#yarttalk asks

[yarttalk]

Is this going to have any Yandere Batfam? Or will it be like MC is the villain and the Batfam have to ‘defeat’ them or whatever?

At first, Bruce sees it as a kid needing help; it turns into yanreader learning nothing about improvement (besides maybe letting more people in & how to act normal) and batfamily slowly growing attached to them, which includes their behavior too. It goes from “let’s help this poor misguided child” to “hey my kid is just a little different”, forgetting the whole point of everything was to stop this nonsense. I wouldn’t say they’d go as far as to murder (besides the obvious ones) but they’d definitely be wayyy more lenient towards reader.

Bruce wasn’t used to having a shadow.

It wasn’t his actual one. He was more than used to that, and the shadows that lurked within Gotham knew his name. It was the newly aged adult that seemed to cling to his skin longer than his cologne. Practically unnoticeable but there, his newly acquired first born stuck to him like velcro. He didn’t mind, lord knows he had a lot he had to make up for, but he couldn’t help but hear the chirps from inside the nest.

“Father, they’re an adult! If they cannot mature to their age level, then perhaps all that can help them is medical assistance.”

“You’re usually more cautious about things. You don’t even know their mother.”

“Look at how your other brat with a crazy mom turned out.”

“Maybe they just need some time to warm up? Arms length can still feel like a hug, B.”

“…different.”

He tried to listen, but he still couldn’t help but slip the kid a credit card without much of a limit anyways— but it sent him notifications when a concerning amount was spent at a time after much insistence from Tim. Tim had many great points in this conversation; he didn’t know their mother and the only reason it was ruled a death was because she had a history of drugs and prostitution, the same for every victim in that industry. There was no body, or blood, or even a witness to identify her somewhere outside her house before she was murdered. It was relieving to Bruce that the police somehow didn’t suspect the kid. A bit heartbreaking, when that also meant they didn’t put much thought into the ruling, but that just made his kids all the more weary.

Tim was convinced she was hiding away with the hope their kid could take some of the money for her, while Jason assumed they were just some shit kid-now-adult who found an easy way to an early retirement. Dick wished for the best, and Cass shrugged. Bruce simply tried his best to get the best outcome, as he always did, and planned his ass off to make all his birdies happy.

He let Tim monitor, and thanked him for his dedication. Bruce could see his prideful preen as he walked away to start patrol. Jason got to get his few cents in about college only throughout the day, which had to be kept minimal at dinner. He understood how his son felt about college, and he believed both his biological kids should go; a bit of familial pressure might be a bit of an ice breaker. Damian didn’t get the same luck, as he was too mean; but he did get to claim the art studio as his now instead of the house’s, so he isn’t too unsatisfied.

Dick, and especially Cass, didn’t expect much; which was as much as a blessing as it was a curse. He didn’t know what they were feeling besides what they told him— which wasn’t much— or what he picked up. He’s sure Dick wanted a bit more independence from an adult, if not fully graspable from his subtle nudges; but Cass made no move but to stare. He could only pray that they warmed up to each other.

If warming up to one another meant being in the fiery pits of hell balled up in winter gear so big you were using it to sumo wrestle, they definitely had it. It was a confusing experience of “you’re not what I didn’t like about you, but I still can’t like you”. Regardless, his children were trying, which made him happier than ever, and he’s sure his children making weird faces at him last dinner was from the look of pride that overtook his features when the thought first crossed his mind. However, the sense of intrusion that had dampened the batcave after realizing someone had access without them knowing was still setting his children off, if the way their eyes lingered for anything else that’ll catch them off guard was any indication.

His kid had caused a wave of distrust to hit their house, and everyday he got more salt than pepper in his beard when he finally sat down in his office and thought over what he was going to do. How he was going to transverse the sudden sticking to each other’s side his biological kids seemed to do, or the effects of Jason’s exposure. Tim seemed obsessed with always keeping a tab open of their internet history on the bat computer, and Cass would use an unknowing Dick to distract Damian and take his child from all of them— even if Dick would try and bargain his helping role in the heist allowed for them to have a day out. All he could do was hold his head in his hands and pray things got smoother.

Bruce never believed in praying. It didn’t seem to do much.

