Aglaea ༊*·˚

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚ ˚⋆｡˚ ⋆ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶˚⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧

[rikudaa]

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 1:35 ———•———3:47

ੈ✩₊Wandering starִ ࣪𖤐

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ |ᴱᵛᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵃʳˢ ᵍᵉᵗ ˡᵒⁿᵉˡʸ—ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰʸ ᵗʰᵉʸ ˢʰⁱⁿᵉ ˢᵒ ᵇʳⁱᵍʰᵗ.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.18 • Female

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ:Call me Rosey:

˖ ֹ੭୧ 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲 ⊹ ࣪ ⑅

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ྀིC𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐲.𝐈𝐦 𝟏𝟖, 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲.┊

┊ ⋆˚ ┊͙✧˖*°࿐

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ྀི 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬.

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ┊͙✧˖*°࿐

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ྀི 𝐌𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤.

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ┊͙✧˖*°࿐

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  ྀི 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘺 @cafekitsune

࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝙼.𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 .ᐟ

[rikudaa]

Dont judge me

[rikudaa]

Freddy Fazbear in Madoka Magica is so tuff🤑

[rikudaa]

Im on art now so if you want to see more my arts, please support me by like!!✌️

[rikudaa]

If you thought this is an update then this is FALSE

Anyway currently im kinda out of DC fandom and on writer block so the series is on hiatus. If someone want to rewrite it you can DM me and I will give you the original ideas 🥺

[rikudaa]

Hi :D

I just wanted to say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE you alien stage fic sm and can't wait for more

Also have you seen zombie stage round one?

TYYY SO MUCH FOR LIKING MY SERIES AWHWHG

I had seen the zombie stage like omfg, the concept and metaphors are literally my fav ideas of the rotten side of society and idol industry! I already fanart MiziSua asap when saw their zombie designs, ViviMeng really did a number on body horror theme.

Some of the ‘fans’ don’t really understand well of Mizi and Sua’s complex relationship like a ragebait to me like if you dont understand then just dont make fake statement and spread them around with your complaints wtff😭✌️

[rikudaa]

Omg, I want you to know that I was randomly scrolling through my followed writers when I came across your page and literally TEARED UP when I saw you posted a new chapter. It’s also my birthday today so girl I was happppyyyyy!

Oooh HAPPY BIRTHDAY GIRL 🎉🎉, i’m so happy that my fic got to everyone and bring them tears🥹 this is so awesomesauce!!

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! A Song for Ordinary Days !! ␥

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ WARNING!! Ivan ig—

"Nothing’s wrong," you breathe.

You say the words, but for a split second, your heart hammers a terrified, jagged rhythm against your ribs. A phantom ache ghosts across your skull, a sick, wet tear of flesh, the distant, echoing scream of a family wearing shadows.

But you blink, and it’s gone. Washed away completely by the blinding, pristine light of Anakt Garden.

You don’t remember the rain-slicked gargoyles of Gotham. You don't know the smell of Dick's leather jacket, the crushing weight of the Wayne legacy, or the brutal way you died.

"Come on, sleepyhead!" Mizi’s bright, bubbly voice snaps you back to reality. Her warm hand grabs yours, her pink hair bouncing as she hauls you up from the soft, synthetic grass. "We're going to miss vocal practice!"

You laugh, letting her pull you down those gleaming, endless white halls. This is your whole world now. You spend your mornings chasing the breathless burn in your lungs, spinning across mirrored dance studios until the choreography is stamped into your very bones. You bleed your soul into the microphone, learning to hit soaring notes that make the Garden’s glass walls tremble. It’s a grueling routine, but there's a strange, pure beauty to it.

When rest time finally rolls around, you collapse under the shade of the artificial willow trees. Sua is already there, a picture of quiet grace. She smiles softly, shifting closer so her fingers can gently untangle the knots from your sweaty hair. "Your rhythm was flawless today," Sua murmurs, pressing a cold bottle of water into your hands. "Right?!" Mizi chimes in, throwing her arms around your neck and burying her face in your shoulder. "You were practically flying out there!"

A few feet away, Till is scowling at a crumpled piece of sheet music, aggressively scratching out chords with a pencil. You push yourself up, pad over to his spot in the grass, and playfully pluck the pencil right out of his hand.

"Your transition is too sharp," you tease, tapping the center of his paper. "Try softening the melody here". Till snatches the pencil back, the tips of his ears burning bright red. "I didn't ask for your help, idiot," he grumbles but you watch him immediately erase his work and scribble down exactly what you suggested.

You just smile, tilting your head back to soak in the artificial sun.

There are no masks here. No desperate need to prove yourself to a distant father, no deep-seated fear of abandonment. It’s just you, the music, and the innocent warmth of your friends. You have absolutely no idea that this beautiful garden is just an alien slaughterhouse, or that a family of bats in another universe is currently tearing their city to the ground, desperately searching for a body they will never find.

Right now, you are just a girl, perfectly content, learning how to sing.

──── ୨୧ ────

Time in Anakt Garden doesn’t flow; it pools. It collects in perfect, crystal-clear puddles that reflect an unchanging, synthetic sky. You don’t measure the passing of your life in seasons, because the climate control never allows the leaves of the artificial willow trees to brown. Instead, you measure your life in octaves. In the callouses building on your fingertips. In the widening range of your vocal cords and the precise, mechanical ticking of the silver metronomes that dictate your every waking hour.

You grow up bathed in blinding white light and a suffocating, terrifying perfection.

The early years blur into a haze of rigorous repetition. From the moment the gentle, chiming alarm wakes you in your sterile dormitory, your life is consumed by sound. There are the breath-control exercises that leave your lungs burning, the scales sung until your throat feels raw and bleeding, the dance routines practiced on scuffed hardwood floors until your muscles tremble in exhaustion.

You are a creature built of melody and rhythm, molded by the heavy, unseen gaze of the Caretakers, the massive, shadowy figures behind the tinted observation glass who evaluate your worth through the scratch of their datapads.

But you are not alone in the glass cage.

"You're overthinking the tempo again," Sua’s voice is a cool, soothing balm against the sharp sting of your frustration.

It’s late afternoon, the designated rest period, and the three of you are tangled together on the grassy slope of the indoor park. You are resting your head next to Sua’s lap, her slender, elegant fingers gently working a knot out of your hair. She is always like this, an anchor of quiet grace in a world that demands chaotic brilliance.

"I can't help it," you sigh, closing your eyes. "The tutor for the brass section kept tapping his claws against the glass. It throws my rhythm off"

"Then don't listen to the glass. Listen to me" Mizi drops down beside you, practically radiating sunshine. She smells of the synthetic peaches they serve in the dining hall, her pink hair a messy halo around her face. She leans over, pressing her forehead against yours, her golden eyes wide and earnest. "When you get scared, just look at me and Sua. We’ll keep the beat for you. Promise!"

You can't help the laugh that bubbles up in your chest. Mizi is gravity. She pulls you and Sua into her orbit with a fierce, unrelenting joy that feels entirely out of place in the cold architecture of the Garden. Sua’s hand pauses in your hair, her dark eyes softening as she looks at Mizi. There is a deep, unspoken universe between the two of them, a silent language in the way Sua leans into Mizi’s touch. You are a part of their warmth, safely cocooned in their love.

But as the years bleed from childhood into adolescence, the dynamics of your small world begin to shift, stretching and pulling like guitar strings tuned a half-step too high. The music becomes heavier. The expectations turn crushing.

And Till… Till becomes a storm.

Where Mizi is light and Sua is water, Till is pure, unfiltered fire. He grows into a teenager all sharp angles and bruised knuckles, his teal eyes burning with a perpetual, wordless fury against the walls that cage you all. He fights the tutors. He breaks his instruments. He screams his lyrics until his voice gives out, turning his pain into a visceral, jagged art that leaves the Caretakers mesmerized.

Everyone assumes Till’s anger is just a symptom of his wild nature. Everyone assumes he hates everything. But you know the truth. You know what happens when the storm breaks.

It’s past curfew. The Garden’s lights have dimmed to a deep, artificial twilight blue. You are sitting on the floor of Practice Room 4, a heavy acoustic guitar resting in your lap. You’re struggling with a chord progression, your fingers slipping awkwardly over the steel strings, when the heavy soundproof door slides open with a hiss.

Till stands in the doorway, chest heaving, a fresh purple bruise blooming along his jawline. He’s been fighting the disciplinary drones again. You don't say anything. You just pat the floor beside you. He hesitates, his jaw clenching, before he storms over and drops onto the floor, his presence kind of distant from yours. For a long time, the only sound in the room is his ragged breathing.

"You're holding it wrong," he finally mutters, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp. "I'm a vocalist, Till, not a prodigy," you reply softly, letting your hands drop. He clicks his tongue in annoyance, shifts closer, and reaches out. His hands cover yours. His fingers are heavily calloused, rough and warm, trembling ever so slightly as he physically moves your hands into the correct position on the fretboard. "Press down," he orders. You do. "Now strum"

The chord rings out perfect, melancholic, and deeply resonant. Till doesn't pull his hands away. He stays there, his chest practically pressed against your back, his breath fanning the hair at the nape of your neck. The anger that usually rolls off him in waves has completely evaporated, replaced by a tense, suffocating vulnerability.

You turn your head to look at him, only to find him already staring at you. His teal eyes are wide, stripped of their usual defiance, wide and terrifyingly raw. He isn't looking at the guitar. He isn't looking at the door. He is looking at your mouth, at your eyes, at the pulse beating at the base of your throat. In the dim light of the practice room, Till’s world narrows down to a singular, undeniable point of gravity. You.

"You... your voice," Till whispers, his voice cracking, entirely forgetting the guitar. "When you sing that high note in the bridge... it's..." He swallows hard, his eyes tracing your features with a desperate hunger he doesn't know how to articulate. "I wrote a new harmony. For that part. I... I wrote it for you"

"For me?" you ask, your breath hitching at the sheer intensity radiating from him. "Only for you," he vows, the words tumbling out like a confession, fierce and possessive.

"Nobody else. Just you"

He pulls a crumpled, graphite-smudged piece of sheet music from his pocket and shoves it into your hands before abruptly standing up, his ears burning a violent red. Without another word, he bolts from the room, leaving you sitting in the twilight, holding a melody written in his blood and sweat, entirely tailored to the exact pitch of your soul. From that night on, the shift in Till is undeniable.

To the rest of the Garden, he remains a delinquent. To Mizi, he is a protective, grumpy friend. But to you, Till is an open wound.

During group evaluations, when the blinding virtual stage lights hit your faces and the unseen Caretakers judge your harmonies, Till doesn't look at the audience. He doesn't look at the prompters. He looks at you. He sings to you. He matches your pitch, wrapping his raw, gritty vocals around your smooth, soaring notes like a shield.

When you dance, he tracks your movements, his eyes darkening if another student gets too close. It is a quiet, consuming devotion. A secret he wears on his sleeve, plain for anyone who cares to look closely enough.

And Ivan is always looking.

Ivan, with his jet-black hair and a smile that never quite reaches his cold, dark eyes. Ivan is a phantom, slipping through the social hierarchy of the Garden with terrifying ease. He is brilliant, flawless, and deeply unsettling. You are sitting by the central fountain a few weeks later, sketching in a notebook, when a shadow falls over you.

"You're holding his leash rather tightly, aren't you?"

You look up to see Ivan leaning against the pristine white marble of the fountain, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. He tilts his head, a single, sharp snaggleteeth peeking out as his lips curl into a smirk.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ivan," you reply, returning to your notebook, though your heart rate spikes. Ivan has a way of making you feel like you are standing on the edge of a cliff.

"Oh, please" Ivan chuckles, a low, smooth sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He drops into a crouch beside you, getting uncomfortably close. He smells like cold ozone and expensive cologne. "Till. The wild dog. He practically trips over his own feet if you so much as breathe in his direction. He watches you like a starving man watching a feast"

"Till is my friend," you say firmly, shutting your notebook.

Ivan reaches out, his pale, slender fingers lightly tapping the cover of your book. "Friends," he murmurs, the word dripping with mockery. "Is that what we're calling it? How terribly innocent" Ivan leans closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours, searching for something beneath the surface of your skin.

