Ch.5 Pt 1: Again &. Again (platonic! Yandere Batfam X Neglected! Gn Reader)
ch.5 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1,
read until the end for an author's note.
tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.
you had always been a good kid.
you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—
but you were good.
and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.
she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.
you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?
she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.
you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.
because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.
you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.
"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"
"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.
because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—
because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...
a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?
even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...
so why can't you have you have what he have right now?
why, just why, are you always finishing last?
why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?
elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.
the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.
'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!
shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.
but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.
his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?
and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.
yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.
why?
why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?
your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.
no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.
why, why, why?
the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.
tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.
but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.
it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!
even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...
... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:
the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.
to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.
ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.
being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.
it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.
from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.
from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.
imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.
and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.
good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—
even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.
tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!
it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?
... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?
and how could you blame him...?
he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.
all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.
you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.
so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?
that's who you always are—
that's who you always will be.
always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.
because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.
tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.
and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.
you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.
and that's who you'll always will be.
just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—
you're good, but you'll never be good enough.
... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?
you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.
has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?
why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.
why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.
why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.
why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.
has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.
why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.
just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.
these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.
it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.
and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.
they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.
sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.
you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.
it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.
and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.
you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.
when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.
back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.
your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.
every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.
although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.
he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.
it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.
and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.
well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.
it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.
after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.
in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.
alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.
you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.
you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.
that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.
and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.
his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.
that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.
and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.
though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.
he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?
right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.
whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.
someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.
"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."
"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.
ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.
cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.
fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.
tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'
he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.
but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.
"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.
everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.
barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.
it's as if he is lost in thought.
and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.
his string of pearls, his little treasure.
"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."
when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.
dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.
blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.
it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.
the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.
they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.
they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.
they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.
they listen, and learned.
whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.
you have your own secrets. they have theirs.
except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.
tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.
now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.
because you've never once visited the batcave—
and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.
they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.
they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.
instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.
... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.
warm.
this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.
...where are you?
your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.
you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.
your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.
it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.
a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.
'this is strange.'
you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.
you don't feel like dying today.
it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...
it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.
your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.
"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.
and you...
you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.
your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.
it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.
you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.
only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.
'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.
suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.
the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.
when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.
for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.
you're in a... forest.
your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.
petrichor.
you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.
all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.
other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.
"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.
i remember one conversation i had with my mother.
it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.
huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.
i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.
i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.
she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.
thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.
if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.
i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.
now that i think about it too...
if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.
i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...
funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.
she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.
and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.
so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.
my mother.
your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.
if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.
yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.
if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.
if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.
only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.
but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?
only reality can tell.
or you can tell.
at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.
your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.
talentless, worthless, out of place.
yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.
you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.
after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.
you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.
now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.
if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.
i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?
i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.
does she regret having me?
right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.
i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.
we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."
thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.
you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.
a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...
your mother enters.
angelic, glowing, beautiful.
she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.
she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.
but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.
you've never seen her like this.
she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.
she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.
warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.
you're caught breathless.
"momma...?"
beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.
you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.
at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.
you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.
your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.
"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.
"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.
you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.
the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.
you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.
the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.
"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.
"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.
"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.
now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.
"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.
you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.
even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.
and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.
"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.
all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.
"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.
"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...
when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.
"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"
"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."
she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.
but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!
you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!
you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...
even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.
if you could even call them that wretched title.
if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.
the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.
"... momma, please, stay—!"
but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—
her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.
"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"
and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.
and this time, it is real and unwanted.
'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.
it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.
jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.
the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.
he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.
was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?
jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.
even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.
and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.
becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.
all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.
yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.
who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.
he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.
jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.
jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.
death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.
how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?
how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?
and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he
... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.
if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.
... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.
jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.
for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.
bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.
you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.
when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.
you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.
he regrets hating you.
all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.
he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.
you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.
but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.
you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.
he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.
that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.
he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.
he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.
a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.
you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...
but never this... emotionally.
what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.
wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.
you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.
yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.
he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.
and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.
he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.
but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.
and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."
whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.
even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.
all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.
under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.
he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.
jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.
and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.
you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.
you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.
but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.
why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?
why does he see himself in you?
why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?
as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—
jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—
if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—
that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.
the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.
jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.
he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.
why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.
he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.
he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.
and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.
it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.
he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.
and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.
out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.
you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—
it's not enough.
it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.
everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.
to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.
jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.
if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.
jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.
he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.
and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.
as long as he has you in his sights.
all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.
you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.
there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.
as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.
and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷
yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).
taglist: @neerathebrightstar, @ghostdoodlen, @prince-nikko, @daisy-spot, @strawberryglass, @h0neybun-was-here, @confused-they, @weirdcore-fantasy, @mystyque234, @marssthings, @notwhoy0uthink, @aliengutzstuff, @lilyalone, @luffyadolover, @punpunsonny, @lazyemmy, @questionthegrapevine, @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu, @winter-world, @zavavas-dungeon, @budijojo, @altruisticbeauty, @dopepursebasketballplaid, @the-holy-pigeon, @red-phantom-0, @em-draws14, @thypplover, @cens0r3d-blog, @yl90, @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo, @flyingpansaurus, @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog, @rogueofbullshit, @earlqurl, @dotomuses, @sheep-from-rad, @tsuniio, @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o, @radiantharu, @iwasveronica, @kdjhubby, @ashstwin, @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2, @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink
More Posts from Amfstargirl and Others
Yay! I'm so happy you write for Baldwin IV!!! Could you do general yandere headcanons for him? Thank you!💗
''Nothing is more important to me than you.'' — Baldwin IV.
❝ 📜 — lady l: I got a little excited, but I hope you like it. I've always wanted to write for him and I finally got the chance! Good reading and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️
❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, mention of murder, manipulation (sorta of), unhealthy relationships.
❝📜pairing: yandere!king baldwin iv/leper king x gender neutral!reader.
Baldwin had always been shy in his obsession with you, always self-aware of his illness that had left him forever disfigured. He was afraid that you would find him disgusting, that you would hate him and he didn't want that. Baldwin couldn't handle it if you hated him. He wanted to be loved by you, but he was too afraid to talk to you directly for quite some time.
So he remained in the shadows, hidden and longing for you from afar. Even before becoming King, he already dreamed of you and these desires only became more frequent after he became sovereign. He was precocious and maintained a good shape and physical appearance and was optimistic about his illness, but as he grew older he felt increasingly disturbed by the idea of you hating or despising him.
That doesn't mean he ignored you, Baldwin never did that and never will. He can't bear to be away from you, at least not physically, and he can't even go without talking to you. Talking to you was what cheered him up when his mind was consumed by dark thoughts. You were his light.
Baldwin will make sure that once he becomes King, he can ensure that you are well, that you are living well and with the honor, the wealth that you deserve, in his domain. He will do everything in his power to make sure you are eating well and will even go so far as to offer you an official position, if you don't already have one, so he can take care of you.
Although he prefers to stay away so he can also protect you from his illness, that doesn't mean he will allow you to be taken away from him. You may not know it, but you belonged to him. Any love interests or potential suitors/lovers will be quickly and quietly dealt with. Baldwin is not cruel and does not intend to be, but he will become a monster for you.
If he could, Baldwin would marry you, but due to his illness, he is prevented from doing so, so he prefers to keep you close while giving important positions to you or your family. It's a way of ensuring the loyalty of those important to you and having you close by. There are only benefits from his perspective.
Baldwin is remembered and admired for being a competent king who brought prosperity to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but little is known that the real motivation was you. It was you who held power over him, who influenced him to do anything you wanted. He could become a tyrant if you asked him to. But he feels proud of himself for having met your expectations for his government.
