⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡-- "Can you say Dada?" Katsuki holds up his small child, watching her mouth move and yet no noise comes out of it. he sighs, smiling. "At least babble a bit."
she sticks her tongue out, squirming her way out of his arms and waddling all around the room, shouting nonsense. such a rambler. he decided that it was snack time, due to the fact she was being all crampy.
"Kitsua!" he called out, listening for her little pitter patter. "Does the stinky baby want cheese on her stinky sandwich?" he looked down at her, smiling as she bounced in place and clapped her hands, excited for a sandwich.
he couldn't understand for the life of him why she liked being called stinky, but he knew that it made parental life a bit better. if she was ever fussy, he would just call her his stinky baby.
Katsuki cut up her sandwich carefully, in little squares like she wanted. if it was any other way, she'd whine and fuss and cry all day. she was so picky and precise about everything, a bit like him in a way.
he made sure to keep a close eye on her as he flipped on the TV, watching her eat on the floor and slightly toss her bread around. she's just a kid, it's fine. "Let's not throw our bread halfway across the room." he nudges her with his foot.
"Feed it to Okko." he motions towards the big dog sat next to her, which she pet happily. this was perfect.
this was what he wanted most in life.
"Mm!" he glanced at Kitsua as she hummed loudly, looking over at the kitchen. "What's up stinky?" he leaned over, looking to see what was in the kitchen. he saw nothing.
"Mama !"
Katsuki froze, mouth agape as he stared at her.
you were dead. you weren't in the kitchen.
you died while giving birth to Kitsua, your very last words to him being to make sure he took good care of her. he glanced at your urn, then to the photo and necklace right next to it.
"..Baby, m-.." he couldn't bring himself to speak, but pushed himself forward. "Mommy isn't.. here." his voice cracked as he sat on the floor with her, trying not to completely break down.
Kitsua, frustrated, continued pointing towards the kitchen and jumping up and down. "Mama! Mama!" he looked at the kitchen, still seeing nothing but the decorations you had put up.
he hadn't changed a thing since you died.
this time, he couldn't hold back his tears. his daughter saw how broken he looked, moving closer and hugging him as tightly as her little arms could. for two years, he had been alone, raising her.
lost and unsure about most of the things he did. but now, he felt like you were watching over them, letting him know that he was doing good.
Kitsua didn't understand why her father was upset, so she did her best to make him happy. she brought him her small blanket, her stuffed rabbit, and favorite picture book.
she sat in his lap, letting him cry as she pointed to the picture book, babbling and cooing things that he couldn't understand. but he could tell it was things to try to make him feel better.
"..I love you, stinky.." he sniffled, wiping his face with a weak smile.
and from the corner of his eye, he noticed a slight figure.
one he knew he'd never see again, but one that he needed to let go of.
The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.
You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.
The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.
Then came Lila.
She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.
Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.
You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.
The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.
The kidnapping was almost a relief.
It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.
The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”
You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.
“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”
The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”
You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.
When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.
“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”
Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.
“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.
The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.
They’d chosen her.
The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.
The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.
“Goodbye.”
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.
The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.
Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.
“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.
Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.
Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.
Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.
Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.
Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.
The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.
Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”
Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”
Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.
Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”
Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.
The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.
And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night
Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.
“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*
Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”
Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”
“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.
Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.
“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”
Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.
“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”
Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”
“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.
“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”
Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.
Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.
Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.
The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.
Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”
Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”
Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.
She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.
“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.
She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”
Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.
Reader arrived in another universe and immediately noticed how desperately everyone there tried to keep you from returning to your own.
You couldn’t help laughing at first—confused, surprised, unsure how to react to the way they begged you to stay.
“What happened to the Reader of this universe?” you asked, your voice sharp but steady. “And… how was that version of me like?”
Oh... Silence settled immediately.
It wasn’t that they refused to answer, they simply didn’t know.
The truth was the Reader who belonged to this universe had died long ago.
And when they saw you standing there, alive, breathing, real . They clung to you as if the life itself had granted them a twisted second chance. A chance to love you the way they never got to. A chance to keep you this time.
But that hope wasn't as easy as they imagined.
Because this time, the challenge wasn’t fate. It wasn’t death.
You woke up with the taste of copper in your mouth and rain sliding down your cheek, your body sprawled across the slanted roof of a house you’d never seen before. For a few seconds, all you could focus on was the throbbing in your ribs and the sharp sting in your shoulder. Your breath shook when you tried to move.
Great. Injured, disoriented, and apparently trespassing.
You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking through the rain.
Gotham’s skyline stared back at you—familiar, but… not.
You couldn’t explain it, only that something felt off, shifted by a single degree that your exhausted brain couldn’t pin down.
But you needed help.
And there was only one place you knew your legs could carry you to: the Manor.
Not because it was home—God, no—but because it had med supplies, heat, and people who at least recognized you, even if they didn’t really care.
So you climbed down the roof, cursing under your breath every time pain darted through your side, and started the long walk toward the only beacon you had. By the time you reached the gates of Wayne Manor, your clothes were soaked, your hands shaking from cold and blood loss.
You didn’t even bother knocking.
You shoved the Manor door open and stepped inside, dripping rainwater onto the polished floor, ignoring the way the entire family went silent the moment they saw you.
They froze—absolutely frozen—like someone had cut the world’s audio.
“…What,” you said flatly, irritation dripping from every word as you limped past them. You didn’t slow down or even bother acknowledging how completely silent they’d gone. “Where’s the damn first aid kit? Are you all blind? There’s a person bleeding right in front of you.”
Jason actually flinched at your tone, his shoulders jerking like he’d been struck. Dick’s lips parted in shock, but no sound came out. Tim went stiff as a board, and Damian stared at you as if you’d slapped him. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes scanning every inch of you like he needed to confirm you were real.
"Tch". You didn’t care about any of it. Their shock didn’t matter to you, not when your arm felt like it was on fire and you were dripping rain all over their expensive floor.
You lifted your injured arm and waved it at them, annoyance rising with every second they kept staring. “Hello? Injured person here,” you snapped, glaring at the entire frozen lineup. “Don’t just stand there like taxidermy, point me to the meds.”
Alfred stood frozen like the others, his eyes wide and strained in a way you had never seen before. It took him several seconds to gather himself and step toward the cabinet. When he finally picked up the first aid kit, his hands were steady, but the faint tremor in his fingers gave him away.
He approached you slowly, almost cautiously. You didn’t wait for him to speak. The moment the box was within reach, you snatched it from his hands without hesitation.
You muttered a short, rough “Thanks,” more out of habit than anything else. Then you turned away and dropped onto the closest chair with a wince. Rainwater slid off your clothes in thin streams, pooling at your feet.
You flipped the kit open and dug through the supplies with sharp, practiced motions. It was the kind of efficiency that came from necessity, not choice. Every movement said you’d done this alone too many times.
Bruce stepped forward instinctively, but you shut him down before he could speak. “Don’t,” you snapped, not even glancing at him. “I don’t need help. I can do it myself. I always do.”
The words hit the room like a crack in ice. Dick flinched at the tone, shoulders pulling tight. Tim’s hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, itching to move but too afraid to try.
Jason looked away, jaw clenched as if the sentence physically hurt him. Damian’s posture stiffened, his expression guarded and unreadable. None of them said a word, but the air grew heavy with emotions you couldn’t name.
You pressed an alcohol pad to your wound and inhaled as the sting tore through your skin. The pain was sharp but familiar—something you understood. Their eyes on you, however, were not.
Every one of them watched you with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. Awe, fear, disbelief, and something heavier simmered beneath the surface. You kept your gaze down, pretending you didn’t feel it.
Alfred tried again, his voice soft and trembling. “You do not have to treat yourself, Master—Reader. We can—”
“I said I got it,” you cut in, sharper this time. Your eyes flicked up just long enough to give him a warning. “Don’t hover. I’m fine.”
But they didn’t move. None of them backed away or even pretended to act normal. They stayed rooted to the floor, staring at you like you were something impossible.
You focused on wrapping your bandages with rough precision, trying to shut out the weight of their silence. But the longer you sat there, the more it pressed against your spine.
You felt their stares drilling into your back before you even looked up. It was the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, too heavy, too emotional for your liking. You slammed the alcohol pad back into the kit, fed up with the tension choking the room. Then you lifted your head, irritation already burning in your eyes.
They were still staring—unmoving, unblinking, like statues carved out of shock. Dick looked ready to cry, Tim looked ready to faint, Jason looked like he’d seen a ghost, and Bruce… Bruce looked like he’d been gutted from the inside out. Damian’s eyes were wide, sharp, and too damn intense. It made your blood boil.
Your voice came out like a snap of thunder. “Okay, what the hell is wrong with all of you?” You jabbed a finger at them, scowling. “Why are you all looking at me like that? Spit it out.”
Bruce took a single breath, slow and shaky, but even he couldn’t get a word out. They just kept staring—like you were some miracle they weren’t supposed to touch. It only pissed you off more.
You scoffed loudly, rolling your eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I asked a question, not recited a curse.” You threw your hands up in frustration. “If you’re gonna stare, at least explain why. Or is everyone here suddenly mute?”
Jason actually winced at how sharp your voice turned. Dick stepped back half an inch, overwhelmed by the force of your tone. Tim’s eyes glossed over, and he looked away like he couldn’t take it. Even Damian lowered his gaze.
The silence dragged again, suffocating and infuriating in a way that made your teeth clench. You pushed yourself to your feet despite the sharp scream of pain tearing through your ribs. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, but no one even flinched. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, glaring at all of them. “You all look like you’ve seen a corpse.”
The words hung in the air like a slap, and none of them dared to react. That alone made your skin crawl—this wasn’t how they behaved, not even on their worst days. The silence stretched long enough to feel wrong, thick and out of place in a house usually buzzing with tension and noise. You exhaled sharply and scanned their faces again, this time paying attention.
Something twisted uncomfortably in your stomach as you took them in. They were acting wrong—too emotional, too shaken, too… careful with you. They looked like they were afraid you might vanish if they blinked too hard. Nothing about this matched the everyone you knew, not even close.
Bruce was the first to make your skin crawl. He stood there stiff, but not with anger or disappointment like usual. There was fear in his eyes—real, raw fear—and Bruce Wayne didn’t fear anything. Not where you came from.
Dick’s expression wasn’t the gentle optimism you hated—this Dick looked like he was fighting tears. His smile never faltered where you came from, no matter how messed up the situation was, yet now he couldn’t even look at you without shaking. That alone made your pulse spike.
Jason didn’t snap back at your attitude, didn’t grumble or throw sarcasm like he always did. Instead, he stared at you like the world might collapse if he blinked, his jaw clenched but silent. Jason Todd, quiet—now that was a red flag.
Tim wasn’t analyzing you, wasn’t lecturing, wasn’t calculating ten different conclusions. He looked… lost. Not tired—shaken. As if whatever he saw in you had ripped the logic straight out of him.
And Damian—he didn’t scoff, didn’t insult you, didn’t roll his eyes the way he normally did. He just watched you, posture rigid and unsure. The kid who usually acted like you were an inconvenience suddenly looked like he was afraid to breathe too close to you.
