summary: the reader is the childhood friend of the prodigy scientist before the petrification had happened. They both found their feelings while thinking how to bring back the whole civilization back from stone, meanwhile fighting against the other scientist from the other side of the globe, in America, and the enigmatic Why-Man that's awaiting for them in the moon.
general warnings: minor used of y/n, mechanic!reader, reader!insert in the original story (anime/manga), slow burn, childhood friends, slow romance, fluff, senku's really bad at feelings, probably some bad mechanical knowledge.
some warnings depend on the episode.
𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈𖥸┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸┈┈𖥸┈┈┈𖥸
Chapters:
it happened quiet
dust in the wind
crazy little thing called love
pleasexanny
my sails are set | soon
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Synopsis: Y/N Parker has been the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man for a year now, A tragedy leads him to discover that his real father is a millionaire and philanthropist named Bruce Wayne. Although he still doesn't understand why the Wayne family seems to want to force their way into his life.
How had it ended like this?Y/N acknowledged it—his luck had never been the best. But he had brought this upon himself for being too trusting, for underestimating the infamous Parker luck (or bad luck, if you asked Y/N).
Yes, he truly believed that his biological father—or at least the man social services insisted was his father—was just some ordinary guy named Bruce.
How many Bruces were there in the world?Just in the U.S. alone?
That was, until he arrived at the place where that man had requested an informal meeting. No judges, no social workers—just the two of them.
Y/N had assumed the man would probably tell him he couldn’t take responsibility for him. That was normal, right? Suddenly finding out you have a child you never knew existed—if what the social worker said was even true.
Honestly, he hadn’t paid much attention anyway. He’d been overwhelmed. The news about May—what had happened to her, how she was—had become his number one priority. Everything else faded into the background.
He vaguely remembered the social worker’s voice droning on in the distance, annoying and tired, barely worth listening to, talking about how he was a “lucky kid” and other movie-like nonsense. All Y/N could think about was how to stay by May’s side. He couldn’t leave her. She’d probably scold him for not paying attention to the man talking.
But she wasn’t here now.
And at least in this moment, Y/N Parker wasn’t mentally present either.
Looking back at the present, he regretted not listening more carefully to the social worker’s ramblings. He should have—at least the part where they told him his father was the damn Bruce Wayne.
Damn it. He looked far more imposing in person, as if his very presence demanded respect and seriousness.
Y/N felt suffocated. This couldn’t be his father.
They didn’t even look alike! Just look at those blue eyes, that jet-black hair—there was no way they were related.He felt embarrassed with himself. Surely Bruce thought the same—or worse. He was a man who had everything. It wasn’t like Y/N had anything to offer as a son. If he remembered correctly, Bruce already had children… sons and daughters.
Yes. Of course he wouldn’t want him. It was obvious.
And yet, Y/N mentally denied it. He didn’t need him. He only needed May—his beloved aunt. The woman who cleaned his wounds when he was a child. Who sacrificed her time to raise a boy who wasn’t even her blood.
The woman who, even after her husband Ben died and every tie to Y/N’s past was severed, kept caring for him. Loving him.
The woman who promised she would love him no matter what. Who protected him when he was small.
Even now, sitting in this absurdly elegant restaurant, the only thing that mattered to him was May. Not leaving her. He wanted—needed—to be at her hospital bedside, holding her hand, promising he wouldn’t fail her again. That this time, he’d protect her. That he’d do his job as Spider-Man right.
He felt someone touch him and looked up at the imposing man with blue eyes and raven-black hair.
“Y/N, right?”
He swallowed hard and nodded. He had no words. He had come here determined to refuse any adoption arrangement—but here he was, throat dry, unable to make a sound.
He hated himself for not having the courage to stop it. He was supposed to be stronger than Bruce. He should’ve stopped at the restaurant entrance and refused to go any further. Get straight to the point.
But right now, he wasn’t Spider-Man.
He was Y/N Parker.
The nerd Flash Thompson bullied.
The kid who couldn’t even do a proper push-up in gym class.
With no other choice, he followed him—too intimidated by the man’s status and height. And now that he looked closely, he could see the muscles beneath the tailored suit. Clearly tall, broad, strong. Nothing like the scrawny, physically weak Y/N he’d been before the spider bite.
God… he just wanted to go back to the hospital. To see how May was doing. To think about how everything had changed when just that Monday morning she’d been smiling, full of life, handing him a plate of freshly made waffles.
He needed to end this.
But his throat felt so tight, so dry. No matter how much he swallowed, the feeling wouldn’t go away.
He felt watched—not just by the people around them, but by the man who was supposedly his father.
For Bruce, it was strange.
He had sworn his only biological son was Damian. So that Tuesday afternoon, when he returned to the manor, ready to take on his role as a vigilante once the sun set, Alfred stopped him.
“Master Bruce, you need to take this call.”
Bruce frowned. Alfred usually handled calls himself and passed the message along later—or the next morning.
He took the phone. A young woman was on the line.
“Am I speaking with Bruce Wayne?”
“Yes—” Before he could say anything else, she interrupted.
“This is New York Social Services.”
Social services? From New York? That was unusual.
“What is this about?”
“It concerns a minor currently under state care. There is evidence suggesting you are his biological father.”
Another child?
He didn’t remember any such encounter—neither as Bruce nor as Batman. Damian was the exception, and he didn’t like thinking about that.
“This must be a mistake,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“I understand your confusion, Mr. Wayne, but the DNA test confirms you are the biological father. Legally, you have priority as his guardian.”
A child. His blood.Had the boy inherited something from him? From his mother? Or from a woman whose face he couldn’t even remember?
He wouldn’t deny it—the idea of having a “normal” child terrified him… and excited him.
A child he could love.
One who wouldn’t be dragged into this life of violence.
One who wouldn’t die at the hands of a criminal.
But his hands only knew how to fight and avenge. Alfred was the one who fixed things. Who rebuilt.
A quiet voice reminded him that this child wasn’t broken. Didn’t need fixing. Didn’t need training or saving the world.
Just a normal son.
And that thought replaced his fear with something unfamiliar—yet pleasant.
“What’s his name?”
“Y/N… Y/N Parker.”
Bruce let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
The number hit him like a blow.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years too late.
“When can I see him?”
“Thursday.”
Bruce checked the date. It was Tuesday.
Less than two days to find out who Y/N Parker was… and what he was going to do.
Y/N thought that Monday had been lucky.
He woke up early. May made waffles. He made it to school like a normal student—not swinging between buildings. And Miss Caldwell didn’t lock him out for being late.
It was the morning he’d dreamed of for a year.
He would’ve given it all up if he’d known what would happen that afternoon.
When no villains appeared, that alone should’ve been suspicious.
As the final bell rang and he walked down the school steps, he heard his name.
“Are you Y/N Parker?”
He didn’t need his spider-sense to know this was bad.
“I am… who are you?”
“We’re from New York Child Services.”
His heart stopped.
Back in the present, Y/N sat across from Bruce, nerves eating him alive. The air was thick—heavy enough to cut with a knife.
He glanced at the menu, quickly putting it away when he saw the prices. May didn’t make that much in a week. Neither did he, selling photos to J. Jonah Jameson.Now or never.
“Mr. Wayne… honestly, I came to tell you—”
His skin prickled.
The buzzing at the back of his neck screamed danger.
His body moved before his mind could process it—throwing himself at Bruce and knocking the tall man down just as a car crashed through the restaurant window.
Y/N turned toward the shattered glass.
Mechanical tentacles.
He sighed.
Of course.
Just when he’d found the courage to talk to Mr. Wayne—his “father”—this happened.
Context: You come back after the holidays, both you and Izuku having been the last ones to present and suddenly you both can't stay away from each other.
(A reupload of this fic since I deleted it)
Note: Omegaverse, SMUT, NSFW, mutual M@sturbation, Izuku's fingers lol, Mutual pining, Friends to Lovers, dry humping, big stupid himbo Alphas. Izuku's a Prime Alpha, Reader is a Prima Omega. Primes: Stronger more aggressive Alphas, are over Alphas in the heirachy. Primas are omegas that generally have a higher fertility.
Midoriya carried his boxes inside the dorms for Class 3A. To think he was now in third year. Midoriya really was shocked with how fast time flew by, even with all the hassle and struggles of first and second year.
However, the holiday had been something eventful for Midoriya Izuku. He was one of the last few of his classmates to present and to his surprise, as well as to his mother, he had presented as an Alpha. It wasn't what Midoriya thought would happen, because his mother was a Beta and seemingly, he was a Beta too, until three weeks ago.
He had woken up in a cold sweat and his body aching. He felt horrible that morning and could barely remember anything other than the pain. He doubt he actually ate anything and his poor mother looked so worry for him. When she called All Might, the blond Omega had revealed that he was presenting.
Midoriya truly didn't remember a thing other than it being a horrible experience and he felt as if he was sick, but the day after he felt fine. Other than the fact that he woke up with a cock looking slightly different than how he last left it, a few inches taller and longer thicker canines.
Midoriya didn't really find it a big deal, other than buying scent patches and having to buy new clothes from more Alpha friendly brands. Nothing Midoriya particularly found an inconvenience (other than the clothes but who didn't like new clothes?)
But maybe he was wrong.
"Midoriya?" The green haired Alpha turned at the sound of someone saying his name. He turned to look at Kaminari who jogged up to him with a smile before slowing down. His golden eyes widened in surprise as he stopped. He sniffed. Then sniffed again. The blond Omega took another few steps forward as he sniffed near Midoriya. He looked him over with wide eyes. "Whoa!? Since when were you an Alpha?" He asked surprised.
"Kaminari, what are you talking about?" Iida asked with a raised eyebrow as the Alpha tilted his head and got off the couch.
Denki motioned to Midoriya with his hands. "He smells like an Alpha!" He turned to look back at Izuku. "Looks like one too... Hm... Open up."
Midoriya had to take a step back in surprise as Denki pried open Midoriya's mouth. Sitting there snugly in his mouth were two large canines that weren't there the last time Denki had seen him. Midoriya didn't like Denki's fingers in his mouth. Despite the Omega being a friend of his, he let out a low growl in annoyance, that took everyone by surprise.
Denki took his hands out of Midoriya's mouth with wide eyes, keeping his hands to himself. "Sorry, man! Didn't mean to press into your personal space like that."
Midoriya closed his mouth with a scrunched up face before shaking his head. "Sorry about that, Kaminari. I didn't mean to do that."
Iida adjusted his glasses in surprise. "You're right."
"You see!" He let out.
"No!" Sero let out dramatically as he put his hands over his eyes with a sigh. "Not another one!" He stood up on his tall legs. His black eyebrows furrowed as he looked straight at Midoriya. "This was not part of the plan Midoriya! We were supposed to be Betas together! There can't only be three Beta males in this class!"
Midoriya chuckled as he scratched the back of his head. "Sorry, Sero. It kind of took me by surprise. It only happened two weeks ago." He revealed. Midoriya paused as he heard more sniffing. He straightened up as he turned to look behind him. Sniffing near his arm was Momo.
The Omega paused, putting her hands to herself in embarrassment as a soft blush went to her face. "Sorry Midoriya." She bowed her head. "You just smell... well you smell..."
"Fucking Amazing." Denki let out bluntly.
Iida turned to him shocked with a strict look. "Kaminari! No swearing!"
Midoriya's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? I do?" He let out surprised. He wasn't exactly sure how he smelled, he just knew that he could smell everything much more intense than before and it was something for him to get used to.
A whistle went out as Mina walked into the room. Her golden eyes looked Midoriya up and down. "Midoriya, look at you. Have you been bulking up over the summer?" She asked as she poked his bicep. Midoriya felt a flush of pink go to his cheeks at her proding as her eyes went around him unhindered. It was always like this when people in class presented for the first time.
Sero sighed as he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "He presented." He revealed.
"Whoa, really?" She asked surprised. "So it's him and Y/N to finish us off?"
"Y/N?"
Letting out a loud TSK was Bakugou, who was among one of the first to present along with Kirishima who he was sitting ontop of. The two of them had been courting since second year and Bakugou seemed to take great pride in it. His arms were folded over his chest. "That makes no sense. How come Deku presents as a fucking Alpha of all things and Y/N presents too? It makes no sense." He let out in disapproval.
Before anyone could come to Midoriya's aid, a low growl was heard. Midoriya frowned as he looked at Bakugou, a growl coming out from the back of his throat as his scent started to turn sour. The room went silent at the uncharacteristic growl that left him.
Momo covered her nose and Mina and Sero quickly stood up seeing it as their time to shine as Betas and peacekeepers. "Okay, Katsuki that's enough out of you." Mina pointed out to the blond Omega.
"Yah man, you know how sensitive Midoriya is going to be for the next month or so." Sero reminded the blond Omega who had his own trigger happy phase when he first presented.
Bakugou opened his mouth to speak but his pupils started to dilate. Kirishima put a hand to his neck and started to rub at his scent glands gently. Bakugou pouted at being distracted but didn't press on.
Kirishima however looked at Midoriya with an inquisitive look. His head was tilted to the side, long red locks slipping out of the loose bun. Kirishima was the only Prime Alpha in Class 3A which automatically made him very influential among the class dynamics. Right now however, he could feel the balance shifting and it all started when Midoriya entered the room.
"Midoriya?"
"Hm?" Midoriya asked as he flicked his green eyes to Kirishima. Immediately it was as if the temperature in the room fell as both Primes looked at each other. Kirishima's pupils thinned and so did Midoriyas.
"Uh... what's going on?" Shinso asked as he looked between the both of them.
No one had a particular answer as both Alpha males just stared at each other for a moment.
Mina felt her phone vibrate. She fished in her pocket and pulled out her phone. She let out an excited giggle. "Y/N is here!" She let out loudly, dispelling the tension as she ran to the door.
Midoriya blinked, his pupils fluctuating back to normal as he let out a low groan at a soft headache. Kirishima also groaned with a frown as he rubbed his eyes. Bakugou raised an eyebrow and let out a questioning sound but Kirishima didn't respond back.
Shoto moved over to take the box that Midoriya was holding out of his hands. "Are you okay, Izuku?"
Midoriya nodded his head. "Yah, I think so. Just felt weird." He stated as he shook his head and blinked. Before he could open his mouth to greet Todoroki, a scream went out in the air.
Everyone turned to Mina who had effectively tackled you to the floor. "OH MY GOD!" She let out happily with laughter.
You laughed as you had your arms around Mina. "MINA! Please! There's no need to break me right as I arrive." You told her humoured but happy for her excitement.
Midoriya sniffed. He sniffed again. A sweet scent filled the air. It was something he had never thought so sweet yet also welcoming. It wasn't sickeningly sweet nor was it dull. It was potent, very much so. Similar to Bakugou's but instead of making his nose agitated, Midoriya couldn't get enough of the smell. He looked to Shoto who seemed just as confused at the new scent too.
Mina helped you up to your feet and that's when everyone saw it. You chuckled as you waved a hand. "Hello everyone! It's so good to see you."
You stood in a beautiful yellow sundress, but that wasn't the thing that had people surprised. You had changed. Your body had visibly adjusted to the role of an Omega but in a way that Midoriya couldn't exactly describe. Your hips had widened out a bit, making sure to suit your dynamic's purpose of bearing pups, you hadn't exactly shrunken in height but your height suited your figure and you looked like you were glowing. A wave of calm coming with you.
Excited squeals filled the air as Denki, Momo and Koda also flocked over to you. The group of Omegas and Mina crowding you as you smiled at all of them.
"You look amazing!" Denki let out with a bright smile.
"You smell so nice! I knew you'd turn into an Omega." Momo praised.
"When did you present?"
Bakugou rolled his eyes at all the excited chirps and squeals from all the other Omegas in his class, not finding it necessary.
You chuckled as you moved to pick up your bags. "Like three weeks ago." You voiced out informing them. "I just have been busy with the commission and everything that I didn't really get to take it all in." You explained. For some odd chance, you lifted your gaze and it landed straight on Midoriya. Your eyebrows raised in surprise, instantly catching on the difference.
He stared back at you before offering you a kind smile. You felt heat move up your face and you smiled back but looked away quickly to stop yourself before your scent leaked out your feelings. You had always had a crush on Midoriya since first year but you never really got to tell him about it. You just decided to keep it to yourself.
Since then, the dynamics and politics of the class had shifted but silently, in a way that no one brought it up but it was clearly different. However, you were more focused on the big Alpha that was newly presented too.
Just watching him train could make you drool. Midoriya seemed to have an underlying aggression to him that you always knew was there but just seemed more prevalent. You would see it in group examinations for training. Watching him in his hero uniform, canines barred as he faced classmates in Class B, his pupils thin and nothing other than threat behind those eyes.
However, you also loved how he stayed the same. He was still such a nerd as he would scribble at his side of the class with his head down in his notebook taking notes and muttering to himself about whatever was being discussed. Or how he would easily explain a quirk and its pros and cons when it was one he knew or had an inkling of an idea how to tackle or deal with.
But every time you saw him you felt as if you were suffocating. You couldn't breathe in his scent the else you felt like you were just about to slick up your panties, or you couldn't think too hard about how handsome he was the else your scent would go all heavy and savoury showing that your thoughts weren't all that innocent.
So despite trying your best not to make an utter fool of yourself and to escape the humiliation of being labelled as nothing more than a horny crazed Omega, you somehow found yourself downstairs with Midoriya right in front of you.
The large Alpha had his eyebrows raised in surprise as he stood in front of you, in nothing more than a pair of sleeping boxers. Considerings Alphas ran warmer than Omegas, you weren't surprised, but still. "You couldn't sleep too?" He asked with a gentle smile, however you could barely get past his bare abs. His muscles seemed defined in the faint glow of themoonlight.
You swallowed down hard, nodding your head. "Yah. Couldn't fall back asleep. I thought maybe I should... get some water." You motioned to the water bottle in your hand. Midoriya smiled waving the one he wanted to refill too. You nodded with a smile. The both of you were silent as you stood amongst each other.
Midoriya kept his eyes on you as you looked to the side. You were in a pair of short pyjama pants and a tank top. However, considering it was chilly outside of the dorm rooms, Midoriya couldn't tear his eyes away from your shirt, particularly, your nipples that pronounced themselves. He swallowed down hard, trying his best to be civil.
How would they feel in his mouth?
"Would you..." He tore his eyes up to your face as you began to speak. "Would you like to come over to my room? We can watch a movie or something?" You offered up to him.
Midoriya smiled and nodded his head. "Sure! Sounds great."
Midoriya followed you back to your room on the femme side of the dormitories. He had never been to your room before, so his heart was beating fast at the thought. What would it be like? Would it smell like you?
You unlocked your door, opening it and allowing Midoriya in after you before closing it behind you. Midoriya looked around at the room. It suited you, with your own unique style and everything. He noticed your nest was pushed to a corner, and it seemed to be the place generating the most of your scent. It was warm and wonderful smelling. It smelt like you.
You moved to open up your laptop as the both of you got seated in the dark in your room. You set up a movie you had never watched before and got comfortable.
The two of you had light conversation, meaningless really but it was easy talking to him.
However, what you didn't expect was 30 minutes into the movie for there to already be a sex scene. Your face burned hot as you tried your best not to look uncomfortable. This was not how you thought this movie was going to go.
You glanced over to the green haired Alpha in your room. Midoriya was silent as he leaned back against the wall that your bed was pushed against, not a particular emotion on your face. You tried to ignore the heavy breathing from the audio of the movie and you tried to slow down your own. You took a deep breath and tried your best to control your scent as not to give off anything.
You glanced down to where Midoriya sat with his arms folded over his chest, legs spread as he watched the movie. Your eyes flicked down to his crotch. You felt a jolt of arousal go through you at the bulge. Was he hard?
Or was that him soft?
At the thought you tried to tear your eyes away from him, swallowing down hard. You had to keep your mind focused and still. You needed to focus on the task at hand and that was finishing this movie. However...
How would it feel to sit on it? Would he let you hump him just at the fact that you couldn't think when he was around you? He smelt sooo good. He smelt like your worst fantasies and greatest pleasures.
Midoriya's fingers dug into his biceps. This was not how he thought this movie would go. He was sure that this was supposed to be a super sweet romcom. But now, right in his face was a whole lot of a famous person's ass.
It didn't help that you were sitting next to him and your scent was so intoxicating. You smelt like you fell from heaven and right into his lap. He wanted to pull you into his lap. Your scent made his gums ache. It was the main reason why he was keeping his mouth shut.
He took a deep breath as he shifted, glancing over to you briefly. Only to realise your eyes weren't on the screen either. Your eyes were on him. Sort of. Your eyes were downcasted as you focused on something else. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he flicked his gaze down wondering maybe there was something on his pants that he wasn't aware of. The only thing he could really take notice of was his
...
Oh.
Midoriya tried to fight off a deep red blush that would have turned him into a tomato. So that's what you were staring at? If it was bothering you, you probably would have kicked him out of your room by now... but you hadn't. Not yet.
So... it was okay...
Midoriya glanced down to you, where your thighs were pressed together. It seemed a rather uncomfortable way to sit but there you were, sitting with your legs crossed as you breathed heavy enough that Midoriya was semi-concerned.
He decided to verify his suspicions. It could either lead to him getting kicked out of your room or to him being the happies Alpha in the entire UA.
Either one would have to work.
You watched as you saw him move to briefly shift on your bed, a hand adjusting himself before settling on his inner thigh.
Fuck.
Why did he have to be hot? Why did he have to be more than just a lovely and caring pack member in your eyes? Cause now you couldn't stop staring at the way his hand rested over his clothed dick, and most of all you could stop thinking about how it would feel underneath you.
You bit back a whimper as you absent mindedly brought a hand over your breast. Two fingers pinching your nipple as you tried your best to squeeze your thighs to relieve the tension you were feeling. You swallowed down hard as you moved your eyes away from his crotch to look up at his face. only to find that Midoriya was already looking at you. A single raised eyebrow on his face and a slight smirk to his lips. You instantly looked away from him, dropping your hands away from your body as you stared down at the movie.
This was it for you. He caught you staring. Now he was going to tell Aizawa Sensei and he would sit you down for stern talking to about not staring at Alpha's bulges with no consent from them.
"Omega." You let out a chirp but you didn't turn to look at him. He carefully reached over, pausing the movie mid moan of whoever it was, before moving your head to turn and face him. The light from your screen illuminated his face as he stared back at you, wide pupils that consumed his green emerald irises. He glanced down away from your eyes.
Your eyebrows twitched as you glanced down as well. You then noticed that your nipples were hard. Well... they had been hard since before the movie. You glanced up at his eyes and he looked at you. There was a beat of silence as you both stared at each other.
You shifted slightly, spreading your legs.
Instantly Midoriya was hit with the scent of slick. His eyes fluttered as he withheld a groan to let out a low hum. You smelt intoxicating. He wondered how wet you were and how on earth you managed to cover that up.
He watched as you shimmied to close your laptop screen, descending you both in darkness, other than the bright moonlight from outside. You were illuminated perfectly as he watched you turn to face him, pushing a pillow behind you as he watched you settle back to face him.
Your eyes watched his face closely as you slowly reached your hands up to your breasts again, squeezing them.
Midoriya let out a soft groan.
You watched Midoriya move to do the same thing you did, his body facing you as he leaned back against the headboard of your bed. You watched him shift a hand moving over to where his cock was, lightly grabbing it.
He was thick.
The sight of it just through his pants was enough to make you feel slick drip out of you again. You whimpered as you moved a hand down between your legs, slipping down past your waistband.
Midoriya couldn't help it mostly because he refused to aknowledge this was real.
No, he was not currently rubbing his cock through his pants at the sight of you playing with your nipples in your room. No, he could not smell your slick almost as if his nose was pressed against your sex. No, he could not see that you weren't wearing panties underneath your loose booty short pyjama pants and could see a glisten of said slick.
But he did know, he could definitely hear the way your cunt was wet as you dipped a finger to rub your clit underneath your shorts, a glimpse of your fat cunt to him.
Fuck.
You both couldn't help yourselves as you stared at each other. This was better than staying up at night imagining either one of you or trying to substitute adult stars with each other.
This was you and him, watching each other, fantasising but not touching. Wanting each other by restraining yourselves.
You rubbed yourself the way you liked it and damn did you not expect your high to feel like it was coming so fast. For the most part, you didn't expect for his cock to keep growing underneath his pants.
Why on earth did he look so big? And the way his hand stroked his cock was enough to make you drenched. You could feel your pyjama pants start to stick to your skin at the connection of slick between you and the cloth.
Midoriya couldn't take it anymore. He let go of himself as he reached over to grab you, breaking the imaginary barrier. Your eyes widened as you felt his hands on your hips before he pulled you over suddenly. You let out a surprised chirp as he brought you to sit on his lap.
Your eyes widened as you looked down at him, him looking up at you.
He sat up briefly, his face close to your own as you both breathed heavily, your eyes locked onto each other and the strength of a bond you had both been ignoring, puling at each other.
You whimpered as you felt him twitch right underneath your cunt where you sat on him. "Alpha."
Midoriya moved his hand to the back of your neck, and pulled you down to kiss you. A groan was pulled out of his chest at the taste of your mouth on his.
He's been wanting to do this for sooo long.
You moved your arms to wrap around his neck, leaning in closer. You wanted him. You wanted him so badly. His tongue was hot in your mouth and you let him dominate you as your hands dragged down his expansive scar littered body. Every scar, every freckle, his entire body all for you to feel finally.
You were breathing off of each other's oxygen, moving back and forwards, rocking against each other without even planning it.
Midoriya let out a moan at the feeling of your wet cunt rubbing over his clothed cock. He
pushed you down harder, allowing you to girate your hips how you wanted. He moved a hand to track your movements with one hand while the other moved up your back before sliding over to your front, wanting to grab at your tits. Which he did.
His hands moved under your shirt and grabbed your breast, making you move back with a gasp, air filling your lungs however you were petty. You couldn't care about air when you could be closer to him. You felt one of his fingers, his calloused fingers, move to feel over your nipple. You felt him tug and pinch at your sensitive bud making you cry.
You looked down at him from where you sat on top of him, your hips moving hard and fast as you settled your knees at either side of him, trying to move up and down while you did it.
Midoriya groaned as he leaned back, watching your hips as you did it. You had soaked through your shorts and were now making a decently sized wet patch on his own pants. "Good girl. Come on, ride this dick. It's all fucking yours." His low voice had you whining, as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, chasing the high that was coming to you fast.
This was a dream you didn't want to leave.
Midoriya tried his best not too make too much noise of his own but he couldn't help it. Not when your scent flooded his nose, not when you're entire being flooded his every senses.
He was close. He was so close.
He bucked his hips making you whine. "Yes." You whispered out into the air as you gripped onto him harder. You both held onto each other for dear life, not wanting to separate as you both chased the high you were craving. Heavy breaths, groans, moans and gripping fingers.
You slapped a hand over your mouth as you cried out in pleasure, grinding down against him hard and fast as your orgasm rushed through you. Midoriya held you down against him as you did. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-" He bit down on your shoulder as he stilled, allowing you to use him for your own pleasure. His eyes rolled into his skull as a deep groan came out of him as he thrusted up into your warm wet space between your legs.
You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. Your mind shattered into billions of peices as you came hard against him. You were stuck in a floating space that was blissful pleasure. The smell of him, the feel of him, everything about him.
You finally gasped as you collapsed against his chest, a broken sob out of your body as you shivered in his grasp. Midoriya relaxed back against your pillow as he held you, his arms wrapped around you as his thumb rubbed at your arm.
You were both breathing hard, but Midoriya fought sleep as he opened his eyes to kiss your head. You were shivering, your thighs shaking as you tried to climb back from the orgasm you just had. He shushed you sweetly as he kissed your head again, holding you tighter.
"It's okay. It's okay. Just breathe. I'm here, Alpha is here." He told you reassuringly. "I'm here. Don't fight it, just breathe." His comforting soothing words and touches, allowed you to close your eyes and rest against his chest. It took a few minutes before you were properly passed out on top of him.
Midoriya only moved when he was sure you were dead asleep. He managed to grab a towel and clean the both of you up, promising himself he'd wash that in the morning. He got you a new pair of shorts and went to your bathroom (a new perk of being third years- private bathrooms) and cleaned himself off before he safely slipped back into your bed. He held you safely, a smile on his face wondering how on earth he managed to pull this off.
You were making breakfast in the kitchen as everyone started clambering downstairs before the school day would start. You managed to flip a pancake, making sure not to burn it.
"I swear, I need to go to sleep earlier." Denki stated as he sat with his arms folded as he leaned over the common room table. He let out a groan making Sero shake his head.
You chuckled at the sound as you looked to Mina who was on breakfast duty with you, along with Iida.
Suddenly you felt a pair of arms snake around your waist as a body pressed up against you. "What are you making?" Midoriya asked in your ear. At the smell of his scent you took a deep breath before leaning back in bliss.
You smiled as you tilted your head up at him. "Pancakes. They're almost ready."
He hummed before placing a kiss to your neck. "Why is it that everytime you're cooking a meal, I'm so much more hungrier?" He asked lowly, his mouth attached to your neck as he playfully nibbled near your scent gland.
You shot up with a chirp, arousal leaking through your scent. You slapped the spatula on his arm. "Back Alpha! Back! I need to finish breakfast."
Midoriya chuckled with a nod. "Alright. Save me a plate." He wished as he turned to go and give a shocked Iida a fistbump before walking to go sit on one of the chairs at the table.
Kirishima and Bakugou, as well as the rest of the pack were silent as they watched the
exchange. Denki motioned between Midoriya and you, the both of you secretly courting each other behind closed doors until today. "When did that happen?"
✿ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Prt 3 ; Chapter II ; Chapter III ; Chapter IV, Prt 1.
✿ ⸺ Previous ; Next!
⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Fem Reader ; Use of Y/N ; Suicidal themes ; Use of Weapons ; Platonic Yandere ; English is not my first language ; Delulu thoughts ; Depression (? ; Lots of melancholy ; Mentions of bullying and sexual harassment ; Violence ; If I forget anything please let me know D:
✿ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.
✿ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 11.658
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ This chapter was mainly translated by Google Translate, so if something doesn’t make sense, you know who to blame.
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Belated Happy Halloween!
Nothing scarier than one of my updates, huh?
I really hope I did justice to the moment you were all waiting for!
Gotham City, 02:31 AM – 06/06/10
Alfred had no strength left to cry. Every tear had already been shed; all that remained was to cover the body of one of his sons after performing the autopsy.
Steph was upstairs, in the manor, but her cries were so loud they echoed through the Batcave. It broke Alfred’s heart.
He saw it. He saw everything through the cameras in Batman’s suit.
Oh, his little girl…
When Bruce—Batman—returned, Alfred confronted him. Of course, he understood his loss; he had raised Tim as much as Bruce had. But to abandon his daughter…
Alfred took pride in his ability to recognize, accept, and manage his emotions before making any decision.
