BeansAreMyPassion

my sideblog where I'm posting DC-fanfics

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare Masterlist

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

batfamily x gn!Reader

Chapters:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

...

Divider: @uzmacchiato

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

Masterlist, Chapter Five

The vastness of Wayne Manor was often severely underestimated. Endless hallways with boundless doors hiding unimaginably big rooms, and as asinine as it sounded, the architect of this monstrosity of a home had found a sense for every single one.

The walls have been replaced with windows, looking east, and granting the perfect opportunity to enjoy the morning sun in every season. Hand-painted tiles paved the floor that would have even inspired Antoni Gaudí. A table stood before you, all kinds of rarities spread out: flower-shaped pastries, ripe fruits arranged into colorful art, and freshly cut flowers flattering noses with their aroma.

The sunroom was a beautiful start to a day of lazing around. But here in Gotham, rain whipped against the windows, rattled them with its sheer force, and dooming clouds swallowed the sun behind grey curtains. Thunder vibrated through the air. You sat at the table, leaning against the chair. You have spent many mornings in this room. Sunday breakfast – which used to be Friday nights in the time that Martha and Thomas Wayne were still  alive, the wine glasses and candleholder still tucked away in a delicate armoire, as Alfred had told you once – was a tradition that Alfred decidedly did not want to cut out of his life. It was almost noon, but when people lived more in the night than day, breakfast sometimes started at twelve.

You have spent many breakfasts here. Week upon week, sitting down at the beautiful table, picking at your food as words flew over your head without ever acknowledging you. Alfred has forced you down to every single one, no matter what you did. He would then place a tea next to you – never coffee, you were always too young for coffee – and put food on your plate. At first, you were only allowed to leave the table when you finished your food. It didn’t matter that you hated the black English Breakfast tea he always served you; that bile crawled up your throat with every sip you took. You were raised to be a person of society, not a spoiled child crying over some bitter herbs. It didn’t matter how long you would sit there; what mattered was that you learned to sit still.

The rules changed over time, adjusting to your behavior. After you begin to wolf down your food like an animal, trying to leave this damned table as fast as possible, Alfred set up a new rule. You were only allowed to stand up after everybody had already left.

You never understood why Alfred clung to this tradition – clung to your presence. These breakfasts have always been filled with talk about some case that you were never allowed to participate in.

“You are too young.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t know enough.”

“You will be no help.”

And that didn’t include the days on which the room was empty except for you. Empty chairs would line up around you, plates and cups taken away. “The gentlemen will breakfast in the Cave today.”

You have questioned the rationale behind sitting in an empty room, sitting at the table till someone far away from you, below the earth, finished their breakfast. It was always the same sentence.

“I will not let you succumb to his disastrous behavior.”

The words rang in your ears. The flat tone of his voice left no room for elaboration, for arguments. His presence would leave the room, but his watchful eyes never missed any of your moves.

You have never seen the room as full as today.

Chatter filled the air, cutlery scraping over plates, cups clinking while being put down. Duke and Cass spoke in low tones to each other, sharing smiles like good friends did. Dick and Tim talked over the table, discussing things you were not willing to take an interest in. Steph seemed to be teasing Damian, a sparkle in her eyes that could only come from mischief. The noise was dynamic, ping-ponging into a lived-in rhythm that every one of them knew.

The cut of your suit pressed against you, and you smoothed over it. Your broken nail got caught between the threads, tugging on your finger. Ants crawled up your arms, hundreds of little legs swarming over your shoulder and down your spine. You removed your hands, laying them flat on the table. The splinter from the morning prickled in your skin, too deep in for you to pick it out by yourself.

“How did you sleep last night?” Startled, you blinked at your father. This time, you sat at the other end of the table, facing him directly. You questioned if that was truly the better option as his vibrant blue eyes stared at you. “It is, mind you, your first night home in some time.” Silence settled over the table in a moment, attention redirecting the moment they heard the low bass in Bruce’s voice.

A few seats away, Stephanie mumbled into her juice. “He never asks us how we sleep.” Tim elbowed her in a move that was supposed to be casual but was nothing but. She rubbed her side and gave Tim a nasty look. “What? You think the same.” The next second she held her leg, frowning in Cass's direction, who smiled so plainly that it was bordering on threatening again.

Dick threw a panicked look between the three, a vein pulsing at his forehead. The next time you blinked, the expression was gone as he sprawled back in his chair like a god waiting to be fed grapes. He huffed, cherries dangling by their stem from his pointer finger as he aimed it accusingly at Tim. “The last time I asked you how you slept, you tried to bite me.“

“Should have given you rabies,” spoke Duke next to you, picking a masterfully cut piece of kiwi with his fork.

“Excuse me?” Duke didn’t answer Dick, idly eating his breakfast.

“Right,” said Bruce, taking a big sip of his coffee.

“I slept well,” you lied.

Cass snorted.

“Pig,” mumbled Damian.

“I would never have rabies,” cut Tim in with red ears.

“Oink, oink,” mocked Cass.

“Say that to all the Gotham rats that bid you when -,” began Duke.

Steph began to laugh. “Oh that -”

“You are disgusting, Cain,” hissed Damian.

“We don’t talk about that,” yelled Tim.

Cass opened her mouth, showing the boy the chewed-up food inside.

Dick slapped his hand on the table so hard, the whole table vibrated. Some of your tea sloshed out of the cup, past the saucer onto the tablecloth. It was English breakfast tea, you realized as the white cotton turned into a dark brown. Terribly bitter, even if you added five spoons of sugar. You ripped your attention away from the tea – terrible, terrible bitter – and looked up to Dick. “Can you all stop?” His electric blue eyes are wide open, scanning everybody with sharp, cutting intensity. The pulsing vein reappeared on his forehead, glistening with sweat. “I haven’t seen my sibling for years, and you act like you have never seen the inside of a house.”

“That’s because you guys act weird,” said Steph, crossing her arms and leaning back. “It’s not our fault that you just suddenly remembered some family existed again and need them to hold your hand.”

The corner of Dick’s mouth curled up – for an outsider it would be a smile, but you knew it was more dangerous. It was too wide with too many teeth. His next words would be carefully chosen, sharpened with every insecurity you held close to you, twisting every self-doubt into a tool he set right between two ribs, ready to stab right into your heart.

You swallowed, your dry tongue rubbing against your gums like sandpaper.

“Dick didn’t forget about me,” you tried to cut in, but your words neither reached Dick nor Steph. The only one was Duke, his gaze coming far too close to pity to dissect it further. Instead, you looked at your father, waiting for him to hold Dick back like a dog that barked too loud.

Your father redirected his attention – always so careful with who he gave it to – from you to Steph. It was minimal, the shift in his body, the turn in his lips. “Stephanie,” her name came out like judgment. She didn’t flinch, tilting her chin forward. “I think I already explained why these holidays are so important this year.”

Steph pressed her lips together, her big blonde curls falling into her face. “You are just mad that I’m right. Please. I have known this family for years – and none of you ever even mentioned them.” She threw her arms up, pointing towards Dick and Bruce. “You didn’t even tell Damian they had a sibling.”

“Brown,” hissed Damian, eyes darting between Bruce and her.

“No, Damian, we should talk about how fucked up this is, because no one else at this table here acts like they should.”

“When exactly should we have told Damian about them?” Dick raised an eyebrow, curious. “It is only now that he stopped behaving like a savage and came near to being human.”

"Hey now," interrupted Duke, eyes narrowing and hands clenching into fists.

The boy in question held his head high like they didn’t talk about him, but you caught how the grip around his fork tightened, picking food from his plate in a controlled manner.