"You know, I watch him. I watch him pour his entire soul into his music, bleeding himself dry, just hoping you'll look at him. And the tragic part?" Ivan’s smile widens, something dark and chaotic swirling in his gaze. "The tragic part is that he doesn't realize he's trapped in a cage. And you... you're just another lock on the door"

Before you can formulate a response, heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. Till rounds the corner, his eyes immediately locking onto the scene. His body goes rigid, his hands balling into tight fists.

"Get away from her, Ivan," Till snarls, closing the distance in long, aggressive strides. Ivan doesn't flinch. He slowly stands up, dusting off his pristine uniform, his smirk never fading. "Relax, Till. We were just discussing music theory. Weren't we?" Ivan throws you a conspiratorial wink that makes Till’s jaw clench so hard you can hear his teeth grind.

"I said back off," Till growls, stepping between you and Ivan, physically shielding you from the dark-haired boy’s gaze. Ivan raises his hands in mock surrender, taking a step back. "Terrifying," he deadpans. He turns on his heel, but just before he walks away, he looks back over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with a manic, unreadable amusement. "Keep a close eye on her, Till. You never know who might snatch her away”

When Ivan's footsteps finally fade, Till whirls around to face you, his chest heaving, his hands reaching out to grab your shoulders before he catches himself, hovering his hands inches from your arms. "Did he hurt you?" Till demands, his eyes frantically scanning your face. "Did he do something to you?"

"No, Till, I'm fine. He was just talking"

"Don't talk to him," Till says, his voice dropping to a desperate, ragged whisper. He finally lets his hands drop to your shoulders, his grip firm but trembling. "Please. He's... there's something wrong with him. Just... stay away from him. Stay with me"

The vulnerability in his voice shatters whatever walls you have up. You reach up, gently placing your hands over his. "I'm right here, Till," you say softly. Till stares down at you, the fight draining out of him in a massive, shuddering exhale. He rests his arm over his eyes as hiding from the artificial light, from the unseen cameras, from the crushing reality of the Garden. For a fleeting minute, the world shrinks down to the warmth of his skin and the erratic, frantic beating of his heart.

As the years push you all closer to your eighteenth birthdays, closer to the mysterious, highly anticipated "Debut" that the Caretakers whisper about the tension in the Garden thickens into something tangible. The innocence of childhood begins to rot away, leaving behind a desperate, clinging need for survival.

Yet, the beauty of your bonds only grows sharper.

You remember the night the Garden simulated a meteor shower. It is a rare occurrence, a programmed anomaly in the sky dome. The sirens sound, signaling a strict curfew, but Mizi is practically vibrating with excitement.

"We have to see it!" she whispers in the dark of your shared dorm room. Sua is already awake, silently pulling on her shoes, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the hallway lights.

You sneak out, dodging the patrol drones with a practiced ease, meeting Till and Ivan in the restricted upper maintenance catwalks near the glass dome of the ceiling. The five of you sit on the cold metal grating, legs dangling over the massive drop, staring up as the dark, synthetic sky comes alive. Streaks of brilliant, blinding silver tear across the darkness, exploding into dust.

Mizi gasps, throwing her arms around Sua’s neck, pointing at a particularly bright streak. Sua smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile, her arm wrapping securely around Mizi’s waist, holding her close to her side. They are in their own world, perfectly whole. Ivan sits a little ways off, his knees pulled to his chest, his dark eyes reflecting the falling stars. He looks at Till.

And Till… Till is looking at you.

You turn your head to find him already staring. The flashing silver lights of the fake meteors illuminate the sharp line of his jaw, the messy slope of his hair, the deep, agonizingly tender expression in his teal eyes. "You're missing the show," you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting.

"No, I'm not," Till whispers back. He reaches out across the cold metal, his fingers brushing against yours. He hooks his pinky finger around yours, a silent, grounding tether in the middle of the void. He then turn back to the false sky. In this moment, sitting on the edge of the sky, hearing the soft, melodic laughter of Mizi and Sua, catching the enigmatic, shadowed smile of Ivan, you feel deeply, profoundly alive.

You don't know what a family is. You don't know the smell of Gotham's rain, the sting of a grappling hook, or the horrific, violent end of your previous life.

You don't know that the Caretakers observing you are preparing to throw you onto a stage where the loser is executed in front of a screaming, alien crowd. You don't know that the songs you are learning to sing are meant to be your eulogies.

You only know the rhythm of the music and the precious moments with your friends.

And as another fake star burns itself out against the dome, you close your eyes, perfectly content in the beautiful, tragic ignorance of Anakt Garden, ready to sing whatever song tomorrow demands of you.

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: guess who’s back after a year LMAO, the entrance exam just ended after 2 days and the draft was still here and I already dived in to make a complete story for you!! Sorry if it’s too short since I’ve been out of the fandom lately, hope you enjoy reading this

Tagging: @lizzyzzn, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @hai-there-how-are-you, @1abi, @dreamzaremyrealityy, @bugsfruits, @alishii, @ememgl, @cssammyyarts, @kaeyasrose, @cebrospudipudi, @cupid73 @justanormalpersin @wiggly-yrath @mirou-x3 @kingshitonly @wendee-go @cxcilla @jsprien213 @mei-simp @chiizuluvr @burnhervr @nisarelle @murkyriii @wishiwaswritingrn @blueiones @sproutytoad @persipeoni @shycreatorreview @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain @hanz-176 @inayouboo @cwberus @yumeravenclaw @xolollipop @theworldscalamity @abchijnop

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[rikudaa]

So so sorry to my followers for my sudden disappearance 😭 omg

This year I have to take the national high school entrance examination, which is an extremely important point in my life so I decided to take a hiatus for a while. Sorry for the inconvenience, and I love you guys huhu

[rikudaa]

Hey so did you at least kiss the brick before you threw it at me? (no but actually The Ones Who Weren't There is so good!!! I'm so excited to see what comes next)

No but I did carve your head and took out the little ol’ you and tossed into another world full of monsters, again (this time is real ones)🥺

Jk, THANK YOU FOR READING OMG💙💙 also Im dead after Karma alnst–

[rikudaa]

I lowkey want to open/join in a discord server where it serves ideas and opinions from various people about my neglected!reader series because Im awfully on writer block (?)

Like, I have full of ideas and theories for future chapters but it’s too far off and the time hasn’t come yet. Im being completely idealess for the continuation of the latest chapter that slowly entering alnst phase like PLEASE ALIEN STAGE IS A COMPLEX STORYLINE 🥀💔

For you asking why I chose ALNST for the crossover if it’s too hard to write, it’s because the inspiration fic I mentioned before. Familiar vibe and stuff, Im more comfortable with writing something I like.

SO PLEASE SUGGEST ME OR RANTING ABOUT YOUR THEORIES AS WELL FOR ALNST THROUGH INBOX OR ANYWHERE IDC BECAUSE I WOULD HAPPY TO RECEIVE IT‼️

And considering a discord server or recommend me one thank you🥺

Also, everyone who asked for taglist dw if I don’t reply because Im quite lazy to answer each one but yall will get tagged:) but have to wait for idk how long but yeah, next chapter won’t come out soon

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 2

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

Again, this is part two for the earlier post SO READ THE FIRST PART FIRST, UP YOU GO🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The low murmur of keyboards and coffee machines faded into static the moment the newsroom screen flared to life.

Dick, now just another name on an HR payroll in Blüdhaven’s safer corners at day—was elbow-deep in quarterly reports when his coworker’s voice slithered through the haze of workday monotony.

“God, Gotham’s a cesspool. Did you see the news? Gala turned massacre. Whole damn city’s cursed—wait, isn’t that your sibling?”

The air collapsed.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like rebooting a jammed system. His pen dropped, clattering loudly against the laminate desk, but it sounded like it came from underwater. A dull echo. The noise of a world beginning to warp.

He turned to the TV.

The news chyron bled across the bottom of the screen:

“BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found After Gotham Gala Massacre. Brain Removed.”

His eyes snagged on the footage.

A stretcher.

A body under a black tarp.

Boots. Flashbulbs. Officers shouting.

Plastic gloves smeared with something dark and glistening.

“That can’t be—no. No. No, no, no—”

Not you.

Not you.

His chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. He was shaking and didn’t even know it. The room swayed. His vision tunneled. Somewhere behind his ribs, a war began—a fight between every breath he couldn’t take and every scream he wouldn’t let loose.

The screen cut to a slow replay: the tarp lifting. A gasp from the bystanders. The gloved hand reached into the body bag—just for a second. A sliver of exposed jaw. Pale skin. Bloodless. Too bloodless.

The top of the skull—

Gone.

A void where a mind should be.

And Dick’s mind broke open with it.

He gasped—violently—as if the TV had just punched air out of his lungs. His hands gripped the sides of the desk. The wood under his fingers warped, melted into the phantom feeling of a gala wineglass. The memory struck like lightning: your laugh under chandeliers, the rustle of your formal wear, the way you’d said, “Bruce is impossible, but he backed out. I’m handling the gala instead—wish me luck, Dickie.”

The memory shattered into blood.

He staggered backward. A chair toppled. Someone called his name but it didn’t reach him.

“They got it wrong. The press—always fast, always messy. It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. That’s not you. That’s not you, that’s not–”

But it was the coat.

The color.

The cufflink—his cufflink, one he’d gifted you last winter, gold and black and one of a kind.

And that’s when the spiral began.

It wasn’t just horror. It was a fracture.

Denial wasn’t a wall—it was a flood, tearing through every cell in his body.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in on itself. His vision pixelated. He clawed at his tie like it was a noose, a foreign object choking him.

“They’re wrong. You’re alive. You’re probably pissed Bruce bailed on the gala and now you’re hiding somewhere, sipping scotch, sulking over bad press. You always hated the spotlight—this is a prank. A test. Maybe Jason’s idea of a sick joke. Or Scarecrow—maybe this is a fear toxin flashback. Yes. Yes. That’s all it is.”

You weren’t-

…missing a brain.

His heartbeat thundered so loud he didn’t notice he was crying until a drop fell onto the back of his hand.

He was halfway out the office before anyone could stop him, breath ragged, lips moving to a name he didn’t dare say aloud.

Not yet.

Not until he could prove the universe wrong.

Because if that body was you–

If your eyes would never open again–

If someone had reached into your skull and stolen the part that made you you–

He wasn’t just going to mourn.

He was going to burn Gotham to the ground to find the monster that did it.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason had been close.

The sensor tripped—a flicker of red on his gauntlet HUD. Hidden panic clenched his gut, but he was already on the bike. Already tearing through Gotham’s streets like a bullet ripped from the barrel. He’d always told you to keep it low profile, but you insisted on finishing Bruce’s gala.

Always trying to hold the damn family together, even when it splintered.

He was close.

But never fast enough.

When he got there, Crime Alley was already swarming. Flashing red and blue strobed across the soot-stained brick, casting monstrous shadows down the corridor of Gotham’s most cursed street. It looked like a wound split open in the city’s ribs. Blood-slick asphalt. Sirens howling like eulogies.

He ditched the bike two blocks away.

Walked the rest of the distance like a man descending into his own grave.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t ask permission.

He walked past two rookie cops. Shaking. Crying. One vomiting against the side of the ambulance, hands braced on his knees, the other whispering frantically into his wrist mic, “It’s like a butcher shop… Jesus Christ…”

He stepped inside.

And the smell hit first.

Iron. Burnt ozone. Copper. And something rotted.

The crime scene was centered under the crooked old lamppost—half-lit, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it should expose or mercy-dim what lay beneath.

He saw drag marks. Two trails. Long. Panicked.

Someone had fought here. Desperately.

The sidewalk bore impact cracks, as if something—or someone—had been slammed into it, again and again.

The blood trail was wide.

Wide and dark and too much.

The stench nearly took him to his knees.

He didn’t throw up.

Didn’t breathe.

He just moved, slow, controlled, rage tightening in every joint, his gun already drawn because this wasn’t a rescue anymore. This was a fucking hunt.

Then he saw it. The ping zone. Right at the mouth of the alley.

Your last stand.