When he has to go out to protect and defend Jerusalem, Baldwin will probably take you with him. He could leave you to take care of State affairs, but he can't bear to be away from you. He is quite clingy although he doesn't always touch you physically, he still needs to be in your presence. It's a constant need, Baldwin feels like a part of his heart withers when he's away from you.
Baldwin may not be able to be with you the way he would like and this has only served to increase his possessive tendencies. He won't allow other people to get too close to you, to steal you from him. Even though you can't officially be his, that doesn't mean he'll let you be someone else's. He will have no problem sending the person who threatens his position in your life to a deadly skirmish, arrest or even executed.
He is neither cruel nor sadistic, but for your sake he will be willing to commit the most heinous crimes just to ensure that you remain by his side. Baldwin needs you like he's never needed anyone before and he knows he'll be destroyed if anything happens to you.
If it were to happen to him, Baldwin will make sure you are safe and protected, perhaps even naming you his Heir. He wouldn't want to leave Earth without you, but he's not selfish enough to want to kill you. He wants you to live a long and happy life, preferably single, even if he's not by your side. He is completely selfless and you will always come first for him. First you and then his duties.
There is nothing he wouldn't do or give to you. Titles, official positions, riches, clothes, jewelry and food in abundance, anything you wanted, he would do it in the blink of an eye. Baldwin trusts you blindly, going so far as to obey your orders on any issue, from food to military matters.
Baldwin IV is a great soft for you and you only. He may seem weak, but that's all he isn't. He is intelligent and knows how to make rational decisions and he will do that with you. Because he loves you, he depends on you and because you are his hope. His light. Don't leave him or Baldwin will go crazy and even go so far as to commit suicide if you abandon him.
You are his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.
Freshly adopted Jason, who is so used to taking care of his mother that the first morning in the manor, he wakes up in early hours to cook for Bruce, too.
Logically speaking, he understands that Bruce doesn't need it — he is a healthy adult, and they have Alfred — but it is six in the morning, and his mind is foggy, so he just follows his instincts. Maybe he does not even realise that mom is not here, after all.
Alfred finds him in the weakly dimmed kitchen when he finishes his walk around the Manor before starting with his chores. He is amused at first, stopping quietly behind the child. He is doing great (that's a surprise since Dick intentionally just stirred more trouble), and Alfred can't help but smile a little.
'Good morning, master Jason. If you are hungry, you should wake me up the next time. I promise to take care of you.'
Jason blinks owlishly, still awfully sleepy. His eyes are barely opened, his hands working on the automat.
'Breakfast,' he mumbles, frowning a little. 'For mom- I mean, for dad.'
Alfred's smile falters. His original impression shifts in a late realisation.
Oh.
'Master Jason, you shouldn't really-'
'Finished,' he yawns, putting a one — just one, nothing for himself at all — plate in front of Alfred.
It is a very simple dish, scrambled eggs with some black paper and toasted bread — but not even made in a toaster, just on the pan; this kid probably doesn't know how to use toasters. It smells nice, Alfred compliments mentally.
'Can you-' He yawns. 'Pass to-'
And then little Jason falls asleep helplessly, falling right in Alfred's arms. He catches him, of course. This boy weighs nothing at all.
'Hey, Al,' Bruce sticks his head in the kitchen, no less sleepy. 'What is going on?'
Alfred explains to Bruce what happened, and he is no less distraught. He helps him to put Jason in the bed and eats all the breakfast he prepared, with a mixture of delight and despair.
And when Jason wakes up, embarrassed by the faint memories of the early morning, Alfred puts a big plate in front of him, filled with so much food that his big blue eyes light up instantly.
'Bon appetite, master Jason,' he smiles. 'Your cooking had passed my personal standards for a cook. You are a good soldier.'
Jason giggles, his mouth already stuffed with bacon.
'That I am.'
And that he always will be.
Secretly Admiring You Artistically
Summary: How he's expressing that you're in his mind through art
a/n: based on scenes in the comics as civilians
Dick: Doodles
He’s dying. Actively decaying in real-time. Why he brought back the notepad from his day job as an officer home or why Haley pulled it out from his bag and gave it to you, he has no idea. To make matters worse, he’s crouching on the ground with both hands covering his very-much burning face as you stand in front of him silently, flipping through each page that’s filled with doodles of you rather than work notes he should’ve been taking for the cases he’s working on.
It isn’t an exaggeration to say his world revolves around you. He’s not ashamed or has any problem expressing how much of a simp he is for you whether it’s to you or everyone both verbally and physically, 24/7. Seriously, he can’t go a day without getting a kiss from you or telling you how much he loves you, no matter the situation. He’s constantly stuck to your side, always smiling from how you showered him with affection back, spoiling him silly to the point he’s thinking he’s the luckiest man in the world. But artistically? He drew a stick figure once during a game of Scribble. Tim was for sure that it was a basketball hanging on a fishing pole. Bruce had told him he can help him get enrolled for art classes.
“So, did the sarge or corporal see any of this yet?”
“No…,” He manages to wheeze out. He needs the ground to swallow him up right now. He still can’t believe this is how his (poorly and very much terribly drawn) doodles of you are discovered and exposed to you of all people. When he hears the notepad being closed shut, he musters all the strength in his mind and body. “...Can I please have my notepad back now?” He knows the answer. And he knows what’s about to happen next. But maybe today he’ll be lucky he’ll get it back-
“Nope.” The way you pop the “p” at the end of the word - of course you wouldn’t. He doesn’t even need to look at you to know the type of grin you have on your face.
With that, he gets up and yells your name as he gets up to chase after your running form. Sure, he’s dreading what exactly you might do with the doodles but his heart is filled with adoration from how he still managed to give you happiness from them. You are the most lovable person in the world to him - he can’t wait to kiss the ever living lights out of you when he gets you.
Jason: Poetry
Oh. Well. This is embarrassing. He rubs the back of his neck, face completely dyed red. You snuggling your face into the crook of his neck while embracing his biceps is fine. In fact, he loves waking up to see you sleeping peacefully next to him. His heart always swells with affection from how you feel so warm and right in his arms while being reminded how you genuinely enjoyed and appreciate him and his presence. The problem was the book lying open on the coffee table next to him. The book filled with romantic poems that he placed on his face after deciding to take a power nap which ended up as a snooze session.
He had been reading each poem, using a sticky note and red pen (because he’s not a heathen to ruin such beautiful and sacred text) to mark which parts or lines reminded him of you the most. Each sticky note had arrows drawn with whatever note he’d make about you, placed on the long-edge of the pages. It was obvious you had found out the contents of the book before joining him on the sofa as you had done the same, only your sticky notes were sticking out from the shorter-edge.
“Jason… What’s wrong?” He quickly turns his head away, covering the lower half of his face. The fact you aren’t even letting go when you usually would makes things worse, your grip tightening instead of getting loose. He doesn’t turn around to know the expression you’re making, feeling you nuzzle into his side.
“...Are you telling Roy or the others about this?”
“What? Hell no. This is only for you and me- why would I want to share it?”
With that, he topples over you and wraps himself around you like a giant, warm teddy bear. On top of relief, he’s filled with childish glee from getting to share something that’ll only be meant between you and him. It gets a chuckle from him when you laugh at how ticklish he makes you as he snuggles into you, eventually making you two fall asleep in each other’s embrace with smiles on your faces.
