed like irrelevant noise.

The front doors open with a low creak as Bruce leads him inside.

They’ve barely stepped past the threshold when footsteps echo from deeper inside the manor.

Someone is already approaching the entrance.

You appear a moment later, walking toward the door with the casual familiarity of someone who has crossed this hall a thousand times before. Your gaze flicks toward them briefly.

You slow slightly when you notice Bruce and the unfamiliar boy standing beside him, but only for a moment. You make no move to introduce yourself, offering them nothing more than a brief glance before turning back toward the door.

Then you continue walking.

“I’m heading out for a bit, Dad. I’ll be back before dinner.”

You don’t wait for an answer. With an easy motion, you step past them, pushing the door open and slipping outside.

The door closes softly behind you.

For a moment, Damian doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on the space where you had just been standing.

Bruce is the first to notice the silence. After a brief pause, he speaks calmly.

“That was Reader,” Bruce says. “Your sibling.”

Oh. So those nightmares he had tried so hard to forget come rushing back all at once.

As Damian’s gaze drifts across the manor, the images from those dreams begin to overlap with reality—the courtyard he remembers seeing stained with your blood more times than he can count.

The dining room further down the hall, where in one of those dreams, he watched you quietly lift a glass to your lips before collapsing moments later, poisoned… or perhaps choosing to drink it yourself. The memories slam back into place with unsettling clarity, and a quiet realization settles in his chest.

Something here is very, very wrong.

________________________________________

“Ayah.. aku capek banget”, Bruce menggenggammu erat, memohon agar kau tetap bersamanya, "Nak.. ya tuhan.."

“whats in the bag?” dick asks. (name) had been walking down the hall to his room but was stopped by dick who decided to stay for dinner tonight. “oh just a bunch of clothes…” (name) informs him, slightly holding up the paper brown bag full of clothes, “what? you went shopping? why didn’t you ask me to come with you? i sent a text to the group chat that i was visiting!” dick says, sad that his little brother didn’t ask him for anything.

(name) shakes his head “i didn’t go shopping. its “(older bio-brother’s name) clothes that he doesn’t use anymore, he let me keep them since they fit my fashion sense.” there was a soft smile on (name)’s face as he explained to dick.

dick’s expression went blank for a moment, he had forgotten that you have active family members on your mothers side. “hm.” his lips tighten to a line before he gives reader a forced smile, “ah! thats nice of him..” he managed to not say that out from gritted teeth. dammit why didn’t he think of that?!

now this has him stressing, his fashion sense is completely different from (name)s! how can he compete?! to calm himself down, he pats (name)s head “when you’re free, lets go somewhere before dinner.” he asks, (name) nods.

—

“so, still need help with your documents?” tim asks, approaching (name) who is seated on the couch with his laptop on his lap doingssome school work “nah, its alright. (bio-brother’s name) helped me. im just doing a bit of editing before i submit it.” reader says.

tim stays silent for a moment, he then sits right next to (name) and watches with intense eyes over (name)s shoulder who is just trying to focus on editing. “tim you don’t need to-“ “shut it.” “ah… okay…”

as much as tim is happy that (name) has a bond with his biological family, he certainly wants to keep (name)s bond with this family going as well! he doesn’t want to feel… useless…

—

“hey (name), need me to drop you off today?” jason asks as he watches (name) walk down the grand stairs “nah its fine! (bio-brother’s name) is dropping me off, you can relax” (name) says as he heads to the big door that alfred already opened for him, the butler holding out (name)s lunch box for school.

jasons eyes narrowed as he stands in place, watching his little bro walk off so casually. (name) doesn’t think that (bio-brother’s name) is batter than him does he? (name) does like hanging out with jason right? blood doesn’t mean anything! right?!

jason cant help but feel worry, but he shouldn’t be angry at (name)… but damn he can’t help but feel like he needs to prove something…

jason just spent the whole day to himself, feeling angsty. he texted (name) that he will be picking him up after school, despite (name) trying to tell jason that his brother that dropped him off to school will do it, jason was insistent. jason is glad that his little bro has a bond with his biological family, really he is! but jason still has issues… he already had a hard time accepting getting “replaced” by tim. he isn’t sure if he can handle being replaced as a brother…

“That’s so nice, thank you! Can you put it on the table for me?” You drop your hand and then nod, hopping up to place the apple on the table. “I’ll eat it once I’m done reading this.” You nod. He has the newspaper in his hand, you won’t force him to take the apple directly from you. That would be selfish.