When simply waiting for things to happen, you miss more than you gain. Bruce never got to learn this the hard way; Bruce Wayne planned for everything and left nothing. Maybe this time, though, he could wait for something. He could wait for their walls to crumble. He could wait for the tides to force them his way.

Or, he could do it himself, like he always did. So, he did.

Which brought them to where they were now. Bruce’s feet carry him through the winding halls, his biological eldest the only one on his mind. Passing their room— their door taken off the hinges provided a perfect opportunity for an easy peek— is a normalcy now; routines with rounds had been implemented not long after the discovery, keeping everyone at bay. They sit with their head against the side of their bed, hands shaking as they rest in their lap. They were praying; frantic jumbles of tumbling words falling from chapped lips with more tears threatening to follow behind and repaint the dried streaks discoloring their cheeks. Their private school uniform lays in ruins on the floor of their room; ripped apart with their bare hands and drenched in the paint Damian had forced them to receive from him after Bruce approved of the “perfect hobby for their bloodshed”.

His hunkering frame fills the doorway, and his presence is noticed immediately. His child tenses, frantically wiping their eyes before realizing the uniform’s damage was already visible and bursting into hot tears. Bruce barely has time to react before they’re launching themself at him, arms wrapping around his child’s frame. He strokes their hair as they sob louder, body coiled tighter than a string as they try to breathe through the attack of sudden hiccups. They don’t talk; they simply stay there with their eyes closed and incoherent mumbles escaping in hysterical bunches. Bruce pretends not to know what they're doing, or talking about.

Bruce didn’t care much for prayers. What could they do.

slop or yop cuz idk if this is getting what's inside my head outside correctly because its supposed to hint at the fact that bruce did something to sabotage their school experience

in the future im hopefully rewriting everything i have posted & will be posting bcuz this feels hard to post

taglist??!

@wegottastayfocus, @buisnessrasons,

[yarttalk]

I really like the yan reader concept and how you wrote it :D don’t think I’ve seen someone write reader’s mother as the original yandere so it’s really interesting ^_^

I can imagine a situation where reader protects the family during a crisis or something, but the family doesn’t protect the reader. The reader doesn’t mind at all and keeps doing it. It is only after the reader collapses does the family realize the lengths reader took to protect them

Anyway, I like your work and I can’t wait to see your future stuff :>

Hiii, oh my gosh!! thank you so much! im soo excited to actually turn my passion for writing into a hobby. I was worried it was already used or it’d be a flop, but im so proud of how it’s doing! I hope I see you some more too, so don’t be afraid to drop more asks

im sorry if this isnt specifically what youre asking for, but until i further develop the story with actual chapters & see where this idea leads, i dont really envision yanreader ever becoming a vigilante; they don’t even know at first— hence why it would be hard for a scenario like this to play out in a like more physical-protection type of way if you understand what i mean? I really love this ask, though, so its definitely canon

Warning! The actions interpreted within this work of media are not intended to be deemed acceptable or a recommendation of action; please care for yourself and others at all times!

There always seems to be blood bags on hand.

It’s something Damian Wayne can’t help but notice. He knew where they came from, when he was in the league— parasites. Those his grandfather deemed unworthy. Innocents at the wrong place at the wrong time.

At the time, it didn’t bother Damian. It kept him alive, and why would he care for those who he didn’t need to name? Why name them at all when it was his that should be ruling the world? Now, however, he knew he had to leave those ideologies behind. Batman had taught him better.

So when despite how many bullets pierced through their skin, or blades cut too deep, they always had a pack of blood waiting for them. The blood was always O-; something none of them were, at least from Damian’s knowledge. It led him to wonder, but ultimately came to the conclusion that his father must purchase the blood. Of course he would. He wouldn’t be so careless, after all. 

That’s why Damian’s never got anything other than angry when his little stature got to his disadvantage, and some lowlife thugs manage to get the jump on him. He knows that despite how much blood he loses regaining his ground— the way that’s familiar despite his teachings; by proving your worth— his father will get him standing once again in no time.

There were enough to keep Jason alive that one time.

All Red Hood could feel was pain. His side thrummed with the pulses of some sort of meta-bullet— and he internally swore to personally use his own weapons against him, whoever pushed this into the streets— releasing a shock through his abdomen every few seconds. Not enough to kill; it was meant to stun. This was either some lousy bullet meant to be a test run or a targeted attack, and Red Hood didn’t know which one sounded more annoying to deal with.