But if he was honest, guilt was eating him alive as he wrote Tim’s autopsy report. He felt guilty even for considering putting his daughter in a foster home—but above all, he felt guilty toward Tim; because if he was being realistic, he could never abandon his daughter. It didn’t matter what she had done—or not done—she was his daughter. He had raised and loved Julia Y/N as much as any man possibly could, and even more.
She was his daughter. His. Not Bruce’s, and certainly not Ivy’s—his. He had been the one to care for her when she arrived at the manor with a broken leg and a shattered heart. He was the one who guided her to a proper bed when she’d mistakenly fallen asleep in the broom closet her first night, thinking that was her place. He tucked her in and slept beside her the first few weeks when nightmares tormented her, always greeting her with warm milk, cookies, and a book he had already set aside.
He hadn’t taken long to love her, and though he’d never admit it aloud—she was his favorite. She was—no, is—his daughter. Only his.
Even he was afraid of the person he became around her. Immoral, unthinkable things he’d never thought himself capable of doing, just to satisfy his selfish need to keep her close.
It wasn’t something he was proud of, but neither was it something he felt ashamed of… Perhaps what he felt was pity. Pity for the poor girl who was constantly rejected and excluded—because of him.
But what else could he do? She longed desperately for a family, and once they realized how extraordinary she was, Alfred had no doubt they would act just as selfishly as he had. It was inevitable, he thought—only a matter of time before someone truly saw her and a chain reaction began.
He couldn’t stop it—but he could delay it.
Alfred returned to the surface when he heard the faint thud of Talia’s heels descending the stairs.
Among all the unexpected events of the night, Talia’s presence might have been one of the most surprising—especially now.
Alfred hadn’t missed her sudden assistance in the battle. Why she was in Gotham tonight remained a mystery, but personally, Alfred took it as a bad omen.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as the guest approached, not alone but accompanied by someone unknown to the family.
“Alfred,” Talia greeted.
“May I help you with something, Miss al Ghul? I believe you’ll notice that neither Master Bruce nor Master Damian are here.”
“Actually, it’s you we came to speak with.”
The plural in her words made his lips tighten.
“I’m afraid this conversation will have to wait. I must go look for my daughter—”
“It’s precisely Y/N we came to speak about.”
The sound of his girl’s name stopped him cold, and he reluctantly yielded to Talia’s request. Aware of his reaction, she continued, “You must already know the girl escaped home to join the fight—”
“Please, be brief,” Alfred interrupted, unusually impatient.
“...” Talia paused, sighing before signaling her subordinate to hand her a long, wrapped object—a weapon, Alfred thought. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
Alfred’s stomach twisted; he had the dreadful feeling they weren’t talking about Tim.
When he took the wrapped object from Talia, he was surprised by how light it was—and when he gripped it, horror froze his blood.
“This is all we could recover of her.”
The air was ripped from his lungs as he unwrapped the arm in his hands—the arm that had belonged to his little girl.
With trembling fingers, he traced the chained bracelet around the wrist.
“Molly gave it to me! It’s so pretty, right?”
No.
“Do you think we could ever be friends again?”
No.
No, no, no.
“This isn’t true,” he whispered. “This can’t be true.”
Talia placed a small device between them. A hologram flickered to life, showing her—his little girl.
She was alone, limping, missing an arm—the same arm he held.
Alfred couldn’t comprehend what was happening—not until he saw the great fire consuming the wreckage of an explosion. Panic struck him as Y/N staggered closer to the blaze. Then, she simply… gave up. She threw herself into the flames.
He couldn’t describe the feeling of watching his little girl—his daughter—being swallowed by fire, her body writhing and twisting in agony.
His voice and heart left him all at once. He couldn’t even form words.
Talia continued,
“This footage is from the security camera of the building before it collapsed completely. It’s a miracle we managed to recover it,” she said. “We thought you deserved to know before anyone else. Once again, our condolences.”
Alfred couldn’t recall when Talia and her subordinate had disappeared, nor how long he remained standing in that same position, mind blank.
There was only one thought echoing inside him—
He had to find her.
It had to be a lie. A trick from Talia. Yes—he couldn’t trust that woman.
He had to find her.
Within the walls of the common room, things weren’t looking any better for Dick.
He was trying with all his strength to hold everyone together—to hold Steph together. Luckily, Cass was just as “composed” as he was, helping him with the task by holding Steph and offering her shoulder to cry on, all while suppressing her own sobs for her sister’s sake.
In the middle of all the desolation, Dick couldn’t help but feel proud of his sisters—one for freeing herself from the strings that usually restrained her emotions, and the other for putting her sister’s wellbeing before her own.
Moments like these were what confirmed to Dick that they were, in their own strange way, truly a family. When it mattered most, they dropped every difference and supported one another—they held each other up.
But no matter how fulfilled he felt at that moment…
“Damian, please…”
He’d heard it. He’d heard that plea—to Damian.
Why?
Last he checked, she was enchanted with him, not Damian. Actually, the two of them couldn’t even be in the same room without wanting to kill each other.
What the hell had changed?
Why did she look for Damian’s help, his sympathy, instead of his?
Though Dick had long since broken the habit of biting his nails when nervous—something he used to do as a kid—he still had the reflex of bringing his hand to his lips, fidgeting with them as a remnant of those old habits.
Unable to help himself, he turned his head toward the kitchen—the one right next to her room.
“Mom… Mom… I want my mom…”
Should he go see her?
He glanced back at his siblings, each lost in their own thoughts. He wondered if they’d be angry with him if he said he was going to check on her—especially Steph…
But then it hit him. Alfred wasn’t in the room.
Maybe he was already with her. If that was the case, then now wasn’t the time to interrupt.
It had to be that. Enough time had passed. And unfortunately, Dick knew firsthand how long it took Alfred to perform an autopsy—he must have finished with Tim a while ago by now…
Tim.
If a reporter were to walk through that door right now, knowing the context, they’d surely call them heartless—maybe even imply that Tim’s death hadn’t affected them in the slightest, since the only one who had reacted as expected was Steph.
The rest of them, on the other hand…
Dick preferred to say they were more expectant than sad.
“They’re taking too long, aren’t they?” Terry asked, voicing what everyone was thinking.
Especially considering that crying for Tim might end up being pointless—and that the probability of bringing him back wasn’t just possible, but high.
“They’re taking way too long for just an explanation and condolences,” Jason agreed, glancing discreetly toward Damian, expecting that maybe he could give them some insight based on what he knew about his mother.
Since they’d arrived, B had been locked up in his office, clearly in no mood for company—but Talia had gone in a while ago. A long while ago.
They all knew there was only one thing Talia and Batman could be discussing right now: the Lazarus Pit—and, consequently, Tim.
Dick was sure that no one would object to the offer; they’d all gladly take that chance to bring their brother back. But, as always, the final word was B’s. And right now, creating conflict or dividing the family was the last thing they needed.
So, by an unspoken agreement, they had all silently decided to support whatever decision Batman made.
The sound of the wooden door opening snapped everyone to attention. Even Steph, through her tears, regained enough lucidity to pause and wait for Bruce’s verdict.
“We’ll have Tim back with us in three days. I need the plan drafted immediately—there’s a lot to take care of.”
When they went down to the Batcave, Alfred’s absence didn’t go unnoticed by B, and once again, Dick tried to convince himself that Y/N was being comforted by him.
“Alfred! You around?” Terry called out, scanning the curtains that made up the so-called “medical area,” hoping to catch a glimpse of the old man’s figure.
“He must be with that—” Steph had to stop herself before spitting out all the curses Alfred always scolded her for, reminding her that such language wasn’t proper for a Wayne, even if she was only one at heart.
The tension in the room thickened instantly at the mere mention of the elephant in the room.
No one really knew what would happen to her… especially when B was acting as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t heard her name — as if his daughter, and Ivy’s, hadn’t accidentally killed Tim.
Damian’s stomach tightened as he caught the grim look on his father’s face — a look only he had noticed. Glancing toward his siblings, things weren’t any better there. Brown was the least subtle about it, but the rest weren’t far off.
Their faces ranged from tense grimaces to looks of disgust — even hatred.
How had things come to this?
Even he, for once, had no idea what was going to happen next with Y/N’s future.
“I tried everything to talk more than three words with anyone in the family, but they just act nasty to me for no reason!”
You had tried; he was painfully aware of that. For reasons even he couldn’t fully grasp, the family favored him — while you were treated like an outcast. He’d watched you closely during those first months, remembering how you’d desperately sought the approval of everyone beyond his father. But none of them ever answered your silent cries for attention, except Alfred.
And in some sick, twisted way, that had made him feel good about himself. In this new place — where his lineage made him the “black sheep” by default — he found comfort in knowing he wasn’t the weakest link. Even in his position, he wasn’t the lowest in the manor’s chain. That was you.
When he realized you posed no threat to his standing or his plans, he genuinely considered leaving you alone to focus on more important problems — like Drake or McGinnis.
You were clumsy, awkward, and painfully clingy. Your attempts at bonding were, frankly, excruciating to watch. No wonder everyone in the family avoided you over and over again, he’d thought at the time.
He was better than you at everything — combat, skill, intelligence, even social grace. When he gained the family’s favor, that belief only grew stronger.
There was no reason to worry about you. You were just the weed in the family’s perfect garden — and sooner or later, his father would wisely get rid of you somehow. Knowing him, it would be subtle but effective.
But then came school — and all those beliefs crumbled.
School was uncharted territory… and he failed miserably. That’s when he realized — against all odds — that it was your domain.
He discovered a whole new side of you he’d never imagined. The way you interacted with others, how effortlessly you connected — that was your secret weapon. Damian took note of it.
And then he had to face an unpleasant truth: in that environment, he was completely, utterly outmatched. You were better than him.
Why did everyone seem so drawn to you? What did you have that he didn’t?
He was smarter, more refined, more sophisticated. He was supposed to be the perfect fit in a prestigious academy like this — a place that valued every trait he had painstakingly honed, traits you clearly lacked.
So why was he always alone in class? Why did he often have nowhere to sit at lunch without feeling out of place? And why did people start whispering that, compared to you, he was the creepy one?
They compared him to you — and, worse yet, he kept coming out losing.
It was unacceptable. They were supposed to flock to him for leadership, taste, and charisma. Not to you. Out of everyone in the family, you were the last person who should ever outshine him.
Soon, he found himself in a dilemma.
He had his mother, who loved him in her own harsh way, just like his grandfather did. He had his father’s favor, and he was finally learning what it meant to be protected and guided — not out of weakness, but love. Even though he’d never admit it aloud, he knew he wasn’t an easy person to deal with. Yet his brothers hadn’t turned their backs on him; they tried to include him, understand him, love him — starting with Grayson. And Alfred, despite having to manage the entire household and care for a reckless family, never made Damian feel neglected.
With them, he felt seen. He fought with honor, side by side with his pack — protecting and being protected. He felt whole.
So why didn’t it feel enough?
Why did he still have this need to prove he was better than you — especially here?
Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t feel complete until he reached greatness. That’s how he’d been raised. Exc
Damian’s stomach tightened as he caught the grim look on his father’s face — a look only he had noticed. Glancing toward his siblings, things weren’t any better there. Brown was the least subtle about it, but the rest weren’t far off.
Their faces ranged from tense grimaces to looks of disgust — even hatred.
How had things come to this?
Even he, for once, had no idea what was going to happen next with Y/N’s future.
“I tried everything to talk more than three words with anyone in the family, but they just act nasty to me for no reason!”
You had tried; he was painfully aware of that. For reasons even he couldn’t fully grasp, the family favored him — while you were treated like an outcast. He’d watched you closely during those first months, remembering how you’d desperately sought the approval of everyone beyond his father. But none of them ever answered your silent cries for attention, except Alfred.
And in some sick, twisted way, that had made him feel good about himself. In this new place — where his lineage made him the “black sheep” by default — he found comfort in knowing he wasn’t the weakest link. Even in his position, he wasn’t the lowest in the manor’s chain. That was you.
When he realized you posed no threat to his standing or his plans, he genuinely considered leaving you alone to focus on more important problems — like Drake or McGinnis.
You were clumsy, awkward, and painfully clingy. Your attempts at bonding were, frankly, excruciating to watch. No wonder everyone in the family avoided you over and over again, he’d thought at the time.
He was better than you at everything — combat, skill, intelligence, even social grace. When he gained the family’s favor, that belief only grew stronger.
There was no reason to worry about you. You were just the weed in the family’s perfect garden — and sooner or later, his father would wisely get rid of you somehow. Knowing him, it would be subtle but effective.
But then came school — and all those beliefs crumbled.
School was uncharted territory… and he failed miserably. That’s when he realized — against all odds — that it was your domain.
He discovered a whole new side of you he’d never imagined. The way you interacted with others, how effortlessly you connected — that was your secret weapon. Damian took note of it.
And then he had to face an unpleasant truth: in that environment, he was completely, utterly outmatched. You were better than him.
Why did everyone seem so drawn to you? What did you have that he didn’t?
He was smarter, more refined, more sophisticated. He was supposed to be the perfect fit in a prestigious academy like this — a place that valued every trait he had painstakingly honed, traits you clearly lacked.
So why was he always alone in class? Why did he often have nowhere to sit at lunch without feeling out of place? And why did people start whispering that, compared to you, he was the creepy one?
They compared him to you — and, worse yet, he kept coming out losing.
It was unacceptable. They were supposed to flock to him for leadership, taste, and charisma. Not to you. Out of everyone in the family, you were the last person who should ever outshine him.
Soon, he found himself in a dilemma.
He had his mother, who loved him in her own harsh way, just like his grandfather did. He had his father’s favor, and he was finally learning what it meant to be protected and guided — not out of weakness, but love. Even though he’d never admit it aloud, he knew he wasn’t an easy person to deal with. Yet his brothers hadn’t turned their backs on him; they tried to include him, understand him, love him — starting with Grayson. And Alfred, despite having to manage the entire household and care for a reckless family, never made Damian feel neglected.
With them, he felt seen. He fought with honor, side by side with his pack — protecting and being protected. He felt whole.
So why didn’t it feel enough?
Why did he still have this need to prove he was better than you — especially here?
Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t feel complete until he reached greatness. That’s how he’d been raised. Excellence was the only acceptable outcome for the heir of Batman and the grandson of the Demon’s Head. Anything less was ordinary — unworthy — disposable.
He didn’t want to be abandoned again, like his mother had left him.
He saw flashes of his past — moments from his brutal training. The terror he’d felt when his mother left him stranded on a mountain to find his way home. The choking panic of nearly drowning, the violence of killing just to survive.
You… you were supposed to understand that. You should have been fighting everyone for a place in the house, fighting his father to acknowledge you, fighting the others to stop pushing you aside. So why the hell were you so gentle with everyone? Why weren’t you terrified of being abandoned like he was?
Was that why everyone preferred you? No… it had to be a trick. A strategy. No one could be so calm under that kind of neglect. You were raised by Ivy — surely, you had some charm, some chemical or psychological weapon that made people lower their guard.
Yes. That was it.
That was the difference between you two. You were made to destroy people.
He was made to save them (the good one's, of course).
He couldn’t allow someone like you to surpass him. You were enemies by nature.
Yes, that had to be it.
There was no way someone like you could truly be better person than him. He’d expose you.
…
He couldn’t let his family be fooled and turn against him — not when he’d already given them his heart.
But time only made things worse.
First, you took over the school. Then, you tried to charm away his best friend servant — Jon!
He’d never admit it, but it broke his heart to see his fears come true — to see Jon choose to spend time with you instead of him.
If you wanted to take what he’d built for himself, then fine — two could play that game.
Soon, an email spread through every student and teacher like a virus. A virus he’d created to destroy you.
Within hours, a wave of collective hatred turned against his sister Y/N.
He knew it would happen, but he hadn’t grasped the full weight of it — not until he saw the kids corner you in the hallway, trying to lift your skirt in front of the teachers. And they… they just looked away. Ignored your cries. Pretended not to see your tears.
Why were they letting this happen? Why wasn’t anyone speaking up against something so vile?
Cowards.
Did they think they could get away with something that disgusting? Did being Ivy’s daughter somehow make it okay?
Disgusting.
Why… why did he only realize how wrong he’d been once it was too late?
Pathetic.
He wanted to go there — to stand up for you in the name of his principles, of his sister’s honor — and smash their heads against the wall until the pink mush painted the floor.
But why didn’t he move? Why did he just stand there?
Before you even noticed him, he turned and walked away — to his next class.
What was he doing? He was Robin, damn it. His duty was to act against injustice—
Robin wouldn’t bully a girl. Robin wouldn’t ruin someone’s life out of jealousy.
Robin wouldn’t run from the consequences of his actions.
Robin doesn’t throw stones — because Robin never throws them in the first place.
So how can you still call yourself Robin?
…
How do you even have the nerve to be in the same space as her?
How are you not ashamed to breathe the same air as her — or as Batman?
How dare you breathe at all?
“We’re not sure it can be fixed.”
“He’s a killer, Alfred.”
He had heard them — that first night after it happened — his father and Pennyworth whispering.
Seeing you again only forced him to face a truth he didn’t want to: they were right.
Once a destroyer, always a destroyer.
He knew it had gotten out of hand. He knew.
But telling the family would mean being exposed — the monster he really was.
So he stayed silent. And in his cowardice, he ruined every one of Alfred’s attempts to alert his father. There was no need, he told himself. He’d fix it somehow.
As soon as he could get his thoughts straight again…
He’d start planning. Yes — that would distract him.
“I heard her screaming in the bathroom! I swear!”
“Is she dead?”
“No idea… Abby’s been acting super unstable lately.”
He didn’t need to be Batman to guess who they were talking about.
He ran as fast as he could to the girls’ bathroom, praying you weren’t dead — or worse.
And when he saw you —
Hah...
He exhaled the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. A knot twisted in his gut and climbed to his throat.
Seeing you there — broken, body and soul, crumpled on the bathroom floor like a discarded doll —
He faced a third, crushing truth:
He hated seeing you hurt. He hated every miserable second of it — your distant stare, your lifelessness. He hated every single person who had laid a hand on you.
And that included himself.
Alfred pulled up right beside the car, driving as fast as he possibly could.
This was his fault. He hadn’t paid enough attention, and then he left…
He’d pushed her too hard, hadn’t given her the love she deserved…
He wasn’t surprised to find police officers and firefighters swarming the area — but now they were just in his way. He needed to search for his little girl freely.
How did he not see the signs?
He started circling around, looking for something — any trace of your presence. When that wasn’t enough, he began to shout your name.
Of course, that drew the attention of the officers—
“My girl, my daughter…” He could barely catch his breath enough to speak. “My daughter was here, I need to find her, I need—”
“Please, sir, calm down,” Commissioner Gordon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. With a quick exchange, he ordered the rest of the officers to check the scene again.
Guiding Alfred toward a nearby patrol car, he added gently, “If there’s a missing child, I’ll need your statement.”
She couldn’t be dead. She would never leave him. She was is the light of his eyes. She couldn’t—
No. No.
She must be hiding—
Yes! That had to be it— Oh, poor thing, she must be so scared after her father Batman yelled at her. She must be curled up somewhere, too guilty to come back…
Oh, he didn’t blame you for anything, sweetheart, he knew it must’ve been an accident; you would never hurt anyone on purpose, you were too good for that…
“Sir!” one of the officers shouted as he ran up to Gordon, holding a few items in his hands. “We found this…” He handed over a small backpack and a stuffed toy, both covered in dirt and ash.
“Alfred, look what Jon gave me! His name’s Dinno.”
Alfred couldn’t form a single coherent word — he just reached out, trembling, to take the toy gently in his hands.
“He can help us cook, right? He’s gonna behave!”
“Issue an Amber Alert immediately,” Montoya ordered firmly.
So this is what dying inside felt like. That tightness in his chest? That unbearable coldness spreading through his body?
“Sir? Sir!”
“Call an ambulance!”
The flight to Nanda Parbat was tense. Steph, Jason, and Cass had joined him. Surprisingly, Damian had refused to come along, and Alfred still hadn’t shown any signs of life.
He must be with her.
Who would’ve thought that just thinking about his daughter a girl would be enough to make Batman uneasy.
He didn’t even want to look at her. She wasn’t just a child anymore — she was a danger, to him and to the family. The proof of that now sat secured at the back of the jet, locked inside a cryogenic chamber until they reached the League of Assassins.
This couldn’t go on. He knew she had to leave. But the moment he even hinted at the idea, Alfred had lost his temper and refused to discuss it any further. He was on her side — always on her side.
But no matter how much Alfred wanted it, the choice wasn’t his to make. Bruce couldn’t just get rid of her that easily… if he ever managed to at all.
A call from Commissioner Gordon lit up his phone, but he didn’t hesitate to decline it and switch the device to airplane mode. If it was a true emergency, Barbara would know how to reach him.
Right now, this moment was for his family. For his children.
Turning slightly, he saw Cass and Steph asleep. It comforted him — even warmed him, just a little — to see how they leaned on each other. How all his children had leaned on one another through their grief… while he—
This scene… it was so different from when Jason was gone.
Like a fool, he’d blamed Dick — unfairly, cruelly — and argued with him. It had been thanks to Tim and Alfred that they’d made peace, that he’d finally realized how blind grief had made him. How it had turned him into someone he was ashamed to remember.
Aren’t you doing the same thing now?
He pushed the thought away and instead decided to check on his son. He turned to Jason and immediately noticed the book in his hands — a newer edition of Little Women.
The sight triggered a memory — Jason emerging from the Lazarus Pit, trembling, broken, crying out for his mother—
His mother?
“Mom… Mom…!” you sobbed harder, calling out for your mother, naïvely thinking she’d come to your rescue. “I want my mom…”
…
Maybe he should ask how Jason’s holding up. Going back to Nanda Parbat couldn’t be easy for him — none of this could be easy for any of them.
Why did he only think about these things now? Why only when everything was nearly over did he start wondering how they were really feeling?
He needed to make a mental note to make it up to them. To all of them — to Tim, too.
Maybe they should throw a welcome-home party. Tim coming back was definitely something worth celebrating.
Maybe that way he’d stop thinking about her. Maybe that way, the tension would ease, and the mood would lift…
Once the celebration was over, he’d talk to Alfred about the matter.
The days flew by for Dick and the rest of the family.
A Gotham without Batman was something new for rookie villains, so they couldn’t let them get too confident — keeping them in check was the top priority.
The task turned out to be harder than expected. Without Alfred there to welcome them home with a warm meal, a tidy house, or even a few words reminding them that they could — and should — take a break once in a while…
His absence was starting to worry them. He’d vanished from the manor just like Y/N had, and no matter how many times they tried, none of them managed to reach him.
Babs had a theory — maybe he was with her, setting her up in a new home. She’d briefly overheard his argument with Batman over the comms, so it was the only logical conclusion.
No one pushed the matter further. They focused on keeping Gotham under control until the others returned — which, much to Dick’s relief, would be soon.
In fact, tonight.
Bruce had brought up the idea of a small celebration for the homecoming, and Dick immediately agreed. Together with the rest of the family, they started decorating with balloons, streamers, and whatever else they could find. They ordered takeout — because, let’s be honest, most of them were absolutely terrible at cooking anything that wasn’t pre-made.
Amid all the chaos of keeping Gotham safe, Dick barely noticed how quiet and distant Damian had become. Something was bothering him — he was sure of it.
“Damian…”
Could it be Y/N? Was that what had him so uneasy?
Maybe he should try reaching out to Alfred, invite Y/N too — it would make Tim happy, and surely put Damian’s mind at ease.
He’d talk to Bruce about it later.
To Bruce’s surprise —and growing suspicion—, Talia wasn’t anywhere within the League’s quarters.
Ra’s greeted them warmly, explaining that Talia had gone on a training journey with a new League recruit, but assured them that their plans remained unchanged.
He led them to the Lazarus Pit, guarded by more than a handful of Ra’s’ subordinates.
The tension in the room was thick — everyone anxious, everyone silently hoping to bring Tim back to life. That heavy silence shattered the moment Tim’s agonized screams echoed from the Pit.
His voice, raw and broken, filled the chamber. The kind of sound that could make any child cry. The scene was straight out of a horror movie.
Ra’s forbade them from intervening, calmly stating that the reaction was normal — his tissues were regenerating, and the process was excruciating.
When Tim finally emerged, confused and desperate to escape, Batman gave the order to restrain him.
Through the shouting, the struggling, the snarls… Ra’s could’ve sworn he saw a faint smile on the Bat’s face.
Two days, seventeen hours, and forty-nine minutes of torment had passed for Alfred.
Three of those hours he’d spent in the hospital after fainting — a sudden arrhythmia that could have easily turned into cardiac arrest had he not been treated in time.
But the doctors’, nurses’, and officers’ words barely reached his consciousness. His mind was consumed entirely by one thought — his little girl.
The rest of the time, he’d been at the station, refusing to stray more than a block away in case any new evidence surfaced in what was quickly becoming a hopeless search.
Was this his fault?
What a foolish question — of course it was.
He’d let Bruce’s fear and disgust go too far, let them invalidate her existence. He’d let the role of “father figure” get to his head — the selfish need to be the center of her world, just as she was the center of his.
He’d let those emotions guide his hands, and by the time he realized it, it was too late.
Every selfish, cruel act the family had shown her — he’d let it all slide. He could’ve done so much more.
When it really mattered, he hadn’t been there for her. He’d told himself it was to help her let go of the idea of belonging to them… to push her to accept being just his daughter.
Maybe that’s why she never trusted him enough to open up.
He’d cornered her — left her only one way out.
…
..
.
Was his love not enough...?
He’d believed he made it clear through his actions that he would always be there for her…
And yet he’d allowed Bruce to reject her — repeatedly, even over the smallest things. He’d stood by while Dick forgot her name. While Tim’s resentment and suspicion pushed her away. While Barbara forgot she even existed.
Terry, too — he’d rejected her simply because he’d rejected Bruce.
Steph, Cass, Jason — each had their own reasons for joining or rejoining the family, but all of them had one thing in common: Batman came first. And somewhere in that, she was discarded — just an ordinary girl in an extraordinary world.
He hadn’t reprimanded a single one of them for it. He’d let their warped idea of who she was spread through the family. He’d allowed them to exclude her from even the simplest family dinners because it was easier than facing the guilt of forgetting she existed — easier to pretend they were happier without her.
He’d let it all happen. And in her eyes, he must have seemed like a weak old man — too spineless to change anything, too useless to fight for her.
He’d naively believed he could be enough. That she wouldn’t have to compete for his attention, that he could give her everything she wanted — everything except a real family.
But those same thoughts had blinded him to reality. He thought she knew.
But what good is love if the other person never realizes it — if all they ever see is rejection?
He’d told himself she’d eventually give up, that it would be better for her that way.
He’d lied to himself, just to avoid facing the truth — that the one who hurt her the most wasn’t Bruce, or the others… it was him.
That he wasn’t just a passive accomplice to their negligence — he was the architect of it.
Her last birthday was proof enough. He’d placed the cards strategically, knowing full well that most of them would ignore them or throw them away without even reading. Some were never delivered at all.
He hadn’t acted out of malice, but out of panic.
He was terrified of losing her — but Alfred had forgotten the most important rule of love: Love isn’t selfish.
What use was it to mourn now...? What’s done is done. And the truth was simple — he was one of the main reasons for her death.
He’d killed his daughter.
Maybe he’d done right by Julia after all, by staying away from her…
Detective Montoya turned toward him, checking if he needed anything — as she had several times over the past few days.
“Sir, are you all right? Please, listen to me. You should go home, get some rest… maybe take a shower.”
Alfred looked like death itself. The hollow eyes, the trembling hands — no one in the Batfamily would have recognized him in that state.
He almost considered taking her advice. What was the point of staying? They weren’t going to find her…
He ignored her concern. “Any updates on the case?”
There were. But Montoya couldn’t bring herself to shatter the last bit of hope that poor man was clinging to. To her, he was just a father — grieving, desperate.
How do you tell a parent their child is probably dead?
Evidence pointed toward several charred bodies found among the ruins. Some had been identified — former henchmen of Bane — but many couldn’t even be matched through dental records.
Nearby security cameras showed no sign of the girl. Flyers had been posted across the city, but no one had seen anything. No calls. No sightings. Even searches in neighboring towns turned up empty.
The only proof she’d ever been there was the stuffed toy her father identified — and a few seconds of footage, before the building collapsed, showing a small blurry figure they assumed was her.
She had been there, no doubt about that — but there was no evidence she’d ever gotten out.
Montoya had watched this man go back and forth every day. The only reason the case had progressed at all was because of his persistence, his constant pleading for updates.
They’d done everything they could — and more — especially since all requests for Batman’s involvement had been flat-out ignored.
It made a grim sort of sense. Half the Batfamily had gone dark, apparently “busy with important matters,” as Red Hood had said before cutting communication. Gotham was stable, for now — but clearly stretched thin.
Montoya told herself they’d done their best. She doubted even the Batfamily could’ve made much difference here.
Still, that didn’t ease the pain of what she had to say next.
She gathered her courage, faced the man, and delivered the words every parent dreads to hear... “Case classified as unfavorable.”
She explained the situation as gently as she could, sparing no detail but softening every edge.
And yet, what she saw on Alfred Pennyworth’s face wasn’t the outrage or grief she expected.
It was resignation.
The first thing he remembered upon waking up was the “argument” he’d had with her before leaving for the mission.
“YOU’RE EVIL!”
For some reason, that fight had affected him more than he wanted to admit. He knew he’d acted like an idiot this time — not that it was the first time — but this time, he felt he’d really crossed a line. He’d gone from ignoring her like any older brother would ignore an annoying little sibling, to outright destroying something she’d wanted to share with him.
Tim knew that, for some reason he couldn’t explain without sounding like a jerk, he’d been losing his temper more easily lately. He was both aware of it and disturbed by it. He had never thought of himself as a hot-headed person; quite the opposite — he’d always seen himself as the most rational and analytical member of his family. He even had a tendency to overthink things, which had made him socially awkward more than once, but there had never been a trace of anger in that awkwardness...
Anger? Was that what he felt toward Y/N?
Well, sure — at first, he had been angry because of her when they met. Even if it hadn’t been intentional, she’d completely messed up the mission that time... and, of course, he was the one who took the blame afterward. B had already been angry with him for tagging along, and then the mission went south mostly because he hadn’t been able to keep Y/N under control.
It ended so badly they had to retreat in a hurry, letting Ivy escape once again.
As if that weren’t enough, you’d shown up at the mansion with a doll of him — what kind of nonsense was that?!
Ahem.
Anyway — as he was saying, even if he’d struggled a bit with the idea of you joining the family, he eventually managed to accept it, in his own way. But that didn’t mean he wanted to socialize with you. You were a kid, and he wanted to seem more mature, to impress Dick and Bruce somehow. He was supposed to be a vigilante, carrying a huge responsibility — he had to act the part. He didn’t have time to play tag with you. It didn’t look good for him.
