4mrplumi - saria she/any prns. unlabeled, south asian. i write what i'm into at the time, and love talking about anything!! no nsfw but might dabble in mature themes sometimes. (reformatted on 17-03-25)
master list. তালিকা
aek. spiderwocky - batfam x spiderman!reader
dui. crow choir: seven minutes - batfam x neglected!reader (re-write)
I always wanted to keep my profile as chill and drama-free as possible. I never wanted to bring my personal problems here or create an “uncomfortable” atmosphere. But I’m making this post because I’m genuinely desperate.
If you read my last post, you probably already know a little about what’s going on, but I’ll explain it again here.
Yesterday, I woke up and found my kitten covered in blood and severely injured. I still don’t know if the injuries were caused by a fight between other cats and she got caught in the middle, or if she fell from the roof of my house—or maybe both...
But she was in terrible condition and barely breathing.
I immediately rushed her to a veterinary clinic. The only one that responded to my plea for help was at least six kilometers from my home. I wrapped my kitten up and took her there right away in an Uber.
She was taken into surgery immediately. They discovered a severe blow to her head that affected her left eye, as you can see in the photo. Her jaw was fractured and literally split in half. She is still hospitalized at the clinic, and yesterday I was able to pay for the surgery, anesthesia, hospitalization, and other immediate expenses. But now I’ve run out of money, and I still have more costs ahead for her treatment—especially the dental reconstruction.
I don’t have my family’s support. In fact, they got angry that I spent so much money on my kitten, and one of them even said I should have just let her die instead of spending that much money (around 90 USD). They made their position very clear.
To me, she is precious. She’s only two years old and has her whole life ahead of her. Even her kittens, who live with us, were meowing yesterday and searching for her around the house. My cat is not some object you throw in the trash the way they think. She is a living being who is now fighting to recover.
I’ve exhausted every option I had. Yesterday I tried selling the few valuable things I own, and I tried applying for credit cards and loans to cover her expenses, but I had no success. I don’t meet the requirements for a loan, and even if I managed to get a credit card, it wouldn’t be approved for another three months.
This is literally my last option because I am truly desperate...
I don’t want my kitten to die, but it feels like I’m not enough on my own, and no one is willing to help me.
For this one and only time, I’m asking for financial help.
My PayPal is Lola Guasco @LolaGsc. My profile picture is my kitten—the same one shown in the photos...
Any help matters. Any dollar, any repost, like, or comment you give is helping Nala get through this.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for your help 😿💕💕
── DESC. welcome back! can't say i knew you well enough to say you changed, but it has been a while. how've you been, (name)?
── MLIST. ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4 . . . tbc
── CONT DISCLAIMERS. female reader, substance abuse, mental illness, unhealthy dynamics, mental facilities and what comes with them, others to be included if they're chapter-specific.
── a/n. holy snooze fest... somehow i feel like this is a tad bit slow. but hey! so am i! so i guess it's not too bad.
it’d been decided initially that only bruce and alfred would go to pick up (name) from the station, but after some insisting (from bruce, though he’d never admit it), dick found himself in the back seat of one of the wayne manor’s many sleek cars, watching the gotham city scape smoothen out into plain, depressingly empty fields.
maybe, though he’d never admit it, bruce was afraid. three years was an awfully long time for him and the rest of the family to think and truly regret their inaction. regret things (name) had assured them, mumbling in the car back then, wasn’t their fault, never was. who knew how (name) would be now? resentful? grateful? what if she came back a different girl entirely, a new daughter to replace the last?
dick wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid too, just a little, for her. he knew what it felt like to be lonely, to move and leave a whole world behind. worse yet, he knew how it felt to return and see different things, to see the world move on without you. how would she feel about damian? about going back to school? would she go back to school? he’d argued with bruce about keeping her in gotham prep with damian, instead of sending her off again.
“besides bruce,” he’d said, tim as his witness in the living room when they got the mail about her dispatch last month, “it’s only the last year. staying close to family would help, right?” he’d looked to tim for assurance, who shrugged quickly, arms crossed. he didn't know (name) for very long, but even then, she'd been a little reluctant to get along with him.
gotham wasn’t safe, but wouldn’t it just be mean to keep putting her away, after she’s been gone for so long already? it was his job to think this way, worry like this. she was just a little girl when so much already happened, he doesn’t want her to feel littler. she was his sister… and even if he wasn’t too sure if he got to be her brother- it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to be.
they’d already talked to damian about it all, having to keep an eye on her at school and everything. albeit, he was much less snarky and jumpy as he had once been, but it would’ve probably still been a shock for him to meet another one of bruce’s blood-children out of nowhere, especially when he was so sure he was the only one in the family.
he didn’t seem all too surprised when they finally told him, using euphemisms for her behaviour, hoping he wouldn’t cringe or sneer. he just seemed a little discomforted at most. a raised eyebrow and a few indignant sniffs at the fact that they “hadn’t told him any sooner”.
he was right really, (name) was family, they should’ve told him before. but how in the world does someone even start that discussion? bruce was down in the dumps about it even seven months after (name) left for the hospital, refusing any questions the media or the family asked. dick himself felt a little ill thinking about needing doctors to help her instead of them, when it should’ve been them. it should’ve always been them helping first- should’ve never become a problem big enough to be taken to doctors. the others didn’t even know her too well, what would they tell damian?
in all honesty, dick found himself feeling a little anxious about knowing (name) too. really, he didn’t know her at all. even if he’d been there when they got her to the manor, six years old and bright-eyed, he didn’t have a chance to know her at all. didn’t know about her when he’d come in bruce’s place for parent-teacher conferences, ruffling her hair and saying “hope you payed attention, ‘cause i didn’t”. he’d left for bludhaven right the year after, and the in between visits, the trips to diners with her and jason, then with her and tim, weren’t enough at all.
