hey I'm just a random user who just got too many ideas and not very good at writing so this is for two reasons: one because I got ideas and never use them and two because I love reading people short stories and series so these ideas coukd leas to that would be great so I will share a few.
Idea one: batfamily x neglected William afton reader. I got this idea from not seeing much dc x fnaf and got inspired by springtrap and daliah story line and fanon fnaf lore. So the premises would be William be bruce first blood son and the reason he neglected was simple: he was normal to the batfamily, to any normal person William for a young age was brilliant with animtronics but too his family he was normal with no trauma no lost no anything,obviously William would leave and get a business partner to make freadbears and eventually others to bring joy to children lives. So you can probably do a lot of things with this idea such as what fnaf lore would be in it,if you use the books,if William become evil them dies, or stays bit with the same death and if remant exists but here a thoughts to think about. Number one being what location to add, fnaf 1,2 5 make sense stand alone by themselves even with much fnaf lore but location like 3,4,6 wouldn't make sense unless you made up lore, 2 being who's possessing who,such character like missing kids would stay the same but you could mix things up with stuff like puppet having adult soul, 3 being if you doing relationship don't ship children and thinking if you want ships in your stories. 4 is if William reader dies and is good is his relationship with children and if characters lije glitchtrap is just another William form but generally the idea can go in different directions.
IDEA 2: batfamily x neglected James bond reader: thjs purely stems from the new Jane bond game out and Alfred pennyworth being part of mi6 that possibly reader follows into Alfred footsteps, reader normal is a weapon in this universe and the story should start in the middle of reader career making conflicting ideology to the double o program and how the batfamily operates.
Ideas 3: BATFAMILY x NEGLECTED NAKED SNAKE/ BIG BOSS READER.
Much like the James bond one expect more conflicting ideologies and conflict. If you knkw metal gear lore you knkw bit one change I would suggest is boss(aka snake mentor and parent figure) isn't dead as if she excist she is conflict and possibly bruce jealous to her and reader parental relationship and diamond dogs as a organisation that rivals even the league and court of owls. But the story can go anywhere with any metal gear and dc character.
Any those are my only ideas for now but please comment your ideas and please tag me if you use my ideas please 🙏. And please comment or even text my profile if you want to brainstorm and would like more.
Synopsis: your first official Gala, as the oldest (biological) child of Bruce Wayne.
Chapter twelve
(heh.... guess whos back w chapter 12)
(Tag list closed)
Your thumb hovers over their contact, the faint glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. You tell yourself it’s simple, just press it, just type something, anything. A “hey.” A “sorry.” A weak attempt to stitch something back together before it fully unravels.
But your chest tightens instead.
Because the truth sits there, heavy and unmoving: they did care. You remember it now, clearer than you want to. The anger in their voices wasn’t empty, it was sharp, emotional, messy. It wasn’t indifference. It was hurt.
And somehow, that almost makes it worse.
Your grip on the phone loosens slightly as another thought slips in, quieter but colder. If they cared that much… then why didn’t it feel like it? Why did it feel like you were the only one left standing there, trying to hold onto something already slipping through your fingers?
You swallow, your throat dry.
“Sure, they were your friends,” you murmur under your breath, the words barely audible in the stillness of your room. “But they didn’t even care you had gone missing.”
The sentence sounds wrong the moment it leaves you. Not entirely true. Not entirely false either. Just… twisted by everything that’s happened.
Your thumb presses lightly against the screen, just enough to bring up the message box, the cursor blinking expectantly. Waiting. Always waiting.
What would you even say?
I got kidnapped and tortured, sorry I didn’t text back.
A hollow laugh escapes you, humorless and quiet. Your shoulders sag as the weight of it all settles back in. You can’t tell them the truth. Not without breaking everything else. Not without risking more than just a friendship.
So what’s left?
Lies? Half-truths? Excuses that sound weaker the more you think about them?
Your hand trembles slightly before you lock your phone with a sharp click, the screen going dark. The silence returns instantly, heavier than before.
Maybe you could fix it.
Maybe if you just kept trying, kept reaching, kept bending yourself into something easier to understand.
…or maybe you’d just break what little is left.
You exhale slowly, setting the phone down beside you. It lands softly against the bedsheets, but the sound still feels too loud in the quiet.
For once, you don’t pick it back up.
Instead, you lean back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the familiar ache settles in your chest. Letting go doesn’t feel like relief. It doesn’t feel like closure.
It just feels… empty.
And yet, for the first time in days, there’s no pressure to fix it. No expectation pressing down on you to make things right immediately. Just space. Quiet, uncomfortable space.
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your blanket.
Maybe… letting go doesn’t mean you don’t care.
Maybe it just means you’re tired of being the only one trying to hold everything together.
The thought lingers, fragile and uncertain, but you don’t push it away.
You just sit there with it.
And for now, that’s enough.
--
The next morning feels slower than usual, like the house itself is dragging its feet through the day. You don’t really sleep properly anymore. It’s more like drifting in and out of thoughts you don’t want to deal with.
When you finally get up, the manor is already awake, but it doesn’t feel alive. You’re halfway through getting ready when Alfred appears at your door. He knocks once, then opens it slightly as if he already knows you’re not going to object.
“Master Bruce would like to speak with you in the study,” he says gently. “When you are ready.”
When does he not want to speak with me? You think and pause for a second, then nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
That tone alone already tells you this is not going to be a casual conversation. When you reach the study, Bruce is behind his desk, going through something on a tablet. Tim is there too, leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed. Damian is sitting in one of the chairs, unusually quiet, watching you instead of looking bored. The atmosphere feels off in a way you can’t quite name, like everyone is waiting for something to drop. Bruce looks up first.
“Good. You’re here,” he says, setting the tablet down. His voice is controlled, measured. “We need to talk about next week.”
You blink slightly. “Next week?”
“There’s a gala,” he continues. “Wayne Foundation event. High profile. Important people. It’s part of your public introduction in Gotham’s social circle.”
You immediately feel your stomach tighten. “My what?”
Bruce doesn’t react to your tone. “It will be good for you. Exposure, networking, recognition. People will start to understand who you are in the family.”
Tim glances at you briefly, then looks away again like he already knows how this is going to go.
You let out a short breath. “I don’t need a public introduction. I go to school. That’s enough.”
Bruce stands from his desk. “It is not enough. You are part of this family. That means it comes with visibility.”
“That sounds less like family and more like a brand,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
The room goes quiet for a second.
Damian shifts in his chair. “It is a gala. Not a battlefield.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, turning slightly toward him. “I don’t want to go.”
Bruce’s expression tightens, just slightly, like he’s trying not to let frustration show. “This is not optional.”
You stare at him. “You’re forcing me to go to a fancy party I don’t care about so people can look at me?”
“It is not about being looked at,” Bruce says. “It is about positioning. About making sure you are not isolated socially.”
You almost laugh, but it comes out more tired than amused. “I think I am doing a pretty good job of being isolated without a gala.”
Tim finally speaks, quieter than the rest. “It is not just social stuff. It is also security. The more people know you are here, the harder it is for enemies to target you quietly.”
You glance at him. “That isn't comforting, you know that right?”
He shrugs slightly. “Just being honest.”
Bruce steps closer, his tone softening just a little. “You will not be alone, we will be there. It is one evening.”
“One evening of standing around pretending to smile,” you say. “Yeah, sounds amazing.”
Damian leans forward a bit. “It is not difficult. You simply stand, speak when spoken to, and avoid embarrassing yourself.”
You look at him flatly. “Thanks. Very helpful.”
Bruce exhales slowly. “This is not up for debate.”
That line again.
Something in your chest tightens, familiar and frustrating. You feel it building before you even fully think it through.
“Everything is not up for debate with you,” you say quietly. “That is kind of the issue.”
Bruce’s gaze holds yours. “I am trying to help you adjust.”
“To what? Being watched?” you ask. “Being managed?”
“That is not what this is,” he replies, but his voice is starting to sound more firm than calm.
You shake your head slightly. “It feels like it.”
There is a beat of silence. Tim looks between the two of you like he is weighing whether to step in again, but doesn’t.
Bruce finally speaks, slower now. “You are going. That is final.”
The words land heavy in your heart. Not angry or loud, it was final.
You stare at him for a moment longer, like you are waiting for him to take it back or soften it. He doesn’t. Your hands curl slightly at your sides.
“Fine,” you say, but it doesn’t sound like agreement. It sounds like something shutting down. “Whatever you want.”
You turn before anyone can respond and head for the door. Behind you, Bruce calls your name once, but you don’t stop walking.
The hallway feels longer on the way out. Like the manor is stretching itself just to keep you inside its rules. By the time you reach your room, the reality of it settles properly.
Next week.
A room full of people you don't know, watching you like you are supposed to represent something. Smiling, talking, standing still while everyone decides what you're supposed to be.
You sit on the edge of your bed and stare at your hands for a moment.
Then you lean back slowly, letting your head hit the pillow. Next week already feels too close.
.
The etiquette class is not in a ballroom or a fancy training room like you expected. It is in one of the quieter drawing rooms of Wayne Manor, the kind that looks like it has not been used in years except for decoration. Everything is too polished, too still. Even the air feels like it is waiting for you to behave correctly.
Alfred stands near the centre of the room with a calm expression, holding a small notebook and a folded set of notes. A tray of tea sits untouched on a side table, like it is part of the lesson too.
You linger near the doorway for a second longer than necessary.
“So,” you say flatly, glancing around. "this is happening..”
Alfred gives you a polite nod. “Indeed, Master Wayne felt it would be beneficial for you to attend a brief instruction session before the gala.”
You let out a quiet breath. “He forced me to do it.”
Alfred does not look surprised by that at all. If anything, there is something almost sympathetic in his expression. “Master Bruce prefers to phrase it as preparation.”
“That is a fancy way of saying forced,” you reply, stepping further into the room.
Alfred gently adjusts his cufflinks as he watches you. “Shall we begin then?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Sure. Let’s just get this over with.”
He gestures toward a chair. “First, posture when seated at formal events.”
You sit down immediately, a little too casually, slouching slightly on purpose.
Alfred observes you for a moment. “Yes. That is… a start. However, one does not usually approach a gala as though one is settling in for a long film.”
You glance at him. “What if I don’t want to be at the gala?”
A small pause.
Then Alfred replies carefully, “Then you will likely find it more tolerable if you are able to navigate it without discomfort drawing attention.”
You lean back further in the chair. “That sounds like a polite way of saying ‘suffer quietly.’”
A faint hint of amusement crosses Alfred’s face. “In the most refined terms, perhaps.”
He steps closer, gesturing with one hand. “Try this. Sit with your back straight, shoulders relaxed, feet flat on the floor.”
You adjust slightly, but it still feels unnatural.
“This feels like I'm being measured,” you mutter.
“In a sense, you are,” Alfred says gently. “But not in the way you might think. People do not simply observe appearance at these events. They observe composure.”
You glance at him. “And if I don't have any?”
“You do,” he replies without hesitation. “You simply do not trust it yet.”
That makes you pause for a second longer than you expect.
Alfred moves on smoothly, as if giving you time without calling attention to it. “Now, greetings. At a formal gathering, introductions are brief. Handshake, eye contact, polite acknowledgment.”
He demonstrates with practiced ease, then looks at you.
You mimic it half-heartedly. “Hello,” you say in a monotone voice.
Alfred tilts his head slightly. “Perhaps slightly more warmth.”
You stare at him. “I am not a warm person right now.”
“That is acceptable,” he replies. “We are not aiming for warmth. We are aiming for presentable.”
You exhale through your nose. “Great. So I am aiming for ‘emotionally functional mannequin.’”
