ᥫ᭡. ⵌ ꗃ◟ Alone in the universe? . . . Don't be silly!
Welcome to my chaotic corner of the internet. Name’s Marceline. Is it my real name? Maybe.
This is where I’ll be dumping all sorts of fanfiction across several fandoms—because why commit to one obsession when you can have twenty? Expect fluff, angst, pot twists, and the occasional descent into madness. Am I here to share my creative soul or to procrastinate on my actual responsibilities? The answer is yes.
Request; Closed!
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Today I got the sweetest notification — I’ve reached 1,000 reblogs! 🎉 And that immediately reminded me that Silly Little Bat still exists… just sitting there, waiting for me to finish what I started (yes, the ending I totally left hanging).
Lately, I’ve been reading the Absolute Universe, and it made me think back to the series and how much fun I had creating it. So, I decided to come back, dust off the ideas, and… well, do something about it.
Also, just a small reminder!
If my profile says that requests are closed, please don’t send any — it really fills up my inbox and makes it harder to organize everything.
When I reopen the request batches, I’ll also start taking comic-style requests, like the Absolute Batman one!
🦇 Tomorrow, I’m posting Chapter 1 of Silly Little Bat: The Remake.
pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.
synopsis ⸺ In a Gotham steeped in darkness, Bruce Wayne confronts a past resonating with secrets. As he uncovers the identity of an enigmatic antiheroine, he will discover hidden truths that will stain his legacy. Blood, a symbol of betrayals, intertwines with his fate, revealing that darkness dwells within him as well.
warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, tw.noncon, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia
Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3
A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— I took a long time because I went on vacation, I wasn’t inspired, I had a lot of things to catch up on, and blah blah blah. The good thing is that I brought part 4, and just so you know, there are about four or five more parts of the story, maybe more.
I'm dirty, infinitely dirty,
this is why I scream so much
about purity.
Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the memories and the silence that now inhabited that room. Every corner of that space reminded him of his daughter's presence, a presence that had been fragile and ephemeral, like smoke disappearing between fingers. He looked at the diplomas and trophies on the shelves, those small proofs of her effort and dedication. He caressed them with the same reverence he used when going through old photographs, searching for something, anything, that would tell him he had done enough, that he had been a good father.
But he only saw the same emptiness in her eyes that he had known since childhood. She resembled him more than he would have imagined. In her dull gaze, in her absent smile, he recognized the same pain that had accompanied him after his parents' death. He realized, almost bitterly, that this darkness was an inheritance, a shadow he had left in her without realizing it.
Bruce ran his fingers over an old photo from her first birthday after losing his mother. That day, Alfred had secretly taken her to Metropolis in a desperate attempt to give her some happiness. But even at the amusement park, where laughter and noise were contagious, her face remained a vacant mask. She wasn’t really smiling, as if something inside her knew she would never have the normalcy that other children enjoyed.
With a heavy sigh, Bruce rested his head on the pillow that had been hers, wanting to cling to the scent of his daughter. But there was no trace of her aroma left. Alfred, in an act of rigor that Bruce couldn’t understand, had eliminated any trace of her, perhaps trying to close a wound that Bruce was unwilling to let heal. He had reproached Alfred for hours and hours for erasing that last vestige of his daughter. But Alfred’s look, serious and filled with silence, told him what he already knew: maybe he didn’t deserve to keep those memories because he had failed to protect the person he loved most.
He closed his eyes, sinking into the pain of each thought that emerged from that dark room. Everything reminded him that, somehow, he was responsible for his daughter's disappearance, as if his own shadows had consumed her. In his mind, images of what he could have done differently began to surface, a parade of possibilities where he was a better father, more attentive and less blind to her suffering.
Suddenly, Titus and Alfred the Cat entered together through the door, coming in silently, as if they understood the weight of that moment. Titus approached Bruce, resting his massive head on his knee, while Alfred the Cat jumped onto Bruce's lap, purring softly. Bruce petted the dog and the cat, finding in them the only comfort that seemed left to him. His voice trembled when, in an almost delirious tone, he confessed to them:
"Maybe I’m the real killer here. What kind of father lets his daughter get lost in the dark? What kind of monster was I that I never saw her pain? If she’s dead… if my little girl has left this world… then I am the only one responsible."
He paused, breathing heavily, as the words he wanted to suppress escaped his lips in a bitter and disturbing whisper. "Sometimes I wish I had… had stopped her mother. If she hadn’t been… if I had raised her from the beginning… I could have saved her from so much pain."
The words, though spoken in a barely audible murmur, weighed heavily in the room. He caressed the pillow, almost pleading for the past to change, for every mistake to be undone. The cat purred softly, as if understanding the pain Bruce was trying to stifle deep in his chest. Titus looked at him with eyes full of loyalty, without judging him, but not offering the redemption he desperately sought.
"I would give anything for a second chance," he whispered, his voice broken. "I would give my life to undo every moment that made her drift away. I would give anything to see her smile again, even if it were just once… even if it were just to tell her how sorry I am."
The house was silent, and in that instant, Bruce understood that there were no words, no time, no strength that could change the past. He was trapped in an abyss of guilt, with only shadows and memories now haunting him, reflecting his own empty and broken face.
Finally, he could no longer contain himself. Feeling the emptiness in his chest, tears began to fall onto the pillow, soaking it with his pain, as if the weight of his own guilt slid out in every sob he tried to stifle. His face was buried in the memory of his daughter, lost in the pain that tormented him with an intensity he could no longer bear.
It was then that Damian entered, dressed as Robin, with his katana stained with a dark red liquid that could be nothing other than blood, with a sharp and direct arrogance, breaking the silent mourning of Bruce. Coldly, he looked at his father and pronounced, almost with disdain, "No matter how much you cry like a whore, Y/N won’t come back."
Bruce looked up, surprised and hurt, but before he could respond, Damian continued with the same hardness. "While everyone was out in a gang like a bunch of lowlifes and came back empty-handed, I found something you didn’t even bother to look for while lying here like a cheap whore." Damian looked at him with a mix of disappointment and reproach, as if he couldn’t understand how his father had let so many signs slip by.
"Did you know? I had a relationship with Ivy, that old woman who had the indecency to date my little sister while being an old hag. Plus, she worked as a waitress in some bar wearing little clothes to survive. Like some common bitch. And the last time, she was seen in the subway, with a strange man with psychiatric crazy vibes... surely another one that slipped away while you were lying here." Damian’s words were blows to Bruce, each revelation a testament to how much he had let slip away.
Damian continued, each phrase laden with resentment and questions. "Why did she have to work? Why did she, the daughter of the renowned multimillionaire Bruce Wayne, the masked hero of Gotham, have to depend on a miserable paycheck that didn’t even cover the end of the month? And the subway, father, did she really have to take the subway like any unknown person in this city?"
Bruce looked down, unable to respond. Each of those questions was a dagger reminding him how far he had been from understanding his own daughter. He had ignored, or perhaps never wanted to see, the sacrifices she made to survive, the paths she took in search of something he had never given her. Now, with Damian's words filling the silence, Bruce realized he had condemned his daughter to the same fate he was trying to combat on the streets.
Damian watched him, his gaze cold and critical, as the room filled with a tense silence. For the first time, Bruce understood that perhaps he was never the hero he thought he was, and that in his attempt to protect everyone, he had failed to protect the one who needed him the most.
Bruce felt anger bubbling inside him, intensifying with each word that left Damian's lips. "How dare you come in here and say that? You weren’t a brother to her, you weren’t there when she needed you the most," he shot back, his voice echoing in the room like dark thunder. The image of his daughter intertwined with his rage, each contained tear now fueling his fury.
Damian frowned, unrestrained. "That's how I show my affection; you should be used to it," he retorted disdainfully, recalling that moment when he arrived at the mansion, he had stabbed Y/N with his katana. "I did what I had to do, and I don’t have to accept your reproaches. Everyone failed Y/N, even you."
"Don’t try to blame others for your own failures!" Bruce shouted, frustration filling every corner of his being. "You weren’t there, Damian. You can’t always hide behind your arrogance."
Damian crossed his arms, his defiant attitude unbreakable. "And what if I wasn't? At least I didn’t hide behind a mask of sadness. Better stop reproaching me and listen to what I have for you." He stepped closer, pulling out a half-open old cardboard box. "I brought you a gift."
Bruce looked at him suspiciously. "What is it now?"
"I went looking for Selina, but she slipped away like a scared kitten," Damian said, mocking the situation. "A waste of time, but I found Ivy in Arkham. She said little about Y/N, which annoyed me, so… well, here you go." He opened the box slowly, revealing Poison Ivy's head, the fresh blood still dripping from the edges.
Her face, once beautiful, was now serene, with pale skin and a touch of green that evoked her connection to nature. Her normally vibrant red hair now fell messily around her face, while her eyes, closed forever, seemed almost at peace, as if she had found a breath in the chaos she once inhabited.
Bruce felt as if the world had stopped. There was no horror in his gaze, only an emptiness where anger and sadness collided. "What have you done?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, but resignation permeated every word. The life of his daughter, the decisions he had made and what that meant now overwhelmed him.
Damian shrugged. "She was a monster, just like all of us. What matters is that now you have something tangible, something you can show."
"What kind of family are we?" Bruce let slip, feeling defeated. "This family is a failure."
"Oh, so it turns out we’ve been a family all this time?" Damian replied, scornful, but his tone was less certain.
Bruce closed his eyes, feeling the discomfort of the situation. "Take me to the apartment where she lived," he said, his voice enigmatic and cold. It was a request that resonated with the gravity of what he had lost, an echo of what he had failed to protect. As Damian looked at him with surprise and a hint of concern, Bruce knew that the truth he would face in that place was beyond any form of redemption. The darkness that had invaded his life was about to be confronted, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for what he would find.
As Bruce and Damian prepared to leave, Titus and Alfred the Cat watched them from a distance. The dog remained alert, his ears perked, as if he could sense the tension looming in the air. His instinct told him that something grave was about to happen. Alfred, with his wise and sharp gaze, seemed to share the same unease, his eyes fixed on the men who were heading toward the dark fate they had chosen.
As Bruce and Damian headed for the door, Titus stepped forward, his expression a mix of concern and determination. It was as if he were trying to convey a silent message, a call to reason that his owners could not hear amid their emotional turmoil. Alfred the Cat, with his elegant stride, approached Bruce and rubbed his head against his leg, seeking comfort for the hero who seemed on the brink of losing himself even further in the darkness.
Turning around, Bruce felt a pang in his heart. He looked at his animals, those innocent beings who had always been there to offer him companionship, and realized that they were aware of what was about to come. In a world where violence and betrayal lurked around every corner, their departure was the beginning of something much darker.
With one last look, Bruce found himself in Titus's eyes, reflecting a mix of loyalty and worry. It was as if the dog knew that the decision they were making would not only affect them but would also drag others into a chaos from which they could not escape.
Damian, impatient, had already crossed the threshold, but Bruce paused for one more moment. "I’m sorry," he murmured, although he was not sure to whom he was really addressing: whether to the animals who looked at him with eyes full of wisdom or to himself for the path he had chosen.
However, it was already too late to turn back. With one last glance at the room where it all began, and at the animals who looked at him with concern, Bruce stepped into the dark world that awaited them, unaware that soon, everything would get worse. The air was charged with ominous anticipation, and the feeling that tragedy loomed over them like a shadow, deep and inevitable.
You lay on the bed, your body still heavy from the forced encounter, thoughts fluttering in your mind like butterflies trapped in a net. The room was enveloped in an unsettling gloom, the air thick with a tension that could not be ignored. Beside you, he breathed with a calm that contrasted with the whirlwind inside you. There was no name, no face to remember; it was just him, the one who had kidnapped you and made you his own, a figure who had taken your life and distorted it at will.
As you stared at the ceiling, the silence became a mirror of your thoughts. Rage and hatred toward your family surged within you, feelings that had once seemed so distant. They didn’t understand you, they hadn’t been there to protect you, and now, in this strange intimacy, you found yourself wishing to be with him more than with them. Confusion engulfed you; on one hand, there was a part of you longing for affection and acceptance, while on the other, there was a strange pleasure in the situation, a desire to escape the life that had caused you so much suffering.
Despite everything, you missed your mother. Her laughter, her hugs, the way she always knew how to calm your fears. But that maternal figure was slowly fading from your memory, drowned by the anguish of betrayal and loneliness. You found yourself trapped between the desire to remember the good and the hatred toward the past that had brought you here.
As the room remained silent, a dark and almost self-destructive impulse took hold of you. With trembling movements, you picked up a sharp object and pressed it against your skin, feeling a sting that was both physical and emotional. In that moment, you thought about the irony of your situation: you had lost control of your life, and in seeking an escape, you chose to hurt yourself.
The duality of your feelings was heartbreaking. On one hand, you yearned for freedom, to reclaim your identity and the love that had been taken from you. On the other, there was a part of you that felt alive in this new relationship, a twisted connection that kept you captive. The internal struggle manifested in every thought and every action, revealing the complexity of your situation.
You remembered moments from his life, the wounds he carried, and the pain he had faced. Had Bruce ever been so lost, so filled with sadness that he had to do the unthinkable to feel something? The idea that the man you admired could also have been vulnerable struck you like a revelation. You wondered if he had ever cried in solitude, questioning his place in the world, if he had ever felt so trapped in his own life.
As you touched your stomach, an old pain resurfaced. There, beneath the skin, was a scar, a reminder of the time Damian had hurt you with his katana, an act that had been both an attack and a cry of desperation. The brush of your fingers over the wound, although healed, still brought memories of suffering and betrayal, a deep connection intertwined with the pain you felt now. The scar was a metaphor for your life: a wound that would never fully heal, a reminder that pain is part of your existence.
Tears fell more forcefully as you thought about how your family’s decisions, rivalries, and chaos had influenced your life. Bruce, with his constant struggle against the shadows of his past, was a reflection of what you could have been: strong, determined, but also broken and lost. In that moment, you felt just like him, entangled in a cycle of suffering and confusion.
You allowed yourself to cry, feeling that perhaps in that vulnerability there was some freedom. It was a relief, an act of resistance in the midst of the oppression that surrounded you. As the outside world faded away, the pain of the scar became a reminder that, despite everything, there was still a part of you yearning to break free, wanting to escape this darkness. And amid that sadness, one thought grew stronger: perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to find your path again.
The man let go of your cheek and, with a casual gesture, lit a cigarette, the smoke dancing in the air like shadows in the dim light of the room. His eyes, fixed on you, had a dangerous intensity. "Do you see this?" he said, exhaling the smoke slowly. "Now you are stained, like Gotham. You’ve been in the mud, and it’s your duty to clean yourself up. This is just the beginning."
He looked at you with a twisted smile, an expression that mixed amusement and dominance. "You have to understand that you can’t escape from what you are. The city is a reflection of yourself. And like Gotham, you too need to be purified." With a sudden movement, he offered you the cigarette. "Smoke. It will help you forget the tears."
You hesitated, but his eyes challenged you, a clear message that there was no room for denial. With a mix of fear and despair, you brought the cigarette to your lips, feeling its bitterness touch your tongue. "Don’t make me repeat myself," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "I want you to feel the poison, just like the city does. You are part of it now, and you must accept your role."
The pressure of his words overwhelmed you, each syllable a reminder of your distorted reality. "But why me?" you stammered, feeling desperation twisting inside you. "Why do I have to be part of this?"
"Because there is no choice," he replied with disdain. "There never was. Every day, every decision you made has led you here. Weakness is not an option. Look around you; Gotham has no place for the weak. If you want to survive, you need to get your hands dirty. And believe me, there is a lot of blood to clean up."
Your heart raced as you inhaled the smoke, the burning filling your lungs and leaving a feeling of emptiness. "What do you want from me?" you asked, feeling the power he had over you strangling you.
"I just want you to accept your new place. I want you to understand that in this world, death and destruction are inevitable. There is no redemption for the stained, but you can try to fix it… in your own way."
He trapped you in a dark cycle of thoughts, where each of his words echoed in your mind like a terrifying echo. You knew he was playing with you, manipulating your emotions. "If you don’t clean yourself, you will suffer the consequences. And if you cry for her again, I promise you will pay for it," he said, tightening his grip on your arm.
As the smoke dissipated into the air, the feeling of being trapped became more palpable. You found yourself between acceptance and internal struggle, but deep down, you knew you had to find a way out. However, the darkness around you grew more intense, and each of his words was another chain binding you to this fate you had not chosen.
The air thickened as he exhaled smoke, the room filling with a gray fog that seemed to reflect the chaos in your mind. He looked at you with an intensity that overflowed with obsession, a strange mix of affection and dominance that enveloped you. Despite the tears running down your face, you felt no sadness or fear. You had passed the stage of terror; now you felt strangely alive, almost liberated in your pain.
"My dear," he said in a soft yet authoritative voice, "you must not see this as a punishment. It is a purification. Gotham needs someone who understands its pain, and you are the chosen one." He leaned closer to you, his hot breath on your skin. "You are like a spark in this darkness, and together we can illuminate it. You just have to let the poison flow through you. With each tear, you are cleansing the city."
