hello!! im pinball or brokenpinballmachine. I've been hyperfixiated on like a BUNCH of fandoms recently, you can ask if I can write for ur fandom!!
I am enfp and asian guys yeah so sorry but english is NOT my native language
Im into kpop, sonic, Dc - specifically batfam, orv, alnst, crk, and a bunch of animes. I will write most things but this is mostly a MALE / GN reader zone (most of my fics might be gn). I can write mlm, mlw, etc etc just not SPECIFICALLY female reader,, that being said,, idc who reads my fics just dont be weird (like a proshitter or whtv)
I dump whatever I have on my brain.
posting schedule: I usually try to post everyday—esp if i have fic ideas in my inbox!
I will write: dark/heavy themes or topics, fluff, angst, m!reader, gn!reader, ftm reader, child/sib/baby reader etc. etc, literally just anything not on my 'i will not write' list,
I will not write: smut (tbd in future), incest (x family readers are PURELY platonic), stepcest, p3d0 shit. Might get updated in future.
u might be asking me why and when and how and kys but basically: the reason why I wrote fics/read fics in the first place was because i was lonely as hell and it was fun imagining myself in non-lonely scenarios!!!
but now i have an awesome lovely irl bf so im not lonely anymore and i lowk forgot about tumblr
BUT dont worry all of my day 1s i love you all and the draft fics will be unlocked one day or another and ill check every so often!!!
tw: erm psychological shit happens and erm erm erm theres a fire and unconfirmed death and erm yeah i lowk dont know what I was doing with this one bc everytime I wrote this like late at nighgt so
word count: 4k
To feel, to love, to hold, to be held. It was basic human connection you were stripped away from at a young age, barricaded in your room that felt alien in a hauntingly cold manor. You felt your own sweat trickle down your forehead as you sobbed into your clothes, gripping the hem of your shirt tighter; you called out for someone. You don't know who, but you called out for someone to save you.
Maybe it was for your dead mother, who was only in her thirties before you watched her body fall to the floor.
A heart attack, you overheard the doctors telling Bruce. A fatal one.
Maybe it was for Alfred. The only one who had attempted to know you—to understand where you were coming from; a child whose heart was too big to fit in their own body. A porcelain heart worn on your sleeve that could no longer bear the weight of your own shoulders.
But Alfred seemed to be more of a hazy memory nowadays, with Bruce mourning a child he had lost to what seemed like so long ago, and Tim having more importance than you in the manor’s hierarchy. He became a passing figure.
You cried louder, harder. You just wanted the attention, didn't you? The tears that poured out of your eyes were just a ruse, weren't they?
You selfish little thing.
Always wanting, always needing. Never enough were you satisfied.
You have everything at your disposal, yet you yearn for more. The gluttony that shattered your ever-growing heart feasts on the small appetizers of attention, doesn't it?
When they look your way ever so slightly, you gobble up the sight like a starving man, don't you?
So timid, so stupid, so trusting enough that you truly believe they ever had enough space in their bodies for someone’s heart as big as yours.
What can you do? Are you as smart as Tim? Are you as agile as Dick? Helpful like Alfred?
And, God forbid, were you as mourned—missed—as much as Jason?
And there you lie: crumpled up with your legs pinned to your chest as if it were a lifeline, crying into your knees as if anyone would hear you.
Listen to your heartbeat thump erratically in your chest.
In the corner of your small, small room. In the bed where you lie—with the sheets stained wet from hours and hours of disharmonious sobs escaping your throat.
Do you think anyone is going to save you?
Do you think you deserved to be saved?
You selfish little thing.
Your throat hurts. You lie still now. You can't cry anymore. It ran out. The tears stopped. Just like last night.
You're aware of your surroundings. Too aware; too quiet. The crickets chirp loudly as if mocking you.
And then you feel it: cold, lifeless hands that touch your cheek so softly, so gently, like you were a glass sculpture. Rubbing your cheeks with an icy thumb as if the broken shards of your heart could be mended together with a few strokes. It tilts your head up, forcing you to look at the owner of the body part as you feel your mouth run dry.
You. A soulless version of you. Dressed to the nines in a previous gala outfit, flawless skin, fashionable jewelry flickering in your eyes. Everything you could be. Everything you wanted to be.
Its cold hands trace your jaw before resting on your cheek, its face giving you a smile. You couldn't tell what emotion lay behind it. Your breath hitches. It copies you mockingly. You don't understand why, but the smile felt unnerving—unnatural to you the longer you seemed to stare at it. As if it were plastered on like a cheap, manufactured plastic doll. The ends of its mouth were too wide; too curved.
It opens its mouth.
“Oh dear,”
Its hand continued to cup your cheek, rubbing away a few wet spots on your tear-stained face. “You did well.”
You don't respond. You don't know how to respond. The cold fingers lazily stroked your cheek. “Look at you... so helpless, so lost. Taking advantage of them. You don't know where to go from here, do you?”
Its smile formed more of a smirk. “Every night, they're working their asses off, yet you play victim? You, who’s sitting ever so still in this lavish mansion with everything it could ever offer you? You're still not satisfied?”
It leans in closer to you, your eyes widening as you can feel both of the cold hands slowly make their way to your throat. Your throat felt like it was on fire, as if the words you wanted to say shattered as soon as they went past the esophagus, only allowing a few quick, incoherent stutters through as the result of it. You could feel its breath slowly inch closer to you as it spoke up again.
“Don't you pity them? Or are you going to remain a burden?”
Sensing your shoulders tense up, soft circles are rubbed on your neck with its thumbs. Lifeless hands touch your cheek one more time before being held behind its back, the saccharine smile dropping as it leans forward, mouth near your ear; the words spoken were like a lullaby, a gentle lull.
“You selfish little thing,”
And nothing else. You freeze in place. The smile is plastered back on its face as it takes a few steps back. You look it in the eye; it stares back at you coldly. You refuse to tear your gaze away as you stare at it, watching it slowly inch away from you, almost tauntingly. Turning its back on you, it moves towards the door, opening it and leaving into the manor.
The soft ’click’ of the doorway leaves you back to your own thoughts.
Alone. You always are.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
Ever since that night you saw them—you saw that version of you. Even after years passed, it followed you everywhere, saying nothing but silently observing. When you turn your head and lock your gaze on it, it would still be in the corner of the room, watching, waiting; a new outfit, you notice. A shiny metal brooch in the shape of a heart, red in color, pinned to their chest. It stares back—still ever so lifeless, like an antique doll. You suddenly lose your appetite.
The Christmas dinner in front of you looked more and more daunting as you tried not to throw up on the spot.
’Be more grateful,’ you thought to yourself as the other you stared you down, its silent smile still plastered on its face. You didn't know if it had any facial muscles at all from how still it sat.
And no one noticed.
Dick and a resurrected Jason argued about something trivial. Tim would comment on it, Jason would reply back with something snarky. Damian ignored them, eating his food thoughtfully. Whenever someone would respond with something dumb, he simply chose to roll his eyes or scoff at the idiocy.
No one noticed as you shivered, as you sweat nervously, as your fingers trembled ever so slightly as if something was wrong.
No one noticed but them, still staring back, staring at you.
Your chest tightened. Everything felt off; you didn't want to ruin tonight for anybody. It was one of the only few days where everyone would come together and spend time (save for you, obviously).
Your eyes dart back to the figure standing in the corner for what felt like the umpteenth time as your grip on the metal handle of your fork tightened.
’Be grateful, Alfred worked hard on this plate.’
The first few bites of food took convincing, and even then you still felt like forcing everything out.
“Is everything alright, Master Y/n?”
Alfred’s words snap you out of your thoughts as you look around—dead silent as the whole family turned to you. You notice the silverware that had dropped on the floor.
You could feel Bruce’s stare burn holes in your head as you tried to formulate a response, short stutters only being able to come out.
Your chest tightens further, and your heart aches.