And you were so insistent that he lost his temper with you more than once. Sure, it wasn’t very mature of him... but what was he supposed to do if, no matter how many times he pushed you away, you kept coming back, clinging to him like a leech?
Ignoring you soon became his go-to response — the most “acceptable” one. If he ignored you, he couldn’t lose his temper with you, and sooner or later, you’d stop bothering him!
He was pleased when his plan actually worked. You were no longer hovering around him, and he could go on with his life as if you didn’t exist...
He assumed it was a sort of unspoken agreement between the two of you, you know? He wouldn’t interfere in your life, and you wouldn’t interfere in his. He wouldn’t try to be part of your world, and you shouldn’t try to be part of his...
Ignoring you had quickly become one of his habits.
But then you showed up at the worst possible time. He was eavesdropping on a secret conversation between Bane and his buyer — and there you were, barging in to show him something, interrupting everything.
Fine, he could’ve handled it better — much better — than he did. He was almost old enough for college; it wasn’t possible that he couldn’t control himself around Y/N. He had to do something about it.
Maybe apologizing could help, at least a little. Not that he was going to apologize as soon as he got there... The Lazarus Pit could have affected his temper, just like it had with Jason—
NO. No. No more excuses. It would be quick: go in, apologize, get out. He wouldn’t even give her the chance to respond — and that way, he wouldn’t give himself the chance to get mad for no reason, either.
It was simple. It was easy. And above all, it would be fast.
After that, everything would go back to normal.
Alfred walked back to the manor with little to no strength left in him.
He had just returned from the funeral of his little girl… He was coming back to a house that was no longer a home, not without her there.
Alfred couldn’t think of a day in his life that had been more miserable than this one. He remembered losing his parents, realizing too late that he had neglected his daughter Julia while raising another man’s son; he remembered Batman’s disappearance once, Jason’s death, and most recently, Tim’s death… But none of those moments, none of those pains had ever made him want to die caused him such torture.
It had been just the two of you in that cold cemetery. He dug the hole with his own hands, placed what remained of you in that small coffin… When he held your arm, his mind played a cruel trick — superimposing the image of the time he’d held your hand, guiding you to your new room, with the reality that now he was holding only your arm — and nothing more.
Then, one memory after another came flooding back. The first time he read you a story; the first time he tucked you into bed; when he taught you to read; when he comforted you in his arms for the first time, because you had seen your mother move on with her life without you.
He had taught you how to live — but who would now teach him how to live without you?
He quickly lost track of time during the funeral. He only left when it began to pour; if it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have minded spending the night beside his little one…
His little one…
Alfred began to weep freely, knowing his tears would blend in with the rain.
Maybe, after all, he should go see her. She must be cold. Oh, she doesn’t like thunder — she must be terrified out there, so alone...
When he reached the gates of the manor, he realized he was holding Dinno by the hand.
He should go leave it with her… She must be looking for it. And if she doesn’t find it, she might cry.
Cry? Oh, no, no, no. He didn’t want to make her cry again. He had to be there to comfort her — that’s what a father did. He had to… He has to…
“Alfred?!” In the middle of his slow walk back, he heard the young Richard’s voice. While Alfred could barely move an inch every few seconds, Dick reached him in the blink of an eye. “Where have you been? We’ve— I’ve been trying to reach you for a while.”
Alfred didn’t respond.
Dick stayed silent, trying to make sense of it. He looked… worn down. What had happened to him?
Another gust of wind and rain hit their faces.
Whatever it was they had to talk about, it would be better to do it inside, calmly. Everyone inside must be waiting for him— Oh! Tim and Alfred would be so happy to see each other!
With the thought of that magical reunion in mind, he set aside everything else. The talk could wait! What mattered now was that Tim was back.
He took the man by the arm and dragged him inside. Alfred didn’t resist.
A bad feeling settled in Alfred’s stomach when he saw the manor decorated — as if they were having a party.
His breath quickened, and his body tensed in anger. What did this mean?
Dick vanished with a quick, “I’ll get you a towel!”
Alfred walked a bit farther, looking around with new eyes — as if he were an intruder.
They… they hadn’t even realized, had they?
He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe they had no idea what had happened to you — that they were celebrating out of ignorance.
They hadn’t noticed your absence in three days?
“Alfred?”
Alfred’s heart stopped for the second time that night. He thought dementia was finally claiming his mind, but when he turned toward the voice, he staggered in place.
“Young Timothy…”
“Surprise…?”
In an instant, Alfred was by Tim’s side, hugging him tightly, confirming that it was really him — not a hallucination born of grief.
“Oh, you’re freezing…”
“How…? How is this possible?” Alfred asked, scanning him from head to toe. “I…" I did the autopsy. How can—?
“The Pit,” Tim explained briefly. “Let’s just say we owe the League a favor now. Actually, we just got back from there, and the guys had already set up this party.”
“Oh, by the way, do you know where Y/N is? I need to talk to her…” Tim scratched his neck, uneasy.
Alfred’s smile vanished instantly. His voice was gone again, and he remembered — he had to go see you. You didn’t like being alone for long.
“Alfred!” Bruce appeared with Dick, followed soon by the rest of the family. “Where have you been?”
“We tried calling you before, but you weren’t answering…” Terry explained before Alfred could jump to conclusions.
“Is Y/N with you…?” Damian asked timidly, trying to ignore his father’s disapproving look. He glanced behind Alfred, expecting to see you there, as usual.
Silence fell for several long seconds.
“You really… really have no idea, do you?” Alfred looked Bruce straight in the eyes. He remembered how the police had tried desperately to reach him for help with the case — to no avail. “Sir, you have no idea where I’ve just come from, do you?”
“Of course not. You haven’t bothered returning the police’s calls.”
“Police? What about the police?”
“You haven’t noticed that my girl — that Y/N — never came home?” His face tightened as he could no longer hold back the tears. His throat constricted, and it took all his strength to speak the next words aloud, to make them real. “Do you want to know where I’ve come from, sir? From her funeral.”
“Funeral?! What are you talking about, Alfred—?”
“I’m telling the truth, Master Damian.”
Bruce didn’t even register Damian’s question. Alfred’s soaked clothes, his dirt-stained hands, that stuffed toy… He wasn’t lying. Alfred would never joke about something like that.
And yet—
It couldn’t be true. It had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding. It just couldn’t be.
He broke away from the conversation and headed for the stairs — her room. Yes, he’d find some clue in her room.
“Where do you think you’re going, Master Bruce?”
“I’m going to Y/N’s room.”
“And what makes you think she’s upstairs?” Bruce froze, following Alfred’s gaze. “Her room is next to the kitchen.”
“On the first floor? The rooms down there are…” Dilapidated. Filthy.
“She was placed there,” Alfred explained, “because when she arrived at the manor, her injuries and broken leg didn’t allow her to climb the stairs. She grew fond of that room, and since then, it became hers — her room… or rather, it was.”
Bruce strode toward the room, entering it for the first time in five years — maybe more. When he tried to turn on the light, the switch worked, but the bulb stayed dark. Frowning, he turned on his phone’s flashlight and continued.
The room… could this even be called a room?
No human being should have lived here. God, he was a billionaire — how had he never thought to fix this?
He’d never even asked if it was necessary.
…
He frowned at the fleeting thought, but as always — whenever it came to her — he forced himself to push it deep down, into the back of his mind.
The room was barely half the size of the others in the manor. The walls were cracked, the old paint peeling. He could see patches where holes had been covered, along the corners and window frames.
He noted the completely flat mattress from overuse — it must have been uncomfortable beyond words. Her little desk wasn’t even a real one, just a tiny wooden table, childish and small. It made sense — when she first arrived, she’d been barely as tall as one of his legs.
He had a fleeting memory of seeing that same table out in the garden sometimes, when she’d played tea party with her toys.
Now it was worn from time and use, the paint fading, splinters showing through.
How could she have lived here without complaining?
Or maybe she had complained — and he’d simply ignored it, as he so often did when it came to her.
He found more things — clothes in drawers under the bed (was that her wardrobe?), toys, sewing supplies, and little else.
The room barely held any life. The only personal touch was a few childish drawings of her and Alfred holding hands, taped crookedly to the wall.
A small smile crossed his face when he saw them.
But he found nothing useful for the investigation.
Only when he stepped out did he realize the chaos that had erupted in the main hall. Voices were raised.
“How could you not tell us, Alfred?! We had the right to know!” Dick shouted.
“Right? To demand your rights, you must first fulfill your duties, Master Richard,” Alfred retorted sharply. “Let me remind you — you were the ones who chose to exclude her from your lives time and again. And now you dare to make demands?!”
Apart from the argument, Barbara was frantically typing on her laptop, Tim leaning beside her. When she saw Bruce, she turned to him at once. “Bruce! The case isn’t closed — she’s just missing. They haven’t found her yet!” she said, her voice full of hope.
And Bruce clung to that hope. Even though deep down he knew Alfred would never claim such a thing, let alone hold a funeral, unless he was absolutely certain.
Against his better judgment, he chose to believe in that fragile hope of finding you alive.
“If she’s only missing, then why the hell did you bury her?” Jason snapped, glaring at Alfred.
Normally, Alfred would have ignored Jason’s insolent tone, but this time, the phrasing hit him like an accusation.
“Because I saw it. I saw her throw herself into the fire with my own eyes — it was a recording recovered by Miss al Ghul, along with the arm that had been cut from my girl. At first, I didn’t believe it — that’s why I didn’t tell the police and started my own investigation with them. But even they began to lose hope, though they avoided saying it outright.”
Bruce stayed silent, and the denial he’d been clinging to turned into fury. Talia had told Alfred — but not him? They had spoken for hours about Tim and the Pit, but she had “forgotten” to mention that?
Dick shot Barbara a look, and she nodded quickly, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll call my dad,” she said, while Tim refused to give up and started combing through city cameras from four days ago.
Public opinion was divided within hours.
“We could go look for her. She has to be out there somewhere,” Cass suggested, refusing to give in.
“We should check with Ivy! Maybe she knows something!” Steph added, turning to Bruce for approval.
“But— what’s the point? Didn’t you hear Alfred? There’s literally a recording of her—”
“You can’t trust the League,” Jason cut Terry off. “No body, no funeral. And that suicide story? I don’t buy it. Those things are premeditated — she never showed signs—”
“Maybe she did show them, and you were too busy taking your frustrations out on her to notice?”
Jason’s temper flared instantly, and he squared up to Terrence.
“What’s your problem?! You think you’re a saint? Far as I know, you didn’t even know her name five minutes ago!”
“And yet, I’m not pretending to understand her! I know I barely spent time with her — not enough to claim ‘oh, she’d never do that,’ like you’re doing! You were all treating her like the plague just last week — how the hell would you even notice if she showed signs of depression when you kept her isolated 24/7?”
“What the hell are we even doing, arguing right now?! You think this helps anything?!” Dick snapped at them.
“What reason would the League even have to lie?” Terry pressed.
“And what do we lose by going out to look for her?” Steph shot back. “It’s better than—”
The argument dragged on, but Damian wasn’t really listening anymore. His mind was elsewhere — tangled in guilt.
He understood why the family refused to believe she was dead, especially not by suicide.
He remembered that time — the pesticide, her silence.
But they didn’t know she had a history… that she’d tried before. Not even Alfred knew.
The signs had been there, and the attempt — but only he knew, and he had chosen to keep it to himself.
When he heard Alfred, the knot in his stomach grew tighter, heavier. His voice faltered, cold sweat slid down his palms and temples. His body felt unbearably heavy — he couldn’t stand to be in his own skin.
They’d find out. They’d find out everything.
What disgust. They told him Y/N was dead, and he was still thinking only about that?!
He could have prevented all this. If only he’d spoken up, if only his selfishness hadn’t won—
She’d still be here. The family wouldn’t be falling apart because of him.
“You can all keep this up if you want, but we all know it’s just to avoid facing the truth.” Alfred, regaining the composure that grief and chaos had stripped from him, straightened his back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to pack my things. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“What?! Alfred, wait—!” Dick followed him, surely to try and change his mind.
Damian wanted to follow too. He wanted to stop Alfred, to tell him the truth — to beg him not to leave, because it wasn’t the family’s fault, it was his. He’d started the bullying, sabotaged every warning, even hid her previous attempt—
It was his fault. It wasn’t fair for the family to pay for his sins.
But why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he take a single step — just one step toward doing the right thing?
His body began to tremble — from panic, terror, and the unbearable need to let go of this secret once and for all.
Before he could even curse his own cowardice, the room around him began to blur.
In the end, the family split into groups.
One half continued searching through the most remote corners of Gotham, while the other went to interview Pamela Isley — arrested and locked up in Arkham for her crimes as Poison Ivy.
Damian stayed at the manor, asleep after his sudden collapse. Dick too remained behind, but he was managing everything from the Cave, trying to temporarily fill (or so he hoped) the butler’s role.
“We’re in,” BB reported.
“We’ll let you know if she reveals anything useful,” Orphan added. Then, their mics were muted by Oracle.
The long corridors between the cell blocks were as gloomy and endless as ever — though tonight, they seemed to test the vigilantes’ patience even more.
When they arrived, Ivy wasn’t exactly pleased to see them. (Not that she ever had been, but still.)
She sat on the other side of the table, chained and restrained by a collar — a new device inspired by Belle Reve’s system. A recently approved measure designed to keep villains like Ivy completely powerless inside the Asylum.
“I’m guessing you’re not here for gardening advice…” Ivy looked BB up and down. “…Or fashion tips.”
Red Robin was the one who sat across from her. Orphan and BB stood on either side, keeping a close watch on Pamela.
“No. This is more of an interrogation — about your daughter,” he clarified.
“Daughter? What daughter—? Ah. Her.” Ivy clenched her jaw but stayed quiet, waiting for them to continue.
“She’s been missing for days — four, to be exact. We need any information you have about her. People she might know, places she’s been. Anything could help.”
“…”
For several long minutes, Ivy refused to speak.
“I think it’s fair to warn you that the minor’s safety is a much higher priority than your comfort,” RR said, pulling a small device from under the table. “This is the controller for your collar. It delivers electric shocks.”
“We’ve been given authorization to use it if you don’t cooperate. So if I were you, I’d start talking — patience isn’t exactly one of our virtues tonight,” BB added.
“Tt. Let’s get this over with… First of all, don’t call her my daughter. She’s just a miserable little killer — and that’s all she’ll ever be to me.”
The young heroes frowned, several of them biting back things they wanted to say — but for the sake of the mission, they stayed silent.
“To answer your questions: when I was with her, I was her only acquaintance. I never let her go out, let alone socialize. The places she knows are ones you and Batman are already familiar with. I haven’t seen her in years; whatever she’s become now is beyond my knowledge.”
“I honestly don’t know why you even came. I’m the last person who can tell you anything useful.” Pamela crossed her arms. “The only thing I can offer is that if the past few nights have been cold, it’s more practical to assume she’s already dead.”
The door slid open as an alarm went off. The guard announced that visiting time was over.
Disappointed and powerless, they left without protest.
“Hey! What are you doing?!”
“Send my condolences to Mr. Wayne!” Ivy shouted as two guards restrained her in the hallway. “If he wanted to get rid of that pest, something more decisive would’ve caused him fewer problems. Too bad for him!”
The corridor echoed with Ivy’s laughter — sharp, mocking, unable to hide her twisted satisfaction with the news.
Orphan took a step toward Ivy, ready to do something even she wasn’t sure of — but her brothers stopped her, reluctantly pulling her back and leaving with the bitter taste of defeat in their mouths.
Damian woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding wildly.
What time is it? Where am I?
Before he could find the answers, the next thought that broke through was Alfred.
Had he left? How long had he been asleep?
In the midst of panic, he forced his body to move and ran toward the old man’s room.
Well—forced might be too strong a word, because he couldn’t control the tears streaming down his face.
He banged frantically on the door, praying for an answer.
“Master Damian?”
Alfred barely had time to process the scene before Damian threw himself into his arms.
“I’m sorry! Please, please don’t go… It’s my fault! I killed her—I killed your daughter, please forgive me—”
“They were right… They were right about me, I’m nothing but a murderer. Please don’t be angry at them.”
Word by word, sob by sob, Damian tore apart the web of lies he had built — one that, without realizing it, had become a noose around his sister’s neck.
He told him about the school, the tricks, the pesticide, and their confrontation.
“Pen—Alfred, please.” The butler’s mind went blank as he saw Damian begin to draw a dagger. “Please, I’m begging you—end me.”
Damian had nothing left. He had killed his sister.
His family wouldn’t just hate him — they would despise him, banish him, and they’d be right to. He had killed an innocent. The League would hardly take him back… but Damian didn’t want acceptance. He couldn’t face his mother or his grandfather. It took everything in him not to run — not to flee from the inevitable anger of his father and brothers.
His best option was to pay in blood for what had been lost in blood. To preserve a shred of dignity… and perhaps find the eternal rest he didn’t deserve.
Alfred took the dagger with his dominant hand, feeling the edge with his fingertips, as if inspecting it.
But the redemption Damian sought was denied to him — instead, he received only a shallow cut on his hand before Alfred tossed the dagger aside.
“What…? But—but—” Damian stared at the small, meaningless wound on his palm. He pressed his lips together, but couldn’t keep the frustration from spilling out. “Pennyworth, please! Give me a little dignity…! I can’t—I can’t live like this anymore.”
“I know…” Alfred replied softly, brushing a hand over Damian’s head. “And that’s exactly why you deserve nothing else but to live with it.”
Damian looked up, confused — he had never heard him sound so… cold.
Your absence was starting to break him.
“This house, this room… it’s all a reminder of her,” Alfred continued. “This is where my first moments with her began. Did you know that when she had nightmares, her favorite story was The Little Mermaid? When I told it, she loved the idea of discovering another world under the sea.”
Damian looked past Alfred.
His eyes landed on a photo hanging on the wall — you, holding a trophy in one hand and a volleyball in the other. Then another image: you, playing tea party, or wearing an apron, a little chef’s hat, and a red scarf around your neck.
Above it, a shelf: first filled with drawings, then letters, and at the end, small objects — a pocket watch among them.
It was no surprise why your loss had shaken Alfred so deeply. Your arrival had marked a before and after in his life.
“This house… for a time, it felt like a home to her. Or at least, I’d like to believe it did...” Alfred said, averting his eyes as the faintest trace of a smile faded from his lips. “That’s why I’m not leaving anymore. She opened my eyes, Master Damian. I suppose I owe her that much.”
This room no longer held just memories, nor warmth.
It had become the very heart of his grief — a tool that twisted his insides with guilt.
And that’s why he couldn’t escape.
He had to face the consequences of what he had done.
Just like Damian.
Dick watched the video in horror.
…He couldn’t stop himself from contacting the League—Talia, specifically—in a moment of sheer uncertainty.
He must have watched that footage at least a dozen times, trying desperately to find a flaw, something that would make him believe it was fake. But its contents were too convincing—just the right amount of imperfection to make it feel real.
It was real.
He leaned back in the chair, needing a moment to process the truth and to think about how on earth he was going to tell the family.
“Gray—… Dick…?”
He turned, startled to see Damian standing by the elevator, eyes red and wet with tears.
“...Can we talk?”
“Of course— I mean, yeah, sure. Come here…”
Dick was the next to find out.
Just like with Alfred, Damian didn’t skip a single detail, no matter how mortifying it was for him to admit.
Dick listened carefully—no interruptions, no big reactions.
How was he supposed to react?
How was a leader supposed to behave in moments like this…?
He buried his face in his hands, unable to comfort Damian right now.
He quickly contacted everyone, requesting their immediate arrival.
He simply said, “I’ve found something conclusive,” and that alone was enough to bring them all running.
Amid the anger and the helplessness, Dick couldn’t help but feel pity watching Damian crumble in place—knowing what awaited him once everyone else arrived.
“You… You…! Murderer! How could you?!”
“B, calm down!”
“Remember—he’s just a kid!”
An enraged Batman tried to lunge at Damian, but Jason and Terry managed to hold him back.
Dick stepped in front of Damian, shielding him, with Cass quickly following his lead. The rest stood frozen, still trying to process what they had just learned.
“I never should’ve taken you in…!”
Damian stood paralyzed where he was, tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to tell Richard to move—he didn’t deserve to be protected.
“Bruce, you’ve just lost one son—do you really want to lose another?!” Dick tried to reach him, hoping his anger would give way to reason.
“I don’t see a son right now,” Bruce growled, “I see a murderer…”
“Listen to yourself!” Cassandra shot back. “You sound just like Ivy! Is that really who you want to become—knowing how ends up?!”
Bruce looked at Damian again—at the way he trembled, at the tears brimming in his eyes, heavy with guilt and sorrow.
“Mom… Mom…”
Bruce’s fury subsided on the surface, though rage and helplessness still tore through him inside.
“Get him out of here. I don’t want to see him.”
He turned his back. Cass gently took Damian by the arm, guiding him toward the elevator, hoping Bruce would cool down with time.
Damian stopped for a moment and turned toward him.
“I’m sorry, Father. You were right about me… I really am just a killer.”
Cass led him out of the Batcave, and only once the elevator doors closed did she notice—Tim was nowhere to be seen.
For the first time, he was feeling the “side effects” he’d once asked Jason about.
Maybe the whole scene had been the trigger—the exhaustion, the frustration, the helplessness, the stress… The anger toward Ivy, toward Alfred, toward Damian—and, above all, toward himself—had all become one big switch.
He was so angry he didn’t even know where to direct it anymore… and whoever might have ended up taking the hit, it wouldn’t have been fair anyway.
Jason had been right—it was like someone else had taken up residence in his head. Every small action, every sound, even a faint smell would send him into a fury that burned through him. And when it all piled up like that, there was no choice but to explode.
That’s why he left as quickly as he could. He couldn’t stand the yelling and the fighting anymore.
And the only place he knew no one would dare to go—for now—was her room.
…
The moment he lay down on the mattress, he realized just how uncomfortable it really was. He could literally feel the wooden boards pressing into his tense back.
He forced his attention elsewhere, trying to ignore the discomfort—trying not to think at all.
He took in the scattered threads and needles, the drawings, the toys, and all the little things that—
Wait.
Was that his camera?
Tim shot up like lightning, grabbing the video camera from the shelf and inspecting it closely.
The same scratches, the same model—even the tiny Pokémon sticker he’d put on it years ago was still there.
No doubt about it—this was his camera.
But the last time he’d seen it, he’d tossed it aside because the buttons had stopped working, and Bruce had simply bought him a new one.
Had she fixed it? On her own?
He waited for it to power on, and once it did, he lay back on the mattress again and played the oldest file.
One video led to another.
And another.
And another.
Before he knew it, it was already four in the morning.
Then, a new message appeared in the family group chat:
“Screw you all. I’m not going down alone.”
Attached to it were about twenty-five videos.
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Happy Halloween! Did you all have a good one?
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ God, I still can’t believe I officially turned 18 a month ago. I just can’t get used to it—like, do you realize I don’t have to lie about my age online anymore? Just—wow.
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Anyway! I really took my time with this chapter—either because I was running low on inspiration, or because I just wanted it to hit emotionally… The next one is definitely better, I promise.
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ You’ll probably see a new layout on my blog soon! A little refresh wouldn’t hurt.
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Lastly—some of you already know this, but the taglist is now a lot more limited and currently closed. I’m really sorry, but if I add more people Tumblr might hit me with another “possible spam” strike. 😭
However, you can still follow me to stay updated on everything related to this story!
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ As always, likes, reblogs, and especially comments are super welcome (I love reading what you all think (●'◡'●)❤️).
✿ ⸺ N/A ⦂ Thank you so much for reading this far!
Sending you all a big hug and a ton of love (❁´◡`❁) 💕
PLANTOIC YANDERE BATFAM X NEGLECTED GWEN STACY!READER
WARNINGS-
1.8k words
author's note- tried to base the outfit description on an outfit similar to one we see in the across the spiderverse movie sorry if it's not something you'd wear :') also FIRST BRUCE APPERANCE YIPPEEE
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It was still midafternoon when you reached Peter’s apartment building on the other side of Gotham. After a string of sketchy bus rides, Peter led you into a surprisingly well-kept building. You followed him up a few flights of stairs and down a hallway lined with identical green doors; he stopped about halfway down the hall, pulling out a key.
The door swung open, and he gestured for you to go in first.
You stepped inside, and the place felt warm.
Not in a temperature sense.
But in a familiar and full-of-love sense.
You hadn’t realized how cold and empty the manor was till you had something to compare it to. Your home with your father had once felt like this too, warm and lived in before…everything. But you couldn’t compare a home that didn’t exist in this world to one that did. But Peter’s apartment felt like something you could compare. Now you understood even more why the other (Y/N) had spoken so highly of her friend in her journals. You would say the same thing.
You used to say the same.
Peter’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as he spoke.
“I think May is at work, so we should have the place to ourselves for a couple hours.”
He grinned, kicking off his shoes next to the door. “Sweet,” you muttered.
You followed suit, setting the loafers next to his.
Shit, were you going to have to wear those to the concert?
You pursed your lips for a moment. “I forgot my outfit. I don’t think I can go in this.” You gestured down to the Gotham Academy uniform you were currently wearing. The outfit didn’t exactly scream anything but school. He turned to you for a moment. “You have some clothes here that you left. I’m sure we can throw together something even if it’s not your dream outfit that you were talking about. You’ll look fine either way.”
You hummed, following him into the back half of the apartment. It shared a few similarities with the one May and Peter lived in back home, but otherwise it seemed completely different. You could probably be thankful for that.
You might not have been able to handle an exact copy of their apartment.
Peter had been right; the other (Y/N) practically had left half a closet at his apartment. Even to the point that there was a dedicated basket filled to the brim with random clothing items left throughout their friendship.
You had done the same for Peter back in your own universe. Your Peter loved his aunt May, of course, but he had spent so much time at your house a basket had just popped up in the corner of your room with random t-shirts, jeans, and sweatpants he owned and had worn during sleepovers or hangouts. It felt bittersweet realizing the tradition had carried on here only in reverse. Digging through the basket, you recognized a few items, but everything else was entirely foreign.
You guessed not all brands transferred between universes.
You pulled random pieces from the basket, trying to assemble something that at least looked cohesive. After a few minutes of examining clothes and picking out the items you wanted, you turned to Peter expectantly. “Is that what you want to wear?”
You shrugged. “I guess. Don’t really have many other options that are concert appropriate, do I?” You joked, looking through the clothing you held in your hands again.
He nodded. “You want to get dressed in here orrrrrr…?” He seemed to be halfway to the door by the time the drawn-out ‘or’ came out of his mouth and was inching ever closer. “Uh, yeah, I can change in here if that’s okay.”
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that works. Great even. I’ll be…”
He pointed towards the door before quickly leaving the room, closing it behind him.
You could hear a muffled ‘Let me know when you’re done!’ before silence.
In your hands was a thick oversized sweater, a pair of shorts, and a pair of black tights. It wasn’t something you’d usually wear to a concert, but the other (Y/N) wasn’t around to tell you that you would be attending one when you blindly agreed to the plans that Peter had asked about last night. She’d just have to cope if a few pictures online popped up with her in a badly themed outfit.
Once you had finished getting ready, Peter stepped back into the room, flopping backwards on his bed with his phone in his hand. “What were you fighting with Damian about?”
You stared at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your sweater. “He stole my journal this morning.” You could see Peter turn to look at you in the mirror, a slightly shocked look on his face. “Are you serious? Doesn’t he usually just act as if you don’t exist?” You nodded, turning around with a sigh.
“I don’t know, this morning was just odd. I mean, last night all he did was glare at me like I’d just shit in his cereal.”
Peter snorts.
You grin slightly at him before continuing. “And then suddenly the first chance he gets, he’s trying to annoy me by taking my journal. And then he fucking goes and throws it away. Like, what even was the point of taking it then?”
You flopped back on his bed, your back lying across his shins with a sigh.
“Sometimes I wish they would let me strangle him.”
It was a sentiment you and the other (Y/N) both shared. Even though you had only known Damian for a fraction of the time, she had to suffer through his annoying behavior.
“Was it just that? Or did something else happen?” You bit the inside of your cheek, chewing at it for a moment. Trying to think of anything else that had happened today that might’ve constituted as weird.
“I mean, Tim talked to me.”
Peter glanced at you again, putting down his phone and sitting up on his elbows to actually look at you. “Like an actual conversation?”
You shrugged.
“It was mostly him talking at me, I guess. But we exchanged a couple words.” You muttered, fidgeting with the hem of your sweater.
“Huh. That is weird.” Peter flopped back down. “It isn’t almost your birthday or anything?”
“Like they would remember that.” You muttered bitterly. “Yeah. I guess they probably wouldn’t.”
The conversation drifted from schoolwork you didn’t understand to past friendships that had fizzled out for reasons unknown to you. But even as the conversations ventured into topics you knew nothing about, it felt like it didn’t matter. Because even as you spoke your feelings about things to Peter, he didn’t seem to flinch. Not questioning a thing you said.
Either you were a really good bullshitter, or this Peter was just a good enough friend not to think anything of any inconsistencies that might have flowed from your lips.
Which you were sure there were a few.
As the sun dipped down over the horizon and May came home, you and Peter bid her a farewell, stepping into the dark streets of Gotham. Peter seemed content with leading you through his neighborhood, once again stepping ahead of you as you followed closely behind on his heels.
The venue appeared as you turned a corner. Peter confidently walked towards it. You could hear music from down the road.
Drunk people littered the streets outside, seemingly either just beginning their nights or already ending them.
As you stood outside in a line of people, a shiver ran down your spine.
“Are you sure they’ll let us in?” You peered over the line, staring at the guy checking IDs.
“Yeah, it’s a sixteen-plus event. They’ll just draw Xs on our hands or something so the bartenders know not to serve us.” You hummed, still watching the men at the front of the line.
You reached up, scratching at your ear subconsciously. “Relax. Even if we did somehow read the flyer wrong, it’s not like everything in Gotham closes at eight. We’ll find something else to do.”
Across the city in a large dark manor, somewhere on the second floor, a man is sitting in the chair in a gloomy office. The only things providing any light in the room were a few lamps dotted around the room. On his desk sat an uncharacteristically brightly decorated journal.
A boy stood in front of him, his arms folded, watching the older man flip through the pages, reading each word carefully. He flips to another page, grimacing as he reads the words.
“She wrote all of this?” He questioned the young boy, glancing up at him and back down at the words on the page below.
In front of him in his hands sat what was practically his youngest daughter’s suicide note. A list of every way the family had fallen short in her times of need and rants upon rants of everything they had ever done to make her as miserable as she was now. How badly she wished she could leave this earth and had a plan to do so.