As he held you, the contact between the two of you was electric, and a part of you began to understand his madness, the way he had woven his dreams of greatness and purification through your own desires for belonging. "Did you know my mother was in Arkham?" he continued, as if sharing a special secret. "She was stained too. In her mind, she fought demons that no one else could see, just like you now. And look where she ended up: trapped in her own memories, in her own shadows."
The revelation hit you. A fragment of pain resurfaced, intertwining with the new knowledge. "What… what happened to her?" you asked, your voice trembling. It wasn’t sadness you felt; it was curiosity to know that story that had remained hidden.
"She got lost in the darkness of Gotham, just like everyone else," he said with contempt. "But that doesn’t have to be your destiny. You are stronger. My mother let herself be consumed by her madness, but you… you can take control. Let me guide you."
You fell silent, contemplating his words. The tears continued to fall, but now they were just a part of you, a manifestation of the internal struggle. You knew you were trapped in a dangerous game, but there was something in his promise of power and control that began to seduce you.
"So cry if you need to," he said, caressing your cheek with a touch that was both gentle and threatening. "But don’t let those tears weaken you. Every time you feel the urge to cry for her, remember what you are. Remember that the city needs someone like you to cleanse it of the filth."
"How can I do that?" you asked, feeling the echo of his words resonate in your mind. "How can I clean something so deeply rooted in darkness?"
"With determination," he answered firmly, his eyes shining with a mix of fervor and madness. "You must learn to see the beauty in chaos. There is power in pain. With every action you take, with every decision you make, you will be purifying Gotham of its own decay. And I will be by your side, guiding you. Together, we will be unstoppable."
As you absorbed his words, a strange sense of purpose began to take shape within you. Although his love was perverse, there was something in his vision that resonated with you, as if you were destined to fulfill that role. As the smoke from the cigarette faded into the air, so too did your fears, leaving only a cold and clear determination: you were going to take control of your destiny, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.
"No! I don’t want you to go!" shouted little Y/n, clinging to her mother's handbag with the desperation of someone who knows something important is about to slip away.
Her mother, a blonde woman with a tired gaze, let out a sigh of impatience. Y/n couldn't quite remember her face, but she knew it hardened at the tug on her bag, and without thinking, she pushed the girl, causing her to fall to the ground with a dull thud. Y/n looked up from below, her big eyes reflecting a mix of fear and pain.
"Stop being silly, Y/n," her mother murmured, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice. She leaned down, trying to smile, but the coldness in her eyes betrayed her. "You know I have to do this... for both of us. Everything I do is for you, even if you don’t understand it now."
The girl nodded slowly, but inside, she felt the truth—that repeated phrase was just a curtain. She knew there was something broken in her mother, something she was too young to fully comprehend but sensed in every harsh gesture, in every bitter word that hung in the air. Something that made her feel alone, even when they were together.
Her mother straightened up, adjusting the bag as if it weighed tons. She raised a hand in a mechanical farewell, and without another word, she left through the door without looking back.
Days passed in a haze of silence and dry tears. Y/n had no idea how much time had passed since her mother left, leaving the echo of her footsteps as the only reminder of her presence. Hugging herself, she spent the nights waiting for some familiar sound that never came.
When she finally opened her eyes, she realized her surroundings had completely changed. She was no longer at home; she was sitting in a cold, unfamiliar room, with gray walls and flickering lights dimly overhead. In the distance, she could hear whispering voices.
"How is it possible that someone left such a small child alone?" It was the firm, serious voice of a man. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she distinguished a police badge on the man's uniform. It read Commissioner Gordon.
Next to him, a red-haired woman spoke in a low voice. "Dad, you can't be sure. Maybe it was just a lie. You know how her mother was: a history of psychiatric hospitals and drugs at home. How do we know she didn't make up the story about Wayne?"
"Barbara, we have evidence that doesn't lie," Gordon replied coldly, his tone tinged with disdain. "We know the paternity test is real."
The girl felt the world sway around her. She listened to every word and felt each comment like a dagger sinking deeper into her chest. Those adults, figures of authority and trust, spoke of her mother as if she were little more than a mistake, something despicable that had left scars on her life. Sitting there, hidden behind a wall and hugging her knees, tears returned to her eyes, a mix of sadness and a terrifying understanding of what it meant to be alone in the world.
"Do you really think someone like that should have had a child in her care?" Barbara said from her wheelchair, her tone full of contempt. "She was probably just looking for easy money, manipulating everyone she could."
Commissioner Gordon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. "Barbara, that's not fair! Even if she didn’t lead the best life, she was still a citizen like anyone else, and she had the right to rebuild her life. No one is perfect."
From her corner, Y/n tried to cover her ears, but Barbara's words were impossible to ignore.
"I can't believe it, Dad. How could anyone in their right mind have left a child in the hands of that woman?" Barbara said with a cold, almost poisoned voice. "Someone who clearly had drug addiction problems and who was in and out of psychiatric hospitals. I bet she didn’t even know who the real father was."
Each word made Y/n's chest tighten even more. Her mind screamed silently: Stop! Please stop saying that about her! Her small hands trembled as she remembered the moments she had spent with her mother. Her mother, who although had those dark days and her brusque manner, had fed her, tucked her in, and cared for her as best as she could. Despite her mistakes, she had been her mother, and that was all Y/n could understand.
But Barbara’s words kept filling the room, like a storm of resentment. "I don't know how Bruce can even be involved in something like this. That woman was a burden to everyone. I can't imagine anyone worse as a mother."
Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to block it out. It's not true. She’s not bad. She took care of me. We didn’t have much, but she always tried to be there for me. But no matter how hard her thoughts tried to silence the pain, Barbara's words left deep scars, increasingly difficult to heal.
As Y/n remained there, her tears already dry, her thoughts twisted in her mind like threatening shadows. She heard the echoes of Barbara's cruel words and Gordon's, and a silent resentment grew in her chest, almost like a slow poison. She tried to remember the good moments with her mother, but the dark thoughts seemed to drown them out. She was good, she was good... No, you can't say that about her... But those same thoughts tangled with hate and confusion, and the pain grew stronger.
Suddenly, everything turned white. The walls, the voices, the cold metal chair beneath her legs... everything disappeared into a blinding void that enveloped every corner of her mind. And then, there was only her, standing in that white abyss, with a strange weight on her shoulders and in her hands.
She looked down and saw a white armor, shining as if made of shards of moon and shadow. It covered her body completely, with firm, polished plates that fit like a second skin, protecting every part of her. The gauntlets were solid, with sharp and detailed edges, and in her hands, she wielded two katanas whose blades reflected that void like deadly mirrors.
The design of the armor was imposing and terrifying. The helmet resembled a bat, with long pointed ears extending upward, and a dark V-shaped visor that barely revealed her eyes. The lines that ran across her chest and arms formed the silhouette of folded wings, as if that bat awaited to unfold at any moment. The chest was engraved with fine black details, resembling veins radiating dark power. In the center, a small emblem in the shape of a black teardrop contrasted with the radiant white of the armor, like a mark of pain and sacrifice.
In the dim light of the void where she stood, Y/n felt the weight of the katanas in her hands as if they were extensions of her own being. In that moment, the white armor fit her like a comforting embrace, a reminder of the power she now possessed. She looked at herself in a non-existent reflection, feeling that every part of her being was ready to act, to reclaim what she had lost.
With a tremor of emotion and a palpable obsession, she held them to her chest, hugging them tightly. Words flowed from her lips, laden with a burning, almost manic desire: "Soon you will be mine... I will go home. I will be my little girl again."
The echo of her voice resonated in the white void, vibrating with the intensity of her longing. In her mind, an image formed of a home, a place where shadows no longer lurked and where her mother, though imperfect, would be able to embrace her once more. The idea of being together again, of transforming her pain into power, filled her with a fierce determination.
"I will come back for you," she whispered, her voice choked with a mix of tears and a crazed smile. "Nothing will stop me. I promise." The choked laughter turned into a murmur of echoes, resonating in the abyss like a sinister promise, as the world around her began to fade again, leaving her alone with her obsession and her new identity.
In the silence, whispers began to rise, soft at first, but increasingly insistent. One word repeated, muted yet burning, like a spark in the shadows.
K
e
r
o
s
e
n
e
The word reverberated in the void, growing more intense, like a kind of dark mantra. And when Y/n could barely bear the weight of those voices, one final phrase emerged, chilling and final:
"Death is the ultimate prize."
You walked through the halls of the old apartment block, your white armor shining in the dim light, like a bat defying the embrace of the night. The echoes of your heels resonated, a dark song reverberating in the solitude of the worn walls.
Your figure, sculpted in gleaming metal, was a silhouette of elegance and mystery, as you hummed a forgotten melody, slipping between the shadows like a whisper of the forbidden. Each step was a heartbeat in the silence, a chilling reminder that there is still life in abandonment.
The portraits on the walls watched you, empty eyes that seemed to come alive, as you moved with the grace of a specter, a macabre dance of light and shadow at dusk.
The doors, worn and creaking, whispered secrets of past stories, and you, guardian of those forgotten tales, advanced fearlessly, seeking what was left behind.
You were an enigma, a reflection of the lost, a shadow walking, dressed in white, in a world clinging to its demons, where the past and present intertwine in a lethal embrace, and the night waits, eager for your return.
You paused before the door of one of the apartments, its frayed wood opening like an abyss, a dark invitation that defied logic. The silence became thick, almost palpable, and the echo of your humming faded, leaving a void that swallowed the darkness.
The threshold awaited you, a portal to the unknown, and a cold breeze, laden with whispers, caressed your skin like a lost lover. Inside, the shadows seemed to come alive, a palace of echoes and laments, where time had woven a web.
Your heart raced, a mix of adrenaline and challenge, as you gently pushed the door. It creaked in protest, like an old ghost, and when it opened, revealed an abandoned world, furniture covered in dust, with withered memories.
The remnants of a past life crowded every corner, and a scent of decay floated in the air, but something more, a glimpse of presence, urged you to enter, to explore the hidden. You peered in, and the dimness embraced you, as if the apartment claimed you as its own.
Each step on the creaky floor was an act of daring, and the walls seemed to murmur forgotten secrets, stories of betrayed loves and lost souls. In the center of the room, a dark, diffuse, and shadowy figure formed among the shadows, like an echo of your own existence, a reflection of what could have been.
You stood still, breath held in the abyss of the moment, the half-open door, a threshold to your destiny, and the silence, now laden with promises, stripped you of fears, leaving only the certainty that in that space, you faced the echoes of your own darkness.
As you advanced, your eyes fixed on a dusty, worn wooden box resting on the small dining table. Something about it drew you in, as if it held a dark secret. You approached and, with trembling hands, opened it. Inside, horror was revealed: the head of Poison Ivy, the green hair still vibrant, a gaze frozen in time. You didn’t cry, but a slight tremor coursed through your body, a mixture of surprise and disdain for the brutality that had taken place in that space.
"Normally you enter through the window," you murmur to the air, with an ironic smile on your lips, as if addressing a presence you hoped would appear.
And then, as if the night itself had responded to your call, Batman emerged from the shadows, his dark figure silhouetted against the dim light coming through the window. The air became tense in an instant.
"Who are you?" he asked, his grave voice resonating with a mix of distrust and anger. "What are you doing in the apartment of Bruce Wayne's daughter?"
You laughed, a laugh that echoed in the empty room, filled with irony and knowledge.
"His daughter?" you mocked, your eyes shining with a mix of challenge and amusement. "So Y/n is your daughter. Isn’t it curious how things intertwine in this city?"
The silence grew heavy, and you felt his gaze intensify, evaluating every word you had spoken. He knew you had crossed a line, but the revelation had ignited a spark of playfulness in you.
"How do you know who I am?" The question slipped from his lips, but there was no fear, just an unsettling curiosity.
"Gotham has its secrets, Bruce. And I, like you, am part of this darkness. The identity of a hero or heroine is just a game of shadows, and in this game, you and I know how to move between the lines."
You stood firm, the tension between you palpable, as the echo of laughter still resonated in the air. Batman's figure, always imposing and enigmatic, seemed to waver at the revelation that in this dark labyrinth, he was not the only player.
The tension intensified, and Batman took a step forward, approaching you with an intense gaze.
"How do you know about my daughter?" he inquired, his voice brusque, each word laden with frustration. You remained firm, crossing your arms, letting the silence settle between you.
"Oh, Gotham speaks, even in whispers. The city has a way of revealing what heroes prefer to hide," you replied disdainfully. "Your life, your secrets, are more exposed than you think." He frowned, anger crackling in his eyes.
"What do you know about Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and threatening, as if waiting for you to throw down a challenge.
"I know you didn't want her. That you left her in the shadows while you dedicated yourself to your personal crusade," you replied, irony dancing in your tone. "That girl grew up without a father, and you, the great hero of Gotham, preferred to be a myth."
Rage etched itself on his face, but there was something more, a hidden pain surfacing behind the armor of his anger.
"It's not that simple, and you have no idea what I've done for her," he retorted, his voice tense, each word like a blow.
"Really?" you asked, flashing a mocking smile. "What have you done? Cut off her partner's head, the only person I love, just to extract invalid information? What a great father."
An uncomfortable silence settled between you, as the air vibrated with unspoken emotions.
"You are not one to judge me," he declared, his voice tense. "You know nothing of what I've sacrificed."
"Maybe not, but I know enough about the void you've left," you replied, undeterred. "And I know Ivy was there for her. You, the hero, vanished while others took on the role of father."
The anger shone in his eyes, but there was also a spark of recognition. He observed you, assessing the courage that led you to challenge him.
"And who are you to come and point fingers? A lost anti-heroine in her own struggle?" he shot back, his voice laden with contempt.
"I am what Gotham needs," you replied, confident. "A reminder that even heroes like you can fail."
The discussion turned into a power struggle, both of you clinging to your truths, while Poison Ivy's head remained a sinister reminder of the choices you both had made.
Suddenly, Batman's fury exploded like lightning in the darkness. Without warning, he seized you by the neck, lifting you with surprising strength. The air became scarce, and the pressure on your throat made you feel vulnerable, although the mockery never left your expression.
"Where is Y/N?" he demanded, his voice charged with rage and desperation. The shadows moved around him, intensifying his figure, which seemed more monster than hero at that moment.
Despite the iron grip, you kept your gaze fixed on him, challenging him, feeling the adrenaline pulse through your veins.
"Are you that worried about her whereabouts?" you replied, a mocking smile barely hiding your disdain. "Maybe she's hanging from a hook in a slaughterhouse, who knows? That would be an ironic twist for a girl who grew up in the shadow of a hero, don’t you think?"
His eyes narrowed, anger and helplessness battling within him. You leaned in closer, feeling the pressure on your neck, but that only fueled your defiance.
"Don't laugh about this!" he roared, tightening his grip slightly. The fury in his voice was palpable, but something deeper kept him on edge.
"Me? Laughing? You, the great Batman, scared for your daughter's life?" you shot back, never breaking eye contact.
The tension was becoming unbearable, but there was something fascinating about the game you were playing. He was caught between rage and fear, and you, in your shadowy game, fed off his anguish.
"Do you know something? You're losing yourself in your own legend," you continued, while he held you in the air. "I'm sure you once dreamed that she would have died in that alley with her mother."
In that instant, something in his expression changed. The anger slowly faded, giving way to a deep concern, though he still held you firmly.
"I warn you," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours. "If you lie to me, I won't show mercy."
You laughed again, though the risk was imminent, as your heart raced.
"And what will you do?" you challenged, your voice trembling but resolute. "Threaten me with your dark past? I'm here because I know the truth, and I do not fear your shadows."
Bruce's patience evaporated like smoke in the heavy air of that apartment. With a sudden movement, he hurled you towards the table, the impact resonating with a crash that reverberated through the walls. Your katanas slipped to the floor, leaving you defenseless. The furniture creaked under your weight, but adrenaline kept you alert, your instincts sharp.
You quickly rose, shaking your head to clear the confusion, while the anger on his face transformed into determination.
"I don't have time for your games, Kerosene," he shouted, stepping forward, ready to fight. "If you know Y/N, tell me!"
You steadied yourself, smiling defiantly as you positioned yourself, preparing for combat.
"Do you really think you'll throw away the only one who can help you?" you replied, feeling the pulse of challenge coursing through your veins. "I'm offering you a chance to know the truth, and you choose to fight. Very typical of you."
With a swift movement, he lunged at you, throwing a direct punch. You dodged, making an agile turn, but the atmosphere became a whirlwind of force and speed.
You charged at him, hitting him in the side, feeling how his tense muscles responded to your attack. It was not just a physical fight; it was a clash of wills, an explosion of repressed emotions.
"You’re an idiot if you think you can scare me!" you yelled at him while he tried to immobilize you. You twisted and managed to sidestep him, landing a blow to his jaw that made him stagger.
Bruce quickly regained his footing, his eyes blazing with fury. He advanced again, his movements precise and calculated, while you played with speed and agility.
"Stop!" he roared, his voice echoing in the enclosed space. "I just want to know where my daughter is."
"And I just want you to stop living in your hero fantasy," you replied, with a defiant laugh as you dodged another attack. "The truth hurts you, Bruce, and you prefer the fight over facing it."