he hated himself even then, for only knowing that she was here because her mum wasn’t with her, and only knowing later, that she’d been too far deep into her school’s …scenes before she had to leave. the facility was a good place, bruce had had to been reassured multiple times, it wasn’t a juvenile version of the gotham correction facility, neither was it a huggy day-care that’d sedate her into playing dolls when things went out of order. “we take our work very seriously, mr. wayne,” he’d heard one of the administrators say when bruce scheduled a meeting in the throes of stress, “but our patient’s wellbeing is taken far more seriously.”
she’d left in june, three years back, and dick remembered it clearly. they’d; cassandra, tim, stephanie, barbara and himself, had all been there to say goodbye when alfred and bruce went to drop her at the train station. a blue uniform, like a boarding school’s, and a piercing stare directed at him right before she entered the car- how could he forget?
he hopes she’d forgiven them, he thought, stepping out of the car when they stopped in front of a desolate train station, surrounded by nothing but a distant pasture a little bit away, a herder yelling at the cows to come home. he thought a little selfishly as they waited for the train, hoped she forgave him specifically for being a bad brother.
he thought a little optimistically, about them getting along, about her getting along with all her siblings, and with bruce too, playing with them on saturday nights and going into oblivious, peaceful sleep as they got ready for patrol. he thought a little suspiciously about the train station being so empty, the fact that it took a train to get to the facility, instead of something for sophisticated, like a plane. perhaps that meant that it was somewhere desolate and barren (he didn’t much like the idea), but hopefully old, refined and more dedicated to their cause(s) than the newer ones. he prayed the psychiatric expertise of dr. amadeus was only restrained to one century, and confined only to gotham.
it takes about half-an-hour for the train to come, bruce had insisted they reach early, so that she wouldn’t have to step off onto the platform to nobody. dick saw him deep in thought, watching the faraway cows, a frown of his face, sweat beading on his forehead in the heat. alfred was somewhere behind the both of them, in the shade of the flimsy platform roof, waiting like him.
the train was a deep red, the carriage’s door opening as bruce blinked to walk up to it. they could hear the faint sounds of people talking from inside, other patients maybe, or perhaps the train was just a regular one that they’d stuffed the returnees into.
a man stepped out from behind the hissing door, hair combed back regally, glasses blaring like ringlights in the sun. behind him, dick could see a flash of blue, hiding like it was scared to come out. he tilted his head to see her, to see (name), and to see her looking stubbornly at the back of the man’s coat. her expression was blank, hands stiff over the one piece of luggage she was carrying. nervous? probably.
the man, a supervisor perhaps, moved to bruce before bruce could move to (name) (much to his disappointment, dick could tell, by the way his brow furrowed just a bit) he immediately jumped into a dry, baritone conversation about the dispatch procedures, yada yada, contact incase something went wrong again, yada yada. alfred was quick enough for his old legs, taking the case from (name), who gave him a slightly strained smile before her expression dropped to nothing, and she put the tips of her feet together, looking down as she did.
dick hesitated before approaching her, suddenly a little nervous, in the mood to look down at his feet too. he didn’t want to overwhelm her, but he didn’t want bruce’s awkward attempt at being jovial to be the first thing she heard from them either. she looked up briefly when his shadow blocked out the sun from in front of her, fingers fiddling with the edge of the clinical white skirt she was wearing. it reminded him too much of a little pidgeon, the ones that ran on their feet instead of flying away when they got spooked. he could literally see the effort she, and fuck it, he was putting into not running away and going back to forgetting the other existed.
“...hey (name),” no response, just a small purse of her lips, “all good?”
the stifling quiet choked them both, and dick looked away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, nodding absentmindedly. bruce glanced over at him for a moment, and dick shook his head slightly, unsure himself, what he was trying to convey.
he cleared his throat “uh, right? …why don’t we get into the car? it’s awfully hot out here,” (name) did nothing but swallow a little, nodding sharply, eyes averted like looking at him would gut her, “you can tell us all about the last few years, huh? it’s been… a while.” a pause, a long, mean one, before he blinked and (name) lunged at him in a hug, tucking her head under his chin. dick made a small sound of surprise, about to cautiously put a hand on her back, but she’d already pulled away sharply, speed-walking past him to alfred.
he took a moment to process, before turning around. a cow mooed in the distance, far behind the rest of her herd, trotting furiously to keep up while the herder shouts again.
and dick pointedly ignored the grim line on bruce’s face as he looked at the two of them, ignoring the supervisor’s lecturing entirely.
(name) in fact does not tell them about the last few years, and dick’s a little unsettled by her statue-like stillness. the speed-bumps and jumps of inertia do nothing to keep her from unfolding her hands on her lap, staring out of the window as the landscape goes from planes, to toll booths, suburbia and then the haunting signs of gotham city. she doesn’t seem troubled, nor tortured and half-sane. doesn’t even seem blank and cold. simply quiet, but completely alert. she nods her head when bruce asks a question, and shakes it when dick does, but refuses to look at them. it takes a little while, but the two of them eventually give up on interrogating her about anything, or trying to make small talk. let her rest, bruce says with his eyes, you’re telling me, dick replies with a squint.
it’s only midday by the time they get home, the train having arrived at seven forty-six in the morning. it’s not as burning hot as it is out in the plains, but the dust and pollution in the society traps the sun, making it humid. dick’s in the right mind to run inside, scramble around the way ace does after a walk, cooking in the sun, eyes watering despite his sunglasses.
but he waits, waits for (name) as she stands near alfred while he’s taking the luggage out of the trunk, insisting quietly he give it to her. possessive then- of her belongings, she seemed hesitant to give him the suitcase when they were at the station too. when the two of them finally saunter over to the main doors, dick speaks again;
“what a season huh? i swear everything gets worse in gotham in the summertime…” throat a bit dry and quivery from the humidity, unuse, and nervousness from before. speaks again, to bruce, alfred and (name), but with the three of their matching, quiet demeanors, he may as well be speaking to himself.