“I don’t believe anyone else could’ve written it, Father.” Damian’s arms were folded across his chest, a frown ever present on his face.
He originally intended to just ditch the thing in her room after terrorizing her for the day with it. But after justifying it all day in his mind, he took a single peek in the journal, as she called it.
His father sighed in front of him, turning to another page.
After a few beats of silence, Damian spoke again. “It has a date in it. A date for when she…” His words trailed off.
“I saw it.” Bruce stated matter-of-factly, still staring at the book in his hands.
He couldn’t explain why his throat squeezed shut when he tried to say it. Or how tears threatened to spill from his eyes when he was suddenly faced with the fact of how much harm he had caused to his sister, his only true blood sibling.
He supposed that fact may have slipped his mind a few dozen times when interacting with her.
His arms fell to his side, his fists clenching as he tried to steady his breathing. “We should—” Damian was cut off by his father, shutting the journal. “I’ll go after her.” Damian stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like he was searching for air.
“No, I am coming with you! I discovered this after—” He’s cut off again by his father speaking. “I’ll go. You stay here.”
His father stood suddenly, making Damian almost shrink where he stood.
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✿ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Prt 3 ; Chapter II ; Chapter III ;
✿ ⸺ Previous ; Next!
⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Depression ; Extortion ; Blackmail ; Hambling; Mentions of injury; Death ; murder ; Stalking ; Fem Reader ; Use of Y/N.
✿ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.
✿ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 8.235
You bit the inside of your cheek hesitantly, Lex’s words echoing in your head.
“They asked me for underground architecture in Finland, at least 40 meters underground, in the middle of nowhere.”
“In the center of that underground fortress, there’s a massive bulletproof glass habitat, reinforced and equipped for either a person or a large plant, if you ask me.”
No… you didn’t want to follow that line of thought—or rather, you felt guilty for even doing so.
After everything they’d done for you? After taking in a girl so abandoned, broken, and clumsy like you? After giving you training, shelter, food, and love?
The mere thought, the bare suspicion about them churned your stomach, tightening in your throat.
But like a worm burrowing into your brain (no—better drop that expression, it still sent shivers down your spine and, with some luck—and therapy—you no longer hyperventilated at the thought), the doubt lingered, circling and pounding you with the same questions, a constant reminder that no matter how guilty you felt, uncertainty would keep tormenting you.
They would never do anything to hurt you. They loved you.
You remembered going to the aquarium with Ra’s, when Talia comforted you and showed you the true face of your mother—the real one you’d blurred and distorted, erasing the most traumatic memories of what she had done to you, excusing her, stripping away her responsibility, and instead blaming yourself for not being smart enough, careful enough, for being so clumsy, needy, or whiny whenever she was “busy.”
But that day, at fourteen, Talia opened your eyes and tore out the sick attachment you had to that… monster.
You weren’t “not smart enough”—your mother had simply never bothered to teach you anything.
You weren’t “not careful enough”—you had just been a little girl discovering the world on your own.
You couldn’t help being clumsy—sometimes your missing eye altered your perspective, made you misjudge your surroundings, and sometimes it was simply too hard to keep up playing tag with your siblings when you only had one leg, or climbing trees when you were missing an arm. All courtesy of your mother.
You couldn’t help needing affection, not when your mother would show up at random with caresses, praise, and sweet words. When she rocked you so gently you wanted to melt into her arms, when she held you to her chest and swayed you to sleep.
But the next day, when you went looking for her—hoping for more affection or just her company—you’d want to cry at her indifference. At the way she’d glance at you with disgust, shove you out of the room, and vanish for days, sometimes weeks. Leaving you wondering what you had done wrong, what you had said to deserve that glare, what had changed in you that made you unworthy of her love—that made you feel like you didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air.
Your siblings always paid the price, staying with you for days to piece you back together after she shattered you again.
And when she finally returned, you were desperate for anything she might give you, at any cost. You’d let her test new drugs on you in exchange for her sweet fingers stroking your hair; you didn’t mind when she locked you in the basement with fear toxin, so long as she calmed you afterward with soft words that made you feel safe at her side; you didn’t mind giving her your arms, your eyes, your legs—or whatever she wanted—in exchange for an embrace and the chance to whisper how much you loved her.
Back then, you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you needed her just to survive.
You didn’t even realize when your steps carried you toward Talia’s chambers, determined to search every corner until you found those blueprints—if they even existed.
If your suspicions were false, you had nothing to fear. A sincere apology would be enough for her forgiveness, and it would teach you a lesson: never trust Luthor again.
But if they turned out to be true…
...
…Well, you wouldn’t know what to do until that moment came. The only choice was to rip the uncertainty off quickly, like tearing a bandage from your knee.
You forced yourself to act indifferent as you walked, careful not to draw the guards’ attention until you were inside.
Talia was in a meeting now—one you weren’t part of, by the way—but you knew it could end at any moment.
You started searching everything in sight. Wardrobes, desks, shelves, nightstands, even her bed. You knocked on the walls, tested the floorboards for hollowness, checked if anything triggered a hidden chamber—but there was nothing.
Moving to the corner of the room, you stepped back to take in the bigger picture, scanning for something you might have missed, any clue that could lead you closer.
Exasperated, you let out a sharp breath and glanced upward, trying to clear your head before resuming. But something caught your attention immediately.
Between the wooden beams of the ceiling, there were tiny slits of light seeping through—except in one area. And if sunlight wasn’t coming through… something was blocking it.
With a new goal in mind, you extended your vines toward the ceiling, probing for a loose beam, a sign of an attic.
Your heart clenched in your chest when you discovered a trapdoor leading upward—your entrance to the truth.
Maybe it was your mind finding excuses to climb, or maybe self-sabotage, but you couldn’t help remembering the week Talia had taught you parkour on rooftops; the way she ruffled your hair for doing well, laughed at your sarcasm, and how the nights ended with pizza dinners…
None of it would matter if your suspicions were confirmed in that “attic.”
Your vines wrapped around the beams, and in a blink you were up there.
The “attic” looked more like an office than anything else—not what you expected.
There was a desk with drawers and a large cabinet dominating the room.
With the minutes ticking in your head, you dug through drawers and loose panels, searching for any sign of your suspicions.
Not much. Just some blueprints for future renovations to the compound, a few weapons, and some files hidden in a drawer about assassins close to Talia and Ra’s.
You couldn’t stop your hands from freezing on the folder with your name on it.
Part of you screamed to stay focused on your real goal before it was too late.
But your head was too curious, too anxious, to see what Talia had written about you.
You hated yourself for still seeking validation from others, even here. But you didn’t resist.
In a rush, you opened the folder, flipping through quickly until one section caught your eye.
“The subject has motor impairment in arm coordination and reaction time.
Like any plant, her greatest enemy is fire. Though she doesn’t seem to have any particular fear of it.
Her regeneration time is not what it should be. Could this be due to severe malnutrition in early childhood? Needs further investigation.”
You knew these were notes on your weaknesses—observations she made about all assassins, ways to stop them if they ever betrayed the League. You had assumed you wouldn’t be the exception.
Or maybe you were.
Because you soon realized none of these “weaknesses” were real threats anymore.
Your motor coordination, caused by your defective eye, had been corrected years ago—the League made sure of it almost immediately after you arrived.
Your so-called “weakness” to fire? Sure, it could be dangerous, but you had mastered countless techniques to deal with it. Roots that absorbed underground moisture, hidden wells you could tap into to extinguish flames—you had ways.
And your regeneration? It had been stabilized once your malnutrition was addressed.
Nothing here was truly exploitable. And it wasn’t like you had no weaknesses—you had several that could easily be used to take you out.
Talia could have written that even the slightest contact with pesticide is lethal to you.
She could have noted your reluctance to kill—fatal in a place like this, where an assassin who can’t kill is already dead.
She could have recorded how extreme cold forces you into hibernation against your will, leaving you completely vulnerable. Or worse—no killer needed, you’d simply die, your body incapable of storing energy for hibernation.
She could have exposed your extreme fear of worms. As ridiculous as it sounded, just being near one paralyzed you, dragging you back to when you were five, begging for someone to pull them out from under your skin before they burrowed through your eye into your brain.
She could have added any of those things—but she didn’t.
And it wasn’t because the file was old. The photo was recent, the paper crisp, the ink and Talia’s handwriting fresh.
At the back of your mind, you realized: if any enemy ever got hold of your file, there was nothing in it that could really hurt you. Unlike the others.
It was as if… Talia had gone out of her way to protect you.
A piece clicked into place, and your mind raced to gather the other inconsistencies.
It had been too easy to get here. You had expected alarms, endless locks, traps upon traps before gaining access.
But everything was just… neutral. Not suspicious to anyone else—but you knew Talia. Something was off.
Weirdly enough, outside of your file, everything else matched your expectations perfectly. To anyone else, nothing seemed wrong.
Your brow furrowed. One thought took root: a decoy room.
Following your instincts, you searched the most unexpected places—or maybe the most obvious. Looking for a key.
Your suspicions proved right when you found a worn key behind the massive cabinet. Continuing the thought, you opened the huge piece of furniture to find the most disappointing recreation of Narnia ever made.
Behind the false backing, a reinforced door waited. Modern, sleek. Hard to believe the half-rusted key in your hand matched it.
But Talia was a master of confusion—making you doubt your own judgment. Not this time. Not now.
Unsurprisingly, the key worked, and the door clicked open, granting you entry.
Now, this could be seen from two perspectives: yours, and Talia’s.
You hadn’t been entirely wrong about the Narnia comparison—this was as close as Talia would get.
To you, though, it looked like an entire museum dedicated to your life. And not in a good way.
The walls were plastered with Polaroids of you, taken in moments when you weren’t aware Talia was even there. The most disturbing part? Some were from long before you’d ever entered the mansion.
Your eyes froze on a photo of you at three years old—sitting in the garden of one of your mother’s many squatted houses, playing with butterflies, oblivious to Talia’s presence behind the camera.
At the bottom, a post-it note read:
“She seems to like butterflies, they really catch her attention. Must remember to build an enclosure for her. Can’t wait to see her reaction.”
Your mind jumped straight to your twelfth birthday, when Talia had taken you to a butterfly reserve in Mexico. Now you weren’t sure how much of that day had been real.
The longer you looked, the more horrified you became.
Photos of you distracted, watering your siblings, sewing dresses in the mansion. Photos even after they had “taken you in”: in your office, training, sleeping… Recent photos too. You were sure the latest was just a week ago—when you were showering.
With every new discovery, your movements slowed, the lump in your throat grew, your face twisting with helplessness and disgust.
It didn’t feel good to be right anymore. They loved you, yes… but they loved you too much.
God, you wished it had all stopped at photos—until you recognized baby teeth displayed at a distance.
Your mind went blank when your eyes caught a silhouette you hadn’t seen since childhood.
Still blackened by ash and burns, you’d recognize Doodle anywhere.
Your breath hitched with every step closer until you had him in your hands again. He was real. Not a dream.
But you had no time to feel moved—your blood ran cold at the new presence in the room.
For a moment you felt like an idiot. Of course there were motion sensors. This was Talia al Ghul.
Your survival instincts screamed at you to run.
But how could you, when Talia herself stood blocking the door?
You had to hold back the overwhelming urge to take a long drag from your cigarette right then and there.
In front of you stood the new kid under “Mr. Wayne,” with his shiny armor and that huge grin—the kind you wanted to wipe off his face forever.
But your trained eye caught something most civilians wouldn’t. You clearly noticed the tension in his muscles. You didn’t miss the way his legs were spread, his center lowered, his body leaning ever so slightly toward you.
He was ready to lunge at you any second.
With the unspoken threat in his stance, you shifted where you stood, trying to “level the playing field.”
Signal’s smile stiffened, and you watched as he cautiously stepped closer, arms outstretched.
“Hey… how about you, like, come down here, and we just talk for a bit?”
Oh.
Ohhh.
Your eyes flicked to the edge of the rooftop, where just one step would send you plummeting to a pretty painful fall—if you survived it at all.
For a moment, a part of you—the most selfish one, no doubt the part the League had fed so well—had the sudden impulse to just throw yourself off without hesitation.
With that, this wannabe hero, this wannabe sun, would be stained for life.
You’d be lying if you said the thought didn’t tempt you. Maybe then the city would see him differently; Batman, ohhhh… he’d be so disappointed. How could he have let a homeless teenager kill herself right in front of his eyes?
Your spite softened at the idea; when they found out it was you, they might even congratulate Duke for taking down Tim’s killer. Damian and Jason would be the first to cheer him on, and your sperm donor of a father would downplay it, maybe brushing it off with nothing more than a warning to be more careful next time.
Now furious, you clenched your teeth and pushed the thought away. No. You wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, not that easy…
But maybe you could make the golden boy suffer a little.
With a mischievous grin and steady posture, you calmly stepped back until you were balanced on top of one of the gargoyles. An unstable base with barely anything to stand on—of course it set off every alarm in Duke.
In an instant, his stiff smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of despair. Clenched teeth, trembling limbs, a faint tic in his eye from the stress.
This was fun. This… feeling of power over him was fun; maybe fun wasn’t the right word. Pleasure.
It was pleasurable to hold his reputation, his conscience, his calm, in your hands.
With just a few moves, you could ruin his life. You could destroy Bruce’s golden boy, his attempt at redemption, the new brother in that family.
“Please… you don’t have to do this. I promise this rough patch won’t last forever.”
“A rough patch? Feels like my whole life’s been one big rough patch. You think you can fix that?”
You didn’t know what had triggered this sudden surge of anger. Was it because he was trying to offer you hope? Because the family he was part of was the worst hell you’d ever gone through? Because they were the main reason you were even here, and still had the nerve to tell you, “Hey, it’s not that bad, you’ll get through this”? All of it?
Yeah. All of it.
But the worst part was the helplessness that came with being aware—aware that the new vigilante in front of you didn’t deserve to be the target of your wrath; that he didn’t know who you were, maybe didn’t even know what those who adopted him had done to you. Aware that he was innocent of your pain and genuinely just wanted to help.
You had no real reason to hate him, and hell, if the family had left you with anything, it was envy—engraved deep enough that you could recognize it even before it hit you. Like now.
And even worse, you were painfully aware of his feelings and your own, and still recognized that a big part of you just wanted to be selfish and make him suffer—physically or mentally—simply because you knew it would hurt Bruce, or his family.
No matter how much you tried to look away from it, it was excruciating how aware you were of everything.
The side of your face began to itch—the same side Jason had slapped once, and you swore it’d be the first and last time. It was like a cruel reminder of your awareness.
Or maybe self-sabotage was more accurate…?
But wait, you weren’t planning to physically hurt him. You just wanted to leave him with a little scar on his conscience—
You knew what it was like to carry a death on your conscience. Would you really wish that on someone else? On him?
… … …
…
Shit. No. Definitely not. Well… maybe on Mr. Wayne… but that’s not the point.
“I can’t change what’s already happened… but I want to help you face it. Get through it.” Slowly, carefully, Signal kept walking closer, hand extended. “Please, if you’d just let me…”
You straightened up and drew the line by leaning even further over the ledge—a silent warning.
“I want you five steps back, I mean it.” You didn’t mean it.
Signal pressed his lips together in frustration, but he didn’t want to test your limits, so he obeyed.
You took a long breath, one you knew the vigilante could’ve mistaken for a sob, but you didn’t clarify and he didn’t call it out.
So… now what? Had you gone too far to back down? Your urge to hurt him had been rationalized, tamed, but still…
How the hell were you supposed to get out of this…?
The time for explanations had already expired the very moment you walked into that room, and Talia knew it; maybe the wrecked place, or your out–of–control demeanor, were signs enough…
But you were still breathing. And with your mind dazed and spiraling, there was a slim, almost nonexistent chance left — but it was still there.
And she had to act now, because the longer she waited, the more certain she was that you’d start piecing together the true meaning behind her actions…
“Y/N, you’re acting hot-headed. Calm down, don’t rush into this…”
Your eyes shifted toward the almost burnt remains of Doodle. Doodle — the one you were sure had turned into nothing but ashes in the fireplace… The one only a handful of people knew about, and even fewer knew how deeply attached you were to him.
“Trust me, I’m a lot more controlled than I actually want to be…” You gritted your teeth as your mind tried to claw its way toward an escape from this situation.
Did Ra’s know about this? Did they plan it together?
What could you possibly do after this? If it wasn’t them… then what else did you have left?
They were literally all you knew, all you had. You had no money, barely any knowledge of the outside world. Even if you ran… out here, there was only sand, no vegetation, no water for miles. Running away would be nothing short of suicide.
Had they even planned that?
Of course they had… you shouldn’t even be surprised. They always had every angle covered, those bastards.
“Y/N, why are you angry, exactly?” Talia’s sharp tongue struck again. “For loving you? Is that a crime now?”
As she stepped closer, the knot in your throat tightened with every word, every step.
“Oh, darling. Maybe you don’t see it now, but I only want — we only want — what’s best for you.” You weren’t quick (or clearheaded) enough to escape her embrace. “Isn’t this what you wanted? An unconditional family? Well, here we are, sweetheart.” Each stroke of her hand on your head drew another tear down your face. “This room is proof that you were loved and wanted from the very beginning. You were chosen, Y/N. We chose you long before you could even speak. We chose you simply because you’re you. Isn’t that what you’ve always been searching for? A family who loves you for who you are, not for what you can offer?”
How naïve you were to think you could stand against your mother. The one who had been raising and shaping you all these years, who now knew every weakness, every thought pattern you had. Everything. She knew absolutely everything about you.
Talia’s warm hand against your cheek didn’t feel uncomfortable, like you wished it would. You didn’t recoil from her touch the way you wanted to.
How desperately you wished to be wrong. To find, somewhere in this room, a reason to leave; evidence of evil schemes using you as a pawn, something that would prove you had been nothing but a tool all along.
You wanted that instead of undeniable proof that they loved you.
“Y/N.” She guided your eyes to hers. “Just think about it, love. Here you’ll never lack anything — not food, not a home, not luxury. And above all, you’ll never lack love.”
“With us, you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. We can go anywhere in the world, we could even exclude you from the mission if that’s what you wish. We’ll start over, wherever you want, with nothing out of your reach.”
“Y/N, just imagine it. We could be a real family. I’ve only been pretending all this time because I was afraid — afraid of this exact moment, of what you’d think of me once you knew. But now I realize this is the perfect chance! I could make your adoption official. You’d carry our name!”
Every tear that streamed down your face was another inch of ground Talia gained. Your tormented mind could no longer form a coherent thought, only the words she was planting inside.
At some point, her crude attempt at manipulation started to sound… logical.
Didn’t you want a full life?
Didn’t you want a loving family?
Didn’t you want a mother?
Talia could almost cry with relief as she felt your arms slowly returning her embrace.
You weren’t naïve enough to ignore that if you didn’t get down in the next thirty seconds, he’d call for backup.
And that would be your real end.
“What…? What if we just talk?” Signal offered. “What if you tell me your name?”
“What if you tell me yours?” you shot back warily, almost reflexively, and then immediately scolded yourself.
“…” The silence that followed sent a deeper chill through you. Keep this up, and not even talking would save you.
“Ahh… A-Abby. My name’s Abby…?”
Idiot. Are you telling him or asking him? Another round of self-reproach.
You didn’t know why, but the name of one of your bullies was the first thing that popped into your head.
“Abby… Alright, Abby. Whatever you say stays between us, I promise.”
You wanted to spit back a sharp comment at his cheap psychologist attempt, but bit your tongue and stayed quiet.
“… I… Uhm…” And now, you had to come up with something convincing. Not just convincing — something that would hold up when he inevitably tried to fact-check your story.
God, if only you had walked away when you could.
Screw it. I don’t have a choice.
“Years ago, I used to bully someone… They were definitely weaker than me, but I didn’t care — in fact, that was exactly why I acted so confident doing it.” You took his silence as a cue to continue. “…”
“Please, do whatever you want to me, but leave my wife and kids out of this…”
“I’m begging you… I—”
BANG!
…
“… Everyone told me what I did wasn’t wrong. That somehow, that person deserved it. That they needed to be taught a lesson…” The images of their dead bodies, and Ra’s words, drilled into your skull.
You did the right thing. If you didn’t wipe them out, their bloodline would come for revenge. Do I need to spell out what a child is capable of doing to avenge their parents?
“But… you didn’t really believe that, did you?” Signal pushed, trying to get you to go on.
“For a long time I did. I convinced myself they were right. But the guilt never left me alone — my subconscious would remind me at night.”
“Clearly, you feel guilty about what you did… Sometimes, an apology can make a difference, you know? Try talking to that person.” Signal tried to step closer. “I think they’d value an honest regret more than… this.”
“…”
Your throat locked tight as you remembered Abraham — 8 years old — begging, trying to push you away. Trying to push the knife out of his chest.
“… I can’t.”
“It takes wisdom and courage—”
“She’s dead. She died from the violence I inflicted…” You took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“…” For several long seconds, Signal didn’t know what to say, or how. Hesitantly, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “… If it was so long ago, then why now…?” He gestured toward you.
“Who knows? No particular reason.” If at any point during the talk your expression had softened, if you had lowered your weapons, now you reloaded them. “Back then, I didn’t have a real reason to bully that person either. I did it because I wanted to.”
“But still—!”
In the middle of his rambling, a small laugh slipped out of you.
“Sorry, but if there’s a victim here, it’s not me. What’s funny is how hard you’re trying to twist things to make me the victim somehow.”
Duke couldn’t stop himself from wincing, caught somewhere between irritation and unease. Just moments ago, you looked so drained, so lifeless.
What the hell did you find so funny that you were smiling at him like that?
“… What happened to that person? Their family never pressed charges…? Nothing?”
I wiped them out too.
“No, nothing. I guess they were a really negligent family… or maybe I did them a favor. Who knows.”
You remembered vividly Damian’s cold, hollow stare when he found you that day in the bathrooms. So broken, so fed up, so… you.
And the next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
“Hard to believe families like that exist, huh?” you joked lightly, testing his limits.
Not much happened. Duke only tensed further. Whether it was out of anger or uncertainty, you couldn’t tell.
“What’s wrong, hero? Cat got your tongue?”
“…”
A dry, humorless laugh escaped you.
“Is it hard for you to save someone who isn’t a victim? Does that go against your code?”
“How…? How did the person you bullied—what was their name?”
Your smile faded, and you sat in silence for several seconds.
“I don’t remember.”
It was the best option, wasn’t it?
I mean, it’s not like you really had many choices; or opportunities would be more accurate…?
Whatever… Now your life was supposed to be better. Before the week was over, you’d be an Al Ghul, moving with Talia to Kansas. Ra’s would join later, once he was done (and quoting Talia) “taking care of some business with the League.”
You figured that made sense — they couldn’t just abandon the base, not without someone in charge. They had agreed to take turns watching over you.
It was incredible how much they were willing to give up just to keep you from leaving. How much your—… ahem, their lives had changed in the blink of an eye.
Maybe now you should focus on what you’d do once you got to Kansas. Would you go back to school…? But you didn’t even have the faintest idea of what they taught in elementary. Homeschooling might be a better alternative…?
A shame, really — Kansas was known for being peaceful, warm, wide open, with plenty of greenery.
You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to let them even suggest moving somewhere urban or cold. If you were moving, it would be on your terms, on your turf (and maybe the memory of a friendly Jon had influenced that decision a little).
Wait… Ra’s and Talia wouldn’t be against you having friends, right? You weren’t an assassin anymore. This was supposed to be a fresh start, with more opportunities, more freedoms.
Talia hadn’t said explicitly that freedoms part, but still…
…
You decided it was best to talk things out, set the new terms straight so there’d be no confusion — and definitely no arguments — once you were in Kansas.
Ideally, you’d go to Ra’s. You hadn’t spoken to him since your run-in with Luthor, and you didn’t want that silence to be taken the wrong way…
Besides, with a little persistence, you knew he’d give in to whatever you asked for.
Tangled in nerves, you made your way to his office. He’d probably be busy, but you planned not to steal too much of his time.
This was something that had to be settled before you moved off-continent and started over, wasn’t it?
Ra’s’ guards let you into his office — but he wasn’t there.
If you sharpened your hearing, though, you could pick up his voice in the distance, clearly speaking to someone. Did he have visitors today?
“And this weapon of yours, will it be willing to cooperate? Wiping out the League isn’t a simple task; convincing someone to do it comes at a cost. And from what I know, your investments lately haven’t been very… practical. How can you be so sure they’ll accept?”
It was a voice you’d never heard before, distorted and robotic, clearly filtered through some kind of microphone.
“She will,” Ra’s replied. “I just need time to prepare her infiltration. There can’t be any margin for error in this plan.” You crept closer toward the door, careful not to make a sound. “My granddaughter will succeed where my grandson dishonored me. I can assure you of that.”
“She will redeem herself by bringing me Batman’s head.”
…
..
.
Traitor.
You leaned your back against the wall and let yourself slowly slide down until you were curled up on the cold floor.
Escaping from Signal hadn’t been that hard. You went down the stairs from the rooftop and wandered the area until you were sure there were no signs of the vigilante anywhere around.
That gave you time to think. To try and process what might happen next.You’d basically confessed a crime—between the lines, but still—to a vigilante, and nothing had come of it. For now. The smartest move would be to leave the area and lay low for a while, before they tracked you down and… and what?
They couldn’t actually find concrete evidence of your crime. Theoretically, you were untouchable. But even so, it would be pretty bad if anyone around here figured out who you really were while they were sniffing around. You didn’t want to see them, let alone be within five feet of them.
That’s when it hit you: staying here was too risky. Sure, you knew the rhythm of life here, the local vigilantes’ patrol patterns—something that worked in your favor—but that was nothing compared to the risks. An entire family of detectives. You’d made the mistake of getting too comfortable, and when one of them showed up—you’d let your guard down. Of all of them, he was the least dangerous to run into, but still, you’d slipped up and talked to him. Because of your own carelessness.
Now there was no doubt. You’d be on their radar for a while.Moving to another district sounded reasonable. If they were going to look for you, this place would be the first they’d check.
Maybe you should wipe your fingerprints and any DNA traces, just in case… Ugh. Another thing to add to the to-do list.
Right now, though, you weren’t in any condition to do anything. Your pulse was racing, your breath shaking (nerves or cold?), both clear signs you shouldn’t move until you calmed down.
A few days ago, you could’ve slipped out of this situation easily using one of Talia’s tactics. But just thinking about her still gave you chills, and letting those thoughts linger too long brought on nightmares.
You were so tired of feeling like this—unprotected, betrayed, unsure. It was a cycle on repeat. Tired of feeling awful. Tired of having to start over again and again.
Tired of living with loneliness. Of feeling so alone.You hated that the people you cared about always hurt you. Hated even more that you blamed yourself for it. You hated missing the ones who left—or worse, the ones who abandoned you. Because missing them didn’t just mean letting go of the past; what hurt the most was tearing yourself away from the future you had planned with them. The version of your life where they stayed by your side through every stage, where your bond grew stronger, where you finally found a place in the world that was unconditional, where you weren’t obsolete or replaceable. A home.
Look at Y/N. No one to protect her. No one to defend her. Doing anything and everything under the gentle lie of “for the good of the family.”
You hated that you couldn’t get them out of your head. How could you fear someone in your dreams and miss them at the same time?
Did you miss that person? Or did you just miss the possibilities of what you could’ve had together?
Most of all, you hated that this feeling was one-sided. That the other person could toss you aside like trash—with no guilt, no hesitation, no love.
No consequences.
Why did all your relationships end this way? Why did you always end up isolated? Were they really the problem?
Or was it you? Something you said? Something you did? Something you thought?
What the hell made people see you as a tool, a resource, an object—but never as a person?
You wished—just once—that they could step into your shoes. That they could feel what it was like, not to be considered for even a second. No mercy, no break. Used. A punching bag. A weapon. You wished they could all rot in the same place they had forced you into.
You wanted to ruin them the way they ruined you. You wanted to ruin him—that meta. Take away his shot at redemption.
...
But you didn’t. You stopped yourself.
You curled up tighter against the wall, rocking yourself back and forth.
“I’m better than them.” You hid your face in your knees and kept repeating. “I’m better than them.”
You are better than them.
“You know your mother’s a bitch, right?”
You are better than them.
“I’m better than them.”
“In public, call me Mr. Wayne.”
You are better than them.
Then why are you crying?
“Dude, please tell me you’re not crying.”
Duke recognized Dick’s friendly tone behind him.
“Nah, just… thinking. You know, the usual.”
Duke’s faint smile was enough to kill any cheer in Dick, and once he read the gravestone behind him, the weight of the moment only grew heavier.
He knelt beside Duke, placing a hand on his shoulder for comfort.
“If you ever want to talk about it—about anything—you know I’m here for you, right?”
There it was again.
Duke rolled his eyes and forced a smile, trying to ease him.
“Yeah, Dick. Pretty sure you’ve made that clear the twelfth time you said it.” He glanced at the gravestone, the name carved into it, then back at Dick. “But… do you think you could give me a minute alone? I need some time with her.”
Dick hesitated, then gave in with a sigh.
“I’ll be in the kitchen with Alfred if you need me.” He stood, still watching him carefully. “Don’t stay out too long, it’s cold.”
Duke stayed in silence for a while, caught somewhere between presence and absence, unconsciously listening only to Dick’s footsteps fading away and the wind whistling past.
“What do you want me to do…? Would you have forgiven her?” He brushed his fingers slowly over the name carved into the stone, as if searching for some kind of guidance, a sign, anything.
He read the inscription carefully: “Y/N Pennyworth, beloved daughter and sister. No garden full of flowers will ever be enough to make it up to you.”
“Y/N… are you angry… at her?”
“She’s dead. She died from the violence she—”
“At me…? I let her run, after all. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
In that moment, when Duke connected the dots, he almost lost control. His armor, the vigilante persona this family had welcomed, the memory of Bruce—Batman—already tired, was the only thing holding him back. He couldn’t dishonor everything Batman had taught him as a crimefighter. Not after all Bruce had done for him…
And yet, part of him felt like he was betraying you.
“Do you want revenge? Do you want me to save her? To stay out of it…?”
Was it really just a coincidence that Abby—the Abby who’d nearly driven you to suicide—just happened to cross paths with him today? During his patrol, of all times?
Why did it feel like being okay with his family and being okay with you meant walking two completely different paths?
“If I go after her, I’m unworthy of this family. If I don’t, I’m unworthy of being your brother.” He pressed his forehead against the gravestone’s edge. “Please, Y/N, tell me what to do…”
Meanwhile, in the manor kitchen, Dick couldn’t stop worrying about how long Duke had been outside.
Maybe he should check on him anyway…? His patrol was coming up, and he didn’t want this to slip away. It felt like they needed to talk.
“I believe he’s drowning in a teacup, Master Richard,” Alfred advised, sharp as always.
