God Complex

yes, cloud knew what he was doing to you - for attention, like the little tart he was. he has a soft spot for you! the only master he has ever had that treated him well like a decent human being, over how slaves are expected to act. 

but he wasn’t special. he was a slave. slaves will always be denied such privileges. so, why did you grant him such leniency over the other ones?

it’s hard to tell when the only thing mediating the two of you was status. soiling a slave would mean ruining your own reputation in society. you’d be seen as the same, or worse, than what cloud merely believes is human nature.

when you grant someone such comfort, they take it for granted.

but every single time you catch him sullying your belongings - in the chamber when he is told to change your bedding, on the balcony where your smoking piston lay bare with lingering evidence of your hairs wrapped around the railing - the shockproof glass atwixt it all, cracks every single time you’re not supposed to catch him.

the smell of opium alone gets him riled up; you had to find another slave to replace his spot because he got a boner just from replacing the old poppy in your smoke with new poppy. it was an irritating experience, nonetheless, but you reassured him that feeling such a way in the presence of potent drugs was normal human reaction.

but was it really? if other people around you had to contain it, why couldn’t he? his intolerance to such things has nothing to do with you.

so, let’s recall perception number one: he was furtive, but not deliberate.

cloud was good at hiding his behaviour from the other servants of the household. he never let anything get noticed if it meant it could get him severely reprimanded, or worse, sold off. but he purposely let whorey, trollopy actions slip whenever he noticed you paid heed; you didn’t even need to look at what he was doing for him to know that you knew.

perception number two: he was artless, but not reliable.

profusely apologising for his actions were practically part of his every conversation with you. a minor slipup that didn’t even involve anything scandalous of such, let his tongue roll into his cheek and tears brim on his waterline. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it again. he always did something new and undiscoverable that tested forbearance. but every single time he did justify his actions, you knew he meant it.

final, concluding perception number three: he wasn’t innocent. he never was. your desire for him was just as unmatched as it was for the burning lust he had for you. but you learnt from the books, that rationality was something slaves were never properly educated on. they only learnt through repeated abuse by those who took care of them. your abuse, on the other hand, was more absent than cause. everyone loved you because of this, not just slaves.

you settled upon a rather rash decision after thinking about that boy too much and his moronically petite expression he’d make whenever you did raise your voice at him. well, that’s how cloud would see it anyways - you never really did yell at him. it was more just…educating him on his wrongdoings, whether that ended up with you dragging him out of where he caused trouble, by the golden strands of his head.

that was beside the point.

so why is it, that in this very moment, when you catch cloud in your personal chambers, sprawled out on your silken bed, ass airborne, back impossibly arched, fingers wrapped around the head of his cock, and the scent lingering on your pillow where his face is mushed into, that all you can do is feel esurient?

you should be angry, furious, even, catching a slave doing something so disgraceful? that deserves a whipping.

but your patience chattered, and you shamelessly felt yourself finally wanting to do so many perverted things to him; it was out of anger that you felt this way about him, not because he was sullying your belongings, but because he finally won.

you wanted to violate his body with your cock in ways he had never even imagined before. you wanted to take him raw, without any form of preparation, his come and blood from the insertion of your dick, as a form of lube. you figured he’d be the type to enjoy a little pain, because in the end, that always turned into pleasure for him.

masochistic bastard.

all that hatred went straight to your cock, and you found yourself staring at his ministrations until he came all over the sheets. the pathetic little whimpers that dodged his lips with ease, were more tolerable than hearing him cry out your name; little pleas’ of “m-master, oh master [name]- it f-feels so good!” and sudden peaks of realisation that he needed more than just his fingers rimming the tight muscle of his asshole.

this was the first time you had watched him through to the end; all those other times you tried to spare your sanity. but this time, it was nowhere to be seen

“i came so much… i better clean this up before the master retires tonight.”

and when cloud spins around, as happy as glee, his expression, as well as his heart, sinks to his feet. the sheets he had stripped from your bed, fall to the ground, as well as his knees, already preparing some coherent apology in his head that only forces his lips to open in a babble.

standing at the now open entrance of your chambers, your hardened penis protrudes against the material of your night gown - as clear as the moonlit sky. there was no point trying to hide what he had caused; the difference wasn’t confidence, but a lack of care in the moment right now. you were going to make sure that cloud knew how heavy your balls were and that they needed to be taken care of of a release.