“If that is what helps you conceptualize it,” Alfred says calmly.
A small silence falls between you two.
You glance around the room again. “Bruce really made you do this with me?”
“He asked,” Alfred corrects gently. “And I agreed.”
“Same thing,” you mutter.
Alfred walks over to the tea tray. “Would you like a cup?”
You hesitate, then nod slightly. “Yeah. Sure.”
He pours one carefully and hands it to you. Your fingers wrap around the cup, warmth spreading into your palms.
For a moment, you just sit there quietly.
Then you say, softer than before, “He thinks this is going to fix something.”
Alfred does not immediately respond. He simply pours himself a cup as well.
Finally, he says, “Master Bruce believes preparation reduces uncertainty. It is his way of offering control in situations he cannot fully manage.”
You stare at the tea. “That is not what it feels like.”
“I understand,” Alfred replies.
You take a small sip, then set the cup down carefully.
“This is a lot for something I did not even agree to in the first place,” you say.
Alfred looks at you with steady calm. “Many things in life are introduced that we do not initially choose. The question becomes how one carries them.”
You lean back slightly, adjusting your posture again, this time a little more deliberately. Not perfect, but less slouched.
“I am still saying Bruce forced me into this,” you say.
Alfred gives a small nod. “Noted.”
A beat passes.
Then, quieter, almost to yourself, you add, “I just don't get why it always has to be like this.”
Alfred sets his cup down and regards you for a moment.
“Sometimes,” he says gently, “people who care do not always express it in ways that feel comfortable to receive.”
You do not respond right away.
Instead, you look down at your hands again, then straighten your posture a little more without being told this time.
The room stays quiet after that, except for Alfred continuing the lesson in his calm, patient voice, while you slowly try to figure out how to exist inside a version of yourself that fits a world you never asked to step into.
The gala somehow feels louder before you even step inside.
The moment the car pulls up to the entrance, flashes from cameras bounce against the windows in sharp bursts of white light. Through the glass, you can already see crowds gathered behind barricades, reporters calling names, wealthy guests climbing the steps beneath golden lights spilling from the building overhead.
Your stomach twists.
You adjust the sleeve of your outfit for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. The fabric is expensive enough that you are almost afraid to touch it too much. Smooth, tailored perfectly to your frame, subtle details stitched so carefully they probably cost more than most people’s rent.
You hate how good it looks on you.
“Relax your shoulders,” Bruce says beside you before the driver opens the door. “You look tense.”
“I wonder why,” you mutter.
Beside you, Damian snorts quietly, clearly entertained. The car door opens before Bruce can respond and the noise immediately rushes in.
The cameras flash again.
“Bruce Wayne!”
“Look over here!”
“Is that the newest Wayne?”
Your chest tightens instantly.
Bruce steps out first like this is second nature to him. he looked calm, controlled, untouchable. Dick follows easily after him with that effortless public smile that somehow never looks fake and Damian looks irritated by the existence of everyone around him.
Then it's your turn.
The moment your shoes hit the pavement, the flashes become blinding.
You freeze for half a second.
Not enough for anyone else to notice probably, but enough for your heartbeat to stumble painfully against your ribs.
You can feel eyes on you immediately.
Judging, curious,
Interested.
The cameras keep flashing as Bruce places a hand lightly against your back, guiding you toward the staircase.
“Keep moving,” he says quietly.
Easy for him to say.
You keep your expression neutral the best you can, focusing on the stairs beneath your feet instead of the crowd screaming questions you do not answer.
By the time you finally step inside the building, relief hits so hard it almost makes you dizzy.
The place was massive.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like frozen stars, casting warm gold light across polished marble floors. Music drifts softly through the room from a live string quartet near the far wall. Everywhere you look, people are dressed in dark formalwear and glittering jewelry, holding glasses of champagne while talking in low polished voices.
It feels like stepping into another world entirely, a world completely foreign to you
“Breathe,” Cassandra says quietly beside you.
You glance toward her, surprised. You did not even notice her approach.
“I am breathing,” you reply softly.
“You stopped for a second outside.”
Of course she noticed.
You look away slightly. “The cameras were a lot.”
She nods without judgement, she understands of course.
“You looked fine,” she says.
The simple honesty of it settles something uncomfortable in your chest.
Before you can respond, another voice cuts in.
“Bruce! There you are.”
An older man approaches with an easy smile and several others trailing behind him. The moment his eyes land on you, interest immediately sharpens across his face.
“And this must be them,” he says warmly.
You already hate this conversation.
Bruce smoothly introduces you anyway, his hand briefly resting against your shoulder like positioning you into place.
The man offers his hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you. We have heard quite a bit.”
You shake his hand politely because Alfred drilled it into you repeatedly.
“Hopefully nothing too bad,” you reply.
The man laughs immediately like you made the funniest joke in the world.
Bruce gives you a brief look. Not disapproving exactly more like observing.
The conversation continues around you after that, flowing smoothly between business talk and polite social performances. You answer when spoken to. Nod when expected. Smile just enough to appear engaged.
It was so exhausting.
Every interaction feels rehearsed somehow, like everyone here already knows the rules except you.
Eventually, you drift toward one of the quieter balconies just to breathe without feeling watched every second.
Cold night air immediately brushes against your skin the moment you step outside. Gotham stretches endlessly beyond the balcony, glowing beneath layers of distant city lights and dark clouds.
For the first time all evening, it feels quiet.
“You disappeared.”
You glance sideways to find Damian stepping onto the balcony beside you.
“I was gone for like three minutes.”
“That is disappearing at a gala.”
You huff softly, leaning against the railing. “You enjoying yourself in there?”
“No.”
That answer comes so fast it almost makes you laugh.
Damian moves beside you, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with visible annoyance. “These events are tedious. Father insists they are important.”
“You sound exactly like me.”
“I sound correct.”
You finally let out a small laugh at that, quiet but genuine.
Damian glances toward you briefly, like he was not entirely expecting the sound.
“You look less miserable now,” he says.
“Thanks. I think.”
“It was becoming concerning.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Concerning?”
“You looked ready to throw yourself off the staircase earlier.”
“That bad?”
“Yes.”
You groan softly, covering your face for a second. “Great.”
“You recovered adequately.”
“Wow. High praise.”
Damian shrugs slightly, but there is something less sharp about him tonight he was less guarded. A dangerous thing to be at a social event.
The music from inside drifts faintly through the open balcony doors behind you.
For a few moments, neither of you says anything.
Then Damian looks at you again, more serious this time.
“You do not need to impress these people,” he says quietly. “Most of them are insufferable.”
You blink slightly.
The statement catches you off guard, mostly because of how sincere it sounds.
Your shoulders loosen just a little.
“I kind of figured that already,” you admit.
Damian hums softly in agreement.
Inside the ballroom, another burst of laughter rises from the crowd, distant and polished and fake.
Out here, though, the silence feels easier to survive.
The peace lasts exactly five minutes.
You know the exact moment something is wrong because the music stops.
Not gradually either. One second the string quartet is playing softly behind the ballroom doors, and the next the sound cuts off mid-note. Sharp. Abrupt.
Then comes the screaming.
Your head snaps toward the ballroom instantly.
People are shouting inside. Glass shatters somewhere near the entrance followed by a loud crash that shakes through the floor beneath your feet. The calm atmosphere disappears in seconds, replaced by panic moving like wildfire through the crowd,
and Damian is already moving before anyone else.
“Stay here,” he orders automatically.
You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
Another explosion echoes from inside.
The balcony doors burst open as guests begin flooding out in panic, faces pale and terrified. Someone nearly slams into you while scrambling past.
“Weapons!” someone yells.
“Oh my God!”
“They're attacking the gala!”
Damian curses under his breath.
Inside the ballroom, masked figures dressed in dark tactical gear move through the chaos, armed and coordinated. One fires into the ceiling while another shouts orders at the crowd.
“Everybody on the floor! Phones away now!”
The entire room erupts into terrified movement.
You feel your heartbeat spike hard against your ribs.
Instinct takes over almost immediately.
The exits.
Civilian movement.
Sightlines.
Threat count.
Your body slips into assessment mode before your brain fully catches up.
Damian looks toward you again, already backing toward a side corridor. “Find Father. Stay with the family.”
You almost laugh at the irony.
Because the moment he disappears into the crowd, you are already turning the opposite direction.
Fast.
You shove through the side hallway away from the ballroom chaos, ignoring the sounds of shouting behind you. Your formal shoes slam against polished floors as you move quickly through the quieter upper corridors of the building.
Your pulse is loud in your ears.
You knew something like this could happen.
That was exactly why you brought the bag.
The gala staff hallway is nearly empty except for terrified workers trying to evacuate. You slip past them quickly and duck into one of the unused dressing rooms near the back corridor, locking the door behind you immediately.
Silence crashes over the room.
For half a second, you just breathe.
Then you move.
Your hands work fast, adrenaline making every motion sharper. You grab the hidden bag from beneath the sink where you stashed it earlier after arriving. Just in case.
Always just in case.
You strip out of the expensive formal clothes as quickly as possible, tossing fabric onto the nearby chair without care. The elegant outfit suddenly feels ridiculous now, fragile compared to what waits outside that door.
The Cleaner uniform feels familiar the second you pull it on.
Comfortable.
Real.
Like stepping back into yourself.
You secure Celeste carefully at your side, fingers brushing the golden music box briefly before tightening the straps on your gloves. You put on a mask, to hide your identity.
Your reflection in the mirror barely looks like the same person from twenty minutes ago.
Good.
That's the point.
Outside, another gunshot echoes faintly through the building.
You close your eyes for one second.
Focus.
When you open them again, the hesitation is gone.
You crack the dressing room door open carefully.
The hallway outside is empty.
Then a voice suddenly crackles through a nearby speaker system.
“Attention guests,” a distorted voice announces. Calm. Mocking. “Tonight's event has officially changed ownership.”
More screams echo distantly below.
Your jaw tightens.
Idiot.
You slip into the shadows of the corridor and move quickly toward the ballroom level, staying low and out of sight. Every instinct in your body feels painfully awake now, sharper than it has in days.
Fear still sits underneath it all, buried deep after everything with Hermes.
But movement helps.
Action helps.
By the time you reach the overlooking balcony above the ballroom floor, the situation is worse than you expected.
At least twelve armed attackers.
Explosives near the entrances.
Guests gathered together under threat.
Some crying. Some frozen.
And at the center of it all stands the leader.
Tall. Masked. Calm. Kage. And his stupid group.
He raises a weapon lazily toward the crowd while speaking to one of his men.
Then your eyes catch something else.
Bruce.
Dick.
Already gone from the civilian crowd.
Of course they are.
You can practically feel the shift happening beneath the surface of the situation. Gotham’s billionaires disappearing right before Batman inevitably appears.
You exhale slowly.
Your fingers curl around Celeste instinctively.
You can practically feel the shift happening beneath the surface of the situation. Gotham’s billionaires disappearing right before Batman inevitably appears.
You exhale slowly as your fingers curl around Celeste instinctively.
The smooth golden surface feels warm against your palm, almost reactive, like it already understands what you’re thinking before you fully decide it yourself. Around you, the gala had dissolved into chaos so quickly it barely felt real anymore. Guests screamed as armed men flooded the ballroom floor, shoving people down, forcing them away from exits while shattered glass crunched beneath hurried footsteps. Somewhere overhead, alarms blared loudly enough to rattle the walls.
And through all of it,
Kage stood near the centre of the room like he belonged there.