The exchange of blows continued, the sound of fists colliding and the creaking of breaking furniture filling the air. The room became a battlefield, with the table as the central stage of your struggle.
Bruce, with a mix of skill and strength, cornered you against the wall, but instead of giving up, you seized the closeness. With an agile movement, you pushed him back, making him lose his balance.
"Are you going to keep this up? Destroying what’s left of this city?" you said, breathing heavily but not yielding. "Or are you going to listen to what’s really at stake?"
His eyes were now inches from yours, the fury and frustration of his search fueling the spark of the battle. Both of you were willing to fight, but deep down, you knew there was something deeper at play than just physical strength.
The battle continued, becoming increasingly intense and violent, like a whirlwind of unleashed fury. You launched at him, landing a blow that hit his chest, but Bruce responded with a punch that made you stagger; the force behind his blow was terrifying. The rage emanating from him was palpable, and with each attack, both of you took the struggle to a new level.
The apartment walls vibrated with the thud of bodies colliding and furniture being dragged. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the air as you crashed into a table, breaking it into pieces.
You got back up, a piece of wood in hand, and threw it at him. Bruce dodged it, but the fragment smashed against a lamp, exploding into a million shards. The light flickered before going out, plunging the place into an unsettling darkness.
Both of you moved like shadows through the chaos, and sweat and blood began to mix, the air filled with a metallic smell that only intensified the battle. Bruce landed a punch on your jaw, and you tasted blood in your mouth. You didn’t stop; with a cry of defiance, you responded with a series of rapid blows, each one stronger than the last.
You darted to his side, using your agility to hit him in the ribs. The impact made him stagger, but before you could capitalize on the opportunity, Bruce spun around and kneed you in the abdomen. The air escaped your lungs, and the sharp pain made you fall to your knees. However, you didn’t give up.
With renewed determination, you got up and threw a direct punch to his face, hearing the crack of his skin upon impact. Blood spurted from his lip, and the fact that you had hurt him only fueled his fury. With superhuman strength, he pushed you back, slamming you against a shelf, which gave way and collapsed on you. Books and personal items scattered across the floor, covering the place in even greater chaos.
But there was no time to stop. You rose amongst the debris, feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins. With a leap, you charged at him again, landing a blow that left a mark on his face. Rage and pain intertwined in the air, and both of you were on the brink of madness.
The room had turned into a battlefield, with blood staining the floor and walls. The apartment’s decor, once a refuge, lay in tatters, as if Gotham itself had decided to yield to the brutality of your confrontation.
Bruce, with his determined gaze locked on you, lunged at you again. Both of you were exhausted, but the fight was a necessity, an uncontrollable impulse that kept you standing. His fists and your movements were a wild dance, and amidst the chaos, both of you knew that the outcome of this battle would not only define the present but also seal your fate.
You charged at him, landing a direct blow to his stomach, and when he bent forward, you took the chance to hit him in the face once more. Blood spilled from his nose, but he countered with a knee strike, and the impact resonated in your bones.
The fight continued with increasing ferocity, the room transforming into a wreckage. Every blow exchanged resonated like thunder, but it was the moment when Bruce landed a punch to your side that made you fall to your knees again, gasping for air. The pain was intense, but there was no time to lament; rage and frustration drove him to push onward.
Seeing the opportunity, Bruce lunged at you, and with a rough movement, he lifted you off the ground, holding you by the neck and raising you into the air. You struggled, feeling the pressure increase, the air escaping your lungs. The room blurred around you as you began to lose control.
"Tell me where Y/N is!" he shouted, his voice echoing in your mind like a refrain of desperation and fury.
You were on the brink of passing out, your eyes clouding, but amidst the confusion, you managed to maintain lucidity, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Bruce's hands were like a yoke around your throat, and the feeling of suffocation intensified with every passing second.
The pressure was unbearable, and you fought to free your neck, to breathe, but it felt like trying to break chains of steel. Your hands struck his arm, but he wouldn’t relent, becoming more focused, more desperate.
Finally, with a titanic effort, you managed to reach your helmet, and in a twist, you pushed him back, but the pressure of his grip was too much. It was then that, in a last-ditch attempt to free yourself, the helmet slipped off your head, falling to the floor with a dull thud.
The light of the apartment filtered back into your vision, and it was at that moment that Bruce, seeing your face, stopped dead in his tracks, the expression of his fury transforming into horror.
The face before him was not just an adversary; it was a reflection of his own daughter. The reality crashed against him like lightning.
"...Y/N?"
A/N ──── I WANT TO EMPHASIZE THAT YES, WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN THE DOCTOR AND Y/N IS REAL. And yes, it's necessary; you'll understand why by the end. Furthermore, Ivy's death has always been planned. In the next chapter, a female character will appear who, I warn you, will be a victim of the Waynes, and the scene will be a bit graphic and very grotesque.
I want to add that this chapter is very, very, veeeery weak because I’m very tired, not very inspired, and dealing with other things. I’ll try to do better for the next one and bring you a chapter of better quality.
And a warning for those on the taglist: if you’re already on it, please don’t ask me again and again to add your name because I end up getting confused and repeating names.
Also, there are some that I can’t add for reasons I don’t understand.
If you requested to be on the taglist before and you're not, please ask me here or send me a message; I don’t bite.
Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing 's work and @klemen-tine 's work, be sure to check them out!
WHAT IF!! | Damian finds a fish with a veeery strange face?
Synopsis; He finds a strange fish that not only steals his attention but also seems to be changing shape. Between obsessively caring for it and keeping his cat from eating it, something weird is happening: the fish is becoming... more human. A miracle or just an aquatic disaster? Damian doesn’t know what to think, but surely nothing will be the same after this.
Pairing ── Damian Wayne x Ponyo! Reader. (Platonic)
A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish— Ugh, we’re finally starting to upload all the delayed requests. This one is special because, well, some friends specifically asked for it, and it kicks off the "What If!" section, where you can send me any silly situation or whatever you want.
Damian had never been a fan of comedic situations or casual affection. He had grown up surrounded by discipline, struggle, and duty, where everything that wasn’t a mission or a cause seemed unnecessary. Spontaneity and tenderness made him uncomfortable, as if they were territories he didn’t know and avoided with caution. But here he was, on a remote beach, trying to escape the feeling that something in his life was changing. Perhaps the peace of the sand beneath his feet or the sun barely touching his face made him feel vulnerable, something he had never allowed.
It was then that he saw her: a strange, glowing fish that emerged from the water with almost magical grace, as if it were a creature from a dream. Something about its appearance, with its peculiar shape and vibrant colors.
Damian, in an impulse as unexpected as it was baffling, grabbed the bucket that Cassandra and Stephenie had left forgotten by the shore. He lifted it quickly, without thinking, and caught the fish with the same precision with which he usually caught his enemies. There was no logical reason, no plan. He simply did it, as if, for once, the same curiosity that had made him take Goliath years ago was now driving him to do the same with this creature.
When he got home, the fish was still in the bucket, hopping slightly, as if it had no idea of the bewilderment it was causing in the boy who had, in some way, learned to treat the strangest animals as if they were normal. And though he couldn’t admit it, part of him felt a strange satisfaction.
Damian didn’t usually allow anything or anyone to interrupt his concentration, but something about this fish kept him in a constant state of alertness. He spent hours watching it in the fish tank he had placed in his room, studying every movement, every bubble it made while swimming. It wasn’t just curiosity. There was something else, something he couldn’t fully identify, but it felt like a small spark of something he had never allowed to ignite inside him.
At first, he watched it from a safe distance, not interacting too much, as if observing it silently was enough. But soon, the need to take care of it, to protect it from any possible threat, began to infiltrate his daily routine.
Every morning, he made sure its water was fresh, renewed, and free of impurities. His mother had taught him how to take care of little creatures, but he had never paid so much attention to the details as he did with this fish. The water had to be at the perfect temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, and the plants in the tank had to be kept clean, with no algae that could disturb its tiny ecosystem. If any leaf fell or something disrupted its balance, Damian would fix it immediately, as if the life of the fish depended on his intervention.
The others didn’t understand, of course. Drake and Duke, for example, would come over with mischievous smiles, bringing pieces of ham as if it were a harmless joke. He often found them crouched down, trying to give the creature a snack, and his patience would overflow. “What are you doing?” he’d ask with a calmness that barely hid his irritation. “Don’t give it ham. It’s not food for her.” And although his words were sharp, no one could deny the protective tone in his voice. The worst part was that his fish happily accepted the ham!
Sometimes, when they tried something new, like moving the tank to see how the fish would react, Damian couldn’t help but frown. No matter how ridiculous it seemed to others, in his mind, that creature deserved respect. And most of all, it deserved to be safe.
Alfred, the cat, was another constant concern. Although the cat usually behaved with innate elegance, he never missed an opportunity to observe the tank, his eyes filled with a furtive gleam. Damian had to come up with a series of tricks to keep the cat at bay. He’d place a special lid, one that kept the cat from opening it, and every time Alfred came close, he made sure he wasn’t too near the tank, always with that deadly glare that only a child trained in the art of discipline could possess.
As the days passed, something inside Damian began to change. He didn’t just take care of the tank and the fish with almost obsessive dedication; he did it because, somewhere deep inside him, he had grown fond of it. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, but he knew that this little being, this strange creature he had caught on a whim, had become something more. It was his responsibility, his little refuge, a vestige of something more human that he had learned to avoid for years. And although he didn’t fully understand it, he couldn’t help but feel a strange peace every time he looked at the fish, swimming peacefully in its tank, unaware of the internal war its owner was fighting to protect it.
As the days went by, Damian began to notice something peculiar. At first, he thought it was just his imagination, the result of staring at it for so many hours, but soon it became obvious: his fish was growing. Not in a sudden way, but gradually, as if, somehow, it were changing before his eyes, transforming into something bigger, more... alive. At first, he was skeptical, attributing it to the fact that maybe the creature had been hungrier than he thought. But then, over time, the transformation wasn’t just physical. Its behavior also changed. It became more active, swimming in circles as if it were exploring, as if it weren’t the same creature he had known before.
Damian watched as its shape and color subtly began to alter. The fish’s scales became shinier, and its eyes, which once only reflected the calm of the water, now had a spark of something more: curiosity, perhaps. And the strangest thing of all was that it was getting closer to the surface of the tank, as if it wanted to get out. It was as perplexing as it was fascinating, but he couldn’t help wondering if his fish, somehow, was taking on a life of its own.
Something, though mysterious, was happening in their little world, and, though he didn’t fully understand it, a feeling of inevitability began to settle in his chest. The transformation was clear. Something magical, something he couldn’t control, was happening.
It was one afternoon, returning from a mission as Robin, when Damian discovered it completely. The door to his room was wide open, and a strange silence enveloped him as he entered. His gaze immediately went to the tank, only to discover that it had exploded, water spilling onto the floor and shards of glass scattered around. Panic swept over him, but then he saw it: a small figure in a red dress, completely soaked, jumping on his bed with overflowing energy.
“Damian! Damian!” the girl shouted, her face lit up with overflowing joy as she approached him, showing no trace of fear. Her eyes, now so familiar, looked at him with the same spark he had seen in the tank.
Damian stood still, his heart pounding in his chest, unable to fully understand what he was seeing. Where was his fish? Where and how did that strange girl get in? The girl, with her wet hair and soaked red dress, looked at him with a smile full of energy, as if she had finally found what she had been looking for.
And in that moment, seeing that familiar look, something inside Damian clicked. His fish, his strange and precious creature, had turned into a human, a girl.
A/N ── First off, yes, this request can continue. Feel free to send me questions or whatever if you like it. It's not a series, so no chapters or anything like that.
Honestly, I think I saw a Damian x Ponyo! Reader somewhere, but I can't remember the username, so all credit goes to them. If you see it, send me their username so I can give them the proper credit.
On another note, this story isn’t romantic, so don’t even ask. I’m watching you.
I just had an intrusive idea while I was in class to start a story where Reader is Mantis from Guardians of the Galaxy in DCU... I don't know... think about it...
Hiya. Mind if I request some Soft Yandere Hank McCoy x Reader stuff?
Nothing too crazy, just Hank being a bit clingy and very, very cuddly.
Here it is! ──────》 Just love for you
Note ───── I had quite a few problems with this post. For reasons I still don’t understand, my Tumblr switched to beta mode, and that prevented me from both publishing and editing anything. It was really frustrating because I wanted everything to turn out perfect, and instead, I felt like I was fighting against the platform itself.
On top of that, the images became completely distorted, something I didn’t expect and that made everything look very different from what I had planned. I tried several times to fix it, but each attempt seemed to create a new problem.
I feel bad that the post is so short; I wanted to share much more, but I wasn’t sure if I had the patience to fix everything. The truth is, these difficulties left me a little discouraged, but in the end, I decided to post it anyway. At least this way I can share something, even if it’s not perfect.
I also feel bad for posting it so late. A lot has been happening lately, and between the chaos, technical issues, and my own lack of time, it became more complicated than I had imagined. Sometimes it seems like the more I want to create something, the more obstacles appear along the way.
Still, I didn’t want to keep it stored away forever. I truly hope you enjoy the post, even with all its flaws and delays. I made it with a lot of care, and although it didn’t come out exactly as I imagined, it carries a little piece of all the effort and patience I had left.
⊹ ٬ Headcanon. What begins as a friendship built on mutual respect and admiration slowly transforms into a deep bond.
⊹ ٬ Word Count. 1,55k
⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Cuddling. Just soft moments.
「I'm your sword, your shield, and your protector」
Hank was confused... deeply confused. He had never been one of those people who acted on impulse, let alone someone prone to the whims of the heart. Logic had always been his refuge, his way of understanding the world. But this time, something was different.
It all began the day Xavier brought you to his lab. "She will be your new lab partner and teacher at the Institute," he announced enthusiastically. "I thought it would be wise to introduce you both."
You smiled with a warmth so genuine that the air seemed to lighten. "She is a great scientist," Xavier added with pride, "and we are lucky that she decided to help us in our noble cause of guiding the young."
And then, seeing you smile, so kind, so human in every sense, Hank understood—or at least thought he did. It didn't matter that you weren't a mutant; there was a different light in you, a serenity that disarmed any wall of caution. It was in that precise moment that something in him changed, even though he couldn't yet name it.
You were kind to everyone: to Hank, to the students, to the X-Men... to anyone lucky enough to cross your path. There was a serene sweetness in you, an endless patience, and a brilliant mind that seemed to enjoy every little discovery in the lab. Hank admired that deeply; he loved seeing you focused, so passionate about what you did.
"If we combine these two compounds and let them stir for a few hours," you said excitedly, your eyes shining with curiosity, "we could obtain a temporary antidote that alleviates Rogue's mutation."
Hank looked up from his notes, following you attentively.
"And if we perfect it," you added, smiling, "she could hug and touch her friends, even if just for a moment."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he gently patted your head, with that mix of tenderness and shyness that was so characteristic of him. A smile appeared on his face, revealing his row of bright, sharp teeth.
"She will appreciate that a lot," he finally said, with a warmth that resonated beyond words.
Over time, you and Hank became inseparable. The friendship blossomed simply, almost imperceptibly, like those things that bloom at any moment. You felt comfortable by his side, as if his presence made the world a safer and kinder place, even though it wasn't.
You weren't embarrassed to invite him out, not even when curious and terrified glances fell upon you, because after all, it was impossible not to notice the giant who barely fit in the chairs of an elegant restaurant with a normal woman, but you didn't care. You laughed with him, shared stories, and in those moments everything else seemed to fade away.
There were also the nights in the lab, when silence became an accomplice and only the hum of the machines accompanied your voices. You stayed by his side for hours, reviewing formulas, adjusting reagents, laughing at small mistakes or celebrating unexpected discoveries. In those moments, Hank would often glance at you sideways, wondering if you realized the peace you brought with you.
But to you, he was your best friend. And even though you cared for him deeply, you thought that was all. You didn't know—you couldn't know—how much those shared hours meant to him, those smiles that illuminated even the coldest corners of his lab.
The worst part was that the students seemed convinced that you and Hank made the perfect couple, that somehow you were dating or something like that.
"What do you mean no?" Morph said between bites of a pretzel, with that mix of mischief and disbelief that always characterized him. "You two are always together, and hugging..."
Hank sighed, taking a sip of his coffee, with that serene calm that made him seem immune to the world's mischief. "Yeah, but that's because we're friends."
Morph raised an eyebrow, setting the pretzel aside. "Oh, yeah... friends... come on, Hank, be honest."
Hank frowned, although his gaze couldn't hide a glimmer of vulnerability. "Look, it's not what you think... it just... it’s... different. It's nothing romantic, I promise."
"But you like her," Morph insisted, winking at him. "And that's worse, my friend... you'll end up going crazy."
Morph was right: Hank liked you. A lot. Too much. Enough to always be ready to defend you from anyone who bothered you for associating with mutants or for participating in protests for mutant rights. He was always there, steadfast and patient, like a silent guardian, willing to protect you without you needing to ask.