“m-master… w-wha- what are you doing back so early?”

like a deer caught in car headlights.

“hmm… well, you know…” the hum swirls around in your chest as you cross your arms over yourself, leaning casually against the curtains that hung against the rich mahogany of your chambers.

“i was just wondering what all that noise was, and here i found a little puppy pleasuring himself right in front of his masters eyes so barefacedly.”

cloud was flummoxed, those consuetudinal tears already drooling like a wet piece of paper, down his rosy cheeks. he was already a frightened mess, more so than usual, given your own heightened state. he was terrified.

the boy held his tongue as you sauntered over to him, the starkness of your thighs peeking through the slit of where your gown was tied together around your waist. he had never seen masters thick, well-defined legs before… and as expected, it made his own cock jump in newfound excitement.

you lean over, and thats when cloud frontlessly looks down your gown at where it slipped off your shoulder as you ripped the sheets from his grasp. the brief glimpse of your virile chest sends his mind into a complete and utter frenzy.

“cloud, tell me. what is this?”

he was lost in thought, and the sound of your textured voice shakes him back to reality. you stare at him with your mouth frowning, eyes filled with an unfamiliar craze that practically killed him. his pupils dilate, and he gasps, crying and moving to cling himself against your leg.

m-masters legs… are so soft. is what he can only think about at this moment. you and your fucking legs. not that he masturbated to the scent of you, of course. because apparently that didn’t matter to him.

you let out a spent sigh, head dropping backward as you breathe in the air above you. cloud continues rubbing his cheek against your calf, running his fingers a little too high up your thighs, and grinding his erection against your feet.

and in that moment, you realised no one was responsible for what was about to happen to this poor boy.

when you look down at him, smiling, and running your fingers through his hair, that expression is quickly replaced with a composed one when you tightly grip his roots. he writhes and kicks and screams and begs for you to let go of him, but he quickly finds himself thrown onto the same bed he was just soiling before.

you tear some of the sheets in half, wrapping a ribbon around his arms which were stationed behind his back. the part where he specifically dirtied, you made sure to stuff his head and nose into it completely, onto the mattress below.

asphyxiated by the damp material, cloud’s struggling gets weaker as you hold him there, his whines muffled. you proceed to pull down his pants, bare bottom on display for you as you bend his back further with your spare hand, pressing down on his shoulder blades. his legs wiggle and you make sure to sit on them before lifting him up by the thighs with both hands now, inspecting his hole.

cloud gasps, his eyes growing red and face saturating in purple hues from the previous lack of oxygen. all he can do is take deep breaths before screaming.

“M-MASTER!!”

his ugly cries, how amusing. you chuckle.

with his hole mere inches from your face, your long nails glide lightly around the tight ring of muscle, watching it shrink and relax with each teasing touch. you do this a few times to try and part it, feeling defeat when it caves back in on itself.

feeling for his dick, your hand instantly is smeared with his pre as you pop the flat of your thumb over his urethra hole.

it finally sinks in to cloud that your assaults are firm and intentional when you throw him back down to the bed in his previous position, face pressed into the dirtied silk. you hold him firm as you partly shrug off your robe, leaving it to hang just barely over your chest and one part of your collarbone. you push the long and untidy strands of your hair over your forehead in a maniacal laugh, now realising what sort of position you were in with him.

“fucking hell.” you mutter, jaw taut and eyes dangerously wild.

you then proceed to place one foot just below and to the side of his head, as your knee comes down beside one of his thighs. your hand is still holding his head firmly into the cushioning material below, and your other one gives a few pumps of your cock before rubbing it between his ass.

when you do this, cloud shivers, and you can physically see his hole wiggle in excitement from it. the warmth your shaft provided for just a brief moment, made him push back against you despite oxygen leaving his stupid head.

and without waiting, you lined your cock up with his hole, pushing in.