His long black hair framed his face in dark strands, pale skin illuminated by the flickering emergency lights overhead while the leash in his hand dragged slowly across the marble floor. One of the jaguar-like Trash Beasts prowled beside him, low and tense, glowing eyes tracking every movement around it. The second beast had already pinned two security guards against a collapsed serving table, growling low in its throat while guests scrambled to get away.
The gunmen surrounding the room kept shouting orders, trying to control the panic.
“GET DOWN!”
“NOBODY MOVE!”
One of them shoved a man hard enough that he crashed into a nearby pillar. Another pointed their weapon toward a crowd trying to flee through the side exit.
Your jaw tightened immediately, your thumb brushed against Celeste’s latch.
Click.
The melody spilled into the ballroom softly at first. Almost delicate. Completely wrong for the violence unfolding around you.
And then the world slowed.
Not just one person this time.
All of them.
Every gunman in the room suddenly moved like they were trapped underwater, their movements dragged down into sluggish, distorted versions of themselves. The man raising his rifle toward the crowd slowed mid-motion, his finger barely beginning to squeeze the trigger. Another turned toward the sound of the music far too slowly, confusion spreading across his face in stretched-out delay.
The effect spread across the ballroom in shimmering waves, golden light flickering faintly around the edges of your vision as Celeste’s melody echoed through the chaos.
The civilians noticed it immediately.
Not the time manipulation itself, most of them wouldn’t understand what they were seeing, but they noticed something. The hesitation. The impossible slowness. People started running again, scrambling toward exits while the gunmen struggled to react fast enough to stop them.
You moved instantly.
Your body cut through the slowed battlefield much faster now, weaving between frozen movements and half-fired shots before they could fully happen. One gunman barely managed to turn before you slammed your elbow into his jaw, sending him crashing into the floor. Another tried to raise his weapon toward you, but his arms moved too slowly under Celeste’s influence, letting you wrench the gun from his hands before kicking him backward.
Across the room, Kage watched you carefully.
And unlike everyone else,
He wasn’t fully slowed.
The difference was immediate. While the others struggled against the weight of stretched time, Kage still moved fluidly enough to be dangerous, his leash snapping sharply through the air toward you without warning.
You twisted aside just before it wrapped around your waist, the leather cracking against the marble floor hard enough to shatter it.
Your eyes narrowed.
Of course he adapted faster than the others.
One of the Trash Beasts lunged suddenly, its claws tearing through a banquet table as it launched toward you. Even slowed, the thing was enormous, its jaws opening wide enough to crush bone easily if it got close enough.
You stepped back sharply and focused harder.
Celeste’s melody shifted slightly.
This time, instead of spreading your control across the entire room equally, you narrowed it further around the beast itself. Immediately its movement dragged heavier than before, its leap slowing just enough for you to pivot cleanly around it while drawing one of your pistols.
A sharp gunshot echoed through the ballroom.
The bullet struck the creature’s shoulder, throwing it sideways into a pillar.
Kage finally moved fully then.
The leash snapped forward again, faster than before, catching around your wrist before you could completely dodge it. Your eyes widened slightly as the force jerked you forward hard enough to nearly throw you off balance.
Kage pulled once.
Violently.
You stumbled toward him before planting your foot hard against the floor to stop yourself from being dragged further.
“You’ve improved,” Kage said calmly, though his grip tightened on the leash. “Your control is cleaner now.”
You pulled against the restraint sharply, glaring at him. “You’re still annoying.”
That almost earned a smile from him. Almost.
Then the second Trash Beast lunged from behind.
You reacted immediately, opening Celeste wider. The melody rang louder this time, the golden shimmer around the room intensifying as time dragged even harder around the attacking beast. Its claws slowed inches from your face, giving you enough room to duck beneath them while twisting your trapped wrist sharply.
The leash loosened for half a second.
Enough.
You tore yourself free and slid backward across the marble floor, breathing harder now as the strain from slowing this many people at once started creeping into your muscles.
Kage noticed immediately.
“You can’t maintain this forever,” he said.
“I know.”
The words came out sharper than intended as you steadied yourself again. The melody still echoed around the ballroom, but you could already feel Celeste beginning to strain under the pressure of affecting so many targets simultaneously. The golden light flickered faintly now instead of staying stable.
Around the room, some of the gunmen were starting to push against the slowdown more effectively. Not fully breaking free, but adapting.
Kage stepped forward slowly, the leash dragging behind him.
“You’re wasting too much energy trying to save everyone at once,” he said quietly. “That’s your weakness.”
Before you could respond, the lights overhead suddenly exploded.
The ballroom dropped into darkness for half a second before emergency lights flickered back on in dim red flashes.
And then,
A figure crashed down from above.
Black cape.
Heavy landing.
The room shifted instantly.
Batman had arrived.
The ballroom had descended into complete chaos.
Red emergency lights flashed overhead in uneven bursts, casting the ruined gala in harsh crimson tones while smoke drifted through the shattered ceiling. Guests rushed toward the exits in panicked waves, security trying desperately to guide civilians away from the fighting as debris littered the marble floors. Somewhere across the room, broken glass crunched beneath hurried footsteps while flames climbed slowly up one side of the wall where an explosion had torn through earlier.
And standing directly in the middle of it all,
Batman.
For a split second, everything felt strangely still.
Batman had landed hard enough to crack the marble beneath him, cape spreading behind him as he immediately assessed the situation. His gaze swept across the ballroom quickly, the armed men, the civilians escaping, the destruction,
Then stopped on you.
Or more specifically,
On Celeste.
The golden music box still chimed softly in your hand, its melody threading through the chaos while the slowed movements of the remaining gunmen distorted unnaturally around the room.
You saw the exact moment he realized this wasn’t technology.
Wasn’t meta-human.
Wasn’t anything he recognized.
Beside him, Robin straightened immediately, sword already drawn as sharp green eyes narrowed toward Kage and the prowling Trash Beasts nearby.
“…What are those things?” Damian muttered.
One of the jaguar-like beasts growled low in response, claws scraping against the marble.
Kage didn’t seem bothered by Batman’s arrival at all. If anything, he looked mildly interested. His leash dragged loosely through his hand as his gaze shifted between you and Batman carefully, studying both of you at once.
“So this is Gotham’s protector,” Kage said calmly.
Batman’s posture shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, attention locking onto him immediately.
“You’re behind this attack,” Batman said flatly.
Kage tilted his head slightly. “Partially.”
That was apparently enough talking for Damian, he launched forward instantly. His cape snapped sharply behind him as he closed the distance in seconds, blade aimed directly toward one of the Trash Beasts first instead of Kage himself but the beast lunged too,
And the collision shook the entire room.
Its claws slammed against Damian’s blade hard enough to throw sparks across the floor while the second beast immediately circled around from the side, aiming straight for him.
You reacted before thinking.
Celeste’s melody shifted sharply.
The second creature slowed instantly, its movement dragging heavily enough for Damian to twist aside before its claws could reach him.
Robin glanced toward you briefly, confused.
But there wasn’t time to question it.
Batman had already moved toward Kage.
The leash cracked violently through the air as Kage struck first, the sound echoing loudly enough to cut through the alarms overhead. Batman avoided it narrowly, the reinforced whip smashing through a nearby pillar instead.
The impact shattered concrete instantly.
Not normal. Definitely not normal, and Batman noticed.
He moved carefully after that, avoiding direct contact while testing Kage’s movements with precise strikes. But Kage fought differently than Gotham criminals did, less reckless, more controlled. Every movement felt calculated, almost patient.
Meanwhile, across the ballroom,
The temperature in the room shifted.
You felt it before you saw him. A distortion.
Like the air itself skipping.
And suddenly Hermes was there.
One moment empty space existed near the collapsed balcony.
The next, it was…
Him.
The silver armband around his forearm gleamed faintly beneath the red emergency lights as he stepped into the battlefield like he’d been there the entire time.
Batman noticed immediately.
His stance changed.
“You’re the second leader,” Batman said.
Hermes glanced toward him briefly before his attention settled on you instead.
“You’re pushing yourself again,” he said calmly.
Your jaw tightened immediately.
Damian looked between the two of you sharply. “You know him?”
“No,” you answered too quickly.
Hermes almost smiled beneath the mask.
Then he moved.
The skip happened so suddenly Batman nearly missed it entirely. One second Hermes stood still, the next he had already crossed half the ballroom, reappearing directly beside you. Your body reacted instinctively.
Celeste chimed louder. Time dragged around him instantly, but unlike everyone else, Hermes cut through the effect in staggered jumps, his movements glitching unnaturally through slowed moments.
Batman saw it happen, you could tell by the way his expression hardened slightly, he was analyzing.
Studying.
Trying to understand what he was seeing.
Hermes struck toward you again, but this time Batman intercepted him mid-motion, gauntlet catching Hermes’ wrist before the blow landed.
For a split second,
Hermes looked genuinely surprised.
Then his armband flashed.
He skipped forward in time again, slipping from Batman’s grip entirely before reappearing several feet away.
“…Interesting,” Hermes murmured.
Batman didn’t answer, but you could practically see him recalculating everything in real time.
The fight escalated immediately after that.
Damian and Batman split their focus between Kage and Hermes while you supported where you could, Celeste’s melody threading constantly through the battlefield to slow attacks before they reached civilians trying to escape.
But the strain was starting to build badly now.
You could feel it in your hands first.
Then your chest.
Then your breathing.
Too many people.
Too many moving targets.
Too much noise.
Metal scraping rang out somewhere behind you.
And suddenly, You froze.
But it wasn't in the physical sense.
It was mentally.
Your body locked for half a second as the sound dragged something ugly back to the surface.
Dark rooms, metal restraints, pain, voices.
The sharp crack of something hitting concrete while someone grabbed your wrist too tightly,
Your breathing hitched violently.
No.
Not now.
Another loud crash nearby snapped you halfway back, but your focus had already slipped. Celeste’s melody faltered unevenly, the golden shimmer around the room flickering dangerously.
Hermes noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His expression shifted slightly beneath the mask.
“You’re remembering,” he said quietly, and your stomach twisted hard.
Kage’s leash snapped toward Batman again while Damian fought off one of the beasts nearby, completely unaware of the shift happening around you.
“You’re distracted,” Hermes continued, stepping closer slowly. “That place really left its mark on you.” you could feel the smirk in his voice.
Your grip tightened painfully around Celeste.
“No,” you forced out.
But your voice sounded thinner now, less steady.
The music box trembled slightly in your hand.
Hermes’ gaze lowered briefly toward it.
Then back to you.
“You don’t have to keep pretending you belong with them,” he said quietly.
Something in your chest snapped sharply at that.
Because for half a second,
The doubt hit.
The old fear.
The feeling of being trapped again.
Used again.
Your breathing turned uneven.
Then,
“HEY!”
Damian’s voice cut sharply through the noise.
You blinked hard.
Robin had just driven one of the Trash Beasts backward with a hard strike, glaring toward Hermes immediately afterward.
“Focus!” Damian snapped.
The moment shattered.
Your breathing steadied slightly again as reality slammed back into place around you, the fire, the civilians escaping, Batman still fighting Kage near the center of the ballroom.
You weren’t there anymore.
You weren’t trapped anymore.
And you were definitely not about to fall apart here.
Your grip on Celeste steadied completely.
The melody rang out sharply.
This time stronger.
Hermes noticed the difference immediately.
“…I see,” he murmured.
You focused the slowdown directly onto him and Kage simultaneously, the pressure hitting both of them hard enough to finally interrupt their momentum.
Batman reacted instantly.
So did Damian.
The sudden opening let Batman drive Kage backward while Robin forced the remaining Trash Beast away from the fleeing civilians.
Across the ballroom, Nightwing had already arrived, helping the last civilians evacuate through the damaged exits while smoke thickened overhead.