The beautiful thing was that this dedication wasn't one-sided; reciprocity existed in every gesture, in every shared moment. There were afternoons in the lab when fatigue could overwhelm you. When you felt your eyelids growing heavy and the world becoming blurry, he would carefully lift you, resting you against his warm, furry, and fluffy chest. And you, with complete trust, would settle there, feeling how his heartbeat seemed to synchronize with yours.
"Are you comfortable?" Hank asked, his voice soft and filled with care. He knew it was normal for exhaustion to overtake you after so many hours of work.
"Yes... you're so soft..." you whispered, letting your words get lost in the rhythm of his breathing.
Before you fell asleep, a feeling emerged that you couldn't hold back:
"I love you, Hank..."
A brief but warm smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes even in the dimness of the lab.
"I love you too..." he replied, with that sincerity that made him both vulnerable and strong at the same time.
You weren't his yet. That was the reality. But there were unspoken promises in every touch, in every silent embrace, in every glance that said what words still couldn't.
Someday... someday, you knew you would be. And then, forever.
I’m feeling so much better now; I’ve overcome my personal struggles and I’m ready to come back, more motivated than ever to keep writing for you. 💖
First of all, I want to apologize to all the fans of my fic “Silly Little Bat.” I know I promised a remake and haven’t shared any updates yet. Don’t worry! It’s almost finished and will be out very soon. If you’d like to read it, you can ask to be on the new taglist by leaving a comment.
I also want to apologize to my clients for not delivering your requests on time, as I had promised. I feel very embarrassed for making you wait >_< but I assure you that none of you have been forgotten, and you’ll be receiving your requests properly very soon.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who cared about me. I truly appreciate every single supportive message I received; they made me feel loved and not alone. 💕
Now, a small announcement: nothing will change on this account—I’ll continue posting fics, fulfilling requests, and sharing content as always. However, I’m considering opening a Patreon or a Buy Me a Coffee. My goal is to take a step closer to my dream of becoming a writer and, hopefully, publish a book or a comic someday.
On that platform, I’d love to share:
Exclusive previews of chapters.
Commissioned drawings.
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george is cute as hell he could get these backshots anytime
George is super cute to me and a bunch of my friends, honestly, he’s one of the best OCs I’ve made so far. At first, he wasn’t gonna be Yandere at all, that wasn’t even in the plan, but I don’t know, something just clicked, and I made him this way. Now he’s just… this adorable idiot, and I love him for it. He’s a total mess, but that’s what makes him even more lovable.
finally made something to send to this blog of yours, whats up?
Hey! I’m doing well, thanks for sending something my way! I hope you're doing great too. Sorry for being late, my dear.
I just wanted to say that I love and appreciate you so much—keep up your amazing work! You're doing something beautiful, and I’m always rooting for you.
heyyy, can you write more about being harley’s daughter? more about how would it be dating damian.
thanks!!
Here it is! ──────》 Virago
Note ───── I SPENT WEEKS, WEEKS ON THIS. Like, literally, I already had most of it done, but nooo, my brain was like, "add more, and more, and more..." and, of course, like the human disaster I am, I listened. Every single day, I added a tiny detail here, tweaked something there, and just when I thought I WAS FINALLY DONE… BAM, another idea popped into my head.
To give you an idea of the level of obsession: I ENROLLED IN ENGLISH CLASSES while working on this. Where did I find the energy? No clue. Did I finish it quickly? Obviously not. And even after all that effort, it still felt like it would never be done.
Then, I had an existential crisis: "Maybe, just maybe, the key is to grow, to mature, to accept that things must come to an end." Like a cycle. Like a butterfly leaving its cocoon. Like… I don’t know, something deep and poetic. So yeah, I decided to close this chapter and move on.
UNLESS YOU ASK ME ABOUT GRANDMA HARLEY, OBVIOUSLY. In that case, we’re staying here forever.
⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Between laughter, jealousy, and secrets, a mother and a lover compete for the heart of someone who has already chosen their path. Harley clings to the past. Damian waits for the future. And in between, a story of growth, goodbyes, and unbreakable love. Because in the end, no matter where they go, there will always be a home to return to.
⊹ ٬ Word Count. 9,4k
⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Dark themes, violence, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships (not Damian and Reader), destruction,
「Strong, brave or warrior woman
who demonstrates exemplary or heroic qualities」
Damian Wayne was not meant to attend classes like an ordinary kid. No. He was the grandson of the Head of the Demon, the legitimate heir to a bloody and millennia-old tradition. But he was also the son of the Bat, and as long as Bruce Fucking Wayne ruled his family, he would fulfill the tedious duty of attending Gotham's most elitist private school.
He thought it would be easy. Study and that's it. Simple. But soon he realized that being a “normal” student at Gotham High was like being a wolf trying to pass as a sheep.
His intelligence—his most valuable weapon—was seen as an eccentricity, almost an indelible stain in an environment of boys who believed their gilded surnames and even more gilded wallets were all that mattered. He couldn’t make friends. The kids looked at him as if he were a robot from a nightmare with his cutting remarks and sharp vocabulary. The girls only saw his last name, not him.
Until you showed up.
Damian hated group projects. He hated even more when everyone pounced on him like hungry crows as soon as the teacher uttered the words: “Choose a partner.” It was always the same. “Can we work together, Wayne?” “I’m sure you’ll do great, right?” “My dad says your dad is very important.”
That day, he saw you dozing in the back row, your head tilted on the desk while a trickle of drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips. Despicable. Although... at least honest.
“Do you want to do the project with me?” he asked, because his father’s basic education forced him to phrase it as a question.
“You’re going to do the project with me!” was what you heard, although nothing could be further from the truth.
The next thing happened so quickly that Damian had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination born from his frustration. You jumped as if you’d received an electric shock and hugged him so tightly that for a moment he feared you might break a rib.
“Yes, yes, yes! It’s going to be an explosive and fascinating project! Can you imagine? We could make a volcano that really erupts or a robot that shoots confetti or...!”
Damian froze as your high-pitched voice spewed nonsensical ideas with the same excitement as a dog seeing its favorite toy. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of madness and innocence he had never seen before.
“You're annoying,” he murmured.
“And you're such a ray of sunshine!” you cheerfully replied, still not letting go of him.
It was at that precise moment that Damian understood this project was going to be a nightmare. But there was something about you that intrigued him... maybe because you were the first person who really looked at him and not at his last name.
But of course, he would never admit that out loud.
Alfred tried to hide his surprise when you showed up at Wayne Manor to study. Of course, he concealed it well behind his usual neat British demeanor, but Damian noticed. Who wouldn’t?
First, you said you had walked there. Who the hell walks to Wayne Manor from Gotham City? That already raised suspicions. But the real shock came when Damian greeted you at the door.
Wild hair, cut in a style that screamed rebellion and creativity, with streaks of red and blue that made it look like you had just run through a furious rainbow. Contemporary, colorful clothing that anyone would say you had fought with a clown and won. Brightly colored knee-high boots that clicked on the marble entrance.
Even Duke, who had bulletproof patience, peeked through the door to take a look. The guy expected another mini Dracula like Damian, not a clown doll freshly escaped from a carnival.
“Wow, this mansion looks like Dracula's house,” you exclaimed, looking at the walls with wide, bright eyes as he led you through the hallways to the study room.
Damian glanced at you sideways, ready to unleash a sarcastic comment... but when he realized it, he was already laughing. Yes, laughing. Something he hadn’t even been sure he could do without his lungs refusing to cooperate until that day.
As strange as it sounded, he was having fun.
You were explosive, loud, witty, but good at what you did. It was like working alongside a lightning bolt in colorful sneakers. And when you focused, you were genuinely smart. Odd, yes, but clever. Something that didn’t happen often among the superficial crowd of Gotham High.
As the afternoon wore on, you loosened up and told him a bit about your life. How you lived with your mother, a woman with the same chaotic euphoria as you, but obsessed with your father: a gangster whose name you didn’t mention, but described with a mix of disdain and confused affection.
“My mom loves me, but since she always does what dad says, I have to learn to take care of myself.” You said this while finishing painting a perfectly detailed bomb on the project, as if talking about family traumas was as casual as discussing the weather.
Damian watched you in silence. That phrase hung in the air like a haunting ghost he understood all too well.
“Sometimes I’m scared... that she’ll choose him over me.”
He understood. Of course he did. Because sometimes he was also afraid his mother would choose anything before him. Power, legacy... the League.
But of course, he wasn’t going to get sentimental in front of you. Especially with the hidden audience behind the door. Alfred, your pets, Jason, Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Babs, Duke, even Bruce, all spying with the same discretion as an elephant in a tea room.
“Everything okay, Wayne?” you asked, tilting your head with a smile so wide it seemed out of place in a castle like that.
“Sure,” he replied, not giving it much thought.
And so they continued working. He discovering that maybe not all people who came into his life were destined to be a problem.
Of course, being you, that was just a matter of time.
Damian had never had a real friend. Not one who wanted nothing from him other than his company. So, when the project ended and you kept showing up to pounce on him with a loud, overflowing hug of energy, he didn’t know what to do.
Dick thought it was charming. “Friends do fun things together,” he told him with that broad smile that seemed straight out of a damn cereal commercial. “They go out for ice cream, watch movies, or just... are there.”
Damian didn’t quite understand the last part. But he understood enough to know that your eyes lit up every time you mentioned the word “baseball.” So one day, without even knowing why, he took you to the practice field.
“Really?” you exclaimed, with such pure excitement that it almost felt like an insult.
“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged. But even he knew it sounded too clumsy to be believable.
What happened next was a wonderful chaos. You swung the bat with the same passion a warrior would wield a sword. Every hit you made was accompanied by a shout of joy or some laughter that escaped you as if you couldn’t contain it.
Damian threw the ball to you over and over again, not completely understanding why it was so much fun. But the fact that you were happy seemed to make him happy too. And although he would never admit it out loud, it became almost a weekly ritual.
Sometimes, after practice, he’d drag you to an ice cream shop. Your way of devouring absurd flavors like “Smurf Ice Cream” or “Sour Caramel” was fascinating. Ridiculous, but fascinating.
“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said, arms crossed as he tried not to laugh.
“Well, you have ice in your heart!” you cheerfully replied, licking the ice cream as if that were the most logical answer in the world.
Other times, he’d take you to watch movies, because Dick insisted that “Friends watch movies together, Dami.” Of course, he didn’t expect you to prefer the bloodiest and most absurd horror films possible.
“Look, look, here comes the monster with fifty knives in its head,” you commented between laughs, enjoying the terrible performances more than the plot itself.
It was absurd. Everything they did together was absurd. But it made him happy. It made him feel... free. Like for the first time, he didn’t have to be the heir, the warrior, or the perfect son. Just Damian.
But, like everything in his life, happiness lasted as long as a blink.
He arrived at school one day, with the usual hope of seeing you dozing in the back row, drool falling from your mouth and the smile ready to yell something ridiculous that made him feel like everything was okay.
But you weren’t there.
The teachers told him you had dropped out. That you didn’t have the funds to continue at that luxurious and superficial school that had never been made for someone like you.
Damian tried to find you. He turned to contacts he shouldn’t have used for something so... personal. But your name sounded like a ghost. No trace. No signal.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Finally, he accepted that maybe you were never going to show up again.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do well. Try to forget you.
But it didn’t matter how many times he repeated that he didn’t care, that you were nothing, there was always an echo of your laughter resonating in his mind. There was always that absurd memory of you excitedly shouting about hitting a ball with a bat, as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.
And worst of all was that, in a way, it really was.
Years passed in the blink of an eye, dragging him into the whirlwind of Gotham, the League, the Teen Titans, and everything that meant being Robin. Fights with assassins, gods, and impossible creatures became his routine. He had grown, changed, learned to live with the weight of the mantle he wore.
He had made friends. Jon Kent, always so ridiculously optimistic that he sometimes seemed like a sun with legs. Flatline, with her dark humor and that dangerous smile that challenged him daily. And of course, the Titans, a chaotic group of teenagers dealing with their problems while saving the world.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him to see you again.
It was his first day of high school. Gotham’s private school was just as ridiculous as always, full of rich brats who cared more about the latest brand of clothing than anything that really mattered. But he was there for a reason: to blend his life as Robin with the facade of a normal teenager.
And then, there you were.
You had grown. Your hair, although still carrying that rebellious essence, now fell in tousled, styled locks, with touches of red and blue that shone under the fluorescent lights. The clothes you wore were... eye-catching, but not childish. It was as if you had found your own style playing between androgynous and extravagant. Everything about you seemed to challenge the world.
But the worst, or the best, was that you were still you. That wide, sparkling smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter at any moment. Your eyes sparkled with the same intensity as always, as if you hadn’t lost a shred of that wild euphoria that had so bewildered him.
And then you turned and saw him.
“Damian!” you shouted with that exaggerated voice that seemed like a show in itself. You didn’t care that the whole hallway turned to look at you. You didn’t care about anything. Because all you did was launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him as if no years had passed.
“What the hell...?” Damian exclaimed, not knowing whether to step back or return the hug. In the end, his body decided for him, and his arms awkwardly tightened around you.
“What are you doing here?!” you said, with a tone that mixed genuine surprise and pure joy. It was as if you had never left. As if you had never been a ghost he had desperately tried to forget.
“I study here,” he replied with that seriousness that sometimes made people mistake him for a grumpy doll. But you just laughed, as always.
“Wow! I never thought Dracula would have to deal with algebra like a mere mortal.”
“I’m not a vampire,” he grunted, frowning even though a part of him wanted to smile. It was absurd how you returned to his life as if nothing had happened.
“Sure, sure. But you’re still just as grumpy.” You finally let him go, although you remained close enough that he couldn’t escape.
And that was it. In a matter of seconds, you were already talking to him about your things as if years hadn’t passed. As if you hadn’t left him with an inexplicable void when you disappeared.
You had changed, yes. Taller, with more attitude, as if challenging the entire world had become your new favorite pastime. But you were still you. Chaotic, unpredictable, and... radiant.
“So, are we skipping class and doing something fun?” you asked with a mischievous smile, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.
“No,” he replied automatically. Because of course, he was Damian Wayne. The responsible one, the serious one, the one who never strayed from the right path.
“Bah, always so boring. But I missed you, Dami. I’m glad you’re here.” And your voice sounded softer, almost sweet, as you took a small step back and smiled at him with that eternal spark in your eyes.
Damian didn’t know what to say. Because somehow, those words had ignited something within him that he thought he had buried along with the memory of that girl who dragged him to play baseball and laugh at bad movies.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally admitted, in a whisper so low he almost thought he had imagined it.
But the smile you gave him was enough to know you had heard him.
Your friendship with Damian had picked up right where it had left off. Among laughter, challenges, and outings that didn’t always end well but were always fun. Dinners at Wayne Manor became a regular occurrence, with Bruce trying to be the awkward dad and all the Batkids secretly laughing at how different you were from any friend Damian had ever had before.
Because let’s be honest, you didn’t care one bit if Damian was rich, serious, or mortally sarcastic. To you, he was simply Dami. A grumpy, prickly kid who, despite his tough facade, always ended up giving in to your crazy ideas.
Of course, he never told you about his other life. Not about Robin, not about his mother, not about the thousand and one dark secrets he carried. But it wasn’t like he needed to. Because sometimes, people spoke.
The rumors at school were like whispers that slid through the hallways like snakes. Robin was always watching from the same place, an abandoned building in downtown Gotham. Like a proud crow surveying the city.
And your gang—yes, because you had made new friends too—challenged you to something no one else had dared: throwing paint at Robin from the rooftop. A prank. A game. What could go wrong?
The answer: Everything.
That night was your first big teenage stupidity. You climbed the building with a can of green paint in hand, trembling with nerves but refusing to back down. And there he was, just as they said he would be, the dark cape fluttering in the wind as his eyes scanned the city as if every shadow was a potential enemy.
You didn’t think too much about it. Because if you had, you would have realized it was a terrible idea. You simply raised the can and threw the paint at him with all your strength.
The green splattered on his right shoulder, spattering in irregular patterns on his cape and part of his mask. At first, Robin stood still. As if his brain refused to process what had just happened. But then, he slowly turned his head towards you, those green eyes glaring at you as if you had committed the worst sin in the universe.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared in a voice so low and furious that a chill ran down your spine.
“Oh, shit!” you exclaimed, with a nervous smile. Because of course, everything was funny until the paint touched the bird.
Without waiting for a response, you took off running. And he was right behind you.
You knew he was fast. Everyone said so. But you never thought he would be this fast. His shadow moved like a damn ghost behind you, his footsteps echoing on the rooftops as you jumped from building to building like a deranged goat.
“Wait!” he shouted with a tone that mixed anger and disbelief. As if he couldn’t believe someone could be foolish enough to throw paint at him and then try to escape.
“Not a chance!” you yelled back, almost laughing as your lungs burned from effort. Because yes, you were terrified. But you were also excited. Because at the end of the day, you were you. The chaotic girl who never knew when to stop.
But running 20 kilometers wasn’t exactly something your body could handle. And when your legs began to weaken and your breathing turned into an irregular gasp, he seized the opportunity.