Tim: Photography
He’s pacing in circles in his room. Then he’s flopping onto his bed and screaming into his pillow. Pacing in the room. And again, screaming into his pillow. He’s been repeating this exact pattern for ten minutes straight now after finding the photo album on his desk. How Stephanie found out about them or why she showed them to you when you stopped by while he was out, he doesn’t know nor want to know. But he’s pretty sure that he's doomed. Best case scenario is break up. Worst case scenario is you choosing to never see him again because you found him creepy.
But, it’s not his fault, okay? He’s really down bad for you. Even when he’s dating you, he keeps finding himself falling for you deeper and deeper to the point he doesn't want to miss a single moment whenever he’s with you. So, every time the two of you went on dates or plainly hung out, he’d take pictures of you. You standing on a hill during a sunset, looking outside with the window down in his car, laughing in front of a bonfire with a marshmallow on a stick in your hands. He can’t imagine life without you. He needs to be with you even if it’s in a photo.
Finally, he gets back up and dejectedly drags his feet to the desk. Might as well put the album away before more people find out about it. Or so he thought when he suddenly freezes at the sight of a note sitting on top of it. There’s only a single sentence in your hand writing, making him do what it says. Having memorized the order of the photos in each album, he immediately finds a photo of him laughing while sitting on top of the hood of his car. It sits adjacent to a photo of you doing the same, making it look like the two of you were laughing while looking at each other. Heart skipping a beat with tears threatening to spill, he doesn’t look away when he grabs his phone and dials your number.
“So? Are we hanging out tonight?”
“No, we’re doing more than that. We’re going to go all out, my treat.”
The way you chuckle does so many wonders to him. With that, he rushes to get ready. Even if he can’t give you the whole world now, he plans on making tonight the best night of your life since there’s no other way for him to express how much he loves you when words can’t cover half of them.
Duke: Notes
He’s an idiot. That’s what he mentally screams to himself when he drops the pile of handwritten notes right in front of you. Not once had he ever mentioned that he had collected all the notes you wrote to him including the ones back before the two of you even got together. All of them were written as your way to cheer him on, secretly giving them to him in every way you possibly can. It’s as if nothing could stop you from passing him a note, whether it’s during class, passing in the hallways, eating lunch, or slipping them in his school bag. There were even times you managed to place them in his textbooks, right where the assigned reading starts.
All those notes you passed to him, he found solace. He feels that he’s being mentally and emotionally supported unconditionally, no matter the circumstances . You don’t know how he cherishes the smiley faces you draw on them or the words you write. Each and every note he treats like they are a piece of you. It led him to keep a few in his pocket, pulling one and reading it to get the extra boost he needs to get through whatever he’s doing even if it’s homework or patrolling the city.
Now here he was, caught red handed. He’s so nervous and on the verge of a mental breakdown, fearing that you might think he’s strange. Immediately he starts to ramble, spewing every excuse in the book while watching you pick the notes that dropped from his pocket off the ground.
“They were growing into a pile inside my bag, so I was kind of in the middle of-”
“Do they work?”
He stops and blinks at you. What do you mean they work? There’s a light blush coloring your cheeks, your hands gently straightening each note to stop them from wrinkling and getting damaged further.
“Are they making you happy?” Oh. Oh. He pulls you into a strong hug, hoping his actions convey how he feels about you. It’s not the notes that’s making him happy- it’s you and your efforts to make sure he is that makes him the happiest man in the world.
Damian: Sketching
No. Just no. He’s so embarrassed that he can’t muster a single word right now. You were teasing him a minute ago about how he must have sketches of you when he refused to show you his notepad he carries around. Little did you know and much to his horror, you were completely right and that exactly was the reason why he didn’t want to show it to you. In fact, he had been finishing another sketch of you before your so-called attempt to sneak up on him. You being you, you kept probing him into showing his sketches and with him being so flustered, he ended up getting the notepad snatched out of his hand leading to the current situation where both of you are standing with the biggest blush to be seen from mankind.
It’s not two sketches he’s drawn too. There’s a whole comic strip he drew in there featuring one of his favorite moments he had with you on top of all the other sketches, some being portraits, some being a compilation of various expressions you make on a daily basis. The way he’s constantly stuck about you has gotten to where Jon had gotten smug at guessing what he was thinking of when Jon found him suddenly grinning to himself. That day, the two of them got grounded by their parents once Damian started to threaten Superboy by getting kryptonite out and the other shot lasers out of his eyes as self defense.
“They’re so beautiful.” Your muttering snaps him back to reality.
Not wasting a second, he grabs his notepad back. Pride damaged and completely panicked by showing a pathetic side to himself to you, he tries to go somewhere, anywhere, away from you. Only to stop when you grab his wrist.
“Damian, you're absolutely talented.”
He mentally groans. He hates how you’re sincere and genuine in these moments. You don’t know how much he treasures you because of this - being open, honest, and accepting of his every being. Worse is you not being aware or truly choosing your battles - it’s how you are; it’s part of your nature. Accepting his loss, he sits back down. He refuses to admit how affected he is by the way you smile with excitement when you pick up his sign. Letting his shoulder brush against yours, the two of you go through his drawings with you commenting on each one while he snarks back though it’s softer and filled with fondness.
Universe of amfstargirl⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
"life's better on saturn" _sza
⋆. Tip toes yandere batfam x neglected reader
In which you stand in your tallest tiptoes, spinning in your highest heels, shining just for them.
00 we ain't angry at you love
01 the cut that always bleed
02 half return
03 stuck here like me
⋆.related topics:
°is the reader unattractive
°how old is the reader
°details in half return
°yandere alfred
°Tim and you having the same age
°rapunzel reader
°Cassandra's character
°chapter 3 slight details
"Venus planet of love"_mitski
⋆.ೃ jason todd x reader
°crawling back to you
In which jason todd will always come crawling back to you.
Time Traveller au part 8
Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. Part 7 is here. Time Traveller au masterlist is here. Check out my MASTERLIST for more!
Everything around you warped as you jumped off the cliff. You closed your eyes as you heard Baldwin scream your name in agony, the air whipped around you and you hoped that you returned to your house, hopefully with a soft landing.
You fell onto the hard ground on your arm, breaking it. You screamed before biting your lip to hold it as you realised that you had landed... in a forest.
You pulled out your time machine and read the time and place.
1530. Ottoman empire.
Oh hell no-
You tried to change the time to return to your present world, but the dial buttons were broken and you couldnt do anything but hope it'll work again and return you back to your time.
Blinking away the tears, you clutched your arm and struggled to stand up, groaning in pain. The fall had knocked the air out of you, and made your entire body ache as you staggered towards a tree for support.
This has to be- Baldwin must've cursed me for leaving him.
Fixing your gown, you removed your wedding veil to make a hijab and used the length of it to cover your body like a chaddar. Clutching your broken arm, you began walking. Where? You dont know, but you need to get out of the forest first as you didnt pay much attention to "Man V/S Wild" because the first episode you watched started off with Bear Grylls drinking his own piss and you didnt think you'd ever be in a situation where you would need that kind of skills.
"And I wont." You huffed, walking. Besides, the wild isnt the only thing you need to survive. You're a lone woman in a forest where good samaritans arent the only ones to cross it. And you dont think you have a fighting chance against strangers with a broken limb.
The sun was starting set by the time you made it out of the forest and you saw a small cottage. If it wasnt for the old woman tending to her chickens outside, you wouldnt have approached her. But alas, thirst and exhaustion overtook stranger-danger and you walked upto her.
"W... water?" You croaked in Turkish, sweat dripping down your face as you clutched your arm. Yes, you learnt the language as a child when there was no cable and the only place you and your brother could watch TV was at your Turkish neighbours house. Granted, all they ever played was soap dramas, but hey- your family was poor and you had to make do.