“I... I need a minute,” you were quickly able to let out as you shift your feet, pushing your chair out, which let out a horrible screech as you made a run for it to your room.
Damian scoffs, Tim gives you a weird look, Jason doesn't acknowledge you, Dick tries to change the subject.
You lock your door, but you still see them in the corner.
Their haunting gaze. No matter where you ran, where you hid, they always seemed to follow. To hell and back, you could never get rid of them.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
“This one is for you, Jay!” Dick had a smile, one he couldn't read, making Jason raise a brow. “It's from me, so cherish it with your heart, okay?”
Jason chuckled as he quickly caught the box thrown by Dick, giving it a small rattle near his ear before roughly handling the package, tearing the Red Hood–themed wrapping open without a care.
He grabs a Nightwing keychain out of the box and a shiny white mug that read ’I've laughed in the face of the devil’ in black text.
Tim crosses his arms, snorting as he held out an identical Nightwing keychain in his hand. “Very creative, Dick,” he smirked.
Damian scowled, also holding out an identical keychain, his eyebrows furrowing as if asking, ’Really?’
“What? It's so you guys have me wherever you go!” Dick smiled.
“Grayson, your... small figurine is quite... ’charming’, but will probably be lost underneath my bed at the end of this week,” Damian responded sarcastically as he held it with his pointer finger and thumb as if it were a specimen.
Bruce sits on the couch, reading a new headline about him, with gifts from his children next to him. He eyed the fountain pen gifted to him by you, but said nothing of it.
The last set of gifts remain. Tim picks one up curiously as he read the tags. “From... Y/n,” he reads aloud, each gift having their names written on it carefully.
The room suddenly freezes, not only from the tense moment from earlier, but due to the lack of gifts that were marked ’To: Y/n’.
Dick bit his lip nervously as he grabbed the box labeled for him, speaking up first. “I can... go check up on them later?” He gives his brothers a lopsided smile.
Jason stared intently at his gift. Shiny, sleek wrapping paper. Thoughtfully wrapped, only to be torn down by his brutish hands. His gaze lingered on the stairway where you had run off to a beat too long before his gaze returned to the present.
As Tim took his own gift, he opened his mouth. “They were probably nervous, is all.” Damian takes his gift with a scoff, muttering something incoherent under his breath; Tim could barely make out the word ’useless’ but chose to ignore it.
“Hey, it's almost movie time.” Dick points to Alfred, who held up a bucket of buttery popcorn. The other brothers turn towards the direction Dick was pointing at, pushing the thought of Y/n to the back of their heads.
The savory smell wafted around the room, tickling each of their noses as they leaned in closer. Jason takes a piece, throwing it in the air and catching it with his mouth. Tim tried to imitate, but failed, earning a giggle from Dick. Damian plopped a piece in his mouth, savoring the buttery flavor of the popcorn as it melted; when no one was looking, he swiped a few more pieces quickly.
Dick quickly left the room before returning with a dozen or so CDs in his arms, dropping them flat on the shiny floors with a thud. “Alright, you know the drill! Pick a movie!”
“I do not care in whatever movie we waste our time watching, except the idiotic railway engine,” Damian thinks aloud.
“Polar Express?” Jason snickered as he grabbed its DVD. “Alright, we've picked out the movie we're watching tonight.”
Much to Damian’s dismay and his protests, the intro to The Polar Express movie plays aloud as each of the family gets comfortable on the couch with Bruce.
“Don't turn up the volume too loud,“ Bruce comments warmly.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
Freezing.
You were shivering head to toe, breath uneasy as violent sobs escaped your lips once more.
They turned a blind eye; not once did they check up on your well-being.
And in the corner of the room was your figure. Posture straight, luxury clothes. A shadow cast on them, blocking away most of its facial features—but its eyes. They were still staring at you. Watching your every movement like a hawk, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
Your family was asleep. It struck midnight a while ago, but you shook in your dark bedroom, legs pressed against your chest as you cried. Just like last night. Just like the night before that.
“Please—” you breathed out, sweaty—desperate. “What do you want from me?”
It didn't respond. It continued to stand still in the corner of your room.
“Please, please, please,” your words turned into an incoherent ramble as you could barely make out any of the words you were saying. Your sobs overpowered you as you cried out, just like the time when you first saw them, sobbing for someone to save you, for someone to hold you.
And soon enough, you jolt at the slam of your door, craning your head to see the source of the noise: Bruce, followed by your brothers.
You clutched your blanket tighter, hiccuping as you couldn't stop the never-ending tears flowing down your cheek. You weren't sure why you couldn't stop crying. You didn't want to cry anymore. Your figure was still staring at you.
Tired, Bruce tried to talk to you. You couldn't understand a single word he was saying. Tim rubbed his eyes behind him. There was a ringing in your ears, and you felt nauseous.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he turns back to the brothers, mouthing ’false alarm’. When he looks back at your bawling figure, he opens his mouth: “Get a hold of yourself.”
You can't respond. You don't know how to respond. The room feels like it's spinning. Your head feels dizzy.
You watched as everyone slowly left your room, eyes glossy but numb, staring off into nothingness. Damian left first, followed by Bruce, then Tim. Jason looked at you with an uneasy glance before walking out, with Dick following closely behind him.
The figure in the corner finally moves.
“Aren't you happy?” It tilts your head with its finger. “You have their attention now. Isn't this what you've always wanted?”
You try to open your mouth to speak, but they force it closed. “Selfish little thing,” its smile made your own blood run cold as you shiver again. “So, so, so utterly broken. So lost. So selfish.”
The words repeat in your head like a broken record player.
Your throat felt like it was losing air. Air—you need air. You need to go out, get out, anywhere but here. It's too tight here, too claustrophobic for you and your big heart.
Your legs move before your mind can process anything as you feel it head for the exit of the Wayne Manor.
The cool air brushes your skin as you walk towards a lamppost. You don't know where you're going. Your other self follows behind you slowly.
You can never truly escape yourself.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
“Y/n... missing?” Bruce muttered under his breath as he skimmed the surveillance footage. Alfred nods worriedly beside him. He had attempted to wake you up, but after hearing nothing but silence, entered your room only to find messy sheets lying on the bed instead of your body.
Bruce opens his mouth but quickly gets cut off when Tim enters. “Bruce! Joker’s been spotted up north again!” He yells urgently before catching himself. Coughing into his palm, he explains the situation to his father.
Bruce only nods. While your case was important, he couldn’t ignore a villain either. Maybe by luck he, or one of his many kids, would be able to find you coincidentally? He doesn't rely on luck much, but it seemed it was all he could do now.
Alfred sighs, seeing Bruce walk away with Tim and head towards the others, neatly organizing the files placed on Bruce's desk. He just hoped with all his heart you were okay. If Bruce didn't find you soon, it would only be a matter of time before he had to take things into his own hands—and he'd prefer not to do that.
Was there an attempt on their end? Well, yes.
Not only would it look bad for a Wayne to randomly go missing (not that you were popular with the media anyway), but you were still a sibling to them, and Bruce was still a father.
He's messed up a few times here and there, but who hasn't?
“They’ll get over it...” Jason finally acknowledged the elephant in the room later at the dining table. He wasn't eating—no, he had already eaten. He leaned against the wall near the doorway and had his arms crossed, his leather jacket riding up slightly.
Yet his chair wasn't the only chair empty.
Tim glanced at your empty chair. He did try his best to run scans on all of Gotham’s security footage... keyword: tried.
But there was just so much to look at, and he felt like there were bigger fish to fry.
Damian didn't understand how to feel.
He didn't understand why he would be worried about someone so useless like you. You were a messy storm tied by a string that would snap at any second.
The same thread that somehow wove its way into their lives, even if it was unnoticed.
You were in the background for your whole life, but the moment you were removed, something felt wrong.
His thoughts are interrupted when Dick bursts through the entrance, panting heavily as he spoke urgently.
“A... A fire! There's a burning theatre a few miles away, I just got a report!”