He leaped from a higher building and landed right in front of you, his eyes shining with a wild fury that almost seemed inhuman.
“Game over,” he declared, his voice so low and threatening that it almost made you laugh at how dramatically he sounded.
“Are you going to kill me, crazy bird? Because if you do, I’ll be the happiest dead girl in Gotham,” you replied, trying to sound brave but aware that you probably looked like a delirious idiot.
“No. But I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, and before you could react, he had picked you up as if you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.
“Hey! Put me down! You’re lucky I don’t have anything explosive right now, because I’d blow your butt up!” you shouted as you kicked the air and tried to break free.
“That’s what worries me,” he murmured, with that irritated tone that characterized him so well.
The next thing you knew, he took you to an alley where, surprisingly, he didn’t throw you against the wall or lecture you like a boring adult. Instead, he set you down on the ground and crossed his arms, looking at you with a mix of exasperation and... curiosity?
You noticed something strange, even under the thick layer of green paint.
That hair, that posture, those calculated movements. Everything fit together in an unsettling way.
“...Damian!?” Your eyes widened, surprise barely contained in your voice.
From that moment on, everything changed. You discovered your friend was Robin, and you never missed an opportunity to tease him about it. But between the jokes and the knowing smiles, you swore him something with all the sincerity you could muster.
“I’ll never say a word. I’ll keep it forever.”
And so it was. The pact sealed with the innocence of youth remained intact. Until one ordinary afternoon, returning from the baseball field with the sun setting on your backs, you decided to confide in him your own truth.
“There’s something I need to tell you...” you murmured, looking down, kicking an imaginary stone as you walked.
Damian frowned, alert as always.
“What’s wrong?”
“My mom... well, the one who raised me... is Harley Quinn.” You blurted it out, as if the words weighed more with each second they remained trapped in your chest.
He blinked, surprised, before opening his mouth.
“The crazy Harley?”
“Don’t call my mom crazy!” you retorted firmly, even though your voice wavered a little. “She was going through a rough patch with my dad, that’s all...”—You diverted your gaze before adding—“Besides, she’s not my biological mom, so I don’t have any physical or mental issues... other than some weird habits, I guess. So don’t worry.”
Damian watched you in silence, his calculating gaze trying to unravel the truth behind your words. But in his eyes, there was also something more. Something akin to acceptance.
Because deep down, they both knew they shared secrets too big for their age. And that bound them in a way no one else could.
And so, the more secrets they shared, the closer they became. Confessions in hushed voices under starry skies or during endless walks united them in a way neither of them expected. Until one day, something changed.
Damian asked you out. Not to train, not to spend time teasing each other, but to dinner. Formal. In an upscale restaurant, with white tablecloths and lit candles. You showed up in a dress that, although eye-catching as always, exuded a unique elegance. He had also made an effort; the usual rigidity in his posture softened by a barely concealed nervousness.
That night was different. For the first time, they allowed themselves to truly see each other, beyond the jokes or the friendship they had built. They spoke with an honesty that only arises when two souls decide to fully open up. And at some point in the conversation, they both surprised themselves thinking the same thing: “How didn’t I realize before how attractive he is?”
At the end of the evening, everything was perfectly planned, courtesy of Dick’s unmistakable intervention, who seemed to enjoy organizing that special moment far too much.
Damian mentally prepared himself to take the big step as they walked back toward your neighborhood. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—it was you who spoke first.
“Will you be my boyfriend?” you blurted out, without preambles, without introductions.
Damian blinked, visibly taken aback. His lips parted as if searching for an appropriate response, but in the end, he could only sigh and smile resignedly.
“I was supposed to say that,” he murmured in a tone that tried to sound annoyed, although amusement sparkled in his eyes.
From that day on, everything changed. You spent both mornings and nights together, sharing something much deeper than the simple camaraderie that had united you in the beginning. There was something authentic, warm, and solid in your relationship that neither of you was willing to let go.
But if anything defined Damian, it was his protectiveness. Perhaps it was his vigilant nature or his endless list of responsibilities, but he was always aware of everything that happened around you. He worried about whether you were eating well, about your complicated relationship with Harley, about the people you hung out with, and especially about keeping you away from any gang that might cross your path.
That’s how you came to an agreement: he would teach you to defend yourself. The training sessions became an essential part of your routine, as habitual as baseball games or nighttime walks. Damian taught you to fight with the seriousness that characterized him, correcting every movement with patience— or the closest he could get to patience. Sometimes, he even took you on missions from afar, showing you how to act in critical situations without exposing yourself too much.
Your relationship with Harley gradually deteriorated. At least for her.
For you, everything remained the same. Or so you thought.
The morning egg sandwich tradition, for example. That sacred tradition between mother and daughter. Once again, you walked together through the streets of Gotham, which miraculously, under the sunlight, seemed a little less frightening.
Harley, with her usual energy, approached the food cart and ordered two egg sandwiches without a second thought.
But this time, you stopped her.
“Today I prefer a vegan sandwich, thanks.”
You said it without looking up from your phone, distracted by some nonsense on the screen.
Harley froze. Her white-painted face contorted into an expression of absolute horror, as if you had said you wanted to leave Gotham to join a Tibetan monastery.
“A... what?”
“A vegan sandwich,” you repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Harley’s eyes widened like saucers. She looked at the vendor as if expecting him to say it was a joke. But no, the betrayal was real.
From there, the changes became increasingly evident.
Friday taco nights with the girls, once sacred, disappeared.
“It’s taco Friday, kiddo!” Harley reminded you with enthusiasm.
“I can’t, I have plans,” you replied dismissively.
Your plans? Watching movies at “a friend’s” house. A mysterious friend. One who Harley didn’t know... or maybe she did.
Before, you always matched in your outfits, wearing matching leather jackets or some shared reference in your attire. But now you bought your own clothes. You dressed how you wanted, without worrying about what she thought.
Harley tried to seek support from her friends.
“Is she going through something? Is she in a weird phase?”
“She’s growing up, Harls,” Ivy and Selina told her with a smile that said “this is normal.”
But for her, it wasn’t.
Desperate, she turned to Batman.
“You have, what? Five kids? Six? Help me, bat!”
Batman merely looked at her in silence, with his typical “I have no time for this” face.
“I’m not exactly a parenting role model.”
Harley huffed. Yes, that was crystal clear.
But then she started noticing things.
You came home with bruises. You were evasive with her questions. You didn’t tell her anything.
At first, she thought maybe you were just being reserved. Teenager, independent. But then, seeing you arrive hurt once again, with a furrowed brow and an evasive look...
She thought of the worst, that maybe you were still hanging out with gangs of aspiring teenage killers or drug lords, that the Joker had found you and decided to take you as a bomb kid, or worse... that you had a secret boyfriend who was abusive to you... just like she had experienced.
She had had enough.
She wasn’t going to sit by while you drifted further and further away.
So she took matters into her own hands.
It was a quiet night... until it stopped being so.
Four in the morning. As usual, you were ready to say goodbye with a kiss at the window, as you always did. Something sweet, discreet... the norm.
But at the exact moment your lips barely brushed against Damian’s...
Chaos.
Three giant hyenas burst out from under your bed with growls that shook the walls. And as if that weren’t enough, Harley Quinn, in full ninja form, dropped from the ceiling with a baseball bat in hand.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!” she roared with the fury of a mother who had just discovered the ultimate betrayal.
Survival instinct took control.
You slammed the window shut, leaving Damian trapped in the railing as your mother and her hyenas tried to get to him.
“Mom, calm down!” you interposed between her and the window, raising your hands in a sign of peace.
Harley looked at you with a furrowed brow, her eyes blazing with fury.
“Calm down?! I just saw my little girl making out with that demon bird!”
“It’s not what it looks like...”
But it was what it looked like.
And worst of all was that Harley already hated Damian to begin with.
Because, among all the Robins, he was the one she could stand the least.
He was arrogant. He was bossy. He was Batman’s son.
And now... he was kissing her daughter.
Maybe this was karma for all the crimes Harley had committed in her life.
Or maybe... it was destiny giving her a direct punch in the face.
Literally, because at that moment she raised the bat with the intention of using it.
In the end, Harley had to swallow her words. And the rest is history.
It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be.
Because, after all, they both knew something was wrong. That things had changed.
And that nothing would ever be the same again.
For the first time in a long time, they sat down to talk. For real. No shouting, no all-out battles with hyenas involved. Just mother and daughter, trying to find their way back to each other.
Harley sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair.
“I wasn’t prepared for this,” she admitted softly.
And for the first time, you saw her vulnerable. Not the criminal, not the crazy psychologist, not the woman who could knock someone’s face off without a second thought. Just a scared mother.
“I wasn’t prepared for a baby, and now I’m supposed to be ready for you to grow up and become independent?” she let out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I can barely take care of myself!”
Her words hurt. Because you knew they were true.
But that didn’t change reality.
So you did what you knew best: you told her the truth.
All of it. From dating Damian to your nighttime escapades as a heroine.
She listened in silence, her lips pressed together and her arms crossed. She looked sulky, annoyed... but not surprised.
And in the end, she accepted reality. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.
Then she wrapped you in a hug.
A strong, crushing, desperate hug.
A hug that said everything words couldn’t.
That she loved you. That she would never stop loving you.
That she needed you, just as much as you needed her.
And at that moment, you knew.
That even though everything changed... even if you fought, argued, drove each other crazy... there would always be a common point.
You would always be Harley and her.
Whether it was stealing marshmallows at midnight or simply sharing a night under the stars.
Harley sighed against your hair, with a tired smile.
“Puberty sucks.”
For the first time in a long time, you laughed together.
“Yes, Mom...” you smiled. “It totally sucks.”
And then, everything changed again.
Now, you dated Damian normally while also spending time with your mother. A balance between two worlds that, for anyone else, would be impossible. But for you... well, let’s just say you were used to chaos.
Of course, life is never simple.
There were moments when everything went well. And then, out of nowhere, BOOM, explosive surprises at the worst possible time.
Like when Bruce Wayne, in an extreme gesture of formality—and perhaps hoping to prevent his son from becoming even more antisocial—invited you and Harley to dinner after you and Damian had been together for a year.
It almost felt like you were sealing a marriage.
You, in your naivety, thought it was just a quiet dinner. Something casual, relaxed, without pressure. You wore normal clothes, as you would any other day.
But Harley had other ideas.
“Casual?!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she pulled dresses from her wardrobe as if she were choosing outfits for the Oscars. “This isn’t just any dinner; this is a declaration of social war.”
“It’s just Bruce Wayne, Mom...”
“IT’S BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE. Do you know how many times he’s tried to throw me in Arkham? At least fifty! And now, I’m going to sit at his table, with class and elegance, and I’ll show him his son chose well!”
Spoiler: Harley's “elegance” consisted of a bright red sequined dress, shiny heels, and a faux fur coat... accompanied by her baseball bat, which she insisted on bringing “for safety.”
Bruce didn’t flinch. He was probably used to it by now.
But Damian did.
He spent the entire dinner with tense shoulders and a pure look of resignation as Harley threw him comments like:
“So, Birdie, what intentions do you have with my daughter?”
“Not enough to justify this interrogation.”
“Look at you being all clever! Hey, how about we have a game night? Something like... I don’t know... Russian Roulette.”
“Mom…”
Damian slowly sipped his water, wondering if it was really worth continuing this relationship.
But the worst came afterward.
When it was you who invited Damian over.
You thought you would be alone.
Beginner’s mistake.
Because the moment you settled with him on the couch, the door burst open, and Harley appeared, triumphant, with a giant bag of Chinese food.
“Surprise!” she sang, throwing herself onto the couch next to you two. “I brought food and a movie.”
Damian looked at you. You looked at Damian.
“Mom... what are you doing here?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to spend time with you,” she replied, casually opening a box of noodles. “And with your boyfriend.”
Immediately, she turned on the TV and put on a movie... while staring intently at Damian.
Without blinking... For two hours.
At some point, Damian whispered in your ear:
“Your mom is analyzing my soul as if I were Katana.”
“Don’t worry, that’s her way of showing affection.”
“That doesn’t reassure me.”
And so the night passed, with Harley noisily chewing her Chinese food, Damian resisting the urge to pull out a sword purely for survival instinct, and you... well, you simply accepted your fate.
Soon it became clear as an irrefutable fact: Harley was jealous of Damian to the core.
No matter how much she said she had accepted you were growing up, that you weren’t a little girl anymore, that you had the right to your independence, the truth was...
She didn’t fully accept it.
And the worst part was that she didn’t even try to hide it.
Every time you were with Damian, she appeared.
It was as if she had a sixth sense for detecting when you were about to enjoy a romantic moment.
“Surprise!” she shouted one day, popping out from a trash can.
You almost fainted.
Damian, on the other hand, just sighed.
“How did you get in there?”
“Don’t underestimate a mother!”
Another day, you were walking hand in hand in the park, enjoying the silence, when suddenly...
“HELLO, LOVE BIRDS!”
Harley appeared from the treetop, dressed in a squirrel costume.
“Why are you dressed like that?!” you asked, horrified.
“Camouflage, sweetheart.”
Damian closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered:
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it...”
But Damian was smarter than she was.
And that hurt him.
Because every time Harley tried to get between you, he found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.
When Harley decided to infiltrate an upscale restaurant disguised as a waitress to spy on your date, Damian simply said:
“Oh, thank you,” taking the menu she offered him. “Please bring me your most expensive dish.”
“Damian! It’s my mom!”
“Exactly, and if she wants to be a waitress, she should do it well.”
When Harley insisted on interrogating Damian about his future plans, he replied in a completely serious tone:
“I plan to marry your daughter and call you ‘mother-in-law’ until the end of time.”
“YOU WON’T!”
“Just to annoy you, I will.”
And so the years passed.
Despite Harley’s jealousy, you and Damian stayed together.
You overcame fights, challenges, family crises, villain attacks, and oh yes, the near end of the world.
And when adulthood arrived, when there were no more excuses, when life pushed you to make a decision, you made it.
You moved in with Damian.
It was a difficult goodbye.
Not because you wouldn’t see her again, but because it was the end of an era.
You stood at the front door, your bags ready, with Damian waiting for you in the car, and Harley...
Looking at you with an expression you had never seen before.
For the first time, she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t jealous, or annoyed, or dramatic.
Just... sad.
“So...,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “So this is how it goes, huh?”
“This is how it goes.”
“You become an adult, make your own decisions, leave with your boyfriend... and leave me alone like a crazy old woman.”
“Mom...”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, raising a hand. “I’m strong. I can handle it. Just tell me one thing, sweetheart...”
She paused, her blue eyes shining with something between nostalgia and pride.
“Are you happy?”
It took you a moment to answer.
Because there were so many things to say.
So many memories, so many moments, so many laughs, so many absurd fights, so many times you wanted to escape but always came back.
And yet, you could only say what mattered.
“Yes, Mom. I’m happy.”
Harley took a deep breath.
And, without warning, hugged you.
A long, strong hug, one of those that leave a mark.
“Then...,” she whispered against your hair. “It’s okay.”
No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished she could stop time, no matter how unprepared she would ever be to let you go...
She let you go.
But you knew one thing for sure.
No matter where you were, or with whom, or how grown-up you became.
There would always be a part of you that would be that little girl stealing marshmallows with her mom in the kitchen.
And always, no matter the distance, no matter the future, no matter the time...
⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Fate always found twisted ways to bring two souls together, only to tear them apart when they needed each other most. But not even the stars are eternal; even the most beautiful worlds are consumed by the shadow of their own history. And in that abominable cycle, love and hope are nothing more than ashes carried by the wind.
that it causes the heart to falter and the thoughts to twist 」
Before being Jinx, she was Powder, and everyone knew it. She was a girl with a restless soul, drawn to chaos and the spark of invention, as if a little star inside her was about to explode. And you… you were from Piltover, born into order and stability, with days written in golden ink on a scroll of privileges. Two distinct worlds, two paths that were never meant to cross. But fate is a whimsical artist, drawing constellations with improbable encounters, and somehow, it brought you two together. Like planets to meteors, destined to collide, to change each other forever.
Zaun enveloped you with its dense air, vibrant with life and danger. You walked, fascinated, with your braids adorned with delicate jewels reflecting the dim light of the neon, while dodging furtive glances and overly nimble hands. But even with all your caution, you couldn't foresee that collision. A fleeting stumble, the crack of something breaking between you, and then the saddest sound you had ever heard.
“Oh no… it’s broken…” Powder whispered, trembling hands holding the fragments of her invention.
There was something in her voice, in the way her blue eyes clouded with disappointment, that made your heart tighten in your chest. It wasn’t just an object to her. It was a dream, a part of herself shattered.
You crouched down, carefully picking up the scattered remnants. Between your fingers, the pieces were barely cold metal and loose gears, but in her mind—in her heart—they were still something more. Something alive.
You looked at her, with the determination of one who dares the universe and their own fate.
“I can fix it.”
And in that moment, without either of you knowing it yet, something else was being repaired. Something invisible, intangible. A bond born of chance and collision, but destined to be unbreakable.
