A/N: To everyone I've msg'ed accidentally my acc was hacked but finally I got it back... My account may have sent messages or links that were not from me. Please ignore them and do not click anything. Everything is now secured.
Jason Todd x Catwoman!Reader || Masterlist || Request
Summary: So Reader is kinda like the sister of Catwoman? But a more unhinged version of Catwoman...if she can get anymore unhinged than that.
The rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham glittered like broken glass under the sodium lights. You balanced on the narrow ledge of the old Wayne Enterprises annex, the city sprawling beneath you in a haze of neon and violence. Your suit clung to you like a second skin—black latex and reinforced kevlar, accented with subtle silver claw marks that caught the light when you moved. Not quite Selina’s elegant catsuit, but close enough to mock the family legacy. Where your older sister danced through shadows with calculated grace, you hunted through them. Fluid. Unpredictable. A blade wrapped in ballet precision.
Tonight’s mark was a mid-level arms dealer who’d crossed the wrong people. Your people. You’d already left three of his guards unconscious in the stairwell, their necks bent at unnatural angles. The fourth was still twitching on the rooftop behind you, blood pooling from a precise strike to the femoral artery. You twirled the butterfly knife between your fingers, the motion effortless, almost rhythmic—like a pirouette with lethal intent.
The deal was going down below: crates of high-end ordnance changing hands under flickering warehouse fluorescents. You were about to drop in and ruin everyone’s night when a shadow detached itself from the water tower above you.
Red Hood landed with a heavy thud, helmet glinting, dual pistols already drawn. “Kyle’s little sister,” he growled, voice distorted by the modulator. “Didn’t know the family business extended to amateur hour.”
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you smiled, slow and sharp, tilting your head as rain traced down your mask. “Jason Todd. Shouldn’t you be brooding in a graveyard somewhere?”
He holstered one gun but kept the other trained on you. “This isn’t your score. Walk away.”
“Make me.”
The fight was immediate and beautiful in its brutality.
He came at you like a freight train—raw power, street brawling elevated by Lazarus Pit rage. You flowed around him. A leap, a spinning kick that grazed his helmet, claws raking across his chest plate hard enough to spark. He grabbed your wrist mid-twist, yanking you close, but you used the momentum, hooking a leg around his and flipping him toward the edge. He rolled, came up firing rubber rounds that you dodged with dancer’s precision, each movement a deadly extension of the rigorous training that had shaped your body into a weapon.
You laughed—wild, unhinged, the sound cutting through the rain. Selina would’ve scolded you for enjoying it too much. You didn’t care. Pain and chaos were the only things that ever felt real.
Jason caught you mid-air during your next leap, slamming you against the rooftop access door. The impact rattled your ribs, but you headbutted him, cracking his helmet visor. For a split second, you saw his eyes—green, furious, alive. Something electric crackled between you.
“Bring it on pussycat,” he snarled, pinning your arms.
You leaned in until your lips nearly brushed the edge of his helmet. “Always crawling back from the grave just to play hero-villain roulette.”
He hesitated. Just long enough.
You kneed him in the gut, twisted free, and drove an elbow into the side of his neck. He staggered. You could’ve ended it—slit his throat, left him for the crows—but instead you backed off, breathing hard, adrenaline singing in your veins.
The arms deal below erupted into gunfire as someone noticed the commotion above. Jason cursed and vaulted over the ledge, guns blazing. You followed because why the hell not? The two of you carved through the warehouse like a storm—his brute force and marksmanship, your acrobatic savagery. A bullet grazed your shoulder; you barely felt it. You returned the favor by hurling a guard into Jason’s path so he could finish the job.
When the last body hit the floor, silence fell except for the patter of rain through the shattered skylight.
Jason ripped off his cracked helmet, revealing sweat-slicked dark hair and that infamous white streak. Scars mapped his face like a roadmap of hell. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shoot you or kiss you.
“You’re fucking insane,” he said.
You peeled off your own mask, letting damp hair fall across your face. Selina’s sharper features softened in you by youth and something feral. “Takes one to know one, Todd. Heard you blew up a building just to make a point once.”
He stepped closer. The warehouse smelled of cordite and blood. Your heart hammered against your ribs—not from fear.
“You’re not like her,” he murmured, eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the fresh cut on your lip.
“No.” You closed the distance, grabbing the front of his jacket. “I'm better.”
The kiss was violent. Teeth and rain and pent-up fury. His hands—gloved, rough—gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as he lifted you onto a crate. You wrapped your legs around him, claws digging into his shoulders, drawing a low groan from his throat. He tasted like smoke and copper. You bit his lower lip, and he retaliated by fisting your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His mouth followed, hot and demanding, scraping teeth along your pulse point.
“You’re gonna get me killed,” he growled against your skin.
“Mutual,” you breathed, arching into him.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving. The unhinged light in your eyes mirrored something dark and hungry in his. Two broken things who’d crawled out of their own graves—literal or otherwise—refusing to stay buried.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Jason pressed one last bruising kiss to your mouth, then stepped back, retrieving his helmet. “Next time you hunt in my territory, little cat… I won’t hold back.”
You smirked, licking blood from your split lip. “Promise?”
He disappeared into the rain like smoke. You stayed a moment longer, touching your bruised mouth, feeling the ache in your muscles like a lover’s promise.
Selina would disapprove. But Selina had never understood the joy of dancing on the razor’s edge.
You vanished into the night, already planning the next inevitable collision. Jason Todd wasn’t the only one who came back from the dead. And Gotham had never seen two ghosts quite like you.
Mortica!batmama but instead of a Gomez and Bruce rivalry, Gomez is very into a threesome, especially when that threesome is with dark, brooding and handsome Bruce Wayne. Like Bruce and Gomez meet for the first time and is very welcoming and friendly, Gomez completely understands Bruce's love and obsession with batmama he feels the exact same way. Who wouldn't? Gomez is very welcome to sharing his beautiful wife as along as she is okay with it.
A/N: I'd be into that too...
The flickering candlelight in the Addams family mansion cast long, dramatic shadows across the velvet-draped drawing room. Morticia—your elegant, raven-haired self—reclined on the chaise like a queen of the night. Your black gown clung to every curve, a perfect blend of Addams allure and Gotham’s brooding mystique.
The heavy front door creaked open. Gomez Addams bounded in with his usual theatrical flair, but tonight his mustache twitched with pure delight rather than mischief alone. Behind him stood Bruce Wayne—tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit that did nothing to hide the powerful lines of his body. The man radiated that signature brooding intensity, his blue eyes sharp and haunted.
"Mi amor!" Gomez exclaimed, sweeping across the room to press a trail of passionate kisses along your wrist, your palm, then up to the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Look who has finally come to pay his respects. Bruce Wayne himself! The Batman. The one who has been stealing glances at my exquisite wife from the rooftops."
Bruce cleared his throat, his voice low and gravelly. "Mr. Addams. I... didn't expect such a warm welcome. Most husbands in my position would—"
"Rivalry?" Gomez laughed, a rich, rolling sound full of genuine amusement. He clapped Bruce firmly on the shoulder, guiding him closer to where you sat. "Nonsense, mon cher! Why would I compete when we clearly share the finest taste in the world? Look at her." His eyes gleamed as he gestured to you with open adoration. "Morticia. Who wouldn't become obsessed? Those eyes that could command the shadows, that grace that makes even the grave seem inviting... I have loved her madly for years. I understand your obsession completely, old sport. It is only natural."
Bruce's usual stoic mask cracked just slightly, surprise flickering across his features. He'd come expecting tension, perhaps a duel of wits or fists. Instead, Gomez was beaming at him like they'd been lifelong friends.
"You... don't mind?" Bruce asked, his gaze sliding to you, dark with barely restrained hunger. The same hunger he'd shown you on rain-slicked rooftops and in the hidden corners of Wayne Manor.
"Mind?" Gomez's hand slid possessively yet invitingly along your thigh as he settled beside you on the chaise, making room for their guest. "I insist, provided my darling wife is amenable. Sharing her beauty, her passion, her deliciously wicked soul... with a man as dark and handsome as you? It would be an honor. A threesome of the most exquisite variety." He waggled his eyebrows, ever the romantic. "Imagine it— the three of us, entwined in the night. Your brooding strength, my fiery devotion, and her perfect command over us both. Cara mia, what do you say?"
You felt the heat of both men's attention settle on you. Gomez's fingers traced lazy, affectionate circles on your skin, while Bruce watched with that intense, restrained power, as if he were one word away from claiming what he'd wanted for months.