Bruce halts, setting his fork down on his dinner plate, nodding swiftly at his children as they nod in return.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
Music plays throughout the theatre, harmonizing with the screams and echoes of the people pushing through like a stampede of wild animals.
The chords are all extended, allowing a jazz-like melody to play through the cacophony of cries and sobs. The structure of the roof fell little by little until the silent sky shone brighter than the flames encasing the building.
Dick pushed through the sea of people, Bruce quickly behind him. Firefighters were on the scene, attempting to subdue the never-ending flame.
Jason ushered people out. Tim and Damian checked exit spots to see if they could spot a culprit.
Smoke rose higher than the violins that gracefully played, the beautiful piano accompanying it like a dance. Tim and Damian moved quickly—efficiently, yet they couldn't find anything.
Underneath the track was a beat reminiscent of bossa nova—a more glaring indicator of its genre, yet wouldn’t be complete without it—drums beating like Dick’s heart as he tried to see if there was anyone still left in the building.
The guitar strummed like a pulsing flame. The bass under the track was pulling everything together, building cohesion, making everything sound smooth.
Unlike how Bruce felt. Unlike the chaos that surrounded him.
A xylophone played a slight countermelody in the background, ever so slightly, but without it, the piece would have felt bland. Jason was struggling to calm everyone down through the chaos. He tried not to yell; he was really trying his best.
The vocals were haunting.
Soft, airy.
Like whispers underneath the moonlight.
A secret best kept hidden.
The music played repeatedly over and over again, the track only a few minutes long, yet it seemed to be on loop the entire time.
It felt familiar to the family.
Like a distant memory.
If they reached out, would they be able to grasp their sense of déjà vu?
Or would it slip through their fingers endlessly, time and time again, over and over again?
Questions were left unanswered, all except one:
You.
When Bruce and Dick had finally reached the auditorium after pushing through a few flames, they saw you.
Standing there, like the distant memory they were chasing after, a vinyl record playing the song near you.
It felt louder now that they were at the origin of the sound.
You stood there quiet, yet smiling. It was unreadable. Bruce couldn't tell what emotion lay behind it.
The fire danced gracefully near you, like a performance.
Soon after, everyone else arrived, confusion etched on their faces, wondering why you were here.
The vocals went silent as the song dwindled down into a soft melody nearing the end of its track.
Jason was the first to move.
The final chord strummed before a horrifying vision overtook all of them:
You, their soft-hearted sibling who would sob themselves to sleep every night, engulfed in the burning flames like a wildfire, the whole stage being burned up as the fire peaked at a new height.
And the song finally laid its last breath.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
The next night afterwards was quiet.
The family all sat at the dinner table, utensils clattering against plates as they ate in silence.
What was there to be said?
At the head sat Bruce. Beside him on the left was Dick, and on the right was Damian. Beside Damian was Tim, and Jason was next to Dick.
Your seat was near the end of the table, and no one sat across from you.
Yet despite all that had happened, your seat was not empty.
There, in your chair, sat you.
Smiling. Dressed to the nines, flawless skin, fashionable jewelry flickering in their eyes.
Gaze so cold and unrelenting. A ruby red heart brooch lay on its chest; its posture straight and perfect.
It sat still, watching them eat. Dick tried not to make eye contact. Jason didn't acknowledge it—he couldn't. Tim felt his appetite being lost. Damian hadn't touched his plate at all.
Bruce sat silent, as he always was, but there was an uncomfortable tension around him.
And you—the other version of you, the one who tormented you endlessly—sat still and watched with its lifeless eyes.
Smiling, waiting.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
can you tell where I got the inspiration from? teehee
hey guys... i know this wasn;t requested but i swear im working on all of the anon fics in my inbox... slowly.. but surely...!
this fic is quite red for my whole page being blue.
I CANT FIND IT BUT I KNOW WHAT YOUR TALKING ABOUT OMG I THINK THEY DID ANOTHER AU OR IM CONFUSING IT
FROM WHAT I REMEMBER I THINK IN ONE OF THE CHAPTERS THE BATFAM WALK INTO THE PLACE READER WAS WORKING AT AND READER REALIZED THAT THEY WERE SOULMATES AND WAS LIKE “oh shit..“ AND THEN THEY FUCK UP THEIR JOB... I randomly encountered the fic once (I thought i liked repost and commented but ig i didn't...) and could never find it again UGH FUCK MY LITTLE PONY LIFE💔 I think it was just mafia and soulmate au
guys I've been searching for a fanfic for like ages now and I can't find it... It's a batfam x gn(?) reader fic and it's mafia au + soulmate au and the reader works as a waiter i think... I don't remember much of the plot but I think it had something to do with colors on the wrists ???? I think reader accidentally tripped and smashes a few plates too... it was platonic
As for me, I think the plot is that Batman!Reader lives in a post-apocalyptic world. In a mission to defuse a bomb that will destroy the world, unfortunately Batman!Reader failed, their world was destroyed but Batman!Reader fell into a space tunnel to Gotham (Not the world of Batman!Reader) before the bomb exploded.
Batman!Reader must deal with another world that is still alive and not as devastated as their own.
Reader is gn
oooh yes oohh la la me likey this prompt......... there werent many specifics so i took some creative liberties!! i hope you dont mind...
hi guys yeah sorry i died again... oops anyways yes. i have a bunch of fics in my inbox that im trying to go through !!!
⊹ ࣪ ˖ batfam x alternate universe batman gn!reader
"my september"
tw: the world fucking ends, blood, death
word count: 3k
You still remember.
Every night you still remember.
You cradle his body—the body that used to cradle yours. The warmth in his chest slowly disappearing, leaking out with the blood on your hands—his blood.
The blood of the man you once knew as your father, now dead in an over-glorified costume, and you didn't even have the chance to say goodbye.
You didn't even have the chance to tell him "I love you" one last time.
Because even if the words flowing out of your tear-stained face were quick, the bullet will always be quicker.
You hold onto him like a lifeline; if he died, something inside of you would die too, and you wouldn't know where to go from there.
"Please, Bruc—dad," you sob out, your arms wiping away the snot that seemed to trickle out ever so slightly. "Please, please—I—"
The words in your throat seemed to stop, and the only thing you could sob out were violent screams. Violent screams that it should've been you instead of Bruce. Why did he have to jump in front of you?
Because he was a hero.
And you were just a kid.
You were just a kid when the Joker killed your father. People know him as 'Brucie', Bruce Wayne, Batman, but you'll remember him as the one who died for you.
You were just a kid when you pushed the mantle of Batman onto yourself, despite Alfred's protests, convincing yourself it was what your father would've wanted. Someone needed to protect Gotham after he had passed.
You were just a kid when you had to raise another kid, Dick Grayson, your brother. A starry-eyed kid who had a bright future laid out for him—you didn't want to reveal the truth, but you had to, one day or another.
You told him: "He's dead," and he wrangled in Alfred's grasp, yelling that he wouldn't believe it until he saw Bruce's dead body with his own eyes. Yet you couldn't visit his grave because, in truth, you didn't believe it either.
You were just a kid when the Wayne Enterprises were in your hands. Homeschool with Alfred in the day, business in the afternoon, Batman at night. You constantly checked the mirror, plucking out the gray hairs that seemed to reappear like a bad memory.
You were just a kid when, in fury, unable to come to terms, you killed the Joker. Gun in hand, shaky fingers pulling the trigger, a large BOOM rang throughout the room, and before you knew it—you went against everything your father had taught you.
You couldn't look at Dick that night. Nor could you look at Alfred. The blood on your hands doubled, and you felt like a monster.
You barely went out anymore, letting Alfred and Dick comfort you by your sides—but you felt selfish. You grieved the Joker because you killed him, but another grieved because they were the love of their life.
Harley Quinn, oh, poor Harley. You felt as if you were just as bad as the Joker, killing away someone that another person had loved so dearly. Rage filled every bone in your body, and your vision was clouded with anger, and soon, regret.