Your heartbeat spiked, cold and sharp. “Okay,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “You guys are acting weird. Like, weirder than usual.”
No one responded. Not even a sarcastic Jason comment. That scared you more than the silence itself.
You stepped back slightly, gaze shifting between them. “What’s wrong with you?” you demanded, voice colder now. “Wait.. did someone died?.”
The words tasted strange coming out of your mouth, but the reaction was worse. Shock flickered first—sharp and immediate—followed by something deeper, something that looked too much like grief. None of them spoke, not one. And that alone told you it wasn’t a stupid question.
You clicked your tongue in irritation, not liking the way the air shifted. “No? Great. Whatever,” you muttered, already turning away from them. “I’m going to my room then.”
Not a single one stopped you.
Not with words, at least.
Their eyes clung to you like invisible chains, tracking your every move.
Something here wasn’t right; you could feel it sinking beneath your skin like ice water. The air, the tension, the way they looked at you—it didn’t belong to your life, to your world. Everything felt off by just enough to make your stomach twist.
You paused in the hallway and shot them a sharp glare over your shoulder. “Y’all acting weird,” you said flatly, annoyance cutting through your voice. “It’s creeping me the fuck out.”
______________________________________________
You stormed down the hallway without waiting for permission, ignoring the way their footsteps hesitated behind you. Every step made your ribs throb, but annoyance pushed you forward more than pain did. The Manor looked the same as you remembered—same walls, same paintings, same stupidly long corridors. But something about the atmosphere felt… tilted.
When you reached “your” door, your irritation spiked. It was already cracked open, as if someone had been waiting for you to walk through it. You pushed it wider with your foot, not bothering to be gentle. “Seriously, did nobody here learn how to knock?” you grumbled.
Then you stepped inside,
and stopped cold.
The room was spotless. Too spotless.
Your room was never like this.
The bed was neatly made with sheets you’d never picked out. The shelves were full—decorations, framed photos, small items you’d never owned in your life. Clothes hung in the closet, organized and folded like someone had spent hours making them perfect. None of it screamed you not the you who lived, survived, and stitched yourself together alone.
Your breath hitched in your throat. “What the hell…” you whispered, more unsettled than you wanted to admit. You stepped further in, eyes scanning every detail with growing disbelief. “This… isn’t my room.”
Behind you, someone inhaled sharply.
You spun around, glare sharp. Bruce stood in the doorway with the others hovering behind him, all of them looking painfully fragile. Their shoulders tense, their throats tight, as if they were afraid you’d break something simply by being there.
You jabbed a finger at the room accusingly. “Explain,” you snapped. “Because none of this is mine. Not the sheets, not the crap on the shelves, not the goddamn closet. So whose room is this supposed to be?”
They flinched—every single one of them.
And suddenly, you understood something without needing the words.
This room wasn’t prepared for you.
It was prepared for someone else who looked like you.
A chill crawled down your spine as the truth punched the air from your lungs.
“This isn’t my world…” you murmured, stunned. “This isn’t even my life.”
The moment you said it wasn’t your world, something inside Bruce snapped quietly—so quietly you almost missed it. His shoulders dropped, his breath hitched, and then he stepped into the room with a look you had never seen on him before. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t shock.
It was desperation.
Before you could back away, Bruce closed the distance and hauled you into his chest, arms locking around you like steel bars. The air was knocked out of your lungs as he crushed you against him, breath shaky and uneven against your hair. “You’re here,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re really here.”
Your eyes widened in horror—you had never seen Bruce Wayne like this. The Bruce you knew was distant, cold, composed to a fault; he didn’t cling, didn’t shake, didn’t hold onto people like they were oxygen. This version of him felt wrong. Too warm. Too emotional.
Too hungry for you to stay.
“Let go,” you snarled, trying to shove at his arms, but he only tightened his grip until your ribs screamed. Panic flared through your chest as the pressure stole your breath. “I said LET GO—Bruce, what the hell is wrong with you?!”
He didn’t flinch at your yelling; if anything, he held you closer. His voice cracked when he spoke again, soft and frantic. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. I won’t lose you again. I won’t.”
Each apology only made your skin crawl more.
You twisted hard, trying to break free, but his hold didn’t budge. It felt nothing like a hug—more like a capture, a restraint wrapped in affection you never asked for. “You’re suffocating me, you psycho,” you spat, kicking at his leg, elbowing his ribs, anything to get space. “Bruce, I swear to God—LET. ME. GO.”
Bruce didn’t react to your anger. He only buried his face into your shoulder, voice shaking with a grief you didn’t understand. “It’s okay,” he whispered, delusional comfort dripping from every word. “You’re here now. Everything will be alright. I’ll make it alright.”
Your heart pounded in your throat, this wasn’t Bruce. This wasn’t your Bruce. Something inside you snapped in return, survival instinct kicking in as your breath thinned painfully. You reached for the small concealed weapon at your belt, fingers trembling from lack of air.
You warned him once more, voice hoarse. “Bruce… I’m serious… let go.”
But he didn’t. He held tighter, arms shaking as if terrified you’d vanish.
So you did the only thing left.
You shoved the weapon into his side, non-lethal, but sharp enough to shock him. Bruce’s body jolted, a choked gasp escaping him as his grip finally loosened. You staggered back, sucking in air like you’d been drowning.
Bruce fell to one knee, clutching the spot with trembling fingers, not in pain, but in heartbreak. His eyes lifted to you, wide and wet, overflowing with something terrifyingly devoted.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered. “Just stay. Please… stay.”
And behind him, the rest of the Batfam watched—
shocked, trembling, and now fully aware that if Bruce couldn’t keep you still…
they would have to.
Bruce was still kneeling on the floor, one hand pressed over the wound you gave him. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes, his eyes—never left you for a second. That stare alone felt like chains around your wrists. It made your skin crawl worse than the blood staining his glove.
You tried to back away, but the moment you moved, Jason stepped in front of you, blocking the doorway with a look that was way too calm for the situation. Tim stood at your side almost immediately, eyes frantic but body firm. Damian positioned himself behind you like a silent guard dog.
It hit you then: you weren’t getting out of this room on your own terms.
Dick approached slowly, palms raised, voice trembling but sickeningly gentle. “Let’s move to the living room, okay? It’s safer there. We can talk.” He sounded like someone coaxing a wild animal—soft, careful, terrified of pushing too hard.
You snarled at him, but the four of them were already guiding—no, herding—you out of the bedroom. Jason’s hand brushed your shoulder, not grabbing but close enough to be a warning. Damian stayed so close you could feel his breath on your back. Every instinct told you to run.
But there was nowhere to run to.
They forced the distance closed around you, steering you down the hallway like you were some precious, fragile thing—
or a prisoner they refused to lose again.
When you entered the living room, Bruce was already there. He’d dragged himself down the stairs despite the wound, sitting heavily on the couch with his hand still pressed to his side. Any normal man would be furious or at least in pain, but he looked at you with relief—pure, twisted relief.
Like being stabbed by you meant nothing as long as you stayed.
You stood in the center of the room, surrounded. Their eyes burned into your back, into your skin, into your bones. It felt suffocating, too heavy, too desperate, and your patience finally snapped clean in half.
You glared at Bruce first, then at all of them, jaw tight and chest heaving. “I gave you a warning,” you growled, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You didn’t listen.”
Your expression twisted into a harsh, cold sneer—
one they’d never seen from their version of you.
“So congratulations,” you spat, shifting your weight defiantly.
“Mampus ko situ.”
The room went dead silent—
and that was when their obsession sharpened into something far more dangerous.
The moment the curse left your mouth, something in the room shifted sharply, like you’d cracked the ground beneath them. Bruce’s expression collapsed first, his eyes darkening with a mix of heartbreak and disbelief. Dick covered his mouth as if the words physically hurt him. Jason muttered a quiet "God.." under his breath, genuinely stunned.
Tim stepped forward, almost pleading, his voice shaking. “This… this isn’t you,” he whispered. “Not the you we know.” Damian stiffened at his side, his posture rigid as he studied your face. Even he looked shaken, his usual arrogance replaced with something raw.
You scoffed loud enough to slice through the silence. “Of course it’s not me,” you snapped, raising your brows in disbelief. “Beda universe beda orang, boyy.” You waved your hand at them like the answer was obvious. “Use your braincells, what’s left of them.”
Your words hit them like a slap.
Dick flinched hard, his breath catching in his throat. “But you sound like them… your voice” he whispered, voice cracking. Jason stared at you in a mixture of anger and pain, his fists clenching as if holding himself back. Tim swallowed, unable to look away, as if the idea of ‘another you’ broke something inside him.
Bruce slowly rose from the couch, ignoring the sting at his side. There was something dangerous in the softness of his voice—too gentle, too fragile, too full of longing. “Different universe or not… you’re still you to us,” he murmured, like a confession he couldn’t hold back.
Your face twisted in disgust. “That’s the creepiest shit I’ve heard today,” you snapped, taking a step away from him. “And I woke up bleeding on someone’s damn roof, so that’s saying something.”
They all froze again.
Tim’s eyes shimmered with a quiet panic. “Please don’t say it like that,” he whispered. “Hearing you talk like this—like a stranger—hurts.”
Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring not at you, but at the ground. “This version’s got teeth,” he muttered, half impressed, half devastated. Damian stepped forward just a hair, voice low. “You are different. Sharper. Colder.”
You shrugged harshly. “Deal with it.”
Every one of them flinched again.
And for the first time since you arrived, they looked at you not like a miracle—
but like something they’d have to hold onto even harder
before you slipped out of their grasp forever.
______________________________________________
You let out a long, frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. The weight of the room, their stares, their weird behavior—everything makes your head spint. “Alright,” you muttered, voice cutting through the tension. “Listen. Let me make something clear before one of you has a melodramatic breakdown.”
You crossed your arms, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “I woke up on some random rooftop. Bleeding. Cold. Confused as hell.” You pointed at them accusingly. “And then I walked here because—shocking—I thought I’d get normal medical help. Not… whatever this is.”
Jason looked like he wanted to say something, but you raised your hand sharply to shut him up. “I don’t know how I got there,” you continued, jaw tight. “One minute I’m minding my business, the next I’m waking up on tiles that don’t belong to me.” You clenched your fist. “So yeah, if anyone’s confused, it’s me.”
Their eyes softened in a way that made you want to punch a wall. Dick stepped forward, voice trembling. “You must have been terrified…”
You shot him a dead glare. “I’m terrified now, genius. Not then.”
A painful silence fell again, thicker this time, like they were waiting for something. You exhaled sharply and looked at each of them. “Fine. Since everyone here is acting like I’m their dead goldfish reincarnated, I’ll ask.”
You straightened, expression hardening, voice dropping into something colder—almost deadly calm. “What happened to the Reader of this universe?” The question sliced through the room like a blade.
Their faces went pale—every single one of them.
You didn’t let them breathe before adding the second one. “And… what was their version of me like?” Your voice was sharp, steady, refusing to shake. “Tell me what they were to you.”