Your watch was there–the screen cracked, but the signal light was still blinking—pathetically, like it didn’t understand it had failed.

“No.”

His voice rasped, caught between fury and a breaking sob he would never admit to.

“You were supposed to ping me. You did. I came. I was here—I WAS FUCKING HERE.”

He crouched beside the watch, blood squelching under his boots. One gloved hand hovered over it—shaking.

There was no body.

Only pieces.

Pieces.

Not enough to say for certain. Not enough to kill hope.

But the blood told him the truth anyway. The kind of blood loss no one walks away from.

And the skull–God, your skull.

Or what was left of one.

The top of the cranium was gone—scooped out like a jack-o’-lantern.

Blood seeped around it, pooling under where the brain should have been.

But there was nothing.

Nothing inside.

They didn’t just kill you.

They desecrated you.

This wasn’t a crime.

It was a statement.

Jason’s throat closed around a scream he didn’t let out. Not here. Not in front of these bastards who’d arrived too late. Not in front of the blinking camera feeds. Not where someone might see the Jason Todd on his knees, shaking like a child and staring at a broken watch like it was a headstone.

“I should’ve been faster.”

The guilt gnawed instantly.

He thought of Dick—what this would do to him.

Of Bruce—how he’d fold it into another stoic silence.

Of himself—and how he wouldn’t survive this. Not again. Not you.

You were his tether. The one person who still called him “Jay” like it didn’t taste like ash. The one who gave him shit about overkill, but still patched his wounds when he came back bloodied.

Now there was nothing.

No you.

No face to hold onto. No soft body to bury.

Just the red blinking light.

And blood.

So much blood.

Jason stood slowly. Every movement hurt.

He holstered the gun. But not the rage.

“I’m gonna find them,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna find whoever did this. I’m gonna look them in the eye. And I’m gonna carve their fucking names into the devil’s guest list.”

Behind him, the lamplight flickered once, then went out completely.

Because someone had taken his tether to humanity—

And now?

He had nothing left to lose.

──── ୨୧ ────

Wayne Manor had gone silent for the night.

No operatic soundtrack echoing from the study. No clink of decanter glass. Just the whisper of firelight crackling in the hearth, and the rustle of papers as Bruce Wayne read through an intelligence report that had been sitting unopened for three days.

He hadn’t attended the gala.

You did.

And instead…

His phone rang.

The line that never rang unless it was bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruce froze.

His hand hovered over the encrypted comm.

Then it rang again.

He picked up.

“Wayne.”

The voice on the other end was tight. Measured.

GCPD.

“We… Mr. Wayne, we need you to come to Crime Alley.”

He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t move.

“There’s been… an incident. We believe your legal signature may be required to identify… remains. It’s your ward. We found credentials. We—please, sir.”

Bruce said nothing.

He hung up.

He didn’t throw the phone. Didn’t scream.

Just stood.

Rigid. Straight-backed. Like a soldier receiving orders from a war he thought was long over.

Crime Alley had never changed.

Still dark. Still narrow. Still reeking of old tragedy and new ones waiting to happen.

The Batmobile didn’t come. Bruce Wayne arrived alone, in a nondescript black town car. His coat sharp. Face pale. Movements exact.

He walked through the barricade tape, not even looking at the officers who parted for him like water.

Some recognized him. Some averted their eyes.

Most said nothing.

One detective—a younger man, freckles, eyes red from crying—met him halfway.

“Mr. Wayne. Sir. This way.”

He was led past the alley’s mouth, to where the cleanup hadn’t even started yet.

Jason’s silhouette stood off to the side. Still. Bleeding at the knuckles. Blood that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was.

His mask was off. Eyes vacant. Rage burned out into the kind of grief that could kill gods.

Bruce looked down.

There was a metal cart draped in a white sheet.

There was the watch—your watch—bagged beside it, cracked but blinking.

And there was a clipboard.

The words “LEGAL GUARDIAN / IDENTIFYING RELATIVE” printed at the top.

Bruce reached for the clipboard. His hand trembled once. Just once.

He forced it still.

The sheet was lifted.

And for a moment, time stopped.

Not because of gore. Bruce had seen worse.

Not because of the horror—though it was there, oh God, it was there.

But because there was nothing behind your eyes.

Because there were no eyes.

No skullcap. No brain. Just a hollow cavity.

A mind stolen.

A child erased.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He just stared.

Long enough for the fire behind his eyes to ignite.

Then—

He signed.

B. WAYNE

Block letters. Neat. Final. The same way he signed every mission log, every will, every authorization for body disposal from the League.

But this was different.

This was you.

And paper wasn’t enough.

Jason approached slowly. Quiet. Like even breathing wrong might crack the world further.

“I was late,” he rasped.

Bruce didn’t answer.

“I came as fast as I could, but—”

“I know,” Bruce said. A voice carved from stone.

He looked at the remnants of your watch.

“I should’ve gone myself. It should’ve been me. Not you.”

Jason turned his face away, fists curling again.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. Cold. Focused.

“We bury what’s left.”

He looked toward the blood stains drying under the lamppost where his life had once changed.

Then back to yours.

“Then we hunt.”

He didn’t speak the entire ride back to the manor.

Didn’t change.

Didn’t sit.

He stood in the center of the library, coat still soaked from alley rain, the silence heavy like a shroud.

The clock ticked.

4:29 a.m.

He reached for the secure comm device on the desk. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

He called her.

Selina answered after the first ring, her voice still velvet with sleep.

“Bruce? That you?”

Silence.

Then—

“You’re calling late, or early—I guess depending on what disaster you’re cleaning up. What’s wrong?”

More silence.

She sat up. He could hear it—the creak of silk sheets, the shift in her breath.

“Bruce. Say it.”

He stared at the floor.

Where you once sat with a cup of tea and tired jokes about how the manor was too quiet without Damian’s brooding and Dick’s bad coffee.

I should have gone.

It should’ve been me.

He exhaled through his nose. A single sound. Broken.

Then finally, he spoke.

Low. Guttural. Final.

“It’s Y/N.”

Selina didn’t respond right away. But he knew her silence. It wasn’t confusion—it was comprehension. The kind of silence that comes only when the floor drops out from under you.

“How bad?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“No body.”

“…”

“Just blood. Pieces. Skull damage. Brain’s gone. They took it. Left the rest.”

Another silence. This one hurt more.

“Bruce. I’m coming over.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say “No” or “Don’t.” Didn’t do anything but drop the comm back onto the desk like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stood there alone.

The man who taught Gotham to fear the dark now stood powerless against the shadow it had stolen.

He could handle blood.

He could handle death.

But this?

This was void.

And Bruce Wayne had no contingency plan for grief shaped like a missing mind.

──── ୨୧ ────

The sun rose without permission.

Across Gotham, the city exhaled into its usual chaos—sirens, taxis, coffee cups, the sleepy grind of another morning that didn’t yet know someone was gone.

But at 9:06 a.m., Tim Drake did.

He was half-dressed in his dorm room, one hand mid-reach for his tablet, when he noticed the missed calls stacked on his phone screen like a silent scream:

4:52 a.m. – Bruce (4 calls)

4:56 a.m. – Alfred (1 voicemail)

5:03 a.m. – Jason (text: “Answer your damn phone.”)

5:08 a.m. – Unknown GCPD number

He hit play.

“Master Timothy… it’s Alfred. I… I’m sorry. There’s been an incident. It’s Y/N. They were found in Crime Alley last night. We need you at the manor. You were one of the last to see them—please come home.”

He stopped breathing.

Memory rushed in like a flood he wasn’t ready for.

Last night.

You stood just outside the gala entrance, eyes tired but warm. You tugged Damian’s tie loose and made some dry comment about him learning fashion from Bruce. Tim had laughed, and you’d grinned at both of them. Just for a second. That grin.

“Go,” you said. “I’ve got this. I need to head back to my dorm anyway—last gala dance of the season, right?”

So casual. So safe.

He and Damian had taken that as their cue to leave.

And now?

Now Alfred was telling him you never made it home.

•

9:29 a.m. | Gotham Academy Grounds

Damian had only just arrived.

His ride had dropped him off near the Academy gate, and he was heading toward the east wing when he noticed something… wrong.

His communicator buzzed in his coat pocket.

Then buzzed again.

Then again.

He scowled, annoyed at the interruption. Until he saw the message.

“Come home. It’s Y/N.” — Alfred

He froze.

Right there in the middle of the walkway. Students brushed past him, laughing, shouting, alive.

His mind played back your parting words—“I need to head to my dorm anyway.”

He had nodded at the time, smug and satisfied that you’d handled the gala despite Bruce flaking.

But now…

Something in him fractured.

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the school’s gates without a word.

10:04 a.m. | The Batcave

The manor was too quiet.

Tim entered through the upper floor and instinctively followed the hum of tech down the hidden elevator shaft, down into the heartbeat of the house.

The Batcave lights glowed cold and clinical.

Bruce stood in front of the main console, cowl discarded but armor still on—shoulders heavy, jaw locked.

Jason leaned against a table to the side, helmet in hand, eyes bloodshot.

Alfred sat stiffly on a chair nearby, hands folded, a glass of untouched tea beside him.

When Tim stepped off the platform, no one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

“It’s real,” Tim whispered.

Bruce only nodded once.

Tim’s knees buckled.

He gripped the nearest workbench to stay upright, blinking fast, vision swimming. His backpack slipped off his shoulder with a thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

Then—

Footsteps.

Rapid. Sharp.

Damian.

He stormed off the elevator like it had offended him.

“What the hell happened.”

His voice cracked halfway through, though he tried to bury it under rage.

Jason moved to intercept, but Bruce raised a hand. Let the kid come.

Damian stopped in front of the console. Saw the footage playing in silent loop.

Crime Alley. Blood. The blinking watch. The dragged smear of a body that wasn’t whole.

His jaw clenched. Fists balled.

“We left. They told us they had to go back to their dorm. We didn’t argue. We left.”

No one responded.

The silence was a verdict.

Damian shook his head—hard, as if trying to rattle the truth loose from his brain.

“No body?” he asked quietly.

Alfred answered, voice gravel-rough.

“Only fragments. Part of the skull. The brain… was removed.”

Tim turned away, a hand over his mouth. He was shaking.

Damian just stood there.

Still.

Staring at the watch on the display.

Your watch.

Still blinking red.

“They were fine. They were laughing. They were—whole.”

He looked at Bruce.

“Why weren’t you there?”

It came out like a blade.

Jason inhaled sharply, but again, Bruce said nothing.

Damian turned away, but not fast enough to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

“We were the last to see them,” Tim whispered, hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”

No one had to say it.

They all knew.

It meant the memory of your smile would be the last one they’d ever have.

It meant your voice would live in their heads like a ghost.

It meant they had let you walk alone into the dark.

And now all they had left was blood, silence, and a blinking watch that wouldn’t stop calling for help.

──── ୨୧ ────

It was the day after.

The news hadn’t broken publicly yet—not fully. Gotham’s media machine was still running on speculation and half-formed headlines.

“Violent Crime in Crime Alley — Sources Say ‘High-Profile’ Victim.”

“Massive Blood Loss, No Body, GCPD Investigating Ritual Angle.”

But at 10:46 a.m., the truth hit the rest of them.

And it hit hard.

Steph was in the middle of a coffee run when she saw the Bat-signal flare faintly across the WayneComm emergency line.

“Wayne Manor. Cave. Now.”

She rolled her eyes. No context. Typical Bat-style.

Still, something gnawed at her gut.

She balanced her tray of coffees all the way to the manor, boots crunching on gravel with every confident step, humming some dumb pop song under her breath. Just another meeting, she thought. Maybe a mission brief. Maybe B had finally figured out who was sneaking cookies from Alfred’s tin.

Then she walked into the cave.

The air was ice.

Bruce stood still by the monitor. Jason wouldn’t look up. Tim was seated, face buried in his hands. Damian was statue-still beside the watch console, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked. Alfred stood near the elevator, red-eyed.

And in the corner, a large display screen—

Crime Alley. Blood. Markers.

The Watch. Still blinking. Still searching.

Steph blinked.

Then blinked again.

A step back. Then forward.

“Wait. Where’s—where’s Y/N?”