The old lady's eyes widened at your state and she rushed inside to get water. By the time she came out with her husband, you had passed out.
-
When you came to, you were lying in bed while the couple fretted over you. It turned out that the old man used to be a physician, so he popped your broken arm back in place and immobilised it expertly so that it allows for optimal healing of the bone. The old lady made you some food and thats when they asked what happened.
"I fell from a tree." You took a bite of the warm meal. "I was hiding there from some slave owners. I lost my parents a few days ago and when they found out that I was alone... they wanted to take me and sell me to the palace." Lying isnt that hard for you when you have so many true events to back you up.
The old couple pitied you and offered you their home. "You could stay here for as long as you'd like. We dont mind. In fact, we'd enjoy the company." You smiled gratefully. As days passed, you began helping them around the house with chores. They were lonely and they enjoyed having you around. You found out that they used to have a daughter but she was one day taken by the Janissaries (members of the elite infantry units that formed the Ottoman Sultan's household troops) to make her part of the harem and they never got to see her again.
It had been a month since you'd been living here. Your machine hadnt worked again and you didnt have the tools at hand to start working on it. You did accompany the old man to the town when he'd go get groceries, but you didnt risk finding a scholar or craftman to help you. No, the moment your eyes landed on the Topkapi palace at the other side of town, you had turned on your heel and already started making your way back to the cottage. As tempting as it was to see just how the sultans were, you were not going to try your luck by being trapped in that castle that had weird politics. Everyone was everyone's enemy- the heirs, the wives, the concubines, the eunuchs- everyone.
You and the old man had just returned from the town and you were trying to calm him down. Apparently, he got into a heated argument with the shopkeeper who was quite influential and lent people money, but he asked for high interest rates on return.
"I'll help you. Maybe I can find some work-" you offered but the old man absolutely refused. He didnt want you to leaving the cottage, especially not alone to go work with these scummy people he did not trust.
You smiled sadly. Perhaps you reminded him of his daughter.
"He's always been like this, but when Ayla was taken, he started loathing the sultan. How can you just break a family like that?" The old lady said as she stirred the pot. You hummed as you set the table, when the old man suddenly burst through the door, looking alarmed.
"Dear? Whats wrong?" The old lady walked up to him. He was looking at you.
"Janissaries- they're here." He said with dread. "The merchant- he must've sent them here! Quick, hide Y/n!" The old lady nodded in agreement as they began pushing you. The old man lifted up a wooden panel from the floor, revealing a small compartment.
"Hide in there and dont make a sound!" They said as they covered the space back with the wooden panel. You held your breath as you peeked through the slits in between the panels.
Just a few moments later, 5 men in red uniforms and swords resting on their sides, brazenly walked in.
Janissaries.
"Where's the girl?" One of them asked as the others looked around.
"What girl?" The old man asked as he pulled his wife closer to him.
"Dont pretend you dont know. We saw you walking in the market with a girl. Where's she?"
"She left. Her parents took her back. What do you want from her?" The old man replied.
The Janissaries kept looking around, going through rooms to find you.
"You havent paid your loan back. We're just here to take her while you make arrangements for your loan."
"I told you she's gone. And I told the merchant I already paid off his loan. With interest."
"Yes, but the interest increased last week. You didnt pay that."
"What does it concern you? You work for the sultan, not the merchant!"
"The merchant is friends with me, a Janissarie. If he's bothered, then I'm bothered. And if I'm bothered, then so is the sultan. Now, hurry up and tell me where she is."
"She's gone-" the old man was cut off by a punch.
You gasped, but quickly covered your mouth as the Janissarie's head snapped in your direction. He couldnt see you, but you could see him.
The old lady was crying now as she tended to her husband on the ground. The Janissaire looked back at her.
"If you dont tell me where she is right now, you will become a widow." He threatened her.
The old lady couldnt say anything as she kept on crying, but she made the mistake of looking at the wooden panel you were hiding under. That was enough of for the armed men to figure out.
They pulled the panel away and there you were, looking up at them with fear. They didnt have to communicate as they pulled you out and threw you over his shoulder, making their way out to their horses.
The old couple begged them to not take you away, but despite your best efforts to break free, you never stood a chance.
"Let me go-" You were silenced with a hard slap. The Janissarie looked at you.
"I will only say this once. I am taking you to the palace. If you make a single sound, I will slit your throat right then and there. If you run, I will behave very badly with you. Nod if you understand."
-
Some time later, you had been dragged into the Topkapi Palace. The guards talked amongst themselves about you, as if you're deaf.
"We should just sell her to the slave traders." One said.
"Or we could give her to the merchant and he can pay us more than the slave traders." Another said.
"We'll see who will pay the higher price for her. After she spends the night with me." Your eyes almost popped out of your socket.
The creep laughed as he yanked you close by the wrist. "Maybe I'll keep you permanently, tied to my bed-"
Allah, now would be a great time for the time machine to work. I dont care if I disappear before their eyes, I cant stay here-
"Well well well, what do we have here?" The Janissaries all straightened up at the new voice. "Bothering another woman of the harem? After you were almost beheaded the last time you stared at one with your pig ugly eyes?"
"Baris Agha, she is not part of the harem-"
"She became property of the sultan the moment you brought her in the palace." The man snapped at them as he stepped in front of you. Judging from his clothes and his effeminate mannerisms, you figured he was a eunuch. "Lets take a look, hm?" He gripped your chin roughly and tilted your face from side to side, a grimace appearing on his face.
"Not pretty enough to be a concubine. Tch. Maid it is."
Bitch.
"Baris Agha, you cant just take her from us-"
"Need I remind you of the woman from the sultan's war winnings you lot lost because you were drunk? I see, I should go and remind sultan of that." At that, the Janissaries scowled but kept quiet.
"Now stop standing there like buffoons. Go to your posts. And you-" Baris Agha gave you a pointed look. "You dont look from around here, but I'm going to assume that since you havent screamed or tried to run off, you understand what I'm saying, hm?" You gave a nod. Baris Agha rolled his eyes before turning on his heel, beckoning you to follow him with his index finger. "Hurry along. We have to train you for the feast tonight. A few servants died of smallpox, so we're a little short staffed."
You were lead to a hamam (a common bath area). Baris Agha was talking to the old lady standing outside. "She is the new maid. Have her prepared for tonight, hm?" He told the lady who ushered you in.
Baris Agha waited outside the hamam as he heard you shriek and yell, but he was unfazed. Everytime a new girl is brought here, she has to go through the same thing. A hot ,steaming bath, an invasive medical check up, a little degradation, nothing out of the norm. It is necessary to do this because if you are to serve the royal family, it wont bode well for you to be carrying any diseases or... any pride.
-
"You're lucky I'm short on servants or else I would've thrown you into the sea because I would never wish anyone to see the gait of a cow." He scolded you during your "maid training".
You bit your lip to stop the curses from slipping. You cant risk pissing off anyone here until you can find a way out, or your machine works. You've read details about the life in Ottoman empire, and sure majority of them were muslims, but they still had egos as large as Mount Everest.
"Baris Agha! Baris Agha!' A servant came running upto him. "A fight broke out in the harem! The concubines- ah! Its a mess!" He flailed his hands around in exasperation.
Baris's eyes widened before scowling. "I'll kill them all today! I swear! These women are more trouble than they're worth for!" He grumbled before looking at you.
"Keep moping, I'll come back. Dont do anything stupid or I will make you dig your grave!" He threatened before leaving with the servant.