damian’s going to be at school, duke too. the house’ll be empty for another, dick checks his watch, two to three hours, until the both of them come back. he could try and help get (name) settled in, be a good brother again. introduce the dogs to her maybe, would she like the cow? the library’s gotten a bit bigger than before too, maybe she likes to read! but when they get inside and he looks to his side, (name)’s already scurried up the second steps, the one visitors used to get to the guest rooms.
dick squinted, oh yeah, they’d need to give her a new room on the permanent residency side. how come she wasn’t there before? bruce beckons him over to sit in the kitchen whie alfred makes lemonade- it’s alright, three years is a reset, they’ll fix everything. she’s better now, they all are. there’s time to be better!
your drawings are still there, stuffed far back into the desk drawer, a sheet of fuzzy dust over the stack. you and dick, jason, you and bruce, bruce and mum, mum, you and mum, mum, mum, you, just you, mum, alfred and bruce, mum, mum, mum, mum, mum- you put them back carefully. what’d the doctor say again? it’s all in the past. move forward. forward and no where else.
the room’s all dark, no different from how you used to keep it before. the walls are empty, and your desk-speaker’s probably been kept somewhere else. they haven’t touched anything else, and you’re grateful. the polaroids your friends took sorted nicely in the corner with books from jason and cassandra you’d neglected to read. in xanadu, white nights, and then there were none, and a number of titles that felt all too boring to the thrill seeker your thirteen year old self was. what did any book give that girl that a bar her older friends snuck her into wouldn’t? all up in her head, she was. was.
the photos are whispering to each other, you wonder if they talked among themselves when you weren’t there, without you. you’re tempted to go through them, it’s been so long! but you can’t bring yourself to move, a little nervous as to whether they’ll welcome you back. even the books frown in your way, probably resenting you for leaving them here, untouched, uncared for.
you sit on the bed, waiting. there’s time now, to change, be better. move forward- forward and no where else. you should unpack, move. clean up, move. you sit still, waiting. the room gets darker somehow, brightening up each time you blink. gosh, you hope much time hasn’t passed, you should’ve noted it when all of you got home. the doctor said it’d be good, you’d feel more grounded. aware of your surroundings, if you could at least keep track of the time..
change. please, change. change.
blink, and the room’s bright again.
──────────────
a polaroid taken on your first winter at the manor with your brothers. dick's come to visit gotham for the weekend, his hair graying already at nineteen. jason's eyes are still green in this photo, curls peeking out from under the red hood of his jacket. you're wearing the pink scarf your mother gave you, that went missing just a year before you left for the hospital.
TAGLIST ask to be added/removed. @1abi @flattykawa8 @serenemanifestoscheme @yomiyayei @miuangel @daiyanomochi @alishii @chaosandcandies @bookkeepersnook @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved
slightly personal confession about the future of this blog, after a little thinking and considering ->
i lowkey have zero motivation and will to do anything, let alone write. i think i'll be moving to @72clones earlier with stories that i personally can engage more with, with maybe more encouragement to continue lol.
i know it's kinda buns for me to leave not just one, but two series unfinished, but in all likelihood i will push myself to finish them eventually. in the meantime, i think i'll have to figure out my own motivations for writing, and maybe an established community/audience to have solid thoughts about this stuff with. i've been having some problems with that (in real life) (and online?) (dunno).
i know this is just fanfiction and it's really not that deep to be rambling like this on a non-personal (?) platform like this, but i want to achieve something with my writing. i want to be able to enjoy it and have others enjoy it too. the sometimes-ghostliness of this blog and my piling personal issues is making it very difficult for me to want to continue here, 'cause it's no different from writing a diary, which i don't like very much since it does nothing for me (which is a little selfish).
i hope anyone who did like, and was looking forward to my updates, isn't let down or frustrated since i've already taken such a long break. if you'd like to not just shake your head at me, let's be friends on my new blog (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) and please, please interact.
thank you all for the love and support i've received here, and all assured i'm not abandoning this blog. just going on a hiatus! little poetic to be neglecting my neglected readers but,, whatevaaaa
tldr: this blog's going on hiatus, i'll be active on @72clones
saria your work was so peak i miss it pslslsllslsls
aaa hi mootie 😭😭 i have been meaning to write for the longest time but i just feel soo demotivated and burnt out. plus i js moved recently so thats a whole other thing..
ill prolly finish my ongoing series n then shift to my other blog @72clones cus i like 2 declutter .. thx for the peakliment 💜💜
hello everyone! a small update on a few important things on this blog.
update schedule: it's fairly clear that i do not have a consistent update schedule, and will definitely get more inconsistent in the coming 1-2 months. i'm moving cities (and schools) so i have to do a lottt of work side-to-side.
discontinuation of scavengery: i'm not going to be updating scavengery (batfam x killer!reader) for a multitude of reasons;
- i did not have this series planned out, and i think it's affecting the structure and my enjoyment in writing the story. unfortunately- my bursts of creativity only last an hour, during which i write the plans for fics to copy off of later.
- i'm unable to write for the character. the mc's gone limp in my head. where i can project or pretend with the other inserts in my other fics, i don't feel anything for this mc- and i can't write for them. it's strange, to not be able to control something i made conciously, but it feels like a chore. i don't understand what me from a few months back was trying to do- not to the extent where i can pretend not to understand. i guess it's a stupid bit on my part.
- concept rebirth. despite not being able to handle this character, i still really like the concept. i have a similar concept in mind (which i'll make solid before fucking around again) and want to write maybe after spiderwocky and crow choir are more developed. i've been getting really, really into slashers- so a jennifer/bateman type of a reader is gnawing at me.