The situation had shifted.
Not in anyone’s favour.
But enough.
Hermes glanced toward the exits where most civilians had finally escaped safely. Then toward Kage.
Kage understood immediately.
The leash recoiled back into his hand.
“We’re done here,” Kage said calmly.
Damian immediately stepped forward. “Cowards.”
But Hermes only looked toward you one last time.
“You’ll think about it eventually,” he said quietly.
Then the silver armband flashed.
Hermes skipped backward through time in fractured movements while Kage retreated alongside him, both figures disappearing into the smoke and collapsing debris before Batman could fully pursue them.
And just like that,
They were gone.
The ballroom finally fell into uneasy silence broken only by distant sirens, crackling fire, and the sound of civilians evacuating outside.
Nobody had technically won.
But nobody had lost either, and most importantly, the civilians got out alive.
The ballroom was still burning at the edges when the fighting finally stopped.
Smoke drifted lazily through the shattered ceiling, red emergency lights flickering weaker now as the system struggled to stay online. The civilians were gone, Escorted out by Nightwing, security, and what little order was left after everything had fallen apart. What remained was wreckage, broken marble, scorched fabric, and the lingering pressure of what had almost become something far worse.
Batman stood still for a moment, cape hanging heavy behind him as he scanned the damage, already processing injuries, exits, escape routes, and the strange, unfamiliar abilities that had just torn through his city. Beside him, Robin was still tense, blade lowered but not fully sheathed, green eyes flicking between the empty space where the enemies had vanished and the destruction left behind.
And You were still there.
Just for a moment.
Your breathing had steadied, but your grip on Celeste remained firm, the golden music box now quiet against your palm. The aftermath of everything still sat in your chest, heavy and lingering, but you forced it down. Not here. Not now.
Batman turned slightly, as if about to speak, Robin too.
But you didn’t give them the chance, you gave a small nod.
Not to explain or to answer questions, but as a quiet acknowledgment that you were still standing, still functioning.
And then you moved.
One step back.
Then another.
The shadows near the broken side exit swallowed you quickly as you slipped away from the chaos without hesitation, no dramatic exit, no loud announcement. Just a clean disappearance into the smoke and fractured light before either of them could call out to you.
By the time Robin reacted, you were already gone.
“…Where did they-” Damian started.
Batman raised a hand slightly.
“Let it go,” he said quietly.
Damian didn’t look convinced, but the order wasn’t one he challenged right now. Not with everything else still unresolved.
The manor was quiet.
Too quiet, compared to what you had just left behind.
You slipped in through your window like nothing had happened at all, boots landing softly against the floor of your room. The faint echo of distant sirens still clung to you, but it was already fading, replaced by the familiar stillness of Wayne Manor.
You exhaled once, slow, steady, forcing your body to settle back into something normal, Celeste was placed carefully on your desk without a sound.
A moment passed.
Then another, footsteps outside, not urgent.
Not alarmed.
Just normal movement through the hall.
You opened your door like nothing was wrong. Downstairs, the others were already there.
Bruce stood near the main room, expression unreadable as always. Damian was nearby, still slightly tense but no longer in full combat mode. Someone was speaking about damage reports, civilians, injuries, things that sounded serious but distant, like they belonged to a different world entirely.
You stepped into the room casually, letting out a small breath like you’d just returned from something ordinary.
“Hey,” you said, voice even. “What happened at the gala? I left with Cass.”
A beat of silence passed. Bruce looked at you, just for a second then nodded once.
“There was an attack,” he said simply. “It’s under control now.”
Damian glanced at you briefly, still a little sharp around the edges, but didn’t say anything.
“Figures,” you added lightly, like it was just another messy Gotham night. “I missed the worst of it then.”
“Seems like it,” Bruce replied.
That was it, there was no suspicion, no deeper questions.
Just the quiet acceptance that you had left with Cass and returned after everything had already been handled.
The conversation moved on.
Reports. Damage. Security adjustments.
Normal things.
You stayed standing there for a moment longer than necessary, listening, letting your heartbeat slow back into something controlled. The memory of fire, of Hermes, of Kage, of Celeste bending time in a collapsing ballroom still lingered at the edge of your mind, but you pushed it back where it belonged.
Not here.
Not now.
And definitely not something they could ever know about.
Synopsis: your first official Gala, as the oldest (biological) child of Bruce Wayne.
Chapter twelve
(heh.... guess whos back w chapter 12)
(Tag list closed)
Your thumb hovers over their contact, the faint glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. You tell yourself it’s simple, just press it, just type something, anything. A “hey.” A “sorry.” A weak attempt to stitch something back together before it fully unravels.
But your chest tightens instead.
Because the truth sits there, heavy and unmoving: they did care. You remember it now, clearer than you want to. The anger in their voices wasn’t empty, it was sharp, emotional, messy. It wasn’t indifference. It was hurt.
And somehow, that almost makes it worse.
Your grip on the phone loosens slightly as another thought slips in, quieter but colder. If they cared that much… then why didn’t it feel like it? Why did it feel like you were the only one left standing there, trying to hold onto something already slipping through your fingers?
You swallow, your throat dry.
“Sure, they were your friends,” you murmur under your breath, the words barely audible in the stillness of your room. “But they didn’t even care you had gone missing.”
The sentence sounds wrong the moment it leaves you. Not entirely true. Not entirely false either. Just… twisted by everything that’s happened.
Your thumb presses lightly against the screen, just enough to bring up the message box, the cursor blinking expectantly. Waiting. Always waiting.
What would you even say?
I got kidnapped and tortured, sorry I didn’t text back.
A hollow laugh escapes you, humorless and quiet. Your shoulders sag as the weight of it all settles back in. You can’t tell them the truth. Not without breaking everything else. Not without risking more than just a friendship.
So what’s left?
Lies? Half-truths? Excuses that sound weaker the more you think about them?
Your hand trembles slightly before you lock your phone with a sharp click, the screen going dark. The silence returns instantly, heavier than before.
Maybe you could fix it.
Maybe if you just kept trying, kept reaching, kept bending yourself into something easier to understand.
…or maybe you’d just break what little is left.
You exhale slowly, setting the phone down beside you. It lands softly against the bedsheets, but the sound still feels too loud in the quiet.
For once, you don’t pick it back up.
Instead, you lean back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the familiar ache settles in your chest. Letting go doesn’t feel like relief. It doesn’t feel like closure.
It just feels… empty.
And yet, for the first time in days, there’s no pressure to fix it. No expectation pressing down on you to make things right immediately. Just space. Quiet, uncomfortable space.
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your blanket.
Maybe… letting go doesn’t mean you don’t care.
Maybe it just means you’re tired of being the only one trying to hold everything together.
The thought lingers, fragile and uncertain, but you don’t push it away.
You just sit there with it.
And for now, that’s enough.
--
The next morning feels slower than usual, like the house itself is dragging its feet through the day. You don’t really sleep properly anymore. It’s more like drifting in and out of thoughts you don’t want to deal with.
When you finally get up, the manor is already awake, but it doesn’t feel alive. You’re halfway through getting ready when Alfred appears at your door. He knocks once, then opens it slightly as if he already knows you’re not going to object.
“Master Bruce would like to speak with you in the study,” he says gently. “When you are ready.”
When does he not want to speak with me? You think and pause for a second, then nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
That tone alone already tells you this is not going to be a casual conversation. When you reach the study, Bruce is behind his desk, going through something on a tablet. Tim is there too, leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed. Damian is sitting in one of the chairs, unusually quiet, watching you instead of looking bored. The atmosphere feels off in a way you can’t quite name, like everyone is waiting for something to drop. Bruce looks up first.
“Good. You’re here,” he says, setting the tablet down. His voice is controlled, measured. “We need to talk about next week.”
You blink slightly. “Next week?”
“There’s a gala,” he continues. “Wayne Foundation event. High profile. Important people. It’s part of your public introduction in Gotham’s social circle.”
You immediately feel your stomach tighten. “My what?”
Bruce doesn’t react to your tone. “It will be good for you. Exposure, networking, recognition. People will start to understand who you are in the family.”
Tim glances at you briefly, then looks away again like he already knows how this is going to go.
You let out a short breath. “I don’t need a public introduction. I go to school. That’s enough.”
Bruce stands from his desk. “It is not enough. You are part of this family. That means it comes with visibility.”
“That sounds less like family and more like a brand,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
The room goes quiet for a second.
Damian shifts in his chair. “It is a gala. Not a battlefield.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, turning slightly toward him. “I don’t want to go.”
Bruce’s expression tightens, just slightly, like he’s trying not to let frustration show. “This is not optional.”
You stare at him. “You’re forcing me to go to a fancy party I don’t care about so people can look at me?”
“It is not about being looked at,” Bruce says. “It is about positioning. About making sure you are not isolated socially.”
You almost laugh, but it comes out more tired than amused. “I think I am doing a pretty good job of being isolated without a gala.”
Tim finally speaks, quieter than the rest. “It is not just social stuff. It is also security. The more people know you are here, the harder it is for enemies to target you quietly.”
You glance at him. “That isn't comforting, you know that right?”
He shrugs slightly. “Just being honest.”
Bruce steps closer, his tone softening just a little. “You will not be alone, we will be there. It is one evening.”
“One evening of standing around pretending to smile,” you say. “Yeah, sounds amazing.”
Damian leans forward a bit. “It is not difficult. You simply stand, speak when spoken to, and avoid embarrassing yourself.”
You look at him flatly. “Thanks. Very helpful.”
Bruce exhales slowly. “This is not up for debate.”
That line again.
Something in your chest tightens, familiar and frustrating. You feel it building before you even fully think it through.
“Everything is not up for debate with you,” you say quietly. “That is kind of the issue.”
Bruce’s gaze holds yours. “I am trying to help you adjust.”
“To what? Being watched?” you ask. “Being managed?”
“That is not what this is,” he replies, but his voice is starting to sound more firm than calm.
You shake your head slightly. “It feels like it.”
There is a beat of silence. Tim looks between the two of you like he is weighing whether to step in again, but doesn’t.
Bruce finally speaks, slower now. “You are going. That is final.”
The words land heavy in your heart. Not angry or loud, it was final.
You stare at him for a moment longer, like you are waiting for him to take it back or soften it. He doesn’t. Your hands curl slightly at your sides.
“Fine,” you say, but it doesn’t sound like agreement. It sounds like something shutting down. “Whatever you want.”
You turn before anyone can respond and head for the door. Behind you, Bruce calls your name once, but you don’t stop walking.
The hallway feels longer on the way out. Like the manor is stretching itself just to keep you inside its rules. By the time you reach your room, the reality of it settles properly.
Next week.
A room full of people you don't know, watching you like you are supposed to represent something. Smiling, talking, standing still while everyone decides what you're supposed to be.
You sit on the edge of your bed and stare at your hands for a moment.
Then you lean back slowly, letting your head hit the pillow. Next week already feels too close.
.
The etiquette class is not in a ballroom or a fancy training room like you expected. It is in one of the quieter drawing rooms of Wayne Manor, the kind that looks like it has not been used in years except for decoration. Everything is too polished, too still. Even the air feels like it is waiting for you to behave correctly.
Alfred stands near the centre of the room with a calm expression, holding a small notebook and a folded set of notes. A tray of tea sits untouched on a side table, like it is part of the lesson too.
You linger near the doorway for a second longer than necessary.
“So,” you say flatly, glancing around. "this is happening..”
Alfred gives you a polite nod. “Indeed, Master Wayne felt it would be beneficial for you to attend a brief instruction session before the gala.”
You let out a quiet breath. “He forced me to do it.”