Gomez leaned in to whisper against your neck, loud enough for Bruce to hear, "He is very welcome in our bed, my love. As long as you desire it. I want to watch you unravel him... and then join you both until the candles burn low and the thunder rolls outside."
Bruce's hand reached out, hesitant at first, then bold, brushing a lock of your dark hair behind your ear. "If this is what you want," he murmured, voice rough with want, "I'm yours. Both of yours."
The air grew thick with promise—Gomez's enthusiastic passion meeting Bruce's dark intensity, all centered on you, the irresistible center of their shared obsession.
So I was actually waiting for you to finish writing my first request to request this.
The song: Never Shut Up Again from Heathers the musical (please listen to it it’s so good)
(And maybe listen to What The World Needs from Ride the Cyclone musical. Cause never shut up again is give in Ocean from this song. Please please please it would be so good if a reader was inspired from both these songs)
So Batfam has this mc which they dotted on and loved. And reader was their twin (hehe overused trope? Maybe but we still love it) She didn’t get any attention from them cause reader was strong and mc was not… u know how parents think the older kid has everything in control and the they don’t need to pay any attention to them and so focus on the younger kid? That’s what we’re going for.
Mc didn’t get any friends outside the family cause she was too coddled and thought the family was all she needed. Reader found family in her friends and while everyone hated galas, she loved it. For once, people paid attention to her (she was amazing, Batfam just didn’t notice it cause they were too busy taking care of the fragile mc) Social butterfly reader, loved by everyone else reader. She made a name for herself, model, scholar, kind, idk just everything you can think of. She did charity work, spent time w alley kids, helped random ppl. Everyone loved her. She found that she didn’t need her family anymore and left. She felt mean and invited them to her party and basically the song happens. Heheheh.
-🍄🍄🍄
A/N: My dumbahh forgot I had this in drafts lol...So forgive me if ts sounds a little cringe tho. Also SORRY for missing ur other reqs bc I've been sooooo busy!
You were always the strong one. The older twin by seven minutes—though the family never let you forget it felt like years. While your sister, Lila, trembled at loud noises and cried over scraped knees, you patched yourself up, climbed the manor's tallest trees, and aced every test without a single praise. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—they all orbited Lila like she was made of glass. "She needs us," they'd say. You didn't. Or so they assumed.
Lila was coddled into fragility. No school friends—why risk the world hurting their precious girl? The manor was her whole universe, and she clung to it with wide, grateful eyes. You? You built your own world outside those gates. Galas weren't torturous obligations; they were yours. People saw you. Really saw you.
You smiled at the right diplomats, danced with the awkward heirs, remembered every name. You modeled for charity campaigns, your face on billboards for causes that actually mattered. Scholarships funded by your academic papers. Late nights in Crime Alley handing out coats and hot meals to kids who reminded you of a younger you—unseen but surviving. The press called you Gotham's Bright Star. Socialite, scholar, philanthropist, hero in plain sight.
The family missed it all. Too busy bandaging Lila's latest "crisis" or praising her for breathing.
One day, you packed a bag. No dramatic exit. Just a note on the kitchen counter:
"I love you all. But I don't need the manor anymore. I'll be okay—I've been okay for a while. Come to my party if you want to see the life I made. - Y/N"
You rented the old theater downtown for the launch of your foundation: funding mentorship programs for overlooked kids. The guest list sparkled—mayors, artists, activists, friends who'd become family. The room buzzed with laughter and genuine connection. For once, you were the center.
Then the Waynes arrived.
They clustered near the entrance like they were on patrol, scanning the crowd with varying degrees of confusion. Lila clung to Dick's arm, eyes wide at the opulence you'd curated. Bruce looked... unsettled. Tim was already on his tablet, probably pulling up every article he'd somehow missed. Jason had that half-smirk, like he respected the audacity. Damian just observed, arms crossed.
You spotted them and waved them over with the same effortless grace that charmed rooms. "You came. I'm glad."
Lila hugged you tightly—too tightly. "This is... a lot, Y/N. Are you sure you're safe? We could've helped plan—"
"You were busy," you said gently, pulling back. The music swelled around you, a pulsing beat that felt like your heartbeat made audible. Friends called your name from across the room. A reporter wanted a quote. An alley kid you'd mentored ran up with a handmade card.
Bruce stepped forward. "We didn't realize how much—"
But Lila interrupted, voice pitching up in that familiar way that always drew them in. "It's just... we worry. The world is dangerous, and you've always been so independent, but maybe you don't see how much you still need us. What the world needs is people who keep everything steady, right? People like—"
The words hit like a familiar melody. Ocean from that musical you'd both loved as kids—Ride the Cyclone. The overachiever insisting she was the mover, the shaker, the headline-maker. The one who believed the world spun because of her. Lila had always sung it in the manor halls, eyes shining, convinced the family revolved around her fragility.
You felt something snap into place. Not anger—release.
The DJ queued the next track at your earlier request. A fierce, triumphant beat dropped. Never Shut Up Again.
You took the mic as the lights shifted, bathing you in red and gold. The crowd cheered—your crowd. Your friends knew this was coming; you'd rehearsed the vibe.
"No more," you sang out, voice strong and clear, echoing the Heathers energy. The song where the silenced one grabs the scrunchie and refuses to fade. "I will never shut up again!"
The lyrics poured out, adapted in your heart to this moment. No more biting your tongue while they fussed over Lila. No more pretending you didn't ache for a fraction of that attention. Girls like you didn't need to climb high? Watch me shatter the ceiling.
"Heather choked, bought the farm—she could not hack it. Now we need a strong arm... "
Your voice carried power. Friends joined in, dancing, hyping you. The Waynes stood frozen.
You locked eyes with Lila as the chorus hit. She wasn't the villain—she was just the one who'd taken the spotlight by default. But you'd let it happen too long.
"Brand new day, watching dreams come true. Well, for me—not you."
You weren't cruel. The song wasn't hate; it was freedom. You danced across the stage they'd never watched you command, spotlight finally yours. Charity directors clapped. Models you'd walked runways with cheered. The alley kids beamed like you were their hero.
When the music faded, breathless and glowing, you stepped down. The family approached slowly.
Jason broke the silence first, smirking. "Damn, kid. Didn't know you had pipes like that."
Tim looked guilty. "We... missed a lot."
Bruce's voice was low. "We thought you were fine. Strong. We were wrong."
Lila's eyes welled up. "I didn't mean to... I just needed—"
You hugged her again, softer this time. "I know. And I love you. But I built this without waiting. I'm not shutting up anymore. You don't have to either—but you don't get to speak for me."
The party continued around you. Laughter, connections, impact. Your family stayed, awkward but present for once. They watched you shine: networking effortlessly, lifting others up, living the full life they'd overlooked.
You didn't need them to complete you anymore. But maybe, just maybe, they'd finally see you.
Let's assume Luffy is the son of Bruce Wayne and Garp is Bruce Wayne's grandfather. Luffy inherited this from Bruce Wayne. To take care of her, but as the years passed Let's say I want to see their reaction to a reward or poster requesting Luffy's reader or becoming a Yonko It would be funny to look at Luffy and Garp's characters.
A/N: As usual...I don't know if this is good bc it's kinda ass
Wayne Manor was never quiet, but tonight it felt like the entire Batcave had migrated upstairs.
The long dining table was covered in scattered newspapers, marine intelligence printouts, and one very large, very colorful wanted poster that Alfred had placed with perfect butler poise. The image was unmistakably you: wild black hair whipping in the wind, straw hat tilted back, mouth stretched in that massive, carefree grin, tongue sticking out, eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered joy. Gear 5 lightning crackled around the edges like the paper could barely hold you.
WANTED: MONKEY D. LUFFY YONKO DEAD OR ALIVE 3,000,000,000 Berries
Bruce Wayne stood at the head of the table in full Batman regalia, cowl pushed back, staring at the poster like it had personally offended him. His children surrounded him in varying degrees of shock, pride, and exasperation.
You were the one in the poster. Their chaotic, rubber-powered sister/daughter/granddaughter who had somehow turned “keeping an eye on the family” into sailing the Grand Line and punching the World Government in the face.
Dick leaned over the table, eyes wide and sparkling. “You’re a Yonko. Our Luffy is a pirate emperor. And you’re smiling on your wanted poster! That’s so you.”
Jason threw his head back and laughed, loud and sharp. “Three billion berries? That’s not a bounty, that’s a middle finger to the entire world. I’m so damn proud of you, kid.”
Tim was glued to his laptop, rapidly cross-referencing reports. “You sank three battleships, turned a Celestial Dragon into a shooting star, and declared your territory a no-go zone for the Marines. All before breakfast. How are you still alive?”