“No, no… something’s off. He’s acting weirder than usual.” Dick bounced his leg anxiously, not even realizing the tic. “Is it patrol? College? Both?”
Dick kept staring off toward Duke, searching for a clue.
Ever since… Y/N, he’d tried to be more observant, more careful; more present, he liked to say when people asked.
'What? I just want to be a good brother, not a stranger in their lives.'
If only he’d been that way with her—if he’d just paid a little more attention…
“I know you’re only worried for Master Duke, but I don’t think overprotection is the right answer. Trust him; if he’s in real trouble, he’ll come to you or to someone else in the family.”
Alfred handed him a glass of water.
“You must accept that Duke, like all of your siblings, will have problems he needs to solve on his own. Personal growth is an important part of human development, you know?”
Dick reflected for a moment. He knew Alfred was right, and that his overprotectiveness was… well, at the very least, excessive.
He inhaled and exhaled, trying to push away the urge to intervene.
“Fine… fine. You’re right.” He rested his forehead against the kitchen table. “I’ll give him space.” He muttered through his teeth.
“I’m glad to hear it, Master Dick.” Turning, Alfred handed him a silver tray with dinner on it. “Now, please do me a favor and bring this to Master Damian. Honestly, I dislike how much he locks himself away in his studies. He tends to push his learning further than he should…”
Taking the tray was a silent acceptance of the task.
Dick knew exactly what Alfred meant.
If Damian wasn’t in Y/N’s room, watching her video diary like a sacred ritual, then he was at school and afterward burying himself in homework until exhaustion. Anything to avoid facing the guilt.
None of them could really scold him—they were all just as broken. The only thing they could do was hold each other up enough to keep the family from falling apart.
As Dick walked the second-floor hallway, eyes on the tray in his hands (careful not to spill anything), he caught sight of sneakers sticking out against the monotone carpet. Sneakers planted at Damian’s doorway.
“Tim?” Dick called, half-confused, half-questioning.
Timothy just gave him a quick wave to stay quiet, then turned back to staring straight ahead.
Dick frowned and stepped up beside him, looking in the same direction.
“Okay… yeah… yeah. What—? No! I’ll… I’ll clear my schedule…”
In the middle of the room, Damian was on the phone. He was agitated, noticeably stressed—not the restless kind that usually kept him pacing like a caged lion, but something heavier. Serious. Dick thought, watching the youngest Wayne pressing his temples as he leaned against his desk.
Damian ended the call, tossed his phone aside, and buried his face in his hands, feeling the migraine already coming.
Tim cleared his throat.
“Uh… Damian? Everything good, bro?”
“Something happen…?” Dick followed up.
Damian stayed quiet for a moment, either processing or searching for the words.
“My mother called… said my grandfather is dead—or murdered, rather.” Damian still couldn’t say it out loud without it sounding unreal.
Tim frowned.
“Who? Ra’s?”
“Do you think I have other grandfathers?”
“What Tim means—” Dick cut in. “It’s hard to believe. After all this time, Ra’s has dodged death more times than we can count, you know?”
Damian let out a contained sigh.
“I know. I know that better than anyone. But this time… my mother said there wasn’t enough of him left to throw into the pit.” The mental image that flashed in Damian’s head made his skin crawl.
“For someone to take down Ra’s to that extent…” Tim muttered. “Who was it? Deathstroke?”
“My mother dodged the question.” Damian’s expression darkened. “But she’ll be here in the morning to discuss it. More importantly—she wants to talk to Batman.”
Being honest with himself, at first he wasn’t on board with the idea of taking in Bruce’s bastard.
But after Talia’s relentless insistence, and driven by his usual desire to please his daughter, he agreed to indulge her whim.
At the very least, this desire had worked Talia’s patience; it forced her to wait diligently for years—watching, waiting, planning.
He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the League had played a role in the growing neglect of that girl. But in the end, they hadn’t done much; the seed was already planted, and they only fed it casually.
When the day finally came, Talia was happy to gain a daughter, and he was pleased to gain a potential weapon.
With a little cultivation, security, and guidance, she could surpass her mother by far. She could dominate the best of both worlds, with a little patience—
He expected a weapon in return, but to be honest, he hadn’t thought it would come so easily.
He quickly grew bored. The ease with which she accepted her fate, the docility she displayed…
Don’t get it wrong, that was extremely beneficial—he knew it. But for some reason… it didn’t please him. When she offered her blind obedience, when she did it with such a resigned, uncertain face, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted.
And as the first months passed, he learned to avoid her unless it was absolutely necessary for them to be in the same room.
He couldn’t stand her for long periods of time; her naïveté, her submission, her dependence.He hated how disgustingly docile she was.
But even more, he hated how deeply it affected him.
Emotions beyond ambition weren’t common for him, and inner conflict between them was even rarer.
But somehow, that changed two years later—during the Aquarium mission.
The insecure, dependent girl he was certain was walking beside him revealed more layers than he had planned for.
It both amazed and unsettled him to find not just a dull, blunt weapon—but a girl as human as any other, yet more extraordinary than all of them.
Suddenly, the blind obedience he thought consumed her turned into a genuine loyalty—to him, to his purpose—that he had only ever seen in his own daughter: Talia.
She understood. She understood him.
The dependence she showed toward them soon became reciprocal, though no one ever noticed.
Every small act of kindness only drew him in deeper and deeper, until he realized his unusual affection far too late to turn back.
The moment he recognized his feelings, he didn’t hesitate to accept them and confide in his daughter, immediately working to lock her away, to keep her.
She was so young, so sharp, and so naïve all at once. She didn’t need weapons handed to her—she needed protection.
And that often meant hiding what he felt, even from her.
When you want something, it’s inevitable that others will start to see what makes it so desirable. That’s why you must take it and hide it before it’s stolen.
Sadly, it had become normal for him to disguise his affection with scorn and dehumanization before his “allies.” Sometimes it disgusted him to dehumanize his only granddaughter so much, but if that was what it took to protect her—if that was what it took to conceal the fact that she was his greatest weakness—then he was more than willing—
What? Is there someone behind the door?
Someone foolish enough to think he wouldn’t notice—?!
Huh?
“Y/N? What are you—?”
Before he could finish his words, three pairs of vines struck him, sharp and piercing like spears.
They quickly branched out from within, exploding horrifically in every sense.
Soon, there wasn’t much left of Ra’s to recognize or recover.
The next thing Nanda Parbat felt—along with almost the entire League—was a massive underground tremor, sealing their end.
PLANTOIC YANDERE BATFAM X NEGLECTED GWEN STACY!READER
WARNINGS-
1.2k words
author's note- Thank you for all the messages and comments; I really appreciate them all even if I don't reply!! <3 I have been feeling a little sick lately, so chapters might slow down over the next week or so. I also have been thinking of other prompts that scratch my brain, so you might see some drabbles posted every now and then.
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Your face still burned with embarrassment as you passed the groups of students gathered outside stared at you.
Finally, by some saving grace, someone called out to you.
“(Y/N)!”
Your head turned towards the call, seeing an all too familiar face jogging towards you.
You’d know that face anywhere. Peter was not a tall or muscular boy. He was honestly scrawnier than you were and barely a few inches taller. The top half of his face was taken up by large circular frames. Your knuckles turned white as you held the straps of your bag tighter, staring at him as he finally caught up to you.
“Where have you been? You’re usually here before me!” He stepped behind you, grabbing your bookbag and zipping it up.
“And your bookbag is unzipped? What is happening today?”
He chuckled to himself, patting your bag before stepping back around to look at your face.
His smile faltered for a moment once he saw your face. Eyes wide, staring at him with your jaw almost on the ground. You’d figured you’d be ready to face this world’s version of Peter, but you hadn’t expected him to be so similar to yours. Not similar actually. An exact copy of you, Peter.
Your heart raced as you stared at the boy. Your mind flashing back to that night, seeing Peter all mangled and dying. Blood splattering his clothes. The same glasses that sat on his face undamaged were crushed during the transformation. Your heart rattled against your ribs as you stared at the boy, your hand clammy against the fabric straps of your bag.
You snapped out of your trance as he spoke again.
“Are you okay, (Y/N)? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If he only knew.
“Umm, yeah. Sorry, just not feeling well.” You stammered, trying to recover from the images that flashed through your mind.
“Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
You grumbled suddenly, the weight of sleep deprivation hitting you.
“Stay up late studying?” He inquired, starting to walk towards the doors.
“Yeah, sort of.” You muttered, following him. An almost guilty feeling weighed on your shoulders as the thought of Damian reading the journal came to your mind. You didn’t know what was in there, and you doubted other (Y/N) would be very pleased to know the brother she seemed to harbor the most resentment for had read the contents of a very private journal. You could excuse yourself going through it; after all, you were pretty sure you were the same person. But that little brat?
You’d have to deal with it later.
Peter seemed content doing most of the talking as he led you wherever he was going.
Hopefully you two had the same class. You wouldn’t be surprised if you did, considering you and your Peter had carefully curated your schedules to have the same classes. Luckily it seemed you and the other you had the same thought, as you were led to some English class by Peter and sat down at the desk next to him.
And just by the pit in your stomach and the way you felt like you could curl up on the floor under your desk and sleep there for a couple months, you could tell this was going to be a long day.
By the time the end of school rolled around, you debated if there was a chance the librarian wouldn’t notice if you slept all night in the academy’s extensive library. But Peter seemed intent on following you as you stepped out of the building.
“(Y/N)?”
You paused, looking at him, your eyes darting towards the car that Alfred stood outside of, staring at you. “Aren’t we going to that concert?” He asked with the kicked puppy look he always seemed to have painted on his face. “Huh?” You asked confusedly. “The concert? The one we’ve been talking about for weeks?”
Oh, shit.
“Uh, yeah! Sorry, I forgot. Completely blanked out of my head. Yeah, we’re still going.” You stammered trying to cover up your mistake, your eyes darting back to Alfred, whose attention seemed to already be drawn to something else.
Your eyes followed to where he was spotting a shorter figure he was staring at.
Suddenly your anger was boiling at the sight of the brat, your hand reaching out to grab his bookbag and drag him towards you.
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?” He smirked, seemingly proud of himself for fueling such an angry outburst from you.
“You know exactly what, Damian. Hand over my journal.” You held your hand out expectantly.
He paused for a moment before grinning. “Oh! Your diary?” He asked.
“No shit, brat. Give it to me.”
“I threw it away.” He answered matter-of-factly. “You what?” You snarled suddenly, debating how much you’d ruin the other (Y/N)’s life more if you just beat the kid to a bloody pulp and if it’d be worth it.
She’d honestly probably thank you.
“It’s in the garbage. That’s usually what throwing something in the trash means.” He spat, suddenly grabbing your hand that was curled around the handle of his bag, trying to claw your hand off.
“I know that!” You snapped, shaking him. “It’s not like you had anything important to write down!” He argued back, still trying to claw at your hand despite it not budging.
“Master (Y/N), you need to let go of your brother.”
Alfred was suddenly standing next to the two of you, staring you down.
“No! He threw away my journal—”
“Diary!” Damian interrupted as if trying to embarrass you further even while you were holding him like a scruffed kitten.
“Shut up, brat! He threw away my journal after he took it this morning.” You tried to explain while Damian tried to interrupt you between each word.
“I understand you are upset, but this behavior is unacceptable.” He gestured to the two of you.
You looked back at Damian, suddenly realizing the scruffed kitten comparison was much more accurate than you originally thought. Damian dangled in the air by his backpack, twisting and kicking at you, trying to get you to let go of him as you held him in the air like he weighed nothing. You dropped him unceremoniously onto the ground, trying to hold back your laugh as he stumbled trying to get his footing again.
Alfred grabbed the younger boy, stopping him from launching himself at you.
“I’ll see about getting you a new one.” Alfred stated, his voice dripping with disappointment, before he dragged Damian back to the car.
Damian shot a glare back at his sister, watching as she stepped away with the nerdy-looking friend without sparing him a second glance. Leaving him to be handled like a toddler by Alfred. As they approached the car, Alfred let go of him, finally allowing him to climb into the car by himself. “What’d you do to piss her off so much, Damian?” Steph asked from beside him, watching as their sister disappeared down the street.
“Nothing. Just another overreaction.” He grumbled as he sat his bookbag next to him. His hands remained attached to it, though, as if worried someone in the car might snatch it up.
PLANTOIC YANDERE BATFAM X NEGLECTED GWEN STACY!READER
WARNING- Talks of gun violence and death
1.5k words
author's note- WHOO first time posting my writing in awhile!! I hope you all enjoy :DD Next chapter should have some actual interactions with the batfam ;)
next ➜
You didn’t know how you got here. Maybe it was fate. Maybe some divine intervention pulled and twisted the threads of fate to make it seem more meant to be than it actually was. But it didn’t matter how you got here. You were bleeding out in the remnants of your school on a night you weren’t meant to forget.
Of course you wouldn’t forget this. Being shot by your own dad and bleeding out a few dozen feet from where your best friend lay dead. Your white suit is stained red as the bullet wounds peel open your skin, allowing blood to flow. Your lungs huff for air as you lie there. You can see movement. Your father takes a few steps forward, his gun still raised, blissfully unaware of who he just signed a contract with death for. He lowers his gun as he gets closer, kneeling beside you as the pain pumps through your veins more than your blood does. His fingers grab the bottom of your mask. The bright colors of your universe fading to a dull beat.
“Dad?”
You whisper one last time before your body gives out. The last thing you feel is the warm air hitting your face as the mask is pulled back before the vivid colors around you dull and you slip into the sea of black that follows. Death feels like the warm embrace of someone you’ve met a million times but somehow still feels new.
You wonder for a moment if it’s Peter who’s embracing you into the land of the dead just as he was minutes earlier.
But the thought soon vanishes as the warmth disappears and the world around you brightens suddenly. You shoot up, sweat dripping down your body and face. Almost as if you had woken up from a terrible nightmare. But that was real.
Wasn’t it?
You push aside a scratchy unfamiliar blanket as you stand on wobbly legs. Your hands flying all over your body searching for any sign of the wound your father had inflicted on you. But as you pulled the shirt you did not recognize up and stared at your stomach, your fingers brushing over the spot where the bullet had entered your skin, you realized it wasn’t there. The wound that had been there. That had killed you was gone. Not even a scar remained to prove its existence outside of your mind.
A knock startled you, bringing you back from the land of your thoughts. Or your delusions. You couldn’t tell which now.
As you finally took a moment to look around the room, you didn’t recognize any of it. The room around you seemed dull. Void of the bright vibrant colors you were so used to. Bits and pieces seemed like the room around you could almost belong to you. Almost. But not enough to feel as if the entire place were foreign. Another knock drew you back to the door. “Master (Y/N)?” An almost bored tone echoed through the door.
You paused for a moment, working up the courage to answer. “Uh, yeah?” You asked, hoping the man behind the door couldn’t hear the shaking of your voice as the words left your lips. If he noticed, he chose to ignore it as he spoke again. “Dinner is ready. You’re expected to attend.” He replied.
“Umm, yeah. I’ll, uh, be down in a second!” You replied, hoping the words were believable enough. As the sounds of footsteps barely echoed through the door, you let out a sigh of relief.
You had been in weird situations before, but none this weird. The room seemed larger than your living room in the apartment you shared with your dad. And the fact someone had just called you master of all things made you even more creeped out. Had you been sucked into some fucked-up mini universe by some villain? It’s possible you concluded by looking around the room for a moment. A few of the items dotted around the room seemed like they could’ve belonged to you. A pair of bright turquoise ballet slippers lay next to the barre shoved into the corner of the room. Posters of bands you had never heard of dotted the walls, journals you don’t remember writing in or owning filled the shelves, and clothes you don’t own poked out of an ajar closet door.
It was enough to almost seem like the room was yours but different enough to feel like the new place it was.
Your fingers curled around the fancy metal doorknob, pulling the door open as you stepped out into a long empty hallway. The house could almost feel abandoned as you walked down it. Spiderwebs collected next to large open windows, floorboards creaked, and dust settled in a thick layer across almost every surface. You wandered for a long while, getting lost in the maze of halls and rooms before stumbling across a large grand staircase.
A man stood below, a few steps up the stairs. He was older and balding. The hair left was gray, and wrinkles dotted his face. He was dressed in a suit that looked almost like a uniform. Your fingers squeezed the railing, staring down at him.
“Ah, Master (Y/N). I was just about to come check on you. Glad you decided to finally join us.”
Us? You wanted to ask, but your lips remained sealed. This part of the large house you found yourself in seemed much more taken care of than the area you had just left. It looked more lived in. The man turned around quickly, catching you off guard. He took long strides away from the staircase, not looking back as if he expected you to follow without a word.
You stumbled down the staircase, barely catching yourself before you almost took an ungraceful tumble down the long set of stairs. Quickly scurrying to catch up with the man.
He stops at a door that you can hear chatter from. Laughs and conversation fill your ears as he opens the door for you, letting the conversation spill out to where you and the fancy old man stood.
The room fell silent as you stepped in. A large family of strangers sat at a long table staring at you for a moment. But just as if you were invisible, they suddenly turned back to each other and began speaking amongst themselves, laughs echoing from the conversations each of them held.
If you had any idea what the fuck was happening, you might’ve been hurt. But confusion just etched itself so far into your head, taking up too much space for you to worry about anything else as you made your way to the last empty seat at the table. Next to you sat a young boy with jet black hair. He stared at you for a moment, shooting a glare your way when you looked at him, and you silently wondered who shit in his breakfast. The fancy old man, whose name you still hadn’t learned, set a plate of food in front of you before walking away without another word.
The dinner was odd. No one acknowledged your presence as the hour slowly passed. As if you were meant to be there, but none of them actually cared enough to verbally acknowledge you. Every time you felt like you could maybe open your mouth to say something, the young boy next to you shot you a glare like he was about to stab you in the throat with the fork he was using to eat his food. It got to the point you came to the conclusion you probably shit in his breakfast this morning even if you had zero memory of it. Or any clue why you had done it. As people finally seemed to be standing up to finish, you stood alongside them, leaving the full plate of food you had been handed behind. You darted out of the dining room, back up the stairs, and tried to retrace your steps back to the room you had woken up in.
Finally, after wandering aimlessly once again, you found the hallway, quickly darting into the room.
You closed the door behind you, locking it with a soft click.
You stood with your back to the door for a solid few moments thinking. Where were you? Was this the afterlife? It couldn’t be.
A long buzz from the nightstand across the room drew you from your thoughts, your eyes finding a phone sitting on the nightstand plugged in. You slide across the wooden floor, your socks finding no traction to stop you as you grab hold of the nightstand, stopping you from slamming your side into it or the wall next to it.
Your fingers wrapped around the buzzing phone, swiping up on the call button without thinking. As you held it to your ear, a warm, familiar voice came from the other end.
“Hey, (Y/N)! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
The voice dragged out the "hours" part in an all too familiar way, the joke and annoyance filling the boy’s words.
Yandere! Batfam x Cafe owner! Reader x Yandere! Villains because all of the Yan Batman/fam x readers are always neglected reader this, neglected reader that and I want something goofy and not platonic 🤷 (No hate to the authors the fics are just saturated with the same concepts)
All of them are romantic other than Damien
(OOC as fuck(I'm still getting to know the characters) because I'm writing with pure delusion and it's fucking yandere of course it's ooc)
Imagine poor ol' reader being a fresh face in Gotham, unaware of the danger they are in just by existing there. Being a new owner of a food joint, you are excited to finally have your dream of being a barista/baker becoming true (though the job will be tough considering you'd be the only one working for a while until you hire someone)
I know most of you are thinking, why Gotham? Why not in Metropolis or something? Honestly, you don't fully know yourself, all that really pushed you into opening a cafe there is because the rent is cheap compared to the nearby cities.
Sure, it's terrifying knowing that you might die everytime you open your doors but like, will that stop you from fulfilling your dream? No. So you open your cafe regardless of whether you'd die that day or not.
The morning of your first day opening the cafe was uneventful, only a few customers coming in to order, curious about the person who is dumb enough to settle in Gotham. The true event happened close to your closing hour, cleaning up the cafe to close.
In true Gotham fashion, the first day you opened is also the day you realized how much you fucking hate Gotham.
Swiping the floor, you hear the bell to the door ring, but as you look up and tell the late customer that you're closed, you're face to face with a gun. It's Joker's goons(though you don't know shit about him other than he's a clown), laughing at whatever inside joke they have.
Scared shitless, you comply with whatever they demanded, raising your arms with the broom still on your grip. One of the goons move behind the counter, trying to open the cash register. Another one is browsing your baked goods, eyes narrowed as if he's a paying customer, fully knowing he's just going to steal that shit anyway.
There's one thing that really pissed you off though, the only thing that bothered you this whole time, is that one of them went back to the kitchen, took a bite of a clearly raw croissant, spat it out, talking about how it tastes like shit, and threw out the whole tray of croissants that you were going to bake in the morning for tomorrow's batch.
In that moment you saw red.
The goon pointing a gun at you fell down as a broom hits him in the face, his gun thrown back to the goon stealing from your register, knocking him out. The other goons move to fight you but you swung at them in feral rage. That motherfucker needs to pay for wasting 3 days of your life making those croissants from scratch.
Nearby, Batman's ears pick up a high pitched scream, comming the rest of the family that he'll check it out. When he got there, what he heard wasn't a woman, but a grown ass man, Joker's goon, begging for forgiveness as you, still wearing your apron, brandishing your trusty broom, beating the hell out of him.
The exasperated phrase of 'what the fuck' fell from Batman's mouth, immediately setting off the batfam's alarm. Nightwing, being close, moved towards Batman's location while Robin joined him halfway. They are greeted with the same sight as Batman keeps staring at the entrance of your cafe.
Behind you is your cafe, bright light flooding towards the dark street, colourful and so out of place in Gotham. Inside they see 3 passed out goons, clearly halfway through a robbery.
Batman had to stop you from beating the goon any further because the goon was pleading, begging for Batman to save him.
You explained the situation and actually sneered at the goon when you explained the spilled croissants, he hid behind Nightwing when you raised your broom in anger. The three of them swiftly captured the goons and you innocently gave them a bag of cookies each as thanks. It was jarring to see you go from feral to sweet.
The cookies are really fucking good though, Nightwing might come back sometime.
The next time you encountered Joker's goons is when they're next to him, ready to fuck shit up. He came there because it was embarrassing to hear that one of his goons got beaten up by a barista in a pastel apron with a fucking broom. What would the other villains think knowing his goons are dumb enough to be beaten up by you?
Before he could start messing up your cafe, you called him out and demanded he'd pay for the wasted croissants, waving your trusty broom again. Joker laughed at your audacity and mocked you, asking why would he pay for something insignificant—
Shit that's good.
He chews on the croissant shoved in his mouth, and you smugly smile at him, knowing the death of your croissants are a huge deal.
"They threw this away?? Damn, maybe I should kill them for doing that."
Joker paid for the croissants, stating he'd deduct it from their pay (they're getting paid to be assholes? Lucky.) before buying out the rest of your croissants.
Word spread from there, your cafe being a popular choice among nocturnal criminals and bats (you changed your schedule fairly quickly after waking up in the middle of the night by Red Robin knocking on your window asking for coffee and one of the crime lords craving cakes.)
It got to the point where your cafe is the only place that the Batfam and the criminals agree is a neutral ground, so no fighting or anything inside the Cafe. Seeing multiple groups sitting on your cute table sets is fairly normal now. Also you now have staff lended by the crime lords themselves. You also have a part timer named Duke who's scheduled in the morning while you handle the night, the goons are spread evenly on the schedule.
They adore you though, so most of them come during the night. A lot of them flirt with you but you reject their advances with a polite smile.
The batfam likes to brood in a corner table, staring at you in adoration (Batman chose the table and the rest piled on fairly quickly) while Red Robin takes pictures of your Cafe full of criminals (For data! He says), but clearly it's mostly of you scurrying about the counter, serving epipke. Nightwing shoots his shot but you are too busy to fully pay attention to him. Damien likes you because you give him cookies for free.
They visit every night consistently, for food, mostly for data gathering (they check who's inside so they know which crime lord will be active that night), and mainly for you.
The villains visit from time to time — your frequent visitor being Harley — just to eat and discuss plans as if you couldn't hear them, eh, as long as they don't bother you and your cafe, you don't snitch on them. A lot of them try to recruit you on their side but you shoot them down stating that you only want to work in your cafe. The more gentlemanly ones leave you flowers and gifts. Normal ones.
And yes, they band together when random goons and criminals try to rob you, your cafe is neutral ground, but when threatened, it's on sight.
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Warnings ⚠️: mentions of child abandonment and prostitution.
𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐢𝐞.
There's always a way out.
That's one thing your absent mother did absolutely teach you.
No matter how hard. No matter how painful, you can always escape.
You saw it, how your mom used to get herself into the biggest messes or debts and still find a way out.
Sometimes you were her way out. Some took pity on her for being a single mother and didn't ask for their money back.
But most of them?
Most of them took their revenge on you.
You were the escape plan. Always a good way out.
You took the hits ,yeah. But you also got something else in return.
Knowledge.
How to get out or in any situation.
That being said being taken to your supposedly father by batman wasn't great, like at all.
But your pretty sure you could pull a few tricks here and there.
"So tell me," You mutter swallowing nervously. Even if you were the most well known street racer you were overall just a kid.
And talking to batman under any circumstances was still pretty nerve racking.
"just how big my dad is to have batman himself get me for him?"
Bruce hums his eyes glancing in his rearview mirror to check on Jason who's following you guys on his motorcycle.
"He's a pretty big deal."
You scoff crossing your arms, a small pout on your lips.
"Not big enough to make himself present."
Bruce wants to shrink. Because your right your absolutely right. And just how many times can he pull the 'I didn't know you existed card'?
Well he supposes once more won't hurt.
"He didn't know you existed."
You huff rolling your eyes, hands gently playing with the material of your shirt anxiously as you speak.
"And how do you know? You two close or something?"
Your brows raised, lips thinned into a line trying to decipher his words before he even says them.
Bruce swallows, once, hard, almost nervous but that hides behind his mask as he deep voice responds.
"Something like that."
Before you can think of anything smarter to say a loud boom echos throughout the city.
"Looks like we're gonna have to take a detor."
Is all batman says before swiftly drifting the car and turning in the direct of the car.
The batmobils pretty fast you'll give it that. You don't even bother hiding your smile as the engine roars and reaches a speed you thought unimaginable.
"This thing is pretty fast."
Batman doesn't respond, to focused on whatever's a head.
A building on fire, is what you see when you arrive at the scene.
Dark clouds of smoke surrounding the building. Loud screaming, and people running out.
Nothing new for gotham.
"Stay here."
Batman yells taking the keys out the ignition and putting the car on lock down mode.
You smile, the first real smile of the night.
"Whatever you say, batman."
Your body moves without thinking crossing to the driver's side with one swift move.
Hands tearing apart the cables under the wheel.
"What the fuck kinda car is this?"
There's not very many wires but there are alot of buttons. Like it was made out of codes.
Well you didn't take coding class for nothing.
'System lock down, failing.'
The batmobil sensors say. You smile you almost have have it.
You glance up batman no where in sight but that doesn't seem to be your problem.
No, your problem seems to be the big bastard who got you into this mess.
Two tone, also known as Jason todd.
He's making his way to you having already saved a few life's from the fire.
The doors don't move when he tries open them and you smile.
He can clearly see your trying to hack the car as he continues to pry open the door with a glare.
"The car was built by batman, kid. Don't bother your wasting your time."
He says a almost smug smile on his lips. Like the one he had when you beat him.
You scoff he wouldn't win. Not this time.
'System lock down, off.'
You smile the batmobils engine roaring with life.
You Crack the window just enough for him to be able to hear you.
Jason's smile fades and his hand try and pull harder on the door handle.
"Don't you dare."
He mutters his hands now banging on the window.
"Next time I see you you better have my ten grand and not a cent less."
You wave putting the car in drive before blowing a kiss his way with a smug wink.
"See ya later, two tone."
Your hands grasping the batmobil feels like a dream.
Dismissing how you almost ran over a trash can from how fast you were going.
Having the windows rolled down and the breeze from the night air was magical.
Everything was good for about twenty minutes of your so called joy ride.
Until, the batmobil starts driving by itself.
Your hands remove from the wheel immediately. Seeing that it's not moving to your command anyway.
"What kinda fuckass tesla is this!"
You grab your phone quickly, almost dropping it in the process.
Dialing the only number you got saved.
One ring, the batmobil comes at a stop at a red light.
Two rings, the lights still red.
Three rings and the light turns green rushing to whatever direction it plans on taking you.
The ringing stops and relief floods through you as you hear a familiar deep voice answer.
"Hey kid you alright? Batman kinda showed up so we had bounce. You good though?"
You sigh finally feeling like you can breathe agian.
"Mickey, I-I need help."
Mickey stops driving parking in an ally. You hardly ever asked for help. Even if you were in some dark shit.
His grip on his wheel tightens but his voice is soft as he answers.
"Whats wrong kid?"
At this point your full on hyperventilating, because either your about to get kidnapped by batman for some deep shit or your real dad really wants you.
You don't which scares you more.
"Batman, he took me."
It's not much explanation but that's all your weak voice would let you get out.
Mickey sighs because if this was about jail or even prison he'd get you out. No biggy.
"Calm down kid. If they take you in, I'll bail you out. Hell, if the put you behind bars I'll fuckin' bust you out."
Typical Mickey always having an answer for everything. You wanted to scream. No, you need to scream.
"Mickey my dad sent batman after me."
A long pause can be heard. Like a deafening one, before a groan and what's seem to be a gun getting loaded sound can be heard ,before Mickey replies.
"Ya always getting into trouble kid. Don't worry I'll get it out."
You hum, believing him because what other choice did you have?
Mickey is your one and what seem to be your only family left.
And as you pull into a huge manor dread fills your body, like rain fills the ocean.
Mickey is your only way out. You know that now.
"Mickey?"
You can practically see him. Getting stuff from his house. Things that he keeps hidden, things that would definitely send him to prison.
"Don't worry kid I got your location."
You lick your lips, you knew he had your location. He's the one that made you download life 360 in the first place. But that's not what you were gonna say.
"I love you Mickey."
Mickey freezes, like his body is trapped in ice freezes.
Not once in your decade of knowing him have you ever said that.
Not when he protected you from creepy men. Not when he drove you home.
Not when he helped you look for your drugged up mom on the streets when you couldn't find her.
Not when he paid your rent cause your mom couldn't.
Not even on the late night drives he used to take you just to get away from your house when your mom had her drunky boyfriend over.
This was diffrent. Almost like a goodbye.
"Don't go soft on me kid."
You want to laugh you really do, and maybe under diffrent circumstances the tears in your eyes would've allowed you to. But not in this life.
"Well see eachother agian."