The room felt like it had stopped breathing the moment you asked the question. No one moved. No one spoke. They all looked at each other first, as if silently begging someone else to take responsibility for answering you.
Dick was the first to open his mouth, though his voice cracked halfway through the first word. “You… you were kind,” he said, eyes softening painfully. “Gentle. Always worried about us.” His throat bobbed as if the memory choked him. “You never raised your voice.”
Tim nodded weakly, unable to meet your gaze. “You helped everyone,” he whispered. “Even when you were exhausted. Even when no one asked.” He shifted like the floor was unsteady beneath him. “You were the glue that kept us together.”
Jason looked away sharply, jaw tightening. “Yeah… you were good,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Too good. Annoyingly good.” He clenched his fist before adding, quieter, “You didn’t deserve what you got.”
Bruce’s voice was softer than all of theirs—dangerously soft. “You were the heart of this house,” he murmured, like the words cracked him open. “The warmth we didn’t deserve.”
Then Damian stepped forward, small and trembling, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You were my sibling,” he said, staring at you like he was seeing a ghost. “My… treasured one.”
The word “treasured” hung in the air like something fragile.
You stared at them, unimpressed and irritated. You blinked once, slowly, like processing a joke that wasn’t funny. Then your lips curled into an acidic half-smile.
“Oh,” you said dryly. “So they were naïve.” You lifted a brow, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sweet, soft, helpful, never raised their voice—yeah, that sounds like the opposite of me.”
Their faces tightened with discomfort, confusion, hurt—like they couldn’t reconcile the difference between you and the ghost of someone they once knew.
You folded your arms, expression sharpening. “Now tell me,” you said, cold and direct, “where is that version of me now?”
The silence that followed wasn’t normal—it was heavy, suffocating, final. No one answered.
And the look in their eyes told you the truth they couldn’t bring themselves to speak.
The silence stretched far too long, heavy enough to make the air feel thick in your lungs. Bruce looked away first, jaw tightening as if the muscles themselves were trying to hold back the truth. Dick’s eyes darted to the floor, tears collecting but refusing to fall. Jason scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly fascinated by the far wall.
Tim swallowed hard and stepped back a little, like the question physically pushed him away. Damian’s fists curled at his sides, shoulders trembling with something he couldn’t name. None of them tried to speak. None of them even pretended to think of an answer.
You felt your patience snap like a brittle bone. “Why aren’t you answering me?” you barked, your glare sharp enough to cut. “It’s a simple question. Where. Are. They?” Your tone struck the room like a hammer.
Dick winced, actually winced, and shook his head desperately. “We… we don’t talk about that,” he whispered, voice cracking. His breath hitched like he was holding back a sob. “Please don’t force us to.”
That only made your suspicion burn hotter. “Oh, I’m forcing,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I didn’t almost die on a rooftop just to walk into a circus of emotional breakdowns without a damn explanation.” Your voice rose, sharp and furious. “So start talking.”
Jason stepped between you and the others—not aggressively, but protectively. His jaw clenched as he met your eyes. “Drop it,” he muttered. “It’s not something you need to dig into.” But the tightness in his voice told you he was barely holding himself together.
You scoffed, pushing his shoulder aside. “Oh, now you care about what I need?” The bitterness in your tone made him flinch, but you didn’t slow down. “You won’t answer because you know exactly what I’m thinking—and you don’t want me to confirm it.”
Tim’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Reader—please…” He looked at you with a mixture of dread and hope. “Just leave it alone.”
“No,” you snapped instantly, eyes narrowing. “I’m done with the cryptic grief parade.” You took another step forward, cornering them with your rage. “Where’s your Reader? What happened to them? Why are you looking at me like I crawled out of their grave?”
The word grave made the entire room freeze like ice.
Damian whispered, voice breaking, “Don’t say that.” His eyes flashed with something sharp—pain, anger, fear, devotion all at once. “Please. Don’t.”
You stared at him, then at all of them—trembling, terrified, hopeful.
And you realized something horrifying:
They weren’t avoiding your question because they didn’t want to talk.
They were avoiding it
because they couldn’t handle the answer.
You stepped closer, forcing each of them into your line of fire. Their eyes darted away, but you grabbed the silence and ripped it open. “I’m going to ask one last time,” you said, voice low and venomous. “Where. Is. Your. Reader?”
Bruce inhaled sharply as if the question punched him. Dick’s face crumpled in a way you’d never seen—raw, helpless, terrified. Tim covered his mouth with a trembling hand, his shoulders shaking. Jason looked like he wanted to yell, punch something, or run—maybe all three.
Damian whispered, barely audible, “Please stop.” His voice broke on the plea, eyes shining with something too emotional to look at directly. “It hurts.”
But you didn’t back off—not even a step. “Good,” you snapped coldly. “Maybe pain will finally get you people talking.” You jabbed a finger at them, expression hardening. “Tell me what happened to your Reader.”
Jason cracked first. “They’re gone, alright?!” he yelled, voice breaking mid-sentence. The room went dead still, the single word gone hanging like smoke. He looked away immediately, jaw clenched as if he’d said too much.
Dick staggered one step forward, hands raised helplessly. “Please don’t make us say more,” he whispered, trembling. “We can’t do this again.” His voice wavered near breaking point.
Tim shook his head hard, his breath unsteady. “Don’t force it,” he whispered. “We barely survived losing you the first time.” His eyes glistened with a panic you’d never seen in him.
Bruce finally lifted his gaze to yours, and the desperation inside it made your stomach turn. “It doesn’t matter what happened,” he said softly, though the softness felt dangerous. “What matters is that you’re here now.”
You scoffed, harsh and cold. “I’m not them.” The words cut the room in half. Every single one of them flinched.
Damian stepped forward, voice barely steady. “You don’t have to be,” he murmured. “You can be different. You can be harsh. It doesn’t matter.” He swallowed hard. “Just… stay.”
Dick nodded instantly, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. We’ll adjust to you,” he promised desperately. “Just don’t leave. Not again.”
Tim’s voice cracked completely. “You don’t understand what losing you did to us,” he whispered. “We can’t survive that twice.”
Jason’s shoulders slumped, his voice rough and pleading. “Stay. Please. We’ll do better.”
And Bruce stepped closer, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “You don’t have to be ours,” he murmured. “Just don’t disappear. Please...”
You stared at them—all shaking, begging, breaking—and the truth sank in with cold clarity.
They weren’t asking for answers.
They were asking for you.
You stared at them for a few seconds, letting the silence rot between you. Their desperate, broken eyes only made your sarcasm sharpen like a blade. You lifted your brows slowly, as if mocking their grief. “Oh—so they’re gone, huh?” you said, voice dripping with fake surprise. “How’d that happen? Did one of you screw up?”
Dick flinched like you’d slapped him. Jason’s jaw tightened, anger and guilt slamming through his expression. Tim’s breath hitched, the accusation slicing straight into him. Damian’s eyes widened in shock.
You clicked your tongue loudly, shaking your head as if disappointed in a child. “Figures,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “Your Reader was kind, soft, trusting… and what happened? Dead.” You shrugged harshly. “Honestly? Sounds like you guys killed them with your bullshit.”
No one defended themselves.
Dick’s eyes shimmered, Jason looked furious with himself, and Tim looked shattered. Bruce stared at the ground, shoulders tense with guilt. Damian’s lips trembled.
You scoffed again, harsher this time. “They were sweet and naïve, right? Polite? Helpful?” You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And they still ended up in the ground.” The disgust in your voice made them all freeze. “Means you’re the problem. Not them.”
Bruce took a shaky breath, visibly wounded, but didn’t defend himself.
You threw your hands up in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. “God, you guys are something else,” you said with a bitter laugh. “And now you want me to stay here?” Your eyes narrowed into knives. “Why? So you can fuck up twice?”
You stepped back, crossing your arms tightly. “Why the hell would I stay here then?” you snapped, gaze sweeping across their terrified faces. “The one who was here before me? They didn’t even make it.” Your voice dropped into a mocking sneer. "And you want me to stick around as the replacement?”
The bitterness in your voice made them flinch.
Their reactions crumbled—fear, heartbreak, desperation pulling them apart from the inside. Damian whispered something under his breath, Dick wiped at his face, Tim took a shaky step toward you, and Jason froze in place like he didn’t dare speak.
But you cut them off with a raised hand. “I’m not staying in a place that couldn’t even keep their precious little sunshine alive,” you said flatly. “I’m not stupid.”
Jason instinctively moved toward you, but you shot him a deadly look that stopped him instantly. Your voice dropped lower, colder, dangerous enough to freeze the air. “And if any of you try to stop me like earlier,” you warned, “I swear I’ll put you down.”
You pointed at them one by one, steady and unwavering. “All of you. Don’t test me.”
The entire room went silent—terrified, breathless, trembling.
And for the first time since you arrived, they finally understood:
This version of you wasn’t theirs.
This version of you wasn’t soft.
This version of you
would fight back.
The room stayed frozen after your threat, every member of the Batfam too scared to breathe wrong. Their panic rippled through the air—raw, silent, and desperate. You didn’t soften. If anything, their fear only made you more determined to walk out.
Then, quietly, someone moved.
It wasn’t Bruce or Jason.
It wasn’t any of the shaking disasters in front of you.
Alfred stepped forward with the same calm dignity he always carried, though his eyes flicked to your wounds with unmistakable concern. His posture was steady, composed, almost painfully gentle against all the chaos in the room. “Young Master,” he said softly. “Your injuries are still fresh.”
He raised his chin slightly, the calm authority of a man who had held this house together for decades. “The bandages have not even settled,” he continued. “It would be unwise to move any further.”
You glared sharply. “I can walk,” you snapped. “I can leave.” But pain shot through your ribs the moment you shifted, forcing your jaw to clench hard to hide the wince.
Alfred noticed—of course he did—and his expression softened with quiet sorrow rather than pity. “I do not doubt your capability,” he said gently. “But capability is not the same as safety.” His gaze held yours firmly. “Please. Allow us to care for you until your wounds are no longer bleeding.”
Behind him, everyone went still again—hope and fear tangling in their eyes.
You clicked your tongue, hating how cornered you felt. “Don’t ‘please’ me,” you muttered coldly. “I’m not staying because you—or they—want it.”
Alfred didn’t flinch at your harsh tone. “Then stay because I ask it,” he replied quietly. “Just for tonight. Until the bleeding stops.” His voice softened even more. “After that, the choice is yours.”
The Batfam visibly tensed at the idea of giving you a choice—but Alfred held firm.
You narrowed your eyes, the throbbing pain pulsing under your skin. You hated that he was making sense. You hated even more that your body was too injured to argue properly.
Alfred took one respectful step closer. “Rest,” he murmured. “Only for tonight.”
He paused, voice sincere. “Surely you deserve at least that much.”
You exhaled sharply, irritation simmering beneath your skin. The pain in your ribs pulsed again, cruel and insistent, reminding you that leaving right now would be stupid. You hated that Alfred could see it—hated even more that he was right. Finally, with a clenched jaw, you gave the smallest nod.
“Fine,” you muttered, voice edged with anger. “I’ll stay.”