Bruce set his cutlery down, straightening out the wrinkles in his suit. “Dick,” he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t bark out a command. Their eyes locked in, a conversation happening before you that nobody was privy to. After just seconds, Dick lost his edge. His smile fell like a card house as he leaned back. The tension bled out, but his face was not that of someone who just lost a fight – it was that of someone who won.

Your father’s voice sounded distant, professional. But you knew that felt worse than any angry remark he could have directed at you. “As far as I remember, you invited yourself. As always. So if there is any problem, you are welcome to leave. As always.”

Humiliation burned red in Steph’s face, glassy eyes looking around the table, stopping at Cass. But Cass didn’t meet her face to face, turning away from her.

„Fine.“ Steph stood up. „Fine. I will leave. And I will leave gladly. Have a fun-fucking Christmas, everybody.“ She left the table, marching straight past Alfred, who has watched the whole ordeal with placid professionalism. She stopped at the door, turning around. Tears ran down her face, reflecting the light like liquid diamonds, unafraid of being seen – unafraid of being judged. She pinned you down in your seat, showing a mocking smile just for you. “I hope you have a fantastic stay at the Manor, Wayne.”

She left, slamming the glass door. Hairline fissures followed her leave, spreading from the bronze handle like a spiderweb. You waited for the crack, but the glass stayed in the frame; broken, but not out of line.

“I'm going to have to leave.” Duke stood up, the first to break the silence. He opened his mouth, clearly ready to comment on what had just happened. He took in Dick’s victory, Bruce’s stern face, Damian’s silence, and Tim’s stubbornness. He stopped at Cass, taking in her guilt, the way she didn’t meet his eyes and closed his mouth. His face became unreadable.

“Duke,” said Bruce, softer.

The boy shook his head. “I’m visiting my parents, remember?” He looked into the round, detached. “My cousin and I are going to be celebrating Christmas together, so we will see each other for New Year's Eve again.” Duke didn’t bother with a goodbye. He left, ending breakfast with the absence of his presence. One after the other, everybody stood up.

You stayed seated, legs feeling heavy as you watched them leave. Your eyes got caught on the small shoulders hugged by a green wool sweater. The same haughty cat from yesterday followed Damian on silent paws, curling his tail around his leg till he reached down and picked the cat up. The cat pressed his head against the boy’s shoulder, loudly purring when gentle fingers pet him under his furry chin.

Damian's stony face softened at the display, his green eyes growing fond as he looked at his companion.

Divider: @uzmacchiato

A/N: tada! New chapter is out! And some drama is starting. Bruce general treatment of Steph - especially while she was Robin - directly inspired this chapter :) Also I stand for Duke hating Dick's guts. He did gave Duke to the GCPD in I think Robin War, which well... I don't think I have to explain why that is bad. Also I loooovee Damian. I have some scene planned with him and I just can't wait to write him more. My boy is a child, let him be one. if if you find any big mistakes in grammar/spelling please tell me! also if you have any particular thoughts on this chapter let me know, even if there just a swarm of emojy, it is always great to see what you guys feel!

taglist: @whatdoesthesenpai, @luv-keena, @yukikohai09142010sjs, @xo-tins-xo, @littlemisstrashcan, @homeless-clown, @lettucel0ver, @myjumper, @lunadi1una, @cxcilla, @faesix, @tvnile, @bloomfaery, @akilums, @labryel, @stargirl9911, @jsprien213, @outpostsworld, @kekeanna266, @bunniotomia, @ilovehashbrowns1, @lesstiana, @mentallyilldarlin, @punksnotdeadbutiam , @redsakura101, @v-kouya, @not55named, @adultseatdinonuggets4dinner, @safiyahswrld, @psysgr, @agentsix606, @ilovvesleepp, @alishii, @purpleapplepi, @cherryresidence, @ot8srzlover, @lemurzsquad, @byzantiumhollow, @luffy1simp-queen, @awawage, @venomsvl, @skepvids, @shycreatorreview, @rad4bean, @amarisaaetoile, @bat1212, @ruth-mae, @anuttellaa, @luminaee, @currentblasphemy, @lost-library-of-violets, @grlsagun, @desolatelyperfectcreator, @sugarxrottentiger, @nuovaera, @rougewriterbeware, @mikoxoo, @anjalan, @liabiamiakiawia, @outkastfann

[ashoss]

huge things are happening on yuri island

[beansaremypassion]

I am thinking about posting another fic... But I really wanna concentrate on Gotham's Snare since the updates already take so long

I have too many ideas and not enough time

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

trigger warning: gore

Masterlist, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

The first night spent in your childhood bed in years was feverish, phasing in and out of sleep.

Blood rushed through your ears – the only thing you hear besides your heavy breathing. Your lungs burned with exhaustion as you ran up a spiral staircase, steps pounding against the floor, racing endlessly, with no end in sight. Smoke soared into the air, stairs turning into fume right before your eyes. The acrid smell of tobacco burned in your nose as you fell, cold wind cutting into your skin, ripping into it with all its force.

Around you, birds fell from the sky with you, faster and faster, nearing something you couldn’t see but already feared. You tried to scream for help, opening your mouth, but no sound came out.

And from one moment to the next, everything stopped. Your body collided with the floor, crunching and snapping under your weight. The ground was soft and slimy, with spikes tearing into your back. You looked around, trying to see where you landed. Under you, carcasses of little songbirds have pillowed your fall. Broken beaks, ripped-out wings, and torn-out little hearts – detached from their owner but still echoing the rhythm it once beat to. Colorful feathers swirled in the air like snow on a fairy-tale-like winter day, fluttering around with a gentle breeze leading them on the invisible dance floor.

Your windpipe screamed in pain, but you needed to get out.

Wading through the flesh and bones, maggots crawled up your legs, nesting into your open skin and eating through your muscles. You started to climb out of the well, stone crumbling under your fingertips, turning into cotton candy as it reached the floor. Wood spread out of you, anchoring itself into the walls of the empty gray room you stood in. Roots pulled you down, curling around your limbs, pressing down on your throat. Above you, a chandelier swayed like a pendulum in the tact of your heartbeat.

You woke up with a dry mouth, your tongue scraping against your gums like sandpaper. The gap between the curtains let in Gotham’s morning gray, illuminating the room just enough for you to see. It was better for you this way, you decided after recognizing the light pounding in your head from the consequences of your actions last night. A trickle of sweat wandered down your temple, tickling you on its way down. You wiped it away, grimacing at the sweat-wet feeling of your skin.

The dream you had… You closed your eyes, frowning. The remains of your dream run through your head like fingers through smoke, vanishing before you could catch them – the only thing left was the feeling of wrongness. It settled into your chest, tucked away between your heart and your lungs, small, and tiny but not leaving. You knew the wrongness would follow you through the day, coming up in your moments of quiet and joy, distracting you from reality. You had these dreams before. Better said, you had this wrongness before, lodging in you after what should have been a good night’s sleep. It had been years since your last bad day, but the feeling slid into its place like an old friend.

If you were home right now, you would have told Wren. You could almost feel the ghost of their arms, engulfing you in their warmth as they hummed a sweet tune full of sympathy. Wren would take your hand, fingers intertwined, and pull you out of bed, turning up music as they got ready for whatever was planned for the day. Your time together would be filled with lingering touches, always coming moments before you slipped away.

Before Wren, you would ignore the world around you while heavy limbs chained you to your bed. You wouldn’t eat, brush your teeth, or go to the toilet. You would lie still with cramping pain and a light head till you were tired enough to just fall asleep again.

But these kinds of bad days passed years ago.