As soon as he was out of sight, you considered running. But you dont know your way around this maze of a palace, and you dont wish to run into Baris Agha when you're trying to find your way out of these hallways. You need to be careful and find a way out. So, you slowly made your way towards the other end of the corridor while mopping (as an excuse when Baris returns and asks where'd you go) and peeked around the corners. When you found no one, you slowly walked down one end of the hall where you saw a door at the end while the right side of the hall overlooked the palace grounds and the other side of the hall had no doors but had these wooden windows that were shut so you couldnt see through them. You reached the door and opened it slowly, expecting another hallway, but instead you were in a room. Not exactly a bedroom, since you didnt spot a bed, but perhaps a sitting room? Or maybe a study room, judging from the desk in the corner. In the center of the room, there was a huge pile covered by a purple silk cloth. This couldnt possibly be a storage room, right? You walked upto the pile and pulled the cloth off it, revealing an amalgam of... fine things. There were fancy vases, some antiques, swords and a few paintings.
The paintings were stacked one upon the other, and you took a look at the first one- it was Arabic calligraphy. The background was beige with the calligraphy in beautiful black ink. And you recognised the words written. Its Ayat ul Kursi, from Surah Baqrah in Quran. The words were written so elegantly, however as you read the verse, you spotted an error. It was a minor one, but there was a dot missing from one of the letters and now it would be misspelled and the words wont make sense.
You could just walk away. You should walk away. Find a way out. This is not your mess. And this should not bother you.
"If you see something wrong, then you should do everything in your abilities to correct it. Don't be selfish, Y/n." Your brother's voice rung in your ears.
With a sigh, you walked towards the desk and picked up the the quill pen dipped in ink.
I'm only doing this because this painting may one day be passed onto the future generations. Cant have them making the same mistakes. You walked back to the painting. This is the word of Allah. I cant just ignore the mistake.
You placed the 3 foot canvas on the desk and carefully placed the dot to correct the mistake. You held your breath the entire time to prevent your hand from shaking. When you were done, you breathed and backed away.
"What are you doing?" You froze. This- this is not Baris Agha's voice. No, it- it held too much authority.
"I asked you- what are you doing?!" The voice boomed.
"I- I-"
"Turn around." You slowly did and you looked at the man in dark robes in front of you. He was neither a servant, nor a Janissaries. You looked at the fury in his grey eyes, and then your eyes travelled upto his head.
You dropped into a bow, head low.
"I- I apologise, sultan!" Of fucking course! Why wouldnt a sultan- THE SULTAN SULEIMAN, be the one to catch you in the act.
This is it. This is the day I die. He will have my head cut off-
"I asked you, what are you doing?" He asked again. "Who are you?"
"I- I was... I was fixing an error, your majesty." You gulped, head still down. "I am- I am a new servant, sultan. I- I did not know this was your room- I was- I got lost-"
"What mistake?" He cut you off. "Rise. And show me the mistake."
You slowly rose up, though you kept your eyes casted down. You turned back to the painting as he walked up next to you, and you raised your shaking hand to point the area where the ink was still wet.
"The... the dot was missing from this letter. It was spelling mistake. I... I couldnt just leave it... in good conscience." You explained in a small voice.
There was complete silence for the next few minutes. Is this the part where you should start begging him to spare your life? Or should you keep your mouth shut and hope he gives you a less painful punishment?
"Bring the next painting." He commanded without taking his eyes off the current one. You picked up the next canvas and it also had Arabic calligraphy. With his permission, you placed it on the desk as well.
"Well?" He looked at you and you stared back at his grey eyes in confusion. "Check for errors."
You looked back at the painting, another Quranic verse from Surah Rahman. And you spotted the error right away. Again a small mistake, but still if the diacritical marks are not present, then the pronunciation will be wrong.
"Here. And here as well." You pointed out with your finger. He nodded at you to fix it. This time it was much harder for you to stop your hand from shaking, but fortunately, you did.
"Now recite it." You looked at him in surprise. Recite it? You cant stop your hand from shaking with him looking at you and he expects you to recite it out loud in front of him?!
What kind of test is this? And if I mess up, will he have me killed? Oh God, he's going to kill me.
Closing your eyes to stop the tears from spilling, you began to recite Surah Rahman.
Just pretend he's not here, pretend your brother is in front of you and you're reciting Quran to him like you did as kids. Its normal, its just you and Qasim. You and your brother.
You opened your eyes when you were finished. Suleiman was looking at you... shocked.
"That was... my goodness. That was mesmerising." The sultan praised you once he overcame his shock. "And you recited it all from memory. Are you a hafidha?" (someone who has memorised the Quran)
You nodded. The sultan looked even more surprise. He's never heard of women memorising the Quran in his lifetime, and you? You look so young, just in your 20s. Did you really learn the Quran with such perfect recitation?
"How? Who was your teacher?"
"My brother." Which was true. Qasim, your older brother memorised the Quran when he was very young. Your parents sent him to the local mosque to learn and since he was blessed with eidetic memory, things werent hard for him.
You, on the other hand, were not blessed with photographic memory. You werent gifted like Qasim, and since he's always been the shining star, the all rounder, he was your competitor by nature. So while your parents didnt send you to the local mosque to memorise Quran because you're "too young", you made Qasim teach it to you.
He was more than happy to. Qasim, just like his name, was always the "generous one". The one who shares. He's the older brother, the provider. You're the younger sister, the competitive brat. Together, you two made a great duo. Qasim's recitation was far better than yours. His voice brought comfort to the soul.
Once you were able to memorise Quran, you and Qasim would often participate in those Islamic trivia and competitions which would often have some cash prize at the end. And since money was tight at home, you'd both participate and win many such prizes.
"And where's your brother?" "Dead. My family is dead." Well its not like he can go and confirm your story. "I was brought here by the Janisarries. They planned to sell me to slave traders. Then Baris Agha came and made me a servant, saying I belong to the sultan now. He gave me a mop and I was cleaning and then I found my way here..." You explained your situation further, hoping he'd take pity and let you go.
"What's your name?" The sultan asked very calmly.
"... Y/n."
"Y/n." He tested the name. "How would you like a job?"
"I- I'm not a good servant, ask Baris Agha. He'll testify-"
"Not as a maid. As a... teacher."
"Teacher?"
"Mhm. Quran teacher. Teach my daughter Mihirmah how to recite, if not memorise it as well as you, hm?"
"I-" you paused. You need to word this out carefully. "I'm honoured that you considered me for this position, your majesty, but surely, there might be someone else more suitable for this job."
He shook his head. "They're all men. I think if my daughter could have you as a role model, she might be inspired to learn."
"I... I have to go home-"
"Home? To who? You have no family." Of course, your lie backfires.
Seeing your hesitance, he sighs. "Look, you're not a slave here, Y/n. No Muslim in my empire is, so I wont force you to stay here but I think it would be safer for you. A young girl in her prime, living alone in this harsh world- you know just as well of the dangers. Today my Janissaries brought you here, and I will deal with them. But tomorrow, someone else might take advantage of the fact that you have no one to rely on."
You remained silent. He was... right. But-
"If you were to stay here and be Mihirmah's teacher, then I give you my word- no harm shall befall you. You will be under my protection."
Your time machine hasnt shown any signs of working yet, and you dont think you can stay hidden in this empire and avoid people for long, so-
"I accept."
Suleiman smiled. "Good. I think the ink is dry now. Place them back with the pile." You picked up the canvases and brought them back to his collection. As you were placing them down, you noticed the canvas on the bottom, the one you never picked up.
Your face paled.
-
"Sultana, please focus-" you were trying to get the young princess's attention, which you now realise was a feat in itself and exactly why Sultan Suleiman asked you to teach her.
"No." Mihirmah said. You took a deep breath. She has no interest in reading the Quran, how are you supposed to make her learn a few verses?