A breath of relief swept through the room—quiet, shaky, terrified of shattering the moment. Bruce’s shoulders slumped, and Tim nearly collapsed from tension. Even Jason visibly loosened his fists.
But you lifted a hand sharply, slicing through their relief before it grew too bold. “But not in that room.”
Instantly, all of them stiffened again.
You pointed back toward the room you had just left. “That place is creepy as hell,” you snapped. “It’s not mine. It’ll never be mine.” Your glare hardened. “I’m not sleeping in a shrine for some dead version of me.”
Dick winced, his breath catching. Jason looked away as if your words stabbed him in the gut. Tim’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Damian lowered his gaze again.
Bruce swallowed, visibly hurting at your rejection of the room—but he didn’t argue.
Alfred stepped in before anyone else could speak. “Of course,” he said gently. “Another room can be prepared immediately.” His tone was calm, but even he couldn’t hide the faint tremor of emotion in his voice. “You will not be placed where you feel… uncomfortable.”
You clicked your tongue. “Good. Because if any of you try to drag me back in there—”
Your eyes narrowed in warning. “I won’t hold back.”
They all flinched.
Even Bruce.
Alfred bowed his head slightly. “Understood.”
The Batfam hovered around you—too close, too attentive—but none dared touch you this time. Their emotions were a tangled mess: relief that you were staying, terror that you might still leave, and something deeper, darker, clinging to every breath they took.
You turned away from them, ignoring how their eyes followed your every movement. “Just show me the damn room,” you muttered. “And nobody talks. I’m tired.”
But as you walked down the hall with the entire everyone trailing behind you like shadows, you couldn’t shake the feeling that staying—even just for one night—
didn’t make you safer.
It made them hope.
And that was far more dangerous.
______________________________________________
Your plan had been simple: survive the night, let the bleeding stop, and get the hell out the moment your legs could hold you. But morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon bled into the next night. Every attempt to leave was met with the same suffocating vigilance—too many eyes, too many footsteps behind you, too many hands ready to grab if you stumbled.
They didn’t say it out loud, but they weren’t letting you go.
They hovered.
They lingered.
They watched you like you were made of glass—or worse, like you might vanish if they blinked.
Bruce checked on you every hour, under the excuse of “monitoring your recovery.” Dick brought you meals you never asked for, sitting too close each time. Tim shadowed you quietly, ready to “help” the moment you reached for anything. Jason blocked doorways without even realizing it. Damian trailed behind you like a silent shadow.
It was annoying. It was claustrophobic.
It was manipulative.
It didn’t take long for their clinginess to get under your skin again. They hovered too close, breathed too loud, watched you like you were some fragile relic. Every time you shifted, half of them moved with you—too eager, too protective, too much.
And you had absolutely no patience for it.
Bruce tried gently insisting that you rest more, placing a hand near your shoulder like you might collapse any second. You shot him a cold, cutting glare that stopped him mid-motion. “You keep this up,” you muttered, voice dripping poison, “and I swear—your Reader would’ve slapped you for being this clingy.”
He froze instantly, breath faltering.
When Dick tried to take your cup before you were even done drinking, you yanked it back with a sharp jerk. “Relax,” you snapped, eyes narrowing. “The other me wasn’t this babied, right? Maybe if you treated them like this, they’d still be alive.”
The cup nearly slipped from his shaking hands.
Tim hovered at your door again, offering help you absolutely didn’t need. You didn’t even bother looking at him this time. “All this effort now?” you scoffed. “Bit late, isn’t it? Too bad the one before me didn’t get this version of you.”
Tim’s breath faltered completely—broken.
Jason “accidentally” blocked your path again, trying to guide you back without making it obvious. Your patience snapped like a dry twig. “Move,” you growled, voice low and dangerous. “Unless you wanna admit you weren’t half this protective when the real one was alive.”
Jason stepped back as if you’d punched him straight in the gut.
Damian approached hesitantly, voice softer than you’d ever heard from him. He asked if you needed anything—hopeful, trembling, desperate. You didn’t soften even a little. “You’re treating me like I’m going to die any second,” you said flatly. “Shame you didn’t treat them like that.”
Damian’s expression collapsed—quietly, painfully.
And finally, when they gathered around you in the living room the second night—hovering again, suffocating again—you decided you’d had enough. Their eyes clung to you like chains, every one of them waiting for your words to save them or destroy them. You leaned back with a bitter scoff and let the knife drop. “Honestly? If you all acted like this with them—the Reader from this world—they’d still be alive.”
Your voice dropped, sharp and cold as steel. “Miracle how regret makes people try.”
Silence crashed into the room—heavy, suffocating, unbearable.
You didn’t apologize.
You didn’t comfort them.
You didn’t soften the blow.
Their grief wasn’t your responsibility.
And their obsession sure as hell wasn’t your problem.
draf: ketika kau merasa mereka annoying atau terlalu memaksa kau akan menyebut 'kau' yang dari univerme reka yang telah mati. "andai dulu kalian kayak gini ke dia.. pasti masih hidup. miris." dan mereka akhirnya terdiam, tak sanggup menyela ucapanmu.
______________________________________________
You didn’t expect anything worthwhile in the storage room—just dust and forgotten boxes. But then you found it: a worn photo album, a stack of tapes labeled with your name, and a camcorder sitting like a relic on an altar. You stopped, staring at the items for a long moment. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across your face.
You sat on the floor and opened the album, flipping through the pages. Every photo showed a version of you that didn’t feel real—bright-eyed, soft, painfully hopeful. The smiles were gentle, almost fragile. It was pathetic…and hilarious.
The tapes were even worse. Their Reader’s voice poured through the speakers—warm, shy, overly kind, apologizing for things that didn’t matter. They laughed softly, they spoke gently, they sounded like someone who believed the world loved them.
You couldn’t help it—you laughed, dark and amused.
By the time you stood, you had already memorized everything: their speech patterns, the soft tone, the little stutters, the gentle posture. You practiced their hopeful smile until it looked disturbingly perfect on your face. And when you put on their old clothes, the transformation was complete.
You looked in the mirror and mimicked their bright, innocent smile. It felt wrong on your face—wrong in the best possible way.
This is going to be so fun...
You practiced the voice next.
The timid “hi,” the shaky “I missed you,” the quiet “Dad, are you there?”
Each time, it became smoother, sweeter, closer to the dead version of you. Until finally, even you had trouble telling the difference.
And then you visited them.
One by one. Quietly.
Like a haunting.
You started with Bruce, because he was the easiest to break without raising your voice. He was alone in his study, hunched over paperwork he wasn’t actually reading, when you slipped into the doorway and whispered in the soft, trembling tone from the tapes, “Dad… are you there? I was looking for you. I’ve been waiting.”
His entire body locked, breath stuttering violently, and you slipped away before he could even turn, leaving him staring at an empty doorway that felt colder than death.
Dick was next. He walked the hallway with that brittle smile he used when he was trying too hard, so you gave him something to crack it open. A gentle laugh—the exact same one from the videos—floated behind him, and he spun around instantly, eyes wet, whispering a shaky, “Reader?” to the empty hall.
You leaned against the corner out of sight, watching his hands tremble as he tried to convince himself he wasn’t hearing ghosts.
Tim was the easiest to corner emotionally. He practically lived outside your door, hoping for any scrap of attention, any sign that you needed him. You waited until he was alone in the library, then breathed, soft and wavering, “Tim… I waited all night… why didn’t you come?” The book slid from his fingers as if you’d cut the strings holding him upright, and he scanned the shelves with panic rising in his eyes, searching for someone who had already walked away.
Jason was different—quieter, heavier, all sharp edges barely holding together. You found him in the dark corridor and hummed the tune you heard on one of the tapes, the one their Reader used to comfort him after nightmares. His shoulders snapped tight, breath catching, and the gun slipped from his hand as he whispered, “Not again… please don’t do this.” You didn’t need to stay; the sound alone stabbed straight through him.
Damian was the one who broke the cleanest. He was in the training room, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white, whispering apologies to no one at all. You stood in the doorway and said, with that perfect imitation of the old Reader’s fragile voice, “Dami… I was scared. Why didn’t you come?” His head jerked up, eyes wide and bright with pain, and you watched the cracks run straight through him before stepping back into the hallway.
By the time you returned to your own room, the entire manor felt like it was holding its breath. Every wall carried the echo of a voice they thought they’d lost forever, and every doorway looked like a place where a ghost had just stood. You peeled off the dead Reader’s smile, tugged at their sweater, and let laughter spill quietly into the silence—low, satisfied, cruel.
Then dinner came.
You sat at the table as if nothing had happened, eating calmly while the others tried not to shake. Bruce could barely look up, Dick’s hands wouldn’t stay still, Tim stayed pale and rigid, Jason kept rubbing his face, and Damian stared at his plate like it might speak. You took another bite, lifted your drink, and asked in the most casual tone imaginable, “Why’s everyone acting so tense?”
No one answered.
No one could.
And you leaned back in your chair, satisfied, because the truth was painfully simple:
You had become the ghost they couldn’t escape—
and every second of their unraveling was entertainment to you.
Someone at the end of the table saw you for what you truly were. Their eyes locked onto you with a horror that needed no words—recognizing not a ghost, not a victim, but something far worse.
Something carved sharper than any demon.
______________________________________________
For a while, tormenting them was effortless entertainment. You wore their Reader’s clothes, copied their voice, and watched them splinter like glass under heat. Their reactions were delicious—fear, anger, disgust twisting their faces every time you slipped into that dead tone. Watching them unravel was the easiest fun you’d ever had.
But then something in their expressions shifted—less horror, more calculation. It crept in quietly, like a draft slipping through cracks in the manor walls. The disgust they once felt began to fold inward, thinning into an eerie sort of fascination. It wasn’t that they stopped fearing you—only that their fear was changing shape.
Bruce lingered too long whenever you used that gentle cadence, as if memorizing the exact sound. Dick stared at your hopeful smile like he wanted to sew it back onto you permanently. Tim absorbed every syllable, tracking patterns in the way you changed your voice. Jason watched your posture soften, and Damian’s eyes followed you as if searching for someone else inside your skin.
They still flinched at your mockery, recoiling like your voice itself was sacrilege. They stiffened every time you mimicked the dead Reader, breath stuttering as if you’d dragged a corpse through the room. But slowly, that horror bled into something colder, steadier, far more disturbing.
Because the more they watched you…
the more they saw possibility.
The possibility of keeping the parts of you they liked.
The possibility of stripping away the ones they despised.
The possibility of turning your mockery into progress.
Your games no longer terrified them.
They inspired them.
They weren’t recoiling from your performance anymore.
They were dissecting it.
Because in their fractured, grieving minds, your impersonation meant something else entirely. It meant you could change. It meant you could slip into the shape of the Reader they lost—even if only to hurt them. It meant softness existed somewhere inside you, whether real or manufactured.
And if you could shift once, they could make you shift again.
They began rewriting their own narratives just to justify it.
Your cruelty became “trauma.”
Your mockery became “a cry for help.”
Your sharpness became “a defense mechanism.”
You weren’t dangerous anymore—you were simply lost.