- i'm not abandoning the gf from before.
that's all! thank you all so much for the support i get from posting silly things on here :) this is one of the first tumblr blogs i've actually gotten a chance to interact with people and it's been awesome
platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!
index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this
two days, you hum, two days, you tap your foot impatiently on the floor, two days, the sp//dr bracelet on your wrist feels tight, two days till you go back to school. summer break has always been a buffer in between the year, taking you away from somewhere where you’re comfortable, to someplace that’s just plain awkward. a reminder that you can’t run, spiderman, can’t run.
the suit’s come along beautifully. you don’t have much opportunity or time to really test it out, since gotham’s crackly, ancient buildings would probably crumble under the weight of metal, but it looks nice.
the suit, yeah. it’s taken up most of your time this break. you’ve not had much time to creep up to your brothers and turn away when they don’t hear you. gotham’s always lonely, but with sp//dr this time, you fit in your skin a bit better. even while it itches and shudders under the pressure of wanting to leap around again.
in preparation, you’ve quarrelled your way into getting permission to use gotham prep’s chemistry lab after school hours, lightly nagging bruce into signing a form for you, one he didn’t really even glance at. you’re trying to figure out how to make stronger web fluid, storing all of sp//dr’s feedback in the back of your head. the past few days, you’ve been leaving the manor at five, telling alfred you’ll be back by six, and sneaking back to the manor at nine, since he doesn’t check. storing the fluid is another thing, figuring out different capsules… ejection systems… it’s boring work.
the bell outside rings, notifying the end of school hours for people who stay back for extra classes. you’ve been meaning to get home earlier today, working up the courage to ask tim or barbara to “help with a school project” and get their notes on your totally hypothetical material that’s 2.62 (+1.00 since you’re experimenting) times stronger than steel. you’re shoving books you borrowed from the library to disguise yourself as an overeager student while you leave the lab, so focused on what you’re going to say later, you don’t notice bumping into someone head-on.
the guy’s at least two times larger than you, but he stumbles harder than you, reminding you you’re supposed to stumble too. you feign a fall, getting up with a huff- you’re about to apologise when you see the guy’s face twist- angry. you stiffen. spiderman confronts conflict with fight, (name) only knows how to run.
“what the hell?-” he takes a step forward, eyebrows pinched so low his face looks disfigured, hazy-eyed too, “look where you’re fucking going!”. you cringe a little, “… i’m sorry?” he fumes even more.. this guy’s got some serious issues. his coarse hands come up to shove you, but you don’t fall back, before remembering that you probably should. forcefully, your head hits the side of the door, and you hiss in irritation.
“don’t tell me what to do- all you washed up freaks think you’re so bloody better than the rest of us-” what the hell is this guy talking about? is he drunk? doesn’t seem outta place for a teenager to be drunk in gotham. isn't this a bit much? you interrupt him, scuttling over your sentence- “i don’t go here.” the world slows down, and you see his fist come up, aimed at your face. sp//dr tuts; unappreciative.
you haul yourself aside, and he trips on his feet, falling with a frustrated yelp. it’s best you leave, (name)’s great at running away.
the corridor isn't very long, holding onto the straps of your bag, sp//dr hums on your wrist as you hurry down the stairs, babbling a "what the fuck, what theee fuck" to sp//der, your audience. “gotham is so unique,” she notes, “odd folk everywhere.” you squint, “doesn’t make gotham very unique if odd people are everywhere though, does it?”
if she could smile, maybe she would’ve, you hear it in her voice. “perhaps, i wouldn’t say we’re not too odd either.” the hurt on your head starts to ebb out, your healing factor’s been developing slowly.
...
two pairs of masked eyes narrow outside a small window, peering in at you in the stairwell, in a sync that could be described as unnatural. odd. you miss them when you duck your head, and they scatter by the time you’re up again.
“i don’t want to alarm you,” sp//dr says, through what would’ve been gritted teeth… if she wasn’t, you know, toothless, “but those two fellows over there, have been following us for a while.” you know they have, glancing shortly at them, and you think they know you know too.
the ride to the train station was quiet, you spent most of it looking outside, willing yourself to blink manually. alfred dropped you, since despite your low involvement with the wayne family, bruce was still paranoid of any potential harm.
hey, you think a little brightly, at least he bothered.
break’s over, thank goodness, and your suit’s been sent back to gotham entirely disassembled, disguising itself as a robotics project (at least, that’s what you told alfred when you went out to mail it back to queens). you’d set your head against the window, and your head vibrated, rapping against the glass.
…
alfred drove off after a few pleasantries, a gentle “safe travels”, and a nod in your direction. you might miss him, might, and check the time and the car drives off. eleven forty-three, you have half an hour before the train comes by.
sp//dr notices your silence, and hums against your wrist, made into a bracelet. “get something to eat, (name);” she’d said, “missed breakfast in your rush.” you’d made a noise of acknowledgement, rattling your suitcase so that the wheels get unstuck from the crevices in the pebbled-stone.
a sandwich maybe? you’re not hungry actually, haven’t had much time to do anything that would really make you hungry. the place’s littered with people, people, and more people. it’s only a few minutes into looking around that your senses start to bubble, and a familiar instinct of anxiety buzzes.
two men, one dressed like a cowboy, a large wildrag around his neck, patterned leatherbelt at his hip- and the other in flashy, shiny yellow cloth, fairly normal but… you look around, a little out of place, no? no one else seems to notice them there, and you’re a little unsettled, turning your back to them and sprinting to a small stall, paying quickly for a sandwich you don’t actually have time to eat.
“hey kid,” a voice speaks out, a heavy accent in it, a hand on your shoulder. you whip around, “was hoping to catch a word.” you’ve gone stiff as a board, stammering nervously.
“um… do.. do i know you?” the man smiles, nearly eerily, but your sense doesn't go off…
“you wouldn’t, but you should,” you tilt your head. the man sticks out a hand “patrick o’hara, and this is…” he gestures at the other man, “my, err, colleague, cooper coen.”
you tap your foot against the floor, “right. okay?” the other guy; cooper, smiles, probably finding your bluntness funny. “we’ll cut to the chase, (name)”, he knows your name, they know your name, why do they know your name?? “we know you’re spiderman. queen's ol' kid-buggy”
your ears start to buzz, sp//dr feels tight on your wrist. the blood in your shoulders burn hot while you twist your fingers nervously.
patrick scratches his goatee, following up awkwardly, “well... this world’s spiderman he means.” he doesn't acknowledge your whispered curses, pardoning it with something close to a smile.