It was easier to move your limbs than it was back then. To stand up on your own and be a part of your own day, not waste it in bed and pray for the time to run faster by you. Even on days when Wren wasn’t there to support you, the weights hanging down your body were easier to manage.

All you needed was to stand up.

You waited for your body to execute your demand, for tendons to spasm, but you stayed limp under the covers of your bed. You just need to stand up. Trapped in your body, you felt pressure in your arms and legs rising. You just need to stand up. Under the all stillness, your heart started to beat faster. A tremble went through you, straining you with forceful shakes. You just needed to stand up. Afterwards it will all be better.

“You can do this,” you said to yourself with more confidence than you felt. “Just one step at the time.” Your nails dragged along the blanket, curling into a fist and gripping the soft silk. With one big movement you moved your arm, the covers flying to the floor. Teeth clatter against each other as the morning cold gripped you with full force. You sucked in air as your arm muscles burned from exhaustion.

Maybe you should just stay in bed today. Yesterday had been tiring – nobody could blame you if you needed a little bit of rest. There was no one to ask for you anyway, nobody would even notice you spend your day idling around in your room.

Nobody would even question it if they didn’t see you. The manor was so unreasonably big you could spend days without ever seeing each other. You had spent days here with without seeing your father, Alfred, Dick or –

You pressed your eyes closed.

The blanket was already laid on the floor.

You could do this.

You turned your head to side, looking at the distance between the edge of the bed and you. Slowly, you blinked frowning as information tickled into your brain. A glass of water stood on your nightstand and laying beside it was a pill. Your gaze zeroed in on the pill; white, round with dulled edges to make it easier to swallow.

Your tipsy-self didn’t do that for you – you were sure. Drunk-you weren’t that nice to yourself. Somebody must have brought it to you while you slept. Did you wake up sometime at night? No, no. You would remember, if you did.

But you would surely wake up when somebody just opened your door, stepped next to your bed you were sleeping in to bring you something. You always woke up if Wren just moved a room away.

You were not with Wren though.

The people living in this house were not Wren. They didn’t move with the same carelessness Wren did. They hid, walking around with the constant fear of being seen or heard. With the fear of existing too much, of being too real.

You would not realize if they came into your room. You wouldn’t even realize if they were in the same room right now. You saw them when they wanted you to see them. Anybody could have left the water and pill there and the only evidence left would be the one they wanted you to have.

Maybe Dick had some pity for you yesterday and left it here. No, he wouldn’t walk the route to your room twice. He probably asked Alfred to do it for him, delegating his care to somebody else.

Muscled spasmed under your skin and knot formed in your throat. Memories scratched to edge of your brain, but they were too fleeting to fully form. In one motion you sat up, gliding your legs across the bed till they hit the cold parquet floor. Needles pricked at your soles, but you ignored them and the burning exhaustion in your bones tried to grip you and pull you back into bed.

Without looking back, you stood up, stumbling forward. Pain shot up your knees and a moment later you realized that you tripped over your blanket. Like a dog you cowered on all fours, limbs shaking, but with neither bite nor bark. You cling to the bed frame, trying to heave you up back to a standing position. Your world tilted, forms and colours blurring in front of you. There was a snap; your nails broke off by the force you clenched your fingers around the polished wood.

You took a step forward, air pressing against you as you fell again. Splinters ripped through the outer layers of your skin, embedding themselves into your flesh.

You didn’t try to stand up again.

Keeping your head down, you crawled across the room to make yourself ready for the day.

Dividers: @uzmacchiato

A/N: um hello. sorry for the long wait. life is kicking my ass right now (for months) I just want to say I will not abandon to story, just that updates will be slow. I'm still writing and really motivated to write this story til the end. Words are just hard right now but I still hope you like this chapter :) if you find any big mistakes in grammar/spelling please tell me! also if you have any particular thoughts on this chapter let me know, even if there just a swarm of emojy, it is always great to see what you guys feel!

taglist: @whatdoesthesenpai, @luv-keena, @yukikohai09142010sjs, @xo-tins-xo, @littlemisstrashcan, @homeless-clown, @lettucel0ver, @myjumper, @lunadi1una, @cxcilla, @faesix, @tvnile, @bloomfaery, @akilums, @labryel, @stargirl9911, @jsprien213, @outpostsworld, @kekeanna266, @bunniotomia, @ilovehashbrowns1, @lesstiana, @mentallyilldarlin, @punksnotdeadbutiam , @redsakura101, @v-kouya, @not55named, @adultseatdinonuggets4dinner, @safiyahswrld, @psysgr, @agentsix606, @ilovvesleepp, @alishii, @purpleapplepi, @cherryresidence, @ot8srzlover, @lemurzsquad, @byzantiumhollow, @luffy1simp-queen, @awawage, @venomsvl, @skepvids, @shycreatorreview, @rad4bean, @amarisaaetoile, @bat1212, @ruth-mae, @anuttellaa, @luminaee, @currentblasphemy, @lost-library-of-violets, @grlsagun

[beansaremypassion]

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I love your writing. I binge read the series today and I'm abs obsessed! I was wondering about your upload schedule?

Thank you so much and please keep writing!

Thank you so much! I'm really happy you like it so much <3 I don't have a strict upload schedule. Dead lines don't work for me, as soon as I have them it becomes my personal goal to ignore them

That being said, I'll try to post at least twice a month if not more

February is kicking my ass though since three exams, an internship and work just hit me all at once, but I still work on the current chapter in between

[beansaremypassion]

not even ten minutes after posting a new chapter and I realized NOW a writing mistake

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

Masterlist, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Leaving the room, the fresh air of the foyer caressed your face, and you sucked in the coldness greedily till you shivered. Dick adjusted his grip on you, his hands rubbing against your arms in an effort to keep you warm. With slow steps echoing through the manor, you climbed up the stairs, legs shaking like a newborn foal. Several times in your endless ascent up the stairs, Dick had to rescue you from a certain fall – you would hate yourself for that in the morning - and when you finally stood on top of the first – good lord – landing, you stopped, gesturing to Dick to halt. Heaving, you got on your knees, waiting for the word to stop turning.

“Are you going to throw up?” You turned your head, looking at Dick squatting down next to you with a dry expression. He was so different from the Dick you remembered. Your gaze went up, looking at the family painting. Dick’s smile was by far the most radiant, and whoever the painter was, they must have carved out a piece of their own soul and poured it into the painting to capture the light in Dick’s eyes. You wondered when this light had awoken, if he had brought it there himself or if it was the people surrounding him. “We should get a new one. One with you in it.”

You blinked in surprise. Dick had followed your gaze, staring at the painting with an expression much more fitting for a funeral. “No,” you said, softening your tone when you saw Dick tense. “I like it better that way.”

Dick huffed, shoving you lightly, just to strengthen his grip when you almost rolled down the stairs. “You don’t even know what it would look like.”

“I don’t need to see it to know it,” you insisted. You stayed like this a while longer, letting the evening pass by you. At one point Dick sat down, stretching his leg down the stair as you lay down on your back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the loud voices dulled by heavy doors and thick walls. It was impressive how long they fought, probably an ability they picked up from Dick and his endless tirades against Bruce. All just because of a gala. “What’s so bad about this Blight party?” If the whole Wayne family attended an event just because they invited them, they must be influential enough to be important to Wayne Enterprise or Batman. Considering that they were in Gotham and the reputation of the socialites of this city, it was probably a little bit of both.

“Just some ultra-rich family with ties around the world,” explained Dick. He didn’t seem affected by the idea of attending this gala, but that was no surprise. Richie Grayson had always been the audience favorite, dazzling everybody who hadn't lost all of their five senses. “Bruce hopes to make some connections for the next WE campaign.”

