𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑜

𝑇𝑖𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦 - ♡Currently rewriting The Butterfly Effect!!! (formerly known as Bunny Writes!)

[bnny0rgnz]

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT,

CHAPTER SEVEN ___ PART TWO.

seoul city warnings: automated pewpews mentions, rushed ending, barely mentions of batfam (Sorry), continuation from chapter seven!!! summary: Dr. Myles put you up for a test after introducing you to some suit designs. wc; 3602 A/N: LITERALLY PANICKED WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS WITHOUT THE STORY!! Hello guys!! Sorry for the wait :D. I kind of gave up while writing the ending, pls forgive me. Masterlist will be coming soon (I think) Please enjoy part two of chapter seven and give me feedback if needed!!! tags: (copied and pasted from last tag list!!) @yuezodiaco @strawbrysapphic @humeysaga @thatbitchanna27 @natllo @iloveescara @d4rkf10w3r @otakusimp1 @chericia @time-shardz @nirvanaxx1942 @dubidumzy @sagimaggi @hikary-jaeger @rethea-lu @shycreatorreview @spiderofgotham @tulnukaz @misaki-kira8 @berriblissful @sra7riddle-malfoy @welpthisisboring @lovebug-apple @nisarelle @afkjklkufd @daiyanomochi @cupid73 @chaosandcandies @amourrangel @berriesandcreampie @venuniqe @mazixxss @dannyisdying (copying and pasting btw so if you're tagged here but didn't get notified or something, tell me pls!!!)

The lab was a cathedral of quiet hums and polished steel, the faint scent of antiseptic mixing with something more subtle–metal, warm from recent use, and the faint tang of ozone lingering as though the air itself had electricity coursing through it. You stepped forward, the sound of your shoes muffled against the smooth floor, feeling the tension coil in your shoulders as your eyes adjusted to the bright, clinical light. Dr. Myles was waiting for you, her expression a delicate balance between scrutiny and encouragement. She regarded you as if measuring the weight of the person you had become, and the way her gaze traveled across your frame made it impossible to ignore the subtle swell of pride in her eyes.

“I see that you’ve gotten stronger,” she said, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of careful observation. She stepped closer, letting her eyes take in the form that had grown where there had once been only fragile limbs and skin stretched too thin over bone. “Muscles forming where there was nothing but potential… it’s impressive.” Her hands remained folded behind her back, but her smile was small and knowing, almost like a teacher proud of a pupil who had exceeded expectations.

“You look healthier,” she continued, pacing slowly around you, the sound of her heels whispering against the floor. “Now, there is a great deal we need to discuss. Your name, how your suit will appear, the team you’ll work with, the way you’ll gather intelligence… and so much more.” Her eyes flicked to a small white remote on the counter. The remote gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, almost innocuous in appearance, yet you instinctively understood it to be the key to the next step of this carefully constructed initiation.

Dr. Myles pressed a button, and the floor beneath you moved with imperceptible grace, descending slowly, a subtle vibration coursing beneath your feet as if acknowledging your presence. From below, a platform rose with deliberate majesty, carrying sketches into the air. Your breath caught as your eyes drank in the designs: beautiful, intricate, functional, elegant, and formidable all at once. Each suit seemed to pulse with potential, as though the fabric itself had a heartbeat.

“These are your suits,” Dr. Myles announced, her tone tinged with reverence as she gestured at the display. “The first one here is our personal favorite, though of course, you must examine all of them and determine which aligns best with your instincts and comfort. It is imperative that you feel a connection to your suit, as it is an extension of your very self.”

You stepped closer, circling the floating platform, your fingers brushing the air above the sketches as though you could absorb them through touch alone. Your pulse quickened at the thought of saving the city in one of these suits, of embodying the balance between deadly precision and delicate grace. Each sketch told a story, your story, woven in lines of fabric, threads of strength and elegance, painted in colors that resonated deep in your bones.

The first suit drew your gaze immediately. Balletinspired, black and white with red accents, it was a testament to discipline, artistry, and strength. The bodice replaced ordinary spandex with a corsetlike construction, sleek, sculpted, hugging the torso with the precision of a dancer’s leotard. It enhanced posture naturally, a posture that spoke of readiness and poise. The sleeves and neckline, white and delicate, were patterned with intricate red vines stretching outward from the collarbones, echoing the elegance and calculated danger of a spider’s web. A small red bow perched above the forehead, attached to the hood whose interior glowed crimson. When the hood was lifted, it framed the face dramatically, highlighting every expression with deliberate theatricality. The mask itself was minimalist, a white faceplate with almondshaped black lenses that allowed expression to remain fluid, capturing your subtle movements, your fleeting emotions.

The lower half of the suit mirrored the upper’s elegance. A tutu-inspired skirt, short, layered, black, allowed dynamic movement while creating a silhouette that evoked the image of a poised ballerina midleap. Your legs were clad in black tights, wrapped in bold red lattice patterns that mimicked the ribbon ties of pointe shoes. On your left thigh, a garter concealed a small storage compartment, a clever blend of form and function, perfect for butterfly-themed gadgets. The footwear, vivid red pointe shoes, was a marvel of design: higharched, structured for balance, reinforced at the tips with webbing that allowed for impactful landings and kicks—a dancer’s grace fused with a superhero’s force.

You could feel your pulse quicken as you traced the contours with your eyes. “I remembered that you do ballet,” Dr. Myles said softly, almost shyly, “so I asked the concept team to incorporate those elements for you.”

“They’re… amazing,” you whispered, your lips curving in a small, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she replied, settling into a chair nearby with a quiet composure. “The last one may very well be your favorite. Continue looking; perhaps your instincts will guide you elsewhere.”

You moved to the second suit, an ethereal contrast in pink. The bodysuit hugged the body like a leotard, enhancing the natural fluidity of your movements. Across the chest, a white butterfly emblem extended into flowing vine patterns, mimicking floral lace and spiderwebs simultaneously. The design curled elegantly around the arms and collarbone, soft yet deliberate. The neckline dipped in a petallike formation, framed by delicate lacestyle vines. Tiny puffed ruffles adorned the shoulders, reminiscent of flower petals or tutu frills, light and airy, almost imperceptibly moving as if breathing with the wearer. The mask was classic dominostyle, smooth, glossy, its white outlines soft, lending an ethereal, almost otherworldly quality, a ‘living flower’ captured in fabric and line.

The third suit drew your gaze with its bold contrast of black and turquoise. Elegant vine motifs traced the mask, gloves, and lower legs, fading into turquoise at the feet, vines curling like living ribbons around the ankles. The torso bore a minimalist white butterfly emblem, positioned centrally, a perfect marriage of elegance and restraint. The mask’s large, expressive eyes were rimmed with turquoise, commanding attention yet soft in expression, balancing visibility with stealth.

Then there was the last suit, an undeniable masterpiece. Skintight, designed for balletlevel flexibility, it shimmered faintly under the lab lights. Across the chest, a butterflyweb emblem merged seamlessly with delicate green vines, curling organically into floral structures, symmetrical yet natural, a fusion of wings and flowers. Transparent mesh on the shoulders and arms, tinted faintly pink, was laced with glittering vine lines that shimmered as they moved. The neckline curved into a subtle sweetheart dip, flowing into the greenveined torso pattern, a balance of delicacy and raw strength. The mask carried pink undertones over green, large white eyes outlined with petalshaped web patterns. Behind the ears, faint vine tendrils added a whimsical, organic flourish. The legs were sculpted with vine lines tracing and spiraling along the thighs, echoing pointe shoe ribbons. The shoes themselves were reinforced, pink with subtle green accents, functional yet elegant; bioluminescent vine ribbons wrapped around the calves, glowing faintly, capable of extending as whiplike strands during combat.

Your chest rose in a quiet, awefilled inhale. “I… I really love this one,” you breathed, fingertips brushing the glass protectively.

“I knew you would,” Dr. Myles said softly, eyes warm. “The others will remain as backups. Now, let’s have you try it on.” She pressed another button, letting the glass shield pull down, and the mannequin wearing the suit slid forward, disappearing as the suit settled into your hands.

“There’s a changing room around the corner,” she instructed. “Once you’re ready, meet me downstairs for your first real test.” Her heels clicked against the floor as she descended a holographic staircase into the subterranean lab below, a cavernous space reminiscent of your father’s Batcave, yet larger, grander, a cathedral of technological promise.