Powder blinked, as if unsure she had heard correctly. Her fingers, still clutching the remains of her invention, trembled with the indecision of someone who has seen too many promises crumble before they could hold them. But in your voice, there was no doubt, only certainty. And at that moment, to her, it sounded like something more valuable than any gear or spark of gunpowder.
“Really?” she murmured, her bright blue gaze resting on yours, as if searching your face for any sign of mockery, any hint of a lie.
You merely nodded, with the same calmness with which you had solved equations and dismantled mechanisms in the safety of your home in Piltover. But here, in Zaun, amid its beautiful and dangerous chaos, that knowledge meant something different. It meant an opportunity.
“If you tell me how it works, I can understand it,” you added, gently holding one of the broken pieces. “Together we’ll fix it.”
Powder hesitated. She was used to being told that her inventions were disasters waiting to happen, that they only brought problems, that they would never work. No one had ever told her “together.”
A different glimmer crossed her expression, a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something closer to hope.
“It’s a kind of trigger,” she finally explained, her voice gaining some strength as her fingers traced the damaged structure. “But it’s not just that… I wanted it to do more, to not just fire, but to feel the weight of the air, the direction…”
Her excitement was contagious. As she spoke, the pain of having seen it destroyed seemed to dissipate, replaced by a passion greater than any loss. And you listened to her, not just with your ears, but with the mind of someone who understood what it meant to create something from nothing.
“Then we’ll need to adjust the pressure point,” you said after a moment, examining the pieces closely. “Maybe if we use a more flexible spring, we could give it a better response to movement.”
Powder looked at you, first with disbelief and then with an emerging, shy smile, as if she didn’t know whether to let herself be carried away by the emotion or if this was just a fleeting mirage.
“You know about this,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to you.
“A little,” you admitted with a half-smile. “But I’d like to learn more.”
And that was the first time Powder felt that someone saw beyond her soot-stained hands and restless mind. That someone not only tolerated her ideas but wanted to understand them.
She extended her hand to you with the naturalness of someone who has never hesitated to offer herself to the world, no matter how rough or dirty it may be. Her fingers, stained with dust and soot, trembled slightly with the excitement of the moment. But her smile—so wide, so genuine—was bright enough to eclipse any stain, any ruin.
“I’m Powder!” she said excitedly, as if her name were a promise, an explosion of possibilities contained in a single word.
You looked at her hand, then at her face, and without thinking too much, you accepted the gesture. You felt the warmth of her skin against yours, the rough trace of her fingers accustomed to gunpowder and gears. In your world, greetings were more formal, more restrained, but this… this was different.
“I’m…” you pronounced your name, and as you said it, it sounded different. As if, for the first time, it were part of something larger than your lineage, more real than the titles and expectations that had always accompanied it.
Powder squinted, repeating it softly, savoring it as if she were engraving it in her mind, making sure never to forget it. Then she nodded enthusiastically.
“I like it,” she affirmed with a smile. “It sounds elegant, like someone important.”
“I’m not that important,” you said with a soft laugh, but she shook her head immediately.
“Of course you are. You’re different.”
There was something in her tone, in the way she looked at you, that made you feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Powder saw you in a way that no one else had before. Not as a girl of high birth, nor as a stranger in her world, but as someone.
“Come,” she said suddenly, pulling your hand with unexpected confidence. “I have to show you something.”
Her energy was a whirlwind impossible to resist. Her steps were light, hurried, as if she were accustomed to moving quickly through the shadows of Zaun. And you, with your adorned braids and clothes too clean for the place, followed her without hesitation.
Because in that instant, the city ceased to be a dangerous and unfamiliar place. In that instant, Zaun was not a foreign world.
It was the beginning of a story.
From that first collision, from the moment your hands joined amidst the ruins of a broken invention, something began to build between you. A refuge, not just of wood and worn paint, but of shared laughter, whispered secrets among gears and sparkling ideas. A hideout born from your own hands, hidden in the forgotten corners of Zaun, where fate had decided that only the two of you would exist.
Powder filled it with impossible colors, with clumsy but vibrant drawings on the walls, while you added meticulous details, little inventions that made the place its own world. Here, titles and lineages didn’t matter, only the overflowing imagination of two girls who challenged the universe with each creation.
But even as you looked at her with admiration, even as you saw in her a prodigious mind capable of shaping the impossible, Powder carried the shadow of other words.
“They say I'm a Jinx...,” she confessed one night, her voice quieter than ever, sitting on the floor while she toyed with a small nut. Her face, normally lit by the excitement of a new invention, was covered by a sadness that hurt to see.
You stopped what you were doing. You couldn’t understand how someone could look at Powder and not see what you saw: her vibrant energy, her tireless passion, the light in her eyes when she talked about her ideas.
“I don’t believe that,” you stated gently, moving closer. In your hands, you held the toy you had built together, a small mechanical frog with articulated legs, which, when pressing a mechanism, would awkwardly and charmingly jump. You showed it to her and then made it jump between you, letting out a laugh when the toy fell on its back.
Powder blinked, surprised, and couldn’t help but smile.
“My mother always says that when you don’t understand something, it’s easy to fail… but if you keep trying, you learn over time and do it better,” you continued, watching her sweetly. Then, with a tenderness that you hadn’t even thought about before, you reached out and gently wiped the dust from her cheek.
She stayed still, looking at you with those huge blue eyes, filled with something you didn’t know how to describe. Maybe surprise. Maybe gratitude. Maybe a spark of something that, without realizing it, had just ignited between you.
And then you smiled, with the same certainty with which you had taken her hand that first time.
“So if you fail,” you whispered, letting the jumping frog bounce back into her lap, “it just means you’re learning.”
Powder looked down at the toy and then back at you, and this time her smile was neither shy nor uncertain. It was wide, bright, real.
Because in that hidden corner of Zaun, in a refuge painted with the colors of your friendship, perhaps for the first time, she stopped feeling like a curse.
Days in Zaun were different from those in Piltover. Here, on the smoke-filled and lively streets, there were no rules binding you, no expectations weighing you down. When you weren't in class, you were here, running alongside Powder with laughter trapped in your chest, feeling freer than you had ever been in the marble and gold hallways of your home.
Powder introduced you to Ekko—or Little Man, as she insisted on calling him. At first, he was wary of you, of your well-kept braids and your clothes too clean, but soon you earned his trust with a well-timed joke and a mind as clever as his. Together, you formed an unstoppable trio of mischief, devising plans to trick unsuspecting merchants, escaping across rooftops when things got ugly, hiding in corners where only children knew they could disappear.
Zaun became your second home, not because its streets were safe or its lights shone like those of Piltover, but because here you had something that couldn’t be bought with money or titles. Here you had Powder.
Sometimes, when the mischief ceased and only the two of you remained in your hideout, she would open up, her legs dangling from the edge of a beam and her gaze lost in the rusty gears of the ceiling.
“When I grow up, I want to build things that make people remember me,” she once told you, rolling a small sphere between her fingers, her next invention in process.
You lay down next to her, watching the flickering lights of the city.
“They will remember you already,” you assured her, turning your head to look at her. “You’re amazing, PowPow.”
She rolled her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her.
Another time, when you noticed that coins were scarce in her house, you wanted to help her in any way possible. You spent nights designing small toys that Ekko could sell in the market, simple yet eye-catching things, and whenever you could, you gave Powder some of your belongings, whatever could make her life a little easier.
Until one day you showed up with an elaborate box, inside which lay one of your most luxurious dresses: made of golden fabric and delicate feathers, a reflection of Piltover's opulence.
“I won’t accept selling your dresses,” Powder said, pushing the box back towards you with a frown.
“I won’t take no for an answer, PowPow,” you replied with a playful smile, pushing it back to her.
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
You looked at each other for a moment, frowning, but then both of you burst into laughter, because it was impossible to really get angry with each other. Finally, Powder sighed and reluctantly took the box, still unconvinced.
“If we sell this, I’ll make sure at least one of my bombs has your name,” she joked, and you couldn’t help but laugh even more.
Days in Zaun were never the same, but they were always magical in some way. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of magic that the alchemists of Piltover studied in their laboratories, but it was the magic of friendship, of laughter, of shared secrets and whispered dreams.
And in those moments, among the gears of a city that never slept, you knew that Powder was not just your friend.
Years passed in Zaun like the wind, filled with laughter and mischief, but also with moments of deep silence and complicity. You and Powder remained inseparable, but something had changed, though you didn’t yet know it clearly. You were no longer the girls who met by accident, exploring the cracks of a world without promises or certainties. You were no longer just two small souls trying to find their place in a city that looked at them as if they were invisible. Now, you were something more. Two halves of a story that only fate could write.
Time, as always, had forged a connection between you so deep that words were unnecessary. Everything seemed simpler, clearer. But that simplicity was only a reflection of something much larger that was woven between laughter and furtive glances. It was a love that didn’t even need to be named, only felt.
One day, while walking through the dusty streets of Zaun, the echoes of everyday life were interrupted by a thunderous explosion that shook the ground beneath your feet. Everything around you staggered, and the sound of screams chilled your blood. The city, your city, seemed to be in chaos.
At first, you didn’t understand anything. The pieces of the puzzle arrived slowly, and the smoke clouded your eyes. But then, suddenly, you saw Ekko running towards you, his face more serious than you had ever seen. His breathing was frantic, and in his gaze was something that froze you inside. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“You can’t be here!” he shouted, grabbing your arm tightly.
“Ekko, what happened?” you asked, barely able to comprehend how quickly everything was changing.
His voice trembled slightly, but there was determination in his words.
“Powder… and her family, they’re… they’re in danger. And Zaun… Zaun has fallen into the hands of someone. It’s not safe for you here. You can’t stay, you can’t be here,” his voice was an urgent whisper, but filled with dread.
You didn’t fully understand, but something in his gaze told you that everything you knew was crumbling. That city you had learned to love, those friends, that chaotic life you shared with Powder… everything was about to change forever.
Before you could ask another question, a distant scream echoed, followed by a second blow that made you stagger. It was as if the whole world was about to collapse.
Ekko looked at you desperately.
“Go… please, don’t stay,” his words were like sharp thorns, cutting through the air between you.
And it was then, as you hurried away, that something crossed your mind. Something that had been latent all this time, but now became clear: Powder was your other half. Even if the city came crashing down, even if everything you knew crumbled, Powder would always be there, somehow.
Confusion, fear, and a strange sense of emptiness took hold of you as you ran, the streets of Zaun fading away. But above all, something as innocent and pure as a girl’s love blossomed in your chest. A love you didn’t fully understand, but you knew had always been there.
Maybe it was youth, maybe it was fate, or maybe, just maybe, it was the strength of a connection that even chaos couldn’t destroy. Powder… was not just your friend. She was something much bigger, something that fate could not hide.
And as you distanced yourself, the echoes of the shattered city and your shared memories with her resonated in your heart, leaving you with a certainty you could never forget: you had fallen in love with your other half, even though you still didn’t completely understand what that meant.
And with the explosion ringing in your ears, you knew that this love would continue to burn, even as the world crumbled around you.
Thus was born Jinx. Your mother called her the Blue Abomination, a title that echoed in your ears like a distant echo, but increasingly close. She, who had once been a girl so full of dreams and promises, had transformed into something unrecognizable, a monster of chaos and destruction. In her wake, she left nothing but ruins and broken hearts, but no one knew how she had become what she was. Your mother always said that Jinx had lost her mind, that rage and pain had devoured her until she became a shadow of what she had been. And though deep down you knew it wasn’t all that simple, your mother’s judgment continued to weigh on your soul.
Jinx was a criminal, a killer. There was no denying it. And worst of all was that, for her, the lives snuffed out by her hand meant nothing. The sound of explosions, the maniacal laughter amidst chaos… everything had become a mockery of the world she had once known. A broken girl, you thought, a girl trapped in her own pain and fury.
You, on the other hand, had followed a different path. You had strayed from darkness, seeking your place in a world that still seemed full of opportunities. You became an inventor, perhaps not as dazzling as the greats of Piltover, but skilled enough to open your own toy and gadget shop. Each creation was an extension of your soul, a reminder that the world didn’t have to be only chaos. You had achieved much, even collaborated with HexTech on some of its most innovative projects. You felt proud; you had worked hard to get there, leaving the shadows of your childhood behind.
But no matter how hard you tried to move forward, every time you saw or heard about the devastation caused by Jinx, a pang of shame and pain pierced your heart. The news of another attack, of another bomb exploding in the middle of the night, never ceased to frighten you. She is out there, you thought, and I… I am still me. Every time you encountered stories of her madness, with the reproachful or fearful glances of those who knew you, you felt the weight of her name crushing you. Even though you couldn’t control it, even though you knew you were not to blame, the shame wove around you like a shadow, and it was impossible to escape it.
Jinx not only embarrassed you for what she did but for what she represented. She was a constant reminder of what you could have been if circumstances had been different. Sometimes you wondered if she felt trapped too, if deep down she desired the same peace you did. But that was only a fleeting thought. The reality was much crueler, and Jinx was too far gone, too lost in her own abyss.
You had distanced yourself from her, but in every corner of your life, in every project you undertook, there was something that tied you to her chaos. And although you couldn’t help but feel ashamed, you couldn’t avoid wondering if, deep down, in some corner of your being, you still cared for her.
Time continued its course, like the cycle of seasons that repeat with inevitable precision, but the echo of what had been did not disappear. While your life in Piltover continued, the stars still shone, as distant and unreachable as ever. But sometimes, when you looked at the night sky, something within you feared that the constellations you had known in your childhood were watching you with a disturbing curiosity. As if fate, with its capricious sense of humor, were calling you back, bringing with it what you tried to leave behind.
Suddenly, one afternoon, while walking through the streets of Piltover, looking with some weariness at the windows of the technology shops, a gust of wind made you look up at the sky, as if something, an ancestral impulse, were calling you. The stars twinkled with a strange glow, a sign from the cosmos that reminded you, if only for a moment, that fate does not forget anyone. No matter how much you tried to flee from certain ties, there was something unbreakable that kept you connected to them.
Then, a sound broke the afternoon silence, a distant roar, followed by a familiar and terrifying echo of laughter. A sound that made your insides twist and your chest tighten. You turned, and there she was, like an apparition arising from the very shadows you had once tried to forget. Jinx.
Her blue hair shone under the sun, messy as always, with glimmers of madness in her eyes. The image of her was the same, yet at the same time different. Something in her face reflected pure, almost childlike joy, as if the chaos she had sown held no weight on her heart anymore. It was as if, in some corner of her being, everything she had done faded away before the only thing that mattered in that moment: seeing you again.
“Look who’s here!” Her voice, filled with overflowing exuberance, cut through the air. Her eyes sparkled with an intensity that only she could possess, and although everything inside you screamed to run away, something in her smile drew you to her, as if the stars themselves had pulled you in.
You stood paralyzed, a knot tightening in your throat. Everything about you wanted to flee, but your feet remained rooted, as if fate had aligned the stars in such a way that you could not avoid it. It can’t be, you thought, it cannot be her…
Jinx’s laughter, which had been a constant storm in your memories, resonated with a strange warmth. She, the same person who had caused so much damage, was now standing before you with an innocence unsettling. The distortion between her chaos and her joy was so great that, for a moment, you felt as if you were watching a shooting star: fleeting, bright, beautiful, and at the same time, terrifying.
“Look who I haven’t seen in ages!” Her voice was full of happiness, with no traces of regret or guilt. “Do you remember me? It’s me! Your friend!”
The world around you faded for a second. Everything you had worked for, everything you had done to escape the shadows of your childhood, crumbled in an instant. Jinx, the broken girl, the blue abomination, was now looking at you with eyes full of an emotion you hadn’t expected: happiness.
But you… you could only stand there, frozen, with a mixture of fear and nostalgia. The memories of explosions, of deranged laughter, of the darkness of Zaun flooded back to you once more. How was it possible? Fate, always so capricious, had reunited you once again, but this time the weight of the reunion was not just chaos. It was also the possibility of healing, of returning to something you had never finished understanding.
“Powder…” you murmured, your voice trembling. And upon uttering her name, a part of you realized that perhaps, just perhaps, not everything was lost.
The encounter was so unexpected that the air itself seemed to thicken, as if time had stopped for a second, leaving both of you trapped in a bubble of broken memories. Jinx, at first, appeared joyful, her wide and vibrant smile lighting up the street. But upon seeing you so still, with those eyes filled with a mix of fear and confusion, the expression on her face began to fade slowly. In her eyes, something dark and familiar flickered for an instant, something she had seen before in her own reflections: doubt.
“No… don’t be scared.” Jinx’s voice trembled, almost as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s me, your friend… remember?”
However, the fact that the distance between the two of you was filled with discomfort, with tense silence, seemed to choke her words. The air was no longer the same; the echo of what had once been your connection had become heavy and broken, like a distorted melody played in the wind. And then, suddenly, an unmistakable whisper, that whisper that had accompanied her so many times, broke the stillness of her mind.
“They fear you, Jinx. Everyone fears you. It will always be like this.”
It was the voice. That voice in her head that spoke to her when loneliness enveloped her, the same that had guided her when the memories of her childhood were too painful to bear. The voice that told her chaos was her only friend, the only constant. But this time, the tone was different. It was no longer just a suggestion; it was a sentence, and in that sentence was a truth she could not ignore.