Harley Quinn—now under the alias 'Jess Terr'—donned a suit homage to the Joker, the same shades of purple and green haunting you on the streets as well as in your mind.
And Dick, who clings to your side as Robin, too afraid to let you go—that if you disappeared from his line of sight, you would die as well. Alfred and you were the only two people he had left in the world.
The media knew something had happened—a freak accident. Bruce Wayne had died in a car crash, Batman retired, a new Bat hero taking the scene of the stage.
Yet the media shifted its attention on a new klutz: Y/n Wayne, the new star of the show. Like a hand-me-down replica found in the thrift store.
You attempted to imitate Bruce's persona, a kooky, lovable person who had too much money to spend. You did everything he did—charities, balls, parties. You wore his smile like second skin. It was as if he never truly disappeared.
But you knew better.
The news articles would pile up with your name, large, bolded, and in the headlines. A new scandal you'd wrapped yourself around, a new penthouse you bought, a new organization you made a partnership with.
You started to wonder if all of this was really worth it—if this whole cycle you lived out every day was worth it.
"Master Y/n, might I suggest you take a break from your vigilante life today?" Alfred asked behind you.
You didn't respond at first, focusing on the little sounds that seemed to enter your ear. The clink of Dick's plates in front of you, the small breaths from your nose, the way your heartbeat pumped faster in your chest.
And then: "I'm sorry, Alfred, but as long as Gotham is awake, I am needed."
A tired sigh escaped the butler's lips, an answer he expected from you. Of course, he did; you were just like your father—stubborn, relentless, yet noble. The very cause of his death.
Your brother whispered from behind you, tugging on your sleeves. "You promise to come back home tonight?" he asked, his eyes glossy.
Biting your lip, you nod. You were scared. Not because you had a reputation to uphold, not because of the new life you were living, not because you were afraid of being exposed—you were scared that you would leave Dick waiting, home alone. Just like he did.
You would die on the streets and you would break a fragile promise that seemed to connect the two of you together every night. Just like he did.
He let go of you and watched your fading figure leave.
He wanted to go with you tonight, yet Alfred prevented him from going. "You need a good night's sleep," he would tell him. "Young children aren't supposed to be awake at this time of day."
So he watched, watched from the window. He woke up early in the mornings to watch you return, to hug you, to make sure you were still living, breathing.
Yet you woke up every day and felt like a failure, no matter how many times Alfred told you otherwise. You cried in your own arms as you felt how rough your skin was—a testament to your new life.
You felt the scars you seemed to gain every night after a careless decision from a battle; Bruce wouldn't have done that. Bruce would've been more careful.
The scars on your body showed how much of a novice you still were, and it pained you that you still weren't good enough.
In your dreams, Bruce would hold you tightly (similar to how you held him on that night). Alfred would watch. Dick would jump into his arms too, and he would always catch him. The four of you took a picture, Dick would draw a doodle of it, soon to be hung up on the fridge with a magnet.
And you wake up, panting. Your heartbeat thudding in your chest as sweat trickles down the side of your forehead, looking around the dark room with widened eyes and bated breath. 'He's not here,' you remind yourself; you never knew if you were talking about Bruce or the Joker.
You still felt like a kid as you watched Dick, the previous bond between the two of you growing distant.
He was making a name for himself. He wasn't just 'a Robin' anymore, not a sidekick, but a human. A human being with emotions of love and joy, of passion—the very same emotions that bled out of you so many years ago when you gave up your name and took on Bruce's.
You still felt like a kid when you visited his grave. Your father's. Holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley, you placed them down near the other flowers and gifts people had left him.
You still felt like a kid when you dressed up in your batsuit, kicking Jess in the face as another one of her attempts to kill you failed. You were nothing but a faded picture of your dad.
Why are you so incompetent?
Why are you still trying so hard to cling onto something long past?
A picture—a still picture of you and Bruce, a tooth missing from your mouth, lies still on your nightstand. The edges of the golden picture frame were faded from your tender caresses.
He held you with his charming smirk on his face.
What would he say now?
What would he say, watching you kick the face of Jess, whose anger against you was understood? Watching as a bruise forms on her ghastly pale face.
You weren't sure anymore if it was her makeup or her lack of self-care.
Her green hair was messily dyed, her clown makeup was wobbly, as if she had rushed to put it on. She had permanent mascara marks flowing down her cheeks.
She was just like you—yet the stains of your tears never stayed.
You had to be strong. Set an example for Gotham, be the hope that never dwindles under the decaying sky of the crime-riddled city.
"Please, Jess," you try to plead with her.
She scoffs, swinging her mallet towards you. "Please, Jess, my ass!" She yells out in pain, on the verge of tears.
It was a game of cat and mouse every night. Jess would make some plan to kill you, you would save yourself in the nick of time. Every night, you tried to reason with her, but it would all turn out futile in the end.
A wide smile was plastered on her face, the grin unnaturally wide. "If I can't kill you, I'll just kill everyone here!"
You stare at her, jaw clenching. Robin, who you had called for the mission, stands behind you in a fighting stance.
"Guess what? After every night of playing our little game, I hid tons and tons of nuclear bombs underneath Gotham. Ain't that fun?" She spoke through her tears, still grinning. "If you don't defuse it, it'll kill everyone here! Maybe the whole world if I'm lucky enough!" She laughs maniacally as a timer starts to count down, disappearing into the shadows before you could track her down.
The two of you locate the bomb immediately—you scoff at how you hadn't noticed sooner.
Robin looks at you. "How are we going to defuse the bomb? There are so many wires!" He holds pliers in his hand.
As you take them from him, you notice the sweat on his fingers. He was looking at you for reassurance, but you weren't sure if you would be able to give him any.
You give Robin a task: try to find a wire that looked different from the rest. You knew it was impossible—like finding a needle in a haystack, yet you didn't want to let him down. You needed to seem like you had a plan.
You rack your head for any memories—any clues and hints Jess might've dropped, anything that could hint at how to defuse the bomb.
Half-minute mark, your hands are shaking, your legs are trembling. You're scared. You want your dad back.
You search, search like a madman. You analyze each wire, which ones have metal coatings, which ones are different colors—you can't do it anymore. You're hyperventilating. You were never cut out for this job, goddammit, pull yourself together, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe—
You watch Dick, tears in his eyes as he calls out to you again.
You place the pliers over a random wire before pulling back. You had one attempt, one life. You miss Bruce.
You cut a random one, the bomb doesn't go off but the timer's still counting down. Dick looks at you with wide eyes; he's scared.
You start cutting every wire, yet nothing happens. Dick tugs on your cape, tears in his eyes as he sobs in your chest; the words coming out of his mouth were frantic, panicked.
A voice rings through the room, coming from the timer: "Just kiddin', Bats! None of these wires are real; the bomb goes off regardless of which wire you cut!"
You kiss Dick on his forehead, knowing it would be your last.
Then it all just stopped.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
When you woke up, you saw a bright flash of light—and then the sun, directly above you.
Grass swayed beneath you, left and right, a flower field. It tickled your arm. Shades of green danced mockingly.
As you lifted yourself up, the smell of dew and honey entered your nostrils, reminding you of your peaceful life before everything happened—when Alfred would watch you smell the flowers in the backyard with a younger Dick whose hand you held tightly.
You seemed to be in an open field of a cemetery, based on the tombs and crosses scattered everywhere.
Exiting, you found yourself in a familiar place: Gotham.
Yet it looked different. The run-down, abandoned coffee shop you would always pass by on patrol now looked active, a sign with the words "OPEN" on it shining brightly in neon. Graffiti on the walls you once passed by seemed to be clean, as if it were never there in the first place. Like a new word, an alternate universe.
Tall buildings and busy streets seemed to be lively. Weird.
You hopped from rooftop to rooftop, hugging yourself tightly against the wind that blew your cape. Too cold.
So you sat. You sat and watched the sun go down in a world you had thought just ended, shoulders slumped.