The suit slid over your body like liquid armor. Every inch of it moved with you, bending at the knees, flexing with the shoulders, responding to the subtle cues of your muscles. When you stepped onto the holographic stairs, your heart thumped in anticipation and thrill.

The lab below sprawled like a miniature cityscape: skyscrapers stretched to the high ceiling, mimicking Gotham’s streets lined with moving dummies, their artificial muscles twitching with lifelike realism. Each was a soldier, each a potential hazard, and yet each also a piece of the puzzle you were about to solve.

An assistant led you gently but firmly toward a glasswalled chamber. Dr. Myles’ voice came through a microphone: “In a moment, I will activate the soldier dummies. Your objective is not combat. It is observation, strategy, and adaptation. You will have one hour and forty minutes. If you are injured or discovered, you fail. Use your suit’s builtin systems to guide you.”

Your eyes scanned the mock city below: a gas station, a grocery store, an antique shop, a church, two towering buildings. The dummies, armed and realistic, were spaced strategically, some thirty feet from your position. The strategy unfurled in your mind: blend, hide, adapt, trick, escape.

The glass turned black. Your body coiled with energy as you sprinted toward the nearest building, its tinted windows concealing your approach. Minutes passed like hours as you navigated stairwells and cabinets, your calculations precise, your breaths measured as you hid in a cabinet.  The second the soldiers closed in, your eyes feasted on the ones who stood near the door. You watched as they slowly moved around the room. You took a deep breath in and counted as you saw the soldiers move away from the exit. 

5

4

3

2

1… You exhaled and dashed out of the room and down the stairs. The soldiers were close behind you as you made it to the third floor, bullets passing by as you went.

You slid into the elevator and scanned the floor selection operation pad, the numbers were scrambled but you found floor 1 quickly. You pressed the button and the door began to slowly close. Your heart raced as you sensed the soldiers being close. You got in the corner where you were angled from the door closing, but bullets flew inside and on instinct, you hid behind your arm and felt a huge vinelike shield cover you from the bullets. 

Dr. Myles voice crackled through the monitors with awe. 

You press the watch against the inside of your wrist almost unconsciously, the smooth outer shell warm from the skin. It fits like a cuff of latenight lightning, subtle, efficient, a thing designed to be consulted without thought, to be trusted as a second pulse. When you tap the face, a thin, holographic halo blooms above your wrist: the watch’s voice is a female tone, flattened of affect, polite where people are messy. You like that about it. Machines don’t beg or judge; they only map.

“Status?” you murmur, voice small and sharp in the elevator’s steel throat.

Time unfurls in soft cyan numerals. “Session time remaining: fifty minutes. Current floor: three. Objective: locate exit and confirm passcode. Threat proximity: moderate. Heart rate: 104 beats per minute.” The watch gives you the numbers as if handing you a scalpel; they are tools. “Hydration reminder in thirty minutes.”

You breathe. Numbers slot into place in your head like steppingstones. You tap the face again. “Map. Nearest exits. Any obstructions.”

A miniature grid folds in the air, the mock city revealed in wireframe: streets, alleys, a red telephone booth blinking like a small beacon. The watch overlays possible routes. “Three exits recorded. Closest at thirty feet, behind mock ‘Harlow’s Bar.’ Attempting to triangulate soldier patrols.”

Your thumbs drum the watch’s rim as the elevator dips. “Name,” you say, softer than you mean to. A ridiculous, childish thing, naming a computer, but it’s how you anchor yourself.

A fractional pause, and then: “I am the suit’s monitoring unit. You may name me if it aids your focus.” The voice is not programmed for warmth, and yet it offers you permission.

You decide. “Call it Moth,” you tell the tiny halo. There’s a private satisfaction in the choice. Moth: gentle, nocturnal, small enough to hide and precise enough to return.

“Moth acknowledged,” it replies. The tone is unchanged, but the recognition rings like a bell in the small, raw place in your chest that still wants companionship.

When the elevator shudders to a stop and the doors begin to close with the alert tone of automatic systems, you move. Bullets hammer the metal outside; the world feels suddenly thin,  the scraped breath of someone else’s violence blown across the hall. Instinct sends a question to the watch with less thought than a blink.

“Threat vector —trajectory.” Your arm rises. Vines are a reflex now, but you have to know where they can carry you.

A ribbon of data arcs up: a projected line of flight for the projectiles, angles and velocities, the precise spot where vines will best anchor to avoid the blaze. “Trajectory estimations are stable. Recommend lateral displacement of two meters and immediate manual vine deployment.” The watch’s words are clinical, absolute.

You don’t hesitate. The vines obey the thought like a muscle you just remembered, erupting from your palms in a prick of pain that is quickly numbed by focus. They knot into a living shield, springing taut between you and the windows as if the building had always been waiting to be grasped. Bullets strike wood and twine, the noise muffled and vulgar, and you feel each hit in your teeth. The watch ticks quietly, a metronome to your racing heart.

“Impact logged. Shield integrity at ninetyeight percent. Minor microtears detected; autorepair engaged.” Moth reports. You let out a breath that tastes like metal.

When the doors close and the elevator resumes its descent, the watch chirps a smaller, domestic question. “Your breathing rate is elevated. Do you require medkit? Pain levels?”

There is a moment where you could answer with a lie, of course you’re fine, of course you can always keep going. You consider letting the armor feel like another layer of false invulnerability. But lying to something that keeps both literal and metaphorical time with you feels wrong. So you say, “Small sting in palms. I’m okay. Keep monitoring.”

“Understood. Flagging for postsession diagnostics.” The halo dims.

Later, when the telephonbooth puzzle requires both logic and composure, you feel the watch’s presence like a hand at the base of your skull. You stand inside the booth, the world condensed to a thin film of glass and saltslick air. The red paint is chipped; the handset smells faintly of ozone and old wires. Outside, the training city grinds and simulates and breathes like a beast you are learning to dance with.

You pick up the receiver and memorize the keypad: plastic, cold. Your fingers hover above the numbers and the watch speaks up. “Recall clues from responder logs: ‘Tree, green, flower, pink.’ Crossreference character counts with numeric keypad–standard alpha layout.” The implication is elegant and small, letters to numbers, trees and flowers reduced to code. The watch is calm, which steadies you.

“Help me think through this,” you whisper. It is not a plea. It’s a habit: you grew up with adults whose silences were storms; you learned to speak to other things that could return answers.

“Tree — four letters. Green — five letters. Flower — six letters. Pink — four letters. Possible numeric translation: 4564. Corroborate with keypad mapping before submission?” Moth asks.

You roll the numbers around your mouth like stones. “Confirm.”

“Corroborated. Probability of success: ninetytwo percent.”

You chuckle, a small, defiant sound. “Ninetytwo percent isn’t perfect.”

“Then increase margins by verifying the sequence.” The watch’s logic is an arctic, gleaming thing. “Dial 4564. Wait for the responde. If no confirmation, request a second clue. Time remaining: fourteen minutes.”

You place the sequence into the phone with hands that feel steadier than your pulse. The line clicks; a voice gives the inane hint that is less hint and more test. You answer. The doors of the booth feel heavier when they are open, you're standing small and ridiculous in the middle of the mockstreets. Moth counts seconds for you, a patient friend.

When you finally punch the final key to confirm and the maze around you dissolves into harmless lights, the watch vibrates against your wrist. Tiny gratitudes pass between human and machine like coins exchanged at a market table of purpose.

“Session complete,” the voice chimes. “Well done.”

You lower your hand from your wrist and stare at your reflection in the booth’s cracked paint: the mask on the belt glows faintly from the suit’s internal systems, and your watch sits cool and quiet against your pulse. You say, as if promising the metal and yourself, “We did that.”

“Moth recorded: ‘We.’” The watch answers, and there is a sliver of something like approval in the mechanical cadence that makes your lips curve; it is small and clean and utterly yours.

After you completed the session, you were heavily exhausted. You met Dr. Myles in the lobby of the lab, she complimented you many with a huge smile on her face. You were happy. You made someone proud for the first time and it made your heart flutter. 

“Now,” Dr. Myles said, her hand enveloping yours, “go home and rest. We’ll contact you about the next session. It may be a week or so. Be prepared.”

You nodded, letting her words sink in. The weight of the day: the suits, the training, the test, pressed against your chest, a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration.