He mutters voice soft. Not like when hes trying to get a girl to go home with him. Not when hes trying to ease up a cop to let him go without a ticket.
No, this soft is only for you.
"I pinky promise."
You smile, a deep breath escaping your lungs. Mickeys the only person you've ever known who kept his pinky promises. Atleast with you he did.
His promises meant something. Like they were written in blood. Even if you weren't his blood.
Your voice breaks and your hands won't stop shaking as you say what feels like goodbye.
"I gotta go."
"I'll be there soon kiddo."
The call ends and the batmobil turns off.
Standing directly infront of the lavish manor is batman with his arms crossed and Jason with a smug smile.
Batman opens the door and pulls you out. Strong but not harsh, you stand glaring at both of them as they lead up the stairs.
"Your dad's waiting inside for you."
Batman says letting you go and walking back to the batmobil. He looks like he's driving away but really he's just going to park the car in the batcave.
Jason takes hold of your arm not let you slip away.
"Come on, let's go meet your dead beat dad."
Walking in you expected maybe a mafia man or even a few big guys with guns.
But that wasn't what waited for you.
It was just an old man who was dressed in some sort of suit and a boy who looked very familiar.
A dog, a great Dane to big exact sniffed at your clothes and jumped on you out of excitement.
The boy stands, having been seated on the stairs and pulls the dog away.
"You'll have to excuse Titus he's still undergoing training."
You nod looking at him. Then it clicks. The book store. You saw him at the book store.
"You may remember me from the book store?"
The smaller boy extends his hand but you don't shake it. Not yet.
"I do."
You respond glancing back at his extended hand before looking back at him.
"Your father is waiting for you, miss."
You glance at the man who you suppose is the butler.
The boy puts his hand down disappointed and slightly hurt you didn't shake it.
Jason pushes you towards the steps and you walk, begrudgingly.
You walk into what looks like an office.
'Wow such a great place to meet your long lost dad.' You think to yourself.
Then your eyes land on a man. While he does look intimidating he isn't what you thought he'd look like.
Someone powerful enough to get batman to track you down had to be associated with the mafia right? Or at the very least into some dark shit.
But this man with not a tattoo in sight, who looks like he actually pays his taxes is supposed to be your father?
You narrow your eyes not really believing the man infront of you.
Bruce clears his throat hands over his desk as he leans forward.
"I'm guessing you know I'm your father?"
You hum crossing your arms. Leaning forward like your trying to inspect him.
"Yeah, what'd ya need me for? I lung? A liver?"
You scoff taking a quick glance around the fancy office before staring back at him.
"Let me guess, you need a new heart and I'm the only match?"
While Bruce isn't the best father he can already tell your about to shake his whole world.
And he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But he's already missed years of your life and he doesn't plan on missing anymore.
"No, I'd never do that. Especially to my own child."
Words can't describe the next few moments. Like years of questions and unanswered prayers have come to life and you don't know what to say.
"Why I am here then?"
"Because your my kid. And you should be with me."
You cringe at that. No one's ever called you their kid.
Sure Mickeys called you kid. But not in this way. Not in the way that says your mine, you came from me.
"Nah, I don't buy it. You trying to put me on your taxes or somethin'?"
Bruce has to forcibly stop a laugh. So he answer with a half smile gesturing around the luxurious office.
"Do I look like I need the money?"
You shrug your eyes not wavering from his like you could kill him from a stare.
Yeah, your definitely his kid.
"Once saw a guy by ten rolexes in a day. Next week he couldn't even afford his gas."
Bruce pauses ,hand still, eye brows raised. Because where the hell are you going with this?
"Your point is?"
You sigh like it's the world simplest statement. Because to you it is.
"Point is people ain't always who you think they are. Especially when it comes to money."
Bruce nods. Face considerate as he answers.
"Fair point, but maybe he shouldn'thave bought the Rolexes."
You don't say anything back, your arms still crossed over your chest like you'd stab the man if you had half the chance.
Bruce swallows but his voice doesn't shake and his composure doesn't crack.
Yet, you still see he's nervous by how he tries to slyly wipe his palms on his pants.
"You'll be staying here from now on."
Your face pales at that. Almost so that Bruce thought you might faint.
You swallow this time. Your composure not as strong as his, sadly.
"My mother won't allow that."
That's a lie. One of the biggest you've ever told. You know that, your sure Bruce's knows that.
But hey, you had to try something.
"Your mother is half away across the country."
You wish you could say that his words shock you. Maybe even want to make you cry.
But your face doesn't pale at that news and your voice doesn't crack at that information.
Cause deep down you know, your nothing but a street rat to her.
"Your lying."
The words slip past your lips faster then you could even think them. He's probably not lying you know that.
Maybe somewhere deep down you always imaged she was just out there getting help.
Potentially even trying to get clean of her addiction and come back a better mother for you.
That obviously wasn't the case.
"Sadly I'm not."
A soft 'tch' escapes you lips rolling your eyes. And if you'd look close enough your eyes push back the tears as you roll them.
Because you refused to let them fall, even for a man who is supposed to be your father.
"You must be pretty rich to know what you know. To have what you have."
You gesture around the manor like he did earlier. The feeling of this being a dream leaving like a fever.
"I'm Bruce Wayne. The billionaire."
"Like in the magazine?"
Now that's a bummer. All magazines say are bad things about the Wayne's. But still Bruce's nods having no other choice.
"Alfred will show you to your room."
You want to say something. Something smart. Something to make his skin crawl or even just to smack that cool demeanor he has off his face.
But you don't, you let your shoulders lose their tension and your eyes lose their glare.
All a fake act of obedience.
"Whatever." you mumble walking out the room.
Alfred the butler who looks like he knows more then he should, leads you to your room.
"Here you are miss. It is quiet late but well still be having dinner, the others didn't want to eat without you. Dinner will be served in an hour."
You nod your hand reaching for the doorknob that looks more expensive then your whole wardrobe.
Opening the door, your eyes widen.
It's beautiful. Not anything like your old rusty apartment. Your hands gently graze the walls, testing to see if this was really real.
You sigh glancing at the closed door. As if waiting for someone to kick you out because you don't belong. That's very clear to you by how you look.
Your clothes don't match this place, your sure manners don't either.
You roll your eyes at the thought. 'Not like I'll be here long anyways.' You think.
Mickey was probably already on his way.
Looking out your window it's pretty high up, but you've climbed worse right?
You hum finger on your chin deep in thought.
"I'd probably survive if I fell. Probably."
Without a second thought you open the window it's way easier to open then your one at your apartment.
No creaking or anything.
Climbing through you try and gently test your weight on the side of the brick line that goes across the manor.
Another quiet 'tch' escapes you lips.
"It's like this place was made to be snuck out of."
Seeing that your weight was stable on the brick, you try and walk across it. Hands on the wall of the manor keeping most of your weight on the side of the house.
Then you see a pole that runs down the side you smile, half your face still squished on the side of the manor.
Reaching for the pole your smile fades, you slip.
But just in time your other hand make contact with the pole and you grip it pulling your body plush with the pole as you slide down.
You sigh a long deep sigh before smiling.
Even doing an extra bow just to dramatic. "Tada!" You say giggling quietly to yourself as you take a few steps.
Then pausing when you what sounds like claps?
Then from behind a tree Tim pokes his head out.
Your smile drops.
"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."
Tim smiles and you recognize him instantly as he continues clapping, he's the boy you saw at the bus stop.
"I must say I'm impressed. You did that faster then I thought you would."
"So this whole thing was set up huh? From the day I saw you to now?"
You want to scream, to run. To do anything but stand here and talk to him.
Another voice speaks up. Softer but not kind. Like he hasn't hit puberty yet and by the looks of it ,he hasn't.
"Exactly."
Damian smiles a rare sight even for the people who know him.
"I told you she was smart Drake. She's a Wayne it's in her DNA."
"Smart enough to steal the batmobil."
You knew that voice from anywhere even if you had only known him a day.
"Fuckin' two tone."
You mumble just low enough for your ears. The others continue talking like your not even there, which was slightly concerning.
But you don't care. You take that chance to try and sneak away. To bad for you the youngest of the Wayne's grab your hand before you can get to far.
"Dinners going to be ready soon, sister."
He says it like it wasn't obvious you were trying to run away agian.
"I'm not your sister."
You try and pull your hand away but somehow his smaller hand seems to have more strength then you.
"Biologically you are."
After that he doesn't say another word. Just leads you to the dining room and makes you sit right beside him.
At the top of the table is Bruce and the others sit on either other side of the table.
"Did you like your room? We could always make changes if needed. And well have someonepick up your stuff soon enough. For jow you can just use the clothes Alfred bought you."
Bruce takes a sip of his drink, trying to distract himself from how nervous he really is.
You exhale poking your food with your fork boredly. Like this isn't the most delicious food you've ever seen.
"Yeah, it's fine ,and thanks for the clothes."
Damians the next to speak up, his food has been untouched the whole time. He looks eager to ask as many questions as possible.
"How did you get into street racing ,sister?"
Everyone chokes on their food and Bruce hits his chest like an old man after drinking to much beer.
Everyone's stunned because that's the one question Bruce specifically told everyone not to bring up.
Of course Damian wasn't going to listen but they still had hope.
Damians eyes are on you like a child's watching its favorite idol.
You smile a small one but it's still visible and that makes Bruce feel alot better.
"I started doing it when I was 11."
Tim perks up his eyes wide like he can't even Fandom you being tall enough to see over the steering wheel at that age.
"11?"
Bruce speaks up not at first not wanting this conversation to happen but now that it did he wants to know all of it. We'll, all of you really.
"Why so young?"
You shrug like it's a simple answer even when you know it isnt..
It was normal for you and the kids in Gothams low life to get odd Jobs to make ends meet.
Your just lucky you got something funner.
Most kids sell weed or dope. Others selling their body when things get too bad.
You had Mickey to thank for what you had become. You'd just hope you'd see him agian to thank him.
"I couldn't pay rent, so I started racing."
"You were 11, you shouldn't have had to pay rent."
Tim says his voice low and sincere, but you can tell he's not like you. Or two tone, he came from money. You could practically sense it.
"Yeah well, not everyone's born with a silver spoon shoved up their ass."
Damian and Jason laugh, while Tim hums slightly offended.
"Language." Bruce scolds but there's no bite in his tone.
Bursting threw the dining room door walks in Dick grayson. Gothams own golden boy himself.
Sadly you don't recognize him like that. No, you recognize the cop who tried to go after you and your friends at the race.
You stand a reaction made from all the years of running from cops.
Dick puts up his hand seeing your tense state. He sits calmly hands still up. All eyes are on you some worried others confused.
Dick speaks trying to calm the tension.
"Hey, calm down. Im not here to get you. I'm family."
Your eyes narrow then look at Bruce almost to ask 'is it safe?'
Bruce nods a soft smile on his lips because your trusting him.
You sit your hands displayed on the table like you don't know if you should stay or run.
"So...what were we talking about?"
Dick ask hands moving to grab his fork. He can see how your still scared. Still ready for whatever he might do.
So he's soft with his words, and slow with his movements.
Jason speaks up mouth full of food that Alfred clearly disapproves.
"Her street racing career."
Dick smiles speaking up, eyes not directed at you in fear you'll get scared.
"She's the best, most well-known in Gotham."
Your eyes lit up, a cop complimenting you?
The others smile, Damian liking that thought a bit too much.
Bruce hums a sigh escaping his lips like this is why he didn't want to talk about that.
"That's not all she is. She has perfect grades. She smart as well."
"See she's already better then you Drake."
"Since when was there a competition?!"
You bite back a smile. Was this actually fun?
You had just been forcibly kidnapped. Well, practically. The butler said Bruce was soon to get full custody of you.
This dinner was diffrent. You had decent food it wasn't cold inside and their was actually people.
Not drunk ones, not stoned ones.
They seemed....good?
Like they actually like you.
Not respect you, not envy you, not want something from you.
Like you.
Then there's a beep. A loud one. An alarm.
'There's been a breach in the security system.'
All eyes lock on one another.
Alfred looking at a small tablet that he pulls out from absolutely nowhere speaks up.
"Master Bruce we have unexpected guests."
Alfred swallows and he looks nervous?
Bruce stands moving to look at the tablet.
"Who is it?"
Everyone stands at Alfred weary face and next words. Except for you, you shrink in your seat.
Typical you, ruining everything.
"It seems to be the joker, and about twenty other criminals accompanying him."
summary | it takes you losing an eye for your family to realize that they don't want to lose you, to make them realize how much they actually love you, and how much you actually despise them
pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!reader.
warnings / tags | angst, literal mutilation, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, reader hates her family so family issues as well. it gets worse and worse actually no better. this is a bit more darker than usual, as reader is not the nicest and the batfamily turns a bit dark for her. NO INCEST because we don't mess with that here 🚫🚫 but future PLATONIC yanderes!
word count | 5k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3
bruce is 44-45. barbara is 28. dick is 27. cass is 23. jason is 22. steph is 19. tim is 18. duke is 17. damian and y/n are twins and are 15.
next.
YOU WOULD NEVER FORGET IT.
You could forget a lot of things —or not, actually: your Mother hated it when you forgot about stuff, often reminding you that as a princess and heir, you couldn't allow yourself that—, like one of the many rules your Father had, or that you now lived at the Manor, or how annoying teenagers can be.
But not that day.
Never.
Years ago, when your brother Damian and you arrived at the Manor alongside your Father, you didn't have much hope. Despite growing up without him, you never wished to know him. You were more than satisfied at your Mother's side, pampered and trained and still so loved.
There were no differences there. No one treated you as less than what you were: the future of the League. Raised to be a killer, made to be a future wife and a warrior, a protector of your brother. And you were okay with that. Perhaps a bit less with the 'wife' part, but that could be arranged as well.
You grew up with gold, fine silk and swords in your hands. And you were more than okay with that too.
Which is why you hated the Manor so much.
Everything was different there. Everything you knew, every part of your life already planned, crumbled down. Your Father was nothing like your Mother. Nothing of what she had told you as well. He was nothing like your brother and you.
He didn't believe in killing, despised it, and punished the both of you every single time the word was mentioned. He also didn't like the extensive training you had since you were merely an infant. And you would think he also didn't like you a lot.
But it was okay —it wasn't—. You didn't like him much either. It was only fair.
The only good thing you would put on your Father's favor was that he let you be 'Batgirl', a sidekick that started with Barbara Gordon when she was younger. Likewise, he let your brother be 'Robin', as the adopted companions had once been as well.
You loved being Batgirl. You took the greatest of proudness on it. Despite not enjoying your Father's presence, you never wished to disappoint him either, and it seemed he preferred you more as a sidekick than a daughter, as you proved yourself to be helpful and extremely efficient.
Of course. You would very much prefer working alone, or only with Damian, but the old Batman didn't even allow the thought of it. If it was not him who stood by your sides, it was Grayson as Nightwing, or Drake, in the lowest of cases.
So you still don't know how Damian and you got there alone. How is it that you ended up in that stupid warehouse on your own. You just knew that you couldn't bear you see those men grab your brother, especially when he snarled and tried to kick away.
He couldn't escape.
And you couldn't let them hurt him.
You and your brother had always been far too close. Raised with no social instincts, with poor physical affection from your maternal family, no limits on what was right and what was wrong. You slept on the same bed from time to time still, and when you first arrived at the Manor, barely ten, you couldn't even enter your own room without feeling alone. You missed him even if he was just a room apart.
In school, you joined the art class just for him, and he waited very patiently while you were at your swimming club. You shared the same classes, the same schedules, you both trained with each other, and patrolled together.
So you did what you had to do. You mocked them. You made them so angry they forgot about him, tied him up and left him on the side. But you continued, and continued, and continued. All to make time, to not let them get close to Damian again. You were sure that by any moment your Father would arrive.
You just didn't know when to stop.
One of them, eyes red with rage and exclusively drug-lived, ripped your mask apart after a particular mocking got to him. Didn't even bother to actually see your face —if he had, perhaps, he wouldn't have done what he done: he would have taken another choice of torture.
He took his pocket knife, rusty and dull, and smashed down on your face. He didn't even taunt you, he just did it. You turned your face around, as to not let the metal enter your forehead.
Instead, it pushed right into your eye.
Once, twice, thrice.
You lost the number after that.
It slashed your face, destroyed your whole eyeball. You had never suffered such pain before, nothing of what you had experienced before could compare to having that ordinary knife shoved almost to your brain.
The pain was not sharp. It was molten. Blistering. A heat that radiated from the core of your skull and exploded outward in pulses. You screamed. You didn’t even realize you were screaming until you choked on your own breath, your voice reduced to something hoarse and primal.
There was no clarity — only flashes. Red, black, white. The world shook under the weight of it. You clawed at your restraints, wrists tearing against the rough rope, skin breaking. Damian was shouting — his voice was raw and feral, but muffled, as though you were underwater.
Your legs kicked involuntarily, muscles twitching as every nerve in your body revolted. It wasn’t just the eye. The trauma sank into your jaw, your temple, your throat. It felt like he was cutting through not just your eye, but your entire sense of self.
You felt it rupture. Felt it pop.
The pressure released — a grotesque, wet sensation. It was warm. It rolled down your cheek in thick pulses, staining your lips copper. Blood. Fluid. You couldn’t cry — your tear duct had been left intact, but there was nothing for it to cradle anymore.
He kept going.
“Still got that damn mouth on you?” the man barked, voice scratchy with a smoker’s growl and something much worse — glee.
You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Your body was seized in shock, muscles locked. The agony was consuming everything — your thoughts, your memories, your pride. There was no Batgirl here. No League prodigy. Just a child strapped to a chair, skull fracturing under a lunatic’s blade.
“YOU BASTARD!” Damian was screaming. Over and over, his voice echoing, cracking. “I’LL KILL YOU — I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”
“Shut him up,” another voice said. Older. Colder. You heard the wet impact of a hit and the thud of your brother’s body against the wall. He grunted, but he didn’t stop snarling.
They left you slumped, barely upright, head hung low, eye a ruined socket. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, louder than the voices. Louder than Damian’s desperate shouts. Louder than the world.
You were fading.
Not passing out, not yet — that would have been a mercy. But fading, like a flickering signal on a broken radio. Everything became distant. Your fingers stopped moving. Your lips trembled.
But you didn’t cry.
Your mouth opened in a cry, but it was broken. Shattered by the pain. You choked on it. Swallowed it. Your body arched against the chair, against the ropes biting into your arms, and you wished for a moment you could just black out. Just a second. But you stayed awake.
Then came the second stab. There was no grace to it. Just brute force. The blade twisted, angled wrong, and you felt the serration drag. Something tore again, and it burned. Not like fire, not anymore. It was acid. Acid in your skull. Acid down your jaw. It rippled all the way down to your spine and back up through the top of your scalp. You felt your fingers curl and your wrists strain and the ropes snap skin. You thought you’d vomit — and you did, just a little — down your chin and onto your suit.
You tried to breathe, but it came in hiccupping gasps. You tried to think, but your thoughts were consumed by the horror — not of death, no — but of mutilation. Of being broken.
And then he laughed.
The man laughed like he was carving a pumpkin, like it was a game. He turned your head to the side, gripping your jaw with greasy fingers. He was breathing heavy, sweat slicking his forehead. And he said — so easily, so plainly — “What’s the matter, girl? Thought you were tough.”
You spat at him. Or tried. It didn’t reach.
He hit you. Just once. Across the cheek, opposite your ruined eye. Your head cracked back and hit metal. You think you saw stars. Or maybe it was just the other eye struggling to stay open.
Damian was thrashing, gagged but shrieking behind it. Desperate. You turned your good eye toward him, tried to give him… something. Reassurance. Love. A silent goodbye?
Another hand grabbed your chin again. The knife hovered now, inches from your face. The man wasn’t finished. He wanted more.
You whispered, because it was all you could do, “Go ahead. I’ll still kill you after.”
He laughed again. This time more viciously. “You’re done, sweetheart. You ain’t killin’ anyone. Not like that.”
But he didn’t strike again.
Not because he decided to stop. But because of the noise — a crash — and then another. The door exploded inward. Gunfire, screaming, the unmistakable screech of metal and cape and fury.
You barely saw it. You were already fading.
You heard Damian gag and sob and yell “Father!” before the gag was ripped away. And someone was screaming louder than you now — the man, probably, being slammed into the wall. A sick crunch followed.
Then hands. So many hands.
Hands on your shoulders, your wrists, your jaw. But these were warm. These were careful. These weren’t enemies.
One of them was soft — softer than all the others — fingers brushing your face and muttering something under their breath.
“Y/N, can you hear me? Oh my God—Y/N—can you hear me?”
Grayson. You knew his voice even as the darkness clung to your ears like wax.
You whimpered. It was all you could do.
Your throat burned. “He… he took it.”
“We know,” he said. “We know, sweetie. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”
He was lying.
Because nothing was okay.
You felt someone lift you. The cape, the smell of it, the warm inside lining — it was your father. You knew by the way he moved. Silent but precise. Every breath he took was rage restrained.
“I’ve got her,” he said. Quietly. Too quietly.
You wanted to say something to him. Something mean. Something sour. You didn’t know. The pain was overtaking you again.
“It hurts,” you whispered.
“I know,” Bruce said. And that was all.
You passed out somewhere between the warehouse and the sky.
And when you woke again, it was like drowning.
The first thing you noticed was the smell — disinfectant and something older, like dust and citrus cleaner and the faint hint of metal. Then the lights, too bright and clinical, burning the inside of your one good eye. Your entire skull throbbed, throbbed so hard you were sure it had cracked from the inside.
There was pressure, a dull pulse that rhythmically pounded against your left browbone, and heat — a sort of sticky, horrible heat like your skin had been wrapped in cotton soaked in your own blood and left to fester.
Your mouth was dry. Your lips stuck to each other. Your tongue felt like sandpaper pressed into raw meat. And yet, none of that compared to the sensation clawing inside your chest.
You were aware.
Of what was gone.
Of what was missing.
Of what you could no longer feel behind the bandage that wrapped half your head like a grotesque imitation of a helmet.
“No—” you rasped. “No, no—”
The left side of your face is numb and too hot at once. Something is wrapped tight around your head, dragging over your scalp, cheek, temple. It itches. It stings. It suffocates. And the longer you lie there, blinking through the blur of the right side, the more you feel the rising panic clawing up your throat.
“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”
It’s Jason.
“Back with us, little bat.”
His voice tries to sound calm, but there’s a tension to it. A sharpness behind the trembling grin you can’t see.
You try to sit up and the pain hits you all at once. Your skull pounds. Your stomach flips. You collapse back onto the bed with a sharp gasp, and the machines spike briefly.
“Easy, Y/N. Don’t rush it.”
You don’t care. You lift your hand, touch the gauze. It’s thick, layered, taped down hard. Your heart pounds.
“What did they do to me?”
“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in Leslie’s clinic. You made it out. You’re—”
But the words twisted in your ears. Made you sick. You weren’t okay. You weren’t safe. You weren’t whole. You weren’t.
You jerked away from his hand like it burned you. Your body betrayed you, shaking too hard to sit up fully, but you tried anyway.
“No,” you whisper, fingers trembling as they hover at the edge of the bandage. “No, I’m not.”
And then another voice — clearer, gentler — “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”
Dick.
Your mind reached toward the sound like a rope in a storm.
“You’re okay,” he said, kneeling by your bedside. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise—”
“No!” Your scream cracked your throat open. You shoved at the blanket, at the sheets, at the wires in your arms. “No, I’m not! I’m not—!”
You clawed at the bandages before they could stop you. You didn’t even know what your fingers were doing — they were frantic, desperate — but you felt the gauze tear. The tape pop. Someone grabbed your wrist.
“Stop—!”
“Let me go—!”
“Y/N—!”
But it was too late.
The bandage dropped to the side of your face like wet tissue.
And you saw yourself.
It wasn’t a proper mirror. Just the reflective metal of a tray table across the room, but it was enough. The lighting caught it just right. And in it — half your face, bright under the fluorescents, pale and wounded and horrifically wrong.
Where your left eye once was, now sat a gaping wound stitched in a rough crescent. The lid was still there, partly, as was the bruising and raw lines where Leslie had sealed what she could. But it was concave, empty, the orbit sunken deep. A pit. A hollow.
You saw it.
And you screamed.
“NO! NO—NO—PUT IT BACK—”
You screamed so loudly the sound tore through your ribs and chest and made your throat bleed. You twisted and flailed and grabbed at the edge of the bed, trying to stand, to do something — but your legs gave out. Dick caught you before your knees slammed the tile.
Jason was behind you now, arms wrapping fully around your back and middle, holding you still. Your body trembled violently, like it wanted to rip itself apart. You couldn’t even breathe. You were choking on nothing, gasping like a fish pulled out of water.
“Let me go—please, let me go—”
“Y/N, you have to calm down,” Jason said into your ear, his voice straining. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse—”
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
And then Leslie was there. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. You didn’t even feel the needle until it was in your arm. A sting, a push of warmth, and then—
You sagged. Not instantly. Not completely. But your limbs slowed. Your heart — hammering against your ribcage like it wanted to escape — finally began to soften its rhythm. Your voice broke into hiccuped sobs, then whispers, then nothing but silence.
Jason still held you.
Dick still crouched in front of you, his arms around your shoulders.
Your head drooped against one of them. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. All you knew was the absence of your eye. The echo of what used to be there. And the horrific realization that this was permanent.
You would never get it back.
Never.
Leslie sat on the edge of the bed beside you. You could feel her eyes on your face — not judgmental, not clinical. Just sad. Just impossibly, unbearably sad.
“It's gone,” you whispered. “It’s really gone.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
You blinked. Your right eye burned with tears that never came. The left — the one that wasn’t there — still ached. Still itched. You wanted to claw at it, to scrape out the pain. But you couldn’t lift your hand anymore.
“Why does it still hurt?” you asked. “Why can I still feel it?”
“Because the nerves don’t understand yet,” Leslie said. “Your body still thinks it’s there. It’s called phantom pain. It happens to amputees. Eyes too. I’m sorry.”
You didn’t answer. You just laid there.
“Just sleep,” Leslie says, her hand brushing your hair. “Just let go.”
Since there, nothing had been the same. You spent weeks at Leslie's clinic. Weeks isolated from reality, surrounded by the white walls of the clinic, the clink of surgical trays, and the quiet rustle of Leslie Thompkins’s slippers as she moved like a ghost between your room and the halls. The only company you had was your own nausea, your dreams—which bled into nightmares—and the unbearable nothingness inside your eye socket.
No one was allowed in.
Not even Damian.
Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Cass, though she’d tried more than once to slip in silently through the ventilation. (You heard her once. You didn’t say anything. You wanted to, but the words died in your throat.)
The only one Leslie let through the door was your Father.
And even then, only because you didn’t get a say.
Leslie followed his orders when it came to you. She always had. The same way Alfred used to defer to him. The same way Dick never raised his voice when Bruce lowered his. The same way the whole damn city of Gotham bent to Batman’s unrelenting shadow.
And you were no different.
He came in quietly every night—always after dark, always after patrol—and sat in the single chair near your bed. Sometimes he would bring you books. Or your favorite herbal tea, the one Damian swore you loved as a child. Sometimes he would just sit there, silently reading reports or rechecking your medical chart even though he already had it memorized. A few times he tried talking.
But you never responded.
Not once. Losing an eye wouldn't change your distaste of your Father.
It wouldn’t unwrite the years without him. It wouldn’t erase your Mother’s warmth, her fierce pride when you beat your tutors with a blade, the soft silk of your robes as you sparred in the gardens under moonlight. It wouldn’t change the way he treated your training like abuse — it was. How he recoiled from the version of you that wasn’t his.
But the loss changed everything else.
Especially in your heart.
While you had never been extroverted enough to be called anything close to warm, you had still once possessed a fire inside of you. A flame. The heat of your mother’s blood and the League’s training and your own sharpened pride—your defiance, your discipline, your hunger to be great.
Your identity had been built on precision. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, the League’s prodigy. You moved like smoke through shadows, struck faster than most men could blink. You trained beside Damian — and often above him — with pride, discipline, and the terrifying assurance of a child that knew what she’d been built for.
But now?
Now, even reaching for a glass of water made your hands tremble.
You’d gone from warrior to weakling. From fire to ash.
One eye gone, and so was your depth perception. Your balance. Your peripheral vision. Tasks you’d never had to think about now tripped you up at every corner. You couldn’t pour a drink without missing the cup. You couldn’t catch a thrown object — not without tilting your head and praying you judged it right. You’d reach out for a vase on your bedside table and knock it over instead, sending it crashing to the floor, ceramic in pieces.
You’d shove everything off the table. Off the bed. You didn’t even know what you were breaking anymore. You just needed the noise. Needed something to match the chaos inside your chest. Because you couldn’t take it — the constant, aching absence in your skull. The way the gauze would get damp from your tear duct.
It mocked you. Your own body mocked you.
At night, you'd feel the phantom of it — the memory of having two eyes. The illusion that if you just blinked hard enough, the world would go back to full. But it never did. There was always the dark spot. The void.
Even walking became different. Subtle, strange — like your body forgot how much space it occupied. Corners caught your shoulders. Doorways felt too tight. You’d turn your head too fast and flinch, not because you were in pain, but because your brain was still learning how to be broken.
And the migraines. God, the migraines.
Leslie explained them calmly. “Your brain is adjusting to monocular vision. That left orbit was traumatized, and even though the nerves are dead, the tissue’s still healing. It’ll take time.”
But nothing helped.
Light became an enemy. Flashbangs in the dark. Shadows where there should be none. You stopped trusting your sight entirely. Your right eye twitched sometimes, under the pressure of carrying everything alone. You couldn’t bear the feeling of someone coming up on your blind side — it made you flinch and snarl and lash out.
No one told you that losing one eye meant you'd feel like less than one person.
Once Bruce decided it was “time,” you were taken back to the Manor.
You didn’t say goodbye to Leslie. She didn’t expect you to.
The car ride was silent. Damian sat beside you, his arms folded, his jaw locked in that tight, uncomfortable way that meant he was trying not to speak. Bruce was driving. You didn’t know why he didn’t just send Alfred or Dick, but maybe he thought he was doing something by showing up. Maybe he wanted to be the one to bring you home.
Home.
What a joke.
You didn’t say a word the whole way there.
The Manor looked the same when you arrived. Of course it did.
Gothic arches, heavy stone, windows like darkened eyes. Alfred opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, as if he’d sensed your arrival from a mile away. His expression softened the second he saw you. His age showed more lately — his hair was whiter than you remembered, and his eyes crinkled more with sorrow than sternness.
“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “Welcome home.”
You didn’t reply.
You walked past him. Your boots were too loud in the entry hall.
You were fifteen. You’d been raised by assassins. You were trained to kill before you were trained to write. And now you couldn’t even grab a damn vase without guessing where it actually was. You couldn’t train. You couldn’t patrol. You were off the roster.