“multiple spidermans and multiple worlds…” you inhale slowly, taking a sip from the soda cooper bought for the three of you, “how does that work?”
the three of you sit on a rickety bench, twenty minutes before your train’s here. “can’t go into the specifics, kid” patrick grumbles, “all some technic gibberish that’d be better off from the horse's mouth.” you try not to find some humpur in that choice of words, wondering "his horse?" in your head.
he stares keenly at you, like he was trying to read your mind. it makes sp//dr pace nervously, her spindly form scuttling over your hand. “from the boss, yeah?" he says, clarifying a question you didn't ask "you’ll meet him when we get there.”
cooper looks at you pointedly, “and we will get there. this isn't optionable. there’ll be arrangements made for your school and…” he hesitates, making you squint, he squints in return, and patrick coughs, “your family? anyway, we’ve given you the basics- you got them, right? just don’t go around- you know, freaking out.”
patrick hums, the sound like a low tractor engine, “yeah, we’ve got another nutcase to-be-fixed, work’s tough all around.- no time for nothing”
“i’m not a nutcase,” they hear you grumble under your breath, “i won’t freak out.” patrick claps a hand on your shoulder, his soda untouched, “never said so, kid.”
there’s a click of electricity, and the two of them look down at orange watches clasped on their wrists in sync. cooper said something about it being “communication tech” but you didn’t get to ask as many questions as you’d like. it’s difficult for you to infer the hologram that shoots up from it (and sp//dr’s too obviously intrigued), but they stand up with overlapping mutters.
“well,” cooper motions his head towards a slightly more secluded, hidden area, “you coming, kid?”
you hesitate. “how do i know this isn’t some kind of trick? i've not really got a reason to believe you. might be kind of...” you make a hand gesture "psypop?" patrick o’hara pulls a piece of red cloth over his face, two white parallelograms for eyes on it; looks a little like the visors on your suit. “don’t really have a reason to be tricking the newbie-spider do we, cooper?”
“we don’t,” the other drawls, turning away from the two of you, “it’ll be good for you too.”
“good how?”
patrick looks away, awkwardly, cooper’s face is turned away.
“don’t stress over it, you’ll see soon enough.”
sp//dr tuts, expanding over into a bracelet on your wrist. she wants to say something, and you want to hear. but these… two, are making it hard. she won’t speak in front of them. you really wish she would.
sp//dr's never been wrong. it's always just been so... helpful.
dear mr. davis,
as a new academic year for midtown school of science and technology approaches, we write to you in regards of a student in your junior year, (name) parker-wayne, who will unfortunately be unable to attend for the academic first term.
due to their volunteering in our special research and development programme this summer, we request you excuse their absence until ##-##-####. we here at the society understand that the projects at our establishment will take time from (name)’s academics and their education at your school, and would like to assure you that we have kept such formal anomalies in line.
attached are signed documents, confirming parker-wayne’s acceptance into our course, permissions from their legal guardians and our project leader, and a form for your establishment to confirm parker-wayne’s excused leave.
regards,
margo kess,
department of physics and astrophysics,
the o’hara society of science and technology.
...
“does (name) wayne have physics?”
“parker-wayne, mr. davis. and as far as i'm aware, they dropped it last semester.”
₊˚⊹ a/n : patrick o'hara is one of my faves EVER!! i've been pretty busy with school tuff because i'll be moving next month and i need to catch up with my new school's syllabus... will still be uploading tho!
Pookie, spider wockey when??? Pleaseeeeee???😫😫😫 I miss 'em
(No pressure, take your time)
i miss them toooo... i've just been really busy with studies, gonna be moving soon + getting psychiatric tests. i need to finish polishing the last chapters of crow choir, complete the next spiderwocky update and figure out what to do with scavengery, but i promise i'm working on it! i've got the whole fic planned out, but i might be a little slow this month... glad you look forward to the story! 🩵
⸺ Summary ; What was meant to be your end became the spark of something new.
⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. usage of y/n. English isnt my first language. wc: 2,2k. Not beta read.
⸺ directory ; previous , next
Humans are made of flaws. It’s what makes us… well, us.
Even knowing that, people still cling to the idea of perfection. The fantasy that if they just did enough, if they just were enough, then they’d finally earn something real. Love. Worth. A name spoken with pride.
That’s what happened to you that night.
You forgot you were human.
Forgot that flesh bleeds, that bones break, that desperation isn’t the same as strength. You let your need—to be seen, to be chosen—walk you straight into your undoing.
And it did undo you. Piece by piece. A building full of traps, a wound too deep, an explosion rigged to wipe away every trace of who you were.
You died.
Or at least… that’s what you thought.
Because then came the aftermath. The silence after the collapse. The smoke curling from the ruins. The pressure in your chest, sharp and cold. The ache of something returning.
And you don’t know if being dead would’ve been kinder than what came next.
Than what you were about to feel. About to remember. About to face.
Because waking up was not relief.
It was only the beginning.
By the time you woke up, it wasn’t to the soft chatter of nurses or the steady pulse of hospital monitors. There were no beeping machines beside you, no sterile scent of antiseptic or distant footsteps echoing down tiled corridors. There was no gentle voice reassuring you that you were safe. That you had survived.
There was only quiet.
And a room.
It greeted you like a memory too carefully reconstructed. The walls were painted in that muted tone you always liked—somewhere between beige and soft gray, like the color of rain. The sheets were tucked the way Alfred used to do, crisp but never suffocating. There was even a familiar throw blanket draped at the foot of the bed—one you’d long forgotten you owned.
For a moment, still tangled in the haze between sleep and waking, you thought you were home. In your room. Back at the manor, tucked beneath the illusion of safety.
But as your senses sharpened, unease settled into your bones.
No, this wasn’t the manor.