Alfred does not look surprised by that at all. If anything, there is something almost sympathetic in his expression. “Master Bruce prefers to phrase it as preparation.”
“That is a fancy way of saying forced,” you reply, stepping further into the room.
Alfred gently adjusts his cufflinks as he watches you. “Shall we begin then?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Sure. Let’s just get this over with.”
He gestures toward a chair. “First, posture when seated at formal events.”
You sit down immediately, a little too casually, slouching slightly on purpose.
Alfred observes you for a moment. “Yes. That is… a start. However, one does not usually approach a gala as though one is settling in for a long film.”
You glance at him. “What if I don’t want to be at the gala?”
A small pause.
Then Alfred replies carefully, “Then you will likely find it more tolerable if you are able to navigate it without discomfort drawing attention.”
You lean back further in the chair. “That sounds like a polite way of saying ‘suffer quietly.’”
A faint hint of amusement crosses Alfred’s face. “In the most refined terms, perhaps.”
He steps closer, gesturing with one hand. “Try this. Sit with your back straight, shoulders relaxed, feet flat on the floor.”
You adjust slightly, but it still feels unnatural.
“This feels like I'm being measured,” you mutter.
“In a sense, you are,” Alfred says gently. “But not in the way you might think. People do not simply observe appearance at these events. They observe composure.”
You glance at him. “And if I don't have any?”
“You do,” he replies without hesitation. “You simply do not trust it yet.”
That makes you pause for a second longer than you expect.
Alfred moves on smoothly, as if giving you time without calling attention to it. “Now, greetings. At a formal gathering, introductions are brief. Handshake, eye contact, polite acknowledgment.”
He demonstrates with practiced ease, then looks at you.
You mimic it half-heartedly. “Hello,” you say in a monotone voice.
Alfred tilts his head slightly. “Perhaps slightly more warmth.”
You stare at him. “I am not a warm person right now.”
“That is acceptable,” he replies. “We are not aiming for warmth. We are aiming for presentable.”
You exhale through your nose. “Great. So I am aiming for ‘emotionally functional mannequin.’”
“If that is what helps you conceptualize it,” Alfred says calmly.
A small silence falls between you two.
You glance around the room again. “Bruce really made you do this with me?”
“He asked,” Alfred corrects gently. “And I agreed.”
“Same thing,” you mutter.
Alfred walks over to the tea tray. “Would you like a cup?”
You hesitate, then nod slightly. “Yeah. Sure.”
He pours one carefully and hands it to you. Your fingers wrap around the cup, warmth spreading into your palms.
For a moment, you just sit there quietly.
Then you say, softer than before, “He thinks this is going to fix something.”
Alfred does not immediately respond. He simply pours himself a cup as well.
Finally, he says, “Master Bruce believes preparation reduces uncertainty. It is his way of offering control in situations he cannot fully manage.”
You stare at the tea. “That is not what it feels like.”
“I understand,” Alfred replies.
You take a small sip, then set the cup down carefully.
“This is a lot for something I did not even agree to in the first place,” you say.
Alfred looks at you with steady calm. “Many things in life are introduced that we do not initially choose. The question becomes how one carries them.”
You lean back slightly, adjusting your posture again, this time a little more deliberately. Not perfect, but less slouched.
“I am still saying Bruce forced me into this,” you say.
Alfred gives a small nod. “Noted.”
A beat passes.
Then, quieter, almost to yourself, you add, “I just don't get why it always has to be like this.”
Alfred sets his cup down and regards you for a moment.
“Sometimes,” he says gently, “people who care do not always express it in ways that feel comfortable to receive.”
You do not respond right away.
Instead, you look down at your hands again, then straighten your posture a little more without being told this time.
The room stays quiet after that, except for Alfred continuing the lesson in his calm, patient voice, while you slowly try to figure out how to exist inside a version of yourself that fits a world you never asked to step into.
The gala somehow feels louder before you even step inside.
The moment the car pulls up to the entrance, flashes from cameras bounce against the windows in sharp bursts of white light. Through the glass, you can already see crowds gathered behind barricades, reporters calling names, wealthy guests climbing the steps beneath golden lights spilling from the building overhead.
Your stomach twists.
You adjust the sleeve of your outfit for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. The fabric is expensive enough that you are almost afraid to touch it too much. Smooth, tailored perfectly to your frame, subtle details stitched so carefully they probably cost more than most people’s rent.
You hate how good it looks on you.
“Relax your shoulders,” Bruce says beside you before the driver opens the door. “You look tense.”
“I wonder why,” you mutter.
Beside you, Damian snorts quietly, clearly entertained. The car door opens before Bruce can respond and the noise immediately rushes in.
The cameras flash again.
“Bruce Wayne!”
“Look over here!”
“Is that the newest Wayne?”
Your chest tightens instantly.
Bruce steps out first like this is second nature to him. he looked calm, controlled, untouchable. Dick follows easily after him with that effortless public smile that somehow never looks fake and Damian looks irritated by the existence of everyone around him.
Then it's your turn.
The moment your shoes hit the pavement, the flashes become blinding.
You freeze for half a second.
Not enough for anyone else to notice probably, but enough for your heartbeat to stumble painfully against your ribs.
You can feel eyes on you immediately.
Judging, curious,
Interested.
The cameras keep flashing as Bruce places a hand lightly against your back, guiding you toward the staircase.
“Keep moving,” he says quietly.
Easy for him to say.
You keep your expression neutral the best you can, focusing on the stairs beneath your feet instead of the crowd screaming questions you do not answer.
By the time you finally step inside the building, relief hits so hard it almost makes you dizzy.
The place was massive.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like frozen stars, casting warm gold light across polished marble floors. Music drifts softly through the room from a live string quartet near the far wall. Everywhere you look, people are dressed in dark formalwear and glittering jewelry, holding glasses of champagne while talking in low polished voices.
It feels like stepping into another world entirely, a world completely foreign to you
“Breathe,” Cassandra says quietly beside you.
You glance toward her, surprised. You did not even notice her approach.
“I am breathing,” you reply softly.
“You stopped for a second outside.”
Of course she noticed.
You look away slightly. “The cameras were a lot.”
She nods without judgement, she understands of course.
“You looked fine,” she says.
The simple honesty of it settles something uncomfortable in your chest.
Before you can respond, another voice cuts in.
“Bruce! There you are.”
An older man approaches with an easy smile and several others trailing behind him. The moment his eyes land on you, interest immediately sharpens across his face.
“And this must be them,” he says warmly.
You already hate this conversation.
Bruce smoothly introduces you anyway, his hand briefly resting against your shoulder like positioning you into place.
The man offers his hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you. We have heard quite a bit.”
You shake his hand politely because Alfred drilled it into you repeatedly.
“Hopefully nothing too bad,” you reply.
The man laughs immediately like you made the funniest joke in the world.
Bruce gives you a brief look. Not disapproving exactly more like observing.
The conversation continues around you after that, flowing smoothly between business talk and polite social performances. You answer when spoken to. Nod when expected. Smile just enough to appear engaged.
It was so exhausting.
Every interaction feels rehearsed somehow, like everyone here already knows the rules except you.
Eventually, you drift toward one of the quieter balconies just to breathe without feeling watched every second.
Cold night air immediately brushes against your skin the moment you step outside. Gotham stretches endlessly beyond the balcony, glowing beneath layers of distant city lights and dark clouds.
For the first time all evening, it feels quiet.
“You disappeared.”
You glance sideways to find Damian stepping onto the balcony beside you.
“I was gone for like three minutes.”
“That is disappearing at a gala.”
You huff softly, leaning against the railing. “You enjoying yourself in there?”
“No.”
That answer comes so fast it almost makes you laugh.
Damian moves beside you, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with visible annoyance. “These events are tedious. Father insists they are important.”
“You sound exactly like me.”
“I sound correct.”
You finally let out a small laugh at that, quiet but genuine.
Damian glances toward you briefly, like he was not entirely expecting the sound.
“You look less miserable now,” he says.
“Thanks. I think.”
“It was becoming concerning.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Concerning?”
“You looked ready to throw yourself off the staircase earlier.”
“That bad?”
“Yes.”
You groan softly, covering your face for a second. “Great.”
“You recovered adequately.”
“Wow. High praise.”
Damian shrugs slightly, but there is something less sharp about him tonight he was less guarded. A dangerous thing to be at a social event.
The music from inside drifts faintly through the open balcony doors behind you.
For a few moments, neither of you says anything.
Then Damian looks at you again, more serious this time.
“You do not need to impress these people,” he says quietly. “Most of them are insufferable.”
You blink slightly.
The statement catches you off guard, mostly because of how sincere it sounds.
Your shoulders loosen just a little.
“I kind of figured that already,” you admit.
Damian hums softly in agreement.
Inside the ballroom, another burst of laughter rises from the crowd, distant and polished and fake.
Out here, though, the silence feels easier to survive.
The peace lasts exactly five minutes.
You know the exact moment something is wrong because the music stops.
Not gradually either. One second the string quartet is playing softly behind the ballroom doors, and the next the sound cuts off mid-note. Sharp. Abrupt.
Then comes the screaming.
Your head snaps toward the ballroom instantly.
People are shouting inside. Glass shatters somewhere near the entrance followed by a loud crash that shakes through the floor beneath your feet. The calm atmosphere disappears in seconds, replaced by panic moving like wildfire through the crowd,
and Damian is already moving before anyone else.
“Stay here,” he orders automatically.
You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
Another explosion echoes from inside.
The balcony doors burst open as guests begin flooding out in panic, faces pale and terrified. Someone nearly slams into you while scrambling past.
“Weapons!” someone yells.
“Oh my God!”
“They're attacking the gala!”
Damian curses under his breath.
Inside the ballroom, masked figures dressed in dark tactical gear move through the chaos, armed and coordinated. One fires into the ceiling while another shouts orders at the crowd.
“Everybody on the floor! Phones away now!”
The entire room erupts into terrified movement.
You feel your heartbeat spike hard against your ribs.
Instinct takes over almost immediately.
The exits.
Civilian movement.
Sightlines.
Threat count.
Your body slips into assessment mode before your brain fully catches up.
Damian looks toward you again, already backing toward a side corridor. “Find Father. Stay with the family.”
You almost laugh at the irony.
Because the moment he disappears into the crowd, you are already turning the opposite direction.
Fast.
You shove through the side hallway away from the ballroom chaos, ignoring the sounds of shouting behind you. Your formal shoes slam against polished floors as you move quickly through the quieter upper corridors of the building.
Your pulse is loud in your ears.
You knew something like this could happen.
That was exactly why you brought the bag.
The gala staff hallway is nearly empty except for terrified workers trying to evacuate. You slip past them quickly and duck into one of the unused dressing rooms near the back corridor, locking the door behind you immediately.
Silence crashes over the room.
For half a second, you just breathe.
Then you move.
Your hands work fast, adrenaline making every motion sharper. You grab the hidden bag from beneath the sink where you stashed it earlier after arriving. Just in case.
Always just in case.
You strip out of the expensive formal clothes as quickly as possible, tossing fabric onto the nearby chair without care. The elegant outfit suddenly feels ridiculous now, fragile compared to what waits outside that door.
The Cleaner uniform feels familiar the second you pull it on.
Comfortable.
Real.
Like stepping back into yourself.
You secure Celeste carefully at your side, fingers brushing the golden music box briefly before tightening the straps on your gloves. You put on a mask, to hide your identity.
Your reflection in the mirror barely looks like the same person from twenty minutes ago.
Good.
That's the point.
Outside, another gunshot echoes faintly through the building.
You close your eyes for one second.
Focus.
When you open them again, the hesitation is gone.