Were you dead? Were you just a ghost? Millions of questions flooded your mind. You couldn't recognize anything anymore—you still knew it was Gotham, but it just wasn't your Gotham.
As if the world had rewritten itself.
And then you saw it—or more like, saw them: The Bat and Robin.
Except, it wasn't you. You could tell, it wasn't you in the suit. Or perhaps the years of being a Bat hero had hardened you to your full extent? You're not sure.
Robin didn't look like Dick Grayson either. A different outfit. A different frame.
Funny, you thought. They looked like Bruce.
Their poise, their attitude, even the way their cape flowed in the wind. You analyzed their every movement, and they seemed to have noticed, from the way both of them turned to look at you.
It couldn't be Bruce, right? Bruce is dead. Bruce is not going to come back. Bruce is—
You didn’t notice them stopping in front of you, the younger Robin scoffing and crossing his arms at your outfit.
"Who are you?" The Bat asked, and God, you recognized it. His tone of voice. It was Bruce. A little raspier than you remembered, but you still remembered it. And the words spilled out of your mouth before you could stop them:
"Bruce?" you asked, your lip quivering slightly.
Batman didn't say anything, calculating; Robin raised a brow.
You probably looked pathetic, eyes wide, knees shaking—you ran toward him.
Bruce was alarmed seeing your figure get closer and closer, but before he could react, you hugged him. An embrace he seemed to feel awkward in.
You sobbed into his clothing, barely able to make out what you were saying yourself. You felt like a jumbled mess of emotions. You didn't even know if this was Bruce, but with every last drop of your body, you were hoping it was.
"Please—I miss you," you broke down, crying in his chest. Bruce tensed under your hug, still unsure of what intentions you had. Yet, even so, he patted your back softly.
The Robin next to you spoke up, asking the same question Bruce had asked a while ago: "Who are you?"
You took off the bat-mask.
"Bruce! Bru—Dad, it's me, see?" You managed to get out through your tears.
Bruce's face hardened.
And in his tight embrace, you could feel his heartbeat quicken a little.
Because he knew it was impossible. Your face, all grown up, yet still resembling your charm.
Bruce knew it was impossible because in this world, he never took the bullet for you. In this world, he cradled you in his arms as he watched you die.
sorry if this isn’t what you were expecting! i just needed to write something short to get me back in my rhythm. also take what i write with a grain of salt idk shit abt gambling😂
something about batfam x neglected gambler! reader, you know?
think of someone like aventurine from honkai star rail, or yumeko from kakegurui. i guess you can say they’re lucky. but this reader knows it and owns it.
…
think of a situation where the waynes invited someone over- someone lowkey shady. but they have a big business, and they were planning on some corporate collab or something. nothing your pretty little head should worry about.
everyone is present in dinner, with bruce and tim having to take the lead with entertaining the big man.
it wasn’t until the man mentioned gambling.
“Hahaha! you know mr. wayne, i thought you lot were wild, how about a game?”
bruce’s brows furrowed. “a game?”
alfred leaned down to his side and whispered, “he means he wants to gamble.”
tim heard, and immediately went to disagree, until-
“oh? you play, sir?” y/n say, suddenly interested in the conversation. the brothers only gave each other looks.
“ha! do i play? the question is, do the waynes play?” the man said, suddenly turning his interest towards y/n who had been silent up until now.
“why, i’m a bit embarrassed to have a pro ask, but i only dabble.” y/n smiled warmly. “i can play anything, if you’d like to give me a chance. i’ve honestly been itching to feel something for a while.”
the man laughs, amused by their boldness. he agrees to play.
everyone moves to the game room, alfred sets up the game you’ve both agreed on, black jack.
meanwhile, your brothers and your father demean you, demand that you stop whatever nonsense you have planned.
on the table, you and the man make a deal. if he wins, he gets to have access to private WE files. if you win, you get 1000 dollars. the man laughs once more, giddy with the easy win he thinks he’s about to have. what a stupid kid you are.
bruce feels like a nerve is about to burst. dick is a step away from grabbing you and locking you in your room. tim has his head in his hands. jason’s hand is behind his jacket- hand just itching to get his pistol. and damian had to use all his years of training to physically restrain himself from pouncing on you.
with alfred acting as the dealer, the game began.
.
as the game progressed, the tension shifted. the more time played, it seemed like y/n was.. winning?
y/n’s eyes shimmered with anticipation, fingers tapping eagerly against the table as the dealer hovered with the deck. “hit me,” y/n said, voice almost trembling with delight.
“you’re at fifteen,” alfred warned.
across the table, the man scoffed, smirking- thinking that he had already won. but y/n only leaned forward, smiling widely. “hit. please.”
alfred laid the card. a six.
twenty-one.
y/n gasped softly, then broke into a delighted grin, hands clasping together. “ohhh, that’s perfect! absolutely perfect!” the man stared, stunned.
“you’ve got to be kidding me.” y/n almost giggled.
“wasn’t that exhilarating? i love it when it’s that risky,” they said, eyes shining like they were savoring adrenaline. the man’s shock twisted into irritation.
“so mister, where’s my money?”
“wha- kid, i wasn’t serious! you-?!”
“awe? but we had a deal.” y/n’s smile fell, their brows furrowing. “you agreed to give me money if i won.”
the man can only laugh once more. “kid.. seriously?..”
their conversation was unheard as the batfam could only process what happened.
.
since when did y/n learn how to gamble? they aren’t even old enough to do all that!
“tell you what, i’ll give you 500, and i’ll take you to a casino. if you can win the other 500, i’ll double it to 2000.” classic.
y/n smiled, “will you really..? oh i would-“
“that’s enough.” bruce cut. “y/n isn’t old enough to go there.”
“indeed, my sibling shouldnt be seen in such establishments.” damian glared.
“what?” y/n cut in, “i’m 20. I so can.” y/n glared “and sibling? we aren’t siblings.” y/n spat.
.
the way y/n acted like an adrenaline junkie was strange, but you should see them in an actual casino, with actual real life stakes.
ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You are adopted by Bruce. You believe you aren’t truly loved, but slowly, the Batfamily begins to show you otherwise.
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: Light angst, comfort, found family.
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 1,6k words
You came to the manor young, older than Damian by barely a year, but still just a kid yourself. Bruce had taken you in early, almost as if he’d seen something in your haunted eyes that mirrored his own, and while Damian had raged at the intrusion, at the idea of another stray, another mouth, another fragile thing trying to share the place that was supposed to be his, you simply kept to yourself.
You were polite. Quiet. Eager to help, but never eager to be seen. Alfred noticed it first: the way you cleaned up cups left behind by Tim’s late-night coffee runs, the way you remembered how Dick liked his tea sweet, the way you gave Damian wide space when he was bristling and angry, and how you would listen, small and patient, when he ranted about the world’s idiocies, never flinching at his harsh words.
You never assumed you were wanted in the room. You always waited at the threshold, until someone waved you in. You never interrupted the chaos of family arguments, instead lingering just far enough away to be forgotten.
But Damian, for all his sharpness, couldn’t ignore you forever. He noticed, with the simmering resentment of a boy desperate for control, that you were always there. Watching his training with an unreadable face. Slipping books back into the library that he’d left strewn on the table. Bringing bandages when his knuckles split from punching too hard, setting them on the counter with trembling hands, as if unsure he’d accept the offering at all.
At first, he spat venom. Told you that you were weak. That you had no place here. That you were pathetic, lingering on the edges like a ghost.
You nodded. Agreed. Apologized for existing, with your eyes cast low. Damian hated the way it made his chest twist.
Dick was softer, of course he was. He always invited you along: to movies, to patrol briefings, to pizza nights in the cave. Jason teased you just enough to watch you flush and stammer, the way he did with anyone he liked. Tim sometimes forgot you existed, but when he did remember, he treated you like a puzzle: handing you bits of data to help sort through, checking your answers, praising you absentmindedly when you got something right.