“ugh- shit… why are you so tight?” as if you didn’t know the reason for that, but if he acted like a slut around you, what stopped him from acting like one around his previous masters?

that thought alone, made you even angrier.

as you push more of yourself into him, spots of blood begin to surface, leaving a circle around your shaft to connect the two of you.

cloud’s toes curl and he heaves out grotesque grunts below. now realising you had held him down too long, you drag his head up by the hair as his back flushes against you, sheathing all of your meat inside of him.

his facial expression looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, no doubt. without any type of preparation and jumping straight into the punishment, cloud feels sick for how good it burns.

his insides cauterise with your cock, leaving a bump just below his navel. when he tries to look down to his leaking cock, you squeeze him by the cheeks, bringing his face back up to eye level, facing a mirror the blonde forgot was there half an hour ago.

he could see your glare shadowing behind him and your nose inhaling the sweat of his neck. the darkness of the room didn’t help how he felt either, and intensified that even more.

“don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted, cloud. you won against your master; a fair match indeed. so now, i shall give you your reward that you have craved for.” you hush to him in a condescending tone before moving your hips back, and slamming forward into him.

cloud’s unable to speak from this motion, his mouth lolling open which invites you to stick your fingers inside his mouth. drool instantly soaks your fingers as you place his tongue between the sides of your index and middle finger, his eyes rolling back into his head as you set a rough pace on his ass.

with every push and pull of your hips, you could feel his insides hold onto you for dear life, begging not to be tattered and mangled. yet, the sensation has you completely lost as you tear his ass open with your cock.

it’s messy, it’s bloody, it doesn’t look nice, but cloud’s leaking cock may say otherwise.

when you angle your hips up into him, his legs shake and he squirts strings of hot come into the air. it sprays all over the mirror in front of the two of you, and cloud collapses against your chest.

“after all that, you came so quickly.” disappointment lingered in your tone and cloud looked up at you, half of his face buried into the sheets. his hands were still tied behind his back, so he couldn’t do much but take whatever you gave him.

and then something unexpected happened.

for a moment, cloud swears dreaming when you place a soft kiss against his temple, looking down at him thoughtfully with your cock on tall, proud, and on standby.

tears of joy fill his eyes and he grins, giggling hysterically. you grimace when he does this, the snot and drool covering his face serving as a tool of unattractiveness. but he doesn’t care, he did finally get what he wanted.

“t-thank you- master. heh, thank you so much! hehe…hehehe. thank you for being so kind to me. i-i love you so much, master!”

your mouth then frowns and your eyebrows raise for a moment when you watch him thank you with full admiration in his eyes.

fucking disgusting.

all you can do after that is roll your eyes, remembering how this thing started in the first place.

you bring a hand down to his cheek, smacking the scorching skin roughly and turning him over onto his back. cloud invitingly opens his legs for you, his cock hard again and his hole ready for more action despite a stinging sensation still coming from that area.

“p-please… fill me up, master… i need your cock.”

he motions himself back and forth that catches your tip against his abused hole. and when you allow him to slither his ass over your tip, you just sit there on your heels, watching in raw amusement.

“you’re a strange little creature, aren’t you?”

now discarding all of your gown, leaving you completely naked, cloud can’t help but stare.

“enjoying the view?”

cloud whines, and you swear his invisible tail wags below him. you then let out a sigh, calmer than how you felt at the beginning of this mess.

warning: subtop reader, dub-con (reader is drunk) erm uhh bondage

he was perplexed and confused. the blaring lights, heavy music, scent of alcohol and sweat lingering in the air. is your home always like this? there were people brushing against him with red solo cups, in outfits that were not in his world.

then he saw you-- and his eyes widened. do you dress like this for everyone? do you show off that body of yours for just anyone? sylus could feel a strange sense of possession over you, even though he wasn't even from this world. it only spiked when you turned back to the crowd, a wrapping around your shoulders.

you were clearly tipsy, a pretty flush on your face as you danced. a drunken smile was on your lips as he turned to go find you. it was like his body was moving on his own.

and when he finally reached you, and placed a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, all you did was turn to him with a laugh and a smile. sweat stuck to your face as you tried to listen to him through the loud music, that same sweet smile on your face. annoyance built up in his system as people brushed against him, and as he tried harder and harder to not lose his cool infront of you. he grabbed your wrist, before pulling you away trying to find some sort of place where you could hear him.

he stomped through the halls, eventually leading to your bedroom. he could smell the scent of you on the sheets as he closed the door, hearing you flop on your bed. he looked around, before making eye contact with you.