Confused.
Waiting to be guided back into who you “really” were.
Their voices softened around you; their movements slowed. They watched you with a pitying, hopeful tenderness that made your skin crawl. They no longer saw the nightmare tormenting them—they saw the broken, salvageable ghost of the person they missed.
To them, your performance wasn’t cruelty—it was proof.
Proof that you could be molded.
Proof that you could be brought back.
Proof that with enough pressure, patience, and manipulation…
You could become theirs.
Become who they lost.
Become the Reader they mourned.
And that realization—
that quiet, horrifying shift in their eyes—
was the exact moment your fun died.
Because they no longer cared about enduring you.
They wanted to change you.
And everything in their gaze whispered the same chilling promise:
'If you can pretend, then we can make it real.'
______________________________________________
Your fun ended the moment you saw that shift in their eyes—quiet, slow, and far too intentional. They weren’t horrified by you anymore. They weren’t disgusted or shaken the way they had been at first. They looked at you like you were something they could shape.
The realization hit you like a blade pressed too close to the skin. It wasn’t slow, and it wasn’t gentle—it was a sudden, violent clarity that made your stomach twist in disgust. They weren’t just watching you anymore. They were trying something.
The shift came in small, quiet ways. A cup of tea left too close to your hand, sweetened exactly like the version of you who died. A pill sitting on the counter with a name you didn’t recognize, explained away with a clumsy smile. A hand resting on your shoulder for a heartbeat too long.
It didn’t matter how subtle or stupid the attempt was—you saw it immediately.
And then came the words.
Soft, gentle, suffocating.
Whenever you swore, whenever your voice sharpened, whenever you acted the way you did, one of them would whisper, “Reader… are you alright?” or “You shouldn’t behave like that, sweetheart.” Bruce spoke like he was soothing a frightened child. Dick’s voice trembled with forced affection. Tim tried to correct your tone like you were broken. Damian whispered as if he could coax softness back into you.
Jason avoided meeting your eyes like he couldn’t stand knowing you weren’t the one he remembered.
It was brainwashing dressed as kindness—
sweet poison in a warm cup.
They weren’t talking to you.
They were talking to a ghost they wanted to resurrect inside your skin.
Every soft correction, every gentle pet name, every attempt to steer your reactions slowly, carefully, into something smaller and sweeter…
it was all an effort to erase you.
To pull that dead version of you out of your mouth, even if they had to dig for it.
And the moment you realized they were trying to tame you—
to mold your mind into someone else’s—
something inside you snapped hard enough to shake your vision.
You shoved the cup away so violently the tea burst across the counter. Their heads jerked toward you, eyes wide with guilt and fear and something uglier—hope. You felt their delusion choking the air around you like smoke.
That was when the rage finally spilled over.
“Oh, that’s your plan?” you hissed, your voice dropping into something low and murderous. “Trying to fix me? Soften me? Turn me into your dead little angel?”
Your lip curled, disgust burning hotter than any fear they could offer.
“Tell me,” you spat, stepping forward, “how stupid do you think I am?”
“You trying to poison me?” you snarled, stepping in like you were daring them to breathe wrong. “Trying to soften me up so I turn into that dead little puppet you’re all obsessed with?” Bruce opened his mouth—barely—but you shut him down with a single look.
The whole room froze like you’d slapped them silent.
You moved closer, slow and deliberate, eyes cutting through them like shards. “Do I look stupid enough to fall for that?” you barked out, the anger crackling off you. “You think I haven’t seen people like you? Please.” You laughed—low, ugly, and entertained by their terror.
“what do you think the versions of yourself look like in my universe? Try using your damn brains for once.”
Their faces fell apart instantly—fear twisting with guilt, desperation bleeding into panic. They looked like they wanted to reach for you and run from you at the same time. You didn’t give them the satisfaction of either.
“Pathetic,” you spat. "Cut the act. That fake-ass concern makes me want to puke." you said, voice dripping with disgust.
And just like that, everything shifted again.
Your amusement evaporated, leaving only a cold, burning clarity.
They had crossed a line.
And your patience was gone.
Your fun was over.
And now it was their turn to suffer.
______________________________________________
You had to go.
The manor no longer felt like the playground you’d twisted it into; it felt like a mouth slowly closing around you. The air grew heavier, the walls sharper, and every hallway whispered warnings you could finally hear.
This place wasn’t fun anymore—
it was becoming dangerous.
That truth solidified the moment you finally met the eyes of the one person who never lied about what he saw in you. Alfred. He didn’t look at you like a miracle, a second chance, or the echo of someone he desperately wanted back.
He looked at you with something colder—recognition.
He’d been watching from the beginning, quietly and precisely, noticing every crack in your act the others were too delusional to see. Alfred had already understood what you were: not the Reader they lost, not a fragment of hope returned, but something twisted wearing the face of a corpse. And unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t blinded by grief or longing.
Alfred in your own universe was the same—razor-sharp where others were soft, ruthless where others hesitated. A man who would do anything to protect this family. Anything.
Even if the threat stood inside the manor wearing a familiar smile.
Even if the threat was you.
At first, he’d welcomed your arrival with a quiet, trembling hope. He thought maybe your presence would ease the boys’ grief, give them something to focus on besides the empty chair at the table and the silence in the hallways. He hoped you might be a reminder of the child they lost—a small spark of warmth in a house drowning in sorrow.
But hope died the moment he truly saw you.
You weren’t warmth.
You weren’t healing.
You weren’t even grief in a familiar shape.
You were a demon wearing their Reader’s skin—every gesture bent, every smile sharpened, every word venom-laced. The perfect opposite of the soul they cherished. And Alfred, more than anyone else in this house, understood exactly what that meant.
He didn’t look at you with longing.
He looked at you with judgment.
Because he knew one thing with brutal, unwavering clarity:
If you stayed, his family would suffer.
So one way or another—
you had to go.
“Took you long enough to want to go home,” he said quietly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment since the day you arrived.
You scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Oh, please. You just want me out of your house.” Your voice cut like broken glass, but Alfred didn’t flinch.
He studied you with that steel-edged gaze of his, calm in a way that only made your skin crawl. “What I want,” he murmured, “is what’s best for everyone.” His tone didn’t waver.
“Your family is waiting for you on the other side.”
So you returned to the place where everything had begun—the rooftop. The air there was colder, biting at your skin, as if the universe itself was bracing for what came next. Each step felt heavier, each shadow stretched long and watching. But you kept moving. Staying was no longer an option.
And then you saw him.
Standing at the edge of the rooftop, beyond the tear between universes, was your Bruce—your father, the one from your world. The man who, for as long as you could remember, had only ever been cold to you, harsh with you, unforgiving in every way that mattered. Yet the moment you saw him there—solid, familiar, real—something inside you caved in with a painful, unexpected jolt.
Your breath cracked.
“Father!”
The word tore out of you before you could stop it—raw, desperate, trembling with a longing you didn’t even know you still had. For a heartbeat, your chest tightened so sharply it felt like your ribs would snap.
You hated how much that single sight hurt.
Because compared to the obsession, delusion, and suffocating need in this universe…
you would choose his cruelty a thousand times over.
At least his cruelty was predictable.
At least his reality was real.
At least with him, you knew where the blade would fall.
You took a step toward him, and for the first time since arriving, your chest eased. Your world was right there, waiting. The way home, clear and simple.
But of course—nothing here was ever simple.
They were already there.
The insaner versions of your “family,” standing between you and the portal like a wall of desperate ghosts. Dick’s shoulders trembled. Tim’s eyes were wild. Jason’s jaw was set. Damian stood rigid, fury twisting his face. And Bruce—their Bruce—looked like a man about to lose his soul all over again.
They weren’t letting you go.
Your Father took a step forward, jaw tense, gaze locked onto you with the kind of intensity he never used back home. “Come here,” he said quietly, steadying himself against the tear between worlds. “Now.”
Before you could move, the other Bruce stepped in front of you—blocking your way like a cage snapping shut. The rest of them followed, forming a barrier of trembling hope and unhinged desperation.
They weren’t saving you.
They were trapping you.
And the worst part?
You could see it in their eyes—they genuinely believed this was love.
In the chaos on the rooftop—voices shouting, hands grabbing, Bruce and your father clashing like mirrored storms—you finally slipped past the frantic wall of bodies. Your Father caught your arm with a grip that felt like iron, pulling you through the tear between worlds before anyone from this universe could reach you.
The last thing you saw was their hands reaching for you, their faces twisted in panic and heartbreak.
Then the world snapped shut behind you.
Something clattered on the concrete as you left—a small camera, knocked from your pocket in the rush. They lunged for it like it was the last piece of you they could still hold. And when someone pressed the playback button, the rooftop fell silent.
Your voice spilled out of the tiny speaker, mocking and bright with cruel amusement.
“Honestly? As bad as the versions of you are in my universe, they’re still better than this.” You laughed—sharp, unhinged, delighted. “You’re all so pathetic. It makes me laugh every single time.”
Then the audio shifted—
The tape crackled as your laughter grew louder, wilder, almost musical in its cruelty.
“And you know what? I left a little ‘gift’ in there,” you said sweetly, dripping venom. “In that precious bedroom. Your beloved Reader’s room. Your child. Your sibling.
Your everything.”
not just noise, but violence.
A dresser slammed to the floor with a brutal thud, drawers ripping out and scattering like broken ribs. Glass shattered—picture frames, mirrors, anything reflective exploding under your boots. The sound of splintering wood followed, sharp and intimate, as the bedframe cracked in two like a spine.
Fabric tore in long, merciless rips—curtains, blankets, clothes shredded down the middle. Something heavy toppled and rolled, hitting the wall with a hollow, echoing bang. The walls shook with every impact, every kick, every swing. It was the unmistakable destruction of a room being murdered, piece by piece, until nothing soft remained.
A soft, half–delighted gasp escaped your throat on the recording.
Then your voice returned—light, innocent, almost affectionate.
“Hope you enjoy it,” you purred. “Bye-bye. Mwah.”
When the tape ended, the rooftop was dead silent.
They understood, finally, what you were.
Not a miracle.
Not a second chance.
Not a replacement.
A demon wearing their grief like a mask.
And you had escaped.
______________________________________________
draft:
"lah mati? kok bisa? kalian apa kan pulak dia?"
"dia baik hati, polos. mati pulak kalian buat. berarti kalian yang anjing, jahat kali kalian ah. "
"ogah aku tinggal disini, yang pernah ada aja udah mati. ngapain pulak aku tinggal disini?"
"apa? mau ko racunin aku? ko pikir tolol kali aku berdiri disini? ko pikir nggak pernah aku jumpa orang kayak kau?"
“Mau ko lembekkan aku biar bisa jadi boneka mati yang kalian rindukan itu?” "
"menurut kalian kek mana versi kalian di universe aku? pake otakmu bodat. najis kali ku rasa kalian sok peduli kayak gini"
"seburuk-buruknya versi kalian di universe ku, mereka sepertinya lebih baik dari ini. Kalian begitu menyedihkan.. itu membuatku tertawa setiap waktunya. aku sangat terhibur. WKWK" kau tertawa gila di tape itu, "dan kalia tau.. aku meninggalkan 'hadiah' di sana, di kamar anak itu, di kamar Reader, anak dan saudara terkasih kalian.. ku harap kalianmenyukainyaa. buh byeee muach" kau.. menghancurkan kamar itu.. menghancurkan sisa-sisa dari Reader yang mereka kenal.. kau iblis.