It was too still. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t exist in a living house. There were no distant voices. No muffled conversations from the hallway. Not even the faint rustle of wind against windows.
This wasn’t a home.
It was a replica.
Designed to soothe you. To pacify. To trick.
The thought hit hard, sitting heavy in your chest like stone. Someone had recreated your space—not perfectly, but intimately. Someone had studied you closely enough to know what comfort looked like through your eyes, and then used it against you.
A groan escaped your lips as you shifted upright, pain flaring bright and immediate at your side. Your muscles screamed in protest, and the dull, rhythmic throb of the wound returned in full force, pulsing like a reminder of your failure. Your hand instinctively reached for your side, only to meet the texture of thick bandages. Tightly wrapped. Recently changed.
Someone had taken care of you. Dressed your wounds. Tended to you.
But not out of kindness.
You blinked away the haze and scanned the room more carefully now. The desk in the corner was arranged exactly like the one in your old room—books stacked neatly, a cracked mug that looked too much like the one Damian once painted for you in a rare, quiet gesture.
Even the air felt wrong. Filtered. Artificial. Like it had been scrubbed clean of anything real.
Your eyes fell to the bedside.
A small pile of folded clothes sat there, waiting for you.
Not hospital gowns. Not scrubs. No sterile slippers or ID bracelets.
Just your clothes.
Your favorite hoodie. The worn out one with the faded lettering, sleeves too long from years of overuse. A pair of sweatpants soft from hundreds of washes.
It wasn’t just comfort.
It was familiarity weaponized.
Whoever had brought you here wanted you calm. Cooperative. Disarmed. And they had known exactly how to try.
You didn’t move for a long time.
Just sat there, staring at the stack of fabric, the subtle creases, the way the room seemed to breathe with you.
It should’ve been comforting. It should’ve made you feel safe.
Instead, your skin prickled with cold.
This wasn’t healing.
It was control wrapped in softness. A trap lined with things you used to love.
Your heart pounded against your ribs, and suddenly you weren’t sure which hurt more—your body, or the quiet certainty blooming inside your chest.
You were snapped out of your thoughts by the slow, aching creak of the door as it swung open. The sound alone felt intrusive—too loud in the quiet, too casual in the aftermath of something that should’ve killed you.
Your body stiffened beneath the sheets. Muscles pulled tight in instinctive defense. The dull ache in your side flared as you shifted, but you didn’t make a sound. You stayed still. Eyes low. Listening.
There were no footsteps at first. Just the soft hum of air and the faint clicking of metal against skin—rings, maybe. Or a watch.
Then a voice drifted in, smooth and strange and terribly at ease.
“Oh good. You’re awake.”
You didn’t recognize it. Not immediately. It wasn’t one of theirs—not Dick’s or Tim’s or even Jason’s. And it certainly wasn’t Bruce.
Something about it sent a quiet chill up your spine. The kind that didn't scream danger but whispered it. Slowly. Patiently.
You kept your head turned, refusing to meet his gaze. Half hoping that silence might act like armor. That if you didn’t look, this wouldn’t become real.
But the stranger didn’t wait for permission to continue.
“Rough night, wasn’t it?” he mused, a grin threading beneath his tone. You could hear it. Sharp and self-satisfied. “Little bat fell into a trap.”
The floor creaked beneath his weight as he moved closer. You didn’t look, but you could feel it—the shift in the air, the warmth of another body approaching, like static brushing too close to your skin.
Then the mattress dipped beside you, sudden and unwelcome. He’d sat down. Right there. Like this was nothing. Like you were just two old friends sharing the silence.
And then, his hand reached out—fingers threading lightly through your hair.
It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t even cruel. It was something you couldn’t name.
“But it’s okay,” he said softly, as if soothing a wounded animal. “We’ve all fallen from grace.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“Or what we thought was our grace.”
You inhaled through your nose, slow and sharp. The pain in your side throbbed again, grounding you. Anchoring you to the moment. To the room. To this stranger who spoke like he knew you. Like he had any right to talk about what you’d lost.
And still, you didn’t look at him.
Not until the silence stretched too thin.
Then your voice, hoarse and cracked, finally broke free.
“Don’t pretend to act proud.” The words hit the air like flint. “I know you thought that night was pathetic.”
Your eyes flicked toward him, finally meeting his.
He was smiling.
Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just enough to twist something in your gut.
You didn’t know this man. But he knew you.
Worse—he understood you.
He leaned back slightly, exhaling like you’d just confirmed a theory.
“Pathetic?” he echoed, brows raised. “No. No, I wouldn’t say that.”
He tilted his head, thoughtful. Studying you like a painting that didn’t quite match its frame.
“I’d say… predictable.”
“But it’s okay. We’ll change that.”
The words hung in the air like smoke—thin, cloying, impossible to grasp but suffocating all the same. His voice was calm, almost casual, like he wasn’t speaking about dismantling someone’s sense of self. Like what he promised wasn’t a violation wrapped in comfort.
But it didn’t feel like assurance.
Not to you.
If anything, it felt like warning dressed in silk. Something heavy behind the softness, something sharp beneath the smile.
Change?
That word scratched at the back of your mind. You didn’t like the way he said it. The certainty. The ownership. The implication that there was something in you wrong enough to be rewritten. Reshaped. Fixed.
Fixed.
Like you were broken to begin with.
You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Not when your throat had gone dry with something colder than fear. Something heavier. A dull, growing realization.
Did he expect to keep you here? Caged between false comfort and padded restraints, like a pet too skittish to trust?
The thought made your jaw clench.
Screw him.
There was nothing in you that needed changing. Nothing that needed fixing. Not for him. Not for anyone.
"You must be so confused," he said next, tone syrupy-sweet, like he was the kind one here. Like he was the caretaker.
He wasn’t.
Still, his hand moved again—ruffling your hair, fingers slow and deliberate. It was the kind of gesture meant to be gentle, meant to soothe. But from him, it felt wrong. Off. Like a performance. Like a parody of something that was never his to give.