Little by little, without realizing it, you threaded yourself into the fabric of the house. It happened in quiet ways. A blanket draped over Jason when he dozed off on the couch, a cup of tea pressed into Bruce’s hand when he returned from patrol looking world-weary, a gentle pat to Alfred’s shoulder when he worked too long in the kitchen.
The family began to notice, in their own ways. Damian grumbled less, letting you sit beside him in the library while he read. Dick started leaving little notes on your door: “Join us in the cave later! Got something cool to show you.” Jason began bringing you back small things from runs: a keychain, a bar of chocolate, a knife with a handle he thought you’d like.
And yet, you never really believed you belonged. Even as your laugh began to ring in the halls more often, even as Alfred started scolding you like any of the others, even as you fell asleep on the couch with Damian’s feet propped on your lap. You told yourself it wasn’t real. That you were tolerated, maybe even useful, but not loved.
You stayed up late, staring at the ceiling, turning over every moment of warmth in your mind like it was something borrowed, bound to be taken away. You flinched when Bruce’s voice rose, apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You tried to slip out of rooms if you thought you were in the way. You never asked for anything.
It drove Damian insane. Because he could see it, the desperate hunger in your eyes, the way you tried to hide the hope when Dick smiled at you, the way you looked away quickly whenever someone offered praise, as if you didn’t deserve to hear it. He hated the way it mirrored something in himself, hated how familiar that gnawing emptiness felt.
It was a slow war he waged: snapping at you to stop apologizing, pushing you to speak up, scowling when you tried to hide in corners. He threw you into sparring sessions, ignoring your protests, told you to fight back when you flinched. Sometimes you cried, and he sneered at you for it, but then slipped you tissues and didn’t comment when you gripped his sleeve like a lifeline.
The others did it in their ways, too. Dick praised you often, so often you began to almost believe he meant it. Jason took you on runs through the city, letting you sit behind him on the bike, telling you stories about Gotham’s back alleys. Tim started asking for your help so regularly that you began to feel needed, maybe even trusted.
And slowly, something in your eyes began to change. You laughed more. You argued back, tentatively at first, then with real fire. You started leaving notes of your own on Dick’s door, bringing Jason coffee without being asked, correcting Tim’s code with a grin. You even dared to tease Damian, once, about the way he scowled at everything, and he had glared, but secretly, he had smiled.
Still, you didn’t quite believe it. Not completely. Not yet. But the Batfamily was patient. They had learned how to rebuild broken things, how to stitch together a home out of shadows and grief. And piece by piece, they were determined to prove, not just say, but prove, that you weren’t a ghost in the walls. That you were needed. That you were loved.
And one day, when you stumbled into the kitchen after a nightmare, shaking and pale, Bruce was there. He didn’t say anything, just wrapped you in an embrace so tight it made you cry. And the others came, one by one, surrounding you with warmth and fierce, silent protection.
And maybe that night, with the whole family holding you close, you began to believe, just a little, that you weren’t alone anymore. That maybe you were wanted. That maybe you were loved.
Who will figure out precognition!reader's identity?
Tim definitely. Its always been out of pure luck that precognition!reader has been able to slip away from the family for so long, but I'd like to think Tim finally locked in after they figured out that the last letter was truly readers last letter.
ehehe im slowly finishing reqs also!!
✶⋆.˚ platonic yandere!batfam x precognition gn!reader
precognition!reader who has the power of future vision, not knowing how they were born with it.
precognition!reader who can tell when an event will happen, but whatever they do, they can't seem to prevent it from happening no matter how hard they try.
precognition!reader who feels hopeless—predicting the deaths of the people around them, trying to warn them in hopes they could change the future, but alas, the future seems to be set in stone.
precognition!reader who feels like the grim reaper: a walking visionary who can see people's deaths. After many repeated attempts, they just learn to shut up and walk past; what good does warning people do if none of it works?
Yet it all happened so quickly: a new vision. New people, people who they barely recognized. The Flying Graysons. A circus accident, flying in the air like Icarus flying too close to the sun. An orphan, the sole survivor of the family.
In the corner of precognition!reader's eye, they could spot Bruce Wayne—the billionaire of Gotham. Watching, waiting, as if considering something. They don't know what happened in them; the spark that suddenly jolted their hand in writing the letter. Maybe it was the pity they felt for the small child, but they asked—begged Bruce to adopt the poor boy. They didn't mention his name specifically, keeping it as broad as possible.
When Bruce first received the letter, he categorized it as fan mail, brow raised as his eyes skimmed through precognition!reader's pleas. Another delusional fan letter he threw away, nothing new.
Yet when the events that precognition!reader predicted played out right before his eyes, his heart stopped beating for just a moment. A sudden harsh wind of déjà vu hitting him as he remembers precognition!reader's warning.
So, he did as he was told and adopted the boy.
Does he regret it? No. But he waits, waits for another letter—perhaps explaining the sudden urgency and why precognition!reader wrote to him, or perhaps, who this mysterious letter was from. In his mind, he doubted it; maybe it was just a coincidence? Yet the events they predicted seemed to line up too well, even if a little vague.
precognition!reader who gets visions before Batman and Robin patrol, knowing how the whole fight sequence would play out before the two even started moving.
precognition!reader who knows that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the child they convinced Bruce to adopt, Dick Grayson, is Robin. They watch Dick Grayson grow up, under the new alias Nightwing, and they watch as he starts to inch away from Bruce, growing distant.
precognition!reader who gets another vision: a boy stealing a car tire from the Batmobile. Another poor boy who was doing all he can just to get by.
precognition!reader who decides to write another letter: "Adopt him."
Two words. Two words were all it took for Bruce to start getting suspicious: just who are they? Why were they sending him these letters? The paranoia creeps into his mind.
He needs to investigate.
As he's about to get into the Batmobile, he sees him: Jason Todd.
And once more, he does as he's told. He doesn't know why. How did they know? Why were they doing this?
precognition!reader hearing articles about Bruce's new kid. A new Robin with Batman—they weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
precognition!reader who gets a terrifying vision: there lies Robin bleeding as the Joker holds a crowbar in his hand, torturing the poor boy. Precognition!reader heart quickens as they watch Bruce cradle Jason, dead in his arms, blood running across his whole body.
precognition!reader who knows they're unable to prevent it, but can hopefully lessen the pain Bruce would go through.
As Bruce checks the new letter, five letters haunt him to his very core:
"It's not your fault, Bruce."
And as he cradles a dying Jason Todd in his hands, his mind repeats those very same words like a broken record player: It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce.
He spirals into madness reading the letter over and over again, spending his time analyzing every single detail. The handwriting, the parchment of paper used, the pen that was used.
precognition!reader who was smart enough to use gloves, unable to be tracked for now.
Bruce searched the return address. A random location for every single letter, no correlation whatsoever.
When Bruce first found Tim, he initially thought he was the one who wrote the letters, based on the way he accurately predicted Bruce's alter ego.
Though, he soon found out his intuition was wrong when he received the next letter:
"He's not me."
He felt as if he was going mad. He didn't show it, but he was frustrated.
precognition!reader who weaseled through Bruce's fingers like falling sand for so many years—who seemed to have omniscient knowledge based on the letters he was being sent.
Working with his new Robin, he tried to figure out the identity of the mysterious writer.
precognition!reader who stops writing to Bruce.
Bruce starts to gets paranoid. Tim is also intrigued by precognition!reader, and Dick has heard tidbits of them from the small amount of times he would visit.
Even when Jason gets resurrected, precognition!reader refrains from sending a letter, deciding to shake the family off their tail.
For a while, precognition!reader stayed low, up until Bruce and the rest of the family forgot about their existence. They focused on themselves despite the many visions they seemed to get every day—for some reason, it was all centered around Bruce again.
precognition!reader who gets a vision of a random child. Black hair, what seemed to be Arabic roots. They had no idea who this random child was. He didn't seem to be in any innate danger, only training intensively for something they weren't able to make out, so they ignored the vision, thinking nothing of it.
precognition!reader who soon places the puzzle pieces together. The child they were watching was the child of Bruce Wayne.
precognition!reader who decides to write one final letter—their fatal mistake:
"Take care of him."