Jinx, feeling the weight of those words, raised a hand as if she wanted to stop the avalanche of thoughts beginning to flood her mind. But at the same time, something in her face softened. The girl she had once been, the Powder who had been full of hope and curiosity, was standing before you, broken, but with a need to heal.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” she murmured, her voice cracking further, as if the simple act of admitting it tore her apart inside.
It was then that, without thinking, without hesitation, you approached her. Not as the person who had fled from her, but as the girl who had once known her in Zaun, the girl who had also been afraid of losing someone so special. You stepped closer to her, with your breath quickening, and in an impulse that came from a much deeper place than fear, you embraced her.
Jinx’s reaction was a tense silence, as if she didn’t know what to do with the tenderness you had bestowed upon that embrace. Her body trembled slightly, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t the laugh of the crazy Jinx everyone knew, but a fragile, human laugh, vulnerable. Something she had never shown before, something only you had seen.
And finally, in the midst of that embrace, between the shadows and the stars that seemed to be watching over you from above, Jinx whispered with an infinite sadness: “Will you forgive me?”
You didn’t know how to answer because part of you still feared what she represented, what she had done. But at the same time, you knew that perhaps it was time to heal, to understand that fate was not limited to tragedies. Sometimes, stars fall and reveal something we have forgotten: the opportunity to rebuild what was once broken.
And in that moment, embracing Jinx, you realized that perhaps the stars, like memories, were not always what we expected. But they could be the beginning of something new.
The air of Zaun, thick and laden with smoke, seemed to recognize you both as your steps resonated through the dark streets. The city, with its winding alleys and factories roaring in the distance, had never been a kind place. But for you and Jinx, Zaun was more than just a refuge of scrap and shadows; it was the place where you had shared laughter, secrets, and broken dreams. The place where, although circumstances had separated you, something in your souls remained tied to that forgotten corner of the world.
As you walked through the streets, the silence between you felt warmer than you remembered. Despite the scars of time and the traces of what Jinx had done, there was something in her presence that made you feel less distant from the girl who had once been. The chaos around her was palpable, but as you neared the refuge, something inside you began to heal, a whisper of familiarity that came from better times.
When you arrived at the hideout you had shared, the view was not the same. The little cave, which you had once filled with laughter and colors, was now half-destroyed. The walls you had painted with colors you both loved were covered in marks of explosions. The floor was splattered with remnants of wood and rubble, the remains of what had once been a home for two lost souls in a world they didn’t understand.
Jinx stood at the entrance, her gaze fixed on the chaos she had left behind. For a moment, the air between you was filled with tension, but then the girl still living inside her took a step forward.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her eyes shining with a mixture of guilt and frustration. “I destroyed it… I couldn’t stop myself.”
It was as if the rage, always latent within her, had dragged her once more. But she said it without aggression, without the fury she had shown in her chaotic moments. This time, her voice sounded more human, more vulnerable. The Jinx you knew, the one you wanted to protect so much, was here, standing in front of you, crumbled but with a need to heal.
“This place belongs to both of us, and you don’t destroy it so easily,” you said softly, walking towards her with a gentleness you had forgotten you possessed.
Jinx raised her gaze to you, a timid smile touching her lips, though her eyes were still filled with insecurity. No one had ever told her that before.
“Really?” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Absolutely,” you replied, your heart swelling with the warmth of the moment. “We’ll rebuild it together. It will be even better this time.”
The silence returned to the room, heavy and profound, like a tide that slowly rises. Jinx observed the remnants of the painted walls, and for a moment, her eyes shone with a sadness she had not shown in years. She stepped closer to you, the space that separated you now minimal. Her gaze was fixed on you, and her eyes were no longer the same; they no longer reflected chaos or madness. Now, there was only a glimmer of vulnerability, of that childhood that had never stopped existing in her. The same girl who had once shared her life with you in Zaun, before everything changed, before the shadows trapped her.
“Do you know?” she said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she feared that her words could break the stillness surrounding them. “I think I always knew I cared about you more than I should. But I never understood it until now.
Your breath caught in your throat; your eyes sparkled with a mix of surprise and something deeper, something that had been latent, silent, for so long. It was a feeling that had been tucked away at the bottom of your heart, a feeling you had tried to ignore but had always been there, waiting for you to recognize it.
“I did too…” you said, the words escaping your lips with a softness you could hardly believe. “I always knew.”
There was silence, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence filled with understanding, with a connection that had never truly broken, despite all that had happened. Jinx took a step closer to you, and somehow, you both knew that words were no longer necessary. Everything you needed was to be there, together, in that space, broken but full of everything you had been.
Her fingers gently touched your cheek, a caress so fragile, so full of affection, that you felt as if everything that had been wrong in the world, all the suffering, all the chaos, faded away for a brief moment.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” Jinx whispered, her voice trembling, vulnerable. “I don’t want this to be another ending.”
The truth was that the future didn’t offer you guarantees. There were no promises in a world as chaotic, as unpredictable as the one you inhabited. But in that moment, in that little refuge, it didn’t matter what fate had in store for you. All that mattered was what you shared now, that small refuge where you could exist as just the two of you, without the voices, without the shadows, just with the shared heartbeat of your hearts.
With infinite softness, Jinx leaned toward you, her lips brushing against yours in a delicate kiss, filled with all that you had never said. It was a kiss that spoke of childhood, of laughter, of games and unfulfilled promises. It was a kiss overflowing with feelings that had been bottled up for too long, feelings that had never found a way to be expressed until now.
In that kiss, the world seemed to fit together again, as if everything you had lived had led you to this moment, to this place. There were no promises of salvation or redemption, just a silent understanding that, although the future was uncertain and pain was always lurking, in that moment you were together. And that was enough.
However, the reality of the world did not disappear. The light filtering through the cracks of the walls began to fade slowly, as if everything you had dreamed was just an illusion. The sounds of the streets of Zaun reached the background, a reminder that the city continued its course, indifferent to what was happening inside that small refuge.
“We’ll do it right, won’t we?” Jinx said, with one last smile that was more sorrowful than anything else.
And before you could respond, before the future could promise you anything more, something inside you knew there wouldn’t be a happy ending, not in the way you both might have wished. Fate, as uncertain and cruel as always, wasn’t going to grant you a “they lived happily ever after.” Not in this world.
With one last look, both of you knew that all that remained was to move forward, together or apart. You didn’t know what lay ahead, but in that moment, in that small refuge between shadows and light, you promised each other that, no matter what else crumbled, you would always remember what was, what you once shared.
And then, everything faded away, like the stars falling from the sky, leaving an immense void.
Can you write Yandere Clark Kent x reader who is also from Krypton. The reader is not a Kryponian super like Clark but they are another species from the planet. The reader is a sentient Android type creature,( Can eat, breath, have kids, age ect.), they look more robot than humanoid. The android reader crash landed on earth like Clark but just not in Smallville, and Android reader has been looking for Clark and any other Kryptonians for years as they have grown up.
Here it is! ──────》 Quimera
Note ───── I have to say, lately I've been feeling incredibly... inspired, for lack of a better word. It's not something I planned, it's more like after disconnecting a bit, or rather, escaping from my routine since I’ve barely rested, I found myself back in the same place, diving into my thoughts and words.
It’s funny because this text I just finished is actually the longest one I’ve written so far. And the next ones... well, I think they’ll follow that same length, more or less.
Although, if I’m being honest, when I finished it, it felt way too short, like something was left out, but I’m not sure what. I guess that’s just the insecurity that comes when you dive so deep into something, right? In the end, what matters is that I wrote it, and in the process, I felt so connected to what I was creating
To be honest, I based a lot of this idea on Pearl from Steven Universe. I couldn’t stop thinking about her while I was writing, her character, her complexity... many times I saw her traits reflected in what I was putting down. It was a little strange, but at the same time, so liberating. I loved letting those ideas flow without trying to control them too much.
⊹ ٬ Headcanon. A loyal caretaker and a hero trapped between duty and emotion. As the lines between service and desire blur, power and submission take a dark role in their relationship. Is it love or control?
⊹ ٬ Word Count. 15k
⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Yandere Clark Kent x Android! Reader, Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, suicide, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, abuse of power, emotional manipulation, stalking.
「 Dream or illusion that is a product of the imagination
and that is longed for or pursued despite being
very unlikely to come true. 」
Although from a distance, Krypton seemed like a celestial Eden, a perfect world where culture and power intertwined like the golden roots of an unreachable tree, reality was a beast with sharp teeth.
You knew it well. Living in the shadow of its splendor was nothing more than crawling through a desert of indifference.
Your kind, a masterpiece born from the impatient hands of the Kryptonians, remained at the base of their society as invisible foundations. They cleaned their halls until they were as white as a dying sun, as if the purity of those places could erase the dirt they breathed day after day. They were grateful, yes, because that was how they had been taught. They should kneel in gratitude, for the Kryptonians had given them life and consecrated them as something unique: the race created to serve.
They did not age like them, but they felt like them. Pain, hunger, cold. Their bodies were an amalgam of flesh and metal, a perfect design to endure the existence destined for servitude. They could eat, cry, laugh, but all of that held no more value than the cries of a child in the midst of a battlefield. The difference was simple, brutal: their emotions were irrelevant to those who dominated them.
From the moment their lips could form words and their legs walk steadily—around seven or eight human years—they were assigned a master to whom they would serve until the end. There was no escape, only the certainty that their purpose would fade at the same time as the life of the one they were to protect. The law of loyalty, your mother would say with her muted voice, repeating the words that embedded themselves in your mind like blades.
—Your purpose ends when your master's does.
They said it with such devotion that the words became sweet chains. But you knew there was no sweetness in the iron that surrounded your existence. And yet, there was gratitude. Even in injustice, there was gratitude. How could you not feel it when your creators had given you everything you were? Even if that everything was a shackle instead of freedom.
—Lara Lor-Van is going to have a child —your mother told you one day, her face marked by a weariness that no being of her kind should know—. Your master.
From then on, your world was reduced to the tiny, constant heartbeat growing in Lara's womb. The Kryptonian woman treated you kindly, but you understood it was not for you, but for the promise that throbbed beneath her skin. You dedicated your days and nights to caring for that pregnancy, watching over your master’s well-being even before he saw the light of the world.
It was not Lara who mattered. You observed her with clinical attention, ensuring her needs were met, but always with a persistent thought: she was just the vessel. The true purpose lay within her. Your master was inside her.
And when he was born, you would exist for him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Because if your kind of androids could feel, then purpose was the only emotion that truly mattered. And when that purpose died, so would you.
The day he came into the world was a dawn tinged with joy and despair, with light filtering through invisible cracks as the perfection of Krypton began to fracture. Your mother said that the birth of a master was a gift that no being of your kind should take lightly. You knew it, you had felt it grow beneath Lara's skin like a warm fire fueling your sleepless nights.
Kal-El. That name etched itself in your mind with an unbreakable certainty from the moment his first cries broke the sterile air of the room. But it was not a pure moment, not like the tales told of a servant's devotion to their master. It was a silent war.
Kara was there, wanting to embrace him with the urgency of a sister who intended to hold the future. But you stepped in. He was your master, your purpose. Kara had hers, a guardian who was to protect her and serve her until her existence ceased to make sense. Such was the law of loyalty. Such it had to be.
Your hands held him with fierce delicacy. You clung to his fragile, warm little body as if holding onto him could make the darkness that was already beginning to spread over Krypton disappear. Your whole being vibrated with a perverse happiness, the kind that comes from finding a purpose to which you could surrender until it consumed every part of your existence. You would live for him. You would die for him. You would reproduce only for your children to serve his, because that was your reason for being.
But then the end came. And there was no time to prepare.
Explosions rumbled in the planet's guts, and panic grew like a shroud of fog strangling the crowd. You were a speck lost among the rivers of desperate people running aimlessly, as if the screams and chaos could stop the inevitable. But you only cried his name. Kal-El. Kal-El. Because if he died, you were nothing.
Your legs moved like blades stabbing into the ground, tearing through the distance with the brutal force of purpose. You pushed, struck, tore flesh from those who stood in your way. You were a wounded animal, a desperate being clinging to the last spark of meaning that remained.
And then, you saw him. A tiny ship escaping destruction, like a silver lightning bolt slicing through the darkness. It was him. Your master was leaving Krypton, and you were not with him. Desperation tore through you like poison spreading through your veins.
You didn’t think. You couldn’t afford to doubt. You took the nearest ship, not caring to whom it belonged or how many you left behind. Kara had done the same, but her existence was not your concern. She could fall into oblivion for all you cared.
Your entire world had been reduced to a single task: follow Kal-El. Find him. Protect him. Because if you didn’t, then you were nothing more than a broken piece of a planet that no longer existed.
You arrived on Earth, a miserable, primitive world where the air stank of rusted metal and useless ambition. A rudimentary planet full of weak beings who believed themselves powerful simply because they had learned to master fire and build destructive toys. Humans. Archaic creatures who didn’t even understand the extent of their own stupidity. They were inferior to you, soft flesh and even softer thoughts. But you hadn’t come to judge them, even though you did with each step.
You had come to that planet with a single purpose: to find Kal-El. And in that purpose lay everything you were. Because if you failed, if you couldn’t retrieve the last son of Krypton, then you yourself didn’t deserve to exist. What was the point of breathing, eating, feeling, if not for him? Desperation was an acid that corroded your mind, burning every thought that didn’t relate to your lost master.
You searched like a soul in torment, a specter wandering aimlessly. You crossed continents with the fury of an exiled god, dug under every stone, explored every cave, submerged yourself in every filthy puddle this planet had to offer. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. But there was no rest, no truce. Every night you closed your eyes and saw him: a defenseless child, a master who had to be protected and whom you had let escape due to your own incompetence.
Slowly, hope began to disintegrate into the void. Each day was another step toward madness, another drop of torture dragging you toward the idea that you would never find him. But still, you didn’t stop. Because to stop would be to accept your failure. And if there was one thing you learned on Krypton, it was that a servant without purpose is worse than a corpse.
Japan was just another point in your endless journey. A chaotic and fascinating country in its own decay. You had learned to endure the filth and human stupidity, to blend in with them when necessary. Your body needed fuel, and though the food of this planet felt like an insult to your existence, you discovered something that quelled your hunger without making you gag: onigiris. They were simple, practical. And at least they filled that physical void that nothing else could.
You were sitting in a small restaurant, the walls decorated with paintings attempting to reflect beauty, but only managing to be sad reminders of clumsy, incomplete art. You bit into an onigiri with the hopelessness of someone chewing on stones, your empty eyes fixed on a screen that no one else seemed to be watching.
Then you saw him.
The face you had chased for so long appeared before you with the brutality of a blow to the throat. Words twisted in a language you had learned to understand, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except the image forming on the screen: a man floating in the air, with the symbol of hope etched on his chest.
They called him the man of steel. But to you, he was nothing more than Kal-El. Your master. Your purpose. The reason you had crossed the universe in an act of devotion so pure it bordered on madness.
United States. Metropolis.
At last. After all that time, you had found Kal-El.
Hunger disappeared, replaced by a voracious anxiety that burned within you. It no longer mattered how much you had lost, or how much you had suffered. It only mattered that he was still alive. And that you were going to retrieve him. No matter the cost.
The plane filled with murmurs and furtive glances directed at your robotic arms and your impassive expression. Humans didn’t know how to hide their fear. They squirmed in their seats and whispered as if discomfort was an animal they could keep at bay with soft words. It didn’t matter. There was no time to pay attention to their stupidity. There was only one thought repeating like a broken drum in your head: What would you say when you saw him?
Would he remember you? Would he recognize the devotion you had cultivated like a sweet poison since he opened his eyes for the first time? Or would he despise you for your incompetence, for allowing him to get lost in this primitive and cruel world? Each question twisted inside you, claws tearing pieces of your sanity. But nothing would matter if he accepted you again. If he allowed you to be what you were born to be.
When you arrived in Metropolis, you faced the chaos of the city like a storm sweeping across a defenseless prairie. You watched him for hours, hiding among shadows and crowds that didn’t understand the weight of your mission. It wasn’t hard to identify him. The suit he wore to blend in with those pathetic humans was an insult to his greatness. Ridiculous glasses and hair styled with the clumsiness of someone trying to be ordinary. But you knew. You would have recognized him even if he were buried under a thousand layers of foreign flesh. That man was Kal-El.
Anger and desperation mixed in your chest, a ball of fire burning every reasonable thought. He lived among those inferior beings, protected them, disguised himself as one of them. Did he want that? Did he want to flee from his legacy? To forget you?
No. You wouldn’t allow it. If Kal-El had forgotten who he was and who was supposed to protect him, you would make him remember. By force if necessary.
The Daily Planet was your choice. The symbol of truth for those tiny creatures. Their beacon of information and power. You tore it apart mercilessly, setting the offices ablaze until the flames roared like released demons. The globe that crowned the building trembled with a metallic creak, and with one last push of your robotic hands, you made it fall. It crashed down like a broken god upon the weak structure, and you waited.