It was the same kind of touch a father might offer his daughter after a recital. If the father had stolen the stage and burned the auditorium down after.
And still, his voice pressed on. Smug. Measured. Certain.
“The Bats didn’t look for you, you know?”
You didn’t react.
Not immediately.
Because for a moment—just a moment—you didn’t understand what he meant.
Then the words processed.
They filtered in like water through cracks, soaking slow, but deep.
“They didn’t send out an alert.”
The room shrank.
The walls, once still and cold, suddenly felt too close. Too tight. Your fingers curled slightly against the blanket beside you, gripping at nothing.
“Didn’t comb through the wreckage. Didn’t light up the sky.”
The air in your lungs turned thick. Sticky. It felt like you were breathing through oil. You couldn’t look at him—not directly. Not yet. You kept your eyes locked forward, but his words followed you.
“They didn’t even mention your name.”
Something inside you reeled.
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to scream that he was lying. That of course they were looking for you. That Bruce had mobilized everyone. That Dick hadn’t slept, too worried for you. That Alfred had kept your room ready, lights on, just in case—
But your mouth didn’t move.
Because something in you hesitated.
And that hesitation hurt more than anything else.
You didn’t speak, but your silence said too much. Said everything. He saw it—recognized it.
And smiled.
“Perhaps they think you’re no good.”
The phrase came soft, almost apologetic. Like he was doing you a favor by saying it aloud.
But it hit like a blade anyway.
And for the first time, you felt your breath catch—not from pain, or fear—but from something else entirely.
Something worse.
Doubt.
“You’re lying.” Your voice was sharp. Defensive. Immediate. “They didn’t even know I tried to be a vigilante.”
It was the truth. Or—at least, it had been your truth. The excuse you clung to. The only rope keeping you from free-falling into something worse.
But he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mocking. Just... entertained. As if you were a child who said something naïve, and he couldn’t help but indulge it.
“Oh, but dear,” he said, almost fondly, “wouldn’t they realize you’re gone?” He tilted his head slightly, watching your face like it might give something away. “Wouldn’t at least one of them realize you’d attempted to become a vigilante?”
His voice dropped, lower now. Slower. “In order to earn their gazes?”
That hit something.
Something too tender. Too raw.
You didn’t answer.
Because what could you say?
Dick had known. Maybe not the details, maybe not your plan, but he’d seen the restlessness building in you. The questions. The envy. The late-night training sessions that weren’t really just for “self-defense.”
He’d told you to stop. To turn back. To let it go.
But he didn’t stop you.
And the others? Bruce? Tim? Jason?
Wouldn’t someone have noticed your absence?
The silence stretched. Long and accusing.
“You think they would’ve done the same,” he murmured, voice soft now. Measured. “If it had been him?”
A pause.
“Dick?”
Longer pause.
“Damian?”
Your fingers gripped the blankets. Your throat closed up.
Then came the final blow.
He leaned in. Slowly. Like a whisper that knew exactly where to land. His breath was warm against your cheek as he spoke:
“Of course not.”
You clenched your jaw hard enough to ache.
He was trying to break you.
And you knew it.
You knew the game. The tactics. You weren’t some naïve kid plucked off the street. You understood manipulation. You’d seen it done.
But the problem wasn’t that he was trying.
It was that he didn’t need to try that hard.
Because the cracks were already there, weren’t they?
Tiny fractures spidering through your ribs. Questions you never wanted to ask yourself.
Why hadn’t anyone noticed?
Was he right? Were you forgettable? Disposable?
He just knew where to press. And he did it with precision. Patience. Like he had all the time in the world.
You weren’t broken. Not yet.
But you were bleeding. And he could smell it.
"Who even are you." You asked—voice cracking, breath heavy.
september brings heavy rain, turning the poorly-drained streets of gotham into canals. when you were younger, the people in your building would stock up on food before the rain, to avoid leaving the house for weeks on end.
a cloudburst surprises you, jumping at you, catching you outside while you’re speed-walking to the bus stop. isn’t that just awesome? the other kids at school go home by cabs, or get someone to pick them up. you’re too nervous to even ask, brushing a displaced twig off your uniform, pulling at the coat to shelter yourself from the cold.
it’s been only a few hours since the rogue attack that’d come up around your school. there wasn’t… much damage done, at least by regular standards. a few minor injuries, two, maybe three unusable classrooms… nothing a few generous donations from the waynes couldn’t fix. gotham prep seems to be an attractive spot for such things, absolutely crowded with children who have net worths larger than the economies of a few small countries, bound to earn a rookie rogue some name.
some things, however, are not easily fixable. you'd been in maybe one classroom away from the place where the rogue crashed through the ceiling, sending dust and bits of the building flying. maybe got scratched by just a bit of debris, enough for the aid team to pick you and drag you along to get patched up. officer gordon had been there, his brown coat sticking out from a little pride of navy-clad others. you’ve seen him before, but not so close.
slow work, there were only so few nurses, and for the most part; you were just sitting around. the worst injury was a broken leg, your’s was just a scratch under the eye. gordon stood at the outskirts of the crowd, talking to the other officers. the matter must’ve been over in an hour or so, you lost track of the time picking at your nails, but when you looked up from your fingers, most of the other kids had already dispersed to a few dramatic, howling parents or stiff faced and sick looking wardens. no sign of alfred, and you wouldn’t dare ever hope to see bruce.
there was only you and some junior girl left in a few moments, and you feel yourself quiver uncomfortably when gordon walked up to the two of you. he nodded to the girl, saying something about an aunt, a taxi, and only after she stood up wobbly and left, he looked at you.
and he looked at you with pity.
you tried not to think too much about it. you weren’t really hurt anyway. it wouldn’t matter to you if anyone, any wayne, you think a little humorously, came to see you. you really don’t care, even when you looked away from gordon and he pulled back the hand he might’ve put on your shoulder. you don’t need comfort, because you don’t care.
the bus ride home feel like forever, but not anymore than a few minutes. you close your eyes, but don’t sleep, because it’s dangerous to be vulnerable in gotham. or dependant. or soft. damn, you can’t be anything in gotham other than miserable all the time.
when you get to the manor, the front door’s locked. with a lot of frustration, you make your way to the back, a couple billion miles away, because heavens forbid you have to hear that awful tolling doorbell ring or have someone open the door for you. the kitchen’s usually empty this time around, alfred’s little garden door is probably open, you could sneak-
“that’s all of them,” a voice says, and you fumble with the doorknob while in the process of closing it. “once robin reports back we can update gordon and close the situation.”
robin? you shut the door quietly, glimpsing out from behind a half-wall casually. it’s just bruce and tim, what business do they have with robin and gordon? must’ve been important… you shake gordon’s pitying expression out of your head, very important.