And just like Bruce expected, he adopted a new son, Damian Wayne. Yet, unlike all the other adoptions, this one was different: he was now dead set on finding who precognition!reader was, the rest of the family involved.
They each scouted their own little sections, Damian scouting with Bruce. They all wanted to meet precognition!reader—the mysterious letter writer who predicted their whole lives before it even happened. They all felt some sort of connection with them despite barely even knowing them.
precognition!reader who goes MIA, much to the dismay of Bruce, and it seemed permanent this time.
Tim who analyzes precognition!reader's final letter very carefully. He analyzed the letters; it was written with a fountain pen. He traced the handwriting carefully with his index finger before scrolling through a database of people in Gotham with similar handwritings.
The way precognition!reader would write a specific letter, or how the words slightly tilted down as they wrote without the red guideline commonly on red notebook sheets. He spent countless nights comparing, reading, testing.
precognition!reader who receives a chilling new vision:
precognition!reader, tied up in the Wayne Manor's kitchen, with Bruce affectionately petting their head, whispering "Welcome home."
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
had this idea in my head for a while. Don't worry anon!!! Im still working on your fic, I think I'll finish it by tomorrow teehee
hi! do u have any tips on how to characterize batfam characters?
noo im newgen im newgen! i scream as they drag me into a white padded room.
These are personally what I think of when im writing batfamfics/how i would chracterize them based on the knowlefge i have right now... KEEEP in mind im like a baby to the fandom unlike some other writers so excuse me if im wrong/take this w a grain of salt + CHARACTERIZATION MAY CHANGE BASED ON THE SCENARIO!!!
For Bruce he's calm and collected in any situation, barely showing traces of shock. As Brucie, he's captivating, seductive. A mask of emotions, only to fool the public—a bit oblivious maybe, but it's all in the charm. As Bruce Wayne, he would try his best to care for his boys but with the work of Batman + Wayne enterprise piling up, he's a little absent in their lives, unless their on patrol, and he feels guilty for it. He struggles with parenting because the only guardian he had growing up was Alfred. As Batman he's stoic, but still shows empathy even if its only with his actions (obviously—hes a hero LOL), yet despite his stoic-ness he has a veryyyy big soft spot for his children and even if it doesn't seem like it, he truly does love them. Very much a stickler for rules.
Dick Grayson is like the happy one, basically. Of course he's not always going to be happy, but I think he'd be the one to try and see the 'positive' side of things—a coping mechanism for all the trauma he's endured. He hides his problems behind humors and half-hearted smiles. Similar to Bruce, I would think he's quite busy with Bludhaven + teen titans, but he likes interacting with his family. When he was younger, I feel like he definitely felt like he was in Bruces shadow—a mere sidekick. But now that he's Nightwing, it symbolizes his growth as a person, how he's becoming his own. More compassionate than the rest, but I can also see it being a faux sometimes. Like, sometimes he feels the need to be the 'happy' and cheer everyone else up because if he doesn't, who will?
Jason Todd, on the other hand, is the one I always characterized as the angsty one. A little similar to Bruce, in some ways, even if he doesn't like it. A little snarky at times, but its all in good fun. More of a headcanon but I would think his mentality is a little below his age due to his death and resurrection. Also very defensive and guarded /w his personality after his death. For sure messed up in the head and tons, and tons of unresolved problems, which explains his anger issues. His pent up anger + defensive nature causes him to 'explode' randomly, especially when he's stressed. Doesn't follow Bruces no-killing rule, and Bruce likes when people follow his instructions; he does things his own way—part of why there's still a drift between him and Bruce. (plus Jason still has a little bit of a grudge /w the whole Joker thing). Yet despite all of this, he's still the same Robin before he died, the same Robin that craves Bruces approval, which adds onto the resentment he has. He doesn't want Bruces validation but can't help the need to want, like a very toxic love. The two of them are getting better, though. Other than that he's pretty laid-back for the most part. take this one especially with a bunch of salt. Jason, to me, is the hardest to write—like lowk, i don't even know how he would react in the situations I write. I tried my best RIP.
Tim Drake is the nerd of the group. Think: batcomputers, sciency-stuff, gadgets, etc. He's not as strong as the rest of the family but makes up for it with his brains. He found out who Batman and the rest of the robins were on his own, so its safe too assume he's also really analytical, eyeing peoples body movements and how they behave for any clues. He would be the best detective out of the family, and tbh I feel like he's a little insecure about that. Not for being the 'best detective' but the fact that he feels its all he's really good for—his smarts. He has a sense of pressure to live up to the name of the other Robins. I also characterize him as a workaholic—once he sets his mind too something, he won't stop, similar to Bruce in a way—because of the pressure that he feels, like he needs to prove his worth somehow. Also, about the coffee thing, I know some people are annoyed at people characterizing him as a coffee addict but lowk I don't mind. Just to be safe you'll see him drinking more tea in my fics than caffeine.
Damian Wayne is Bruces actual child so theres a special bond between them. You'll see some similarities in the two personalities—maybe their stoic nature, or they way the carry themselves. He also spends time with Bruce the most so it's bound too happen regardless. He's very sharp and sardonic with his words, and to put it plainly, yes he is a bit of a 'brat' (and no, not in the charlixcx way); and just like Bruce, Damian is 100% stubborn. Of course, he's slowly becoming less arrogant now being surrounded by his siblings. He's learning how to love and trust after being trained as an assassin for so many years—trust being the very thing he's cautious of. I can see him also feeling out a place in the manor sometimes, especially being the newest edition of the family. The rest of the family has known each other for longer, and he feels as if he's intruding on something special. He's a little dense sometimes and isn't as sociable as Dick may be due to his harsh upbringings. Theres also a bit of lingering pride he has, not on purpose though, he just can't help it.
Once again, i'm like not a seasonal veteran of batfam so don't quote me for any of this—this is personally how I like to view them. Is some of this just headcanon? probably idk LOL.
hii! me again(the one who requested toonforce!reader) 🥹 okay soo, what about a batfam x kitty pryde!reader? imagine them getting scared cause reader suddenly phase their head in to their bedroom through the walls instead of just walking in through the door normally
"hey, have you seen alfred?"
"no—" *sees reader's head on the wall*
"WHAT THE HELL?!"
"what?"
or when they use it seriously, imagine them hiding behind a mirror and some villain faces the mirror, and the interaction goes
"did you really think that you could hide in there?"
reader sends a punch to the villain's face and pull them by the collar and smashes the villain's face in the mirror then began beating the crap out of the villain by phasing in and out through the walls, like that one comic panel of kitty pryde doing this to emma frost ^^
i hope i'm not bothering you with these requests🥹 i just have alot of ideas flowing in my head so why not share them
NONO i love it when people request LOL thank you for the request teehee
⊹ ࣪ ˖ batfam x intangible gn!reader
"it's going down"
tw: blood, fight scene, dislocation of bone
word count: 2k
The family knew Bruce's stance on metahumans being in Gotham: absolutely NO metahumans.
Yet you were the exception, the ray of sunshine in the otherwise bleak manor of the Wayne family. The charming one the public knew least about yet fell in love with all the same.
Though, even after all of these years, Bruce would never get used to your powers: the ability of intangibility.
"Y/N!" Bruce called from below, a decision he would soon come to regret.
He looked up from the newspaper after hearing something from above; there you were, half of your body phased through the roof connecting the first and second floors, hanging like a bat as you grinned wildly at him.
Bruce's eyes widened for just a split second, but you were still able to catch the tiny little shift in movement.
"Yeah, what's up?" You felt your hair being pushed down with the weight of gravity against you.
Bruce looked into your eyes, stared at the smug smirk on your face before taking a deep breath. "Never mind, I'll just call Alfred," he sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Whatever you say, Bruce!" You smiled, slowly phasing upwards until your body was out of his sight.