You took the subway home, choosing the quiet route instead of letting Alfred pick you up. The ride was a low hum, the train rattling softly under Gotham’s streets. The subway slowed, and you rose to step off. Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of smoke and asphalt. The moon hid behind a thin veil of clouds, casting the streets in a muted glow. You walked quietly, footsteps soft.

You watched the city pass by, taking in every small detail. Faces floated in your vision: some tired, some hardened, some pretending everything was fine. You observed the group of teens smoking by the closed diner, how the smoke twisted into the night air, the way they moved, how they spoke with mouths that no longer carried meaning, only rhythm.

A tall brunette stood with her hand buried in her jacket pocket, cigarette in the other, smiling at her companions though her eyes were hollow. She reminded you of yourself, the kind who pretends everything is okay when inside, everything is breaking. A lean man on the curb, fingers dirty, expression exhausted, unremarkable to the world yet filled with silent stories. Another, leaning against a light pole, dark hair falling over his eyes, wore a black jacket, light blue jeans with no holes, a rhinestone belt shimmering under the faint light. A gun rested in a hidden holster at his hip. You studied him, guessing at the tension between what he wanted to project and the reality of his life. Everyone in Gotham had something they were hiding, wounds no one else could see. That was why they clung to the dark. That was why everyone had to act tough. That was why they cried in silence and moved on too quickly from tragedies reported in the news. This city, with all its pain, its shadows, its hidden resilience, this city was what you had chosen to save.

Arriving at the Manor, your fingers trembled on the doorknob. You should have climbed through your bedroom window, but you were too tired. Before you could even twist the handle, the door swung open. Alfred’s eyes were wide with worry.

“Master Y/N, where have you been? We were worried for you.” His hands rested gently on your shoulders.

“I’m fine… just needed somewhere to think peacefully,” you said softly, offering a shy smile. “Sorry for running out like that.” You kicked at the air lightly with the toe of your shoe.

Alfred gave a reassuring smile, fingers brushing through your hair. “No, no. No need to apologize, dear. We should’ve informed you immediately about Jason’s appearance. Would you like to join the family for dinner? I just put out the food.”

You shook your head, hesitant. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Alright. If you need anything, tell me and I’ll be at your service,” Alfred said, retreating into the kitchen.

You walked upstairs, silent as a ghost, each step measured. Then, you froze. Up ahead, Jason stood, frozen as well. His gaze met yours, brows furrowed, face blank. Your heart began to race, breaths quickened, but you didn’t move. A tear pricked your eye. Jason’s hand reached out instinctively. You quickly wiped it away, your expression hardening. Scowling deliberately, you let your anger radiate from your eyes, brushing past him with your shoulder barely touching his arm. Jason faltered, then withdrew, guilt weighing silently on him as he walked away.

Inside your room, you sank to the floor in front of your door, clutching your shirt, fighting the urge to cry. You shook your head, closing your eyes. You would not let him, or anyone, control your tears. Slowly, you rose, making your way to the mirror. You pulled the suit from your bag, examining it carefully. Every detail reminded you of your purpose: Gotham City, its innocents, its shadows and hidden light. Your heart, your strength, your life, all were for this.

[bnny0rgnz]

Okay, guys!!

So, lately, I've been sort of losing motivation for my current fanfic (NOT QUITTING) as I've also been losing my interest for the batfam. But, while I still have some bits of interest, I was thinking about a new fanfic (batfam x neglected!nanno!reader). I'll go in more detail depending on which option you guys pick. This is partially the reason why my schedule has been shitty, too, so I apologize.

Anyways, thank you guys for enjoying my fanfic so far. And thanks for the ones participating!!

Should I....

Continue writing the current fanfic and wait till it's over to start new fanfic

Or... take breaks in between and start with the new fanfic

Voting ended onOct 17, 2025

[bnny0rgnz]

I'M LOGGED IN!!!!

[bnny0rgnz]

NOOO

OMG. MY DUMBASS DELETED TUMBLR OFF MY OLD PHONE SO NOW IM LOGGED OUT ON BOTH PHONES. EVERYTHING IS DIFFICULT NOW THAT I AM BEING FORCED TO DO EVERYTHING ON THIS STUPID CHROMEBOOKOKOKOKOOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK.

[bnny0rgnz]

Me when batfam:

LOL this is actually so real!!!

(might be making batfam likeable in later chapters teehee)

[bnny0rgnz]

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT,

CHAPTER SEVEN.

natural habitat warnings: 'meticulous' being overused (sorry, I love the word so much) graphic descriptions(almost), little to no dialogue (AM SO SORRY GUYS), a bit too descriptive, maybe(?), short chapter due to this chapter having a part 2!!! summary: you did not plan on seeing him again. wc; 2041 A/N: AM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT, MY LAPTOP WAS LOWK BUGGING!! but here I am!! I know that the last chapter was a bit of a disappointment but I hope this one is better, stay tuned for the second part of this chapter!! will also be posting a poll later on this week, stay tuned!! (for all of those asking to be put in a tag list, I have y'all saved for the next time I open up again!!!) MASTERLIST COMING SOON! tags: @yuezodiaco @strawbrysapphic @humeysaga @thatbitchanna27 @natllo @iloveescara @d4rkf10w3r @otakusimp1 @chericia @time-shardz @nirvanaxx1942 @dubidumzy @sagimaggi @hikary-jaeger @rethea-lu @shycreatorreview @spiderofgotham @tulnukaz @misaki-kira8 @berriblissful @sra7riddle-malfoy @welpthisisboring @lovebug-apple @nisarelle @afkjklkufd @daiyanomochi @cupid73 @chaosandcandies @amourrangel @berriesandcreampie @venuniqe @mazixxss @dannyisdying (copying and pasting btw so if you're tagged here but didn't get notified or something, tell me pls!!!)

The city sleeps in whispers, and you glide above it, muscles taut, breath steady but shallow, heart thundering a rhythm that only you hear. Each swing from the steel cables scraping under your fingers is an echo in the night, the cold biting your skin through your gloves, reminding you of everything that aches and hasn’t healed yet. You land silently on a rooftop, shins burning, as if each bone remembers the fall you never truly survived. Below, the streets are washed in the dull orange haze of streetlights, flickering like tired eyes. You pull your arms close, concentrating. The water in the fountain across the street shivers at your will, rising in arcs, twisting into a crude shape; a flower, unrefined, a pale attempt at transmutation. You sigh and let it collapse, the sound a soft, hopeless hiss in the night.

The last month has been a relentless grind, a slow crawl back into the body and mind you once knew but never truly trusted. Every night you swing, every puddle you pull toward yourself and reshape, every movement practiced in the shadows, it is an attempt to reclaim some fragment of control over a world that left you broken. You taste iron in your mouth from old blood, dust from forgotten rooftops, and the sharp tang of your own sweat mingled with the damp chill of the city. Each breath you draw feels stolen, and yet, it is the only thing that confirms you are still alive. Slowly, painfully, you begin to remember how to fight again. Martial arts, movements that once flowed, now come stiffly, then sharper, more deliberate, your body learning to bend without breaking. You whisper to yourself under your breath, the words almost swallowed by the wind: “I survive. I endure. I fight.”

The first night you attempt the transmutation, it is clumsy. A fork in a garbage-strewn alley bends and curls unnaturally, barely resembling the flower you imagined. Still, you feel the surge—the spark that promises mastery if only you can push beyond exhaustion and fear. The city hums around you, indifferent, ignorant. No one notices. That’s the way you like it: unnoticed, untouchable, until your body finally obeys what your mind demands. But even as you refine your control, there is a lingering ache, the kind that lives under your ribs, the memory of absence. You stop mid-movement, staring down at the concrete, and for a brief second, you imagine the world as it could be if everything had been different. But that vision collapses under the weight of what it isn’t, what it never will be.

The following week, you push further. You practice bending water into shapes not just for skill, but for survival: shields, knives, tendrils that could protect or attack. Each attempt leaves you trembling, muscles screaming, lungs burning, but your focus is iron now, hardening alongside the cold night air. And still, the thought gnaws at you ‘IF I AM CAUGHT, WHAT WILL HAPPEN?’ The city watches, silent, a jury of empty streets and flickering neon. You are not invisible, but you are unseen, and it is enough.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, your life outside the shadows begins to shift. Jason returns to Wayne Manor. Alfred has prepared his room meticulously, as if no time had passed at all, the bed made neatly, his box of old possessions waiting like a monument to a past life. You have no idea. None. Nights are your own, dark and lonely, your only companions shadows and dripping water, echoes of memory.