“he’s said that all the casualties at the school are being handled, all the students and teachers have already gone home.” you want to roll your eyes to ward off the sad little thing in your chest that starts to swell, before tim speaks up. he always catches you off guard. you hate it.
“what about (name)?” the small second of silence that follows makes you uncomfortable, and you shift on your feet. you can sense it in bruce’s voice too, a hesitant unsureness, unfamiliar, dare you hope; guilty?, twinge to it. “gordon said all the students.” another pause. “i’ll ask.”
you’re flooded with very few feelings. nothing that breaks your dam and drowns the villages under it, just enough to make a mess around your windows. just leave, (name), something coos at you, you don’t have to care about this. you don't care about this, remember?
maybe they see you go up the stairs. maybe they don’t notice you at all. maybe they’ve left already, you didn’t try to see if they were still there, lest they catch a glimpse of some expression in your face, some expression you didn’t know you were making. a small, selfish part of you hopes they notice.
you don’t care, you don’t need to. these are trivial things, you’re not even hurt. anywhere. they don’t notice.
you find out next week, while giving some girl at the back of a convenience store piercings with a stapler pin, with reina, that the basement-rink was broken into that same day. a lot of the folks had kept their dogs down there, and the whole lot had gone off. “boy wonder maybe,” the girl chewed on the words to avoid squeaking from the pain from the staples, “or the cops. can’t go no-where near now.”
the news makes you a little dejected, but you don’t… care. you don’t need to. you had no dogs. the girl gives you a little cash, walking off hissing and touching her ears gently. reina catches your eye, raising a plucked brow. her uncle’s house is the worst place to hang out, but it’s better than nothing.
you spend all seven evenings of the week on the stairs next to his apartment with reina. her birthday passes in november, you celebrate it at her house, with a few of her cousins and friends you don't know. the girl who’s ears you’d pierced passed away that same month, you hear from a guy she’d been with in the rink, shooting at a store- the dynamic duo a few minutes too late. reina’s uncle starts smelling more and more like cheap booze and weed, airing out his apartment does nothing, so the two of you shift to the terrace. you think see robin one day, then giggle over the absurdity of it, chasing down a blob of red with your eyes before the ‘boy’ turns out to be a stowaway shirt.
you push away the intimate words reina says to you, how you’re practically her family, and struggle to say it back. she just grins; “it’s no big deal”, but you notice how she looks away for a millisecond.
in december, your sister is a stranger. no blur of colours come to mind, when you squeeze your eyes and try to think about her. her voice feels fake, plastic in quality, a mumble through a discarded vintage speaker. you only remember how she feels. she feels cold.
you get a few gifts on christmas, a mug from damian, tailored suits from bruce and dress shoes from alfred (you doubt you’ll ever wear either) and a whole canary from dick. you let it out the next day, perplexed and annoyed. you're not lik your little brother. you don't have any energy to care for anything.
when he comes to visit in january, dick, that is, you’re forced to go diner-hopping with damian and tim, the only ones available apart from you, and listen to them mutter about the weather and “back when…”’s and “remember how…”’s. small talk, skirting around things they really want to say. want to say- but not in your presence, you realise. you can’t blame them. it’s not their fault. you’re imposing.
you stay quarantined in your room for a few days after, the doctors from quora saying “mood sickness” can be cured by retreating into yourself like a cryptid. it doesn’t work. reina lends you a tablet, and it dissolves in your mouth like chalk. doesn’t do anything, since it takes choking over a few disgusting toffees with her to forget how awful you’ve been feeling, but it tastes good.
you grow up. you press yourselves onto the jackets on drunk strangers to sneak into their after parties, and reina bets on new dogs, the breeds being cards and dice. she racks up a score, a man offers to sneak her into a club. she drops you home before she goes, but texts you only an hour later- “busted. red hood.”
you see jason at midnight again. he’s sitting on the couch, a hand on his head. he doesn’t notice you, so you pretend you don’t notice him. somedays, you feel bad for him. you wonder if he'll jump, or hiss, or run away if you call out. you wonder if he'll stay. you don't dare try to find out.
don’t think about it (name), a voice coos again, you don’t need to care about any of this.
the fourth minute passes quickly.
˖ 𑣲 a/n: this insert has forfeited all material possesions and attained enlightment. cassandra cain has found her sibling wasting away in a tub. reina is a non-confrontational coward and is plotting to run away from gotham forever. dick grayson wonders where your christmas birdie went :((( sorry for the late and (relatively) short update, but thank you for reading!!
when is the next part of crow choir??? your writing is literally perfect like are you trying to replace shakespeare?!?!😭💗
aww first of all thank you so much!! i'm glad my writing is enjoyable to read !! 💜💜 secondly, the fourth chapter was scheduled for yesterday, but because of a few conplications, ir's been rescheduled to tommorow at 8:30 AM (EST). i've been figuring out how to write about the family while also making the distance between them clear, so its been rechecked atleast five times now.. lol!!
your writing style is BEAUTIFUL omfg. your words come out naturally, and your way of describing things????? i'm obsessed. you're an amazingggg writer!!!!!
waahhh thank you!!! 💙💙 this means so much to me, i'm glad you like my stuff 🥹