______________________________________________
Author note: i made this cause.. i just want to curse. its been a while, i need to get mad a few times in weeks so i dont feel blank. its actually refreshing, segar banget kalo habis marah.
⸝⸝ i never let ‘em know too much, hate getting too emotional
pairing: 2hollis x dead!fem!reader
warnings/tags: major character death, insensitive jokes? (not really), foul language, breathe.
timeline: march 13th, 2025!! album release dayyyy
in which, after the passing of his girlfriend, hollis can’t see the internet (or life) the same.
────────── ୨୧ ──────────
♫ ser4ph · waco, texas
liked by 2hollis, mothercain, and others
♥︎ 1.6M ☰ 13.5K ↺ 36.5K ⌯⌲ 101.3K
ser4phhq: to our angel @ser4ph, we don’t even really know how to write this. it doesn’t feel real. but it’s with so much love and gratitude that we’re releasing your sophomore album for you. being next to you through all of it, the late nights, the voice notes at 2am, the studio days that turned into mornings. it was the biggest gift. we got to watch you build this from nothing. we got to see how much of yourself you poured into every second of it. this record is you. it’s your heart, your growth, your ache, your strength. you were so proud of it. we’re so proud of you. we hope we’re doing this right. we hope you’d be happy. we miss you more than we can say. we always will. weathering heights. everywhere. we love you. forever. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ ‘rip my heart out’ music video streaming on youtube now. ++ special pop up @ interscope tonight!!
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2hollis: ↺🪽↺🪽
2hollis: one of one, i love you ♥︎ by author
ashnikko: legend!!! 🩵💛💜🩷🤍 miss you much
clairo: ♡🪽
impoppy: rest in paradise angel ♡
yelyahwilliams: we talked about what was next for you so many times, and i hate that we don’t get to see it play out. but this record is proof you were on your way. blasting your decode cover to this day. 💛
mothercain: the best home i could’ve imagined db & wt going to ♡ i adore you forever angel, rest easy, and may we meet again
⤷ ser4phcain: MY WORLDS COLLIDING
⤷ ethelclub: need that crying during sex feature dropped TODAY
⤷ marlsbarklee: @ethelclub & time drags on…
⤷ mothercain: @marlsbarklee hush
alexismunroe: 🖤🪽❗️
glixen: star girl, imysm
ser4phile: the best to wake up to 🩶🩶🩶
ivri0.o: my heart (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡
larissalambert: sweet face ♡🪽 miss you always
fallen4ser4ph: the best to ever do it ♡ i’ll cherish this forever. y/n, rest easy 🪽
antihumanform: ∞︎︎ ♥︎ by author
chessasubbiondo: ❤️❤️❤️❤️
alexandranorton: forever ❤️♾️
taylormomsen: ❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹
amylee: Can’t believe I’m just discovering her now, R.I.P beautiful 🥀🖤 ♥︎ by author
⤷ ser4phliife: OMG 😭😭😭 i just KNOW she’d die if she saw this
⤷ user: OOMF NOT TODAY 😭😭
4ngelbruise: 🪽🪽🪽
ellawoolseyy: forever 🤍
petalspliff: on repeat
weatheredheights: album so good it’s been my username for a year
⤷ user: but it just came out?
⤷ weatheredheights: exactly
ayleenvalentine: my idol and inspiration ♡ so so so excited to listen to you
"Hurry up Drake I don't want to be late." The youngest Wayne called already rushing towards the limousine for tonight's events
"What's the rush baby bird it's still early." Replied Dick chasing after Damian
"Yeah," called Tim "it's just another gala."
"It's not just another gala!" Argued Damian sending a glare at Tim
"Damian has been looking forward to this auction since we got the invite." Bruce Wayne himself interject finally joining the family
"What's up with this auction anyway?"
"<tt> and they call you the detective."
"Now now everyone calm down."
Bruce smiles watching his children bicker, despite everything going on it's nice to have little family moments with them. It gave his chaotic vigilante life a little sense of normalcy.
"The artist that Damian has recently taken an interest with has finally resurfaced and they'll be auctioning off their work for the first time." Bruce took it upon himself to explain. It was nice to see that his child have normal interest for once.
"First time?" Dick muses "Don't artist get money through auctions?"
"Not if they have a sponsor," Damian interrupts "so far only Lex Luthor has their paintings, and we can't lose to him."
It was a fact that the youngest Wayne was a tad irritated by, if only he discovered the artist first, he would've paid double to make sure Lex wouldn't even dream of owning a painting from them.
"I don't get it," rambled Tim "are they even good? I've never even heard of them."
"That's because not many people has seen their work in person," Damian explained "most of the buzz is from old articles and post about art exhibit that they used to have. It's been over 2 years since the public last heard from them, and apparently Lex Luthor wouldn't shut up about having 2 paintings."
Damian got in the limousine, and the rest of the family followed.
"Besides," Damian continues "we need more paintings in the manor, it's starting to look empty."
The family arrived at the venue early, greeted with flashes and cheers for their attention. Damian was too focused on getting to see the paintings to join his family, Dick especially responding to the press oh so politely.
Damian has seen only one painting in person, it was one of Lex Luthor's prized possession. A beautiful urban landscape painting of a nighttime Metropolis, with building lights replacing the stars. It was a masterfully made painting, Damian didn't waste time throwing himself into research looking for clues on who the artist is and especially how he can get his hands on one of the paintings.
It was somehow nostalgic, but he can't quite put a finger on it.
Unfortunately by the time Damian has discovered them they've already hid from the public eye for a little over a year. No news of any exhibit, or gallery not even a single painting. Traces of them are only found through articles and post of long gone exhibits, all of it only displaying the artworks as if the artist themselves is hiding away from the limelight. Until of course now, receiving the invite for the auction felt like a last chance to the youngest Wayne.
Swan
It's the only name he found regarding the elusive artist, he assumes it's a last name. Unfortunately for him it's seems that no matter how early he came he won't be seeing the paintings any earlier than everyone else.
The auctioneer explained how the paintings would be revealed little by little to "grow with the artist" and the actual auction starts after all the paintings are revealed. Which isn't so bad, he'd have a chance to choose which paintings he wants before the auction. If only Tim would stop teasing him about arriving early that is.
"All that fuss for nothing." He said
"<tt>"
"It's not a bad idea to be early," Bruce interject "we have time to socialize and interact with the press before the auction."
"Besides the auction is starting in just 2 more minutes so we're not really that early" added Dick.
The auction-goers are then guided to what they could only call as a hallway with heavy red velvet curtains covering the way.
"Thank you all for your attendance here today," started the auctioneer "we will be starting the auction tour when these curtains are opened, you will be able to view the works like you would a museum and there will be attendants around that would happily answer questions regarding the paintings."
"We will be starting from Swan's earliest to their latest work, the deeper you go the latest the art are." They explained "As such, before we begin we would like to present their very first painting."
Another attendant wheeled in what they could assume as the painting covered by a sheet of white cloth.
"Ladies and gentlemen we proudly unveil, The last dance." They say as they pulled away the cloth
And there stood a decently size painting. On a blue gradient backdrop with smeared paint in various colors and over lapping marks of what seems to be the platform of pointe shoes, Damian could tell only one thing was painted using a paint brush. A silvery metallic ballerina posing in what he remembers is called attitude penché. The metallic paint would avoid the paint splatters leaving gaps, and also making the ballerina looked like it's covered in paint.
It was so evidently made by an amature, with irregular brush strokes and inconsistent line weights. However despite an incomplete tutu the ballerina herself was perfectly proportioned, the muscle of the legs and arms so anatomically accurate.
"I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this." complained Tim amids the applause and cheer that the painting garnered
"Do you like this one Dami?" Dick asked
"It would be nice to have," Damian started "but it's too evident that it's their first painting, I'd rather get one of their later paintings."
"Although for a first painting it's not bad, they have a good understanding of anatomy." he continued.
Attendees were ushered into the next room, where landscape paintings of what seems to be an extravagant garden. Each painting from various different angles, but the same lonesome garden. Although each one better than the last some even showed significant improvement, perfectly showcasing an artist's growing talent and proficiency of their chosen profession it still gave the same lonely feeling of one looking out into a beautiful yet cold garden.
"Doesn't this looks like our garden?" commented Tim
Damian went to look at the said painting. "We don't have those flowers planted, but it does look similar."
"No I think we used to have them," chides Dick "Alfred changed them just before Tim arrived."
"It's weird." voiced Damian
"It wouldn't be so surprising," replied Bruce
"our garden is a sight to behold it was quite famous back then too I'm sure photos of it from old articles are still floating around."
"No not that," Damian went to inspect the paintings closer "It's expected to improve between paintings but these paintings are far too different from each other."
Damian went to look at another painting.
"It's like we're missing some paintings it would be normal usually, but they've only ever sold 2 paintings."
"Don't stress too much about it baby bird." Dick motioned to ruffle Damian's hair only for his hand to be swatted off which the eldest laughed about.
They eventually moved on, the further they go the less garden they see and slowly the subject of the paintings turned to Gotham streets. From peaceful crowded daytime Gotham to it's dark alleyways, until one caught Tim and Dick's attention.
It was a painting of them, well more so a painting of their alter egos. On a precarious ledge sat Red Robin and Nightwing together, many took a special liking to them saying it humanized Gotham's vigilantes.
"Well if they're such a big fan I might just get this one." Tim said amused
"It's a good painting" Damian chimed
"What? Jealous?" Tim teased
"Hardly," he said as he walked to another painting "I have my own."
He stopped at a painting of the current Robin, katana in hand in the streets of Gotham with only a lone street lamp illuminating them. Damian made a mental note of not letting this one go to someone else.
It seemed Swan had become some sort of a stalker, each painting they come across is of the local vigilantes. Of Red Hood in Crime Alley sitting on his bike with a cigarette on his hand, of Batman on a random roof with lightning scarring the night sky, of them fighting the rogue gallery in various places and angles. One painting showed a building with thick green smoke coming out of it and the Batman insignia in the night Gotham sky. The Waynes were enjoying themselves so to say. Until one painting made the Red Robin frown.
"Is your favorite artist a fan turned villain?" He asked as he stared at the decently sized painting of Red Hood, and although it was a beautifully detailed portrait the blood that pooled next to their head left a bitter taste in his mouth.
There's a splatter of blood near the head achieved by embroidering red yarn and thread into the canvas. Even made droplets of blood down their head by sewing red beads of various sizes into it. Red thread sewn onto the ripped parts of the painting.
"That's not the only one" said Bruce as he walked to the other paintings.