Jason arrives. Bruce stands at the steps, posture rigid but formal, Alfred by his side, hands clasped in the neat servitude that has always steadied the edges of your family. Jason grunts in response to their smiles, and the house swallows him as he moves inside, scanning rooms unchanged, paintings on walls, trophies in their dusty positions, the faint scent of wood polish and old stone. Tim approaches with the eagerness of someone desperate to be noticed, but Jason brushes past, a shoulder shoved forward, and the boy falters. Upstairs, Jason’s feet echo against the floors that know his weight, the creaks of boards like whispered accusations.

He passes your door. His hand hovers, unsure, trembling slightly, hesitant. ‘Would you know I am back?’ He thinks. The door looks ordinary, innocuous, yet it is yours, and suddenly the weight of absence crashes down on him. But before he can touch the doorknob, Damian’s voice cuts through the hall, cold, precise, barbed.

“She’s not here,” Damian says. The words are sharp as knives.

Jason’s hand falters. The voice continues, smug, cruel: “Don’t know why you’re interested in her, though. She doesn’t contribute to the family in any meaningful way.”

Jason’s teeth clench. How dare he— Rage pools in him like black water.

Damian smirks, twisting the blade: “I heard you died, revived by your grandfather’s Lazarus Pit. Maybe all that rage you were built on was flushed out. I’d be surprised if you could even fight properly anymore. We should spar once you get done unpacking.”

Jason’s hands curl into fists, grip tight enough to hurt. “I wouldn’t dream of it, kid. You’re not interesting. Not worth my time,” he spits back, voice low, controlled but venomous. Damian’s smirk falters, just a flicker.

Jason moves into his old room. The bed is exactly as he remembers, the mirror impossibly clean, reflecting a ghost of himself. The ninja star, perched despite all rules, smirks at him from the wall. He touches it, smiles faintly at memory.

“Hello, bed.” He plops his bag onto the bed, his eyes flicking over a box filled with his old things.

He opens the box. His fingers brush over the framed picture first—him, leaning on the manor stoop, dirt-streaked from missions, half-eaten pizza in hand, grinning at you. He feels the tug in his chest, the bitter sting of nostalgia and regret twisting together. Happiness is dangerous, he thinks. Love is a weapon that kills the unprepared. He sets it down gently, not wanting to ruin what he cannot have again.

He lifts his old phone. Battery full. Messages from you. Every day, every hour. He reads them, a delicate thread connecting him to the life he abandoned, the innocence and determination you still held in your absence. Guilt washes over him, molten and suffocating. He cannot breathe for the weight of it, cannot forgive himself for the gun, the betrayal, the absence.

And you? You come home tired, hollow from training and loneliness, ignoring the chatter downstairs. Your body screams for water, food, sleep, any comfort the manor refuses to give. You shower, the water hot and insistent, trying to scald away the remnants of nightmares, changing into clothes that feel like armor. Alfred knocks, gentle yet insistent. You hesitate, eyelids heavy. Required family dinner. You roll your eyes but comply.

Downstairs, the world continues, indifferent. Cassandra sits, patient, listening to Stephanie prattle about cosmetics, Barbara scrolling endlessly on her phone, Tim staring blankly at the wall. Damian descends from his room, silent as shadow, counting nine plates. Nine. Who is the ninth? You slide into your chair, eyes wide, waiting, heart hammering in disbelief. Your new signal blares into vibrations, sensing some kind of new entity in the house. You were confused; the manor is completely secured, no one would dare to break in. Dick then walked in, your head lowered. The person next to him instantly sat down in the chair as Dick began to speak.

Dick’s voice breaks the silence. “You remember him, right? You two were close before… er… you know what I mean.”

Your ears perk up when you realize Dick was talking to you. Your head no longer focused on the table, and your eyes.. your eyes scanned the area. And then you see him. Jason. The memories slam into you, hard as fists. The chair scrapes under you as you spring to your feet. Hands tremble, heart hammering violently, tears blurring vision. You want to scream, to rip your throat open and let rage and fear bleed into the air, but no sound comes. Bruce asks if you’re okay. You do not answer, eyes locked on him. Every memory of laughter, fights, shared nights, and then the gun, all replay, an endless loop of love and horror. You ball your fists, trembling, want to hit him, want to vanish, want to unmake the past with your bare hands.

Dick suggests leaving the table, trying to anchor you, but you shake your head violently, escaping before anyone can stop you. You run, lungs burning, heart hammering, tears streaking across your cheeks. The city is cruelly quiet, the wind slicing across your face like invisible blades.

Your phone vibrates endlessly in your pocket. Messages. You do not want to read them. Eventually, exhaustion overcomes your hesitation, and you stop in a dark park, knees pressed into dirt, body shaking. The tears come in torrents now, unrestrained, raw. Your screams fill the empty night, piercing the quiet. You thought you had survived. You thought you were stronger. And now, facing him again, everything fractures.

The notifications glare at you:

Alfred: Are you alright? I know this seemed too hard on you, I apologize. I knew I shouldn’t have called you down. Please come home. 9:34 PM

Dick: Hey! Where did you go? Why did you leave? 9:36 PM Dick: That was kind of disrespectful there. Don’t you know how happy Jason was to see you? 9:41 PM

Cass: Come back. 9:45 PM

Damian: You’re getting too used to running away for attention. I bet you weren’t even that close. Stop crying like a baby. You’re too old for that. 9:49 PM

Tim: Come on, now. There was no reason to run. Seeing Jason might’ve been hard for you, especially since last time was before his death. Think about how hard it was for him to come back. He felt as if he wasn’t wanted. You need to come back and apologize. 9:52 PM

Bruce: I should’ve told you beforehand. I’m sorry. Please come back before we start without you. 9:54 PM

Damian: We’re starting without you. Maybe later you’ll realize how you’re ruining this family. 9:57 PM

You scoff, heart stinging, vision blurry, reread Tim’s message. He felt as if he wasn’t wanted because of you. Rage, betrayal, fear, confusion, all coalescing in a tight knot of grief. How dare Jason feel unwanted, when he was the one who left, who pointed the gun.

Footsteps approach. Tentative. Careful. You tense, muscles tight, heart spiking.

A girl emerges from the shadows. Hot pink curls catch moonlight, skin deep olive, eyes glittering dark blue like hidden pools. Pastel clothes seem almost jarring against the park’s decay, yet she radiates warmth. She crouches slightly, hands loose at her sides.

“Hey! I thought I heard someone crying, so I had to check. Are you okay?” she asks gently, voice melodic, concerned.

You only nod, looking away, embarrassed, trembling.

“Cool! My name’s Darlene!! I’m kind of new here, so it took me a while to find this park, but here I am!! If you want, you can talk to me about your troubles,” she continues, leaning forward slightly, her tone earnest. You avert your gaze, still raw, still unwilling to trust anyone.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you mutter, brushing past, wiping tears, shoulders tight, chest aching.

“Uhh, okay! See you later, I think!!” Her voice lingers, buoyant yet tentative, as you vanish into the night.

The subway awaits, dark, abandoned, hollow. Rats whisper along the tracks, tiny claws scratching, soft squeaks vibrating in the hollow tunnels, sharing the scent of lost food, secrets of survival. You slip inside, the couch dusty, stiff, holding the weight of silence. The faint echo of water dripping, distant rumbles, the stale scent of mildew, all envelop you. You curl up, the darkness close enough to press against your skin, hear the rats shift, whisper, gnaw. You chuckle softly, almost in disbelief at the life teeming beneath decay, the quiet companionship of survival without expectation. And there, amidst the shadows and forgotten whispers, you finally fall asleep, alone, untouchable, yet haunted by memory and absence.