Damian crossed his arms, scowling but clearly impressed. “Tt. You are a disgrace to the Wayne name… and yet three billion is a respectable achievement. The bloodline prevails, even if you act like a feral rubber ape.”
Cass smiled softly, tracing the wild grin on the poster with her finger. “Happy. Free. Loud… but happy.”
Steph was cackling, snapping pictures of the poster. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen! You absolute legend. Bruce, your daughter is a pirate emperor!”
Alfred adjusted his gloves. “I must say, the illustration captures Master Luffy’s… enthusiasm quite accurately.”
The manor doors burst open with a bang that shook the chandeliers.
Garp stormed in roaring with laughter, his massive frame filling the doorway. “BWAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT’S MY GRANDDAUGHTER! Three billion berries! Even Sengoku is probably having a heart attack right now!”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Grandfather. You threw cannonballs at her as a child. Repeatedly. While she was made of rubber.”
“And look how strong she turned out!” Garp slapped Bruce on the back hard enough to make the Dark Knight stumble. “She got your stubbornness and my fists! Perfect! She’s going to be Pirate King, mark my words!”
You weren’t there in person — you were somewhere out on the seas with your crew — but they could all picture you perfectly: laughing, stretching your arms to grab more meat, already planning the next insane adventure.
Dick grinned. “Remember when she first got her powers and turned the Batcave into a bouncy castle?”
Jason smirked. “Or when she punched through three training dummies and asked if there was more meat?”
Tim sighed fondly. “She still sends us letters via seagulls. Actual seagulls.”
Damian muttered, “At least she has decent taste in hats.”
Steph leaned toward the poster. “So… when she comes back, are we throwing her a ‘Congratulations on Becoming a Yonko’ party? Because I’m down.”
Bruce stared at the poster for a long moment. The grin on your face — that same unbreakable, optimistic smile you’d had since you were a kid refusing to follow any rules but your own — made something in his chest loosen, just a little.
“She’s going to keep running headfirst into danger,” he said quietly. “No matter how many times we tell her to be careful.”
Garp laughed again and ruffled Bruce’s hair like he was still a boy. “That’s the Monkey D. way! Freedom! Dreams! Meat! BWAHAHA!”
You’d probably show up one day soon, stretching your arm across the manor balcony with a big “I’m home!” while dragging half your crew behind you. Demanding a feast, telling wild stories, and somehow making the whole family — despite all the lectures and facepalms — smile along with you.
Because that was you.
Luffy.
Their impossible, rubber-hearted, Yonko-level chaos gremlin.
And somehow, the BatFamily was starting to accept that this was just how their family worked now.
Chaotic. Loud. Unbreakable.
Somewhere out on the Grand Line, you were laughing at the top of your lungs, probably already reaching toward the next dream — knowing your weird bat-family back home was losing their minds over your poster.
Make please a prequel where the batfamily discovers about the stellaron hunters and Kafka, the bounty for her, her warcrimes and other crimes like the jepella rebellion and her position on the stellaron hunters (...and maybe the reactions of each bat, or their reactions later when they notice she is pregnant with Blade's children)
A/N: Okie... Part 1 here
Prequel: Shadows of the Forgotten Star
The Batcave was never truly silent, but that night the hum of servers and the distant drip of water felt heavier than usual. Oracle’s holographic screens flickered across the central platform like restless ghosts. Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood motionless in the cowl, arms crossed, while the rest of the family gathered. Dick (Nightwing) leaned against the console, trying to keep things light. Jason (Red Hood) cleaned his guns with more force than necessary. Tim (Red Robin) typed furiously beside Barbara. Damian (Robin) sharpened his katana with predatory focus.
“Oracle, run it again,” Bruce growled.
Barbara’s voice came crisp through the speakers. “I’ve run it six times. The signal originated from an interstellar bounty beacon that piggybacked through a deep-space relay. The League picked it up first—interdimensional bleed or some cosmic anomaly. But it’s real. And it’s her.”
A new image filled the main screen.
KAFKA Stellaron Hunter Bounty: 1.2 Billion Credits (Alive Preferred) Wanted across multiple star systems for: Treason, Incitement of Rebellion, Mass Manipulation via Spirit Whisper, War Crimes...
The photo showed a woman in a sleek wine-red coat, high collar framing a face they all knew too intimately. The same sharp eyes that had once watched them from the edges of Wayne Manor. The neglected little sister who had vanished three years ago after one too many ignored patrols, one too many nights spent alone in the manor while the Bats chased greater threats.
“That’s impossible,” Dick whispered, stepping closer. His usual easy smile had shattered. “She’s… Kafka? The Kafka?”
Tim’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “Jepella Rebellion. She was there. Intel says she used her ‘Spirit Whisper’—some kind of hypnotic voice manipulation—to turn an entire planetary defense force against itself. Thousands dead. The Stellaron Hunters walked in, extracted what they wanted, and left the planet in ruins. She’s listed as a primary architect.”
Jason’s hands stilled on his pistol. “War criminal. Terrorist. Billion-dollar bounty. And she’s our missing princess.” A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. “Of course she is.”
Damian’s grip on his katana tightened until his knuckles whitened. “She dares disgrace the Wayne name with this… filth? Associating with wanted galactic terrorists. Carrying their legacy.”
Bruce said nothing at first. His jaw was locked so tight the muscles stood out like cords. The guilt hit him like a physical blow—the thousands of nights he’d told himself she was safe in the manor, that Alfred would watch her, that the family’s mission came first. The daughter he had never officially claimed, the one who had slipped through every crack in his attention.
Later – Deeper Dive
They spent hours poring over the leaked files Oracle managed to decrypt. Stellaron Hunters: a small, elite group operating outside the law of the IPC and the Alliance. Led by a man named Elio who could supposedly see the future. Members included:
Silver Wolf: Hacker prodigy capable of rewriting reality on digital and quantum levels.
Firefly: A gentle but devastating warrior encased in the SAM armor.
Blade: Immortal mara-struck swordsman, relentless, death-seeking, and now…
Kafka: Their manipulator, the one with the silken voice that could make armies lay down their weapons or turn on their own. Wanted for orchestrating rebellions, stealing Stellarons (cosmic cancer-like entities), and leaving devastation in her wake.
Footage played on loop: Kafka on the battlefield of Jepella, coat fluttering as she whispered commands that made soldiers weep and obey. Elegant. Lethal. Smiling like it was the most natural thing in the universe.
“She was always watching us,” Tim said quietly, voice cracking with rare emotion. “We thought she was just… there. Background noise. But she learned from us. How to move in shadows. How to strike when no one’s looking.”
Dick’s fists clenched. “We failed her. I failed her. I kept promising I’d take her on patrol ‘next time.’ There was never a next time.” The yandere fracture was already forming—the desperate, obsessive need to reclaim what had been lost now that someone else valued her.
Jason slammed a fist into the table. “She went from invisible Wayne to the galaxy’s most wanted. And she’s thriving. Good for her. Fuck us.” But beneath the anger was something darker, hungrier. The thought of her out there, belonging to someone else, made his blood boil.
Damian snarled. “She belongs to the League of Shadows by blood if nothing else. And now she spreads her legs for that immortal dog Blade? Disgusting.”
Bruce finally spoke, voice like gravel. “We bring her home. Whatever it takes. She’s still a Wayne. We’ll clear the bounties, contain the Hunters, and… fix this.”
The Pregnancy Revelation – Weeks Later
Another intercepted transmission changed everything.
A blurry long-range photo from a neutral space station: Kafka standing on what looked like the deck of a luxurious train—the Astral Express—laughing with Silver Wolf while Firefly fussed over her. And there, unmistakable even through the coat, was the swell of her belly. Eight months, by medical estimates. Twin pregnancy.
Blade stood behind her, one large, callused hand resting possessively on the curve, thumb stroking gently. His expression was softer than any footage they’d ever seen of the mara-struck killer.
The Batcave went deathly silent.
Dick’s face drained of color. “She’s… pregnant. With his child. Children.”
Tim’s voice was hoarse. “Stelle and Caelus, the files say. Named after stars. Blade’s. Not ours. Never ours.”
Jason ripped his helmet off, eyes wild. “He touched her. He got to hold her when she was vulnerable. While we were still pretending she didn’t exist.” The yandere hunger flared bright and ugly—he wanted to drag her back, lock her in the manor, remind her who her real family was, even if it meant war with the stars.
Damian drew his sword fully. “That spawn will not live to inherit anything from her. She will return to her proper place.”