_________________

You run around the sandy beach happily, the waves blowing wind at you while you giggle. Something pretty catches your eye and you skid to a stop; it’s a seashell. Dad looked sad earlier, he gets like that sometimes. An idea pops into your head to give him this as a gift and you snatch it up. You run where Shanks was to the side, still nearby so he can supervise you. He takes a sip of the cheap sake in his hand, you aren’t sure he’s even tasting it.

“What is it?” He asks without looking at you and you stop, a bit nervous to disturb him while he’s in these moods.

“Seashell.” You mumble, holding it out. He still isn’t looking.

“Don’t get into the habit of picking those up all the time, there are animals on the beach that need those.” Your heart stings, you disturbed him and now you’re in trouble. “I’ll take it though.” The heaviness in your heart lightens a bit. “Just know for next time.” He motions with his head to his cloak pocket, you put it inside before giving him a hug.

“Love you.” His previously sad smile widens.

“I love you too. So much.” He loosely hugs back, careful not to splash you with the alcohol.

________________

You’ve stopped reaching out when Shanks has something in his hand. He only has one, and he usually asks you to place it nearby, so you just place it in his pocket or in front of him beforehand. Something in you still wants to hold his hand, to hope that he’d put down his drink to make direct contact with you, but he only has one hand. You need to be considerate of him. So you let him smile and coo at you from where he is. He’s still there, even if he doesn’t reach out to you the moment there’s a drink in his hand. You can deal with that much, he still loves you and makes that known in his kisses and words and affection when his hand is free.

The two of you walk through town, the crowd starting to get thick enough you risk getting separated from him. He has a drink in his hand, something to sip on. You had juice earlier but already finished it. Your dad stops and you do too.

“Hold onto me, sweetie. You don’t want to get lost.” He says softly, but his hand isn’t free; you see the drink in his hand and already know what to do. You reach out and hold onto his coat instead. “No, give me a moment. I’ll drink the rest of this.”

“It’s okay.” His consideration is shut down and he frowns. You don’t wanna hold his hand? He has been starting to notice you reaching out to him less, maybe you’re going through a need for independence? He was hoping that would wait until you were older, though...

“Alright.. if you want.” He won’t force you, you’ll come to him if you want to. Right?

__________________

Your chair is too big for you to reach the ground and only your head meets the table; you had climbed up yourself since your dad’s holding his drink. You do have a chair that's taller for you but wanted the “grown up chair” even if it’s less convenient. Still, you don’t really know what to do now. Your eyes scan the crew, reaching out to them. They all reach back to you, giving you high fives or little holds; since they all have a free hand. Once you’re done with that you look at your dad, Shanks. There’s a longing in your heart. You.. want to reach out to him. You outstretch your arm slowly and his eyes meet yours with a smile. He clinks his tankard softly against your hand before giving you a smooch on the forehead. That’s good enough.

“Having fun? Do you need anything?” He asks you and you hum. “Ah, knew it. You’re getting bored, aren’t you?”

“A little..” You shift around and his smile turns elegant before he turns to Limejuice.

“Lime, the finest paper and crayons.” He commands and Limejuice salutes before leaving. He comes back with drawing supplies for you, making space on the table so you can draw before placing a pillow under your butt so you can reach. You start drawing and the party continues. Every so often someone comes to check on you and you say you’re okay. In the middle of the party Lucky looks over at your drawings.

“Oohh!” His eyes twinkle behind his goggles. “Is that us?” You’ve drawn a picture of the two of you holding hands, the other hand of his holding a belonging. You flip through different pages to the others, every single one has you and them holding hands with something in their other.

“Where am I, sweetheart?” Your dad pops in the conversation, pouting at being left out. It doesn’t last long, though; he gasps in happiness when you pull out a drawing with the both of you. “You made one for me, too?” He’s gotten drawings from you before but he always acts like it’s the first time. You set it down on the table. It’s the two of you next to each other, Shanks holding a tankard in his hand. His expression slowly fades to worry. “Why aren’t I holding your hand, baby?” He’s not holding alcohol all the time..