You crack the dressing room door open carefully.
The hallway outside is empty.
Then a voice suddenly crackles through a nearby speaker system.
“Attention guests,” a distorted voice announces. Calm. Mocking. “Tonight's event has officially changed ownership.”
More screams echo distantly below.
Your jaw tightens.
Idiot.
You slip into the shadows of the corridor and move quickly toward the ballroom level, staying low and out of sight. Every instinct in your body feels painfully awake now, sharper than it has in days.
Fear still sits underneath it all, buried deep after everything with Hermes.
But movement helps.
Action helps.
By the time you reach the overlooking balcony above the ballroom floor, the situation is worse than you expected.
At least twelve armed attackers.
Explosives near the entrances.
Guests gathered together under threat.
Some crying. Some frozen.
And at the center of it all stands the leader.
Tall. Masked. Calm. Kage. And his stupid group.
He raises a weapon lazily toward the crowd while speaking to one of his men.
Then your eyes catch something else.
Bruce.
Dick.
Already gone from the civilian crowd.
Of course they are.
You can practically feel the shift happening beneath the surface of the situation. Gotham’s billionaires disappearing right before Batman inevitably appears.
You exhale slowly.
Your fingers curl around Celeste instinctively.
You can practically feel the shift happening beneath the surface of the situation. Gotham’s billionaires disappearing right before Batman inevitably appears.
You exhale slowly as your fingers curl around Celeste instinctively.
The smooth golden surface feels warm against your palm, almost reactive, like it already understands what you’re thinking before you fully decide it yourself. Around you, the gala had dissolved into chaos so quickly it barely felt real anymore. Guests screamed as armed men flooded the ballroom floor, shoving people down, forcing them away from exits while shattered glass crunched beneath hurried footsteps. Somewhere overhead, alarms blared loudly enough to rattle the walls.
And through all of it,
Kage stood near the centre of the room like he belonged there.
His long black hair framed his face in dark strands, pale skin illuminated by the flickering emergency lights overhead while the leash in his hand dragged slowly across the marble floor. One of the jaguar-like Trash Beasts prowled beside him, low and tense, glowing eyes tracking every movement around it. The second beast had already pinned two security guards against a collapsed serving table, growling low in its throat while guests scrambled to get away.
The gunmen surrounding the room kept shouting orders, trying to control the panic.
“GET DOWN!”
“NOBODY MOVE!”
One of them shoved a man hard enough that he crashed into a nearby pillar. Another pointed their weapon toward a crowd trying to flee through the side exit.
Your jaw tightened immediately, your thumb brushed against Celeste’s latch.
Click.
The melody spilled into the ballroom softly at first. Almost delicate. Completely wrong for the violence unfolding around you.
And then the world slowed.
Not just one person this time.
All of them.
Every gunman in the room suddenly moved like they were trapped underwater, their movements dragged down into sluggish, distorted versions of themselves. The man raising his rifle toward the crowd slowed mid-motion, his finger barely beginning to squeeze the trigger. Another turned toward the sound of the music far too slowly, confusion spreading across his face in stretched-out delay.
The effect spread across the ballroom in shimmering waves, golden light flickering faintly around the edges of your vision as Celeste’s melody echoed through the chaos.
The civilians noticed it immediately.
Not the time manipulation itself, most of them wouldn’t understand what they were seeing, but they noticed something. The hesitation. The impossible slowness. People started running again, scrambling toward exits while the gunmen struggled to react fast enough to stop them.
You moved instantly.
Your body cut through the slowed battlefield much faster now, weaving between frozen movements and half-fired shots before they could fully happen. One gunman barely managed to turn before you slammed your elbow into his jaw, sending him crashing into the floor. Another tried to raise his weapon toward you, but his arms moved too slowly under Celeste’s influence, letting you wrench the gun from his hands before kicking him backward.
Across the room, Kage watched you carefully.
And unlike everyone else,
He wasn’t fully slowed.
The difference was immediate. While the others struggled against the weight of stretched time, Kage still moved fluidly enough to be dangerous, his leash snapping sharply through the air toward you without warning.
You twisted aside just before it wrapped around your waist, the leather cracking against the marble floor hard enough to shatter it.
Your eyes narrowed.
Of course he adapted faster than the others.
One of the Trash Beasts lunged suddenly, its claws tearing through a banquet table as it launched toward you. Even slowed, the thing was enormous, its jaws opening wide enough to crush bone easily if it got close enough.
You stepped back sharply and focused harder.
Celeste’s melody shifted slightly.
This time, instead of spreading your control across the entire room equally, you narrowed it further around the beast itself. Immediately its movement dragged heavier than before, its leap slowing just enough for you to pivot cleanly around it while drawing one of your pistols.
A sharp gunshot echoed through the ballroom.
The bullet struck the creature’s shoulder, throwing it sideways into a pillar.
Kage finally moved fully then.
The leash snapped forward again, faster than before, catching around your wrist before you could completely dodge it. Your eyes widened slightly as the force jerked you forward hard enough to nearly throw you off balance.
Kage pulled once.
Violently.
You stumbled toward him before planting your foot hard against the floor to stop yourself from being dragged further.
“You’ve improved,” Kage said calmly, though his grip tightened on the leash. “Your control is cleaner now.”
You pulled against the restraint sharply, glaring at him. “You’re still annoying.”
That almost earned a smile from him. Almost.
Then the second Trash Beast lunged from behind.
You reacted immediately, opening Celeste wider. The melody rang louder this time, the golden shimmer around the room intensifying as time dragged even harder around the attacking beast. Its claws slowed inches from your face, giving you enough room to duck beneath them while twisting your trapped wrist sharply.
The leash loosened for half a second.
Enough.
You tore yourself free and slid backward across the marble floor, breathing harder now as the strain from slowing this many people at once started creeping into your muscles.
Kage noticed immediately.
“You can’t maintain this forever,” he said.
“I know.”
The words came out sharper than intended as you steadied yourself again. The melody still echoed around the ballroom, but you could already feel Celeste beginning to strain under the pressure of affecting so many targets simultaneously. The golden light flickered faintly now instead of staying stable.
Around the room, some of the gunmen were starting to push against the slowdown more effectively. Not fully breaking free, but adapting.
Kage stepped forward slowly, the leash dragging behind him.
“You’re wasting too much energy trying to save everyone at once,” he said quietly. “That’s your weakness.”
Before you could respond, the lights overhead suddenly exploded.
The ballroom dropped into darkness for half a second before emergency lights flickered back on in dim red flashes.
And then,
A figure crashed down from above.
Black cape.
Heavy landing.
The room shifted instantly.
Batman had arrived.
The ballroom had descended into complete chaos.
Red emergency lights flashed overhead in uneven bursts, casting the ruined gala in harsh crimson tones while smoke drifted through the shattered ceiling. Guests rushed toward the exits in panicked waves, security trying desperately to guide civilians away from the fighting as debris littered the marble floors. Somewhere across the room, broken glass crunched beneath hurried footsteps while flames climbed slowly up one side of the wall where an explosion had torn through earlier.
And standing directly in the middle of it all,
Batman.
For a split second, everything felt strangely still.
Batman had landed hard enough to crack the marble beneath him, cape spreading behind him as he immediately assessed the situation. His gaze swept across the ballroom quickly, the armed men, the civilians escaping, the destruction,
Then stopped on you.
Or more specifically,
On Celeste.
The golden music box still chimed softly in your hand, its melody threading through the chaos while the slowed movements of the remaining gunmen distorted unnaturally around the room.
You saw the exact moment he realized this wasn’t technology.
Wasn’t meta-human.
Wasn’t anything he recognized.
Beside him, Robin straightened immediately, sword already drawn as sharp green eyes narrowed toward Kage and the prowling Trash Beasts nearby.
“…What are those things?” Damian muttered.
One of the jaguar-like beasts growled low in response, claws scraping against the marble.
Kage didn’t seem bothered by Batman’s arrival at all. If anything, he looked mildly interested. His leash dragged loosely through his hand as his gaze shifted between you and Batman carefully, studying both of you at once.
“So this is Gotham’s protector,” Kage said calmly.
Batman’s posture shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, attention locking onto him immediately.
“You’re behind this attack,” Batman said flatly.
Kage tilted his head slightly. “Partially.”
That was apparently enough talking for Damian, he launched forward instantly. His cape snapped sharply behind him as he closed the distance in seconds, blade aimed directly toward one of the Trash Beasts first instead of Kage himself but the beast lunged too,
And the collision shook the entire room.
Its claws slammed against Damian’s blade hard enough to throw sparks across the floor while the second beast immediately circled around from the side, aiming straight for him.
You reacted before thinking.
Celeste’s melody shifted sharply.
The second creature slowed instantly, its movement dragging heavily enough for Damian to twist aside before its claws could reach him.
Robin glanced toward you briefly, confused.
But there wasn’t time to question it.
Batman had already moved toward Kage.
The leash cracked violently through the air as Kage struck first, the sound echoing loudly enough to cut through the alarms overhead. Batman avoided it narrowly, the reinforced whip smashing through a nearby pillar instead.
The impact shattered concrete instantly.
Not normal. Definitely not normal, and Batman noticed.
He moved carefully after that, avoiding direct contact while testing Kage’s movements with precise strikes. But Kage fought differently than Gotham criminals did, less reckless, more controlled. Every movement felt calculated, almost patient.
Meanwhile, across the ballroom,
The temperature in the room shifted.
You felt it before you saw him. A distortion.
Like the air itself skipping.
And suddenly Hermes was there.
One moment empty space existed near the collapsed balcony.
The next, it was…
Him.
The silver armband around his forearm gleamed faintly beneath the red emergency lights as he stepped into the battlefield like he’d been there the entire time.
Batman noticed immediately.
His stance changed.
“You’re the second leader,” Batman said.
Hermes glanced toward him briefly before his attention settled on you instead.
“You’re pushing yourself again,” he said calmly.
Your jaw tightened immediately.
Damian looked between the two of you sharply. “You know him?”
“No,” you answered too quickly.
Hermes almost smiled beneath the mask.
Then he moved.
The skip happened so suddenly Batman nearly missed it entirely. One second Hermes stood still, the next he had already crossed half the ballroom, reappearing directly beside you. Your body reacted instinctively.
Celeste chimed louder. Time dragged around him instantly, but unlike everyone else, Hermes cut through the effect in staggered jumps, his movements glitching unnaturally through slowed moments.
Batman saw it happen, you could tell by the way his expression hardened slightly, he was analyzing.
Studying.
Trying to understand what he was seeing.
Hermes struck toward you again, but this time Batman intercepted him mid-motion, gauntlet catching Hermes’ wrist before the blow landed.
For a split second,
Hermes looked genuinely surprised.
Then his armband flashed.
He skipped forward in time again, slipping from Batman’s grip entirely before reappearing several feet away.
“…Interesting,” Hermes murmured.
Batman didn’t answer, but you could practically see him recalculating everything in real time.
The fight escalated immediately after that.
Damian and Batman split their focus between Kage and Hermes while you supported where you could, Celeste’s melody threading constantly through the battlefield to slow attacks before they reached civilians trying to escape.
But the strain was starting to build badly now.
You could feel it in your hands first.
Then your chest.
Then your breathing.
Too many people.
Too many moving targets.
Too much noise.
Metal scraping rang out somewhere behind you.
And suddenly, You froze.
But it wasn't in the physical sense.
It was mentally.
Your body locked for half a second as the sound dragged something ugly back to the surface.
Dark rooms, metal restraints, pain, voices.
The sharp crack of something hitting concrete while someone grabbed your wrist too tightly,
Your breathing hitched violently.