He wasn’t stupid, though. He knew he had to get out of here, and to Alfred. The man was always willing to help Jason out, and despite Jason feeling guilty about it, he tried to make it up in the small ways he could. With a loud grunt thankfully drowned out by the noise of the men leaving the scene, Red Hood launches himself up and out from behind his cover, gritting his teeth to prevent any more noise. Jogging to his car was the blessing of pure adrenaline, and he doesn’t give himself the blessing of expelling the throw-up until his motorcycle hazardously stops in the batcave’s driveway, narrowly avoiding filling his helmet with the pasta he cooked before his slow starting patrol. Alfred was waiting since Jason pressed the emergency button he kept for situations just like this, helping the disoriented man to the med bay.

The process is dizzying, and even all the drugs Alfred pushes into him fails to completely drown out the pain. It’s when he wakes up 37 hours later, too hungry to do anything but eat and listen to the explanation of how vital his healing process is due to the extent of his blood transfusion— something that was lucky enough with his blood type. Jason Todd tiredly thanks Alfred as he places his bowl once filled with a hearty soup down before knocking out right after, and Alfred is none the wiser that he meant it more than the impromptu life saving surgery and food.

No one knew?

That Tim tried his best to improve himself everyday. He understands his previous behaviors: the stalking and, at that point, obsessive following. The things he has done in the past are concerning for the best terms, but he does try his hardest. Which is why he doesn’t abuse his powers. As a Robin, retired or not, it was important to be just.

Abusing his powers, sadly, included using the bat computer to stalk everyone in the family online at most hours of the day. So, yes, he has improved at this point. What they do is their responsibility, and he understands the betrayal that’ll include. He would hate to be online-stalked himself, after all. From the random animals Damian will snag from whatever Bruce frets about— from the materials or even ideas of their gadgets or the stacks of emergency items looking like shipments over bulks— were none of his business. He didn’t need to know every one of their acquaintances, and maybe it was for the better. It was better to be safe than sorry.

So, yes, he was getting better at privacy and respect. Everyone could have their secrets. He has his, after all. The weight of not backseat driving to keep everything steady, to ensure people’s happiness, was freeing. Besides, it helped his guilt when enemies got too close— when his smarts still couldn’t match up to the sheer skill of some, and he had to retreat. It was his most embarrassing secret. He was a runner.

He wasn’t brute strength like Jason, or overtaking skill like Dick. Even Damian was carefully woven to be able to stand through even the worst storms— literally. So, yeah, Tim Drake was embarrassed when he had to run back to Batman when too hurt; like he was still that little Robin.

But it was Batman who was always a step away as soon as he arrives, sweeping him up and into the med bay every single time, like he was remembering that same baby bird. So when he wakes up to Bruce still in the room watching over him despite his apparent time knocked out, he’s just glad he’s alive another day.

The source?

Was never questioned from Alfred’s end. He was tired of Bruce’s escapades not only wearing the man himself, but Alfred along with him. Leaving gave him the calmest week he had in a while, but since returning for his— regardless of everything— child, Alfred wasn’t as worried for his health as he was Bruce.

His friend took his departure in full stride, immediately improving and welcoming Alfred back with a warm hug. Since then, Alfred was no longer in charge of transfusions for Bruce or stressing over their lives; when Bruce straightened himself out, his kids followed like magnets.

Even the new one fell in line quickly, every bit of Bruce’s kid with the gloomy silence and knowing eyes, even if a bit more unsettling. Alfred would say he knew troubled kids well, and that young soul was definitely different from his usual bunch; definitely a trouble for his son.

However, Bruce rose up like the man knew his growing boy would, and he was proud. There weren’t any second questions— Alfred barely cared to ask the first one. Wherever his son got it from, he knew it was safe.

Who was there?

Well known knowledge about Nightwing was that he was at a lot of places at once. A less known fact about Dick Grayson is that he’s at even more places. Balancing all that he has to do, from nightly jobs to the ones during the day, and heaven forbid the familial duties plaguing him. He doesn’t have the time or the want to be a mini-Bruce: anxious and obsessed with knowing. He was content when answers went unanswered, when people didn’t know what to say or how to say it correctly.