[bnny0rgnz]

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT,

CHAPTER SIX.

cocoon summary: you ended up finding your cocoon while looking for a quiet place to train. On the other hand, Bruce decides to visit Jason. wc; 2313 A/N: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. TODAY WAS SO CRAZY AND I AM EXHAUSTED. THIS CHAPTER IS SORT OF SHORTER AND A BIT RUSHED DUE TO ME BEING TIRED, I AM SO SORRY!!!! ALSO, The mitski lyrics are practically Jason's thoughts as he thinks about reader(pls enjoy and don't hate me pls I love you guys) tags: @yuezodiaco @strawbrysapphic @humeysaga @thatbitchanna27 @natllo @iloveescara @d4rkf10w3r @otakusimp1 @chericia @time-shardz @nirvanaxx1942 @dubidumzy @sagimaggi @hikary-jaeger @rethea-lu @shycreatorreview @spiderofgotham @tulnukaz @misaki-kira8 @berriblissful @sra7riddle-malfoy @welpthisisboring @lovebug-apple @nisarelle @afkjklkufd @daiyanomochi @cupid73 @chaosandcandies @amourrangel @berriesandcreampie @venuniqe @mazixxss @dannyisdying

You step silently across the rooftops of Gotham, the chill of the night pressing against your skin, the city humming faintly beneath your feet. Whispers travel through the streets, carried by shadows and the faint echo of tires against wet pavement. “Did you see that? She climbed the wall like it was nothing.” “Her strength… it’s unreal.” Voices, far off yet somehow piercing, follow you as you perch atop Wayne Tower, legs dangling over the edge of the statue of Justice, the wind tugging at your hair and the edge of your coat. The stars glimmer above, sharper than they have ever seemed, as though the night itself is holding its breath in anticipation. You inhale, letting the cold bite at your lungs, feeling the tension coil tight in your chest. Tonight is not a night for play. Tonight is a test. Tonight, you decide, is your leap of faith.

Your toes curl over the edge, muscles taut, the city sprawled beneath you like a living map of dark streets and flickering lights. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and your coat, and yet it feels inviting, like a challenge whispered into your ear. You close your eyes briefly, letting yourself sink into the sensation, the mixture of fear and exhilaration crawling up your spine. This isn’t the dopamine rush of reckless fun anymore. This is something more, something heavier—justice, courage, hope. You push off the ledge, body arching forward, twisting through the air, every instinct screaming as the pavement rushes toward you.

And then, instinct takes over. Green vines erupt from your palms, thorned and flowering, latching onto walls, streetlamps, and the cold stone of buildings with a grip that feels like silk wrapped in steel. They hook, swing, and propel you forward, spinning you in a dance that is both terrifying and intoxicating. Each swing brings a rush, a symphony of adrenaline and control. You twirl, flip, vault, letting the wind carry your body as though the city itself has become an extension of your limbs. With every movement, you feel alive in a way you haven’t in years, exhilaration threading through your veins, yet beneath it all simmers a quiet dread. Someone, somewhere, is watching. Someone, somewhere, might see this, and the thought presses like a weight you cannot ignore.

After what feels like both minutes and hours, your path arcs around a building, your eyes catching the glow of a nearby billboard broadcasting news. Batman and the Robins are there, Nightwing too, a tableau of Gotham’s protectors framed in digital light. Your stomach tightens at the sight. You do not want to be like them, not entirely. Their justice is meticulous, yes, but you have watched it falter, watched criminals escape their carefully drawn lines only to wreak havoc again. No—your justice will be sharper, unflinching. You want Gotham to tremble before the wicked, not merely fear their next escape. Not merely tremble at their own safety. You will strike and teach them consequences. True consequence. The idea grips you, and in that instant, your swings become more precise, your flips sharper, each motion a rehearsal of what might come.

By dawn, the city seems to stretch infinitely around you, streets narrowing, buildings rising like sentinels. You find yourself back at the manor, eyes narrowing against the weak light sneaking past clouds. 

You instantly flopped on your bed, eyes closing shut within 5 minutes. You were exhausted and needed a reset, which eventually led you to take a long nap.

By the time you woke up, the manor was quiet. Dick has returned to Bludhaven, Tim has gone with Steph and Cass, Damian is lost in the training room, Bruce is at Wayne Enterprises. Alfred is the only one around, vigilant, pacing softly, checking, measuring, watching. He has been careful ever since your incident at STAR Labs, hovering close, monitoring your recovery, cautious in every word, every gesture. You know his presence is a barrier, one you must slip past to train freely.

You move quietly down the stairs, mindful of every step, your thoughts loud and insistent, threatening to betray you. The floorboards, usually betrayers of your presence, lie silently beneath your feet. Alfred is cooking when you arrive, his movements precise, familiar, a comforting cadence in the morning.

“Morning, Alfred,” you greet with a practiced smile, sliding into a chair at the dining table.

He swivels, startled, eyes wide for a split second before recognition softens his expression. “Afternoon, Master Y/n,” he corrects, voice smooth yet pointed, measuring the hours you have spent sleeping. “I take it as you slept well?”

You nod, careful to maintain the impression of normalcy. “I did, mostly. Though, waking up is still strange without school.”

He sets a plate before you, artfully arranged with avocado toast crowned by a perfectly fried egg, black pepper dusting the surface like fine dusting of stardust. Seasoned brussels sprouts, pineapple cubes, grapes—each element arranged to nourish and restore. “How do you feel, Master Y/n? Any discomfort?”

You shake your head subtly, taking a forkful of pineapple, sweet and sharp against your tongue. “I’m fine. There’s a twinge, but it’s manageable.”

Alfred nods solemnly. “Good. Notify me if anything occurs. I must deliver this tea to the Young Master Damian, but you may continue eating. Rest if necessary.” His departure is quiet, measured, leaving you with the freedom you crave.

By mid-afternoon, you are following the old subway tracks, each footstep echoing softly against the tunnels’ emptiness. The abandoned terminal looms ahead, a relic of rust and graffiti, its air thick with neglect. You climb the gate easily, heart racing, senses sharpened. Shadows and light play across broken walls, old couches scattered, rats skittering across the damp floor. A door marked ‘EXIT’ hums with failing LED light. You break the knob with an old fire extinguisher, pushing into the darkness beyond.

The air changes as you step outside. Dead grass and flowers litter the ground. The silence is heavy. Gigantic walls rise around you, enclosing the open area like a cage, yet sunlight filters in, casting patterns across the ground. And there it is—the pool. Blue, glowing, ethereal, water so clear it seems to hum. A colossal tree rises from its center, branches stretching, leaves glinting, almost breathing. You crouch at the edge, icy water shocking your fingers, sending images into your mind unbidden. Faces, shapes, figures long gone, whispering of times before humans had names, before cities sprawled.

Luminara.

You see them, light blue and ghastly, pale eyes wide with ancient sorrow, hair flowing like frozen rivers. Wings of Aurelias, colossal, shimmering with cosmic light, carrying them above the untouched earth. Their gifts—geokinesis bending stone and mountains, hydrokinesis guiding rivers, chlorokinesis bringing forests alive, transmutation changing decay to bloom, illusions painting mirages in midair, electrokinesis weaving storms, healing touch mending all, communication with animals and insects—each a symphony of creation and control. They walk, glide, dance with the power of nature itself, bound to their Aurelia companions.

And the Aurelia’s Nest—the sanctuary they built—rises before your mind’s eye. A cocoon of power, of life, of restoration. A blue pool where broken things could be made whole, a tree nurturing it, blossoms spilling energy into water, the world’s sorrow held in its reflection. You sense the weight, the purpose. This is not merely a pool. This is a crucible. This is a choice. And in that instant, the realization strikes. You belong here. Your abilities are not just gifts—they are legacies. You were chosen, intertwined with the blood and essence of the Luminara themselves.

You kneel by the pool, letting your fingers trail across its surface. The water ripples, humming in response, threads of power brushing against your mind, and a name forms, unbidden, certain: Cocoon. This is yours now, as it was theirs. Sanctuary, refuge, training ground, cradle of your strength.

The moon replaced the sun once more, glistening in the night. You had withered back at the manor just in time for Alfred to do his daily check-up on you before he started dinner. Everyone was back in place, everyone except for Bruce. You wondered where he was but then remembered that you didn’t care for him, you didn’t wish to.

Across the city, Bruce, as Batman, hunted down a figure that roamed in Crime Alley, a place far beyond his usual locations. Bruce wasn’t there to stop crime, no, he didn’t care for that at the moment. What he wanted–no, who he wanted–was Jason. Jason, Red Hood, commanding mobs with threats, guns in hand. A plan forms, sharp, decisive. Bruce waited until Jason finished his mission, approaching silently behind Jason when they were alone. When the chance was guaranteed, Bruce binds Jason with one of his gadgets, compact yet unyielding. Jason groans, irritation and recognition flashing across his features.