No.
Not now.
Another loud crash nearby snapped you halfway back, but your focus had already slipped. Celeste’s melody faltered unevenly, the golden shimmer around the room flickering dangerously.
Hermes noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His expression shifted slightly beneath the mask.
“You’re remembering,” he said quietly, and your stomach twisted hard.
Kage’s leash snapped toward Batman again while Damian fought off one of the beasts nearby, completely unaware of the shift happening around you.
“You’re distracted,” Hermes continued, stepping closer slowly. “That place really left its mark on you.” you could feel the smirk in his voice.
Your grip tightened painfully around Celeste.
“No,” you forced out.
But your voice sounded thinner now, less steady.
The music box trembled slightly in your hand.
Hermes’ gaze lowered briefly toward it.
Then back to you.
“You don’t have to keep pretending you belong with them,” he said quietly.
Something in your chest snapped sharply at that.
Because for half a second,
The doubt hit.
The old fear.
The feeling of being trapped again.
Used again.
Your breathing turned uneven.
Then,
“HEY!”
Damian’s voice cut sharply through the noise.
You blinked hard.
Robin had just driven one of the Trash Beasts backward with a hard strike, glaring toward Hermes immediately afterward.
“Focus!” Damian snapped.
The moment shattered.
Your breathing steadied slightly again as reality slammed back into place around you, the fire, the civilians escaping, Batman still fighting Kage near the center of the ballroom.
You weren’t there anymore.
You weren’t trapped anymore.
And you were definitely not about to fall apart here.
Your grip on Celeste steadied completely.
The melody rang out sharply.
This time stronger.
Hermes noticed the difference immediately.
“…I see,” he murmured.
You focused the slowdown directly onto him and Kage simultaneously, the pressure hitting both of them hard enough to finally interrupt their momentum.
Batman reacted instantly.
So did Damian.
The sudden opening let Batman drive Kage backward while Robin forced the remaining Trash Beast away from the fleeing civilians.
Across the ballroom, Nightwing had already arrived, helping the last civilians evacuate through the damaged exits while smoke thickened overhead.
The situation had shifted.
Not in anyone’s favour.
But enough.
Hermes glanced toward the exits where most civilians had finally escaped safely. Then toward Kage.
Kage understood immediately.
The leash recoiled back into his hand.
“We’re done here,” Kage said calmly.
Damian immediately stepped forward. “Cowards.”
But Hermes only looked toward you one last time.
“You’ll think about it eventually,” he said quietly.
Then the silver armband flashed.
Hermes skipped backward through time in fractured movements while Kage retreated alongside him, both figures disappearing into the smoke and collapsing debris before Batman could fully pursue them.
And just like that,
They were gone.
The ballroom finally fell into uneasy silence broken only by distant sirens, crackling fire, and the sound of civilians evacuating outside.
Nobody had technically won.
But nobody had lost either, and most importantly, the civilians got out alive.
The ballroom was still burning at the edges when the fighting finally stopped.
Smoke drifted lazily through the shattered ceiling, red emergency lights flickering weaker now as the system struggled to stay online. The civilians were gone, Escorted out by Nightwing, security, and what little order was left after everything had fallen apart. What remained was wreckage, broken marble, scorched fabric, and the lingering pressure of what had almost become something far worse.
Batman stood still for a moment, cape hanging heavy behind him as he scanned the damage, already processing injuries, exits, escape routes, and the strange, unfamiliar abilities that had just torn through his city. Beside him, Robin was still tense, blade lowered but not fully sheathed, green eyes flicking between the empty space where the enemies had vanished and the destruction left behind.
And You were still there.
Just for a moment.
Your breathing had steadied, but your grip on Celeste remained firm, the golden music box now quiet against your palm. The aftermath of everything still sat in your chest, heavy and lingering, but you forced it down. Not here. Not now.
Batman turned slightly, as if about to speak, Robin too.
But you didn’t give them the chance, you gave a small nod.
Not to explain or to answer questions, but as a quiet acknowledgment that you were still standing, still functioning.
And then you moved.
One step back.
Then another.
The shadows near the broken side exit swallowed you quickly as you slipped away from the chaos without hesitation, no dramatic exit, no loud announcement. Just a clean disappearance into the smoke and fractured light before either of them could call out to you.
By the time Robin reacted, you were already gone.
“…Where did they-” Damian started.
Batman raised a hand slightly.
“Let it go,” he said quietly.
Damian didn’t look convinced, but the order wasn’t one he challenged right now. Not with everything else still unresolved.
The manor was quiet.
Too quiet, compared to what you had just left behind.
You slipped in through your window like nothing had happened at all, boots landing softly against the floor of your room. The faint echo of distant sirens still clung to you, but it was already fading, replaced by the familiar stillness of Wayne Manor.
You exhaled once, slow, steady, forcing your body to settle back into something normal, Celeste was placed carefully on your desk without a sound.
A moment passed.
Then another, footsteps outside, not urgent.
Not alarmed.
Just normal movement through the hall.
You opened your door like nothing was wrong. Downstairs, the others were already there.
Bruce stood near the main room, expression unreadable as always. Damian was nearby, still slightly tense but no longer in full combat mode. Someone was speaking about damage reports, civilians, injuries, things that sounded serious but distant, like they belonged to a different world entirely.
You stepped into the room casually, letting out a small breath like you’d just returned from something ordinary.
“Hey,” you said, voice even. “What happened at the gala? I left with Cass.”
A beat of silence passed. Bruce looked at you, just for a second then nodded once.
“There was an attack,” he said simply. “It’s under control now.”
Damian glanced at you briefly, still a little sharp around the edges, but didn’t say anything.
“Figures,” you added lightly, like it was just another messy Gotham night. “I missed the worst of it then.”
“Seems like it,” Bruce replied.
That was it, there was no suspicion, no deeper questions.
Just the quiet acceptance that you had left with Cass and returned after everything had already been handled.
The conversation moved on.
Reports. Damage. Security adjustments.
Normal things.
You stayed standing there for a moment longer than necessary, listening, letting your heartbeat slow back into something controlled. The memory of fire, of Hermes, of Kage, of Celeste bending time in a collapsing ballroom still lingered at the edge of your mind, but you pushed it back where it belonged.
Not here.
Not now.
And definitely not something they could ever know about.
today my husband asked me, "toby rogers or me?" which is so funny so i had to remind him, “babe you ARE toby rogers." toby laughed but then he got blurry and the nurse walked in and forced me to take my pills
hi! can you please write amo empool x shy! goth! fem reader who’s vital instrument is her electric guitar?
Electric Love
The room barely held any light. Just a weak, tired glow tucked in the corners, hazy from all the incense and dust that smothered the air. It made breathing feel dense, like every inhale was pushing through something heavy. Old vinyl sleeves littered the ground, corners bent, covers cracked and faded, used so many times they barely held together.
There you were, sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, shoulders curled in like you wanted to disappear. Your guitar balanced against you, familiar as a heartbeat. Your fingers moved slow, almost like you weren’t forcing it, the chords coming out thick and rough and spilling into each other, a growl of distortion that crawled up the walls. It was more than just noise. It felt like you’d built a shield with it, the sound closing the room off from everything outside.
You leaned into it, letting the feedback swell until there was nothing but the guitar and the heaviness pressing down. Out there, the world was always moving. People around HQ stomped and mumbled and shifted, and you could never get away from it completely. But in here, loud belonged to you.
Then the door creaked.
It wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a siren, sliced right through everything. Your hand froze on the strings. The last note dragged out and broke off, leaving a silence so sudden it almost hurt. You looked up, cautious, not sure if you should pretend you weren’t there or brace for whoever decided to barge in.
Framed by the open door was a girl. She didn’t really look in, she stared. Dark hair, streaked wild orange at the ends like she'd dipped it in fire and forgot to wipe it off. Her eyes caught the weak light, sharp and bright and already locked onto the guitar in your lap. Not judging. Not confused, either. More like she was starving for something. Curious, but the kind that’ll tear a thing apart to see how it works.
She walked in without asking, slow, like she was claiming the room just by being there.
“What’s that loud sound?” Her voice was soft, almost sweet, but there was a weird kind of sharp honesty in it. She rocked on her heels, head tilted as she watched you, then the guitar. “Amo’s never seen that. It’s… strange. That box makes all those noises?”
You felt yourself tense up, fingers squeezing the neck of the guitar on instinct. You tried to make yourself smaller, but she just kept looking. You weren’t great with words, especially out of nowhere and especially with someone actually paying attention.
“It’s… a guitar,” you managed, voice so low it barely made it to her. You pulled the instrument a little closer, like it could cover you.
Her expression changed as soon as you spoke. Her eyes went narrower, hungrier for detail. She stepped up, closer than she needed to be, and crouched, trying to get a better look at your hands.
“It sounds sad,” she said, deciding it out loud. “Not weak sad. Heavy. Like it’s stuck.” She flexed her fingers at her side, fighting the urge to touch. “Amo likes it.”
You couldn’t remember anyone saying that before.
People usually rolled their eyes at the noise, or left if you played too long. Not her. She was still moving closer, eyes bright.
“Can Amo touch it?” she asked, without even a flicker of hesitation. “Amo wants to feel the sound. Is it inside there?”
Your grip tightened, knuckles pale against the wood. That shouldn’t have been a hard question, but this whole conversation was harder than it had any right to be. She stared at you like you were the real puzzle in the room, not the cords or the amp.
You figured she’d get bored if you stayed quiet. Most people did. That was usually how you kept them away. But Amo moved in deliberate, restless circles, getting close enough that you could feel a weird flutter in your chest, anxiety, maybe, or just the weight of someone not letting you vanish.
She was bright, but not warm. Intense, like standing under a streetlight when it’s the only thing awake.
You didn’t know if you wanted to back off, or maybe just sit there a little longer, see what she’d do.
“It’s… loud for most people,” you said, barely above a whisper. You hugged your knees in and hunched your shoulders like that might turn you invisible.
Amo acted like she didn't notice, or didn’t care. She slid down to sit beside you, smooth and weirdly graceful, her body all loose lines and certainty. She watched, not your face, but the way you held the guitar, her attention heavy enough you could almost feel it.
She leaned in.
Too close.
You stopped breathing for a second as she came up to your neck, just hovering close. Then she inhaled, almost like she was smelling the air right where your collar touched your skin.
“You smell interesting,” she whispered. Not teasing, not shy, just making an observation. “Like rain on cold stone. And something old. Like velvet that’s been kept too long.”
She paused, and you felt her gaze shift. “Amo likes it.”
You lost the thread of reality for a moment, but before you could react, her fingers ghosted over the guitar, light, expectant, not quite touching.
“Is the sound in here?” She didn’t look away. “Or is it in you, and the box lets it out?”
That made you look at her. Orange eyes, sharp and impossible. She wanted an answer, and not the kind you just brush off.
You looked down. “It’s just… an instrument,” you tried again. Your voice wobbled. You hoped it sounded steadier than you felt, but your heart was pounding, probably loud enough for her to hear.
She didn’t laugh, didn't back off, just stayed with the question. Then something in her face turned, got sharper, like broken glass.
“If it sounds like that,” she said, “it must be carrying something heavy.” She tapped the guitar, then you. “Lonely things sound like that.”
You couldn’t answer. She leaned over and rested her head against your shoulder, gentle, but real, not asking. The contact landed hard, but not in a way that hurt.
“Play it again,” she said, softer. “Amo wants to hear it.”
Her fingers brushed yours, barely there, but enough to send a jolt all the way down your arm. You jerked, but she stayed close, her focus on your hands.
“If you play, Amo will listen. That’s enough.”