“You only have one hand.” You state like it’s just a regular fact, something that’s just.. life. Something in Shanks cracks. Is he holding alcohol that much, why do you think he would hold that rather than his own kid?

“I do.. but.” He looks at his hand currently holding the ale, going silent. Gently, he sets the tankard down. He doesn’t want to drink anymore.

“Alright! We’re gonna run out of space to put these.” Bonk punch cheers and the party goes on like nothing is wrong, but something is wrong; even if you act like nothing’s wrong. Your drawing is gnawing at Shanks’s heart. He only has one hand and you see his alcohol as priority over you. His kid, his heart. Who he almost broke down in another room for when your fever wouldn’t go away, who he stays up for even when he’s tired because you had a nightmare. His alcohol rather than you.

That night, Shanks sits on his bed. He puts his head in his hand, how long have you felt like this? He underestimated how much the way he acts affects you, and he’s ashamed of himself the more he remembers how many times he brushed off your gestures when he’s holding a drink; how you’ve stopped reaching out. He can’t keep acting like this. He chose to keep you with him and he wants to do it right. Self loathing fills his head, he’s messing everything up; but he can fix this. He won’t let the voice in his head telling him to leave you for your own good, that this is proof you deserve better. Until you choose to leave, or until you absolutely have to, he will stay with you as long as he can. He doesn’t want to part ways bitterly with his child ever again.

________________

Shanks holds a map in his hand, you walk over to him holding half an apple.

“Again?” He asks teasingly and you nod quickly. You’re about to jump up to place it on the table when Shanks puts his map down and takes the apple from you, biting into it. “Hongo will be down a patient at this rate.” Your heart quickens, you’re surprised but happy!

“Do you feel healthy?” You bounce in place excitedly.

“They’d raise my bounty to the heavens if the world saw how healthy I am right now.” He boasts, taking a last bite before tossing the apple core in the trash. Nice aim. “Any healthier and my arm would poof back. Or maybe it would be a new one in a new place.” He turns his back to you and you tilt your head in confusion. A pause before an arm suddenly comes from under his cloak as if sprouting from his back. “Like this!” You squeal and giggle as he grabs you, placing you on his lap. “How’s that?” It kinda hurt stretching his arm that far back but it was worth it.

“Again!” His shoulder pre-aches.

______________

You watch as your dad takes a sip of his sake while you hold your little clay cup. It’s shabby, dented, and barely holds any liquid. You came here to show him but noticed he’s in that mood again. You should leave.

“Let me see.” He says from behind you and you nervously turn back.

“It’s not good.” You murmur and he motions you over, putting down his tankard to sit you on his lap.

“Hmm.” He looks it over before setting it down next to the tankard. He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and then pours the alcohol in the tankard into the cup. It doesn’t even fit a tenth of what was inside.

“See?” He takes the remaining liquid and dumps it out. “Ah!”

“It’s perfect.” He holds out your creation. “This is all I need anyway. I don’t want what’s not in my cup.” A bright smile forms on his face and drinks the rest before putting it down to hold you. “See?”

________________

Everyone is eating around you but you already finished your food a while ago. A full belly mixed with the playing earlier and you’re sleepy. Shanks sips on a light wine with his meal, noticing you’re starting to lean. The sight makes him quickly shove the rest of his food in his mouth before catching you. Carefully, slowly, he stands up with you in his arm.

“You done with that?” Yasopp asks, motioning to the abandoned wine.

“Yeah.” The captain answers while heading to your room. “This is more important.” Like that, your eyes get heavier and heavier. You nuzzle into the warmth of your dad’s chest and fall asleep. You’re more important.

! Jason sneaks you into the Batmobile one afternoon. He lifts you into the passenger seat and whispers conspiratorially, “Don’t tell B. He thinks I don’t let anyone in here.”

You pretend to steer, Jason narrating dramatic chase scenes until you shriek with laughter. Later, Bruce finds out anyway, and Jason just shrugs. “What? Kid’s gotta learn the classics.”

! One day you take a tumble and scrape your knee. It’s minor, but Jason’s on them in seconds. “Who pushed you?” he demands.

“No one. I falled.”

Jason huffs, patching it up with way more care than necessary. “Well, if gravity gives you trouble again, you tell me. I’ll kick its ass.”