“What the hell man?” Jason exclaimed furiously. “Didn’t even let me draw my weapon.” He sarcastically continues.

“I’ll let you go if you promise me one thing,” Bruce begins, voice low but insistent.

Jason’s brow arches. “Interrogating me now, are you? I thought we agreed to stay out of each other’s way. You do your thing, I do mine. Why are you in my territory?”

Bruce skipped over his question and froze for a second. He was wondering how to say what he wanted to say, wondered if Jason was going to accept his offer. 

“I want you home. We want you home,” Bruce says, weight and urgency lacing every syllable.

Jason scoffs, gun pressing lightly against the restraints. “Home? You mean the place where I was replaced? You think I’ll just come running back?”

“You’re not replaced. Not by anyone. I’ve done wrong, I know it. But we need you, I need you. And I… I haven’t been in the right place since your death. And now that you're back, I just can’t pretend that you’re still dead, I can’t keep replaying that scene in my head every single night. I have failed, both as a mentor and a father. Not to just you, but…” Bruce didn’t finish his sentence, too much guilt washed over him as he thought about Y/n’s name. Did he even know it correctly? Did he think he had no right to speak of her name? Bruce could tell that Jason knew who he was talking about with the same guilt invading his presence.

“You keep saying ‘we’, who are you talking about?” Jason spaced out. He knew the answer already, he didn’t want to think about her, not after what he had done to her the last time they met. After that night, he buried the gun he held at Y/n’s head, hatred started to breeze over him. It was as if Y/n’s hatred was passed onto him.

Jason’s eyes narrow, calculating. “Her? You mean Y/n?” Jason felt sick saying your name. He had hoped for there to be a day where you guys met again and he had rightfully apologized to you, he didn’t even care if you still hated him or not, he just wanted you to know that he didn’t mean anything that he has said or done. He missed you dearly.

“I–yes.” Bruce stuttered, lowering his head ashamed. I failed her. I didn’t protect her, and I didn’t answer when she needed me. I keep blaming Gotham for my negligence towards her but, in reality, it was my own cowardice. After your death, I was scared of what would happen to Y/n if I led her to the world of crime-fighting, just as I led the others. But I just couldn’t, she’s not like you or the others. She doesn’t have the trauma to drive her into becoming a weapon. I can’t just break her and mold her into something that could ruin her. I just can’t. I want to make things right, but I need you there so I won’t fall in the same pit of darkness.” Bruce confessed. It was as if he poured his whole chest into what he had to say—to the wrong person.

Silence brutally erupted around them, both not looking at each other. Jason didn’t like the fact that Bruce was using his death as a way to excuse his negligence, but at the same time, he, too, used his death as a way to abandon Y/n like he did. He couldn’t judge there.

“Seems like you need to be saying that to her, not me.” Jason finally spoke, earning a look from Bruce. Jason studies him, weighing words, considering intentions. Finally, he exhales, “I’ll think about it.”

Bruce nods, relief tempered by the tension still coiling in his chest. He releases Jason from his bind, taking a step back, shadows swallowing him as he disappears into the night, leaving Jason to stare into the empty streets, thoughts heavy, choices impending.

Jason remains on the streets, gun holstered, thoughts dark and tangled. Bruce’s words echo in him, each syllable a reminder of a family fractured, a sister at the edge of her own awakening, and the weight of a city that cannot wait. He looks to the night sky, catching a flicker of stars reflected in puddles on the asphalt, wondering how long it will be before she too steps from shadow into light, before the city sees what she is becoming, and before the balance shifts irrevocably in the hands of someone who will not forgive the world its mistakes.

He scoffs, remembering the last words of Bruce’s so-called reason for why he neglected Y/n. He couldn’t imagine all the hurt you must’ve gone through, being all alone and struggling to survive the shallow pit of grief on your own.

“Fuck you, Bruce.” He whispers into the night before leaping off the building, memories of you flashing through his mind as he did so.

[bnny0rgnz]

i literally don’t have any words. your writing has made me so in tune with my anger. i haven’t felt so angry & frustrated reading a fic in so long. the batfamily, especially when the reader came back to the manor ( bc that place can never be called home ) and dick just said “i wish we knew” , i swear i felt my ears ringing. heros , they call themselves, and they can’t even—i—*deep breath* i need to calm down , i’m getting angry at fictional characters, they ain’t even real.

on another note, plz if the tag list is still open, i would crawl on my hands and knees to be added to it. please and thank you.

this was me throughout the five chapters :

AHHH thabk you so much, i didn't know my writing can effect people like that and it makes me happy to know that. This definitely motivated me to continue writing the chapters. You'll definitely be added to the taglist!!

(I'll also be closing taglist Sunday so i can focus more. I don't know when I'll open them again but just ask in the chapters as a reminder for me to add you guys when i open again, thanks for enjoying so far!)

[bnny0rgnz]

SORRY GUYS

Everything has been so hectic this week and I got a new phone (got locked out of my account too) so things have been slow with the posts, that's why I've decided to post on either Friday afternoons and/or Saturdays or Sundays, that way I'll actually have time to focus on the chapters and post consistently. I apologize for not posting this week, I hope you guys do understand that I am busy with lots of things and I hope you guys don't hate me or the chapters just because of my absence!!. Anyways, goodbye and see you either tomorrow or Sunday!

[bnny0rgnz]

Is there a possibility you could link the other chapters on each chapter? Like chpt 1/prologue would have chpt 2 linked? And chpt 2 would have the prologue and chpt 3 linked? It just would make it easier to navigate for a new reader.

Thanks! Look forward to reading!

Omg, that's a good question! I was actually planning on making a masterlist but I kind of forgot how to do that, once i remember, I'll most definitely make one!!

[bnny0rgnz]

do you have a ao3 account?

If so what's your username

If not you should get an account to post The butterfly effect series on

unfortunately, I don't. I don't even know if i will get on ao3 due to how i don't know how to use it 😭. I might tho!!

[bnny0rgnz]

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT,

CHAPTER FIVE.

high horse summary: you discover that you have the abilities of the morpho, but will this effect make you save the world? wc; 3372 A/N: I AM SOOOO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING ALL WEEK. I WAS SUPER BUSY!!! I'll try to post more!!! tags: @yuezodiaco @strawbrysapphic @humeysaga @thatbitchanna27 @natllo @iloveescara @d4rkf10w3r @otakusimp1 @chericia @time-shardz @nirvanaxx1942 @dubidumzy @sagimaggi @hikary-jaeger @rethea-lu @shycreatorreview @spiderofgotham @tulnukaz @misaki-kira8 @berriblissful @sra7riddle-malfoy @welpthisisboring @lovebug-apple @nisarelle @afkjklkufd @daiyanomochi @cupid73 @chaosandcandies @amourrangel (if I forgot you, I AM SO SORRY!!)

The world was blurred at first, a haze of pale light and beeping monitors. You came back to yourself slowly, like rising from the bottom of a deep, black ocean, every breath caught between life and death. Your eyelids were heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and medicine, but eventually, they fluttered open, revealing the antiseptic whiteness of a hospital room.

For a moment, you thought you were dreaming again. The walls seemed too sterile, too unreal. The sheets smelled faintly of bleach, the kind of scent that tried too hard to convince you of safety.

A shadow shifted near the foot of the bed. The doctor, middle-aged, his face stern but softened by the lines of long nights and quiet worry, he was studying a chart. His voice came through the silence with a steadiness you couldn’t quite meet with your gaze.

“You’ve surprised us,” he said, not unkindly. “Your body should not have recovered as quickly as it has. Most of the scars, superficial as they were, are already gone. What remains…well.” He gestured vaguely toward your side. “The damage to your internal organs is still present. The area above the left hip will need time to heal. Seven to eight weeks. Perhaps two months before you’re entirely whole again.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes were not on him, nor on the chart in his hands. They were fixed on the wall opposite you, blank and unyielding. The paint there had no answers, but it felt easier to stare into nothingness than to meet the truth written on his face.

Because you already knew the truth. YOu already understood the cruelty of survival.

The silence stretched, heavy as lead. Finally, the doctor cleared his throat, murmured a few last instructions, and slipped out of the room, leaving you in the echo of your own thoughts.