"y-you're halloween costume is fuc-fucking awesome dude.. are you like.. like that sylus man? the one from that video game..?" you kicked your feet against your bed. the white haired man froze, something about hearing you say his name was both incredible and so unnerving at the same time. the same man he has known through the game was infront of his eyes, aware of him.

you were unaware of his silence, a rumble in your throat. "you're a really good cosplayer man.. you look like him to a tea.. even his height. its like you were born as him haha!" you got off your bed to approach him, ready to inspect him.

"so pretty.." you leaned into his ear, "just between you and me stranger,, if i could fuck him i would.. he's sooooo pretty.." you slurred your words as you stared into those ruby eyes of the delectable stranger.

hearing you of all people say that excited him. you got real close, your breath laced with alcohol before you locked lips with him. he kissed back with as much passion before flipping you over, staring slightly up at you. "that's much better.." he muttered against your lips, his signature smirk on his face. he could feel your hands pull off his shirt, throwing it somewhere forgotten.

----------

"do you let anyone else touch your body like this?" his pretty hands stroked up and down your chest, his fingertip trailing your skin as he sunk up and down on you.

"hey," he grabbed your chin, staring into that blushing face of yours. "be a good boy and answer me." your hands were tied to your bedframe.

"n-no sir.. only let you.." you didn't want to get punished, but watching the satisfaction fill his face when you said that made you embarrassed.

"good puppy, don't make me ask again next time." he kissed the corner of your lips, a whine leaving your mouth at his teasing before he continued to play with you.

sweat dripped down the side of his temple. even though he seemed like he had everything in control, you were not exactly an easy person to fit inside. your cock scraped his walls as he bit the wall of his mouth trying to compose himself. but with you looking like a whimpering dog in heat, someone needs to take control.

he grinded his hips against yours, his cock laying on your stomach. "keep your eyes on me puppy." he heaved, hands leaving your warm, flushed body for a second to push his hair back, even winking at you before returning to his previous state. his hands toyed with your body, playing with your chest, scratching down your abs until red marks followed. he rubbed circles on your pelvis. you were a pretty bulky man, yet putty under his gaze.

but seeing that body of yours, it was still too pure, unblemished even. the satisfaction of claiming you ran deep in his veins, and he wanted to show it on you as well. he leaned to you, kissing and licking up your neck before sinking his teeth into your flesh. he could feel you tense up from the pain, while he left his marks on you. he nibbled on your skin, sucking and kissing. this continued from your neck to your collarbone, to your chest.. it was like he was trying to cover you in marks.

sylus groaned, feeling you grind up into him. the mushroom head of your cock grinded against his prostate, a long deep grunt leaving his lips while he rolled his hips to that spot. his cock twitched and he rolled his head back, before slowly starting to ride you. he angled his hips to hit his prostate on your cock, his fit body feeling shocks of pleasure whenever he rode you.

he continued to ride you, listening to the sounds of faint party music and your whimpers and moans, and the lewd noise of your cock meeting his insides. his legs and thighs were starting to get sore

"p-puppy, m'gonna cum.." sylus heaved out, his hair disheveled and his cock ready to cum, "lets cum together." you frantically nodded, trying your best to hold out for him. you looked at him with teary eyes, overstimulation starting to get to you. he could feel how tense you were, hips shifting and your cock pulsing inside of him.

the two of you chased your high, sylus moaning while he shot out a load over your stomach, while you pumped him full of cum.

and when the high came down, he simply untied you and limped into your bed with you. the warmth of your body was something unfamiliar to him in many regards and he unsure of how to proceed from here with you. yet seeing how much of a big teddy bear you were, he didn't regret any of it.

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

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PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

Of course, you wouldn't be able to let Sejanus' death go that easily, not when you adored that naive imbecile so much. If only Coriolanus had kept his mouth shut. You're too smart for your own good, seeing right through his lies as if they're pure glass.

He should've known. He should've fucking known.

Now he has no choice but to kill you and let such a sweet thing go to waste. What a travesty to know you could've lived a long, happy life by his side if only you weren't so stubborn. If only Sejanus and Lucy Gray hadn't poisoned your precious mind with their grotesque, childish rebel sentiments.

He bellows your name in frustration, growling when he's met with nothing but the echo of his own voice.

"You're just gonna leave? After everything I have done for you? Do you know how much I sacrificed for you? Huh?" He snarls, his nostrils flaring with animalistic rage.