“Since when does Bruce need connections for his campaigns? He is the connection.”

Dick grimaced. “It is a 1-percent-tax campaign.”

There was no real surprise in you; as much as Bruce liked to use his money, he liked giving it away more. The only surprise was that he would risk his standing like that since right now the ditzy himbo Brucie got to sit at every table he wanted, which made access to all the shady businesses he would eventually bring down easier. “Statewide?”

“He hopes it will spread from here through the country.” You could already see the Silicon Valley boys frothing at the mouth, lamenting about the death of the ‘free market,’ and ready to bite Bruce’s head off.

“Then why is going to that gala such a drama?” You didn’t know your siblings that well, but none of them seemed outlandishly snobbish. Them being heroes, you would have thought that standing up for something like that would be right up their alley.

“Douglas Blight is a disagreeable man.” Dick sighed as if the thought of that apparent abomination alone pressed down on him. “Come on, let’s bring you to bed.” He helped you stand again, leading you with gentle hands through the disorienting hallways of the manor, and a small part of you was grateful for Dick’s presence because you weren’t sure if you would have found your room by yourself in this state.

Outside, the sky had already darkened, pitch-black clouds hiding the moon and stars. The view of the tall windows promised nothing but emptiness, a space you can enter and will vanish in with no trace left behind. Despite the crystal chandeliers adorning every hallway, shadows stretched from the walls, swallowing the warm light like a monster devouring its favorite meal.

Even with Dick by your side, tumbling through these halls felt harrowing. The ceilings were too high, the air too unused and the walls stood too far apart. The Manor held distances that felt impossible to bridge, leaving screams unheard and cries unanswered. The cold, moments ago welcomed, creeped under your skin, clawing its way into your spine. It ached, deep inside of you, a cold no fire could get rid of. Every breath that came from your trembling lips hurt, as your throat grew tighter and tighter.

Your gaze swept through the space, trying to find something that you could cling to, ground yourself in; but as nearer you came to your room, the emptier the space got. A frown tucked on your brows, confusion building up inside of you. “There used to be a vase,” you said, stiff fingers gesturing.

Dick gave the space a sideway look. “I don’t think so.”

“Think all you want. There used to be a vase,” you huffed. You have lived here for almost a decade; you did remember a vase! Besides, it was not like Dick used to come here often: it was your part of the manor. Most of the time you would go out of the way to spend time with Dick when you were younger, not the other way around.

You felt more than heard Dick’s sigh in the way his chest deflated and his shoulders sagged. “I think I would remember if a vase went missing.”

“Would you?” Your tone was so dismissive, it was challenging again. You swayed, stopping to meet his dry stare with a lazy grin, ignoring your hammering heart, prompting you to ran away from this place. His eyes narrowed, barely enough for you to catch.

“Of course,” he assured you, somewhat self-righteous. “And even if I didn’t, Alfred would let us all know about his disappointment. He hasn’t changed the interior here since I came here.”

“Hah!” you waved an accusing finger before his face, “You have to rely on Alfred to complain? So you are not sure there was a vase.”

Dick swatted you away like an annoying fly. “What does it even matter to you? It’s just a vase.” He tugged you along, continuing your walk to your childhood room.

“Deflection, your Honor,” you droned, almost annoying yourself in the way your voice rang in your ears. “And I was just being observant.”

“Always focusing on to most important detail,” teased Dick. “It’s almost like we are children again.”

You tripped, arms flailing and elbows moving. A hiss came from behind you as bone met tender flesh. Blinking, you turned back to Dick. “Oh no,” you said slowly. “Did I hit you?” A smile spread on your face with an innocence grander than Mother Mary’s. “You were right. I must have had a bit too much. So sorry. Really.”

“No worries, you are not that strong,” said Dick just as sweetly.

Darkness stretched before you as you pressed yourself against the door of your childhood room. Behind the thick wood you heard Dick, walking away, steps in an unfamiliar rhythm. Goosebumps spread over your skin as your eyes slowly become accustomed to the dark. Silhouettes danced before you, but even now you found your way in your room: your old bed that creaked at every movement or your desk that had all sorts of secret compartments built in. A crash sounded, and you flinched, a blind gaze scanning the space. Above you, something hung, heavy and broad, swinging from side to side, like a man just hung.

You searched for the light switch, your wrist slamming against the edge of the doorframe. Your nails scratched along the wallpaper, ripping it apart till you found it, flipping it in haste. For a moment you saw nothing but white, eyes burning from the sudden difference. You blinked away the pain, scanning the ceiling. You blinked again.

Above you hung a chandelier. Like in every other room. In the hallways or the grand foyer. Like the ones you have seen a hundred times already. Without a doubt a unicum, but a stable in the manor, nonetheless. Feeling rather stupid, you lowered your gaze, finding the windows wide open. The wind must have caused the crash and moved the light. With your blood still rushing, you stepped forward, knuckles going paler under the grip you had on the window. Outside, the trees creaked, growing higher, branches creaking as they neared you, bony limbs stroking the windowsill. You slammed the window shut, locking it with more force than necessary, and closed the old curtains.

You turned away from the window, scanning the rest of your room. The walls were bleak, imprints of old decoration telling the echo of old stories, and your former bookshelf, once bending under its weight, now barren of any life. When you moved out of the manor, you took everything important with you. All the books, all the posters, everything that you have accumulated over the years, everything dear to you now sat in your apartment with Wren.

Your bed was already made, silk sheets displayed in perfection with not a single wrinkle to show. Next to it, you found your travel bag. Alfred must have brought it up during dinner. Eager to get ready for bed, you opened the zipper, only to find nothing inside. You frowned, noticing your tablet and charger on your nightstand next to a picture frame. You went towards your wardrobe, finding your suits sorted by color and finely pressed, like they hadn't lain for hours compressed in a bag. Even your underwear has been ironed.

Dumbstruck, you stood in front of your clothes, unable to process that Alfred had gone through your bag, and put everything in his order as if it were natural. He has never done something like this before - not since you were twelve and had to learn how to do your own laundry.

He had seen everything from how you folded your clothes to what you packed first. Which kind of brands did you prefer, and how you rolled up the charging cable. You never liked being seen in a way you couldn’t control, where you couldn’t pick and choose what to show and what to hide. You felt exposed, naked with hungry eyes on your back just waiting for you to do a trick.

You swallowed the uneasy feeling, searched for your pajamas, and went to the bathroom. Your toiletries were already lined up, up to the millimeter precision, with no product out of place. Keeping your mind blank as you cleaned yourself up, getting rid of the grime from the bus and the dinner.

Wren started calling as you made your way towards your bed. You picked up, loosening up when their voice greeted you. “Hey.”

Involuntary a smile began to spread on your lips as you slipped under the blanket. The incredible feeling of being showered in fresh bed sheets welcomed you as you eased back, propping up your pillow to lean against the headboard. “Hey to you too.” You turn off the chandelier with the switch next to your bed and turn on the bedside lamp. Golden light spilled into the room, softening the sharp edges of the room and bringing a gentle shine to the silk sheets.

There was a tiny gasp on the other end. “Oh, you are drunk!”

“What? No!” You laughed at being caught. “I only drank a little.”

“Uh-huh.” Wren’s voice was almost embarrassingly unimpressed by you. “I know you, no need to hide.”

“The wine was impeccable,” you confessed, the warmth of the bed mellowing you down. “I’ll bring a bottle back to Louisiana.”

“Was the dinner with your family so good?” asked Wren lightly, but you heard the strain in their voice, carefully hidden to not upset you.

“It was a family dinner,” you said plainly. “But I’d much rather hear about your parents. Do they miss me very much?”