You giggle through tears, instantly soothed.

dick

! The Manor is quiet when Dick sneaks into your room, already awake from patrol. Instead of waking you gently, he dangles upside down from the ceiling beam, grinning like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You sit up, hair sticking everywhere. “Dicky!”

“Ta-da!” Dick swings down, scooping you off the bed. “Every morning should start with a trapeze act, don’t you think?” He flips you once into the air, catching you easily, and the squeal of laughter echoes all the way down the hall.

Bruce pokes his head in, sighs. “At least don’t drop them”

“I never drop anyone, B,” Dick says and hugs you a little tighter.

! Alfred turns his back for one second, and suddenly Dick has plopped you on the counter beside the pancake mix.

“You’re my sous chef today,” Dick announces, handing him the whisk. “Golden rule of pancakes? Always more chocolate chips than batter.”

Most of the mix ends up on the counter, some in your hair, but by the end, you're both eating lopsided chocolate-chip blobs with wide grins. Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose, but there’s no real heat in it.

Dick nudges you “Best pancakes you’ve ever had, right?”

“Mmmhm!”

“See? Culinary genius runs in the family.”

! Instead of tucking you into bed the normal way, Dick perches on the headboard like it’s a trapeze bar, book in hand.

“Ready for the finale, short stack?” he asks, flipping to the last page of a circus picture book.

You nod hard enough to wobble. Dick launches into a dramatic retelling of The Flying Graysons, complete with arm sweeps and whispered sound effects. He never mentions the fall — not yet, not while you're this small — but he makes sure the story ends with laughter and applause, with the family soaring.

When you finally drift off, Dick stays a little longer, just watching. “You get the good version” he whispers.

! It’s the first big Gotham snow. Dick bursts into the nursery, already wearing a scarf, and declares, “Mission briefing! Operation Snow Fortress is a go.”

Ten minutes later, he’s helping you into mittens three sizes too big, and twenty minutes after that, you've built the world’s lopsided snow fort. Dick pretends to be the invading army, diving dramatically into the snow while you throw half-formed snowballs.

Jason appears on the porch, coffee in hand. “You’re training them for war?”

Dick grins from the snowbank. “Every good Robin needs field prep.”

Jason just mutters, “You’re insane" but your laughter drowns it out.

! One evening, Dick carries you up to the Manor rooftop. The city glows in the distance, Gotham’s chaos muffled by snow and fog.

“That’s our city" Dick says softly, crouching so you can lean on the ledge. “It’s loud, and it’s scary, but it’s home. And as long as I’m here? Nobody’s gonna hurt you in it.”

You don't fully understand, but you slip your tiny hand into his. Dick’s heart clenches. He squeezes back, gaze fixed on Gotham like he’s daring it to even try.

! The Batcave is not a playground… unless Dick is in charge.

He sets you on the floor and whispers, “Okay, mission time. If you can catch me, you win.”

Then he takes off running between the Batmobile and the computers, deliberately tripping over cables just to let you nearly tag him. Alfred finds you mid-game and mutters, “Master Richard, this is not a gymnasium.”

“Correction, Al” Dick says, lifting you onto his shoulders, “this is the world’s coolest playground.”

! You refuse to sleep, kicking the blanket away.

“C’mon, kiddo” Dick groans, flopping dramatically on the rug. “Even superheroes need naps.”

When that doesn’t work, he pulls out his old trapeze trick: balancing upside down on one hand until you burst into giggles. After a few more flips, he finally scoops you up, humming a soft tune from his parents’ circus act.

Your head drops against his chest.

“See?” Dick whispers, kissing your hair. “Even you can’t resist the Flying Graysons.”

! Dick is the reigning hide-and-seek champion. Which means when you demand a game, he takes it very seriously.

He hides behind curtains, under tables, even perches on doorframes like a bat. You waddle around shouting, “Dicky! Where are you?!”

When you finally spot him dangling upside down, you shriek with victory. Dick drops down, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, you win. But only because you’re the world’s best detective.”

! Dick slips back into the Manor after a long patrol, sweat still clinging to his suit. He’s exhausted, but the second he hears tiny footsteps padding down the hall, he straightens up.

You run into him, arms wide. “Dicky!”

Dick kneels, scooping you into his arms. For a moment, the ache in his body fades. “What are you doing up this early, huh?” he murmurs. “Didn’t Alfred tell you heroes sleep in?”