She was the Sultan's only daughter, so she was spoiled to the core. Just 19 years old, with high cheek bones, blemish free skin, her ash brown hair that shone, she was the epitome of beauty and the apple of her father's eye. You'd just love to yank her by the hair or smack her with a ruler to make her focus but you also would like to get out of here alive.
"You shouldn't use violence when it comes to Islam. It'll only drive the believers away." You heard Qasim's voice in the back of your head. "I never had to discipline you with hand to make you memorise. If I can teach you, then so can you." He had a warm smile on his face.
But I'm not you, Qasim. I dont have the patience of a saint.
"Alright, sultana." You closed the Quran with a sigh and clasped your hands. "What do you want to do?"
Mihirmah grinned, feeling victorious over you giving up so quickly. "I want you to tell my father that I gave my best in trying to learn this but you dont have the time or skill to teach me. Tell him that you think it might be best for me to take break from learning Quran so that I can regain my focus." She said as she crossed her arms over chest.
"No."
Her smile faltered. "No?"
"No." You confirmed, staring at her dead serious. "I do have the time and skill to teach you the Quran. Why should I lie about myself for your incompetency?"
Her eyes widened before narrowing. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
"Who do you think you're talking to?" You asked, collecting your things. "I am not your slave or servant to order around. Your father, the sultan, hired me for a job. I'm the teacher, you're the student and at this moment, I have authority over you."
You stood up and looked down at her with no expression. "I was told the young princess was fearless and as strong as her brothers. I now see they were wrong. If you dont wish to learn, then have the guts to tell your father."
As you turned around to leave, you were immediately thrown against the wall, making you bang your head against it. Enough. You're done playing nice.
Sorry Qasim, but some people need violence-
You were turned around and slammed against the wall. You were about to yell at her when you felt something sharp press against your throat.
Mihirmah's eyes were full of fury. "You do not get to talk to me that way-!" "Is that an Omani khanjar?" You looked at her silver dagger.
Mihirmah's rage was replaced by surprise. "You... you know about it?"
You scoffed, insulted. "I'd be a fool not to notice it."
She titled her head at you, an amusing glint in her eyes.
-
"Oh my- you even have the pugio! How did you get it?" You were in complete awe at Mihirmah's large collection of daggers and swords.
Mihirmah beamed. "My brother got it for me on his recent conquest. He got so much stuff in the war prize for dad, but they let me pick first. Mustafa had brought dad some antiques, gems, paintings-" your heart sank at her words.
So that painting... it was from the spoils of war?
The painting that you saw earlier when you were putting back the canvases- it was a portrait. Of you. The same portrait that Baldwin had commissioned for you. The painting that survived over 400 years, except for the lower part of your face that was smudged and faded.
Suleiman looked over your shoulder as you stared at the portrait. "Mustafa found this in a church during the war. The locals claimed that the portrait belonged to some king who lost the love of his life. Hm. Seems like he missed her too much." He explained, tracing his fingers over the smudged area of the painting, and you wondered what Baldwin had done to make the area so faded.
You were glad that you had drawn your chaddar over your head and kept your face down or else you're almost certain the sultan would've recognised the resemblance between you and the portrait. After you'd left him, you immediately decided to wear a niqaab and cover your face to prevent anyone from recognising you as the muse from the painting.
"Y/n." You were snapped out of your thoughts. Mihirmah raised a brow at you. "So... how do you know about the daggers? You dont look like... well, you know."
Should you even be surprised at how condescending she is? Mihirmah may be the sultan's only daughter, but you were also the only daughter AND the youngest child of your family.
You can be just as bitchy.
"What? Just because I'm not a princess, I cant know about daggers?" You scoffed, looking back at her collection on the table.
Mihirmah's lips quirked. "Well, how do you know then?"
My cousin took me to the forensic musuem at his medical college and I was so mesmerised by all the murder weapons there, including the daggers, that I spent an embarrassing amount of time researching about each type of blade which was interesting for me because I am a historian.
"My dad was a blacksmith." He was not. Your father was a pharmacist. "I used to watch him make different types of blades and swords. Travellers would often stop by and let him sharpen their blades, and thats how I know about different kinds of blades."
She nodded, satisfied with your explanation. "You know your blades... but do you know how to fight with them?"
"No, sultana. I am just a lowly peasant who does not have to face the troubles of warding off potential suitors and princes like you." Your voice dripped with sarcasm.
When she didnt reply, you looked up at her and saw the evil glint in her eyes.
"What?"
Her smile widened. "I have a proposal that would benefit the both of us."
You stared at her in confusion for a few moments before understanding what she meant.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No-"
-
You were flipped onto the carpeted ground with Mihirma pinning your arms with her knees, pressing the dagger against your neck.
"Anddddd you're dead." She smiled victoriously above you before getting off you and helping you up. You coughed to catch your breath and scowled at her. "I should tell the sultan about how you beat up your teacher."
Mihirmah chuckled. "I am not beating you up. I am teaching you how to fight, and dad would approve that I teach a young women how to defend herself." "But I dont want to learn how to fight." "And I dont want to learn Quran. But if I have to do that, then you can at least do this so that you know just how difficult it is for me to learn the verses."
You adjusted your veil and glared at her. "Cant you find someone else to be your sparring buddy?"
"No. I like you. You dont seem to be too afraid of me and you stand your ground." She admitted before looking at you fussing over your niqaab. "You know you can take that off around me? People dont burst into my room without knocking, so feel free to take that off."
You contemplate for a moment. It is a little hot in here, and you're sweating like a pig after that knock down.
You remove your veil, but keep the scarf over your head and take a seat. You felt her eyes on you, but you didnt look at her as you opened the Quran.
"What are you staring at?"
Mihirmah sat down beside you as you finally looked at the gleam in her eyes. "What?" You asked again.
"Nothing. I just thought you'd be... prettier."
You couldn't help the sound of disbelief that left from your lips.
This cun-
"Well, I'm so sorry sultana that you had to witness the ugliness of my face with your precious eyes that are only worthy of seeing pretty things. My sultana, just say the word and I'd sew pearls into my skin for your pleasure, or I could always just-" you pick up your veil to cover your face again, but Mihirmah's hand caught your wrist and she was giggling.
"You're easy to tick off." She chuckled. "I was only kidding. You look... alright."
You feigned a smile. "Well, how will I ever repay that priceless compliment?" You rolled your eyes as she laughed again.
"Now that we're done with your entertainment, lets start our lesson for today."
-
Its been a week since you arrived in Topkapi palace. You had been given a room in the harem with the concubines because- well they didnt have quarters for religion teachers, so here you were.
The room was small but adequate for you. Nothing fancy but you're grateful for that. Dont want these concubines seeing you as a threat or something.
You groaned as the servant kneaded your shoulders. You were currently getting a massage from a girl you had befriended. Your muscles were sore from the all the times Mihirmah had flipped you over or slammed you against the wall. You were sure you were gonna have numerous bruises by the time she memorised one surah.
Your deep tissue massage was interrupted by Baris Agha bursting through your door. He shot you a glare before pushing the girl away from you.
"If your majesty is done with her rub down, would you care to grace us with your mighty presence?" He mocked. You opened your eyes and sighed.
"Hello to you too, Baris Agha." You sat up. "What do you want?"
"The sultana has demanded your presence."
"I already gave the sultana her lesson today." You mumbled before going to lie back down but Baris Agha grabbed your shoulder painfully to haul you up.
"That was Mihirmah sultana. Your presence is required by her mother, Hurrem sultana!" He gritted out.
Hurrem sultana? "Why?" You asked, fixing your niqaab over your face.