Bruce stared at the image until his vision blurred. The guilt was a living thing now, gnawing at him. The daughter he had failed had found a family that saw her. That protected her. That gave her children and purpose while the Bats offered only cold neglect and late regret.
“We’re going after her,” he said finally. “All of us. The script they keep talking about ends here.”
Oracle’s voice cut in, grim. “They’re on the Astral Express. Coordinates incoming. But Bruce… she doesn’t want to be saved.”
In the depths of the cave, the Batfamily prepared for a mission unlike any other. Not to fight crime. Not to save the world.
To reclaim the one light they had never bothered to cherish—until it burned bright enough for the entire cosmos to see.
And in the parlor car of the Astral Express, far across the stars, you—Kafka—felt the shift in the script. You rested a hand on your belly, smiled that dangerous, starlit smile, and leaned into Blade’s warmth.
Well, I was a kid, so I just listened to my parents. Luckily, now my whole family hates the Orange now. I'm not from the US at all, but what he's doing is affecting my country as well.
Originally, I supported him because I was easily influenced by my parents(I was blindly following what they were telling me before) and by some of the media they made me watch. Plus, I don't really agree with the tradwife bullshit that's being pushed by the Republican Party.
Red Hood x Reader with ED || Masterlist || Request!
A/N: uhh... I have no idea what I just did
Dividers by: @enchanthings
Jason notices something is wrong long before you ever say it out loud. He’s spent years reading micro-expressions on people who are trying to hide pain—criminals, allies, himself—so the way you push food around your plate, the tension in your shoulders when someone mentions calories, the way you disappear after meals… he clocks it. He doesn’t call you out immediately. He just starts paying closer attention, cataloging every little thing so he can help without making it worse.
He never forces you to eat. Never. He knows control is a huge part of it, and the last thing he wants is to become another voice telling you what your body “should” do. Instead he makes food feel safe. He’ll cook simple, nourishing meals with no commentary on portions. If you only manage a few bites, he’ll quietly wrap the rest and leave it in the fridge with a sticky note that just says “whenever you want, no pressure, baby.”
Jason becomes fiercely protective of your recovery space. If anyone (even well-meaning family like Dick or Alfred) says something that could be triggering, Jason shuts it down instantly—sometimes too sharply. He’s not polite about it. He’s seen too many people destroy themselves; he’s not letting anyone speed that up for you.
On bad days when the mirror is your enemy and every inch of your body feels wrong, Jason pulls you into his lap, scarred hands gentle on your hips or waist. He’ll press his forehead to yours and murmur, “You're perfect darling and I'll kill anyone else who'd disagree.” He says it like a vow.
He tracks your good days and celebrates them quietly—new takeout place you actually enjoyed, finishing a meal without disassociating, wearing something that doesn’t hide you. He remembers every single one and brings them up when you’re spiraling: “Remember last Thursday? You ate the whole damn sandwich and called it ‘okay.’ That was huge. You’re still doing huge shit even when it doesn’t feel like it. Now eat baby.”
Jason’s own trauma with his body (the Pit, the scars, the way it was used against him) makes him understand the alienation from your own skin in a way most people can’t. Some nights you trade ugly truths—him about resurrection and feeling like a monster in his own corpse, you about the ED. The vulnerability goes both ways. It’s the most intimate thing either of you have ever done.
He’ll go to appointments with you if you want him there. He sits in the waiting room looking like a tattooed wall of muscle, but he’s nervous as hell and takes notes on his phone like the overprotective boyfriend he is. Later he’ll read whatever resources the doctor gave you and ask thoughtful (if gruff) questions.
Physical affection is one of his biggest love languages with you. He loves touching you—rubbing your back, kissing your stomach even on days you hate it, tracing old scars or stretch marks with reverence. He wants you to associate his hands with safety and want, not judgment.
If you relapse, he doesn’t get angry at you. He gets angry at the disorder. You’ll come home to him cleaning the kitchen with more force than necessary, but the second he sees you he softens, pulls you close, and says, “We start again tomorrow. Or in ten minutes. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s surprisingly good at distraction techniques. Late-night motorcycle rides when your thoughts get too loud, reading to you when you can’t sleep, dragging you to a rooftop to watch Gotham’s chaos so your brain has something else to focus on. He’ll even watch terrible rom-coms with you if it keeps you present.
Jason calls you “his” in that possessive, Red Hood way, but with your ED it takes on new meaning: “You’re mine to keep safe. That includes from the shit in your head.” It’s not controlling—it’s the one place you’re allowed to let someone else carry some of the weight.
On days when you feel like too much or not enough, he reminds you that he fell in love with the person who fights every single day, not a number on a scale. “I’ve died and come back wrong. You think a little scar tissue or whatever the fuck your brain is telling you matters to me? You’re still the best thing in my fucked-up life.”
Omg I saw that your requests were open and I had this idea stuck in my head for a while now.😆so I thought why not you know 🤗 but basically it goes something like Sirius founds out his “one that got away” is now married to Severus. Severus is so smug about it and tries to show off which amuses reader who uses this as an opportunity to tease Severus.
That’s all thank you for your time. I appreciate your writing so much. ☺️
A/N: HAHAHAHAHAHA! But to be for real as much as I love Severus, I am NOT... fumbling Sirius. Both the fancast Sirius (Ben Barnes) and the actual one (Gary Oldman) are my hear-me-outs... However, my daddy issues(overinvolved) are powerful when I see Alan Rickman(luved him in Die Hard)... But here ya' go!
The Great Hall was quieter than usual during the staff Christmas gathering—most students gone for the holidays, only a handful of professors and guests lingering over mulled wine and mince pies. You sat beside Severus at the head table, his hand resting possessively on your knee under the heavy black robes, when the heavy doors creaked open.
Sirius Black strode in like he owned the place, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, hair artfully tousled even after all these years. His eyes scanned the room, landed on you… and froze.
For a long second, the infamous Marauder looked like someone had Petrificus Totalus’d him mid-step.
You offered a small, polite smile and a little wave. “Hello, Sirius.”
Severus didn’t even bother hiding the slow, satisfied curl of his lip. His fingers tightened on your knee—just enough for you to feel it.
“Well, well,” Sirius said, voice rough as he approached. “Didn’t believe it when Remus told me. Thought it was some sick joke.” His grey eyes flicked between you and Severus, narrowing. “You married Snivellus?”
“Professor Snape,” Severus corrected smoothly, voice like velvet over steel. He lifted your hand, brushing his lips against your wedding ring in a deliberate display. “And yes. She did.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Severus was preening. The man who hated public displays of affection was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Sirius dropped into the chair across from you, staring like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “You were supposed to be my one that got away,” he said, half-joking, half-wounded. “We had chemistry, love. That night in the Astronomy Tower—”
“—was fifteen years ago,” you finished gently, amused. “And you were drunk on Firewhisky and your own ego, if I remember correctly.”
Severus let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “How tragic for you, Black. Some of us didn’t need liquid courage or adolescent grandstanding to win her over.”
Sirius leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Come on. You can’t tell me you’re happy with this gloomy bat. He probably proposes with poetry about bat wings.”
“Actually,” you said, turning to look at your husband with a mischievous glint, “he proposed in the dungeons. Very romantic. Lots of candlelight. And a cauldron full of Amortentia with my name on it.”
Severus’s eyes narrowed at you in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitched—betraying how much he secretly enjoyed your teasing.
You leaned into his side, resting your head against his shoulder. “Besides, I like gloomy. And he makes excellent tea. And he’s very good with his hands.” You let the double meaning hang just long enough for Sirius to choke on his wine.
Severus’s hand slid higher on your thigh under the table, a silent promise and reprimand all at once.
Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s beard, you’re actually happy. With him.” He pointed an accusing finger at Severus. “You stole her.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Severus replied, voice dripping with satisfaction. “She chose me. Repeatedly. In front of witnesses. There’s a marriage certificate and everything. Would you like to see the rings again? Or perhaps the way she looks at me when we—”
“Severus,” you laughed, elbowing him lightly. But you couldn’t resist. You turned back to Sirius with a playful grin. “He’s been like this for weeks since he found out you were coming for the Order meeting. Practically strutting. I caught him polishing his wedding ring yesterday like it was a trophy.”
Severus shot you a look that was equal parts scandalized and fond. “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath.
You beamed up at him, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his scowling mouth. “My favorite bat. So possessive. So smug.”
Sirius watched the exchange with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement. “I can’t believe this. You tamed the greasy git.”
“He tamed himself,” you corrected softly, squeezing Severus’s hand. “And I love every snarly, brilliant, overprotective inch of him.”