The silence answered.

And just beside the elevator—

Selina Kyle.

Black coat. Red lips. Arms crossed, but jaw clenched like she was chewing glass.

She hadn’t said much since arriving. Just showed up after Bruce’s call like a shadow at the door.

She didn’t need directions. She knew where the pain lived.

Everyone noticed her.

No one said anything.

But the thought hung in the room.

Why were you there and not Y/N?

You were supposed to host the gala because Bruce pulled out. You were supposed to make the appearance, smile, keep up the illusion of a still-standing family name.

Selina should’ve been with you.

Should’ve escorted. Should’ve backed you up. Should’ve noticed something.

But no one asked.

Not out loud.

Because grief in this family wore too many masks.

The tray of coffee hit the floor.

And then she was on her knees beside it, sobbing into her gloved hands like it would bring you back.

•

Duke had a sense for things—light, shadows, the moods that lived between words.

When he arrived at the manor, the stillness gave him his answer before anyone said it aloud.

He walked into the cave, scanned the faces, and his chest seized.

“What happened.”

No one lied.

Not even Bruce.

They told him the truth.

Crime Alley. No witnesses. No camera footage. Too much blood to survive. No body.

“The brain was removed.”

That last detail—

That’s when his hands trembled.

Not because of gore. He’d seen worse.

But because you weren’t just another sibling. You were present. You listened. You made time for his questions about identity, legacy, shadows, and light.

You had a mind that made space for others.

And now someone had stolen it.

He didn’t cry.

He sat down, quietly, and started flipping through surveillance feeds, timestamps, power outages.

“If they left nothing,” he whispered, “that means they wanted it that way. That’s a pattern. We’ll find it.”

Grief would come later.

For now, he’d find the gap in the light.

•

Cass knew.

She’d felt it hours ago.

The ping. That cold, sharp, too-late red light.

She’d checked the location instantly, heart already racing before the data finished loading.

Crime Alley.

She knew you’d been at the gala. Knew you weren’t supposed to be there.

Knew something was wrong the second it flared.

She called the comm line.

Then another.

Then tried again.

But she was already too far—in Hub City, two hours out even with the fastest route.

She had screamed once—short and sharp—and launched into motion, already suiting up, already on the bike.

But by the time she got the second update, it wasn’t a rescue anymore.

It was a cleanup.

The guilt wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Still hadn’t let go.

She crouched now by the dimmed display, one gloved hand still resting where the last signal pulsed.

Steph sat beside her, quiet now, eyes raw.

“If I had just—if I didn’t leave…”

Cass didn’t answer.

Didn’t say you told them to go.

Didn’t say you were proud of them.

Didn’t say you joked about dorms and deadlines.

Instead, she stood up. Movements stiff. Precise.

Walked straight past the console to Selina, and stood in front of her like a statue built from everything unspoken.

Selina met her gaze.

No flinch.

No apology.

Just mirrored pain, just as sharp.

Cass didn’t say why weren’t you there.

She didn’t have to.

Her body said it.

Selina didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Just clenched her jaw harder and nodded, like yes—she knew she should’ve been there.

She always knew.

Bruce stepped forward, voice low.

“We’ll find them.”

No one questioned who. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t a mugging. It wasn’t random. This was surgical.

A brain stolen. A body desecrated. A message sent.

“This wasn’t about opportunity. This was targeted. Someone knew Y/N would be alone. Someone waited for the right moment.”

“And someone,” Jason said, voice shaking, “knew how to get past us all.”

Steph looked up. “You think they’ve done it before?”

Bruce nodded once. “Or… this is only the first.”

Cass moved back to the center of the cave.

Her voice—quiet, but firm—cut through the room:

“No more delays.”

“We hunt now.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You wake with a gasp.

Air floods your lungs like water after drowning—sharp, cold, wrong.

Your body arches against the grass beneath you—soft, too soft. The light above is too bright, and it doesn’t feel like sunlight.

You slam a hand against your forehead as pain lances through your skull. Blinding. Like something hot was carved into the inside of your brain and then scraped out.

You can’t breathe for a second.

You squeeze your eyes shut and see red behind your lids.

Panic flares in your chest. You remember—nothing.

A color. A sound. A shape, maybe. A scream—

Then it’s gone.

Your fingers brush something cold and metallic around your neck.

A collar.

You blink. A red dot flickers at the center—glowing. Watching.

You barely have time to register it when you hear the voice.

Soft. Familiar. Somewhere to your left.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You turn.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

Someone’s sitting beside you—legs crossed, concern etched on their face. Familiar. Maybe. But your head is too full of fog and static to name them.

They tilt their head at you.

Your heartbeat’s still trying to climb out of your ribs.

You don’t answer at first. The words feel far away.

But something else answers for you. Something instinctual. Buried.

You shake yours. Lightheaded.

You force a breath.

“Nothing, Mizi.”

The red light on the collar pulses once.

And you smile.

But the pain behind your eyes doesn’t fade.

<<< You are here!! >>> •Note: GUESS WHO’S HERE

And again grief time, more reactions lol, I combined Steph, Cass and Duke parts together (and cut out Babs–) but it seems too rushed but well, it’s too long and make my literally phone lagging. And this is my inspiration if you feel familiar, word count is 7k for both parts what the helly!!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @hai-there-how-are-you, @1abi, @dreamzaremyrealityy, @bugsfruits, @alishii, @ememgl, @cssammyyarts, @kaeyasrose, @cebrospudipudi, @cupid73

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 1

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

You were always “the Wayne heir.”

That’s what they called you.

In interviews.

In society columns.

From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.

“Wayne’s golden child.”

“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”

“Just like dear Brucie.”

And maybe, from a distance, you were.

You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.

A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.

You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.

Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.

You played the part.

Because someone had to.

But every crown leaves a bruise.

What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.

The pressure.

The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.

Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.

And you? His child.

That’s what the headlines said.

But the whispers always followed.

Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some random fling, probably.”

“She was a dancer.”

“Or a thief.”

“Or worse.”

“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”

They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.

In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.

Some said she never existed.

Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.

None of them knew her.

None of them wanted to.

That’s what stung the most.

You learned to hold it all in.

Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.

Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.

Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.

Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.

They’d see you weren’t perfect.

And then the whole façade would crack.

You were proud of what you built.

Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.

You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.

But it still didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.

“Just a name.”

“Just a shadow.”

“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”

And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:

Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?

Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?

You never got an answer.

Not one that lasted.

All you had were trophies.

And silence.

And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.

They could doubt you.

They could doubt her.

But you wouldn’t let them erase you.

You earned your place.

And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The clock read 3:47 a.m.

You shouldn’t have been awake.

But you were.

You always were—whenever someone was out.

Especially Tim.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.

No ping.

No signal.

No return alert from the field.

Your gut twisted.

Something was wrong. Off.

And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.

The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.

But screw that.

Not tonight.

You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.

Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.

He barely looked at you.

But your eyes weren’t on him.

Because a second later, Tim emerged.

He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.

He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.

Because he knew this wasn’t new.

Just the first time you saw it this up close.

Your stomach flipped.

“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.

Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was.

And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.

“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”

Handled?

Your eyes snapped to him.

“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”

He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.

That’s when something inside you cracked.

“He’s fourteen, Dad!”

Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.

“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”

Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.

You weren’t finished.

“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”

Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.

“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”

Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.

Still, no answer.

“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”

Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”

But you couldn’t stop. Not now.

“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”

That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.

Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.

And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.

Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.

“Go upstairs.”

His tone was colder than the cave floor.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your lungs.

Not part of something.

Not your responsibility.

The words carved through you like glass.

“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.

Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.

“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”

You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”

You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.

You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.

His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.

•

The kitchen was dim.

Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.

Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.

The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.

He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.

Just:

“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”

You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.

You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.

Alfred worked in silence.

Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.

Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.

You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.

And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.

Finally, Tim broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to yell like that.”

You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.

“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”

He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:

“I am part of the mission. You know that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.

And that made it worse.

“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.

“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”

You nodded numbly.

As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.

“You did the right thing.”

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like the kind of right that hurts.

You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.

Finally, he spoke again.

“You were always the one who held it together.”

You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.

“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”

He looked at you now.

“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.

“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than it should have.

Your lips parted. No words came.

Just a slow, sharp inhale.

Because you didn’t know.

Because it was too much.

Because if you said one word, you might cry.

So instead, you shook your head.

And whispered the only thing that still felt true:

“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”

Tim looked down.

And this time, he didn’t argue.

──── ୨୧ ────

The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.

Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.

You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.

You hated it.

The press called the gala a success.

A smooth handoff.

Wayne blood stepping into legacy.

“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”

“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”

And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.

Because this wasn’t your night.

This was Gotham’s.

And you were the mask it wanted.

Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.

A single message through Lucius that morning:

“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”

“They.”

Means you.

But you showed up anyway. Like always.

Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.

You handled it all.

Flawless. Smooth.

Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.

•

By hour two, though… you felt it.

That pressure. That itch.

Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.

You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.

Nothing obvious.

But someone was watching. You knew it.

You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.

There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.

“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink.

“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Not like that.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.

“…Paranoia?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”

He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.

Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.

It was enough.

Moments later, a softer step approached.

Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.

“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.

“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”

You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.

“Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”

But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.

“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”

You looked away.

“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.

He nodded. No judgment.

Damian, sharp as ever, added:

“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”

You met his gaze.

He was right.

“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”

I should have stopped it sooner.

I should’ve fought harder.

I should’ve been more like Bruce.

Tim’s voice pulled you back:

“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”

You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”

•

The party wore on.

And so did the mask.

But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…

You told the boys:

“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”

Lie.

Tim frowned, but didn’t push.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Lie.

Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.

“Don’t linger.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”

He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.

And you?

You returned to the ballroom.

Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.

Backstage.

Behind the curtain.

Where the lights couldn’t find you.

You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.

You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:

“Maybe I was too harsh.”

The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.

“This isn’t your responsibility.”

“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.

You didn’t wear a mask.

You weren’t trained like them.

You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.

You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.

A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.

Your voice shook.

“I tried. I really—tried.”

But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.

No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.

Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.

You buried your face in your hands.

I wasn’t enough.

I never will be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.

The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.

You were alone.

The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.

No footsteps.

No echo.

Just silence.

You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.

And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.

Muscle memory.

You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.

“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.

“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”

You hadn’t used it.

Not once.

You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.

Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.

But tonight…

Tonight the air felt wrong.

You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.

Until it blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Red.

Your breath locked inside your throat.

You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.

Something was watching you.

But the ballroom behind you was still empty.

The curtains didn’t move.

The marble floor gave no sound.

You stared at the blinking light.

Tapped the screen.

Just to be sure.

LOCATION: This building.

DISTANCE: 28 meters.

MOVEMENT: Advancing.

You inhaled—sharp and shallow.

Your hands started to tremble.

“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.

“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”

But the blinking didn’t stop.

Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.

“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”

Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.

“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”

Back then, you didn’t understand.

Tonight, you did.

You felt it in your skin.

In your bones.

This wasn’t panic.

This was warning.

You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Then again.

A third time—

Then out.

Gone.

Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.

Someone had cut power.

Someone had planned this.

No cameras. No signal. No eyes.

You stood frozen for a full five seconds.

Then—

You bolted.

Not because you were brave.

Because you were trained.

Selina’s voice again:

“Never wait to be cornered.”

Bruce’s, colder:

“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”

You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.

The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.

You could feel it.

Someone was following.

Too quiet to hear.

But close.

So close.

You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.

You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—

Into Crime Alley.

You stopped.

The breath in your lungs died.

Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.

You knew this alley.

You shouldn’t have ended up here.

You couldn’t have.

You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.

The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.

Unless someone rerouted the doors.

Locked the others.

Funneled you.

Your hands clutched the sensor.

It was still blinking.

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

“Please, someone…”

Your thumb hovered.

Trembled.

You activated the emergency beacon.

Pulse sent.

Silent. Invisible. Immediate.

But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:

No one’s coming.

If they were, they’d be here by now.

If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.

Someone would’ve stayed.

Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.

Would’ve felt the silence closing in.

But they didn’t.

And now you were here.

Alone.

In the alley that made Gotham what it was.

Where the myth of the Bat was born.