Divider: @uzmacchiato

A/N: i am back, baby! Fuck me, really. I wasn't sick like that in years. the peak of my sickness was 5 days of 40 degree fever. I even tried to write but I had to delete everything again. Updates will come a bit more slowly the next weeks, because I lost good two weeks for my exam preparations. I also had time to think and have a question for you guys. I try to make my Reader as neutral as possible. Not only in gender, but also appearance. For me that means, that I leave stuff out like blushing, not mentioning hair at all or not giving any attributes to the body. My question is, if you have anything in mind that I should look out for? Things that you have read before in other fics that makes the reader not as neutral or little traps that authors have fallen in? I really want to make the reader as inclusive as possible. That being said, I'm aware that I already failed somewhat because the reader has a rather christian vocabulary? Comparisons with angels, say 'amen' or good lord. Since the reader lives in the south with wren, I thought they maybe integrated a bit vocabulary from what I heard was rather normal to use there (Ik, very broad area)? Idk, let me know what you think!

taglist: @whatdoesthesenpai, @luv-keena, @yukikohai09142010sjs, @xo-tins-xo, @littlemisstrashcan, @homeless-clown, @lettucel0ver, @myjumper, @lunadi1una, @cxcilla, @faesix, @tvnile, @bloomfaery, @akilums, @labryel, @stargirl9911, @jsprien213, @outpostsworld, @kekeanna266, @bunniotomia, @ilovehashbrowns1, @lesstiana, @mentallyilldarlin, @punksnotdeadbutiam , @redsakura101, @v-kouya, @not55named, @adultseatdinonuggets4dinner, @safiyahswrld, @psysgr, @agentsix606, @ilovvesleepp, @alishii, @purpleapplepi, @cherryresidence, @ot8srzlover, @lemurzsquad, @byzantiumhollow, @luffy1simp-queen, @awawage, @venomsvl, @skepvids

[beansaremypassion]

I love your fics so much! Please don't get sick

thank you so much <3 i'll do my best haha

[beansaremypassion]

So guess what...

[beansaremypassion]

I LOVE THE NEW CHAPTER YAYYYYY

glad I could deliver

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

trigger warning: alcohol abuse, reader being drunk

Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

The clattering of cutlery scraping against plates filled the room with a lively buzz. The long dining table was full, fuller than you have ever seen in your time here, with the group splitting up and going into smaller conversations. It was easy to forget the shadowed corners and imposing wall enclosing on you. At one point a boy named Duke joined the table, claiming to have been occupied with after-school activities. Tim engaged in a conversation with Steph while Duke and Cass talked over some kind of show they watched together. You sat between Bruce - who sat at the head of the table - and Dick. In front of you sat Damian, cutting his steamed broccoli with a stony face.

The conversation on your side of the table didn’t flow that easily, but you could tell that Dick and Bruce were trying. “Sooo, what have you been doing lately?” asked Dick, pointing at you with his fork. You had recovered from his weird behavior, forcing the embarrassing moment to the back of your mind.

“This and that, nothing too special.” You took a sip of your wine, buying yourself some time. Talking about your cases with Wren’s parents had been way easier. Pictures of a crumbling house and screaming people flooded your mind. Nalani’s little smile. “I recently got into house renovation.”

“Right, you do have a degree in visual arts,” mused Dick. In front of you, Damian scoffed, stabbing into his potato with more force than necessary. It broke apart upon impact, leaving his fork empty.

“Comes in handy,” you lied. You did not have a degree in visual arts – your painterly talent started and ended with stick figures holding little pew pews or unproportional flowers – and you had no idea where Dick got the idea from. You had a degree in criminalistics, graduating with honors, and that at the GCU. No better place to study crime than in the most rotten city in the USA, right?

But you were not here in this house to disillusion the picture Dick had of you in his mind. Especially because you were now rather curious about what that picture looked like. Maybe you will figure it out over the holidays. A little treat, if you will. You turned your attention to Bruce, who had been a silent listener since the beginning of the dinner, but he was already staring at you when you shifted towards him. His eyes always held an intensity, piercing through every detail you tried to hide, able to see in seconds that others were blind to for a lifetime.

Without thinking, you reached for the white wine bottle lying in a cooler next to you. “Wine?” You looked at his full glass, the lights of the chandelier above you hitting the crystal and spreading out to create a golden halo on the dark wooden table. Slowly your gaze turned up again, doing your best not to wince. Normally you did well with attention, sometimes even relished being the center of everyone’s focus with you as the ringmaster and your thoughts being the circus act, but these moments were always yours to control; under Bruce’s observant stare there was no way to slip back into the background at your will. Right now, you felt like an animal forced out of their natural habitat, open on display to gawk at. “Maybe just for me.”

You poured the wine generously; air bubbles emerged due to the force of the liquid hitting the glass, stopping just right before it would spill over the rim of your glass. Bottle still in hand, you chugged down the wine in a few large gulps. It was rich in flavor and tasted too expensive to be drunk like that – a drink in which every sip was cherished and not swallowed as if you had been stuck in the desert without water for days. You emptied the glass, the last drops falling onto your lips, licking them away as you lifted the bottle to pour in more. A hand intercepted, tugging the wine bottle and thus spilling it on your lap. Thankfully you had a napkin on your lap, but you already felt how the wine seeped through the fabric.

“I think you need to go slower,” said Dick, his words more like a reprimand than a suggestion. He took the bottle out of your hand, setting it beside him on the table and out of your reach.

“I think they need a sippy cup,” muttered Damian.

“Dick, you don’t need to babysit your sibling anymore,” commented Bruce, gesturing to the bottle, hand stretched out in expectation.

“I’m not babysitting, just taking care of them,” bid Dick out, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Putting his cutlery down, Bruce leveled him with a stare. Tensions grew, thickening the air, but at least the attention wasn’t directed at you anymore, even if you were – to some level at least – the topic. You took the moment to breathe, relaxing into your chair and doing what you did best: sit back and observe.

Whatever their argument entailed, because with certainty it wasn’t about you and your alcohol consumption, it started before you arrived. Maybe even a recurring argument, if the practiced way they reacted to each other said something. Dick seemed angry about Bruce not taking care of something – someone? -, which you found hilarious. The Dick you knew would never think about babysitting anybody, too focused on his cases, on his role as Robin, and later when he moved out, too eager to make a name for himself than to spend his time taking care of his younger siblings. In short, if it didn’t involve his role as Robin, or later Nightwing, you couldn’t have mattered any less.

“I don’t think this needs to be discussed at dinner,” pressed Bruce. The monotony in his voice was more adequate than the joyous fluttering his speech had been before. Dismissal was clear in every way he existed right now, staring down on Dick like he was a misbehaving child. This was the first time this evening that you fully recognized your father again. No, this whole scenario felt a lot more like childhood than everything else that has happened till now.

At ease, you took a sip of the wine you still managed to pour in, this time fully experiencing the taste. It was a dry wine - of course, Alfred would never let anything else into this house - with a strong flavor in the beginning. Maybe apricot?

Dick knuckles whitened as he balled his fist. “It is never the time to discuss anything with you.”

‘Amen to that,’ you thought, toasting to yourself and taking another sip. The first flavor was definitely apricot, perfectly complementing the citrusy white sauce Alfred cooked. You blinked down on your plate, not even half eaten, trying to bring your jumbled thoughts back together. There was something going on that you wanted to focus on right now. You should bring a bottle back home. Wren would love to create a dish just for this wine. No, you should bring two bottles: one for tasting and one for the dinner they make. They couldn’t cost that much. No, you wouldn’t pay for them. You would just take them out of the wine cellar like when you were 16.