Severus’s expression softened—just for you—before he schooled it back into practiced disdain for Sirius’s benefit. “If you’re quite finished reminiscing about roads not taken, Black, some of us have a wife to take home.”
You stood with him, threading your fingers through his. As you passed Sirius, you paused and leaned down to whisper, “He’s going to be insufferable tonight because of you. Thank you for that.”
Sirius barked out a surprised laugh. “Anytime, love. If he ever messes up—”
“He won’t,” you said confidently, glancing back at your husband, who was waiting with that signature raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of a smirk.
As you walked out of the Great Hall, Severus pulled you closer, lips brushing your ear.
“You’re going to pay for encouraging him, you know.”
You grinned, squeezing his hand. “I’m counting on it.”
And from the way his grip tightened and his pace quickened toward your quarters, you knew the night was going to be gloriously long.
I am soooo sorry for not posting... I js have a bad writer's block plus my mental health is SPIRALING!!! It's been getting worse lately especially since my parents are sooooo traditional and they 'stay tgt for the kids'... Oh but I am going to post some HP(both Golden Era and Marauders, also Idk if I can do the Fantastic Beasts...) reqs since I've been gettin' into Marauders' lore lately ^-^ so YEAH!!!
"What are you doing here, honey? You're not even old enough to know how bad life gets. —Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a 13-year-old girl."
Directed by Sofia Coppola and based on the novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides is a psychological drama that explores adolescence, repression, grief, and the destructive consequences of idealization. Set in suburban America during the 1970s, the film follows the five Lisbon sisters — Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese — through the fragmented memories of a group of neighborhood boys who remain haunted by them years later. Rather than presenting the sisters as complete individuals, the film deliberately shows how they are transformed into symbols, fantasies, and projections by everyone around them.
One of the most important aspects of the film is its narrative perspective. The story is told almost entirely through the memories and interpretations of the boys who watched the Lisbon sisters from a distance. This choice is essential because the audience never receives direct access to the girls’ interior lives in a complete or reliable way. Their thoughts, fears, and emotional struggles are constantly filtered through outsiders who romanticize them. As a result, the sisters become mythologized figures rather than fully understood human beings.
The film is therefore not simply about suicide itself, but about emotional isolation and the impossibility of genuine connection in an environment where appearance matters more than emotional reality. The Lisbon sisters are observed constantly by neighbors, classmates, doctors, and boys, yet almost nobody truly attempts to understand them beyond the image they represent.
₊ ⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐎𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲
The film repeatedly emphasizes the distance between the Lisbon sisters as real people and the idealized version created by others. Their strict upbringing contributes heavily to this perception. Because they are protected, isolated, and difficult to access, the boys interpret them as mysterious and unattainable. Their house becomes almost mythical within the neighborhood, reinforcing the idea that the sisters exist outside ordinary adolescence.
However, the reality presented through subtle details contradicts this fantasy. The girls listen to rock music, read magazines, wear fashionable clothes, experiment with makeup, gossip, flirt, and express curiosity about the world around them. They are not ethereal beings disconnected from reality; they are ordinary teenage girls trying to navigate loneliness, desire, insecurity, and grief. The tragedy of the film lies in the fact that very few people acknowledge this ordinariness.
The boys’ fascination transforms the sisters into symbols of innocence and beauty rather than individuals with emotional complexity. Even decades later, the adult narrators remain obsessed with reconstructing the mystery of the Lisbon sisters, collecting objects they left behind and replaying memories in an attempt to “understand” them. Yet their obsession only demonstrates how little they ever truly knew them. The girls are remembered aesthetically before they are remembered emotionally.
This dynamic becomes especially disturbing after Cecilia’s death. The town reacts to the tragedy as a spectacle. Adults discuss the event publicly, newspapers sensationalize it, and doctors attempt to explain it through superficial assumptions. Yet almost nobody seems genuinely interested in Cecilia’s inner life. Her depression is interpreted primarily through external causes rather than emotional individuality.
₊ ⊹𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐬
⤿ 𝐂𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧
Cecilia, the youngest sister, functions as the emotional center of the film despite disappearing early in the story. Her suicide establishes the atmosphere of grief and disorientation that dominates the narrative. Unlike the adults around her, Cecilia appears deeply sensitive to suffering, alienation, and cruelty. She is associated throughout the film with nature, fragility, and introspection. Her attachment to the dying tree in the neighborhood reflects her own emotional state: neglected, misunderstood, and slowly disappearing in plain sight.
What makes Cecilia particularly tragic is the inability of others to recognize the depth of her distress. The adults interpret her behavior through simplified explanations, treating her as a problem to solve rather than a person to understand. Even the therapist’s suggestion that she simply spend more time socializing demonstrates a complete failure to address her emotional reality.
The film subtly suggests that Cecilia feels disconnected not only from society but also from life itself. During the party organized after her first suicide attempt, she remains visibly uncomfortable and emotionally detached. While the adults believe social interaction will “fix” her, Cecilia experiences the gathering as artificial and exhausting. Her famous statement that the doctor had “never been a thirteen-year-old girl” reflects the enormous emotional gap between adolescent suffering and adult perception.
After Cecilia dies, the emotional consequences for her sisters are barely acknowledged by the outside world. The community attempts to resume normality almost immediately. The sisters return to school surrounded by gossip, fascination, and voyeuristic attention rather than genuine compassion. Their grief becomes invisible beneath the public image imposed upon them.
⤿ 𝐋𝐮𝐱 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧
Among the sisters, Lux is the character developed with the greatest emotional visibility. Portrayed by Kirsten Dunst, Lux embodies the tension between fantasy and reality more clearly than anyone else in the film. She is presented by the boys as seductive, rebellious, and almost unattainable, yet beneath that image she is emotionally vulnerable and desperate for affection.
Her relationship with Trip Fontaine reveals the cruelty of idealization. Trip becomes obsessed with Lux precisely because she represents an impossible fantasy: beautiful, restricted, mysterious, and desired by everyone. For him, winning Lux is less about emotional intimacy and more about achieving status and fulfilling desire. Once they sleep together after the dance, the illusion collapses. Lux ceases to function as an abstract fantasy and becomes real — a frightened teenage girl with emotional needs and sexual agency.
Trip’s abandonment of Lux on the football field is one of the film’s most devastating moments because it destroys her emotionally while simultaneously confirming the central theme of the story. The problem is not simply heartbreak. The problem is that Lux realizes she was never truly seen as a person. She was desired intensely, but never understood.
After this event, the atmosphere of the film changes dramatically. Mrs. Lisbon responds by imposing extreme isolation on the girls, removing the little freedom they still possessed. Their records are destroyed, social contact disappears, and the house becomes increasingly lifeless and decayed. The physical deterioration of the home mirrors the psychological deterioration occurring inside it.
Lux’s later behavior on the roof further emphasizes her emotional collapse. Her encounters with boys become mechanical attempts to seek validation and closeness in a world where meaningful intimacy no longer seems possible. Even then, the boys continue observing her from a distance rather than engaging with her emotionally. She remains an object of fascination instead of a person in pain.
⤿ 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧
Bonnie Lisbon is often presented as the quietest and most reserved of the older sisters, yet her silence conceals one of the clearest examples of emotional repression within the film. Unlike Lux, whose suffering eventually becomes externalized through rebellion and sexual behavior, Bonnie internalizes everything. She appears disciplined, polite, and composed, embodying the image of the obedient daughter that suburban society values. However, this apparent stability masks profound loneliness and psychological exhaustion.
One of the most revealing moments involving Bonnie occurs after Cecilia’s death, when she is found sitting alone in Cecilia’s room. Her comment about the removal of the fence carries an unsettling emotional weight because it demonstrates how deeply Cecilia’s death affected the sisters internally, even while the outside world treated the tragedy as something temporary or sensational. Bonnie’s grief is quiet and almost invisible, which reflects one of the film’s central ideas: suffering that is not openly expressed is often ignored entirely. Nobody around her seems capable of recognizing that she is emotionally deteriorating.
Bonnie’s storyline also reflects the destructive consequences of emotional suppression within rigid environments. She is constantly associated with passivity and restraint, rarely asserting herself or expressing desire openly. During the prom sequence, her awkward interactions reveal a girl who longs for connection yet lacks the emotional freedom to pursue it naturally. The tragedy of Bonnie’s character lies in the fact that her identity has been shaped almost entirely through silence, obedience, and isolation. By the end of the film, her internal suffering has become inseparable from the collective despair shared by all the sisters.