And in that quiet, hatred stirred.

It crawled like poison in your veins, ignited by every memory you had been forced to bury. You understood now, with a clarity that left you trembling, why your mother once told you that you were born out of hatred. That it was the first thing sewn into your being. It coursed through you now, hot and suffocating. Hatred for Bruce–for the way he abandoned you, building walls instead of bridges. Hatred for Dick–for how little he cared, always smiling too brightly for everyone else but leaving you in the shadows. Hatred for Tim– for the dismissive way he brushed you aside as if you were nothing more than background noise. Hatred for Stephanie–for being too inconsiderate, too caught up in her own mess to ever really see you. Hatred for Cassandra–for staying silent when  her eyes had already seen more than anyone else’s, but still not standing up for you. Hatred for Barbara–for her absence, for her excuses. Hatred for Damian– for the arrogance that dripped from him, for the way he put himself above you as though his blood made him more.

And, perhaps most painfully, hatred began to bloom for Jason. You never thought it was possible. Never thought there would come a day when his name would taste bitter on your tongue. But now, the truth seared itself into you: hatred for Jason, too. Hatred for the way he left you, hatred for the way his death carved holes in your heart that would never mend, hatred for the way his resurrection mocked your grief. A part of you died with him, and somehow, that part had never come back.

You closed your eyes, the weight of it all pressing against your chest like stone.

The door creaked open again. When you looked up, it wasn’t the doctor this time, it was Dr. Myles. She carried a small but genuine smile, the kind of smile that wasn’t meant to dismiss or deflect but to soften, to reassure.

“How are you feeling?” She asked gently, stepping closer.

You hesitated. Your instinct was to stay silent, to withdraw, but she had been the one to pull you out of death’s grip. Out of politeness, and maybe gratitude, you whispered, “I’m…alright. Thank you.”

Dr. Myles’ smile deepened. “YOu were very brave. You trusted me when even I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be. And because of that, you survived. That butterfly’s venom, it wasn’t tested for humans. Not once. Yet you believed in me, and in it.”

You lowered your eyes to your hands. Belief hadn’t been the reason. Desperation had been. But you didn’t correct her.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out a sleek, unopened phone box. Setting it on your bedside table, she said, “A new one. I know yours was destroyed. THere’s a sticky note taped to the back, it has my number, and my assistant’s. Call me if anything feels…unusual. The venom inside you, it’s changed you, in ways we still don’t fully understand. But don’t be afraid. Just keep me informed.”

Her words were a soft tether in the whirlwind of your thoughts. You nodded once. “Thank you,” you murmured again.

“Rest,” Dr. Myles said, pushing at the door. “The world can wait a little longer for you.” And then she was gone, her shadow retreating into the hallway’s sterile glow.

Two hours passed like ghosts drifting through the room. You waited, quiet and still, for the inevitable. For a guardian. For Alfred.

The last time you had been here, pushed off a roof, broken in ways  both visible and unseen, you remembered how small you felt in the hospital bed, swallowed by walls too tall, machines too loud. You remembered Bruce not showing up until later, as if you weren’t worth the urgency, as if your life was not tethered to his in any meaningful way. 

Would it be the same this time?

Would Bruce come? Would any of them? Would they forget you existed, or simply decide it didn’t matter?

Your mind conjured their excuses before they could: DIck, apologizing too late. Tim, pretending he didn’t see the call. Steph, brushing it off. Cass, saying nothing. Barbara, distant as ever. Damian, maybe he’d be the only one to admit it outright, cruel as his honesty was. Bruce would hide. He always hid.

Alfred, though. Alfred would come. He always did. He was the only one you trusted to mean the words “I’m sorry.”

And as if summoned by thought, the door opened. You hadn’t even heard the footsteps. Alfred stepped inside, and the moment your eyes met his, you saw it: the worry etched deep into his face, the lines carved by fear.

“Miss Y/n,” he whispered, his voice breaking just slightly.

For a moment, you wondered if he’d thought you were gone. If the fear that what happened to Jason had repeated itself haunted him the entire drive here.

You smiled faintly, small and fragile.

He was at your side in an instant, apologizing over and over. He hugged you, tight, sincere. The kind of hug you hadn’t felt in years. Maybe longer. YOu couldn’t even remember the last time someone held you like that.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Alfred murmured. “Are you alright? What happened?” His hands trembled faintly as he smoothed your hair back, his voice caught between desperation and relief.

You wanted to lie, to say yes. But you couldn’t. So instead you stayed silent, only resting your head against him.

He already knew the answer. He had read the newspapers. He had watched the news. He knew you had been under that table, dying. He knew about the flower, about the butterfly, about the miracle of survival. Still, he asked, not because he needed facts, but because he needed to hear you speak.

Hours passed before you were released. 

When you finally stepped into the manor, the warmth that should have felt like home instead felt suffocating.

The dining room was full, the batfamily gathered around the table. Their voices, once a chorus of chatter, fell silent the moment you entered. All eyes turned to you. Shock rippled through the room.

You walked to your seat, each step heavier than the last, and saw across from Dick. His mouth parted, words caught like thorns in his throat before finally breaking free.

“I heard about what happened,” he said quietly. “We… we all did. I’m sorry. I wish I knew. If I did, I would’ve gone there to help.”

The others nodded along, like puppets pulled by the same string. Everyone except Damian, who simply stared, unblinking.

You scoffed, I wish I knew. The phrase clanged in your skill like a broken bell. Of course, they knew. Of course, they wouldn’t admit it. Of course, none of them would dare to confess that they had ignored your call, dismissed your voice as unworthy of their time.

Beside you, at the head of the table, Bruce hid behind a newspaper. The headline bled across the page:

“S.T.A.R. Labs Burns After Attack–One Student Nearly Lost. Saved By Miracle Experiment.”

He wasn’t reading it. You could tell. His eyes were elsewhere, but his face, his face was carved in dread. Maybe he was seeing Jason’s death all over again. Maybe he was too scared to look at you.

You scoffed again, louder this time.

The apologies came next, soft and shallow. “We were worried.” “We’re glad you’re okay.” Words that felt empty, meaningless. You grew tired of them quickly. 

You shoved back your chair, the legs screeching against the floor, and stormed upstairs. Your door slammed, the lock clicked, and you left the silence wrap around you again. Sleep came.

But peace did not.

Your dreams twisted, dark and grotesque. Your mother appeared, her face burned and her eyes gone but she still wore her favorite red lipstick, whispering the words you could never forget: You were born out of hatred. Jason came next, the younger version of him, the one you loved and knew, screaming at you. “This is your fault. I died because of you.” Then the older Jason, the one reborn as Red Hood, lifting his guns and shooting, again and again, until you felt the pain tear you apart.

You woke drenched in sweat, tears streaking down your face. Your body was cold, but your head burned, throbbing with agony. You barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing in front of the toilet, heaving. 

Blood and flower petals spilled from your mouth. Crimson streaks tangled with fragile pinks and whites, beautiful and horrifying all at once.

You stared at them, breath ragged. Confusion buzzed at the edges of your mind, but exhaustion drowned it out. With shaking hands, you swallowed half the headache medicine in the cabinet, desperate for relief.

Back in your bed, sleep dragged you under again.

When you woke, morning light spilled through the curtains. Eight o’clock. Your headache was gone, but something else felt wrong. Strange. Different.

‘SCHOOL WILL PROBABLY BE CLOSED FOR THE WEEK, I’LL PROBABLY HAVE AN EXTRA WEEK OR A MONTH TO REST DUE TO MY INJURIES.’ you thought, then you winced as the words blared loudly. You brushed it off, continuing to make your way through the house. As you moved through the house, the thoughts roared in your head continuously, loud as if someone were whispering directly into your ear. ‘WHY ARE THE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD SO LOUD?”  You wondered as you sat down at the dining table, awaiting for your food as the others started to appear.

Then, you heard the doorbell ring as clear as day.

“Someone’s here,” you muttered.

Alfred frowned. “Pardon?” His face etched with confusion, looking at the others to check if they also heard the doorbell, their facial expression matched his.

“The doorbell,” you said, confused. “It rang-”

And then it rang.

Alfred froze, staring at you, puzzled. Slowly, he went to the door. The others at the table looked at you and then at each other, as if they were trying to see if you were crazy or not.