“That’s what family does, Bruce,” hissed Dick, leaning into our personal space, voice low enough to not interrupt the other conversation but no less biting. You felt his hot breath grazing your nose.

Your face went slack. That was what you wanted to focus on. The conversation! You were pretty certain that you missed some parts. It doesn’t matter; you were a good detective; you would just figure out the missing pieces. After all, that was your job.

Inconspicuously you took another sip, watching Bruce from your periphery. You frowned, as no more wine blessed your taste buds, going cross-eyed to look into your glass. A little gasp escaped your lips - it was a very quiet gasp; you were being inconspicuous after all -, because the glass in front of you, hovering over your face, the one you sacrificed your own pants for, held the audacity to be empty after just a few sips.

“Bruce!” A loud voice shrieked through the room, almost cracking every glass in this room with a high-pitched note. Your head swiveled around, almost colliding into Dick, searching for the source that was trying to break your eardrums. It was Tim; his chair scratched over the floor till it came to a standstill, as he planted both his hands on the table, leaning over. His breath was heavy, eyes wide in indignation. “Tell me you didn’t confirm the presence from all of us at the Blight Gala.”

At neck-breaking speed, your head turned to Bruce – when did the room start spinning? -, who closed his eyes, pinching his nose bridge. “Yes, I did. It was already explained last week during a meeting.” His eyes met Time dead center; his dry voice grated in your ears. “Maybe you were too overwhelmed with your responsibilities lately, if you can’t remember. A break might be a good idea.”

You snorted. A break - the horror, the evil word that made Dick and Jason always dance in line like good little ducklings, following the lead of Mama Duck. There was no fate worse on earth than not spending every breathing hour with your mind occupied and knee-deep in a case, doing your absolute best to just ignore the rest of the world for days and weeks. You never experienced that feeling; you never got so lost in your thoughts that the people around you stopped mattering and the world could stop moving and your only question would be, ‘How is that affecting my case?’

“Why are you laughing?” Tim pointed his finger at you, cheeks aflame in his otherwise pale face. The table turned around to stare at you, some curiously or some hiding their own smiles, diverting the attention from themselves. You blinked and pointed at yourself with the wine glass, as even the thought of you laughing about anything was preposterous. “You are going too. Right, B?”

“Naturally. The whole family got invited,” said Bruce, like this wasn’t the first time in years that you attended or even got invited to an event by your family. You decided to not point out the obvious since you had no interest in involving yourself further in this conflict. Setting the wine glass on the table, you leaned back into the cushions of your chair, resting your head on the backrest. Above you the crystal chandelier became a kaleidoscope, the white light breaking down into its different colors, stray rays creating dizzying patterns and bizarre pictures. Sweat gathered at your forehead, your increased heartbeat swallowing the loud words thrown into the room. Blindly, your shaking fingers searched for the buttons of your vest, trying to create space for you to breathe.

Your fingers were stopped, squished together in a firm but gentle hold. The kaleidoscope vanished as a shadow fell over you. You frowned, blinking away the black spots in your vision till you were able to concentrate on who stood in front of you. Dick leaned over you, lips pressed together, and a spicy scent burned into your nose. He still used the aftershave he discovered when he was fourteen. You remembered sitting on the bathroom counter, giggling into your hands every time he cut himself while shaving. Afterward he would chase you for laughing at him, running stairs up and down till he caught you, lifting you into his arms and spinning you around. His aftershave would burn in your nose, and tears would stream down your face, but you were happy.

What an odd memory to resurface after such a long time. You swallowed, refocusing on Dick’s face. His mouth moved, and you were certain that sounds were coming out of it. Slowly, your surroundings came back to you, loud voices clashing against each other. The others were still fighting then, and it wasn’t just Tim and Bruce anymore; others were screaming too. “—Maybe it was a bit much.”

“Mh?” Delayed, you processed Dick’s words. “Oh no, I feel fine.”

“Sure,” agreed Dick readily. “But a comfy bed sounds far better than these old, stuffy chairs, huh?”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you,” you whispered. You would check for the butler, but your head was just too heavy. Dick sighed; the sound barely reached you as chaos raged around you, voices clashing against each other like waves in a storm. Your fingers were freed, arms curled around you - for a split second you thought that he would spin you around laughing again – and he helped you stand up. Your world spun nonetheless, your nails digging into his arms as you tried to steady yourself. Together you moved, or rather, he moved and you tried not to fall. You didn’t bother bidding your goodnight to the table, because even if the walls around you seemed foreign and the language spoken between these people alien, one thing stayed the same: nobody would notice your absence.

Dividers: @uzmacchiato

A/N: next chapter out! honestly, i struggled so much with this one. I tried to change my writing style to fit our little detective's state of mind, but man, it was hard not circling back to old - bad - writing habits. im also very insecure about the ending of this chapter. originally there were suppose to be two more scenes but the chapter got so big that i rather cut it off here. anyways, im very proud of myself because i solved one of my biggest plot-issues today and then made myself cry a little. also i was so happy at all these positive reactions to my story. never would i have thought that so many people would like what i write <3 if you find any big mistakes in grammar/spelling please tell me! also if you have any particular thoughts on this chapter let me know, even if there just a swarm of emojy, as you can tell im a yapper and i love to listen to other yappers

taglist: @whatdoesthesenpai, @luv-keena, @yukikohai09142010sjs, @xo-tins-xo, @littlemisstrashcan, @homeless-clown, @lettucel0ver, @myjumper, @lunadi1una, @cxcilla, @faesix, @tvnile, @bloomfaery, @akilums, @labryel, @stargirl9911, @jsprien213, @outpostsworld, @kekeanna266, @bunniotomia, @ilovehashbrowns1, @lesstiana, @mentallyilldarlin

[beansaremypassion]

when are you posting the next chapter? absolutely no pressure btw except i'll die if i don't know what happens next soon

I am putting on finishing touches on the last chapter, so the answer is soon. I can't give any precise time, because I know myself. the only reason deadlines exist is so that I can ignore them

Generally speaking though I will try to post with not to much time in between(like weeks upon weeks), but I can't promise a direct schedule since the exam season starts soon for me

also, and that's a SPOILER

please don't die, I had only planned for one person to die for this fic :(

[beansaremypassion]

I love your fics so much! Please don't get sick

thank you so much <3 i'll do my best haha

[beansaremypassion]

I am so damn paranoid right now

Today I had a nightmare that i posted an unedited, unfinished chapter and that I had only realized it after everybody has read it and it sucked so ass that my whole file deleted itself because it was too embarrassed to even exist

I checked three times already that I didn't posted a third chap

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2

The bus stopped with a screech loud enough to go over your headphones. Around you, people stood up, pushing each other out of the way to get out of the vehicle as soon as possible. You stayed seated, listening to the music as you watched three elderly women in matching costumes heaving a big bag, whispering to each other. Your gaze met theirs, and they smiled, turning to each other with big grins. As the bus emptied, you finally stood up, shouldering your travel bag. You listened to the last tunes of ‘Road to Hell’ before plucking your headphones out and stepping out.

The first thing that hit you was the acidic smell of Gotham burning into your nostrils. Black fumes rose into the sky, blocking out every bit of warmth the winter sun was willing to give. A breeze hit you, cutting through your thick clothing as you scanned Gotham City Central Bus Station for a familiar face.

Sure enough, between homeless people searching for food, overcautious tourists, and dead-eyed commuters stood Alfred Pennyworth in an impeccably pressed suit and ruler straight posture. A polite smile stretched on his thin lips, a practiced combination of distantly professional and perfectly welcoming, as he greeted you with ease.