⤿ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧
Mary Lisbon occupies a particularly tragic position within the narrative because she appears to come closest to reintegrating into ordinary life, only to remain emotionally trapped by the same forces affecting her sisters. Compared to Lux’s intensity or Cecilia’s visible fragility, Mary initially seems more socially adaptable and emotionally approachable. She participates in conversations, interacts politely with others, and attempts to engage with the world outside the Lisbon household. However, beneath this relative openness there is still a profound emotional emptiness.
The prom sequence reveals important aspects of Mary’s character. During the evening, she briefly experiences a version of normal adolescence that had long been denied to the sisters. Yet even in these moments, her discomfort is evident. Her interactions with boys remain awkward and emotionally distant, emphasizing the disconnect between romantic fantasy and genuine intimacy. When she asks not to be walked to her door, the moment reflects both insecurity and emotional caution. Mary desires connection, but she has grown accustomed to emotional withdrawal and surveillance.
What makes Mary especially devastating as a character is the sense that she continues trying to survive emotionally even after the family’s collapse has already begun. In many ways, she represents endurance rather than rebellion. Yet the film suggests that endurance alone is not enough when isolation becomes total. Mary’s tragedy lies in her inability to escape the emotional environment surrounding the Lisbon household. Even when she appears closest to normality, she remains imprisoned within grief, repression, and the impossibility of authentic connection.
⤿ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧
Therese Lisbon is perhaps the most overlooked sister both within the film itself and within the perception of the boys narrating the story. This invisibility is significant because it reinforces the film’s critique of selective attention and idealization. While Lux becomes the primary object of desire and Cecilia becomes the symbolic center of tragedy, Therese fades into the background, almost disappearing within the collective image of “the Lisbon girls.” Her individuality is rarely acknowledged directly, which mirrors how society often ignores quieter forms of emotional suffering.
Despite receiving less attention, Therese demonstrates some of the clearest signs of longing for ordinary emotional connection. During the dance sequence, her interactions with boys reveal insecurity and vulnerability beneath her calm exterior. Her attempt to seek reassurance about whether a boy will contact her again feels painfully sincere because it exposes her desire to be genuinely noticed rather than merely admired from a distance. The moment highlights how emotionally inexperienced the sisters are, not because they are inherently naïve, but because isolation has prevented them from developing healthy relationships.
Therese’s quiet presence throughout the film symbolizes emotional erasure. She exists constantly within a collective identity imposed upon the sisters, making it difficult for her to emerge as an individual. This loss of individuality becomes one of the film’s most tragic dimensions. The Lisbon sisters are remembered aesthetically and collectively, but their personal interior worlds remain inaccessible. Therese embodies this idea perfectly: she is present in almost every major moment, yet nobody truly attempts to know her. Her silence ultimately becomes another expression of the film’s broader atmosphere of emotional invisibility and disconnection.
₊ ⊹ 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
Another important aspect of the film is the absence of meaningful female friendship and emotional support outside the Lisbon household. The sisters appear isolated not only from boys and adults but also from other girls their age. At school, they are observed rather than integrated. Their classmates treat them cautiously, almost as if they exist outside normal social life.
This isolation intensifies after Cecilia’s death. The Lisbon sisters become symbols within the community rather than grieving adolescents. Every interaction with them is shaped by curiosity, pity, fascination, or desire. Consequently, the sisters retreat further into themselves and into their collective identity as “the Lisbon girls.”
The film suggests that adolescence becomes dangerous when emotional development is interrupted by surveillance, repression, and objectification. Normally, teenagers construct identity through relationships, experimentation, friendship, and emotional discovery. The Lisbon sisters are denied many of these experiences. Their household restricts communication, while the outside world refuses to see them beyond fantasy.
As a result, the sisters become trapped between two impossible realities: inside the house they experience repression and emotional silence, while outside the house they encounter projection and idealization. Neither space allows authentic selfhood.
₊ ⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐲
Sofia Coppola uses the suburban setting to reinforce themes of emotional emptiness and repression. The neighborhood initially appears peaceful and idyllic, yet beneath this surface there is profound emotional detachment. Adults prioritize appearances and routine over emotional honesty. Problems are discussed indirectly, and suffering is transformed into gossip rather than confronted sincerely.
The visual style of the film strengthens this atmosphere. Soft lighting, dreamlike cinematography, faded colors, and nostalgic music create a sense of memory rather than objective reality. The film often feels suspended between reality and recollection, emphasizing that the story is less about factual truth than about emotional interpretation.
The Lisbon house itself gradually transforms into a symbol of decay. As the sisters become more isolated, the home darkens physically and emotionally. The neglected interior reflects the family’s psychological disintegration and the collapse of communication within the household.
Even the removal of Cecilia’s tree carries symbolic weight. The tree represents memory, emotional attachment, and individuality, yet the neighborhood treats it as an inconvenience to eliminate. This reflects the broader inability of the community to engage meaningfully with grief and suffering.
₊ ⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 “𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲”
The title The Virgin Suicides is deeply ironic because the film critiques the very obsession embedded within it. The word “virgin” reduces the girls to purity, sexuality, and male perception before acknowledging their humanity. Their identities become inseparable from the fantasies projected onto them by others.
This irony is particularly evident in Lux’s storyline. Despite no longer fitting the literal definition of “virgin,” she remains trapped within the symbolic role assigned to her. The title demonstrates how society frequently defines young women not through individuality or emotional depth but through idealized concepts of innocence and desire.
The film therefore critiques not only suburban repression but also the cultural tendency to romanticize female suffering. The Lisbon sisters are transformed into tragic icons precisely because people fail to recognize them as ordinary human beings experiencing loneliness, grief, confusion, and depression.
₊ ⊹ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
The Virgin Suicides is ultimately a film about failed communication and emotional distance. Its tragedy does not emerge from a single event or individual but from a collective inability to truly see and understand vulnerable people beyond projection and fantasy.
The Lisbon sisters are constantly watched, discussed, desired, and remembered, yet they remain fundamentally unseen. Their suffering is aestheticized rather than understood. Adults interpret them through morality and discipline, while boys interpret them through desire and obsession. In both cases, the sisters lose their individuality.
Sofia Coppola presents adolescence as a deeply fragile period in which identity depends heavily on recognition, intimacy, and emotional connection. When those things are replaced by surveillance, repression, and idealization, isolation becomes psychologically devastating.
The film refuses to provide simplistic explanations for the sisters’ deaths because its central concern is not solving a mystery. Instead, it examines how easily people can become trapped inside images constructed by others. Even years later, the narrators continue searching for answers while still failing to recognize the humanity of the girls they claim to remember.
Hey! Don't know if you're into the TV series Supernatural, but if you are, could you write a Yandere Dean Winchester/Winchester family x Reader x Yandere Batfam? Reader, after years of neglect and torment, runs away, and is attacked by a vampire, but Sam and Dean show up, killing it, and Reader begs to become a hunter like them to not feel worthless anymore. She heads back to their bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, disappearing for years while the Batfam has exhausted all options looking for her.
It's only when Dean, Sam, Castiel, Jack, and Mary show up with Reader on their doorstep, who's suffering from a rapid lethal illness (seizures, coughing blood, cold shakes) from an ancient witch, do the Batfam figure out that she's alive, and the gang showed up at the mansion to seek shelter and cure Reader since they're too far away from Kansas to go back with her. Reader is engaged to Dean, and told everyone her backstory, so the Winchester family despises the Batfam.
While the gang does research to figure out what spell was put on Reader, the Batfam tries connecting with the Winchesters. Jason, finding Dean badass, tries to small talk him, but Dean's having none of it since his fiancée is dying, and yells at Jason to step off. Tim tries helping Sam with research since they're both equally smart, but Sam coldly brushes him off, Damien tries intimidating Jack to get information about Reader, but Jack only glares him down till he gets the memo.
And of course, Mary is having none of it when Bruce tries to tell her what's best for Reader, and tells him off. Castiel and Alfred are the only ones who get along. And of course, for the aftermath, when Reader is cured, she leaves, but not without telling the Batfam to never look for her and that she's the happiest she's ever been with her true family: the Winchesters.
The blood trail is what betrays everything.
Not the disabled alarms. Not the forced doors. Not even the twelve-second blackout in the security grid—like something ancient had simply allowed itself inside.
It’s the blood. Dark, fresh, uneven. A deliberate path straight into the heart of Wayne Manor.
Alfred finds it first. He follows without a word, footsteps measured, because panic is a luxury he abandoned decades ago.
“Master Bruce,” he says into the comms, voice deceptively calm. “You’ll want to come downstairs. Now.”