Dick Grayson was known for bouncing back even better than ever. From when he was a flying Grayson to now as he fights for the streets of Gotham— as an officer this time. Nightwing was known for bouncing into battle, something The Titans picked up quickly despite Dick’s best efforts. His team was strong but not invincible, so when they took a leap too large and missed the bar— his mother’s face flashes within his mind, blurred from time(forgetting! Youre forgetting!)— there he was on the other side, like the act promised; like he promised, ready to catch them, Bruce’s blood supply stocked within their own tower.

“—shut up, Cassandra is speaking.”

Cass noticed a lot of things. She learned everyone's passcodes from glances of the person’s finger movements, favorite family members from how loose someone’s shoulders got around therm— least favorites, even, from the mental debates she could practically hear. Yes, even Bruce’s— and even the one less crate in Bruce’s shipments. One thing Cass was confused about, however, was the enigma that was Bruce’s eldest child. His oldest biological child, anyways.

They arrived at the manor suddenly, like a gust of Gotham air knocked the doors open: heavy and lingering with the glum following the smog haunting their lungs. Cass watched silently, sticking to the shadows before slipping into rooms to hear her siblings. They were firm with their belief, and she would stick with them. She observed on her own, and slowly built on that, but her siblings were allowed their own hypotheses.

She could never find a firm hypothesis for why their eyes seemed dulled; a life they barely seemed to have drained from them even more somehow.

“…I didn’t know my shipment stopped.”

They knew the voice like the lines on their palm, but every scratch and scar lingering on their skin somehow felt more telling than whatever was coating his words. Their thoughts are knocked sideways when hands help them up to take two pills and a bottle of water, their eyes wearily peeling open to the figure of Bruce Wayne looming at the foot of their bed. They don’t understand what’s happening. All they know is that judgement day has arrived and for the first time, their mother isn't there.

“Take those. Then, we’ll talk.”

whewww. can we see i love my em dashes?

other asker, if youre here, im almost done with yours! ive just been a bit busy and all the time i had by myself finally i just couldnt write too good. this was forced out so please lmk if it needs editing or if it doesnt seem like too realistic. thank you everyone for the support, and lmk if you wanna hear some other ideas i have or have any of your own

[yarttalk]

How old mentally would you say the reader is? I find this au really interesting thus far.

This was such an interesting ask! It had me genuinely thinking for a minute about what made sense for my idea, so thank you for this!

Mentally in the logic department, I'd say reader is an intelligent 9 year old. At the end of the day, they graduated high school with good grades. However you want to envision them, sure; but they're not a failure. Socially, however, I'd say closer to a 6 year old. Of course, they were groomed into the child their mother needed, but these ages are what worked closer with my ideas when envisioned from a “how would this be genuinely possible in a way” perspective.

6 year olds align with 9 years old in the sense they want to do things, but 6 year olds seek the attention of others. Regardless of how much their mother told them not to, they long for their father. Coming to the manor was exactly like their mother explained their time with Mr. Wayne all those years ago: a blessing as much as it was a scarring curse. Watching him with his actual children was almost impossible, but they knew better.

The 9 year old knows their mother’s version of right and wrong. They were able to help around their tiny apartment and listen to everything their mother said. They didn’t complain when mommy took her tooth and not the supposed fairy, or when their mother would switch from the lack of Bruce’s features being the problem to the apparent superiority reader feels due to those same ones. It was their world, and they would live it.

They have the ability to be mature, and can convince people they're just a weird teen like all quiet kids seemed to be; but when in a too-stressful situation or comfortable, they're a six year old through and through. Angry, explosive and emotional when stressed; needy and dependent when comfortable. Even if the audience wants to envision them mentally older, they’re going to be unruly and need a lot of management to help. 

In the future, or right now if you'd like to submit another ask, I can explain it better with a little dabble? I’m not sure if this answers your question, but this certainly helped me!