You weren’t Batgirl.
You weren’t anyone.
You weren’t sure when exactly Damian started sleeping in your bed again. One night blurred into another, your dreams stitched together by broken lights and phantom pain. You woke up from one of them, gasping into your pillow, only to find the weight of something curled against your side. Small. Familiar.
Damian.
He was facing you, eyes shut but his brow furrowed, his fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve like a lifeline. His breath was slow but shallow, like he was fighting off some nightmare of his own and refusing to let it show. He hadn’t cried, not once, not since the night in the warehouse. But he’d been quieter. Rougher around the edges. Quicker to snap at the others and always within arm’s reach of you. You weren’t sure if he was guarding you, or himself.
You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him for a long moment, your one eye adjusting to the dark, your vision split permanently in two.
And then you let him stay.
Because he was still half of you, and probably the only part left that still made sense. You didn’t know what kind of person you were anymore. Not Batgirl. Not a warrior. Not anything that felt familiar. But you were still a twin. Still his sister. Still his.
Damian was still there. Still yours. Still half of you. And maybe, if you closed your good eye and lay there long enough, the rest of the world would fade. Maybe, for just a while, you wouldn’t feel so unbalanced. So ruined.
You moved just enough to rest your hand on his hair, fingers slipping into the familiar black strands. He didn’t stir.
He started showing up every night after that.
Sometimes early, sometimes after patrol. You’d hear his soft footsteps before the door opened. Always without a word. He’d slide under the blankets, press close to your side, and fall asleep with one hand curled near yours.
You never stopped him.
You never would.
You shared too many things with him — your first steps, your first blades, your first blood. You were born together, trained together, made together. And now you were broken together, too. Even if only one of you bled for it.
He never mentioned your eye.
Not once.
But when you got frustrated and knocked something over again, or walked into a wall, or missed your footing — he was there. Steady. Silent. Sometimes he picked things up for you. Sometimes he just placed a hand on your wrist until your breathing steadied.
And when the nightmares got bad — yours or his — you curled together like you had when you were small, nothing but soft breath and bruised ribs and shared, smothered pain between you.
Damian always curled inward when he slept. Like he didn’t trust the air around him. Fists tucked under his chin, knees close, spine slightly bent even when the mattress gave him space. But since the warehouse, since the night you lost your eye — your eye, God, that phrase still made you sick — he had stopped pretending to sleep alone.
Once, he whispered: “It should’ve been me.”
And you whispered back, “It wasn’t.”
You didn’t talk about it after that.
Eventually, Leslie said it was time.
Your orbit had healed. The worst of the inflammation was over. There were still sutures inside your skin, layers of muscle and bone trying to knit back together. You’d need follow-ups. Long-term scans. Some of it might never fully recover. But the gauze? The gauze could finally come off.
You should’ve felt relieved.
You didn’t.
You felt exposed.
You felt seen.
They didn’t let you do it alone.
You tried to protest, of course. Tried to tell them it was your face, your choice, your eye — or what was left of it. But the moment Alfred stepped into your room with the medical tray, Bruce behind him, Damian already sitting near the headboard like a statue, you understood that it wasn’t up for debate.
Alfred approached like he was performing a ritual. Not a task. Not a job. Something sacred.
The tray was placed beside your bed, a clean cloth folded at the corner, sterile scissors gleaming under the light. You sat propped up with pillows, hands balled into the sheets, your chest tight enough to crack.
Bruce sat in the chair across from you. No cape. No armor. Just him. Plain clothes, face unreadable, eyes locked on yours.
No one spoke. Not until Alfred dipped the scissors into disinfectant and murmured, “Miss Y/N… May I?”
You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream and hide and throw the blankets over your face. But you swallowed hard and nodded.
He worked slowly, gently. The scissors snipped through gauze like whispering paper. The first layer peeled back, and cold air hit your cheek, your brow, your eyelid. The texture of exposed, healing skin made your stomach twist. Alfred’s hands didn’t tremble once.
Another layer. And another. And then the last. The gauze fell into the tray like old linen, stained with hours of dampness and sterile creams. Your face was bare.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.
You just stared straight ahead at your Father’s face, searching it for something — disgust, sorrow, judgment — but it wasn’t there.
There was only quiet.
You kept your good eye trained on Alfred’s collar, on the soft silver of his tie pin. He didn’t comment on the tears spilling from your left tear duct — steady, unearned, grotesque in their asymmetry.
Alfred gently packed the bandages away and said, “The patches arrived this morning.”
You nodded without speaking.
The black one fit best.
Leslie had sent a few to the Manor, no doubt working through one of her reliable medical suppliers. The white patch — classic, clinical — looked absurd. It got dirty too fast. You tried it once and ripped it off within the hour. The beige one disappeared into your skin but made the hollow too obvious, drawing more attention than it hid. The soft cloth one looked like something out of a pirate film.
The black patch was clean. Sharp. Neutral. It didn’t ask for pity. You could pretend it was tactical, even stylish. Something deliberate. Something chosen.
But every time you put it on, you felt the echo of what it was hiding. A whole part of you. Gone.
The world saw it differently, of course.
Wayne’s daughter, injured in a freak accident. The media latched onto the story like it was fiction, spinning it into a tale of bravery and trauma and noble recovery. “A tragic incident,” the headlines read. “Still under investigation.” The official press release said it happened during an off-duty car crash. Gotham clutched its pearls and murmured in sympathy, turning your pain into cocktail party gossip.
But only you — and the family — knew the truth.
Only you remembered the warehouse. The rusted knife. The sound of Damian’s voice breaking as he screamed for someone to help you. Only you could still feel it — that moment the blade went in, that sickening pop, the burn of your own body eating itself alive.
Every look you received now — on the street, in the Cave, in the damn mirror — was a reminder.
They didn’t see Batgirl.
They saw the girl with one eye.
But once, just once, you woke to find Damian already awake beside you, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
“Would you want it back?” he asked.
Your voice was barely a whisper. “What?”
“Your eye. If you could. Would you want it back?”
You didn’t answer right away.
You thought about what it had cost you — the balance, the vision, the grace.
“There's a debt to be paid,” you whispered. “With his eye.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but his fingers pressed into yours, hard, and pressed again, a promise that, one day, he'd give it to you.
ׂ╰┈➤ Damian Wayne x Female League of Assassins Reader x Platonic Batfam
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‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊
SYPNOSIS: She was born in the shadows, raised by blades, silence, and blood on her hands from the League of Assassins. He left that life behind. You never did, never had the chance. Years after Damian Wayne walks away from the League to join his father in Gotham, you reemerge colder, sharper, and loyal to Ra’s al Ghul. When a mission brings you face to face with the boy who abandoned you, old wounds reopen and this time, you don’t bleed easily, not like when you were a child. But when you're framed for betrayal, Damian and the Batfam are forced to confront the League and to see how much of you truly remains, how much was left behind in the ashes of your shared past.
‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊
𖤓
WARNINGS: Violence, assassin themes, manipulation (emotionally and caused by the league), trauma, kissing, language.
❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected!reader who regressed back in time story.
act 1, act 2, act 3, act 4, act 5
MDNI 18+ Only
[PLEASE READ: This chapter details Starling's suicidal thoughts and descriptive attempts during her past life as well as the abuse she suffered by members of the Batfamily. If that could be triggering for you in any way, please do not read. Please prioritize your mental health and well-being.]
ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴡᴇ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ..
Welcome back to where you took your last breath and to the people who pushed you to that point over and over again. Take a moment to recount the injustices you suffered and the fleeting moments of sweetness that made you believe that there was still good in this world.
Summon your courage.
Don't look back.
ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇɢᴏɴᴇ.
❥ TW: past suicide, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, bullying, emotional and mental abuse, bodyshaming, disordered eating and habits, future incest
You strutted down the halls with a sure footed swagger you didn't have in the past. It should’ve been unfamiliar, this confidence, the sway in your hips, but your mannerisms had changed since the day you awoke in the hospital and you finally felt right.
Once upon a tragic time, you walked without making a sound, breathed as quietly as you could even if it made you dizzy, and never spoke unless spoken to. After a while your voice stopped coming; It was like you woke up one day to find it had disappeared.
But now? Your footsteps were music to your ears and you eyed the slimy tendrils sliding down the walls with irritation as they writhed and receded as you passed.
You could barely hide a sour expression behind your impassive mask as you could taste rotten eggs and death in the air as you put more distance between you and Bruce’s study.
It was true what they said about demons and hauntings having a smell and you held your breath as you powerwalked to get away from it. The odor had been concentrated in his study, one of his many broody corners, and you were getting lightheaded during your “talk.”
You’d almost smashed a paperweight through one of his windows because it was so overpowering.
No one could ignore that smell of death, but you realized that you were the only one who could smell the rot, see the tendrils, and hear the cries.
You were all alone in this but for some reason you were unafraid. Being alone and getting by with your own strength was thrilling and you couldn’t wait to see how far you’d go.
You finally spotted a bathroom and went in and locked the door behind you. Composure cracked as you hacked the last tastes of the spoiled smell away and rinsed your mouth and face with cool water.
You looked at your reflection and there you were.
In the mirror was your 16 year old self: Fresh from devastation and reeling from a series of events that you’d never truly heal from, but you were still here.
Your heart was still beating.
So many times you had prayed it’d stop and you’d go cold, but now hot tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you thought of your mother and loved ones and how it felt like you were given a second chance. Maybe they had given you this second chance.
Your eyes were tinged with a melancholy that you might be able to hide in time, but there was also excitement and mirth in them. You smiled as you admired yourself and sniffled. ‘Thank god I didn’t take after him.’
No one had ever been able to tell you were Bruce’s biological daughter and you were grateful for it in this life. You had truly been the physical black sheep back then, but while caressing your right cheek you thanked everything out there that you got your good looks from your mother’s side.
That’s right. Good looks. It’s funny how it took dying to clear your eyes of the undeserved self-hatred 10 years caused you. You were gazing at yourself as the way you were, not the way they wanted you to see yourself. You were good looking and your mom’s side did the heavy lifting.
You didn’t see Bruce through the rose tinted lenses that everyone else did. If they were ugly on the inside, it bled through to the outside and you couldn’t ignore it. Maybe you were just too honest like that. You knew which side of the family you got that from too.
In your critical eye, as someone who saw Bruce in the way he never showed the cameras, his apparent beauty was warped by his bad attitude and repugnant personality.
If you were being completely honest, he had a shovel chin and non-existent lips on a toothy mouth that lied more than he breathed.
His blue eyes were flat like the dead’s and as cold as a shark’s and his perpetually furrowed brows only pronounced a neanderthal-esque brow ridge and accelerated wrinkle development.
‘Hottest man alive, my ass.’
You saw everyone you had ever loved in your looks and if you ever felt alone, maybe you could just look in a mirror.
You noticed the bandage near your left eye and tugged to slowly peel it and the super strong adhesive from your tender skin. What lay beneath was a silvery crescent with a shimmery cast with both of its tips pointed away from your eye.
The scar was a few shades lighter than your natural tone and you tilted your head to watch it catch the bathroom’s light.
Your eyes widened and pupils trembled with emotion as you realized that it was pretty. You had hated everything about you, everything that showed what you’d been through—what made you broken—but you realized too late that there was never anything wrong with you.
You eyed the bandage around your neck and knew what was hidden behind it. A gnarly scar that wrapped around the front of your neck and was at least two inches in height and looked exactly like what it was—evidence of barbed wire having wrapped around your throat, wrenched your flesh, and nearly sawed your head from your body.
It was a reminder of what you survived and what was taken away. A permanent choker, but this time you wouldn’t constrict yourself.
It was healing incredibly fast and you’d keep the bandage on a few weeks longer until the wound was fully healed, and you wouldn’t hide it when it did. You weren’t hiding away for other’s comfort anymore.
Looking back, the scar had been a massive insecurity, especially when you were surrounded by unrealistically physically beautiful people.
Your skin had been one of your biggest insecurities and comparison had been the death of your happiness. You remember it like it was yesterday, the you of the past losing her mind over her skin not being as flawless as Barbara’s or Starfire’s.
Even Cass and Stephanie who fought hard every night were unfairly pretty with their scuffs and scrapes. You’d felt like there was something you lacked compared to them, and it was something you could never get no matter how hard you tried.
You lost yourself, and no one was there to help you find your way back.
You covered your neck and hands until the day you died with sweaters, hoodies, and turtlenecks no matter the season. You concealed your skin and the figure you’d been blessed with and for what? You didn’t have an answer because there wasn’t one. There was never a good reason to make yourself small to make others feel big.
You rolled up the thin sleeves of your top to expose your bandages, wiped your face, and gave the 16 year old you one final grin.
Her eyes sparkled back and you could see the woman you were just beneath the surface. She wanted to sink her teeth into something and let the juice run down her chin but you lightly persuaded her to cool it. All things in due time.
You left the bathroom with a slight smile on your lips and plans on your mind when you nearly bumped into Cassandra.
You blinked until you recognized her. She stared back at you unnervingly and you would’ve wondered what she was thinking of like you often did in the past if you actually cared.
You had been so curious about her in the past. She was a mystery to you, but so sweet and loving to the ones who earned her respect and you weren’t one of them.
It had hurt, but did it now? ‘Not at all.’
You were so over the doom and gloom and edginess of it all. You wanted open books, not the brooding mystery and darkness. These people needed to stop being allergic to healthy coping mechanisms and therapy.
You didn’t bother to smile, but you still didn’t exactly hate her. It was actually a good thing she was around since she could be Bruce’s little princess (it was always obvious she was the favorite) and they could distract each other while you went about your business.
You liked that idea as a corner of your mouth nearly curled before quickly being concealed. You turned your back and nearly turned the corner when she called out to your retreating form.
“Y/n.”
You paused and turned to her with no expectations. She didn’t know why she called out to you, but she really wanted—no, did she need?—to reach out.
There was something about you she couldn’t understand and her curiosity was piqued the moment you waltzed into the manor and clearly knew who was worth your time.
Your expressions were ever changing, and your eyes conveyed a keenness that spoke of much more beneath the surface. She needed to know more.
“Welcome.” She said awkwardly with eyes that searched your face for a lifeline, to grab hold of the olive branch she was extending and start a conversation because she didn't know where she was going with this. This wasn't lost on you. She didn’t “try” to reach out to you like she did the others.
She never had or wanted to, and she was the one to stare you down until you lost your nerve and scurried away in the past. Now, it was your turn to raise a brow.
‘I prayed for this for 10 years?’ Your eyes went cold as you turned your back.
It was a little too late, wasn't it?
Your heart fluttered with excitement—something you hadn’t felt in over 10 years—and it wasn’t with the delusion of being part of a big happy family or even being acknowledged.
No, there were bigger and better things that thrilled your heart and made you feel like you were walking on air. An uncertain future lay ahead but you were going to grab it with both hands.
Amidst the darkness that encased the manor, something sweet was calling out to you and telling you that you needed to go to the park. It was strange because you don’t recall ever going in the past—actually you don’t recall getting out much at all in the past—but you felt like that place was where you could kick off some of your plans.
You knew there would be key players you’d need to meet and places you’d need to venture to make your dreams come true, and you weren’t going to benefit by being a shrinking violet in this life.
Searching online, you found that you could get to Gotham Park by bus and the nearest bus stop was around a 3 mile walk from the manor. The weather was pleasant this time of year so walking the distance wouldn’t be a problem, and you could even get a bus pass online.
One little hitch is that you’d need bus fare and didn’t want to ask Alfred for money so soon.
You didn’t feel like answering any questions about leaving the manor when you hadn’t been out of the hospital for one day and huffed in annoyance.
Maybe if you buttered him up delicately over the next few days you could slip in the bit about needing a few dollars. The sweet hum tickled your ear, and gently called you to the next step. Gotham Park was the next stage of this game.
You walked familiar halls to the kitchen and looked back on the time you had avoided it—along with every other part of the mansion—completely.
It got to the point that even the thought of coming across a member of that damned family would make your heart seize up. You began to isolate yourself more and more until you stayed put in your room, the little bathroom in the same hall, and to the kitchen late at night when all was quiet or they were on patrol.
You snuck around like a thief in your own ‘home.’ The anxiety made you reclusive and being reclusive exacerbated the issues you already had and birthed even more. You were a complete agoraphobe by the time you were 20.
You frowned sadly. You couldn’t waste away in this house a second time.
The purple tendrils slithered down the sides of the walls like blood in old horror movies and wriggled with minds of their own. It was truly disgusting and you held your breath to keep from gagging.
You finally turned a corner and found salvation in Alfred who was in the kitchen and embraced by the light from the large bay window overlooking the garden. He was wiping a glass when you walked in.
“My, Young Mistress, I wanted to meet you and bring you back.” He checked his watch, “I’m so sorry. How did you find your way?”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Pennyworth. I retraced my steps no problem.” You typed.
Alfred was still disappointed in his miscalculation, but kept on, “How was your talk with Master Bruce?”
“It went well.” You swiped on your phone before pulling yourself into a seat and adjusting the bandages on your wrists. Alfred gazed at your face and found that the bandage beside your eye was now gone. “Ah, there’s my Young Mistress. I knew she were very pretty.”
You gasped and turned away so he couldn't see the smile that hurt your cheeks. The thing about compliments from Alfred was that they were always sincere as was everything he said.
If he called you pretty, it was because he genuinely thought so and that warmed your heart. Your family would’ve loved him.
“So, is this where you work your magic?” You texted, and Alfred let you change the subject with a knowing smile.
“I wouldn’t say it’s magic, but I haven’t had a complaint yet.”
You tried to rest your arms on top of the island and lean on them as comfortably as you could so that you could watch him.
The way he moved across the kitchen was nothing short of graceful. How could he make chores look elegant? It’s funny how you avoided the kitchen and the sunlight it let in because of fear when you felt so safe in this warmth now. It took you back to a time where you belonged somewhere and you knew that the people loved you.
You watched him in a daze and any remaining stress melted away as the image of him busy in the kitchen began to mesh with memories of your grandmother doing exactly the same. Being around him, around someone that made you feel so safe, made life’s challenges seem conquerable.
“I’m looking forward to what you’ve got planned. Something about you tells me that you know how to season your food.” You grinned and he chuckled. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”
You were so comfortable as the soft clinking of dishes, the running of water as he rinsed vegetables and the low bubbling of saucepans became sleep sounds to you.
“Where’s my head today?” Alfred sounded truly disappointed in himself. “Let me show you to your room, Young Mistress.” You looked up at him half awake with a trickle of drool nearly slipping from the corner of your parted mouth.
“Come on. Someone needs to rest before dinner.” You allowed him to guide you off the chair and towards your “new” room. You'd be lying if your said you hadn't been dreading this moment.
Your room had been your prison cell and sadly it was half self-imposed. Your room had simultaneously been your safe space where no one treaded after a few years and the place where the darkness concentrated the most.
‘Not again. Not again.’ You stood up straight and stepped to the side where you took Alfred’s arm in yours. You’d be brave. This wasn’t your prison. A lump formed in your throat that you could barely breathe around but you wouldn't let the shadows know it.
“My apologies, Young Mistress, but this’ll be a temporary fix. I’ve recently gotten permission to start renovations and plan to have a room made just for you.”
You think you remembered this. Alfred promised to work on your room, and he even got the go-ahead from Bruce but it was never completed. There was always something going on.
Some members of the family needed saving or all hell was breaking loose on actual hell on earth and Alfred was spread too thin.
You placed a gentle hand on his own reassuringly and expertly swiped with the other. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Pennyworth. I know you’re always busy. I’m happy just to have a roof over my head.”
This wasn’t just lip service to look good even though it certainly didn’t hurt to score more brownie points. You’d only be here for 2 years and planned on banishing demons and being outside for the most part. No need to stress Alfred over something so trivial.
Alfred froze like you had insulted his cooking. “What do you mean, Young Mistress? You deserve more than just a roof over your head and I’d thank you not to settle for the literal bare minimum.” He sucked in a breath between his teeth, “I already have catalogues and swatches for you to choose from.”
‘These plans will fall through, Alfred. It’s never going to happen.’ You smiled placatingly and patted his hand as you continued down a hall to a set of rooms reserved for uninvited guests.
You could feel a petty and sarcastic energy saying “Welcome Home” mockingly and it made your skin crawl, but you did one thing that your mother told you when you were having a panic attack at school, “Turn that fear into anger.”
Alfred opened your bedroom door and gestured for you to enter first.
He tried his best just like always. The duvet and pillows were freshly laundered and matched your favorite colors. He had washed and replaced the curtains and thoroughly dusted everything and aired out the room.
It was pleasantly plain save for the bundles of flowers, cards, small plushes and little goodie bags displayed on the chestnut desk. They were all gifts from the people who took care of you in the hospital.
You made a show of admiring the room and the care Alfred put into arranging it for you and looked at the names on the cards.
Not a single one from your new “family.”
It’s a good thing things hadn’t changed; this would make it easier to be as much of an ass as you wanted to be.
You looked over to Alfred and a wide, heart-melting smile spread across your face. Your eyes glistened and you looked away towards the window to wipe them as you sniffled.
“I knew it…” You whispered more to yourself and Alfred urged you.
“Knew what, my lady?”
“That I could count on you.” Your voice was a weak rasp that could be carried away by the wind but he hung on every word. He couldn't wait for the day he could hear your voice as it really was. He could imagine your full laughs and playful jokes clear as day.
You sat on the bed and looked genuinely happy with how soft the duvet was and his heart ached as he watched you be so pleased with a plain guest room. You were entitled to so much more, but you were just glad to be given a room and Alfred could hardly bear it.
“I’m going to get better soon so we can garden together. My mom had a green thumb and I think I do too.” You looked like you were trying not to brag as you texted and Alfred smiled, “It’ll be nice to have a little helper. I’ll prepare your gloves.”
A comfortable silence passed between you before he remembered the saucepan and pots he had simmering on the stove. “I’ll continue preparing dinner, Young Mistress. Please rest and I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” You nodded as he left with a soft click of the door as he took the warmth with him.
It wasn’t even a second before you heard waves crashing in your ears and suddenly the bed felt like it was tilting sideways and you had to grip the sheets to keep from tipping over.
Swoosh, swoosh
You could hear the gale winds from that night and nearly feel the flood's spray misting your face.
It doesn’t waste time, huh?
Dark clouds were looming in the far corner of the room. Yard-long tendrils hung low and limp for now as the house was waiting to feed on you.
Had it been like this in the last life? Everyone in the house, save for the one man who actually met you outside of it, had already disliked you before you even arrived. Was it always the house?
You could hear whispers of the dead with the loudest being the most recent—The drowned and lost.
‘Your problem is with him. Not me.’ You thought, feeling that the energy could reach them.
Tension was building in the back of your head and your temples were beginning to pound. You inhaled deeply and exhaled all of the negative energy you could. You wouldn’t let it in.
You laid back and your muscles immediately relaxed against the mattress that Alfred must’ve replaced before you came. Your thoughts cleared and you tried to organize the facts. Was the miasma and the haunting the cause of everything?
Yes and No. You knew in your bones that a hint of loathing must’ve been in their hearts from the start or it wouldn’t have been so easy for the dead to manipulate them.
It only exacerbated their most negative qualities and the biases they already had against you, and with that realization you knew you couldn’t give them grace.
The haunting needed your misery because feeding off of Bruce wasn’t enough after being a stagnant food source for almost 4 decades and you were the sensitive sacrificial lamb.
You were the survivor who got a billionaire father while countless innocents lost their lives because he couldn’t put one maniac to sleep or get off his high horse.
‘Sins of the father…’
You stared at the ceiling and thought of them all–The members of Bruce’s family who made you ashamed to even be alive. You clasped your hands over your stomach and willed yourself to be strong.
Damian had been the physical one from the beginning. From the kick when you had just arrived, to shoving you against walls, and making you fall flat on your face—something about you tempted the violent nature he overcame in the years before you showed up and he couldn’t resist.
You developed a fear response and could detect when he was near even if he was rooms away.
You recognized his steps, his breathing patterns, and the way the air shifted around him. You were more aware of his presence than your own, and the mere thought of him inspired the most primal fear in you more than the first humans feared the dark.
Maybe it’s because you suspected if he “accidentally” killed you no one would question it. Maybe it’s because if he amped up his cruelty and did something truly criminal, there’d be no justice for you.
He made Wayne Manor a 24/7 battlefield but a hell that was too familiar to escape. If you ran, where would you go? You had no life skills or safety net. There was no place for you in the manor or the outside world.
Damian was the instigator of many shameful memories that’d haunt you in your subconscious but one thing that you’ll never forget for as long as you live was the time with your Nana’s picture.
You had found an old photo of your Nana online that you printed out and kept with you. It was your keepsake and absolute treasure, especially after you’d lost all your possessions in the flood.
When you looked at that picture, you saw someone who looked like you. That photo was an anchor that kept you from completely losing yourself and proof that even though you didn’t belong to this family, you had indeed belonged somewhere.
It was a quiet and good day because you hadn’t seen anyone all day. You had let your guard down and you recall looking back on that moment and hating yourself.
You’d been standing in front of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s portrait and gazing up into Martha’s face while wondering what she had been like. Her eyes were soft but undoubtedly intelligent. She didn’t want for anything, but she didn’t hold on to her wealth with her history or charity. She was truly noblesse oblige.
Her smile made you smile back as you held your Nana’s picture in one hand. ‘I wonder if you two would’ve got along.’ You honestly felt they would’ve hit it off.
You reached forward with your Nana’s picture to tuck it into the picture frame. It was a little 3 by 2 photo that didn’t take any space at all and you weren’t going to leave it there. You just wanted to set the two women near each other so you could look at the resemblance.
Your two grandmothers.
You were so at ease that you didn’t notice Damian had been watching you from down the hall until he stormed at you when he saw you touching the portrait.
You were usually hyper-aware of him but had been lost in the warm feeling that thinking of your two grandmothers had brought and your heart almost jumped into your throat when he burst onto the scene.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone was accusatory and you felt like you’d been caught stealing. He wrenched your wrist and bent it painfully while ripping your Nana’s picture out of your grasp.
He scanned the small photo. “Who’s this?”
“M-my N-Nana.” You didn’t mean to squeak but he scared you and his hold on your wrist had you curling up in pain. If you had to speak anymore, you knew you’d end up blubbering.
“Hm,” He stared down at the photo but something in his eyes changed. The razor blade cruelty won.
“Then she’s nothing.” He dropped the photo and then stomped down and ground it into the floor leaving a shoe print.
“No!” You pulled away and he let go, almost causing you to fall back. You dropped to your knees to recover the picture and he stomped down on your hand. You shrieked and felt knuckles crack and dislocate. Your cries echoed in the hall and he hissed “Stop whining.” as if you were a child throwing a tantrum in the toy aisle.
He took hold of your hair and looked down at you.
“Don’t think that because your whore mother tempted father into bed that you’ll ever be one of us.”
You were struck speechless and felt like you were submerged in ice cold water. You wanted to retort but so many thoughts overwhelmed you at once.
How could anyone say that?
Why would he say that?
What had you done wrong?
You want to defend the two most precious women in your life but words failed you as you doubled over in a panic attack.
“Pathetic.”
He wiped his hands on his pants then turned on his heel and left you there to pick up the pieces.
Over the years, he mellowed out and just ignored your presence. He’d scowl when you were near or exude an aura that said ‘Don’t speak.’ but at least he didn’t attack you like before or ransack your room and rip up your books and anything of personal value.
For a while after you came to the manor and before he decided you were nothing, every book, notebook, sketchbook, or anything else you cherished would be torn apart and left in your room for you to find. He was mocking you. Goading you to tell someone.
He knew no one would listen.
No one believed you or offered to speak to him about it and actually, most everyone (minus Alfred and Jason) thought you were trying to pin your own bad behavior on him, trying to frame him for attention, or were genuinely going crazy and wrecking your own stuff.
He used Titus to intimidate you, and instigated Stephanie to harass you by saying you were talking about her or messing with her things, and she’d always believe him and fly off the handle.
You had tried to clear up the misunderstanding once or twice but you’d overwhelmed with tears and couldn’t speak during these altercations.
In the end, you always looked like the guilty party who could dish it, but couldn’t take it and every case was closed with you as the bad guy.
It was like Stephanie relished in hating you. You were her prey. A way to assert dominance and maintain her place in the family. You were never invited to things and when you were, it was to the wrong location or the wrong time and you always missed it or stood up.
“Y/n! Why didn’t you come? We waited for you.” Her eyes were mocking but her voice was concerned and almost wronged as if you stood her up.
She had a gift for projecting her voice so all could hear her side and assume you were in the wrong. Your voice only shrunk in anxiety, and her manipulation worked every time.
“I’m sorry, Y/n.” No the fuck she wasn’t.
“We would’ve invited you, but we didn’t think it was your kind of thing.”
“Why are you always looking so sad, gosh!”
“You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter. You’d think you’d have something to smile about.”
“You’re like a vacuum that sucks out all the fun in the room.”
You were in social danger any time you were in her sights. Every interaction had to be in front of an audience and she laid into you with no one to intervene. The few times you tried, you were ganged up on for being too sensitive and not getting the joke.
You remember her getting up in your face shouting and you could feel little drops of spit hitting you. You remember that disgusting memory vividly. She was yelling at you to never touch her stuff again but you never did to begin with.
You could see Damian smiling devilishly behind her as she did exactly what he wanted. He was the devil on her shoulder and she was too stupid to see it. Maybe part of her knew but she always bit the bait giddy to have a reason to go off on you.
God, you should’ve popped her in the mouth even if she would’ve beat you up after.
Cassandra was always witness to the social humiliation. She was the toughest in the family, the only one that could best Bruce in combat, but she did nothing to protect the weakest person there.
She watched, she judged, she ignored when you weren’t actively being a victim, and you felt like a ghost.
Sometimes it felt like you were already dead.
Tim got you mentally and Dick got you emotionally. You thought you could be friends with Tim with him being closer in age and sharing similar interests. He got along with everyone so why couldn’t you?
Simple. He was already biased.
After reading up on you and fighting the media circus from the moment you were discovered, he’d seen enough of you for a lifetime and didn’t hide it.
Attempts at conversation were met with withering looks that made the words die in your throat. Questions were met with exaggerated sighs as if you were the most mentally incapable person he had ever met.
When you started homeschooling because your mental health declined, he mocked your course work and why it was hard for you to keep up. “I guess intelligence isn’t hereditary,” Something dark took over in him, “Or this is the best your mom could do.”
He embarrassed you in front of his friends and even made them feel awkward about it. Connor and Bart were disturbed by his behavior, and couldn’t get a real reason from him for why he was acting this way.
“Just ignore her.”
“She’s no one.”
“When is she going to get out of here? Why’s she even around?”
One time, Tim caught you struggling over a very difficult math problem when you felt someone staring at you. You turned to meet his eyes and he said something that killed a part of you that you thought had already died.