It wasn’t a request. Just something she decided.
The room pressed in. You wanted to say something, anything, maybe just to break the weird tension, but instead you adjusted your grip and nodded.
“I… I can play,” you offered, voice still small.
She leaned in, not shoving, just present. Soft, certain.
“Good. Then play.”
You breathed out and started again. This time, your hands weren’t so shaky, and the distortion dropped. The music came out low, wove through the dust and incense, filled the silence she’d wrapped around you.
And now, it didn’t build a wall. It just filled the space, a room quietly cut off from the rest of the world.
As the notes found a rhythm, you glanced at Amo.
She wasn’t just sitting or listening, she was feeling every shift, tracking every small move your hands made. Her fingers matched the pace against your sleeve, a soft sigh escaping, her body relaxing into something softer, almost sleep-heavy.
“It feels like… being held,” she said, voice drifting. Her eyes were half-shut. “Amo feels warm. Like floating. Like the noise isn’t sharp now.” Her hand pressed a little, a small sign she didn’t want it to end. “Don’t stop.”
Her tone frayed a bit there, desperate, maybe, but it carried weight.
“If it stops,” she barely whispered, “it goes cold again. Amo doesn’t like that.”
You wavered. Missed a beat. The tension in her hand spiked, nails hard enough to leave little moon-prints on your skin.
The chord came out wrong, hung, and died in the thick air.
Amo lifted her head, her eyes clear again, looking right into you. “Did you mean to do that?” Quieter now, but there was an edge. “The sound… it shifted.”
You nearly stuttered, scrambling to answer. “No-I didn’t, I just-”
“Is it stopping?” she pressed, voice still hushed but insistent. “Is the music tired? Are you?”
You felt another squeeze in your chest. “No,” you snapped a little more than you meant to. “I just messed up. That’s all.”
She studied you for a beat, and then, just like a switch, the sharpness vanished. Her face softened.
“Oh. Then it’s fine.”
You barely kept up with the way her mood turned, but she latched onto your middle, cozy and sure, pulling you closer until you couldn’t help but notice her full weight. Your back went ramrod straight.
“Amo has decided,” she murmured, quiet but completely sure. “You stay here, In the quiet. Where the sound doesn’t break.”
Her fingers curled into your shirt, not holding you down, just… not letting go.
“You play,” she said. “Amo will listen. Until it’s enough.”
She didn’t say how long that might be. Judging by the way she settled in, probably a while.
You sat still. Your hand hovered, half out of habit, half out of nerves. You could run if you had to, but for some reason you didn’t.
You placed your hand back on the strings and started again, softer. Amo leaned in, and her nose brushed your cheek. You froze. Her breath was hot against your skin, a ghost of something gentle and weirdly familiar.
Close, almost too close. But you didn’t pull away.
“Amo will keep you safe,” she whispered. Her voice was delicate; the words didn’t feel like a promise, more like a fact. She closed her eyes and settled fully against you. “The others are always noisy. Always breaking things. They don’t understand quiet.”
She nestled in, her voice barely more than a hum. “But you do. You don’t try to cover it up. You let it stay.”
She said it like she was naming something sacred. You swallowed hard, looking at your hands because nowhere else felt safe.
Most people ran from silence. Amo seemed to want to live in it.
So you played for her, letting the distortion go, building something deliberate and soft. The music curled up around you both, filling the room without pressing you into the walls.
Amo went quiet, peaceful. Her arm draped over you got heavy, like sleep might pull her under. The tension that rattled her before just melted out. You kept going, chasing that simple steadiness, letting her anchor you there.
After a while, Amo made a tiny sound, halfway into your shoulder, a shaky, blissed-out little “Yes… that’s it.” She sounded lighter, her breathing matching yours.
And somehow, the room got even smaller, everything outside, HQ, the world out there, just faded behind burned incense and soft chords. You looked down. Her hand settled softly over yours, steady, no grabbing, no rush. When you glanced at her, she was already dozing, face so peaceful you felt your own walls drop a little.
Amo hadn’t just found a musician. She found a melody she refused to let go. And you didn’t mind that as much as you thought you would.
HEYYY! I hope you have a good dayyyyy! could you do a plus size reader x proxy’s NSFW headcanons? :)
NSFW
Proxies x PlusSized!Reader Headcanons! (fem)
Contains: Masky, Hoodie, Toby (I didn't add Kate because I didn't know much of their character!)
Lowk short...
MASKY
Tim is not the type of lover to be loud or performative. His passion is grounded in a heavy, intense sort of devotion. Because he is naturally cautious and somewhat cynical, he initially approaches intimacy with a sense of focused observation.
When it comes to your body, he isn't just "accepting" of your curves he is mesmerized by them. He finds the softness of your stomach and the fullness of your thighs to be a grounding contrast to his own rigid, high stress lifestyle as a proxy.
He loves the way your skin feels under his calloused hands, often tracing the swell of your hips with a reverence that borders on worship.
In the bedroom, Tim is surprisingly possessive. There is a certain "hunger" in the way he pulls you against him, wanting to feel every inch of your weight pressing into him.
He finds immense satisfaction in the way your body yields to his touch, and he often uses his strength to pin you down, enjoying the sensation of your soft curves molding against his frame.
He is the type of lover who finds immense pleasure in the sensory details of your body.
He dosen't like rushing, instead, he’ll spend a long time exploring the parts of you that you might be most self conscious about. Whether it’s the soft dip of your waist or the plushness of your hips, he treats every curve as a landmark he needs to memorize.
You’ll often find him burying his face in the crook of your neck or pressing kisses into the softness of your stomach, letting out low, satisfied huffs that tell you exactly how much he craves you.
When things heat up, his intensity levels skyrocket. Tim can be quite demanding, driven by a need to feel completely connected to you. When the clothes are discarded and the pretense of being "composed" is gone, Masky becomes a man possessed by the sheer physicality of you.
He is obsessed with the way your flesh reacts to his touch the way your soft stomach rolls slightly when he kneads it with his palms, or how your thighs spread wide to accommodate him. He doesn't just want to fuck you, he wants to lose himself in the softness of your body, using your curves to anchor him while he loses control.
During the act, he is heavy handed and vocal in a way that is almost predatory.
He loves to pin your wrists above your head, using his weight to press you deep into the mattress so he can feel the delicious friction of your hips grinding against his. He is particularly fond of positions that allow him to sink deep into you, enjoying the sensation of being enveloped by your warmth.
HOODIE
Brian's approach to intimacy is much like his approach to his duties, methodical, observant, and deeply thorough.
He doesn’t rush into things; instead, he spends a significant amount of time simply watching you, his eyes tracking every fold and curve of your body with a quiet, simmering intensity.
He finds the anticipation to be half the pleasure, enjoying the way you blush under his steady gaze before he finally decides to close the distance, his touch deliberate and possessive.
When it comes to your body, Brian is quietly obsessed with your softness. He finds the plushness of your thighs and the curve of your stomach to be a sanctuary a stark, comforting contrast to the harsh, violent world he inhabits as a proxy.
He craved for you. He loves the feeling of your body molding around him, and he often spends an inordinate amount of time kissing and nibbling at the areas you’re most self conscious about, wanting to ensure you feel completely desired and seen.
His controlling nature manifests in the bedroom as a firm, guided experience. Hoodie likes to take charge, directing you with a low, commanding voice on exactly how he wants you.
He loves the visual of your body the way your thighs spread wide and the way your belly settles when you lie on your back. He’ll spend a long time just worshipping you with his mouth, his tongue tracing the underside of your breasts and swirling around your navel, making sure you're slick and aching before he even thinks about entering you.
He might guide your hips into place with a firm grip or tell you exactly where he wants your hands, enjoying in the way you obey him. There is a raw, primal edge to his desire. He wants to know that you are entirely his in those moments, and he isn't afraid to show his impatience if he feels you're holding back.
When he finally pushes inside, he is relentless. He loves the sensation of being buried deep within your warmth, relishing how your softness cushions his thrusts. He’s not a gentle lover, he wants to feel the weight of you. He’ll often flip you over, pulling your hips up high so he can drive into you from behind.
Because he is so introverted and reserved in his daily life, sex is one of the few times Brian allows himself to be truly vulnerable.
He isn't one for grand declarations of love, but his emotions leak out in the way he clings to you, the desperate strength in his grip, and the guttural sounds he makes when he’s overwhelmed by pleasure.
In the heat of the moment, his composure cracks, revealing a man who is deeply driven by a need for connection and physical closeness.
Afterward, Brian is the most loyal and attentive partner imaginable. He doesn't pull away. instead, he lingers in the afterglow, pulling you tight against his chest and breathing in your scent.
He enjoys the feeling of your soft body pressed against him, often resting his chin on your head and holding you in a protective embrace. For Hoodie, these quiet, intimate moments are the only time he feels truly at peace, cherishing the weight of you in his arms.
TOBY
Toby is a whirlwind of nervous energy, and when he’s around you, that energy turns into a desperate, endearing need for closeness. He isn't the type for quiet, brooding stares, he’s constantly fidgeting, his hands always finding yours or tugging at your sleeve.
He loves the softness of your body because it feels safe. He’ll often tackle you into a pile of pillows, burying his face in the crook of your neck or the softness of your stomach just to ground himself.
His tics might cause him to twitch or jerk suddenly, but he’ll laugh it off, pulling you closer to make sure his sudden movements don't startle you. He finds immense comfort in the way your curves cushion him when he crashes into you for a hug.
Toby’s approach to sex is as chaotic and unpredictable as his tics. There is nothing "slow and steady" about him.
He is a creature of pure, kinetic energy. When he gets a hold of you, it’s like being caught in a storm. His hands are never still they are constantly roaming, kneading the softness of your hips, digging into the plushness of your thighs, and tugging at your hair.
Because he deals with constant involuntary muscle spasms, his movements are often jagged and frantic, which translates into a rhythm that is fast, hard, and incredibly intense. He doesn't just fuck you, he basically crashes into you.
He is obsessed with the way your soft body feels against his. He loves the way your thighs wrap around his waist, and he’ll often mutter about how “so so soft” you are, his voice strained and thick with lust.
He’ll bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he bites and nibbles at your skin. He finds the way your stomach rolls and cushions him incredibly grounding, and he’ll spend a long time just worshipping your curves with his mouth and hands.
His tics don’t disappear in the bedroom. if anything, they intensify as his excitement builds. You’ll feel his shoulders jerk or hear his voice crack and stutter just as he’s about to peak, which only adds to the raw, unpolished intimacy of the moment.
He doesn’t care about being smooth. he just wants to feel you and be felt by you.
He particularly loves it when you take the lead. He’ll lie back and let you ride him, his eyes wide and glazed with pleasure as he watches your body move above him. He’ll grip your hips, pulling you down hard against him so he can feel every bit of your weight, his hands digging into your soft flesh as he thrusts up to meet you, eager to lose himself in your warmth.
Soon, I'll Probably (not) release a few other req with it because my finals are coming up and I'm gonna be extra busy this month so I won't be able to post for a while!!! 😭
Your phone feels heavier in your hands. The silence from Alex. Willow, and Charlie hasn’t changed. No messages or calls. Just the same empty screen every time you check.
You think back about what happened, The way they looked at you. The way they walked away like you didn’t matter anymore.
Maybe you could fix it. Maybe if you just explained, if you tried hard enough, they’d listen.
…Or maybe you’d just make it worse.
Your thumb hovers over their contact.
what do you do?
- Reach out and try to fix things, even if things get akward.
- Give them some space and see if they come to you first.
- Let them go.
Voting ended onApr 21
Masterlist
another poll!! yay! (/stalling because I am lazy...)
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