You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.

“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”

A sound behind you.

You turned.

And the last thing you felt…

…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:

“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111 @hai-there-how-are-you

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[rikudaa]

Father’s Day (Survivor’s Edition)

Batfam x Reader ₍⸍⸌̣ʷ̣̫⸍̣⸌₎

✰ A/N: Happy (belated) Father’s Day, here I present you some fluff moments after the first sobbed chapter lol (sorry not sorry)

You wake up to your own alarm–the rarest of Gotham miracles. No explosions, no blood, no Batarang-shaped holes in your walls. Just peace. You swing your legs out of bed with purpose, because this year, you’re hosting Father’s Day.

And you’re not just talking Bruce.

You’ve summoned everyone (not literally everyone, just in the family). Every semi-adopted, occasionally estranged, emotionally constipated member of this patchwork nightmare of a family.

You are either a genius or a masochist.

──★˙🍓̟!!

By noon, Wayne Manor’s kitchen is a battlefield.

“Why is there glitter in the waffle batter?” Damian glares, holding the bowl like it personally insulted his ancestors.

You shrug, flipping a pancake shaped like a bat. “Aesthetic.”

“Are we poisoning Father for dramatic effect?” he deadpans.

From the other side of the kitchen, Jason cackles. “Finally, someone asks the real questions.”

“I told you guys we should’ve just grilled,” mutters Tim, already halfway through a bottle of cold brew, looking like he hasn’t slept since 2003.

“Tim, it’s brunch, not a crime scene,” you say, grabbing the glitter-batter from Damian. “Go outside and touch grass. Or Dick.”

“I will not be touched,” Dick yells from the living room, tangled in streamers. “Also, I think I’ve been wrapped into the curtains.”

“Just lean into it, man,” Jason calls. “Be the décor.”

──★˙🍓̟!!

Bruce arrives at exactly 12:01 p.m. You swear he does it on purpose, so no one can accuse him of being punctual.

He walks in, eyes flicking over the chaos:

Dick dangling from a curtain rod, Damian sharpening a grapefruit spoon, Tim curled on the couch like a feral cat, and Jason eating waffles off a frisbee.

Then he sees you.

You smile too brightly. “Happy Father’s Day!”

Bruce blinks. “…Should I be concerned?”

“Nope. Just sit. Don’t ask questions. Eat your heart-shaped toast and pretend we’re normal.”

He sits.

He doesn’t question the cat-themed paper crown you place on his head. That’s growth.

•

When Alfred walks in with a tray of mimosas, the entire room goes silent.

“Father’s Day is for fathers, not god-tier butlers who raised us better than our actual parents,” you announce.

Jason raises his mimosa. “To the only dad who didn’t emotionally repress me.”

“Jason, I taught you how to make pipe bombs,” Bruce says, sipping coffee like it’s vodka.

“Exactly,” Jason grins. “And he taught me not to use them.”

•

“Speech!” Dick shouts at some point, already tipsy off orange juice.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “No.”

“You have to,” you insist, setting down a plate of glitter-battered pancakes and tofu bacon. “It’s law. I googled it.”

Damian looks up from stabbing fruit. “Google is not a valid legal source.”

“Says the kid who used Wikipedia to prove cats are superior to dogs.”

“Because they are.”

“Fight me.”

“Gladly.”

“I will tase you both,” Tim mumbles, holding the remote to a shock collar you’re pretty sure is a modified grappling hook.

“B,” Dick pleads dramatically, “if you don’t give a speech, I swear to God I will climb on the roof and start singing Cats the Musical.”

Jason perks up. “Wait, I want in on that–”

“No,” you interrupt. “We just fixed the chimney.”

•

Bruce finally stands, holding his coffee like a lifeline. The cat crown is still on his head. No one mentions it.

He looks at all of you.

All his kids.

All the chaos.

The mess. The glitter. The literal smoke alarm going off in the background (which you casually silence with a kitchen towel).

And then he says, in that gravel-and-regret voice of his:

“I used to think I’d never have a family. That I’d die in the cave alone, surrounded by bats and files and unfinished vengeance. And now…”

He looks around the room.

“At least I know I’ll die under a collapsing ceiling because one of you idiots tried to microwave metal.”

Jason raises a hand sheepishly. “That was me.”

“No regrets,” you say, grinning.

Bruce sighs. But it’s a warm sigh. The kind with weight behind it.

“Thank you,” he finally adds, softer. “For making something… I didn’t know I needed.”

Tim mimes wiping a tear. “Someone hold me.”

“Not it,” you and Damian say in unison.

Dick jumps up. “GROUP HUG!”

Jason throws a waffle across the table

•

You take a picture before the moment dissolves.

Bruce, coffee in one hand, arm around Alfred with the other. Dick dramatically leaning across both. Tim half-asleep. Damian stabbing a fork into a fruit bat carving. Jason flipping off the camera. And you, right in the middle.

Smiling.

Because for a family built out of grief and secrets and trauma—

Today?

You did good.

Even if the glitter pancakes taste like regret.

──★˙🍓̟!!

“Technically,” you say, holding up a spatula like a judge’s gavel, “we now proceed to Phase Two of Father’s Day: Honoring the man who has probably bandaged more wounds and emotionally parented more of us than anyone else alive.”

Alfred, ever composed, glances up from setting the table with actual silverware—something you all completely forgot existed. “Mx Y/N, I told you I require no such celebration.”

“That’s cute,” you smile. “But this isn’t a request.”

•

As if summoned by the laws of chaos, the rest of the Batfam begins to arrive.

“Is that smoke?” Barbara says, stepping in and pulling off her jacket. “Or am I having a stroke?”

“Both,” Tim says flatly, holding a burnt waffle like it betrayed him.

Stephanie appears behind her, waving a glittery card. “I made Alfred a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ certificate. It’s legally binding.”

Duke strolls in next. “Someone tell me there’s real food. Not… this.” He pokes the bat-shaped tofu with a chopstick.

“I thought it was art,” Cass says, appearing beside him silently, like a beautiful, terrifying ghost.

•

Alfred looks over the room and you swear–he actually pauses.

The table is crowded. Too many bodies, too many voices, plates mismatched, food mostly burnt or experimental. The Batkids, in every variety, shape, and neurosis. And right in the middle of it all: him.

The glue.

The gravity.

──★˙🍓̟!!

You clink a spoon to your glass. “I’d like to raise a toast to Alfred Pennyworth, the only man alive who’s been through every single era of the Batcave and didn’t die, quit, or commit arson.”

Jason lifts his mimosa. “Yet.”

Stephanie leans in. “You do realize you’re basically our shared emotionally stable Victorian vampire granddad, right?”

“I resent the implication,” Alfred says, sipping tea calmly. “I am emotionally selectively stable.”

Barbara chimes in: “I have security footage of you wrapping Bruce in a blanket and calling him a ‘soggy orphan burrito.’

“That footage is sealed.”

“It is not.”

•

And yet.

Amid the quips and sarcasm and (someone’s?) attempt to make “Batdad Bingo,” there is reverence.

Cassandra stands and walks to Alfred quietly. She presses a hand over his, then signs something with her free hand—slow and sure.

“Safe,” you translate softly, catching the gesture. “She says you made her feel safe.”

Alfred doesn’t speak. Just touches her hand back with his thumb, once.

──★˙🍓̟!!

“Honestly,” Duke adds, “I didn’t think a mansion full of masked vigilantes would feel like home. But you made it that. Even before Bruce tried.”

Barbara nods. “You were my first safe call. And my first hot tea.”

“You let me sleep in the foyer after I crashed a stolen bike into the koi pond,” Stephanie says brightly. “Didn’t even yell.”

“I did, in fact, yell. But you passed out from blood loss before hearing it.”

Tim just raises his mug. “You never told me to get over it. Even when I should’ve.”

Jason shrugs. “He stitched my corpse. Top that.”

Everyone groans.

“Too soon,” Duke says.

“Never too soon,” Jason grins.

Then Bruce stands.

Quietly. No fanfare. Not even the crown on his head anymore.

He places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, one of those rare gestures he never makes unless the world’s ending or someone’s being buried.

And says, simply:

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred’s lips press into a line, then soften. “Always, Master Bruce.”

──★˙🍓̟!!

The toasts end. The table’s wrecked. Glitter somehow made it into the salad. You think someone’s shoe is in the dishwasher.

But for one golden hour, the house—the family—feels full.

Later, when the noise dies down…

You’re stacking mismatched plates in the kitchen when you hear the softest footstep behind you.

Bruce.

He’s holding a teacup. Still half-full. Somehow still warm. He doesn’t speak at first. Just sets the cup down beside you.

Then, low and hoarse:

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

You glance up, smirking. “I know. I wanted to.”

Silence.

Then he adds, without looking at you, “You brought them together today.”

You pause. “We are together.”

“Not always like this.”

You study his face. It’s tired. Lined in ways even the cowl can’t hide. But there’s something soft in the corners now. Something human.

“I didn’t know if I deserved this kind of family,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But I’m glad you reminded me we’re still one.”

You say nothing. Just lean in and nudge your shoulder against his.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper.

“…You too,” he says.

You blink. “That’s not how–”

But he’s already walked off.

You laugh. Alone in the kitchen. Because of course. Of course Bruce Wayne thinks you deserve a Father’s Day.

Maybe… he’s not wrong.

──★˙🍓̟!!

The house is quiet now.

Which is, frankly, suspicious.

You stand at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water, staring at a mug that proudly reads #1 Crime Dad, glitter peeling at the edges.

Alfred stands beside you, towel in hand, drying plates with an efficiency only decades of cleaning after masked vigilantes could produce.

“Of all the strange, catastrophic events to occur within this household,” he says calmly, “this one ranks in the top ten least destructive. You should be proud.”

You snort. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is. Marginally.”

You pass him a fork shaped like a bat. You don’t know who made it. Probably Damian. Or Jason. Or you, in a moment of glitter-fueled madness.

Alfred dries it without comment.

For a while, it’s just dishes and the hum of the dishwasher—loaded entirely wrong, but you did your best.

Then, softly:

“They love you, you know.”

You blink. “I mean, yeah. They also threw pancakes at me.”

“In our family, affection is often expressed via pastry-based projectiles.”

You laugh. He smirks, just slightly.

“Still,” he adds, voice quieting, “what you did today… I don’t believe any of them will forget it.”

You shrug. “I just wanted them to feel… whole. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re not always talking. Even if we’re all a little broken.”

Alfred gently sets a plate down, then looks at you–really looks.

“You’re not broken,” he says. “Not even slightly. You’re simply carrying pieces that haven’t found where they fit yet.”

You pause.

That one hits.

You offer him a damp smile. “That sounded suspiciously poetic. Who are you and what did you do with Gotham’s most sarcastic butler?”

“Temporarily offline. I’ll be back to criticizing your dish stacking momentarily.”

“Can’t wait.”

You pass him another plate. He dries it.

Then, out of nowhere:

“I’m proud of you.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but that’s Alfred. It’s always the most important things he says sideways.

You turn to him and bump your hip gently against his.

“Love you too, old man.”

“I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

•

The sink finally empties. The dishes are done. The kitchen is… still glitter-covered, but whatever.

The family’s asleep.

The night holds.

And for once, the Manor feels less like a museum for grief and more like a home.

Even if the waffles were terrible.

(Like Gabriel’s pancakes but we’re not talking about that here)

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[rikudaa]

Heaven Was Never For Us

Jason Todd/Red Hood x Reader | <<< Part 3. >>>

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Masturbation, Voyeurism, Obsession, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Jason Todd is a Mess™, Jason Todd Has Issues, Erotic Art

It began with a heist. But not the usual kind. Not one of jewels, or gold or oil-rich paintings sold to private devils with cold wine and colder hearts. No, this was a theft of something much worse. Much more sacred.

A portrait.

Not just any portrait–you.

Painted in soft, reverent strokes from surveillance footage that should’ve been grainy, robotic, soulless. But somehow–somehow it had become holy.