[yarttalk]

hi again ^^ I’m the same person who made the request and I like what you did with the prompt :0 never thought of reader giving blood bags but I think it’s an interesting angle! Maybe reader feels a certain kind of fulfillment that their blood is flowing in the batfamily’s veins- maybe they’d even consider going as far as organ transplants or something before Bruce had intervened lol

Thank you again for doing my request! Can’t wait to see what comes next!

yess! it was a fun spur of the moment idea, but realistically very hard or maybe even impossible to make happen. regardless, fiction is fiction, and they have revival pits and literal aliens soo this takes place during a time where they’re not getting as badly damaged a night. youre so welcome! keep them coming!

Their first time doing it, they passed out after arriving in their room.

Needles had always scared them, no matter how many times they’d seen their mom use them with an attempted reassurance smile. The idea of something being under their skin, allowed because it wasn’t doing damage but still holding the possibility of so much hurt. They were trained better, their mother doing at least one part of her job is only to make the doctor visits better, but could never fully cover their reaction.

They never wanted to do it again. They only did it because they had heard Mr. Wayne expressing his concerns to Alfred, taking it upon themself to quell those fears.

The hardest part was inserting the needle; the idea of even a bit of pain made them want to cry, but they soldiered through. Whoever said looking away made it better was lying, because the idea of looking away for even a second and giving the needle the opportunity felt horrifying.

Hiding the blood was the second hardest part; it couldn’t be obvious, but they didn’t want to hide it so good they couldn’t find it during an emergency. They’re not sure where they put it, but they— for the first time— prayed it was somewhere people checked before they left.

After that, they just decided to lift a little more weight off Bruce’s shoulder, and the blood arriving every few months from his mysterious sources was canceled.

All they could be grateful for was that they came to the family later— they knew how to fight with one another and grew into Gotham. It wasn’t like how they were before, where they’d be gone within a week if they were giving theirs away. They were lucky enough to have taken a health class in high school, and took blood until the needle in their arm caused a sob to bubble in their throat. It was thankfully enough for them to sneak a few bags down every so often, and they could ignore the days demand was strong if only to see their own purification.

Gotham dirtied their blood too. Batman’s whole purpose was to clear it of its filth. They paid for their stay and filtered their own rot. It was selfish; it was exhilarating. With every pump of the batfamily’s blood finishing another lap past their hearts, more and more of the grime deep within it was gone. They were slowly redeeming themself with every drop, freeing their body from their very own soul. Their mom would beat them down if she knew that they were using them; but how can someone be rolling in their grave when there isn't even a grave to begin with.

The only thing they remember rolling was the news on the tv, where Bruce Wayne made his big announcement. Damian Wayne, someone the public knew as a “sweet boy just like his daddy”, had a few health altercations. “This means we will be staying away from the public’s eye for a while—” Damian’s small frame hidden behind his father only helps sell the sad, sick child act. “—to focus on health and recovery.”

They can’t focus on the tv. They can only feel the smog flooding their lungs as rot entangles around their throat. This was their doing. They damaged his heart with their sickened, damned blood. They didn’t go down to dinner that night or breakfast the following morning, knowing one look at Damian would send them weeping. It’s only at the dead of night, when they’re the closest to actually being alone in the manor that the ideas start flowing instead of tears.

So when they find themself in the familiar medbay, back against the bed as a syringe sits in hand, the only thing flowing now is the drugs in their system. The way their breathing seemed to get smaller with every breath hypnotized them into a deeper trance, and the only thing they could think of was that they would get to be one with the mighty forever.

wheew okay this one might be a bit better. i hope i did you justice, though! the passing out after they took blood actually happened to me first time my blood was drawn, so i just took that idea!

taglist(tagged on anything "ficlike" until told otherwise!)

@wegottastayfocus, @buisnessrasons,

[yarttalk]

Is there any possibility that the reader would get any help? Beyond probably being put in Arkham Asylum

yes! my vision wasn’t even Arkham asylum (if they are, it isn’t batfam’s willing doing), but the whole premise of the fic would be yanreader & batfam (or batman mostly at first) trying to help reader and instead doing the complete opposite.

Imagine batfam & reader’s dynamic like people to a cat. Being on their own and having their house they go to whenever they need food is the dynamic when reader first arrives, then it’s the pound when the batfam is trying to help crazy street cat, and then it’s the adopting family taking over and trying their best with the poor kitty kitty that’s just struggling 🥺🥺

do we see where im going with this? it may be explained better in the other ask 🤫…