A flash of color from beyond a treeline mere steps away from him catches his attention, his eyes flicking towards the thicket. He silently prowls towards it with slow and measured strides, despite the way his heart hammers against his rib cage. So close to his little darling.

"We could've done so much together. We could've changed the world, how can you be so blind to our potential?"

It almost sounds as if he's pleading with you, as if he'd give you another chance to redeem yourself for abandoning him like this. For abandoning him and running away, like everyone else in his life.

He was so sure you'd be different—that you wouldn't leave and betray him like all the others. That you wouldn't flee at the first sign of cracks in Coriolanus' immaculate facade.

Somewhere deep within his subconscious, he knows you'd certainly have the power to sweet-talk and kiss your way out of it. You make him weak, which is why you're so incredibly dangerous.

After all, it's the things we love most that destroy us.

Still, a part of him shamefully yearns for your gentle caress and affection, missing the feeling of your lips on his.

How pitiful and naive it was of Coriolanus to place his tender heart in your hands and to be stupid enough to believe your promise to keep it safe.

How could he let another boy enthrall him so entirely?

He doesn't blink; his dark eyes are fixated on the spot he's sure he saw you brush past seconds ago.

He'd almost find it amusing, hunting you down through the woods as if you were his deeply desired prey, if only his future wasn't on the line. It's certainly thrilling, especially when he picks up on your muffled, frantic breathing.

So close.

The sound makes his heart skip a beat, it's just so adorable that you think you could hide from him.

"I don't want to hurt you, okay? Just come back." He adjusts his grip on the shotgun, raising it to sit at the same height as your head would be.

"I love you."

He hears you gasp at the proximity of his voice, swiftly dashing off like a frightened deer in an attempt to hide behind another cluster of bushes, but he's got you pinned.

The sound of a single shot thunders through the valley.

Mockingjays flee from the treetops in masses, fluttering and carrying your cries of desperation and agony with them far into the distance.

You're on the cold, muddy forest ground, scrambling to get away from your attacker as you clutch your chest. Thick drops of blood slip through the gaps between your fingers, painting the dirt beneath you a pretty crimson.

Oh, you poor thing.

He tuts at you, quick to place his heavy boot on your leg and put enough weight on it to make you howl in pain.

Your face is drained of color and coated in sweat, your hair clinging to your forehead as you look up at him with pure, unadulterated fear in your eyes. Pleading for your life with trembling lips, but your voice abandons you.

A viscous, suffocating silence settles on Coriolanus' shoulders, heavier than anything he's ever felt.

He watches you whimper, his gaze falling on the darkening red spot soaking the fabric of what he knows is your favorite shirt. The same one he'd told you he loved so much every time you wore it. 

He expected to feel a strange, twisted sort of joy, but there's nothing but emptiness.

His ears begin to ring, the severity of what he's just done suddenly crashing down on him like a collapsing building. Guilt rips through his flesh like a piercing scream, splitting it open violently to leave nothing but immeasurably deep abysses in its wake.

Carelessly tossing the shotgun to the side, he falls to his knees beside you and delicately wraps his arms around your frail, wounded body. He gingerly pulls you into his lap, brushing back your hair as he feels your blood, sickeningly hot and sticky, soak his pants.

He frantically tears off his shirt to press it against the bullet wound. It's soaked in a matter of seconds, and no amount of pressure he could ever apply to it could stop the life draining from your eyes.

You're so cold, his sweet boy, turning to ice in his very hands, and all he can do is watch helplessly.

There's no way you'd make it if he tried to carry you back to the peacekeeper bunker's medic.

What is he supposed to do? You're dying, and he's never felt so powerless and lost in his entire life.

He wants to call out for Sejanus, Tigris, Lucy Gray, or anyone else that could help, but he's utterly and completely alone as the love of his life wastes away in front of his very eyes. And it's his fault. He was the one to shoot you, blinded by sheer rage and fear.

He was the one to murder the people he now so desperately wishes were here to help.

You struggle to place your hand on top of his, trying desperately to wrap your fingers around it, but you're too weak. It rips his heart to shreds, leaving nothing but a bottomless, cavernous void in its place.

The fire that burned within you, one of hope and passion, is now extinguished and reduced to mere ashes.

How cruel, Coriolanus thinks, to be forced to watch in horror as something he despised so much suddenly slips from his grasp, only to realize that he wants it back more than anything.