They’re already assembled when the doors swing open.
Bruce at the front, calculating. Dick coiled with tension. Jason balanced between worry and violence. Tim running probabilities. Damian’s hand resting on his sword.
The world freezes.
You’re standing there—barely. Ashen, trembling, clothes soaked with blood that clearly isn’t all yours. And wrapped around you like a vow and a shield is Dean Winchester, arm locked around your waist, holding you up against gravity itself.
Behind him: Sam, eyes sharp and already scanning threats. Castiel, unreadable and ancient. Mary, armed and steady. Jack, quiet in that unnerving way that makes the air feel thinner.
No one breathes.
Because you were supposed to be gone.
“You’re alive,” Dick whispers, as if volume alone could make you vanish again.
“And dying,” Dean cuts in, voice raw and unapologetic. “So unless one of you knows how to break a witch’s curse that’s eating her alive from the inside, get the hell out of the way.”
“Put her down,” Bruce commands, the old tone of absolute authority slipping back into place.
Dean’s laugh is low and ugly. “You don’t give orders to me.”
Your knees buckle. Dean pulls you tighter against him instantly, one hand cradling the back of your head. “I got you,” he murmurs, suddenly soft. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Don’t you dare check out now.”
Jason’s eyes drop first—to the ring on your finger.
Tim’s voice is stunned. “You’re… engaged?”
You manage a weak, crooked smile, interrupted by a wet cough that leaves fresh blood on your lips. “Yeah… weird, right?”
Dean wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing, though his jaw is clenched hard enough to crack.
Bruce steps forward. “Let me help you.”
The look Dean gives him is pure, earned hatred. “No. You don’t get to play hero now.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Everyone understands exactly what he means.
Mary moves first. “You heard him. Move.”
“This is my house,” Bruce says tightly.
“And she was your responsibility,” Mary replies, unflinching.
You laugh—weak, painful, blood-flecked. “Still fighting over territory…”
Dean’s grip tightens, grounding you. “Save your strength.”
They get you to the couch only because Dean allows it. He lowers you with careful, practiced hands—adjusting your head, supporting your back—like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Sam’s already moving. “We need lore on blood-binding curses, life-force anchors—”
“I have—” Tim starts.
“We’re good,” Sam says, not even glancing up.
The rejection stings more than it should.
Jason tries a different angle. “Look, man, respect. But you’re in our—”
“She’s dying,” Dean interrupts, blunt as a blade. “She’s my fiancée. Unless you’ve got something useful, back off.”
The word fiancée lands like a gunshot.
When the seizure hits—violent, sudden—Dean catches you before anyone else can move. “Hey, hey—breathe, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Castiel steps in, grace flaring. “It’s digging deeper.”
Bruce watches it all: their seamless coordination, the instinct, the way Dean never lets go. The way you instinctively turn into his touch.
Hours blur into tense research and ragged breathing. Offers of help are met with quiet, necessary acceptance—but no warmth.
When the curse finally breaks and the pain ebbs, you feel the absence like a gift. Dean exhales like he’s been underwater.
“You’re okay,” he whispers.
You nod, weak but certain. “I know.”
Bruce leans in, voice rough with everything unsaid. “You can stay. We can rebuild this.”
You look at him—at all of them—for a long moment. Then you shake your head.
“No.”
The word is soft, but final.
Dick’s voice cracks. “You don’t have to leave again.”
You meet his eyes with something almost like gentleness. “I already did. I’m not lost anymore. You don’t need to find me.”
Dean helps you stand, steady as ever. You take one step toward the door, then pause and look back.
NSFW: Underage drinking and drug usage, SH, Suicidal thoughts, actual suicide, no graphic description of the suicide, failed attempts, not so failed attempt.
Movie: Virgin Suicides
The rain lashed against the tall windows of Wayne Manor like accusations that would never be spoken aloud. You had always been the ghost in the halls—unseen, unheard, unimportant. The daughter Bruce Wayne had taken in after some half-forgotten case, the one who never quite fit the Batfamily mold. No vigilante suit. No exceptional skills. Just a girl who wanted to write poetry and disappear quietly.
Damian had made sure you never forgot your place. His “training” sessions were never the roughhousing of siblings. They were calculated. A bruise hidden under long sleeves. A twisted wrist when you dared speak back. A shove down the stairs framed as an accident. The others saw. Jason shrugged it off as “demon spawn being demon spawn.” Tim buried himself in cases. Dick offered empty platitudes and then left for Blüdhaven. Bruce… Bruce was always somewhere else.
Only Alfred tried. The old butler would leave warm tea outside your door, slip books of poetry onto your bed, and once, in a rare moment of courage, he had gently said, “You deserve better, Miss.” But the Manor was a machine of shadows and secrets, and one old man couldn’t stop it.
You wrote to survive. Under the pseudonym (Y/N).P—your initials paired with Pennyworth, a quiet nod to the only person who had shown you kindness—your poems appeared in small literary magazines. Quiet verses about hollow homes, bleeding wrists, and girls who were never wanted. The checks were small but real. You saved every cent for college, for escape, for a life where no one could touch you again. Your journals were your only friends: pages filled with ink-stained desperation and beauty no one in this house would ever read.
There were times were you would secretly drink and smoke just to get a sense of relief. You would get yourself into trouble for fraudulent IDs just to buy a drink. It didn't matter how you attained it, all that mattered was that the family was too blind to notice it. Even then no matter how much you smoked or drank, you were still empty.
The first time you tried, it was with a razor in your small, barren room. The cuts were deep. The blood was warm. For a moment, there was peace.
They found you. The hospital was sterile and white. When Damian visited—ordered, perhaps, by Bruce—he stood at the foot of your bed with that cold, superior stare.
“Attention seeker,” he said flatly, arms crossed. “If you wanted to die properly, you would have succeeded. Pathetic.”
No one corrected him. Dick looked away. Tim typed on his phone. Jason muttered something about “not my problem.” Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Alfred’s eyes were wet with sorrow he was too late to express.
You stopped speaking after that.
Weeks blurred. The Manor felt smaller, the walls closer. One night, the pain crested like a wave you couldn’t outrun. You opened the window of your room—the tiny one they gave you on the third floor, overlooking the spiked iron gates that surrounded the property like teeth.
The wind smelled of wet earth and freedom.
You jumped.
The fall was brief. The impact was not. One of the ornate metal spikes pierced clean through your abdomen, lifting you slightly as if the house itself had finally claimed you. Blood ran down the iron in rivulets. Your eyes stayed open for a long moment, staring at the dark sky, before the light left them.
In the end, the boys never were a teenage girl before…
They found your body at dawn.
Alfred was the first. His usual composure shattered as he crumpled beside the gates, old hands trembling as he reached for you but couldn’t bring himself to pull you down. “My dear girl… I should have done more. Forgive this useless old man.”
The Batfamily arrived in a storm of capes and panic. For once, the vigilantes looked small.
Bruce’s voice cracked when he saw you impaled there like a broken doll. “No…”
Damian froze. His face, usually a mask of arrogance, went blank. Then something fractured behind his eyes—something possessive and ugly and too late. “She was mine to break,” he whispered, barely audible. “Not like this. Not without my permission.”
Jason tore the gates apart with raw strength, pulling your body free while cursing violently. “We let this happen. We fucking let him do this.” His hands shook as he cradled you, blood soaking his jacket. The anger that had always simmered in him turned inward, sharp as the spike that had killed you.
Tim hacked into every system, pulling your pseudonyms, your publications, the quiet life you’d built in secret. “She had money. She was going to leave. She was planning to leave us.” His voice rose, hysterical. “Why didn’t we see?”
Dick held your cold hand, tears streaming down his face. “I thought… I thought if we ignored it, it would fix itself. She was supposed to need us. She was supposed to stay.”
They searched your room like a crime scene.
The journals were everywhere—neat stacks, hidden under floorboards, tucked behind books. Poems of loneliness so profound they made hardened vigilantes weep. One entry, dated a week before your death:
They call themselves my family, but families don’t watch you bleed. I saved enough for a bus ticket and a new name. Maybe somewhere, a girl like me can be wanted.
The money you’d earned from your published work under (Y/N).P was all there—earmarked for college, for freedom. Proof you had almost escaped their neglect.
The yandere obsession that had always lurked beneath their indifference now roared to life in your absence. They couldn’t let you go. Not like this.
Bruce had your body preserved in the Cave’s hidden medical wing, speaking to it in the dead of night. “You’re ours. You were always ours. We’ll fix this. We’ll bring you back somehow.” His voice was hoarse with a love that had arrived far too late—twisted, possessive, devouring.