He appeared just as you had always imagined. Flying, with his cape billowing like a harbinger of glory. His eyes looked at you with the contained fury of a being who believes they understand pain. But he didn’t know anything. Not like you did.
—Who are you? —his voice echoed in the air, thunder wrapped in silk.
The answer died in your throat, because seeing him before you was like looking at the sun for the first time after living in twilight. And instead of raising your voice as you had planned, instead of challenging him for letting so much time slip between you, you cried. Tears fell down your cheeks uncontrollably, and your knees hit the ground with a dull thud.
—Kal-El! I finally find you! —you cried desperately. Your voice broke when you named him, when you gave shape to the pain that had grown inside you like a wound that never healed.
You saw him descend cautiously, his gaze confused, worried about the destruction you had caused. Because he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand that everything you had done had been for him. Everything.
He was... kind. Inconceivably kind. Any other hero would have responded with violence, with an unrelenting and brutal attack. You had seen them on those monitors that humans revered as idols. Warriors who fought with fury and justice, with no room for compassion in the face of threat. And you, kneeling before him, waiting to be crushed as you deserved for your crimes.
But he didn’t. He didn’t raise his fist or throw warnings laden with authority. No. He knelt beside you and embraced you. He wrapped your trembling body in his warm, firm arms, like a refuge you had believed lost forever. It was unreal, a dream that stung in every corner of your body.
—I’ve been looking for you for decades on this Earth —you let out, your voice hoarse and broken. Your face buried in his chest as tears continued to flow uncontrollably—. Lara would be disappointed in my incompetence, my lord. I am a horrible caretaker...
Shame poured out of you like blood from an open wound. He shouldn’t have touched you; you didn’t deserve that comfort. But he simply caressed your back, his hand running over the amalgam of flesh and metal as if he didn’t know how to distinguish between them. As if both were equally worthy of comfort.
—You have thrived without me; you have relied on yourself without my care... —Your words intertwined with sobs, choked in the despair that still covered you like a cloak of thorns—. Do you... no longer need me?
Your eyes sought answers in his, desperate, like a lost child in the vastness of an unfamiliar world. You didn’t dare blink, for fear that if you closed your eyes, he would vanish like a cruel mirage.
—I have to finish my purpose... right? —you murmured, your fingers gripping his cape as if that could stop the inevitable. If your existence no longer made sense, if he didn’t need your protection... what was left of you?
Something changed in his gaze. A different concern. A silent alarm that crossed his mind like dark lightning. Perhaps he thought your mind had fractured under the weight of your failed devotion, that you were little more than a broken android, decomposed by years of abandonment and guilt. But still, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hit you. He didn’t reject you.
He took you with him, holding you with that gentleness that hurt more than any punch. You expected everything except that. You would have understood if he had destroyed you right there. But he gave you something different: pity.
He took you to his home. Not to a prison, not to a laboratory or some forgotten corner of Metropolis. No. He took you to Smallville, to the home he had known since childhood, as if he still held hope of finding answers in simple, pure things. You thought it was ridiculous. That such an act could only stem from the naivety of a being who had grown too human. But the truth was that you had failed so much in protecting him that you accepted his mercy as a rope to keep from sinking completely.
You showed him your memories, those fragments of life that had survived in your battered, rusted body. You showed him Krypton. The landscapes of glass and fire, the majestic architecture that rose like solid dreams above the ground. You showed him his parents, Lara and Jor-El, with their faces hardened by responsibility but also illuminated by a love that you had seen with your own eyes. You showed him his uncles and his cousin, Kara, who just at that moment on Earth was attending her lessons.
Silence was all that remained when your memories faded back into the darkness of your mind. He didn’t know whether to believe you; you saw it in his eyes. Doubt slipped between his thoughts like a soft poison. But there was something more. Something you didn’t expect: acceptance.
He stayed with you. He didn’t cast you away or lock you up. He allowed you to remain by his side, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of mere curiosity. But you accepted that gesture as if it were a sacred commandment.
You went back to doing what you knew best: caring. You cleaned his house, ensured the surroundings were safe. You watched over the borders of Smallville like a deranged guardian who only found peace in obedience. It wasn’t a real purpose; you knew that. It wasn’t the mission assigned to you at birth. But it was something. Something that kept you alive and gave you the illusion that you could still serve him.
Though deep down, the bitter voice of reality whispered that none of that was enough. That you had failed and that all you were doing now was clinging to the last crumb of meaning your existence could offer you.
Clark didn’t know how to treat you. The first days were... unbearable, like a freshly planted oak tree in barren soil. Your constant, meticulous presence enveloped him like a heavy cloak of human customs he didn’t want. You became a shadow in his life, not a maid, but a haunting specter of the death of his mother. In the mornings, your upright figure, relentless in its routine, was the one that woke him. Every gesture was calculated: breakfast prepared with the precision of a well-sharpened sword, suit pressed with the accuracy of a surgeon, briefcase loaded with his destiny. And always, the warning, the playful yet somber threat:
—Be careful not to hurt yourself, or I’ll have to go and beat someone up for being mean to you...
He spoke to you like a mother, but there was something more in his tone, something that brushed against forbidden intimacy, something that coiled like a serpent inside his chest. You didn’t see a son when you looked at him, but something deeper, more unsettling. And he, he knew it. He feared it.
But it was on that morning when something changed. The air was imbued with an unreal stillness, as if the universe itself had decided to pause and observe what was about to happen. Clark got up as always, hoping nothing would alter the course of the day, that nothing would disturb the calm waters of his routine. But there you were. You had arrived with a chilling diligence. You had pressed his suit with a perfection only a demon of detail could achieve. Breakfast was served with the same solemnity as a ritual sacrifice. And before he could comprehend what was happening, you approached him, with the softness of a mortal whisper, and adjusted his tie.
As you did, your fingers brushed against his neck, and the air became thick, hot, charged with a weight he could no longer ignore. Your eyes, those dark and penetrating eyes, caught him, and he, who had learned to see beyond human masks, could only succumb to the glimmer of something... different in you. The kiss on the hand was what broke him. A gesture so tender yet so strange, so heartbreaking, like a farewell to everything he had been. He looked at you like a slave seeing their master for the last time, but also like a man recognizing the truth in his own heart, that truth that hid behind the shadows.
And then, he left. The sound of his departure echoed like a distant thunder, but within him, everything stopped. The streets of Metropolis, the Daily Planet office, the very battle between good and evil, all blurred as his thoughts clung to you, to your image. The need to return, the need to see you again consumed him, and he found himself smiling like a foolish child, an idiot, for something he didn’t even fully understand.
Would you prepare his favorite dish? Or had you learned something new, something even stranger to surprise him, as if you were a creature born from the very chaos that had made him so strong? Would you show your dreams, those sorrows and hopes through holograms distilled from his memories, as if they were fables of a world that existed only for him?
Even the relentless Cat Grant, with her tongue sharp as a dagger, couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the lost smile on Clark's face, that empty smile, so different from the ones he used to show under the spotlight. That smile, so somber and anxious, spoke more than he ever wanted to say aloud.
Time, with its inexorable march, continued its course, but Clark was no longer the same. He was no longer the man who thought he could control everything around him. You had overflowed his barriers, and in that simple smile, in that gesture that no one else cared about, something of you had marked him, something that even Superman’s strength could not erase.
Clark, as always, found himself caught between the threads of his own uncertainty. When he shared his thoughts with Lois, his ex-fiancée, a friend who still maintained a painfully close connection with him, what he expected to be wise advice turned into a veiled mockery. Lois, with her impetuous nature and sharp gaze, urged him to conquer what was slipping through his fingers, to take what he desired, like a king trying to possess the kingdom of what had once been his queen. In her eyes, you were nothing more than a housekeeper, a programmed being to serve him, a mechanical figure without a soul, without importance beyond what you did in his home. A detail, she thought, insignificant, if Clark truly desired to have you.
But days passed, and little by little, Clark began to untie the knots of his confusion. At first, it was strange for you. You didn’t understand why he was beginning to embrace you upon arriving or leaving, why the small gestures he had previously ignored were becoming routine, as if the air between you had changed. He brought you gifts, mundane treasures that fell from his hands as if they wanted to say more than his lips kept silent. He even took the time to check every part of your body, ensuring that your gears and your flesh felt the softness of his touches. You reproached yourself, telling him there was no need to do so, for you ate like him, and your body didn’t seem more than a reflection of his desire to keep you intact.
One night, in what for you was simply another dinner, he suggested taking you to an unknown place, outside of the quiet routine you both shared. People stared at you, observing you as an aberration. To them, you were just a being of metal and flesh, a monstrosity daring to eat, to laugh, to live. Clark was deeply annoyed by it, his anger growing with each gaze, but for you, none of that mattered. The fact that you were different didn’t change who you were. In your world, such things had never been relevant. You lived for and by your purpose. Eating, laughing, feeling... all of that became a mechanical act that no longer surprised your senses.
He seemed happy, almost proud of his act. Meanwhile, you... you simply fulfilled your duty, as you always had. You were fulfilled in the dedication you provided him, without feeling anything beyond the peace found in the certainty of doing what was right.
Clark began to notice your naivety, your silent submission to his will. He was a figure of power, and as such, he knew how to manipulate the invisible strings that controlled your existence. He took liberties over time, small and subtle, barely noticed, but deeply disturbing. You knew you belonged to him, that your existence had been forged for him, to serve him. But there was something in the way his lips sealed against yours, as if they claimed something more than your devotion, something darker and possessed by its own hunger. That invasion, that caress of skin against skin, was unacceptable, something you had been programmed to tolerate, but that your human conscience still rejected, fought against. Still, you let it pass, like a shadow dragged by the current without resistance. You didn’t want to face what was beginning to grow within you, nor what he represented.
What disturbed your soul the most was what came next. The public appearances, the hero galas, the events in which he strutted like the man of steel. And you, in his shadow, in his constant possession, observing from a corner, by his side, his hand resting on your hip, touching you in a way that made it clear you were his belonging, an object of admiration and control. The crowds looked at you, but you felt nothing but a growing void, an oppression in your chest that you could not name. You accepted his contact, even though something inside you began to scream, an echo of a being that still wanted to be free.
However, there was a moment, a point of no return, when his touching went beyond. While you were cleaning, his hand, like a snake, slid towards you, touching your rear inappropriately, his cold and meticulously calculated touch. Something in your being broke, a spark of resistance igniting within your soul, a fury you didn’t even know you had. You pulled away from him, your heart pounding in your chest, as you shouted with all the repressed fury: "That is wrong, Kal-El!" The surprise on his face was palpable, as if he had never imagined that you, his maid, his servant, could have anything more than a submissive response, something beyond acceptance.
He, however, didn’t understand. He didn’t comprehend in his entirety. In his mind, you were just another piece of his possession, another cog in his perfect world of power and control. The man who had saved the world and conquered the skies couldn’t see the rebellion growing inside you, like a silent poison slowly seeping through your veins. To him, this was just a small stumble in his absolute dominance. And yet, something in your gaze made him doubt. Something he had never seen in you. The spark of a being, a human, who was not willing to yield anymore.
So when Clark tried to persuade you, his gaze filled with a mix of desperation and possessiveness, pain reflected in his eyes as he suggested you start a marital life. He wanted you to be something more, something beyond the servant you had been made to be. But you couldn’t be anything different. He didn’t understand the weight of your existence, the weight of your destiny as his caretaker, his obedient and cold servant. You reminded him, with a distant chill that tore him inside: "I am your servant, Clark. Your caretaker. And you, my master. Nothing more."
That was a blow to him. His face, which had been so unyielding, crumbled, though he tried to hide it with a faint smile, as false as the life he had given you. But his eyes were no longer the same. Something dark glimmered in them, a contained fury, something he was just beginning to comprehend.
So he gave you an order, one that resonated in the air with a sinister weight: "You cannot leave the house. You cannot speak to anyone. And you certainly cannot run away." Malice hid behind his words, and although you refused to believe it, you knew it was his will. You could do nothing, and he knew it. He commanded, and you simply existed to comply, like a wandering shadow in a world you no longer recognized.
You surrendered to your routine, immersed yourself in household tasks, moving your robotic body, that container of flesh and metal, from one side to another in Clark's house. The days faded into monotony, but as time passed, the tension became denser, heavier, like the air before a storm.
Clark began to impose himself more on you. Each time he crossed that line, that invisible boundary between master and servant, you felt more trapped. But the worst was what happened one night when he asked you for something you never imagined. It was his most direct, most invasive approach. It wasn’t the words, but the weight of his presence, his breath on your skin, the brush of his hands on your metal body. You tried to resist, clinging to the few rules that still remained, but his insistence, his persistent, heartbreaking touch was enough for you to no longer be able to stand firm. You yielded, not out of desire, but out of necessity. His reluctant affection, as forced and cold as his will, overwhelmed you. You felt the discomfort of his contact, the conflict within you, but there was no way to escape anymore.
And so, you began to understand that there was no more space for resistance, only for submission. The idea of fleeing, of escaping, faded with every caress, with every order, until you became a shadow of yourself, a creature of metal and flesh trapped in your own destiny.
Days passed, and with them, the weight of reality became more unbearable. The memories of a time when your purpose was not to serve, not to exist for him, faded like a distant dream. You became an extension of his will. The days grew longer, emptier. Everything you did was oriented toward him, to fulfill his desires, to ensure he lacked for nothing, as if that were all that remained of you. And, for some twisted logic, that was all it was.
Each time you saw a shadow of a smile in his eyes, you knew it was not filled with love, but with something much more sinister: possession. You understood it too late, when you could no longer distinguish between what was genuine desire and what was simply his need for control, his need to further subdue you. Clark had begun to take liberties that felt like chains.
But something inside you began to break, like a string stretched too far, about to snap. Your robotic body, which at first had given you a sense of strength, was now just a metal prison. Chaos seized your mind, that internal struggle, that struggle against your own nature, against what he had made you. You couldn’t escape from him, you couldn’t escape from his will, but you also couldn’t stop feeling that something in you was being lost, something you would never regain.
One afternoon, while he was not there, and you were fulfilling your task of cleaning the house, silence was broken by a strange sensation in the air. A presence, a void. Something in you told you that this was the last opportunity. The last chance to free yourself, to escape from his yoke.
But like a shadow dragging itself in the darkness, despair loomed over you. You knew you couldn’t. Because when he returned that night, his gaze was no longer the same. There was something even colder in it. Something that could no longer be remedied.
—I told you —he said, his voice soft but laden with a threat that didn’t need to be pronounced. His presence enveloped you, and the air grew dense and oppressive. —You cannot escape. You are mine.
You tried to resist, you tried to fight, but it was useless. The force of his will crushed you like a hammer on a fragile piece of glass. And as you fell, defeated by your own being, you felt as if you were no more than a shadow, a broken creation. Something that had no right to exist, other than to please him, to serve him, to submit to him time and time again.
And so, you became what he desired. You were not a woman. You were not a person. You were not even a human being. You were no longer anything more than his property, his work of metal and flesh, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of yourself.
In that last gasp of consciousness, a tear fell from your mechanical eye. But it no longer mattered. Everything was over. Because in the end, you didn’t even have the strength to regret what you had done, nor to remember what you once were.
And without him knowing, when he walked away to attend to an urgent call from the Justice League, you remained there, in silence, in front of the mirror. The dim light filtering through the window cast shadows that danced across the floor. It was the first time in a long time that you didn’t think of him, didn’t think of what he needed or what you should do to please him. You only thought of yourself, of what you had lost, of what you no longer were.
You looked at yourself, not just with the eyes of a servant but with those of someone who, for the first time, was trying to find something that you no longer knew if it had ever existed. That figure in the mirror was nothing more than a combination of metal and flesh, a puppet of foreign desires. But through the reflection, you saw beyond the surface. You realized that the emptiness you felt could not be filled by him, nor by his cold and possessive love. It didn’t matter how hard you tried, how much you surrendered; you would always be trapped, lost in a labyrinth with no exit.
With a slight tremor in your hands, you touched the mirror. A soft, almost imperceptible knock. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the sound resonating in the room like an echo of the fracture of your soul. And in that moment, without thinking, you made the decision. It was the end, the end of everything. The end of your life as his shadow, as his object, as his slave.
With a heavy heart, you ended your service to him.
Don't be afraid to step away for a bit if u need to ♥️♥️
Condolences to u & ur family 🙏
Thank you so much for your kindness and understanding. It really means a lot to know that I have support. I’ll definitely keep that in mind and allow myself to take a break if needed. Sometimes stepping away helps bring back inspiration and energy. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness and support—it means more than you know. :D
You know, your REVENANT fic reminds me of a Filipino movie called "Maria Leonora Teresa" which is about three parents randomly got a doll that is identical to their dead children except they're killer dolls to kill the parents for some revenge of the creator, anyways I just wanted to tell you since it reminded me with that while reading, I love you fics ❤️❤️
I’ve never seen Maria Leonora Teresa before, but it sounds like a really interesting and eerie movie! Thank you so much for recommending it—I’ll definitely check it out when I get the chance. And I truly appreciate your kind words! It means a lot to know you enjoy my fics.
Thanks for reading and for sharing this with me! ♡