He was so driven by his murderous intent and terror that he couldn't even stop to realize it was you he was pointing his gun at.

He laces his fingers with yours, squeezing them as tightly as he can. Feeling his body quiver as sobs wrack his lungs, tearing through his throat in a deep, guttural cry. Vision blurring as tears pool in his eyes, spilling over to crawl down his cheeks and splatter onto you, mingling with your blood.

"I'm sorry." He whimpers, pressing his forehead against yours and drawing you closer into his embrace in a futile last-ditch effort to keep you warm. He repeats it over and over, rocking back and forth as he cradles your figure. 

Then, like the last flicker of a candle's flame, you whisper his name one last time. Taking your final breath as you gaze up into the sky, reaching for the stars hiding beyond the clouds, followed by a shakily exhale.

Free from any pain or distress as you slump in Coriolanus' hold, eyes glazing over. You look deceptively peaceful.

Coriolanus nearly topples over as he suddenly weeps with an unfamiliar ferocity, stricken by a bitter, torturous grief he didn't even feel for his father's death. He screams until his voice, too, abandons him, and then some more.

He clings to you in wretched, pathetic desperation, silently begging the universe to breathe life back into you by some miracle. 

He'd do anything to see you smile again. He'll sacrifice hundreds, thousands, or even millions if that's what it takes. Coriolanus would tear the world in half with his bare hands to take that bullet back and make your heart beat again.

Make it beat for him again.

Why?

Why you?

Why him?

How could fate be so cruel as to take every single good thing from him?

He's only a boy, too young to bear this vicious, downward spiral into savagery and sorrow he's been forced into. Starved for years of affection and food, bitterly cold, and on the brink of losing everything. He's been fighting for so long, driven by the raw, human need to survive and persist.

For just a moment, he caught glimpses of a peaceful future in your kisses and the feeling of your skin on his. Now it's all slipping from his grasp as if it were sand—your devotion and your promises. Everything you could've been.

He presses a tender kiss to your hairline, trailing your features with his thumb, before placing another one on your icy lips.

You're so still, so quiet. Tears continue to stream down his face, nestling in your hair like morning dew as he nuzzles it.

He wishes he could take it with him somehow to keep at least one piece of you alive. He stares at his blood-soaked shirt clinging to the hole in your chest, sniffling as something animalistic twists and writhes inside his stomach, urging him to take it.

With some hesitation, he lifts it to his face before eagerly inhaling the scent of your blood, his eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. It sticks to him all over his body—your smell and your blood.

The smell of fresh kill.

And now you lay there, lifeless, sprawled out across his lap and forest floor, the last thing to keep him from losing it entirely gone. He winces, the thread his sanity has been hanging on by, finally fraying and snapping.

The ground crumbles and collapses in on itself beneath his feet, sending him plummeting into endless arctic waters. He feels so numb, so lost, and so utterly inhuman.

You're dead.

Coriolanus has not only killed the love of his life, but he has also killed himself today. He's slaughtered the one part of him still capable of doing good, leaving it behind to rot and seep into the dirt. So toxic and devastating that it doesn't even offer any nourishment.

He carries your body back to the peacekeeper barracks, sobbing as he recounts the barbaric rebel attack that took your life, begging them to grant you the burial you so very deserve.

What a hero you were, sacrificing yourself so selflessly to save Coriolanus. A true testament to your unconditional love for him, and it shall be remembered for centuries to come.

Coriolanus Snow's sweet, most ardently beloved martyr. How incredibly tragic to lose your soulmate in such a way.

Hundreds of flowers adorn your grave every year on this sorrowful day.

No one ever dares question the melancholy in President Snow's eyes because they know, and it breaks their hearts. They know why rebels must never, under any circumstances, be treated with even a semblance of kindness and forgiveness.

They will suffer, every last one, for daring to hurt you. He'll make sure of it, and no one even thinks of stopping him.

Somewhere along the way, even Coriolanus himself begins to believe his lies, losing himself in the snake pit of his own mind. He couldn't have possibly killed his own darling boy.

How could one even suggest something so horrible?

There's a rumor, you know? Apparently, President Snow loved you so much that he kept a shirt caked in your blood and tears all these years.

How he has kept it from rotting for so long, no one knows, but it's said that he sleeps with it nestled near his head when the grief becomes too much to bear.

He just misses you so much.

It even still smells like you.

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