There you were: spread across the dented leather couch in Jason’s loft like a vision carved from light. The choker bell shimmered delicately. Your tail-belt curved up behind you like the halo of a fallen seraph. Your lips, parted just enough to suggest a moan still echoing in memory. Cheeks flushed with the kind of peace you couldn’t fake. A silent psalm in a painting. Ecstasy, preserved.

But the artist… the artist had made a choice.

Jason was in the painting too. But not soft, not exalted. No, he was carved in jagged, bitter lines. The shadows around his body were too long, too sharp, crawling like jealousy across the canvas. His eyes were half-lost under messy strokes, mouth parted in a silent scream–not of pleasure, but of grief. Of hunger. Of knowing he was only allowed to touch holiness, not be holy himself.

There was pain in the brushstrokes. Raw, obsessive envy.

“That should have been me,” it cried.

Not him. Not Red Hood. Not the ghost of a boy who came back wrong. The artist painted him like he wasn’t the one inside her that night—but a voyeur, forever outside, peering through glass.

He found it in the gallery three nights after the heist. No signature. No plaque. Just the piece, hung without honor, hidden in a back room like a confession too scandalous to frame in daylight. But he knew. He knew who it was about. Who it was for.

He stole it.

No hesitation. No explanation. Just the sound of glass shattering and guards shouting and Jason Todd dragging the portrait back to his hideout like a madman dragging home a corpse that still smelled like love.

──── ୨୧ ────

It sits against the far wall now, shrouded under a dusty black cloth. But he knows what’s beneath. He doesn’t need to look. He’s memorized it.

And he’s not alone.

A new surveillance camera hums softly above the room’s main entrance, hacked, installed by Jason himself, pointing directly at the painting. A gift. A challenge.

For the artist.

He looks into the lens every night, shirtless, unmasked, covered in sweat and blood or paint or both, and whispers:

“You want her that badly? Then watch what she did to me.”

And then, on the nights when the heat in his bones won’t cool and the painting sings too loud from the corner, he sits in front of it.

And he breaks.

He peels his gloves off first. Then the belt. Then everything else.

He kneels before the canvas like it’s an altar, spreading his thighs wide in defiance–back arched, hips rutting into his palm with savage, desperate friction. His teeth dig into his bottom lip until it bleeds, imagining you there in brushstrokes and memory, whispering filth in that smoke-laced purr:

“Paint me, tough guy.” “I’m high just looking at you.” “You’re the only canvas I want to ruin tonight.”

The sounds are obscene. Slick. Wet. Sloppy.

Schlick. Schlick. Slap.

The kind of noise that echoes off brick and metal and memory, as if trying to summon your name.

His head tilts back, throat bare, moaning into the dark. Eyes wild, locked on the painting. His hand doesn’t stop. Faster now. Harder. The ache between his legs nothing compared to the one in his chest.

“I’m yours,” he breathes into the camera. “I’ve always been yours. Is that what you wanted?”

He finishes like a curse, a prayer, a surrender.

Mess dripping down his knuckles. Panting like an animal before a shrine.

But the muse? You don’t know. You haven’t seen the portrait yet. You never even knew it existed.

It was stolen before your eyes could touch it, before your voice could say, “That’s not how he looked at me.” Or worse… “That’s exactly how he looked at me.”

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason cleans his hands on a rag and sits back in the shadow of the stolen canvas. The camera still records. Still watches. A single green light blinking.

Somewhere, someone is watching. And Jason doesn’t care.

Because every night he gives them a show. A performance.

Of grief. Of lust. Of obsession.

Of being the monster who touched the angel, but never got to become part of the myth.

And if they wanted to own you on canvas–then they’d have to watch him fall apart in front of it. Over and over again.

Until you finally see it.

Until you know.

That he is not the man in the painting.

He’s worse.

Next up: Saints don’t steal. But cats do | <<< Part 3. >>>

Tagging: @zomqiez

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[rikudaa]

୧ ׅ𖥔 ۫ Masterlist⋄ 𓍯

❝ 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀.ᐟ.ᐟ ❞

✎ My works mainly are Yandere so please consider to read!

✎ Some of these are NSFW works so MDNI, if you’re 18+ then put it on bio!

✎ I recommend no hate nor criticism towards my works and any other readers in my blog, but you’re welcome to make/fix suggestions and comments about my mistakes!!

✎ I know this is long but I prefer my works stay where it belongs because it’s not that great to steal…

• ✰ — fluff/light fluff

• ✮ — angst/light angst/ heavy angst

• 𓆩⚝𓆪 — Yandere

𓏵 Dick Grayson/Nightwing

ʚɞ The line between:

╰┈➤ Nowhere to hide — 0.1 • ✰ ✮

╰┈➤ Broken Code — 0.2 • ✮

ʚɞ Sugar on the Blade — headcanon • 𓆩⚝𓆪

𓏵 Jason Todd/Red Hood

ʚɞ Reunion — drabble • ✰ ✮

ʚɞ Casual Talk — oneshot • ✰

✦ Incorrect quote

ʚɞ Descent into Shadows:

╰┈➤ Scars and Storms — 0.1 • 𓆩⚝𓆪

╰┈➤ Brushstroke of a Bullet — 0.2 • 𓆩⚝𓆪

╰┈➤ Heaven Was Never for Us — 0.3 • 𓆩⚝𓆪

: ̗̀➛ Dynamic — incorrect quote

𓏵 Kon-el/Conner Kent(Superboy)

ʚɞ Rooftop Static — oneshot • ✰

𓏵 Tim Drake/Red Robin

ʚɞ Study of You:

╰┈➤ Blue Paint and Binary — 0.1 • 𓆩⚝𓆪

╰┈➤ Observe and Detach — 0.2 • 𓆩⚝𓆪

𓏵 The Bats/BatFamily

Rose of Gotham series || [BatFam x Alien Stage]

(strictly platonic towards the Bats)

╰┈➤ Echoes in the Hall — 0.1 • ✮

╰┈➤ The Ones Who Weren’t There — 0.2 – 0.25 • ✮

ʚɞ Father’s Day (Survivor’s Edition) — oneshot •✰

╰┈➤ A Song for Ordinary Days — 0.3 • ✰

𓏵 ARTARTARTART

ʚɞ Shuichi Saihara

[rikudaa]

₊⊹ ᶻz !! Echoes in the Hall !! ␥

Batfam x Reader | You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: It’s that time of the year again.

The Manor’s old chapel smells like wax and lavender.

It always has. But today, the scent drapes heavier than usual—settled into the dust like memory, like grief with its coat hung up and staying awhile.

The wood beneath Alfred’s shoes creaks with every step. He walks slowly, reverently, like if he moves too quickly, the air might shatter… or worse, wake you. As if somewhere inside this hush, you’re only sleeping. Just tucked away behind one of the pews, knees up, head bowed, breath misting against a story too big for your age.

You used to sit here when the rain was too cruel outside.

Legs swinging, nose buried in a battered mystery novel you’d found in Bruce’s library. Your feet never touched the floor, not even once. You always wanted to look solemn, look wise. But your eyes would keep flicking toward the stained-glass windows, chasing the colored light. Your lips would twitch every time Alfred pretended not to notice.

“This candle,” he used to say, striking the match with practiced grace, “is for those we miss.”

You frowned the first time. That very serious, very you kind of frown.

“But what if they come back?”

He’d smiled then—slow and warm, like melted sugar in tea.

“Then it’ll still be burning.”

Today, he lights that candle again.

Not for Thomas Wayne.

Not for Martha.

But for you.

It flickers. The flame dances uncertainly, casting soft, trembling light against the dark wood pews.

Your pew–the one closest to the far window, where your rain-drenched umbrella used to lean. The rug beneath it is still faintly stained, a muddy crescent Alfred never quite got out. He’d never really tried.

He stands there for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Just breathes.

Just remembers.

•

Later then he’s preparing tea for tea time at dining room.

The tea is already steeped when he sets it down–your favorite blend. Two sugars. No milk. A little too sweet for anyone else’s taste, but you always claimed it made your brain sharper.

The cup sits across from him at the end of the long, too-empty dining table.

No one sits there anymore.

Except for one.

A gray stuffed cat, fur matted with age and affection, slouches in the high-backed chair. Its seams are loose, belly bulging slightly from years of bedtime wrestling.

You loved that thing more than any of the designer plushies Bruce ever tried to substitute it with. Said it “understood things.”

Alfred smooths the cat’s fur with steady fingers, then adjusts the lopsided ribbon you once tied around its neck. Crooked. Purple. Fraying. He never had the heart to retie it properly.

“There we are,” he murmurs, satisfied.

And then he sits.

He doesn’t look at the tea. Not right away.

Instead, he talks to the cat.

To the chair.

To the air, heavy with your laughter. With your scent. With the echo of a life too short, too bright.

“I polished your room today,” he says softly. “Even dusted the top of the bookshelf. Folded your blanket just the way you liked– military corners, heaven forbid. Picked the lint off that ridiculous green sweater you always wore on rainy days.”

His voice begins to shake, just slightly.

“I don’t know why.”

He pauses.

His hand comes to rest against the table, knuckles pale. His eyes sting, but the tears don’t fall yet. Not here. Not in front of the cat. Not where you might still be watching.

“I just thought you might…” he swallows. “Need it.”

The tea cools.

Outside, rain begins to tick against the windows, just like it used to.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of lavender and bergamot.

Pretends for a second–that your muddy shoes will squeak down the hall, that your voice will call his name with sleepy cheer, that you’ll flop down beside him with a sigh and a smile, asking for toast.

He opens his eyes.

Stillness. Still.

Then, finally, he speaks—not to the room, not to the candle, not even to himself.

But to you.

“As long as I remember,” he whispers, “you’re not gone.”

And the candle burns.

───── ୨୧ ─────

Dick’s fists split open again.

He doesn’t feel it, not right away–doesn’t notice until the sweat dripping from his jaw darkens where it lands. The mat beneath him is smeared with it now: blood, sweat, ghost-shadows. Guilt that bleeds through his skin like poison.

He keeps going.

Jab. Cross.

Hook. Elbow.

Repeat until the rhythm drowns out the silence in his chest.

He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t yell. He trains with a silence so loud it buzzes in his ears, fists slamming into the bag like he’s trying to fight God. Or fate. Or himself.

The room smells of iron and regret. It stinks. The old kind. The kind you can’t wash out. Not even with fire.

When he finally stops, it’s not because the pain hits—it’s because he can’t breathe through it anymore.

He stumbles back, drops against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched low, fists resting uselessly against his knees. His chest heaves. Sweat stings the corner of his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he mutters.

And then, quieter–barely audible, like a breath leaking from the deepest part of him, he whispers your name.

Sometimes it sounds like an apology.

Sometimes like a question.

Always like a wound.

•

When you were small.

You used to throw yourself at him the second he walked in the door, sticky hands, tangled hair, face lit up like Gotham had never been anything but safe.

He always smelled like leather, sweat, and the overwashed cotton of his favorite t-shirts. You said he smelled like “outside” and “fun.” He said you smelled like cereal and trouble.

You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, tiny arms choking his neck. He’d pretend to stumble, groaning, “You’re getting too heavy, kid—gonna squish me like a pancake,” and you’d scream with laughter, daring him to fall.

“You’re my favorite person,” you once told him, curled into his side after patrol, your voice gummy with sleep.

Not ‘brother.’ Not ‘hero.’ Just person. Like that was the most sacred title in the world.

He laughed. Ruffled your hair. “Don’t let the others hear that,” he said.

And then he left.

Blüdhaven called. So did the idea of being more than a shadow. He needed distance from Bruce. From the cave. From the mission. He told himself he deserved to carve his own path.

You’d cried. Like a child. Because you were one.

He kissed your forehead and promised, “I’ll be back all the time, dummy.”

He wasn’t.

Not that night.

Not when it counted.

Not when you needed him most.

•

Now.

Sometimes he walks the rooftops just to feel closer to you. Retracing steps from that night you begged to see Gotham from above–your first time.

The look in your eyes as the city spread beneath you like a secret. How your hands clutched his arm, not out of fear, but awe.

Once, not long ago, he swore he saw you.

Just a flicker. A shape turning the corner. A shadow with your gait. A laugh that echoed and shattered him.

“Y/N!” he shouted, lunging forward.

Nothing.