Similarly sized and beautifuly detailed was of Robin, a tear onto his cheek sewed shut with red thread, blood running down his nose and dripping down his chin by tiny flower embroidery turning into beads making it look like the blood is escaping the canvas. The one of Red Robin was missing an eye and dripping blood-like beads. While Batman had a hole on his chest where his heart is supposed to be, from the hole red ribbons spilled out of the canvas and frame and some onto the floor.
"Geez baby bird you sure they're not one of your villains?" Said the eldest
"You sure they're not yours?" Retort Damian as Dick went to turn to the painting they were looking at.
Bigger and more carefully painted than the rest was of Nightwing, each stroke and detail almost lovingly painted if not for the fact that there's a big tear across the entire painting. A tear from one end of the painting across the neck and to the other end took a chunk of the painting, it on itself being held together by a sloppily sewn red yarn. The destruction continued as more red thread was sewn onto the canvas and a red spray paint of LIAR across his face.
"Sounds a bit too personal."
"Should I be worried?"
More paintings of them followed a morbid pattern, a whole garden of flowers and spraypainted on a gravestone was Nightwing's insignia. A skull in an alley dumpster with a batarang imbedded into it, a broken katana in the ground with maggots, a shattered red hood helmet with flowers growing on them contrasting the painting of wilted flowers on a coffee mug, and so on.
One painting broke the continuesly morbid and honestly depressing (not to mention a tad too personal) display, another portrait but this time it's not a vigilante, it's a painting of a woman with the same color skin as your mother and the same color and texture of your mother's hair. However in place of the face was a shattered mirror, features were distorted and ones like your eyes were doubled. Bruce wondered where he had seen those eyes before. He looked at the name of the painting. "Ugly Duckling" it simply said.
This painting was followed by yet another beautiful urban landscape painting, but this time of a daytime Gotham. Many showed interest as it showed "Pride for the City" they said as if the painting wasn't titled "Kiss Goodbye".
It seemed that it was the last painting Swan made of Gotham as the next few paintings were of Metropolis. Other than a painting made to look like a movie poster, where it showed a woman barely anyone would recognized without the wig and flashy clothes. Bruce should've looked closer when a nagging voice in his head started pulling at his attention, instead he walked away in favor of looking at the other paintings, oh if only he had looked at the plaque he would've seen the painting was titled "Mother" maybe then it would've jogged his memories better.
Eventually the paintings of Metropolis stopped in favor of another garden, this time much humbler than the first few paintings, but it was warmer, less lonely. Instead of looking out onto a lonely garden, scenes of warm picnics and tea parties painted with sunlight escaping between leaves raining down onto the garden greeted them.
Similar paintings followed of a humble quiet house in the countryside, of tranquil happy memories or a mundane everyday life.
"Here moving forward are the works made in the years that we haven't heard from them," started the auctioneer "so for the first time ever we would like to present Swan's Flower Collection." They pulled away red velvet curtains to reveal a new room, and what a flower collection indeed.
Instead of painted portraits all the framed portraits are made with pressed flowers, and as they go down the corridor pressed flowers become flowers preserved in resin making the portraits leave their respective frame, some even having hands and even full arms leave the frames.
Until eventually the frames where thrown away in favor of full floral sculptures of teapots, of swans, of little ballet shoes. But one set of sculptures is getting everyones attention.
A bust sculpture of all the members of the bat family made of flowers were lined up, as if they come as a little set, as if they belong together.
Each one having white tulips oleander and autumn crocus. Black hellebore and black tulip made up their hair.
Only Batman's bust however had oak leaf decorations going down it's pedestal, the rest had ivy and chrysanthemum.
"We will now be unveiling the last piece," they said as they guided the auction-goers into a covered sculpture, by the curtains length they could already tell that this is their biggest sculpture in the entire collection "we happily present Swan."
They revealed a life size sculpture of a woman, the tops of her head were of pink carnation, going down and blending into hydrangea and yellow roses making up the face. While down their ear to the neck consist of lily, poppies, and hyacinths, and iris, daisy, dandelion, buttercup, and bluebells run down to it's chest. From below the chest to the hips is made up of cyclamen, and snapdragons, while magnolia and snow drops run down to the legs. Hibiscus and lily of the valley made up the knees onto the feet, next the train of the dress made from primrose and peonies and lastly a cluster of forget me not.
Many whispered and clamored, about getting that specific sculpture meanwhile Bruce Wayne himself is slowly spiralling. The nagging voice in his head that begged for his attention now unbearable as the beat of his heart race.
"We will be playing a message from Swan herself to start the auction" they announced as a video was played.
In the background the beep of hospital machines continue as you start to speak "Thank you all for all your support and time," you said as Bruce Wayne's hand started shaking and Dick's eyes widened.
"(Name)?" Dick said catching the attention of the younger ones. They knew the name, but it was hard to put a face to it.
They stared at your emaciated image as you cough with a weak smile, they couldn't say they don't recognize you when they didn't know your face in the first place.
"We will be starting the auction soon, but before that I would like to give a little message to my father who I'm sure is in this auction right now, I made sure of it."
You cough more violently than the last.
"From the ballet shoes you bought to the paint brushes I broke, all of it would be paid by the earnings of this auction." You said followed by the applause of the auction-goers while your family start to panic "If I can't have your love I'll try to buy your time instead, please just this once grant me some of your time to say goodbye to your daughter in her wake."
Gasp were heard because of the revelation as the Waynes start to spiral, the situation sinking in while the auctioneer starts, Damian is too busy trying to breathe to realize the auction started when Bruce spoke up.
"I'll buy it, all of it no matter how much!" your father exclaimed panicking which resulted to various reactions from the other auction-goers. Ahh yes the press would surely love this tomorrow, but Bruce Wayne didn't have enough time to care nor worry about that now. Just like how he used to not have time to worry about little old you.
He had to leave he had to go see his daughter. He had to see for himself if it was true.
Bruce walked desperately out of the venue his children too busy trying to get their bearings to follow, but before he left the premises, before he got to his vehicle and away from here, a staff had called him.
In an empty hallway away from everyone a staff handed him an envelope, which he accepted with shaking sweaty hands, and with no explanation on what it was they left.
Bruce almost didn't want to open it, but he needs to, He HAD TO.
In shaky unfamiliar handwriting was an address, and he didn't have to be the world's best detective to guess what it was for.
Finally the rest of his family catches up to him as he stand there, with shaking hands and starring at the address.
"B this can't be true," said a panicking Dick "this has to be some sort of prank."
"Yea like another trick to get our attention," added Tim "she does that, remember?"
"When did you last see her?"
Everyone turned to Damian almost stunned.
"Do you-- do you know when she was last at the mansion?"
Silence fell between them.
"...I don't know." Bruce admitted
Damian swears his heart skipped so many beats that it might as well stop, as the situation finally sinks in.
You're gone.
Wordlessly they all run back to their limousine, panicking and desperate.
Bruce himself was behind the wheel, speeding and running a red light or two, but he didn't care. Right now, for the first time in forever he only has one thing in mind. You.
They eventually arrive, you made sure that it wasn't too far from the event. Bruce run passed the decorations you organized as his heart thundered in his chest, past the people you invited, to the coffin you had made. He stared down at you. His daughter laying in the flowers you arranged and the clothes you picked out.
Your cold, emaciated corpse was hauntingly serene as if you weren't actually dead, just sleeping, taking a little nap in this cursed flower filled coffin on yours. But all Bruce can think about is how he couldn't believe how much you'd grown since he last saw you.
The realisation of this finality hit your family hard, Dick was the first to cry.
Bruce clenched his fists, his eyes fixed on your coffin. Damian is shaking as his eyes starts to blur not quite knowing what to do.
And Tim, oh dear Tim wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.
Dick's mind races through the few memories of you. He recalled the way small little you would try to get his attention the rare times he'd visit. You'll make little blue bracelets for him, ones he'd forget to even bring back. He should've visited more the way he did for Damian, should've treasured every gift you made for him.
All Tim could think about was the way he'd dismiss you, how he'd push you away and call you boring, how he ignored you when you bring him coffee or check up on him.
Damian was the worse out of all of them. He only had one memory of you, his one and only sister by blood. He remembers you enthusiastically introducing yourself, and he remembers pushing you down the stairs you met in. He remembered how everyone made sure you two won't be interacting anytime soon because of that.
While Bruce steps back watching his family fall apart. He had no one to blame but himself, all of this was the result of his absence, his neglect, and his failures as a father.
"I didn't know Miss (surname) was acquainted with the Waynes."
Only Bruce turned, his children too busy crowding your coffin to pay attention. There stand Lex Luthor. Wait--(surname)? Wasn't that your mother's surname, were you so hurt that you threw away the Wayne name?
"It such a shame," Lex said "so much talent gone just like that."
Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, he has heard from Damian that Lex Luthor had sponsored you, were you close enough to invite him?
"How long have you been here?"
"Just an hour, but the wake would last 3 days, apparently she wanted to make sure her father comes." Replied Lex
The realization made Bruce sick. Lex Luthor was here before him. Lex knew about the funeral of HIS own daughter before HIM. Lex Luthor of all people was in his daughter's funeral while he was wasting time somewhere else when he should've been here with HER.
Oh the irony didn't escape him.
Bruce Wayne had to cover his mouth as a shaky breath escaped him. He then buried his face on his hands as his heart races trying to calm himself. Shaking hands combed back his hair as he face Lex.
"Thank you for coming, but we'll be ending the wake early." He said as he walks toward your coffin.
"Wait-- what?" Lex follow behind "Surely you understand how rude it would be---WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"
Bruce has brushed aside his children to come pick up your corpse. For the first time in his life, your father held you in his arms. Your body was cold and light, as if all the life had been drained from it.
Lex had grabbed his arm "Mr. Wayne please put her down this is disrespectful to everyone here especially to her."
"Let go."
"Do you think you can just---"
"I need to bring my daughter home!"
The revelation rang across the whole room, Lex Luthor was shocked as he stared at a now crying Bruce Wayne. All he can do is slowly let go of his arm. Bruce didn't waste time walking out of the venue his children following behind.
Your father held your icy body close to him, gently yet tightly against him, your body stealing the warmth of his, only for it to vanish into nowhere. The heavy yet hollow anguish in his chest was hard to articulate, yet that wasn’t as important as bringing your head closer to lay a kiss on your temple, the first one he’d given you since you were born. Bruce kept your head there to lay his forehead against yours as if trying to find a glimpse of connection that has rotted by years of absence. No amount of tears that silently flowed down his eyes onto your cheeks would lessen the weight of regret and guilt in his heart.
Apologies would spill out of his mouth about how he failed you as a father, how he should’ve been there for you, watching you grow, holding your hand while it was still small and warm. How he should’ve loved you properly, how he should’ve —; he couldn’t continue, it hurts too much.
He wanted to say more, to open up his chest and spill everything onto you, to convey his regret and the love he had never been able to give you. But words seemed inadequate today, almost insignificant in the face of your dead body.
Words simply couldn’t undo the years of neglect, his indifference, and his lack of affection towards you, his only daughter; his apologies alone couldn’t bring you back. When words fail you, action spoke louder. And in his case, his actions, or rather his inaction, didn't speak but screamed.