You greeted him back, more familiar than he greeted you, and together you made your way to the car. Alfred insisted on taking your bag, lightly reprimanding you that you hopefully haven’t forgotten your manners before switching over to small talk. A strange feeling settled over you as you took in the city that you left so many years ago. She didn’t seem any different. It was the same desperation clothed in hungry eyes and hollowed cheeks meeting numbness - or maybe just indifference.

Despite Gotham’s ugly nature, the towering buildings vanishing into the dark sky and shadows of hidden gargoyles leave you in awe. Stepping into Gotham was stepping into a different world. A darker one, without question, but also one in which you stand still and let yourself be swallowed by the oppressive waves of the disturbing. Gotham cradled you in her arms, comforting the most terrible facets of your self, screaming that you were not the worst monster in this city.

Years ago, before you left to live with Wren, Gotham soothed you like a mother singing their child a lullaby. Today you only felt unsettled.

You forced yourself not to fiddle with the seatbelt, sitting in the back seat of the expensive grey car Alfred was driving. Simple piano tunes trilled from the soundboxes distinct to baroque music. Probably Bach, if Alfred had chosen the music.

As your conversation stilled, you took your phone out. The first message that popped up was by Vic Sage. He asked if you had time to meet up after the New Year's celebrations for a puzzle night with him and Renee. You sent him a quick confirmation; puzzle nights with Vic were always a delight.

A friend of yours sent you a link to a newspaper article talking about the tragic accident in which a century-old manor burned down in New York. You ignored the jab and went to Wren’s chat. You texted them that you arrived safely in Gotham. Almost immediately three dots popped up, and you waited for their response.

Upon hearing that your father has invited you over for the holidays, Wren was not excited. For some reason, they never seemed really fond of your family. They never met, but every time you told them a childhood story from your time in the manor, their lips curled in the distinctive way they only did when a guest at their restaurant asked for their steak to be well done.

Wren almost came with you, but you reasoned that at least somebody had to show up at Wren’s family dinner and bring home the cookies that Wren’s parents always baked for Christmas. You could never survive going a year without them.

By the time you drove towards the ivory gate, you promised to call them before going to bed. Stepping out of the car, you tried to compare Wayne Manor with your memory. It failed, the pictures in your mind blurry and indistinct. You remember running up stairs, walking down corridors, and lazing in your bed. The memories were there: vague, fleeting, and of no particular importance.

The manor towered above you like a giant, casting the world around it into darkness. Gloomy towers and ivy-covered facades rose into the sky, piercing the heavy clouds. The garden was gray, despite the lush grass being finely groomed with not a single blade of grass too long or too short, and the fountain in the center of the driveway was dry and seemingly only close to the purpose of its creation when Gotham was once again ravaged by one of its thunderstorms. You waited for a sense of familiarity to settle in, but it never came.

You decided not to mull over the lack of feeling, being ushered up the stairs by Alfred. You cast a look over your shoulder. Your bag was still in the trunk, but you had a gut feeling that Alfred would speak of manners again if you told him that.

“At the moment, the manor is rather full,”  Alfred informed you, keys in his gloved hand. “You have been a topic of discussion lately.”

You frowned at that, tucking that piece of information away. Of course, you knew of your siblings, even if you haven’t met most of them. It was hard not to know about them when every magazine and newspaper filled their pages with stories of the new child The Bruce Wayne took in.

Alfred opened the portal, the heavy door not making a sound as it moved. Loud voices stopped from one moment to the next, their echoes still traveling through the Grand Foyer. You stepped in, looking around as if you had never been here. Paintings and photographs adorned the walls. No artist that you knew, you surmised upon closer inspection. The biggest painting hung up over the grand staircase, like a silent watcher inspecting everybody who came into the house. It took you a moment to realize that it was a family painting. Fine brushstrokes formed a lustrous picture of a great family. A middle-aged man sat in the middle, the center of the painting, with a little boy standing next to him and a dog on the other side. Four boys and a girl fanned behind them with varying degrees of genial smiles, sharing a space like it was the most natural act in the world. On the side stood the butler, looking at them with warm approval.

Cold rays of Gotham’s sun hit the stained glass above the portal, casting glowing colors on the painting and splitting it apart. This was your family, you realized somewhat late. Alfred appeared next to you, following your gaze up to the staircase. “A shame that you hadn’t been here for the making.”

“I didn’t know about it,” you assured, making clear in your tone that you would have been here otherwise.

Alfred merely nodded, leading you away from the painting. “The family is waiting in the first sitting room. Dinner will be finished shortly. I assume you are quite famished from your travel?”

Wren had made you a lunch box with fantastic sandwiches and homemade pie that you  finished shortly before arriving in Gotham. Seldom have you been so grateful to your best friend for being a chef, a culinary angel who came down to earth to bless people with the gospel of delicious food. You smiled politely at Alfred. “Quite famished.”

You made your way to the sitting room. There were no spoken words behind the door, but as soon as Alfred stepped forward to open the door, the tapping of footsteps reached your ears and shadows moved behind the door slit. Undeterred by the obvious form of eavesdropping, Alfred opened the door, announcing your presence as if you were royalty entering a ball.

The sitting room was a big room, maybe bigger than your whole apartment, with Persian carpets decorating the floors and handmade furniture that rather belonged in a museum than in a house full of children. You tried to place this room in your memories, but you guessed that you never really used it back then.

Six pairs of eyes landed on you as soon as you stepped in, inspecting you similarly to the way you looked at the foyer. Next to you, Alfred slinked away into the kitchen, leaving you alone amidst your family. The first one to catch your eye was Dick, lounging too casually on a recamier. Your older brother, you reminded yourself. He seemed to have lost his depressing demeanor in the time you were away with the light way he carried himself. Next to him sat a child - Damian, if your memory served you correctly, your only blood-related sibling – staring at you with unhidden intensity. His nose was turned slightly to the air, as if it was a hassle to have to categorize you. A purring cat perched on his lap, wholly uninterested in what got his owner’s attention.

Your name was spoken, and you turned away, towards the voice. Bruce has greeted you, standing up with open arms and an unfamiliar smile on his face. Grey hair began to spread from his temples through his black hair, but you wouldn’t know if he had these when you left or if it was a new development. His scarred hands landed heavy on your shoulders, squeezing as his blue eyes shined down on you in endearment.

You slipped from his hold but smiled simply as you said, “Hello, Dad.”

The attention of the room shifted, turning from you to him, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Damian pressed his lips to a straight line while Dick openly gawked at Bruce. “What the hell?” muttered a blonde girl, hitting an asian girl next to her - that must be Cass - as if she didn’t watch the same thing she just did. Another boy frowned, attention twitching between you and Bruce. It was Tim. You remember Tim. You have met Tim. The weird little neighbor’s boy who never stopped staring at your brothers and Bruce like the sun was shining right from – oh, no need to get into detail.

You greeted everybody as Bruce led you to the couches, sitting down next to you. You can’t remember seeing him ever so happy. These children here must be a good influence on him.

One by one the new faces – aren’t you a new face if anything? - introduced themselves to you, exchanging shallow pleasantries till the blonde girl, Steph, clapped her hands together and leaned towards you. “I’m curious,” she confessed in a tone like she committed a great crime. “Apparently you have been in this family almost as long as Dick, but I didn’t know of you till like, last week.”

Besides you, Bruce tensed. If you hadn’t sat directly next to him, you would have missed the slight shift under his clothes. Dick froze for a moment, easy smile falling before returning to normal.