Damian sat beside your journals for days, reading every word, tracing your handwriting. “You belonged to me. Your pain, your poetry, your last breath—they were mine.” He began writing responses in the margins, dark promises of what he would have done if you had lived. How he would have kept you locked away, safe from everything but him.
Jason hunted down every person who had ever published your work, ensuring your words stayed within the family. “No one else gets to read her soul.”
Tim built a digital shrine—every poem analyzed, every pseudonym claimed.
Dick held fake conversations with your corpse, apologizing, promising trips and affection that never came when you breathed. “We’ll be the family you wanted. Just come back.”
Alfred stood apart, watching them descend into madness with quiet horror. He kept one small journal for himself—the only one they hadn’t taken. Inside was the last poem you’d written, pressed like a flower:
Die, daughter, die. Maybe then they’ll see the girl they killed.
Weeks after the funeral that was no funeral at all, Alfred Pennyworth stood at the edge of the grand sitting room, a silver tray balanced perfectly in his gloved hands, though the tea had long gone cold. He watched the scene unfold with the quiet detachment of a man who had buried too many children in this house of shadows. The Batfamily—his boys, fractured and unraveling—sat rigidly around the famous writer, Ms. Eleanor Voss, a woman whose own poetry collections lined the shelves of universities and bookstores alike. She had contacted them after discovering the works of (Y/N).P, drawn by verses she had quietly admired for years.
“I had hoped to meet her in person,” Ms. Voss said, her voice crisp and measured as she accepted a journal from Tim’s trembling hands. “(Y/N).P’s work carried a rare honesty. The quiet desperation of a voice that knew it might never be heard. I wanted to offer mentorship. Perhaps even collaboration.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes hollow. “She’s gone.”
Damian sat closest to the woman, fingers twitching as if ready to snatch the journal back. “Her words belong here.”
Jason’s laugh was bitter. Dick looked away. Tim hovered over the archives.
Alfred observed them all, his heart a lead weight in his chest. In the end, the boys never were a teenage girl before…
Ms. Voss flipped through the pages slowly, her expression shifting from professional admiration to something sharper, cooler. She took in the opulent room: the dark wood paneling, the looming portraits, the sterile perfection that screamed wealth but offered no warmth. Her gaze lingered on the family—their intensity, the way they spoke of the dead girl as something theirs to mourn, to claim, to resurrect in their obsessions.
The writer closed the journal with deliberate care. “I see.”
She stood, smoothing her coat, and looked directly at Bruce first, then each of the boys in turn. Alfred noted the way her eyes held no fear, only weary clarity.
“That girl did not want to die,” Ms. Voss said, her voice cutting through the heavy air like a well-honed blade. “She just wanted out of that house. Out of that decorating scheme. She probably thought she could fly when she jumped.”
A stunned silence fell.
Damian rose halfway from his seat, green eyes flashing. “You dare—”
“She wrote of cages disguised as homes,” the writer continued, undeterred. “Of hands that bruised while others looked away. Of saving pennies from words published under (Y/N).P that no one here bothered to read until she was gone. These poems weren’t cries for attention. They were blueprints for escape. And you—” Her gaze swept the room again. “—kept her locked inside this beautiful tomb. Did you even read her poems?”
Alfred felt a rare flicker of vindication, even as grief clawed at him. He remembered the last time he had seen her alive: pale, pressing a small envelope of cash into his hand with a whisper. “For safekeeping, Alfred. If I… if I make it out.”
“Fixing it?” Ms. Voss’s laugh was soft, pitying. “You’re hoarding her ghost. That’s not love, gentlemen. That’s another cage. She had enough money to enter Harvard, but not enough time to experience it.”
She set the journal down gently and turned toward the door. Alfred stepped forward quietly to escort her. As they walked the long hallway, Ms. Voss glanced at him.
“You were the only one who tried, weren’t you?”
Alfred’s voice was steady, though his eyes were not. “I was the only one who saw her, madam. And I was still too late.”
Behind them, the sitting room erupted into low, frantic voices—Bruce issuing orders to secure every trace of (Y/N).P, Damian snarling, Tim already tracing the writer’s digital footprint. The yandere darkness only grew thicker.
Alfred closed the heavy front door after Ms. Voss departed into the Gotham night. He lingered there a moment, hand on the polished wood, and allowed himself one quiet, broken thought:
She had wanted only to be seen.
Instead, they had finally noticed her—
when noticing could no longer save her.
Hi :D
Could we possibly get headcanons for Jonathan Crane x reader where the reader is a livestock farmer and really strong? I feel like I can never find fics for strong females and I love Crane sm
You don't have to if you don't want to tho!!
Thank youuu!
A/N: Ok!!! Also sorry I've been so busy and so late w/ my replies!
How You Met: Jonathan was laying low after a botched Gotham scheme, needing a remote place far from Batman’s surveillance and the city’s chaos. Your large livestock farm—isolated, sprawling fields, sturdy barns, and no nosy neighbors—looked perfect. He showed up one rainy night claiming to be a disgraced academic needing “peace and quiet for research.” You let him stay in the old bunkhouse because he looked half-starved and strangely non-threatening… until you noticed the weird chemical equipment he tried to hide. Instead of kicking him out, you just crossed your arms (biceps flexing from years of hauling feed sacks and stubborn cattle) and told him, “If you cause trouble, I’ll drag you off my property myself.” He found your complete lack of fear… fascinating.
The Strength Kink is Real: Jonathan is not a physically imposing man. He’s tall and lanky, relying on intellect and toxins. Watching you effortlessly hoist 50kg hay bales, wrestle a 600kg bull into a chute, or carry two full feed buckets in one hand does something to him. He’ll stand at the fence line pretending to read while actually staring, analyzing how such raw physical power exists in someone so… calm. He once saw you lift an entire broken gate and rehang it solo. That night he was unusually quiet and attentive, almost shy. “The human body is capable of remarkable things when conditioned by necessity,” he’d murmur, but his eyes said he was thinking far less clinical thoughts.
Farm Life Integration: He’s useless with the animals at first. The cows don’t like his scent (probably the residual fear toxin), and the chickens scatter when he walks by. You tease him mercilessly while he awkwardly tries to help. Over time he learns—mostly to stay on your good side. He becomes surprisingly good at record-keeping for breeding lines and medication schedules because “organization is the foundation of control.” You handle the heavy labor; he handles the books and any “pests” (rival farmers or debt collectors suddenly develop crippling phobias and leave you alone).
Fear Toxin & The Farm: Jonathan is protective in his own twisted way. Anyone who tries to harass you or lowball you at market suddenly experiences vivid nightmares about being trampled by stampeding livestock. He insists it’s “merely an experiment.” You’ve built up a surprising tolerance after accidental low-level exposures—nothing scares you easily anymore. One time a particularly aggressive boar got loose and charged him; you tackled it mid-stride and pinned it until help arrived. Jonathan was both mortified and incredibly turned on by the casual display of dominance.
Domestic Moments: Evenings on the porch after chores, you in your worn work boots with dirt on your jeans, him in his threadbare sweater sipping coffee you made. He reads psychology journals aloud while you sharpen tools or mend tack. He loves when you come in smelling like hay, sweat, and animals—it’s earthy and real, the opposite of Gotham’s sterile fear. Sometimes he’ll rest his head against your shoulder (or thigh if you’re sitting) after a long day, murmuring about how your steady heartbeat is the only thing that consistently calms the chaos in his mind.
Villainous Support: You become his safe haven. When Batman gets too close, he retreats to the farm. You’ve hidden him in the hayloft more than once, standing guard with a pitchfork like a rural Valkyrie. He finds your strength both reassuring and humbling. You don’t need his toxin to intimidate people—you just exist as a very strong, very no-nonsense farmer who loves her animals and her weird, fear-obsessed boyfriend.
Jealousy & Possessiveness: Jonathan gets quietly jealous of the way you handle the livestock with such confident physicality. He knows it’s irrational, but seeing you wrestle and calm a massive animal makes him want to remind you that he is the one who can make the whole world scream with a single breath. You usually shut that down by picking him up (yes, fully lifting the grown man, despite him being a bit taller than you... But for my tall girlies you can ignore this.) and kissing him until he forgets his insecurities.
Long-Term: The farm becomes his true lair, hidden in plain sight. Gotham thinks Scarecrow vanished. In reality, he’s living with a livestock farmer who can bench-press him, loves her animals more than most people, and looks at his madness and says, “That’s fine, just don’t scare the cows.” He’s never been more content… or more dangerous, because now he has something real to protect.