And it didn't just stop at your father. You could say that you might be a little mischievous and loved giving your brother heart attacks.
Tim was in his room, working on a problem for his math class. Placing his pen near his mouth, he squinted as he looked at the problem in his textbook.
"So the limit for f(x) should be... 0 as x approaches 3, right?" he mumbled out, not talking to anyone specifically. "Or wait, I forgot to factor..."
He placed his pen down somewhere, deciding to stretch his legs and go down to get a drink—he felt exhausted after staying up for a while. He always told himself to fix his sleep schedule, but he'd been too busy to think about anything else.
Holding a cup of tea, he returned to his room, searching around for his pen.
He could've sworn he had put it—
"Were you looking for this?"
You popped your head out of a wall, directly in front of him as you held his pen.
"JESUS CHRIST!" He yelled out, scrambling back and holding his hand upon his heart. "Ugh, I really need to stop falling for that." Taking deep breaths, Tim tried to calm his heart.
You only let out a small giggle, placing the pen on his nightstand. "Having fun, Tim?"
Tim grumbled under his breath, "Better now that I know that the ghost in my room turned out to be my sibling."
"Yeah, yeah, don't miss me too much, okay?"
Tim rolled his eyes, a small smirk forming on his face.
You especially loved to mess with Dick if he had ever visited. His reactions were the most gold-worthy, especially since he basically wore his heart on his sleeve.
Seeing the black-haired male sit in the living room, scrolling through his phone mindlessly, you got an idea.
While he was distracted, you phased through the wall, grabbing an expensive vase and moving it to a different location.
You continued to scramble the object all throughout the room until he noticed.
With a second glance, Dick looked around the room, an eyebrow raised as he took in the new scenery.
Much to your dismay, he didn't comment on it, rather deciding it was just a fault of memory; however, you could still see the skepticism on his face as he started to glance around every once in a while to see if he could catch the culprit.
And he did.
"Aha!" He yelled out, pointing in your direction as he watched your arm grab one of the small decorations. "I knew it was you!"
Caught, you put both of your hands up as you smiled in his direction, slowly phasing out of the wall you were in. "I was waiting for you to notice!"
He ruffled your hair affectionately before flicking your forehead, making a small groan escape from your lips. "Now re-arrange all the stuff you moved before Alfred kills us all."
Jason, on the other hand, barely had any reaction to your attempts at scaring him.
You remember your first attempt—in the kitchen. He was pouring himself a glass of milk as you phased through the kitchen walls, yelling a small 'boo!'
No reaction. Not even a single muscle tensing, nor a wrinkle moving on his face.
"Kid, I've been through hell and back. You're gonna need to try harder than that," he quipped with a grin, chugging the glass in his hands before leaving the room.
You recall your second attempt—involving Damian.
Bad move. Damian was never scared of you, not because he has experienced as much trauma as Jason, but because he could predict and hear your every move.
Jason was conversing with Damian in one of the hallways before the youngest Wayne completely stopped talking, blinking a few times and opening his mouth once more.
"Alright, you ghastly moron, you can come out now," he deadpanned, facing the wall you were hiding behind.
With a pout, you slowly phased out, a little irked that your hiding spot was called out so easily by your brother.
"Seriously, Y/N? That was the best you could come up with?" He crossed his arms.
"Yeah, whatever you say, you brat. I haven't seen a successful attempt of you sneaking up on our brothers," you jabbed lightly.
"That's because I don't sneak up on them. I don't waste my time with such trivial activities."
Jason could only smirk lightly, watching the banter between his two younger siblings before shaking his head.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
"Hey Battie, got any intel?" You speak through the comms located in your ears, connecting the rest of the family to you.
Though, you stopped listening when you noticed Tim being dragged by one of the villain's henchmen, passed out with rope tied around his body.
You swiftly follow the two, straying not too far behind as his body is led into a warehouse.
Watching, waiting, searching for the perfect time to strike.
The minion's face falls flat as he notices your limbs slightly phasing out of the walls.
He yells at you. "Come out and fight me!" He unsheathes his dagger.
You hide behind a mirror.
"What, ya' think I'm dumb? Ya' think I don't know that batfreak's little sidekick can go through walls?" He smirks, staggering his way towards your direction.
He looks in the mirror.
"It's useless, so why don't you just give up no—"
CRACK!
Blood trickles down his nose, eyes widened as he sees a fist meet his face, a sickening crack echoing loudly through the building.
SLAM!
Before he had any time to react, the same pair of hands grab him by his collar, smashing his face into the mirror as small shards get embedded in his skin.
A kick to his stomach sends him flying to the other side of the room, landing with a harsh 'thump' over his shaking body.
Trembling, he sees a new figure walk into view—you.
Based on the files, you were just a mere sidekick to Batman. A useless one-trick pony whose only ability is to be able to go through walls.
Yet as he looks at your looming figure, he sees something else, a rage inside of you—and you didn't seem so useless now.
He tries to swing a punch. You dodge, side-sweeping him as he lands on his back. Quickly recovering, he kicks your side, sending you towards a wall, and you cough due to the dust from your fight.
Damn, that was definitely going to form a bruise.
He chokes you, lifting you up against a wall, his jaws clenching. You grab onto his arms.
"Let's have a chat, yeah?" A saccharine smile encases your face, the two of you phasing through the wall.
A yelp escapes the henchman's lips as you were the one in control now; oh how the tables have turned. You watch his expression contort from anger to confusion as you grab onto him, pushing him through a stone wall in the sewers, half of his body clipped into it.
"Alright dickhead, how about this: you turn yourself in, or I'll turn you in myself with your brain full of stone,"
He snarls, thrashing in your grasp before giving up. "FINE! Fine! You win! Let me outta' here!" He gasps, clawing at your hands that were choking him through the stone.
With a small smirk on your face, you leave him in the dark, desolate sewers and return to your brother.
Carefully untying each knot, you pull away the ropes that held his body tight, making sure not to accidentally give him rope burn while doing so.
Yeah, you were gonna need to relax after this. A nice bubble bath with your favorite Batman rubber ducky—that sounds nice.
"Hey, Red Robin! Earth to Red Robin!" You snap your fingers a few times in front of his face, shaking him by his shoulder erratically. "Whoo, passed out cold, huh?"
Lifting Tim up, you sprawl him on your shoulders, knees slightly bent from the weight of the boy, but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle.
Damian opens up the warehouse to find the two of you just in time.
"A little late to the party?" You giggle. Damian narrowed his eyes at the unconscious Tim.
"What happened? I thought he could handle himself," Damian asks.
You shrug, "Dunno, I think it might've been a sneak attack."
Nodding, the three of you (or two of you + an unconscious Tim) head back to the Batmobile.
────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────
Alas, life returns to normal for you.
Well—mostly normal, as normal as you, that is to say, you aren't normal.
Dick and Jason were munching on the same popcorn bowl, Dick watching the movie intently while Jason looked disinterested. Tim was sitting next to them with a hand on his cheek and an elbow on the couch. Damian sat below, criss-cross applesauce. You were—wait, where are you? You're not with them.
Tim seems to notice this, voicing out his concerns: "Where's Y/N?"
Jason looks around and shrugs; Dick calls out your name half-heartedly, eyes still lingering on the trashy TV movie.
Damian only smirks. "What do you mean, Drake? Y/N is right—"
"HERE!" You yell in Tim's ear, phasing through the wall next to him, making him jump back and scream.
"Could you stop doing that?" He yells back, his heart pumping so fast he could feel his own blush rise to his cheeks.
Jason lets out a small chuckle. You sit on the arm of the chair, letting one leg drape down the side. "Nope! I'll be doing that till the day you die!"
Tim groans in response, but it's quickly cut short when the TV flickers to life—the villain you had previously fought hijacking every station.
"Batman, and that intangible brat!" The villain growls. "I'll make you pay for the humiliation you have caused me and my minions!"