“Well, I’m a flighty fella,” was your excuse. You didn’t know what to say to that. Ever since moving out, there has never been a reason to visit the manor. And why should Bruce mention you if you weren’t even in Gotham? “Good thing I took the bus, huh?” You chuckled at your own joke – the only one. Steph was as amused by you as the average person was by plain toast, while Cass looked at you with something akin to pity. Tim lifted an unimpressed brow, and Damian – his expression said that you just killed the cat on his lap.

Dick laughed, too late and too loud for a joke like that, clapping his hand on his thigh as if you were the funniest person in the room. “Good one,” he wheezed, grinning like a madman. From one of the other moments, the room was silent again, an awkward tension you could cut with a knife. The firewood cracked, and a grandfather clock ticked in the background.

The door opened. Alfred entered the room, feeling but not commenting on the mood. He cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready to be served.”

Thank God.

Dividers: @uzmacchiato

A/N: the second chapter is already out. i surprised myself with this one. I am very happy that the first chapter were liked by quite a few people and i hope you like this chapter as well <3 the story has a slow start but i wanted to build a good foundation before going into the deep. btw, the song in this chapter is 'Road to Hell' from the musical Hadestown. and while the reader is inspired by benoit blanc, the plot is inspired by Hadestown. do with that information what you want :) it goes the same way as before: if you find any big mistakes in grammar/spelling please tell me! also if you have any particular thoughts on this chapter let me know, even if there just a swarm of emojy, as you can tell im a yapper and i love to listen to other yappers

Taglist: @whatdoesthesenpai, @luv-keena, @yukikohai09142010sjs, @xo-tins-xo, @littlemisstrashcan

[beansaremypassion]

Gotham's Snare

Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.

Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2

If somebody were to ask Batman what his greatest achievement was, his mind would wander to the Prodigal Son - Nightwing. A better hero than Batman ever could be, who brought hope to the desperate and always saw the best in people. Someone who not only grew out of Batman’s shadow but successfully brought light into it.

But if you asked Bruce Wayne the same question, your name would fall easily from his lips. Warmth would flood his chest at the thought of you, and he came the closest to ever feeling truly proud of himself. After all, he started all of this – the charade, the mask, his true legacy – so no child would ever turn out like him. And to think that you, his child, never felt the need to put on a mask and go out at night to fight against the rotten roots of Gotham City brought him hope on days when he was fighting crime like Sisyphus rolled the rock up the hill – a never-ending task that will leave him miserable forever.

You were the one that turned out, dare he say, well adjusted. Your experience in crime fighting was average compared to Gotham’s population. Some robberies, some shootings, nothing too crass, nothing too involved. You finished High School and went to college. You moved, found a job and lived your life without a constant threat of death looming over you.

The easy one.

The healthy one.

You were the normal one.

Bruce leaned back in his office chair, eyes roaming over the pictures neatly arranged on his desk. Dick’s ten-year-old face sprinkled with colorful icing at his first birthday at the manor, Jason asleep in a wrinkled suit at a gala, Tim at a skate park, Cass smiling brightly into the camera, and Damian cuddling Titus. Recently there was also a picture of Duke on his desk, proudly holding up his high school diploma. You were never one for pictures. Or social gatherings. Always the independent one, figuring everything out by themselves.

Therefore, Bruce was unsurprised that you barely showed up after you moved out of Gotham, having finished your university degree and hungry for the world beyond Gotham’s streets. It has been years since he saw you, heard from you, checked on you.

Guilt replaced the pride he just felt with a gut punch. What kind of father was he to not have reached out to you? Bruce knew that you would go to him when you needed his help, but that was not what family meant to him. What you meant to him.

Holidays were coming up. Perfect opportunity to invite you to the Manor and get up to date with your life. Bruce pulled out his phone and went to the messages.

One thing you would never say about yourself was that you had a particularly hard life. Sure, your mother died quite tragically, you have seen people die on multiple occasions, and you felt naked without at least one nice knife sitting on your hips in a good leather holster, but you were a Gothamite through and through, and in that city? That was just the standard baggage. People had it worse than you, far worse, and you were never one to pity yourself.

Right now, you would even say you liked your life. You had a cozy apartment that you shared with your best friend with a beautiful balcony and good view for sunrises.

On slow days when both of you were free, the whole apartment would smell like freshly baked bread that your best friend made and the good coffee you brewed. You missed these mornings deeply right now – it was always midday when you started breakfast, but for you time was merely a construct to describe when something has passed and not something to put your days in frigid categories – in which you sat on your balcony, sun warming your face like a million kisses, and occasionally sipped your coffee. Besides you, Wren, your best friend would stretch their limbs, a sigh escaping their lips. They would open one eye, catch your gaze, and gift you a lazy smile.

“Oh god.” You shifted, looking next to you at the woman covered in mud and blood, eyes wide open. Liquids dripped down her hair and clothes, the skin on her knuckles was split open, and her muscles spasmed painfully. She was a Jason Pollock painting come to life – if Mr. Pollock ever came into a life of murder and debauchery. A sob wrecked her body, a gutting mix of relief and utter incredulity, the last laugh of a desperate woman before turning to madness. “What have I done?”

You didn’t answer, pulling an embroidered handkerchief out of your suit pocket. “There, there,” you mumbled, gently holding her face between your fingers. You wiped away the filth and tears, trying to catch the vacant gaze of the woman. “Nalani,” you spoke her name with purpose, hoping to ground her with the heavy cadence of your voice. She gasped, hands clutching your wrist, nails digging into your flesh. “This is not your fault.”

Nalani nodded, slowly sinking into the soil underneath her. Her hands slipped away from your wrist, but you still felt the indents of her nails in your skin. “Not my fault,” she whispered like a prayer, staring into the disaster in front of her.

You turned around, watching the searing flames lick their way up the manor.  It was once pompous with ivy crawling up the wall and little towers and too many rooms. There was a loud creak, and part of the building crashed down, dusting the air.

Against the almost blinding light of the fire, you saw people running away from the rubble, stumbling over each other. Their once so pristine clothes soaked in smoke and mud, never to be salvaged. Even with the manor breaking down, you heard their screams; accusations, and insults being thrown at each other in blind rage.

If anything, this mess was your fault. You saw a mean rich guy, and your first instinct had been ‘burn this damn house down.’ Of course, this wasn’t your first course of action, but you couldn’t deny you didn’t fight this particular outcome very much.

“Detective?” Nalani’s voice cut through your musing. Her muscles relaxed, and she held the handkerchief loosely in her fingers, tracing the embroidery. You would have to ask Wren to make you a new one. “Will I be okay?”

You softened. “I think you will be more than okay.”

Nalani smiled, watching those fools tripping over themselves akin to how you just did it. It was the first smile you have seen on her since she introduced herself. “I think so too.”

With these words you bid your goodbye to her, finding your way through the woods. Police cars encountered you by the road, speeding past you with blaring sirens. It had been a troublesome case, that made your skin crawl. Entitled people with too much money and good people with not enough power. Despite the good ending, you felt drained, the usual thrill after ending a case missing completely.

You would just call Wren. They would know how to cheer you up. It has only been a few days, but you already miss them. Phone in hand, you realized someone had sent you a message. Opening the app, you stopped in your tracks, blinking in surprise at the contact name.

Dividers: @uzmacchiato

A/N: heyyy, so this is the first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr. the reader is heavily inspired by Benoit Blanc from the Knives Out movies. If you haven't watched them yet, I would suggest them to everybody who loves a good detective story 🤌 Anyway, the reader will remain genderless and without any physical attributes, except for them wearing a suit. Also this is tagged as a neglected reader, but be aware that the neglect is not as extreme as in your commonly found neglected!reader fics, just so you don't get disappointed. I don't have any beta, and english is not my native language, so if somebody sees any grave grammar/spelling mistakes, please tell me so i can fix them :)