Just smoke.

•

Now he hears you sometimes. When the wind moves right. When the city’s quiet. When the guilt inside him claws too loud to ignore.

Your voice.

“Dick.”

He always turns. Always.

Nothing’s there.

He doesn’t tell anyone that the hallucinations are back. Not even Alfred. Not even Bruce. Because this time, it’s different. This time, it’s you.

Jason’s death gutted him.

But yours?

Yours stole something he never had words for.

You weren’t a symbol. You weren’t the mission. You were his little comfort. His anchor. His reason.

You were the soft thing that came after pain. And now you’re gone.

•

Wayne Manor. His room. 3:17 a.m.

He sits on the floor. Legs crossed. Forehead pressed to the photo frame like a prayer.

You’re laughing in it, out of focus. He took it mid-giggle—caught you by accident, and never deleted it. It’s his favorite.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says.

His voice breaks around the words.

“I should’ve taken you with me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Hurts. Waits.

And somewhere, in the silence, in the ache of it all–

He believes you would’ve forgiven him.

But he doesn’t forgive himself.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason’s quiet this year.

He doesn’t make a thing of it—doesn’t storm in, doesn’t throw punches at ghosts. But he shows up more than he used to. And when he’s there, he’s almost always in your room.

He never turns on the light. Just cracks the window open like he’s pretending he still has manners, even though the smoke curls in anyway, soft as snow. It drifts onto everything you left behind–your bookshelf, your game controllers, the hoodie he used to “borrow” and never give back.

The hoodie still smells like you. Or maybe that’s in his head.

He doesn’t sleep here, not really. Just sits.

Sometimes with the lights of Gotham blinking against the windowpane. Sometimes with his head pressed against the edge of your bed like he’s waiting to hear you breathing again.

He acts like he’s over it. Like he’s past the point of breaking. But his jacket always carries this ratty envelope—creases worn white at the edges, the paper inside frayed and curled.

It’s full of your notes.

The kind you used to leave him everywhere, absurd places.

Tucked inside his helmet, slipped into the pockets of his jacket, wedged beneath the clip of a gun or folded into a boot.

Some are nonsense:

“Eat something or I’ll break your kneecaps.”

“Extra pickles in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

“I saw you smile. I’m telling B.”

Some are softer:

“Get some sleep, grumpface.”

One, he reads more than the others. Ink faded. Folded and unfolded so many times it’s practically tissue.

“I’m glad you came back.”

He doesn’t tell anyone about that one. Not even Alfred. Not even Dick. Especially not Bruce.

Because that one—that one undoes him.

•

Cemetery. Late evening.

Your grave is clean. Someone’s been here before him—probably Alfred. Maybe Steph. The flowers are fresh. The stone smooth, your name etched deep and clear like the world needed a reminder of how real this loss is.

Jason stands there, helmet tucked under his arm. The wind brushes past him, low and sharp. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip burning orange in the dim light.

He doesn’t talk, not really.

He never has much to say around here.

But he pulls another cigarette from his pocket—lights it, just like yours—and places it next to the flowers. Lets it burn down in silence.

A strange ritual. But it feels like you’d understand. You always understood the parts of him that didn’t know how to be soft without cracking open entirely.

He stays until the stars come out.

Then, without ceremony, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bullet. It’s not bloodstained or marked. Just smooth. Polished. The kind meant to promise, not threaten.

He sets it gently at the base of your headstone.

“I came back,” he mutters.

His voice is raw. Low. Not meant for anyone but you.

He waits a beat. Two.

Then quieter–

“Next time, I won’t be late.”

And he means it.

Even if it kills him.

──── ୨୧ ────

A tiny café tucked between 7th and Bristol.

The table is still the same—slightly lopsided, with a chipped ceramic sugar jar and two mismatched mugs.

You used to call it “your spot,” like claiming it made it more real. Like a trio of underage vigilantes sneaking lattes and stolen pastries were just another group of high schoolers with nowhere better to be.

Now there are only two seats filled.

Tim stares down at his coffee like it might spill answers into the foam. His hands are wrapped around the cup even though it’s gone cold.

Stephanie sits across from him, one leg pulled up into the booth, arms tight across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together with elbows. She hasn’t touched her drink.

The air smells like cinnamon and burnt beans. Someone’s playing a crackly vinyl in the corner—some jazz that doesn’t quite reach their corner of the café.

They haven’t spoken for ten minutes.

They don’t have to. You were always the talker. The mood-setter. The one who made the silences feel intentional, cozy even. You’d come here and poke fun at Tim for his caffeine dependency, steal a sip of Steph’s drink and declare it too sweet, and then pay the tip in exact change just to irritate the barista.

Now the air sits heavy. Like a ghost still ordering a caramel macchiato.

Tim exhales, shaky. “They always reminded me to eat,” he says, voice hoarse, like it had to be dragged up from somewhere deep and raw. “Even when we were mid-mission. They’d shove a protein bar in my hand and say, ‘Eat this or pass out, your choice.’”

Steph snorts through her nose, but her smile doesn’t hold. Her chin quivers, and she looks away.

“They’d be pissed if we cried in public,” she says. Her voice is light, teasing, almost defiant—but her eyes are glossy, throat tight.

Tim looks at her.

She looks back.

And there’s a flicker of the old rhythm. That space where you would’ve made a joke. Broken the tension. Called them “emo” and suggested getting cupcakes.

But you’re not here.

Steph nods slowly, more to herself than anyone else.

“We’ll cry after.”

Tim nods, too. Silent agreement. An old pact, rewritten.

And they do.

Not right there—not loud, not breaking—but when they leave the café and walk around the corner, past the alley where you once spray-painted a smiley face on the brick wall because “it looked like it needed a friend,” Steph presses her forehead to the cold concrete.

Tim stands beside her, eyes closed.

They don’t speak.

Tears slide down without permission. Quiet. Steady.

Because the glue is gone.

And the rift is real.

And neither of them knows how to fix something that’s been buried.

But for a moment—just one—they let themselves fall apart. Together.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Community Center, Friday afternoon.

The rug beneath Duke’s knees is a chaos of colors—bright reds, sunny yellows, thick stripes of green and blue curling like vines. It’s sticky in places. Crayon wax is crushed into one corner. A juice box leaks quietly behind him, forgotten in the flurry of small limbs and louder voices.

He’s not wearing armor. No cape, no domino mask. Just a hoodie and jeans and a name tag that reads “DUKE 🦇 Volunteer” in glitter pen.

You’d made that. You always used the glitter pen, even when he protested. “Heroes don’t sparkle,” he’d said once.

“Batman doesn’t,” you had grinned, “but you do.”

Now the glitter’s faded, but the ache hasn’t.

Kids crawl over him like he’s playground equipment. One clings to his shoulder, firing off questions in rapid succession.

“Why do you talk slow sometimes?”

“Why’s the sun yellow and not green?”

“Why do bad guys wear capes too? That’s cheating.”

Duke’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s practiced. Not quite fake. Not quite real.

“I talk slow when I’m thinking,” he says, answering the first.

The other questions blur together. His brain drags behind his mouth. It’s always like this lately. Like thinking is something he has to wade through.

You dragged him here his first week in the family. He’d been stiff, unsure, still clinging to the idea of what being a hero should look like. Crime-fighting. Patrol. Glory.

But you–

“Be a hero out of costume too.”

That’s what you’d told him, apron tied backwards, glue in your hair, helping two five-year-olds make pasta necklaces while explaining Newton’s Third Law in baby talk.

He hadn’t realized then how those words would come back like broken ribs every time he breathed.

A little girl with pigtails and a unicorn sticker on her cheek clutches his arm.

“Where’s the one who wore the silly apron?” she asks, her voice small but certain.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They had to go away,” he says.

She frowns. “Why?”

Duke hesitates. The right words don’t come. The truth is too big for this room.

“They were tired,” he finally says. “So they’re resting now.”

The girl nods solemnly and squeezes his arm. “They were funny. They made the macaroni dragon.”

“I know,” he whispers.

When the last parent signs out their kid, when the art bins are put away and the lights dim, Duke slips into the janitor’s closet like muscle memory. Quiet. Familiar.

The air smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. The floor is damp from a mop someone forgot to rinse. He lowers himself onto the cold tile beside the mop bucket, back against the wall, head in his hands.

It starts with a sniff. Then another. Then his whole chest caves inward like a collapsed tunnel.

He tries to stay quiet.

He’s not wearing the mask. But he still doesn’t want anyone to hear a hero cry.

Fists pressed to his eyes, knees tucked to his chest, he sobs into the sleeve of his hoodie. Muffled. Shameful. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to feel.

But the pain doesn’t care about permission.

He presses his forehead to the wall, breathing fast, like maybe he can sob it all out before anyone notices. Like grief is something you can squeeze into a janitor’s closet and leave behind with the mop water.

You would’ve hated this.

You would’ve found him, offered a juice box and a dumb joke, like “The mop’s name is Jeremy. Respect him.”

You would’ve stayed.

But now it’s just him. Glitter fading on a name tag. Salt on his cheeks.

And silence.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Clocktower. Afternoon light bleeds through the high windows.

The room is too quiet. Not peaceful—hollow.

Cass sits on the floor, spine against the leg of Barbara’s work desk, knees drawn up. Her hands hover in the space between them, fingers twitching with unspoken words. Barbara is beside her, wheelchair angled slightly, as if ready to catch a thought falling apart mid-air.

Cass blinks at her own hands like they belong to someone else.

“I…”

Her fingers move, slow. Unsure.

“I can…”

She hesitates. The sign falters.

“…say…”

She stops. Arms fall into her lap. Her throat tightens. No sound comes. Only the silence pressing against her skull, thick and suffocating.

Barbara leans in, her hand a warm weight over Cass’s.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, breaking like glass at the edges. “Take your time.”

Cass shakes her head, eyes narrowed with frustration. Her breath hitches, chest pulling tight in a way words never learned how to describe.

You used to guide her—tap her wrist gently, shape her fingers, smile with that crooked grin when she got it right. You didn’t speak over her silence. You didn’t rush to finish her sentence. You waited. You listened. Even when she couldn’t listen to herself.

Cass signs again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

“They helped… me say.”

Barbara’s mouth trembles.

“I know.” She reaches over, fingers curling around Cass’s hand. “You’re still doing it. You’re still saying things, Cass.”

But it’s different. The shape of silence is different now. Before, it was full—filled with your laughter, your patience, your voice reading aloud from some book you barely understood just because Cass liked the rhythm. Now it’s just silence. Unanchored.

Cass lowers her gaze. Her hands fall still. “Harder now,” she signs. Her lip quivers. “No… no one hears fast. Like them.”

Barbara nods. “I know. I feel it too.”

They sit like that for a moment, fingers clasped. Still.

Beneath the desk, Barbara’s other hand finds something—a notebook. Your notebook.

Half-filled pages, messy diagrams, unfinished attempts at sign language jokes. One of them is a dumb pun involving the sign for “grape” and “great.” Cass had hated it. You kept doing it.

Barbara opens to the page and shows her.

Cass breathes out a laugh, small but real. “Stupid,” she signs.

Barbara chuckles wetly. “Yeah. God, they were annoying.”

Cass nods. The grin slips, then wavers, then collapses again into grief. Her face folds in on itself, chin tucked to chest. “Miss them,” she signs. “Miss how they looked.”

Barbara touches her chest. “Me too. I still think they’re gonna walk in. Say something ridiculous. Like—‘Hey, what’s up, danger?’”

That one makes Cass huff. “Dumb.”

“You loved it.”

Cass nods.

There are no more jokes. No more signs. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Barbara shifts, pulling herself closer. She cups Cass’s cheek with one hand. “You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to get it all right. I’m here. I’ll wait for your words. However long it takes.”

Cass blinks. One tear slips down. Her fingers rise again. Tentative. Trusting.

“I will keep… saying,” she signs. “Even if they’re gone. For them. With you.”

Barbara squeezes her hand. “Then we’ll learn again. Together.”

Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer. Shared. Not empty. A space you once filled now held between them, remembered.

They’re still trying.

For you.

────୨ৎ────

The cave is colder than usual.