He finally reached the limousine; he set you down on one of the seats, buckling you up; he sat by your feet, staring at you with remorseful eyes as if he was trying to carve the image of you into his brain, as if trying to make sure he’ll never forget about you again. His hand reached for your face, caressing your frigid cheek; his touch that used to be fleeting now lingered.
Your father’s hand would move to your hand, holding it tightly, treating it as if it were sand that would somehow slip away from him and be lost forever. Reality was cruel and unyielding. He has already lost you, and all he is left with is regrets and guilt.
It wasn't until his other children started to get on the limo did he decide to leave, with Dick and Damian sitting beside you while Tim sat across you.
You would never know how Jason would come home almost losing his mind that night after Tim called him to tell him the news.
Never know how he'd grab Bruce's lapels as he scream to him about how he could let this happen again.
You would never know how Tim would lose sleep looking for every trace of you that was left out there.
You would never know how Dick would bring your hand to his face laying a kiss on your palms as he cried endless apologize against it.
You would never know how Damian your one and only younger brother, would spill tears down your face as he held it with both hands begging his sister to come back.
Dazai sat at the small desk in his room. It was around eight pm, the streets of Yokohama were full of people eager to go back home to their families and loved ones. The stresses of a long workday began to ebb as traffic drifted through the roads. He however sat alone, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
This was around the time you would have rung at his doorbell, a bag of homemade dinner hooked around your arm as you called out to him in your sweet voice. Then he'd answer, even on the worst days because you looked forward to this just as much as he did.
Then sitting on the table, he'd take out a bottle of liquor, didn't matter what, somedays Sake, and when he decided to be fancy it would be Japanese whiskey. Then you'd talk about your day, he mostly listened. You talked a lot, he just liked hearing your voice.
Today however the doorbell stayed quiet. No home-made dinner, no you. He hoped if he took out his fanciest bottle then you'd show up. He could lure you in with a flirty smile. But he wasn't capable of raising the dead was he?
He laughed bitterly to himself, taking a sip of his whiskey. It made its way through his throat in a familiar burn. This was simply the price of letting someone inside he should have seen it coming. He could now go back to being his usual self, keeping everyone at just a little distance from his heart.
But there was still a part of him that missed the warm dinners and warmer company that only you could ever bring.
Hello ghost I'd like your hcs and thoughts on something
How would dazai react to his s/o dead from suicide?
(mainly out of morbid curiosity) but can you imagine how badly he would have taken it? Especially considering oda has technically killed himself as soon as he decided to fight gide.
oh, i am more than willing to entertain your morbid curiosity before bed because i think about this sometimes like a depressed psycho. let me add more to the pain: gn!reader was his fiancé and he found you. trigger warning, read at your discretion.
✝︎ when he walks into the bathroom, seeing you laying on the floor, he already knows - it doesn't stop the initial shock, even going into some denial despite it all.
۫ ׅ he shakes you, useless, but he can't rule out the possibility
۫ ׅ his hands tremble
۫ ׅ his eyes are already lining with tears
۫ ׅ wonders if there's enough time to get you to yosano
۫ ׅ he shakes you again - nothing
✝︎ when it hits him you aren't moving, not breathing, his gaze is scanning for the culprit - pills. the simplest way.
۫ ׅ "that's not fair, my darling. we were supposed to go together" - said while on the brink of weeping, unable to breathe properly
۫ ׅ he thinks he had done something wrong, even though he knew you were just as depressed as he was - he will now never get that reassurance
۫ ׅ brushes hair from your face - you're not even cold yet
۫ ׅ wonders if there's enough for him to follow you
۫ ׅ sits down with his back against the wall, staring ahead, zoning out, tears falling that he is unaware about
✝︎ stays in the bathroom with your lifeless body for a while, unmoving.
۫ ׅ his mind is blank
۫ ׅ his phone might ring, he ignores it - doesn't hear it, actually
۫ ׅ has fleeting thoughts here and there on where you got the medication to begin with
۫ ׅ how is he going to break it to your family, your friends, the agency
۫ ׅ should he follow you
✝︎ when he finally starts regaining consciousness, he just breaks down
۫ ׅ he lost another thing he wanted most
۫ ׅ feels hopeless
۫ ׅ believes he will never have the happiness he knows he doesn't deserve
۫ ׅ eventually screams when he remembers you're just lying there - you're there but not and it's driving him crazy
۫ ׅ clutches you in his arms and hates he can't hear your heartbeat
✝︎ he is internally fighting himself whether to follow you to the afterlife like he always promised or abide by oda's dying wish to be better.
۫ ׅ you made him truly feel he had gotten better
۫ ׅ you're gone
۫ ׅ oda's gone
۫ ׅ he misses you both so much already
۫ ׅ he wants to see you two again
✝︎ the neighbor finds him and has to call the emergency number to get the coroner.
۫ ׅ he won't let them take you - they had to rip him off your body
۫ ׅ threatens to crawl into the bag with you - the professional psychologist doesn't know what to do to help soothe him like they're trained to
۫ ׅ begs them to euthanize him - they're planning to admit him
۫ ׅ has to be held back from climbing into the back of the coroner's car
۫ ׅ kunikida somehow ended up there just as the doors closed and has to be the one to console him - he doesn't know what to say other than convincing them not to send him away
✝︎ he misses your funeral.
۫ ׅ he couldn't face your loved ones - he didn't have it in them to tell them he couldn't save you
۫ ׅ he sits at your grave in his suit he had prepared for the wedding that will never happen after everyone else has left and the sun is going down
۫ ׅ he tells your ghost you're selfish for making him love you then leave him
۫ ׅ he's jealous you get to see oda before him
۫ ׅ he sleeps there all night
✝︎ he never fully recovers
۫ ׅ he doesn't bother with sleeping around
۫ ׅ he doesn't bother with flirting
۫ ׅ he wears your engagement ring as a necklace
۫ ׅ brushes off any stranger that tries offering him consolation
۫ ׅ everyone at the agency is secretly on suicide watch rotation - he knows
✝︎ he never comes to a decision on if he wants to follow in your steps.
۫ ׅ you'd be waiting there for him to yell at him if he did - like a hypocrite
۫ ׅ oda might be disappointed too - like a hypocrite
✝︎ he hallucinates you.
۫ ׅ everyone just lets it happen - "he's going through the unimaginable"
✝︎ he isn't ever really the same, honestly.
۫ ׅ he'll never know why you did it - you didn't leave behind a note
these are just my headcanons on what he would do if someone he deeply loved as a significant other, so much so he wanted to marry them, committed. may be out-of-character, but a man put through the worst once already going through it again can only hold himself together so many times.
-ghxst
i love being sad.
tag list//: @dazaisfavoritemistake @luanniidae @starr3i
Damian had said flatly. Jason had just told him that he had a ghost girlfriend in the afterlife before his grandfather’s intervention. Damian even called it a Romeo and Juliet knockoff story when he first heard it. How ridiculous was that thought? A ghost girlfriend from a different era? Yeah, right, and he’s Galileo. Damian thought Jason was messing with him. Until he was brought to your grave and met your translucent form.
“May i bid why thou brought a child tonight, mine love?”
You asked the second you saw Damian. Jason’s eyes slid back to Damian to see him barely concealing his surprise. Jason with his love for classical literature and playwrights understood you perfectly, so you felt no need to adjust your outdated speech as a result. That didn’t mean anybody else understood it, however.
You almost laughed when Damian drew his sword as you approached. He frowned when you phased right through the blade, and lowered it when he realised how useless it would be in a fight.
Damian was confused further when Jason could actually touch you. He watched Jason wrapped one of his arms around your waist as if that wasn’t unusual. How was he touching your incorporeal body? Jason said with a dramatic gesture,
“This is the demon’s brat.”
You snickered and poked Jason in the side. This tiny tot was the grandson of the demon’s head? Jason couldn’t hide his responding smile and looked at Damian as if he was waiting for his little brother to run away. Damian merely sheathed his sword with a scowl.
You let Jason pull you into his side and immediately leaned back into his chest. Damian was still confused about why Jason can touch you when nothing else can, but he was willing to accept that his half-dead brother would have his foot in the spirit world. What he wasn’t willing to accept was why Jason can touch you, but not him. You’d think the Al Ghul’s would also be able to interact with the dead, right? Wrong.
“Explain.”
Damian demanded. He hated the shrug he received. How don’t you know? Why haven’t you asked questions? Did you not consider it a big enough deal? Neither of you looked bothered and the couple certainly weren’t complaining. Imagine your surprise when you were sent to Jason and his surprise when he could actually touch you like you had a physical body.
Damian didn’t like that answer, but he didn’t know enough about dying given how his family uses the Lazarus Pit like a swimming pool. Jason made his afterlife home and seemed frustrated when he was taken away from the life away from life that he built and enjoyed. He found a girlfriend, a home, and met his guardian angels, who apologised profusely and explained that they weren’t sure whether or not he’d want to survive that traumatic event. He had everything he could have ever wanted or needed until he was dragged back.
“Haply I’m supposed to haunt him. The sword i granted him didn’t send me back to the afterlife.”
You said off-handedly. Jason would never banish you with his newly acquired sword. Jason’s arms tightened around your waist at the thought. You seemed able to come and go as you pleased, and you are certain it’s no coincidence.
You had found a backdoor in the afterlife that allowed you to move between realms. Your guardian angel was obsessed with your love life with Jason and likely covered for you whenever you leave realms. Jason didn’t feel like questioning it, and you were scared to ask anybody who would know. You kissed Jason’s shoulder as you leaned back into his embrace. Jason kissed the top of your head in response.
Damian turned around and walked away. He did not need to watch his older brother act all lovey-dovey with a medieval ghost. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't Jason let go of a fleeting romance? Damian was at a loss. It left him stunned and it spawned swirling thoughts that he had never questioned before. He’d never seen love that lasted past getting what is needed out of the other person. Damian would never admit it, but he smuggled a couple of romance novels from the library with a scowl and angrily read them as if they were a textbook.
"Doth thou regard we traumatised him enough?”
You asked once Damian was out of earshot and Jason gave you a contemplating hum in response. He was enjoying your cold body in the boiling hot sun like a husky in the snow. You smiled fondly as he moved to fully encompass your body. He loved being tall in these moments. You were an ice blanket that he held closely with a relaxed sigh escaping him.
“Nah, he won’t be traumatised so easily. He will bitch to mommy and get sent to Gotham. The hereditary paranoia will bring him to Arkham if he keeps idolising B.”
You laughed as he lightly kissed your forehead. Jason tried not to think too hard about Damian’s inevitable disappointment and just hoped Damian didn’t get crushed like an ant when he gets sent to Gotham. Jason’s arms tightened slightly around your waist.
“Let’s go to my room, pipsqueak. I’m leaving for Gotham today and I’m dragging you with me.”
You frowned in thought. The spirit of Gotham won’t like you coming into her city, but you might be able to sneak in with Jason. Jason shook you out of your thoughts by pulling you along to his room. Truthfully, he was already packed and planned to leave in the morning; he simply wanted to cuddle with you in peace.