“I wish you hadn’t been found.”
His eyes said he meant it.
Dick was apparently physically flawless if you asked anyone. He was considered a true hero, the de-facto leader of any team he joined or at least the most trusted advisor, and countless people and respected heroes trusted him as an equal.
Surely someone as big hearted as him could just treat you like a person, right?
Wrong.
Your weight fluctuated with your mental health and your skin changed too. Stress breakouts and pimples were a common occurrence and your skin was either too oily or too dry at any given time.
His eyes never really saw you, or let you in like a person he accepted. He looked at you like a half finished sketch that the artist had given up on. You weren’t worth finishing, but he figured he’d take pity and steer you in the right direction.
He was so nice like that.
“You know that’s really bad for you.” He would say when you’d grab for anything you could eat quickly as you rushed back to your room.
“You’d look and feel better if you lost some weight, you know?”
“Look at everyone. You’d really benefit from some exercise.”
He pinched at your sides to emphasize his words. “Steph and Cass are so active. Maybe you could workout with them?” As if they’d even let you. If you tried with them they probably wouldn’t go easy on you and you’d be battered in minutes.
Or when you starved? He was proud of you. Of course, now you lost weight in some of the ‘wrong’ places and your hair was thinner and you were even weaker, but you were going in the right direction! Keep it up, Y/n!
He was confused that you didn’t glow like the others. You didn’t look like the others. Damian was so good looking so how were you the awkward step-sibling when you had Wayne blood in your veins? Dick shrugged. Maybe it just skipped a generation.
It had weighed on you.
The misery had been too much to carry and you had attempted to take your life several times during your decade at Wayne Manor.
You smiled wryly. You’d thought you were such a loser that you couldn’t even kill yourself right, but maybe it never worked because there was still goodness in the world that reached out to you when no one else would.
You hadn’t failed. You had been saved.
The faces of those special few crossed your mind, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest and to your belly.
The horrors of the past and the attempts invaded your mind as if to overwhelm you and force you back on that lonesome path to your end, but it couldn’t force you again. Those kind faces and selfless eyes made you smile as tears prickled the corners of your closed eyes.
It all went like this…
❥
You had gotten addicted to exercise and any way to lose weight. Images of Barbara’s and Starfire’s perfect bodies flashed in your eyes whenever you blinked and Dick’s “advice” kept you awake at night. It hadn’t been an attempt, but a consequence of your pain.
You’d been doing exercises on your bedroom floor, going too fast, pushing too hard, when you went into cardiac arrest. You and Alfred don’t know how he did it, but he felt a pain in his own heart when you were having the attack and he nearly flew to your room before he knew it.
He performed first aid and rushed you to bed where he tended to you. He took you to doctor’s appointments and put you in therapy. He managed your diet and watched you like a hawk.
Once again, no one visited.
❥
Tim’s cruelty had become too much for you to bear. It’d been a beautiful spring day and a gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine all the way up to the third floor balcony.
You stood at the railing and a great sadness and bitterness consumed you. Why were you the one pushed to the edge like this? Frustrated tears blurred your vision. Why were you so hated when your only sin was living?
Even now on such a beautiful day you were going to end it all while they were all having fun together.
It wasn’t fair.
You climbed the railing and angled yourself so you’d land on the stone below and without another thought you pushed off and tilted head first.
Bart had watched it all in disbelief from the backyard, and hoped that he was just being dramatic until he saw you climb the railing.
Tim had been prattling on about some new tech thing he was working on while Bart’s body was vibrating with unreleased energy.
‘She won’t…’
She did.
He was racing to you and catching you in his arms in a flash. He caught you just in time before your head was cracked open on the stone patio and your tearful eyes fluttered open and found his petrified face.
His heart was pounding in his throat and his hands felt numb. He had never seen you so up close before. He didn’t even remember the last time you spoke or if you’d ever spoken to each other without Tim interrupting and shooing you away.
His mind was going crazy trying to find you in his memories and he realized he hadn’t been able to make any with you with Tim around. All that came to mind were anxious eyes and an insecure smile before darting away.
You blinked through the tears and a strangled gasp slipped out as your face broke into disappointment, “Why?”
“What?” Bart was dumbstruck. Did you mean why’d he catch you or were you just confused. He hoped it was the latter.
“Why’d you save me?” You cried and Bart stared down at you as you fell apart in his arms.
He didn’t treat Tim the same after that. He tried to tell Tim about your attempt and Tim waved it off as an accident. “She’s crazy.” He’d said and Bart couldn’t let it go.
He felt like he needed to avenge you in some way, but he didn’t know how. It was a family thing, wasn’t it? People always said not to get into other people’s business, especially family matters.
He stopped coming around as much and even Tim realized he was being ghosted but didn’t get why. Bart tried to keep tabs on you when he’d ask Barry to mention you to Batman but nothing ever came of it. Barry knew something was up but was stonewalled hard by Bruce whenever he tried to be a good adult and float the idea that, hey, maybe his daughter needs help.
None of the adults intervened, and he carried that with him and wondered what he could’ve done differently for the rest of his life.
News of your death had hit him personally. He saw it coming. He knew if no one had intervened it would end up like this, but he prayed someone in your family would come around and see the signs if they wouldn’t listen to an outsider like him.
He was too hard on himself. He had been a kid like you were, but he hated himself for not saving you,
He never forgave himself or the batfamily.
❥
It had been a gorgeous winter day and the pond had frozen over into pure crystal. You should’ve been enjoying nature, but you weren’t here for sightseeing.
Damian’s words and actions had gone too far regarding your mother and what made it worse was that no one defended you.
You’d had enough.
You were wary of large bodies of water since the storm, but something about drowning to meet your end seemed right. Like finishing what had been started.
You were numb, almost robotic, as you walked to the middle of the pond, kicked on the ice, and let it swallow you whole. The icy cover slipped back in place seamlessly and it was like you’d never been there at all.
Connor was always aware of you when he came over. Tim dismissed you and you were too afraid to meet Connor’s eye no matter how disarmingly smooth he tried to be with you, but he was still always aware of your presence.
It was like he was unconsciously keeping track of you, something he’d never done for anyone else unless required for a mission. For some reason, due to a completely foreign feeling, he needed to make sure you were there.
He could feel you getting farther away, and used his x-ray vision too look through Tim’s bedroom wall, through the mansion and out in your direction.
His eyes found you immediately and he stilled as he saw your figure getting smaller and smaller as you got further away from the manor and farther into the brush. ‘Where’s she going?’
He half-rose from his chair as dread began to set in and leaned forward as he watched you get farther away and then suddenly your heat signature dropped and disappeared.
He jumped from his chair and bolted out of Tim’s room, clipping doorframes and knocking off wooden panels along the way. Once outside, he took to the sky in the direction you were and found the point where he’d lost you.
His heat vision melted the ice above you and he dove in and dragged you out in seconds. His heart was racing the entire time as he gave CPR like he’d seen in the movies, kicking himself for not knowing how to save someone when he called himself a hero.
What if he didn’t make it in time? What if he wasn’t doing CPR right?
He flew you through the cold and gently lay you in front of the fireplace where his heat vision had it lit and raging instantly. Alfred rushed to gather blankets, but besides that, they were the only two in motion.
Connor realized that he was screaming for someone to help, for Tim to get his ass downstairs. His mind was so loud he couldn't even hear his own screams until he became aware of his throat going hoarse.
Tim ambled downstairs and gazed at your pale, violently shivering and barely conscious self.
“What’s the big deal? She fell.”
Connor looked Tim in the eyes for a hint of a joke or just a simple tale of Tim putting his foot in his mouth once again but Connor’s heart plummeted when he saw that the man he called a friend was dead serious.
‘What the fuck is wrong with these people?’
There’s a shouting match after that, but Tim didn’t understand what the problem was. Y/n fell in the pond, and of course she’d be out there all alone because she’s dumb and just wants attention.
Connor saw red and it all happened so fast. He may have hit Tim, and he may have gone on a minor rampage in the manor before storming out to never return again.
And that was the end of their friendship.
Connor would fly as far away from the manor as possible but close enough to see you using his x-ray vision. Sometimes he’d just watch you all night just to know you were still there. Just to know you were still alive.
Metas were barred from Gotham and when Batman and the others found out about Connor’s bodyguarding, they ramped up anti aerial measures that forced Connor to stay farther away until he couldn’t enter Gotham airspace at all.
The one night he slacked off on watching you was the one night he lost you.
❥
Jon had been over and innocently passed by the lounge when he heard Stephanie yelling in your face, “Don’t touch my shit again!” Her voice was shriller than he had ever heard from her even when yelling at bad guys, and you were as quiet as a mouse with wide glassy eyes. Even a naive boy could tell that this was unfair.
He peeked inside and saw Damian grinning like he was watching his favorite show. “She falls for it every time.” Jon didn’t know if he was talking about you or Stephanie as he frowned in confusion.
His brows knitted together and his face burned hot when he saw your mouth trembling and heard you choking to speak.
“Get Bruce to buy it for you. Why do you always take my stuff?”
“Maybe that’s how she always was.” Damian offered from the background, gleefully fueling the fire.
Jon snapped.
He wasn’t sure what was going on but he knew this was wrong. His inner sense of justice told him so.
“Leave her alone!”
Damian startled beside him, not expecting the outburst and the sheer force the shout gave out, and Stephanie leaped up and whirled around with wide eyes like she had been caught in an embarrassing moment.
“W-Wha-, you were there?” Jon ignored her question and marched forward, “What are you doing?” He puffed up his small chest, his fists balled.
“W-well, she took my thing…” She was suddenly slightly aware of how immature this seemed, but pride wouldn’t let her give in.
Jon was younger than her, but stared up at her like she was a simple child. “Did you see her do it?”
Stephanie and Damian held their breaths.
“No, but Damian said—”
Jon turned around to his friend, “Did you see her do it?”
Damian sneered indignantly, “And if I said yes?” Jon stared at Damian like he was seeing his true self for the first time.
Had he been mistaken about his friend’s character this whole time?
“Th-thank you.” You choked out pathetically to Jon and hurried from the room.
It was a screaming match between Jon and Damian and Stephanie that shook the walls, and even though Damian was one to always get the last word, Jon’s voice shook pictures from their hooks and threatened to knock over priceless art unless he composed himself.
He had to calm himself down because he had a feeling the more he fought with them, the harder it’d be for you later. He knew that he could leave and go back to his safe warm home, but you had to stay here with them.
He didn’t want to leave you in a worse position than he found you. Clenching his fists and screwing his eyes shut tightly, he counted to 10 like his dad had showed him.
Maybe it was something Kryptonians shared because just like Connor, Jon couldn't let this go as he felt a grudge forming for you. Jon stalked away from the argument with no answers or guilt from the people who harassed you, one of which he’d called a “friend,” and he wanted to see you one last time before he left.
He pushed open what he thought was your bedroom door and anything he wanted to say died in his throat as only a pitiful “Y/n.” tumbled out.
His voice had been so small then, and it came clearly through the eerie silence that surrounded you in your room. You had fashioned a noose and hung it over a low hanging beam and Jon had walked in on you standing in place. He knew what it was for.
“Don’t do it.”
Your eyes were red and glassy. They begged for help but they wanted even more to not cause some innocent kid distress. You tore down the noose and tossed it to the dirty clothes hamper. “I wasn’t, I promise.”
He didn’t believe you, but he wasn’t prepared for a situation like this. What would his dad do? It finally hit him how young and inexperienced he was, and he felt like a sorry excuse for a hero.
“I’ll be okay.” You hurriedly tried to rub the snot from your nose and rushed to grab tissues and move the stool away. “Thank you for saving me, Jon.”
He thought back to that altercation in the lounge and thought it didn’t count. “I didn’t save you.” He said more bitterly than he intended.
He didn’t make anything better! The people who hurt you didn’t care and he had even misjudged someone he thought was a friend this whole time!
You looked over at him, “Yes, you did, Jon. You saved me twice.”
Jon’s chin quivered and he was too ashamed to cry in front of you. He never visited Damian again and after hearing about the insanity at Wayne Manor and Superman himself trying to talk to Bruce, the relationship between the Supers and Bats was never the same.
Your death caused a rift between the two families. Superman treated Batman like a coworker and stopped acquiescing to his eccentricities.
He went toe to toe with the Bat and didn’t back down on many things.
Connor and Jon focused on Metropolis and growing into men you could be proud of.
They’d never forget the one they didn’t save.
❥
You hadn’t had him the first 16 years of your life and you’d thought you outgrew needing a father. You didn’t know him, and didn’t want him so why did it hurt so much when he obviously didn’t care about you.
Why was one child loved and the other wasn’t? Was it because of your mother? He loved Damian’s and not yours? Damian was blue blooded and you were a statistic?
You did it the old-fashioned way in the tub and Jason and Titus were the ones who found you.
It’s funny that the dog that put you on edge was the first to notice something was up. .
He’d never attacked you, he was a good boy and unlike dogs bred for fighting and assault you knew he didn’t have bloodlust, but he intimidated you with his sharp knowing eyes.
However, contrary to his master’s wishes and the evil dead that surrounded you, he couldn’t hate you. He saw the spirits of beloved pets floating around and following after you and he knew you were a good human with a loving heart.
He wanted to get near but the malicious energy concentrated around you knew he could see them and that put him in danger. So, he steered clear of you and watched the tendrils and the dead that hated you for surviving from a safe distance.
He was the only one who could see what you were going through, but couldn’t do a thing about it. Who could he tell?
And things remained like that until one evening he felt a shift. The walls were groaning and the wind howled but as always he was the only one who could hear it. His tail went straight up and his hackles raised.
Something was wrong with you.
Titus bolted for Jason, one of the few humans he could sense had good feelings towards you, and took bit down on his ankle and tugged hard.
“Titus! What the hell?” Jason pulled back but Titus dragged him clean out of his chair and to the ground. The dog dragged Jason a little more to make sure he got his point across and then dropped Jason’s leg.
Titus rushed to the door and turned back to Jason expectantly, barking when Jason wasn’t getting up fast enough.
“What kind of Scooby-Doo bullshit is this?” Jason mused as he pulled himself to his feet and chased after the anxious dog, his blood going cold as he realized he was heading to your room.
Something in him knew what this could be about.
‘No. Please, no!’
Titus ran towards a door and barked and scratched desperately. Jason was close behind, almost overtaking the dog and broke the door down with a shoulder charge. It sounded like a bomb went off as the wood split and splintered, sending its remains scattering across the tiled floor.
There you were.
Your eyes were closed.
“No, no! Y/n, why would you?” He knew why, actually. He’d always had a feeling that there was a darkness you shouldered that was even darker and deeper than he knew, but he just assumed he had more time!
More time to come around and finally talk to you, more time to work his way into your life and get you out of the manor. Why did he take it all for granted? Why did he, like everyone else, take you for granted?
He hauled your soaking wet body out of the bath and to a room nearest to the front of the house all the while screaming his head off.
“Help! Alfred! Someone fucking help!”
Alfred stitched you up and treated you in the med bay, and Jason fought Bruce in a way he never did even when he first came back as the Red Hood.
Walls collapsed, bones were broken, and several had to jump in to try to separate the two but none were strong enough to end the struggle.
It finally ended when Jason realized he wanted to kill Bruce, and he almost succeeded.
He withdrew when he realized it’d feel so good to kill Bruce for you.
After that, Red Hood and Jason Todd officially broke away from Bruce Wayne and Batman. It was like Jason had died a second time as a quiet gloom was once again cast over Bruce’s life, but he wouldn’t acknowledge his failure. He wouldn’t acknowledge that he had any fault in your attempt or that that was the reason Jason would never forgive him.
The one time Jason came back to try to build a bridge to cross over to you, was the night you ended your life in front of him.
He thought he had more time.
Your eyes flew open and you inhaled a shuttering breath that struggled down your throat. Your lungs felt like they had been shriveled up and you turned your head over the side of the bed to throw up water. Where had it come from?
You coughed while wiping the tears from your eyes and looked up to see long tendrils like thick black hair reaching out and surrounding you from all sides. It was like you were a juicy fly entangled in a web and the widow was creeping closer and closer knowing that you had nowhere to run.
It should've scared you.
It pissed you off.
"You motherfucker!" You reached out and took hold of the black mass with both hands.
With two unbandaged arms and weaving scars that healed over the course of 10 years.
You didn't waste time wondering why you were an inch or two taller or why you felt stronger than ever before. You didn't take notice of the clothes that were far sexier and fantastic than your wildest dreams.
All you could feel was the raw hatred you had been holding on to for 10 long years as golden chains shimmered and wrapped around the writhing black mass that struggled in your hold. The moment a chain touched the mass, it sizzled and popped like bacon touching hot grease.
The mass let loose a horrific shriek from a nonexistent mouth like several pigs being slaughtered at once and your eardrums felt like they'd popped. It writhed desperately as the chains from your scars tightened and squeezed around it.
It shook in your grasp but you held tight and wouldn't be knocked from your feet.
"Go to hell!"
The chains clenched tighter until the mass was eviscerated into nothingness.
Your bedroom shook and you could hear the walls and inner beams shifting around you as other entities cried in horror and retreated farther into the mansion and away from you.
Your clenched fists shook as you caught your breath.
You ran your tongue alone a pointed canine and smiled salaciously.
Then, you looked up and saw your reflection in the plain vanity mirror. The 26 year old you who you had never seen so radiant and powerful before stared right back and winked.
Do you think you could do a Damien family dinner aged up like when the older or just a teen pregnancy the family reacting to the pregnancy ?? (if you’re not comfortable with this, it’s Okok!) also I love your works😽😽😽
Family dinner IX✧₊⁺
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. Jon Kent)
summary|teen pregnancy— damian finds out.
word count|2451
warnings|teenage pregnancy, angst, puking, teen romance.
notes|next part will be the family’s reaction<33
Family dinner masterlist
It was the most typical way to find out.
Jon had invited you and Damian to stay over for the weekend.
Ever since meeting Jon, you’d clicked instantly—his easy-going energy balancing out Damian’s sharp edges—and you were ecstatic to go. After convincing your parents and begging Damian to take a weekend off from vigilantism and just have fun with you, you found yourself on a road trip to Metropolis.
There were faster ways to travel—Damian had even offered to fly you in the Batplane—but this was supposed to be fun. A road trip, music blasting, snacks in the backseat. At least, that was the plan.
“Beloved,” Damian said, one hand still on the wheel as he passed you another paper bag, “you are not throwing up in this car again.”
You groaned, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “I can’t help it, Dami. I think it’s the jerky. Or—or maybe the chips?”
“You’ve eaten those same snacks dozens of times,” Damian muttered, eyes narrowing at the road. “You’re never carsick. This is… unusual.”
“Gee, thanks, Doctor Wayne,” you grumbled, rolling the window down.
He glanced at you briefly, his sharp gaze softening for half a second before returning to the highway. “We’ll stop soon. Get some water, stretch your legs.”
You nodded, but your chest felt tight. You already knew it wasn’t carsickness. Not really.
A late period. Nausea. Mood swings. Headaches. Strange stomach cramps.
It all led to one terrifying possibility.
At a gas station stop, you slipped into the bathroom and took three tests, each one making your heart drop.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
You sat on the floor for what felt like hours, head spinning, tears blurring your vision. When Damian’s voice broke through the doors, you almost screamed.
“Beloved? You’ve been in there for ten minutes. Are you—are you ill?”
You quickly wiped your face. “I’m fine! Just—uh, fixing my hair.”
“Fixing your hair?” His voice was skeptical. “It’ll mess up again, there’s still an hour to go-“
“Damian!” you snapped, panic making your voice sharper than intended. “Just give me a second, okay?”
There was a pause, then a reluctant sigh. “Fine. But if you’re not out in two minutes, I will break the lock.”
You emerged moments later, trying to look normal.
“I’m here,” you said, breathless.
Damian frowned, stepping closer, his sharp green eyes scanning your face. “Were you crying?”
“No,” you lied, crossing your arms and straightening as if that could hide the redness in your eyes.
“Beloved…” He leaned down slightly, his voice low. “I know when you’re lying.”
“I’m fine, Damian. Can we just go? And give me your hoodie.” You stated as you walked over to Bruce’s car.
His brows furrowed but he handed it over, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird. Just drive.” You pulled the hoodie over your head and curled into the seat, avoiding his gaze.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.
By the time you arrived at the Kent farm, guilt was bubbling in your chest like acid. What were you supposed to do? How would you tell your parents? How would you tell his parents? How would you tell him?
When Damian opened the car door and went around to the back, you caught the way his head was down, his frown deeper than usual. He wasn’t angry—just… hurt.
You stepped out rushed to his side, grabbing his hand. “Damian, I’m sorry,” you sniffled, your lips trembling.
His gaze softened instantly, confusion replacing the frustration. “It’s… okay. Don’t cry, please,” he said, voice low and careful as he let you pull him into a hug.
“You’re so sweet,” you mumbled against his shoulder, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re so sweet, and I’m such an asshole”
“Don’t call yourself that, beloved,” he interrupted firmly, his hand sliding soothingly along your back.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he tried again, but you just shook your head and walked toward the front door, wiping your face.
“Hey! You made it!” Jon grinned as soon as you stepped inside.
You hugged him instantly, grateful for a familiar face. “Jon! I missed you.” Damian brought your luggage with, obliviously scowling.
“Whoa, I missed you too Damian,” Jon teased, shooting Damian a grin before pulling him in a hug as well.
The evening was… nice, at first. Lois and Clark were at work, so it was just the three of you snacking, telling stories, and playing video games.
Until the pillow fight.
It had started off fun—Jon barely using any strength while you and Damian play-fought—but then Damian tossed a pillow a little too hard, and it hit you square in the stomach.
“Damian, what the hell?!” you snapped, clutching your middle as a flash of panic rose in your chest.
His face fell, his hands half-reaching out. “I’m sorry, beloved. Did I hit you too hard?”
“Yes. Yes, you did,” you bit out, standing abruptly.
Jon froze, the air going uncomfortably quiet as you stomped upstairs. Damian sank into the couch with a frustrated huff, running a hand down his face.
“So…” Jon said after a long pause. “Trouble in paradise?”
Damian shot him a glare. “I don’t know what’s going on with her,” he admitted finally, rubbing his temples. “She’s been… off. For weeks. Moody, picking fights, crying over nothing. I asked her what’s wrong—she won’t tell me anything.”
Jon winced. “Maybe she just needs space?”
Damian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I don’t want space. I want answers.”
Jon sighed, standing. “I’ll talk to her.”
Damian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What makes you think she’ll talk to you?”
Jon shrugged with a grin. “I’m just better with girls.”
The thing was—Jon already had an inkling. From the moment you arrived, he’d been hearing an extra, faint heartbeat whenever you were close. At first he thought he was imagining things, but now?
He walked into his room, expecting to find you sulking. Instead, his breath caught when his x-ray vision flicked on without thinking.
There it was.
A small, faint fluttering in your abdomen.
Oh.
“Uh…” Jon scratched the back of his neck. “I’m guessing hot chocolate isn’t gonna fix this?”
You groaned, clutching his Superman plushie to your stomach. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.
“(name)…” Jon said softly, sitting next to you.
Your lip wobbled. “What is it?” you asked, voice trembling.
Jon swallowed. “You know how I have… powers.”
“Yes…” you said slowly.
“And… one of them is x-ra—”
“Jon,” you gasped, hands flying to your mouth, eyes going wide.
“(name)…” he winced, trying to find the words.
“Jon!” you half-sobbed, grabbing his hand.
“Damian’s an idiot,” Jon said flatly.
You let out a tearful laugh. “Jon… I don’t know what to do. I just found out today.”
“That… explains a lot,” he said awkwardly.
“Don’t tell him,” you begged, smacking his arm when he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”
“When’s that going to be?” Jon asked softly.
“I don’t know,” you whispered.
“C’mon,” Jon said gently. “Wanna go play with Krypto?”
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
The weekend had gone by in a blur of dinners with the Kents, tourist spots in Metropolis, and a handful of awkward moments trying to avoid Superman’s eyes.
But for Damian, something felt… wrong.
You and Jon were whispering, giving each other knowing looks, and he couldn’t stand it. He was a detective—one of the greatest, trained by both the League and the World’s Greatest Detective himself—yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure this out. Why were you closing off to him? Why was Jon the one you confided in?
He trusted you both. He did. But it still burned.
That night, Damian sat on the edge of Jon’s bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. You’d gone to bed early again without saying anything—something you never did when he wasn’t with you—and left him feeling like the unwanted third wheel.
Jon leaned against the doorway, watching him with an uneasy look. “You okay, dude?”
Damian exhaled, a long, sharp sigh. “No. Not really.”
Jon raised a brow, stepping inside. “That’s a first. Usually when I ask, you say something like, ‘Of course I am. Don’t be an idiot, Kent.’”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t test me right now.”
Jon sat down across from him on the bed. “So… what’s going on?”
Damian gave him a look. “You tell me. You seem to know more about what’s wrong with her than I do.”
Jon flinched, guilt washing over him. “Dude, it’s not like that—”
“Then explain why she barely looks at me anymore but spends hours talking to you.” Damian’s tone was sharp, his green eyes narrowing. “What did I do wrong?”
Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong, man. She’s just… going through something. And I think she’s scared to tell you.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “She has no reason to be afraid of me.”
“Not afraid of you,” Jon said quickly. “Afraid of your reaction. She doesn’t want to make things worse.”
Damian blinked, his mind whirling. “Make things worse? What could possibly—” He cut himself off, running a hand down his face. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t know what’s happening.”
Jon hesitated. He couldn’t do this anymore—the secret was eating at him. “Look… maybe I can get her to talk. She should tell you.”
Jon found you in the guest room, sitting cross-legged on the bed and absentmindedly playing with the hem of Damian’s hoodie. Hair messy like you’d try to sleep but didn’t. You looked up when he stepped in, trying to force a smile.
“Jon,” you said softly. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs with Dami?”
He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, about that… you know you’re killing him, right?”
You blinked. “What?”
“He’s losing his mind. He thinks you’re mad at him or… I don’t know. That you don’t trust him anymore.” Jon leaned forward. “You have to tell him.”
Your stomach twisted. “Jon, I can’t. I don’t even know where to start. What if he—”
“(name)” Jon interrupted gently, “he loves you. Like, annoyingly so. He might freak out at first—he will freak out—but he’ll want to help you.”
You hugged your knees to your chest. “I’m scared.”
Jon sighed, glancing at the door. “Then let me stay here and—”
The door swung open.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Kent?”
Damian stood in the doorway, his sharp green eyes darting between Jon sitting on the bed and you hugging yourself like you were hiding something. The tension in the room spiked instantly.
“Damian—” you started, but he cut you off.
“No,” Damian said firmly, stepping inside. “I’ve had enough of this secretive behavior. What’s going on? What are you hiding from me?”
Jon stood quickly, holding his hands up like Damian was a wild animal. “Look, dude, just calm down—”
“Calm down?” Damian’s voice was low, almost a growl. “My girlfriend has been avoiding me all weekend, and you—my best friend—are sneaking off with her? Explain. Now.”
Jon glanced at you. “…You should tell him.”
Your breath hitched. “Dami, I—”
“What is it?” Damian’s voice cracked slightly. He looked at you, not Jon now, his expression shifting from anger to raw confusion and fear. “Beloved… what’s wrong?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, tears spilling over. “I… I’m pregnant.”
The room went silent.
Damian’s face went pale, his mouth opening slightly like the words didn’t compute. “…What?”
“I didn’t mean to hide it,” you sobbed, covering your face. “I just found out. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
For a long moment, Damian didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and crouched in front of you, his hands trembling as he reached for yours.
“Beloved… look at me,” he whispered.
You lowered your hands, meeting his wide, stunned eyes.
Jon shifted uncomfortably by the door, looking like he wanted to disappear. “Uh… I’m just gonna…” He motioned to leave, but Damian’s sharp voice stopped him.
“Stay,” Damian ordered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He turned back to, immediately softening.
“I…” Damian swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what this means. But I swear to you—I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone. We will figure this out. Together. Do you understand?”
Your lips wobbled, and you nodded, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. He brushed them away with his thumb, his hand cupping your jaw with a gentleness that contrasted his usual sharpness.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“Me too,” he admitted, voice low. “But I would rather face this fear with you than let you carry it by yourself.”
Jon, awkwardly standing by the wall, cleared his throat. “Uh, for the record… I didn’t want to keep this from you. She just needed someone to talk to.”
Damian turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “…Thank you,” he said finally, his voice clipped but sincere. “For being there for her.”
Jon gave a sheepish nod. “Yeah. No problem.”
Damian turned back to you, his thumb still brushing the back of your hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. Not tonight. All I want… all I need… is for you to know that I’m here. Whatever we choose to do, whatever happens—we’ll face it together.”
You let out a shaky laugh that was half a sob. “You’re too good to me.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong. This is my fault.”
The words hung between you two and it went quiet for another moment.
“Sooo…” Jon’s voice broke the heavy silence, and both you and Damian turned to him with matching glares. He held up his hands like he was surrendering. “Uh, wow, okay. This is definitely a thing. Big moment here. But… am I the only one who’s insanely hungry right now?”
Damian didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at Jon’s face.
“Hey!” Jon sputtered as the pillow bounced off his head. “That’s not very dad-like behavior.”
“Say that again, Kent,” Damian growled, his ears turning red as you let out a wet laugh behind your hands.
“Too soon?” Jon grinned, ducking another pillow that Damian lobbed at him. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop! But for real, I’m finishing that cake from last night”
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SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes
None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship
And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake
PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader
TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character
PART ONE | Bruce liked his routines. Alfred had his cleaning system optimized down to a science. And the Batkids—well, chaos followed them often, but even they liked their chaos scheduled. So when a child appeared out of nowhere, no one was quite sure what protocol applied.
PART TWO | She talked like they’d all been there—like every story she shared belonged to them too. About a greenhouse with Uncle Dickie and Aunt Star where they got stuck in the gift shop because of a thunderstorm. About Uncle Jason teaching her to sneak cookies without letting Grandpa Alfred know and failing cause Alfred always knows.
PART THREE | She didn’t know yet that the city she was about to land in held more than just another gig. That the man she’d met once in Metropolis would soon become unavoidable. That somewhere in the same skyline, a little girl with her smile was waiting for a mother who did not know her yet. She just knew she had a show to put on. She had no idea that the most important act of her life was already waiting for her in Gotham.
PART FOUR | She’d handled press ambushes, persistent paparazzi, even that one award show collab stage where her co-artist had proposed on stage unprompted. She’d been coached on how to smile through invasive questions, how to steer conversations away from controversies, how to cry artfully in interviews about rising fame and artistic integrity. But nothing—nothing—had taught her how to respond when a stranger’s child ran into her arms and called her “Mommy.”