Damian sits cross-legged on the stone floor, bare feet pressed to the earth, spine arrow-straight. He’s been meditating for hours—long past sunrise. Long past when Alfred would’ve called him up for tea or breakfast. But there’s no Alfred here.

Just the ghost of your laughter echoing off the walls, like water dripping in an empty cistern.

Titus rests nearby, his massive head laid solemnly over his paws. Every so often, his ears twitch at some noise—an air vent hum, a bat fluttering in the high dark rafters—but he never strays far.

The dog knows. He always knew when you were near.

Alfred the cat—named with stubborn irony—circles Damian’s still form once, then curls tightly in his lap without asking. Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just rests one hand over the cat’s arched back, steady. Controlled.

The only sound in the room is the low, almost bovine breath of Bat-Cow, tucked in her special paddock at the back of the cave. (Yes she still alive)

She’s been oddly quiet today too, as if the animals can feel it.

It’s your death anniversary.

Another year without you.

Another year where the world has kept spinning and Damian has kept sharpening his blades.

But this morning, all he’s done is sit. Until now.

His breath hitches—a crack in the calm.

He opens his eyes slowly. The light from the Batcomputer behind him casts just enough of a glow to catch the shimmer at the corner of his lashes.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he looks at the sword across his knees. The hilt is worn with years of use—but at the very base, carved in tight, decisive strokes, is your name.

Etched deep.

Deep enough to splinter the grip if he ever loses control.

Deep enough that it cannot be erased, even if he tried.

He’d used his own dagger to do it. The same one his grandfather once gave him.

Precision work. Clean lines. The kind of carving done not in a fit of grief, but with total, surgical focus.

“You’d have mocked me for how dramatic it looks,” he murmurs, voice low. Almost hoarse. He scratches gently behind Alfred the cat’s ears. “Then insisted it was still sweet. That I was secretly sentimental.”

Titus raises his head, as if hearing your voice too. His tail thumps once, hopeful.

Damian exhales. Then speaks again. This time to you. Wherever you are.

“You were the first one to ever hug me.”

The words leave him like a confession. A whispered sin.

He remembers it like it just happened.

You’d been younger than he is now—maybe fourteen, fifteen. He’d been a child barely taller than your chest. Angry at the world. All jagged reflexes and rigid posturing.

You had launched at him. No warning. Just barreled into his side and wrapped him up like you belonged there.

He’d gone stiff as a board. Every muscle tensed. Ready to lash out and throw you across the room.

You only laughed. Hugged tighter.

“You little assassin nerd,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. “You need, like, ten more of these per day.”

And the next day, you did it again.

And the next.

Eventually… he hugged back.

You were the only one he let drag him to museums. Art galleries. Rooftops for stargazing and hot chocolate. He used to roll his eyes the whole time, but you’d catch the edge of his smile in the glass of a display case or in the shimmer of moonlight on his face.

No one else could ever make him go. But he always went with you.

“I hated most of it,” he lies now, just to hear himself say it. “Except I didn’t. You knew I didn’t.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead to the hilt of the sword. Your name is cold against his skin.

“We share the same blood,” he whispers. “And I still couldn’t protect you.”

The breath leaves his body all at once. Like a blow to the ribs.

His fingers curl tight around the hilt. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move.

But when he finally stands—quietly, with Alfred leaping down from his lap—his steps lead him not upstairs.

They lead him to the training floor.

Titus watches from the edge. Knows what’s coming.

Damian doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t speak.

He draws the sword with a sound like lightning splitting through bone.

And then—he moves.

Every strike is a memory. A fracture. A sin. A promise broken.

When he finishes, the training dummy is sliced clean in half. Not jagged. Not splintered.

Clean.

There’s a moment of stillness as the pieces fall to the floor.

Damian’s chest rises and falls. Sweat beads at his temple. His hands tremble now, only now, when the damage is already done.

He doesn’t look at the sword again.

Just drops to his knees beside Titus. Bows his head into the dog’s fur and breathes like it might be enough to pull you back from wherever you are.

“You were my favorite,” he admits into the dark. “I never told you. But you were. Always.”

Titus whines, soft and aching.

The cave is quiet again.

And this time, Damian lets himself grieve—no blades, no masks, no training.

Just your name carved in steel.

And a family of animals who still remember the warmth you left behind.

────୨ৎ────

Wayne Manor. Surveillance Room. 3:17 A.M.

The monitor hums softly in the dark.

Everything else is still. No clocks ticking. No comms buzzing. Just static-light flickering over Bruce’s unshaven face as he sits hunched forward, eyes locked to the footage like it might change if he wills it hard enough.

He presses play again.

There you are.

Walking into the gala.

Nervous.

You tug self-consciously at the collar of your formal suit—the one Alfred insisted looked “dignified” and you called “fashionable punishment.” You shift your weight like you want to bolt. Straighten your shoulders just like Alfred told you to.

A forced smile. Then a real one. You laugh at something someone says just off-frame. You tilt your head toward a voice calling your name, mouth parted in response.

Then:

“I’m not ready.”

And then–

Static.

Bruce freezes the frame. Rewinds. Plays it again.

That moment.

That voice.

The tiny tremble in it.

He watches it over and over. Not the whole clip. Just that fragment. You fidgeting. Speaking. Glancing over your shoulder like something might be following. Like you already knew.

You did.

God. You knew.

You’d begged him.

•

Memory, Two Nights Before.

You stood by the cave exit, arms crossed, voice small beneath all the steel.

“Don’t go out like this. Something feels wrong tonight.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

“We can talk when I’m back.”

“What if I’m not here when you are?”

You had said it lightly. Like a joke.

He hadn’t laughed.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

Didn’t say “thank you” or “I hear you.”

He was already gone.

•

“I thought you were safe,” Bruce murmurs, the words barely audible. As if saying them too loud might make them even less true.

“I thought you were safe… inside these walls. Under my roof. Inside the gates.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works. He doesn’t blink.

“You were supposed to be safe.”

His eyes are bloodshot. The footage crackles. His hand hovers over the keyboard, knuckles taut, veins visible. He’s memorized every angle of your smile, every hitch in your breath in those last moments, every fraction of unease in your body language.

And it wasn’t enough.

None of it was.

•

The silence is unbearable.

He walks through the halls like a ghost, barefoot and aimless. Every footstep is muffled on ancient carpets. Every turn reminds him of you—sitting upside down on the staircase railing, trailing your fingers along the banister, laughing too loud during dinners no one else found funny.

He still hears your voice sometimes. The echo of it. The lingering shape of your presence carved into the silence.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

•

He makes his way to your room’s door.

He pauses there.

Doesn’t open it.

Can’t.

Instead, he stands outside it like a soldier posted at a tomb. Like he’s guarding what little remains.

His hand lifts halfway toward the doorknob. Then falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly it doesn’t echo.

And still the house groans in reply. The silence doesn’t forgive. The halls do not answer.

•

Back in the cave.

He sits again. Hits play.

“I’m not ready.”

He knows now you were right. Not about the gala. Not just about that night.

About everything.

Neither of you were ready—for the way things would break. For the silence afterward. For the finality of a child dying before their father.

And yet here he is.

Alone. With the flickering image of a child who looked back one last time.

And with all the ways he didn’t listen.

────୨ৎ────

Crime Alley. Midnight.

Rain traces down the gutters like veins. The alley is quiet now—emptied of police tape and flashing lights, but the memory of it burns brighter than any crime scene spotlight. Gotham’s heart never stops bleeding, but here—it gushed.

Selina stands at the edge.

Her heels click once against wet stone, then fall silent. She walks further in. No mask. No costume. Just a long black coat, tailored like grief, soaked at the hem.

She stops where the scorch marks begin.

The brick is still charred, dark veins of soot climbing like vines toward the broken fire escape. The bloodstain is barely visible now—diluted, washed down the drain, but she sees it. She knows where it was.

She kneels.

Gloved fingers skim the wall, right where it happened. She doesn’t flinch at the soot that stains the leather. Doesn’t wipe it off. She presses her palm flat to the stone.

Her breath catches.

But she doesn’t cry.

She hasn’t cried since the call. Not even when they showed her the evidence bag with the charm bracelet. Not when she saw the tooth-blackened bone. Not when Alfred held her shoulder so tightly it bruised.

Because if she cries, it means it’s real.

Instead, she breathes you in. Or what’s left.

Ash. Smoke. The faintest memory of your shampoo—lavender and mint—and the strange way it mixed with Gotham filth. She swears she can still smell it in the stone. Still feel the hum of your laughter ricocheting off the alley walls.

You used to chase her through alleys like this. Little boots pounding behind her, giggling as she pretended to vanish over the rooftops.

You’d call:

“I saw your tail, Mama!”

And she’d shout back,

“Then keep up, kitten!”

God. You tried so hard to keep up.

•

She whispers now, voice barely there, like she’s afraid the rain might swallow it:

“I left you once.”

Her fingers tremble. She flattens them harder against the wall, grounding herself, biting down on her lip so hard it breaks skin.

“And I never got to come back.”

That’s the truth. The only one that matters.

She left you. A mother’s greatest crime, wrapped in good intentions and selfish fear.

She thought you’d be safer with Bruce. She thought love meant stepping aside.

But you needed her. And she was gone.

•

The wind picks up. Carries smoke from somewhere deeper in Gotham—a chimney, a car fire, a signal.

But in the twist of air through the alley, for just a breath, it smells like you.

She inhales sharply. Eyes flutter shut.

A hand rises to cover her mouth.

And for one cruel, fleeting second, she imagines you’re there. Hiding behind the dumpster like you used to. Waiting to leap out. Playing some awful joke. Laughing that reckless, raw laugh that sounded too much like hers.

The shadows flicker like cat’s tails. Her kind of magic.

But you’re not there.

Just the stone. The ash. The guilt.

•

She stands slowly, knees stiff, spine aching with years of running from consequences. But she doesn’t wipe the soot off her glove. She lets it stay—like a mark, a bruise, a promise.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

She never has.

Instead, she turns her head to the wind one last time. Listening. Reaching.

Just in case.

In case you’re still near.

In case ghosts really follow bloodlines.

In case your soul is clever enough to linger.

And in the stillness, she whispers:

“I should’ve stayed.”

────୨ৎ────

They only found pieces of you.

Bone fragments. Teeth. A sliver of jaw. Skin fused to fabric in a way that made the coroners turn away and breathe through their sleeves.

Bruce signed the report without flinching. Selina refused to.

Some of it wasn’t even yours.

Gotham chews its children and spits out what’s left.

And you—you were never meant to be in its mouth in the first place. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t a sidekick. They trained you just enough—to recognize danger, to escape if it came too close. You knew how to vanish down alleys. How to disappear behind curtains. How to run.

Your last call was panicked static. Muffled breath. A sob that stuttered into a gasp. Someone shouted your name—maybe through the phone, maybe in the street. You’ll never know. The line went dead before you could answer.

You remember the way your chest locked. The heat. Not flames yet, but pressure—a vacuum before the collapse. The sound of splintering bone. Concrete. Something wet.

Then stillness.

Your final thought wasn’t of vengeance or glory.

You want none of that.

It was: Did he hate me when I left?

It was: Did she know I loved her, even after everything?

It was: I’m not strong enough.

But you were.

Maybe not in the way Gotham needed.

Maybe you should have run faster.

But enough that, today…

They still speak to you.

In tea cups. In worn hoodies. In cracked knuckles. In candlelight.

You were not a soldier.

You were not a vigilante.

You were the heart.

And no one—not Gotham, not even death—can erase that.

•Note: holycow it’s over 5k words in 72 hours💀💀 I have rewritten over and over but still not satisfied enough with 10+ drafts in my Apple Note LMAO. If you’re wondering why the fic published so fast and long then it’s because Im in summer vacation, I’ve been writing through days till nights so yeah the outcome might come after 1-2 days.

This is the inspiration I talk about here, there’s also some of my concept in comment. This series strictly platonic towards the Batfam but there also some love interests.

Ngl Im gonna take a rest after this for awhile and fulfill promise by working on Descent Into Shadows, hope you enjoy this fic! If you have some questions after this, leave a comment/through inbox to let me know💙

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.