Moments later, Alfred came back with a letter in his hand, a letter from your school that read, “Dear Parents/Guardians of Y/n Wayne and Damian Wayne, School has closed for the week due to the field trip incident. Y/n has been given an extra week, or month (if needed), given her injuries.”

Your breath caught. You had known it already. It wasn’t just in your head.

Later, in your room, you tried to convince yourself it was the medicine, the venom. Just aftereffects. Nothing more.

But when you practiced your ice skating drills, stretching, practicing spins, you leapt into the air, and somehow landed on the ceiling.

Your feet stuck, planted where they shouldn’t be. Panic surged as you waved your arms, trying not to fall. ‘WHY AM I STICKING TO THE CEILING? HOW DID I EVEN GET UP HERE? STOP STICKING!!!’ you scrambled across the ceiling, onto the wall, trapped in gravity’s betrayal. ‘WAIT–MAYBE I SHOULD TRY AND RELAX, THINK THINGS THROUGH.’

Finally, when you forced yourself to breathe, to calm, you slipped back down, landing with the grace of a dancer.

The truth settled like a weight in your stomach. You weren’t imagining this.

You picked up the phone Dr. Myles had given you and called.

The next day, she guided you to a second S.T.A.R. Labs, hidden, advanced, secure. Her office was cluttered with papers, screens alive with recordings of the butterfly. She explained everything, her voice alight with excitement.

“The abilities you’re experiencing, they come from the butterfly. When it healed you, it seemed to have duplicated your blood cells. It enhanced your DNA with its own. It wanted you to live so badly that it gave you its gifts. Nature itself, written into your body.”

On her monitor, you saw it: the butterfly duplicating flowers, making rocks levitate, summoning waves, glowing with impossible resilience, and much more that left you shocked.

“With these powers,” Dr. Myles said, eyes gleaming, “you could save the world. You could save Gotham.”

You think of Gotham like a wound you cannot close. Its hunger for hands that fix it has been masculine and violent in the way it looks for saviors.You thought about the vigilantes that you were already surrounded by. How they use their ‘duty’ as a way to neglect you. How they use their pain and trauma to belittle you. You didn’t want to be like them. You do not want to be one more weapon in its city of fractured mirrors. You shook your head. “No, I can’t. I don’t want to be part of this city.”

Dr. Myles was understanding but she still gave you a trial. Her smile faltered, but she didn’t argue. “Then take three days. Think about it. But know this: the powers are irreversible. To get rid of them…it would kill you.”

You nodded, silent.

That night, you wandered the slums. Sirens screamed in the distance, the city’s broken heart pounding in your ears. You thought about the rich, perched on their high horses, blind to the pain below. You thought about how Bruce wasn’t any different, even if it seemed he was. You then thought about yourself, how you, too, weren’t any different. You walk into parts of the slums because you have to understand what your choice will mean. If you decide to do nothing, then everything you might do is wasted potential. If you do something, you will be another tool the city may ignore because of its man-made cleverness to prefer spectacle to quiet repair.

The air turned acrid, smoke curling through the streets. Ahead, an apartment building burned. Flames devoured the night, people screaming below. A little girl cried from an upper window, her mother sobbing in the street.

You saw how no one moved to help. The firefighters were too slow.

You stood there, contemplating. Should you or should you not help? It’s not like you have any experience with saving little girls from fires. But, the good in you grew. You were worried, concerned. You wanted to help.

You ran inside. The heat seared your skin as you went through every apartment, getting closer to the girl. Inside the stairwell the heat presses against your chest as if it were a hand trying to regret you into submission. The floor boards moan and the plaster drops like old skin. You find the small girl in a room where a beam has fallen and blocked the door, a wide bruise of fire swallowing the corner. She is a knotted thing in the middle of chaos, eyes wide and full of grammarless pleas.

“It’s okay,” you called, voice steady despite the fear clawing your throat. “I’ll get you out.”

You scaled the area, defeating odds with possibilities and made your way to the girl. You stand by the girl and see the clear tears on her face that turned grim by the ash on her face. You then realize that the only way out is through the window and the ground is 16ft below. You looked at her with a genuine smile on your face, reassuring her.

“Hold my hands,” you tell her. Your voice is even in the way emergency teaches. “Close your eyes if you have to. It will make things less bright.”

She grips you like a life preserver. Her hands are hot and tiny and fearless in their need.

 You looked out the window, taking in how the ground looks like a drop into nothing and then an assertion of everything. You consider the firemen’s arrival but the world has a slowness when it decides not to move. People shout below, the mother knelt on the ground and praying that her child gets down in one piece.

Before you move with her on your back, the girl hiccups, voice small and urgent, “I’m scared.”

It’s okay to be scared,” you say, surprising yourself with the softness. “I’m scared, too.”

Her grip on you becomes even tighter, her head pushing against your back. You begin to climb out the window, your toes press to the lintel and instinct does what training will not give you yet. Your feet find the wall with an odd trust. The city’s paint feels like cool dry skin beneath your soles and you walk down, controlled and patient, a dancer negotiating flame.

When you land, the crowd below opens into a river of noise. The mother flows to the girls and folds her into arms that crack with good things like prayer. You watched them with jealousy, as your mother never hugged you nor cared about your safety, but you smiled as you were happy for the both of them. The firemen are late by minutes that feel like lifetimes. People cheer for you, not even knowing your name, but you feel the surge of a heartbeat that has nothing to do with the danger and everything to do with sudden recognition.

“You saved her,” the mother suddenly beams, breathing in a ragged way. “You saved my baby.”

You think of Dr. Myles’ file room and the black rectangle she pressed into your palm. You think of the morpho and the way its wings beat a small mend into the world. For the first time since the lab, something in your chest goes not brittle but whole. The city is a wound but you have hands that can sew.

You stand in the ash and heat and say, more to the universe than to anyone, “I will try.”

It is a promise and it is no promise. It is an offering you do not know how to keep but cannot unmake. The high horse people will continue to sit and look down. You will have to choose whether to climb down from their perch or let the city keep burning.

You walk away with soot in your shoes and the smell of smoke like a bruise on your skin and you feel the first honest, heavy tilt of purpose. You do not know what the future will ask of you, but somehow the knowledge that a child’s arms wrapped around your neck and did not let go is a compass that points you forward.

[bnny0rgnz]

hellooo! could i be added to the taglist of butterfly effect? i don't usually ask since this is an rp acc and all, but im too interested!

omg, ofc!!!

[bnny0rgnz]

I don't know why I feel butterfly reader theme will be Princess of Power album by Marina especially the songs Princess of Power, Butterfly, Everyone knows I'm sad, and Final Boss.

Ooh, I definitely need to listen!

[bnny0rgnz]

I just realized I replied before reading chapter 4 😭😭😭

I'M SO SORRYYYY

it's okay loll!!!!

[bnny0rgnz]

I made fan art for the ongoing story hope you like it.

Ong this is so cool!!!!

[bnny0rgnz]

Y/N Wanye!!!!

Vigilante suit ⬆️

An evil vigilante(?),

Like I think, Y/N would be so hurt and anger driven that she decides to become like them but like— the worst version of themselves.

I believe she would be like the one pulling the strings from behind the scenes, being the head of murder and human/child trafficking rings.

But I believe she would still want to help others.

So, she starts destroying the rings from the inside, which is more efficient than the outside!

None of the batman knows about this!

To them, it's a new vigilante who kills and directs illegal rings.

And her vigilante name is 'Butterfly'.

And she like has powers from that butterfly from chapter 3!!

So, she's a 'dangerous meta' in their eyes.

But as 'butterfly', she still helps Jason,

Giving him information,

Lessening the load that's on his shoulders,

But he hates it,

And wants to get rid of 'butterfly' as fast as possible.

And there are two 'What ifs' in my head after thinking that if such does happen.

One, what if, her 'powers' start eating at her slowly?

Like, she starts losing her sanity and decaying due to her powers?

And her death would be flowers blooming out of her body that has eggs of the rare butterfly species? Like that's how the butterfly's species reproduce? By using a creature's body as a vessel for there eggs?

Or

Two, what if, 'Red hood' kills 'butterfly'?

Or

Both of them combined!

But that's just my silly thoughts

(*≧ω≦*)

the fact that you're kind of close to the actual plot is amazing!