"Why? Why? Who do you think you're to be asking questions? Make haste!" He yelled at you before pushing you out of the room.
You followed behind him as he told you how to courtesy in front of her and not to do this or that, but you were focused on why you'd been called by the sultana? And that too, at dinner time? Wouldnt she be busy with her family?
Finally, you reached her chambers. Baris Agha entered first and you followed closely behind him, falling into a deep courtesy right after him.
"My Sultana, this is Hatun (lady) Y/n, Mihirmah's sultana's teacher." Baris Agha introduced you.
"Rise." You heard her say and you dared to peek at her and your breath was caught.
If Mihirmah was the epitome of beauty, then Hurrem sultana was something entirely out of this world. Red hair that sat in a intricate bun atop with a crown, milky white skin that had no marks, and those radiant green eyes that shone just as bright as the iconic emerald ring on her finger.
If you didnt know the dates, you wouldnt have guessed her to be a day over 40. But she was well in her 50s, and Allah... were you envious of Turkish beauty.
Truly, this was not a place for an insecure person to be around. You probably did stick out like a sore thumb among the bewitching beauties.
Baris Agha elbowed you to make you avert your gaze, and thats when you spotted Mihirmah sitting beside her looking sheepish.
"So, you've been the one who Mihirmah has been spending so much time with?" She looked at you pointedly.
So much time?
You looked at Mihirmah who was avoiding your gaze. You looked back at the sultana. "Well? Tell me how much my daughter has learned?"
How much? She hasnt been able to memorise a single surah.
You cleared your throat and spoke carefully. "Sultana, its a gradual process-"
"Surely, she must've memorised something? After all, thats why she's been refusing to spend time embroidering or looking at her proposals."
"Mom-" Mihirmah tried but was silenced by a look from her mother.
Hurrem looked back at you. "So, Hatun Y/n, do you have something to say? Or has my daughter been lying to me about spending time with you?"
You looked at Mihirmah who was looking at you with pleading eyes and you connected the dots. Mihirmah has lied to her mother about spending her time with you, and now wants you to lie for her as well.
If you do, Mihirmah might be safe but you risk getting caught. If you dont lie, Mihirmah gets in trouble, but so will you. And not just at Mihirmah's hands, because she will hurt you for snitching, but you suspect that she will twist more lies and lead you into more trouble with both her mother and father.
What to do?
"Mihirmah sultana is... a good student. The best one I've had so far." Well, you werent lying. She was your first student so technically she had no competition. "Everyone has a different pace of learning, my sultana. But its not about how fast you learn, its how much you learn. I'd prefer to take years to learn the surahs over not understanding the meaning behind them, the lessons hidden in them."
Yes, this is a safe answer. "Mihirmah sultana has shown great interest in reading the Quran. She listens very attentively to the translations." After bribing her with duels.
"I have no doubt that she will one day be a good Quran student. As long as she never stops reading it, maintains her connection with the Holy Book and Allah. The process of learning never ends."
Hurrem's calculated eyes read you. She gave a single nod. "Very well, Hatun Y/n. If you say so." Ah finally. Disaster avoided, and now Mihirmah owes me for lying-
"Mihirmah, you will recite the surah Hatun Y/n taught you tomorrow at dinner. Your father and I will be very pleased with your progress." Hurrem stated, making both your and Mihirmah's eyes widen because her mother knows her daughter well. She knows Mihirmah is not prepared and challenged her like this so that she can get rid of you as well, allowing the queen to focus on finding a suitable proposal for her daughter.
"Mother-"
"Mihirmah, go and sleep now. I dont think you need to prepare anymore for tomorrow, as you have told me just how great of teacher Hatun Y/n is." Hurrem smiled cunningly. Of course, she'd lay traps for her own daughter if it meant she could prove a point.
You and Mihirmah left the sultana's chambers together before walking to the princess's chambers.
"Thank you, Y/n for saving me!" Mihirmah said as soon as you two entered her room. She turned around to look at you, only to find you out on her balcony.
"Y/n? What are you doing there?" She walked up behind you.
You looked over your shoulder. "Hm? Oh, I'm just thinking if I should jump to my death from here or ask Baris Agha to get me poison. What do you suggest?"
"Y/n!" She pulled you away from the balcony. "What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me? Whats wrong with you?!" You yanked your arm out of her grip. "Why did you lie to Hurrem sultana that you've been spending day and night studying with me when you damn well know that you have the attention span of a fish?!"
Mihirmah pouted. "Well, I had to come up with an excuse as to why I didnt want to do needle work or look at suitors... how was I supposed to know she'd bring you in for questioning?"
Narrowing your eyes at her, you gritted out. "You should've just told her that you'd rather spend the time beating up servants and throwing knives at pillows for target practise!"
She crossed her arms and huffed. "What, are you mad at me?"
You chuckled humourlessly. "Oh no. No no- how dare I? Why would I be mad at you for being the reason your parents will send me to the gallows? Or would they rather chop off my head?"
She shook her head. "No, I wont.... I wont let them do that." Mihirmah sighed. "I'll tell them the truth tomorrow, come clean."
"Oh great. So then you'll be safe from trouble but I'll still be dead because I LIED to the sultana! Thanks a lot!" You exclaimed.
"Well, then what do you suggest we do?!" Mihirmah was getting short tempered now.
You dragged your hands over your cheeks before heaving a sigh. "The only thing we can do. Make you memorise a surah." You held up a hand before Mihirmah could speak. "I'm not kidding. And... I have a plan. Just... you'll need to stay awake the entire night."
-
"Mihirmah- Mihirmah, wake up." You nudge the sleeping princess, awake. Its been 7 hours into your all nighter and Mihirmah's been asleep for 2 of them. You heard her groan from her position, head resting on the table.
"Mihirmah!" You called her harshly, shaking her shoulder. She smacked your hand away and continued to rest.
Thats it, I'm going to yank your hair-
The door opened making you turn. A young man was standing there, his eyes landing on Mihirmah and then at you.
"Mihirmah?" He called her name gently, but the girl who you'd been expecting to be dead asleep suddenly jumped up at his voice.
"Mehmed?!" Her eyes sparkled before getting up and jumping into his arms, just as you turned your head away and picked up your veil to wear.
Sehzade (prince) Mehmed, second son of Sultan Suleiman, first son of Hurrem. The 24 year old prince hugged his sister and spun her around, the two siblings laughing. Though you already know of his fate- the prince will die young. He will not inherit the throne.
"When did you come back from Manisa?!" Mihirmah asked him.
He pecked her forehead. "Just now. I made my way straight here and I was expecting you to be asleep, but.... what exactly is it that you're doing?" Mehmed asked, and Mihirmah followed his gaze to you.
"Ah. This is Y/n, she's my Quran teacher. I have to memorise a surah and recite it at dinner." She explained.
He raised a brow. "Since when did you have such an interest? Let me guess- father?" She scrunched her nose and nodded. "Forget about that, tell me about your adventures! Come on-" You cleared your throat loudly, making both siblings look at you.
"What?" Mihirmah asked.
"Sultana, we still have to prepare for tonight." You said as gently as you could without popping a vessel in your head.
Mihirmah waved you off. "No need! I've already memorised the surah! I'm all prepared-"
"Sultana." You cut her off. "Memorising is one thing... reciting it properly is another. Your parents will be expecting perfection which-with all due respect, you are nowhere near it."
There was deafening silence in the room as you and Mihirmah stared each other down, neither woman backing away.
"Y/n, I said I'm done for tonight. That means, I. Am. Done." Mihirmah emphasised.
"I'm the teacher and I took responsibility over this matter in front of the Sultan and Sultana. I decide when you. Are. Done." You replied back in the same tone, hands folded in front of you.
I am not letting a spoiled brat ruin my life.
Mehmed looked at the two of you, confusion clouding his mind. Mihirmah doesnt let anyone talk to her this way and get away with it. Usually by now, you wouldve been thrown into the dungeons for torture. He knows his sister and her crazy tendencies, so he doesnt understand why she's putting up with this.
There is something deeper going on here.
"Both of you, stand down." You both broke off the intense stare off and looked at Mehmed. Clasping Mihirmah's hand, he pulled her to the ottomans and sat down beside her, gesturing you to sit down on the floor pillow.
"Now, tell me what is going on?"
After explaining the mess Mihirmah had dragged you two in, Mehmed hummed.
"Mihirmah." He looked at his sister. "It doesnt matter if Y/n told the truth or the lie to mom, she'd be in trouble either way. But there is only one way you wont be in trouble, and that is to pass this test. Prove mom wrong. You can do it- hey, look at me." He cupped Mihirmah's cheeks. "I know you can do it. And to show you my support, I will stay by your side the entire time. Now, lets practice, hm?"
-
You and Mehmed left Mihirmah's room at 8 in the morning, letting her to catch some shut eye.
You mutely yawned under your niqaab, though your back wasnt as silent when you cracked it. You heard Mehmed chuckle behind you, and you quickly composed yourself.
"My sister wore you out, huh?" He had a tired smile on his lips, eyes drooping but still a glint of amusement.
"Of course not, sehzade." You noticed the small cut on the outer end of his left brow. He had ash brown hair, similar to Mihirmah's. If you didnt know better, you'd think the two were twins with how much they resembled. Thick lips, strong nose, high cheek bones.
"You shouldn't lie to a prince, you know?" He rubbed his eyes. "Mihirmah... she is a little-" Annoying? Bitchy? Selfish? "-headstrong, but she's always been this way. Dont take it to heart. She is a good person, you just need to be patient with her."
You stayed quiet as he spoke. What could you really say? Ah no, your sister is actually just a spoiled brat and needs a kicking down?
"Mihirmah likes you, Y/n. It is a lot to ask but... I would appreciate it if you would continue to have her back."
"As you wish, sehzade."
Mehmet gave you one last smile before leaving. "Get some sleep, Y/n."
You turned around and started making your way back towards the harem to your chambers, your mind occupied by the thoughts of the painting Baldwin had made.
I need to destroy it. You decided. If it has survived 400 years, it might survive another 400, and I dont want to take the risk of it appearing in a museum one day.
You're walking down the hall, trying to remember which room it was you had found the paintings in when suddenly you're yanked to a corner.
"hey-!"You're silenced by a hand covering your mouth. A woman was holding you.
"Shh. Its fine. I just want to talk." She pulled her hand away, making you take a huge gulp of air. "What? You cant say hello like a normal person?" You spat at her. She narrowed her eyes at you. "Watch your tone. I'm Gul, the sultana's lady-in-waiting." Or just personal servant. You thought. Wait, sultana?
"Hurrem sultana-" "No, Mahidevran sultana, the first wife of Sultan Suleiman and the one you should always obey and respect. Now come along, she wishes to talk to you." She began pulling you down the corridor.
"Talk to me about what?" She didnt answer you.
Mahidevran sultana, the first wife of the sultan who eventually fells out of his favour when Hurrem arrives. She was able to give birth to one son- sehzade Mustafa, the eldest heir of the sultan, who will also not inherit the throne and will be executed on the orders of his father.
You can only guess how protective Mahidevran would be of both her son and the throne, seeing as she only has one child compared to Hurrem sultana's five, four of which are male heirs. And she has every reason to be threatened too because Hurrem has done what has never been done before.
Hurrem sultana was a non muslim woman captured from Crimea, sold as a slave in Constantinople, became a concubine in the harem and slowly rose to the ranks to be Suleiman's favourite, and later, become his legal wife. She bore majority of his sons, and broke the traditional rule of. "one imperial concubine - one son", was beaten up by Mahidevran which angered Suleiman, earned the title of Haseki Sultana (which means "favourite") and it shocked everyone because never before was a slave elevated to the level of becoming the legal wife of the sultan.
Hurrem sultana was force to be reckoned with. And as history shows, Hurrem would be the victorious one.
Finally reaching the sultana's chambers, you were pushed in by Gul. You immeadiately fell into a courtesy, not wanting to anger the sultana.
"So... who exactly are you?" You looked up, brows knitting in confusion at her question. Mahidevran was sitting on her ottoman, her face expressionless as she stared you down. She was beautiful, her features sharp and slim, collar bones prominent along with her long neck, she looked like a supermodel. But... Hurrem was prettier.
"I- I'm Y/n." You answered her, but she didnt look satisfied. "What is your relation with Hurrem? Are you sleeping with her son, Mehmed?"
"I- I beg your pardon?" You stammered. She stood up and strode to you, making you back up.
"Do not lie to me, girl. My servants saw you entering Hurrem's chambers yesterday, and leaving with Mehmed today."
"Its not what it looks like, sultana." You shook your head. "I am not a concubine and I am not sleeping with anyone! Sultan Suleiman hired me to teach Mihirmah sultana Quran."
"That doesnt explain why you were with Hurrem or Mehmed."
"Hurrem sultana wanted to know how far her daughter has progressed in her lessons and asked Mihirmah to recite a surah at dinner to prove that she's been studying. Sehzade Mehmed and I were with Mihirmah sultana all night helping her prepare for tonight." You explained the situation and Mahidevran stared at you with no expression. For a moment, you thought she didnt believe you but then her lips quirked up.
"Dinner, you say?" You gave a hesitant nod. "Very well, off you go."
As soon as you were out of the room, you leaned against the wall and placed a hand over your chest, feeling your rapidly beating heart. Mahidevran may not be as pretty as Hurrem, but she was definitely scarier. You really did think she was going to torture you.
Weakly, you began walking again. You want to go back to your room and sleep off the headache that was forming, but you still have the stupid portrait to destroy.
Where the hell was that stupid room?
After an hour or so of roaming around and avoiding Baris Agha because you dont have it in you to put up with insults, you finally found the room. You softly knocked on the door first, checking if the sultan or someone else was in the room. When no one answered, you slowly opened the door and looked around. No one was there.
You walked inside and spotted the pile still there, and when you removed the silk off it, everything was still there- untouched, including your portrait.
"What are you doing?"
Second time. You've been caught in here for the second time.
Baldwin has to have cast a curse on you. There is no other explanation for such badluck.
You turned around, praying it was Baris Agha or anyone else, just not the sultan.
As soon as you spotted the royal turban, you could hear Baldwin laughing in the back of your head.
You bowed. "Sehazade- I-"
He looked older than Mehmed, so your best guess was that this was Mustafa.
"I asked, what you were doing with my war loot?" So, it is Mustafa. Mihirmah did say he went on a conquest recently.
"I was-" you cleared your throat. "I was merely admiring the calligraphy."
He tilted his head to look behind you. "There's no calligraphy on the portrait."
"I was admiring... the portrait."
"Were you planning on stealing it?"
"What? No." You peered at him through your niqaab. "It would not be the brightest idea to steal a large canvas and walk through the palace that is littered with guards."
He hummed. "You could go out the window."
"And ruin the painting or risk breaking my legs?"
"Huh. So what do you think would be the best way to steal this painting?" What kind of trick question is this?
"Not that I am stealing it, but if I were to- I'd most likely remove it from the canvas and roll it up, tuck it under my dress or hide it somewhere else and then leave with it. Or maybe pass it to another person, to make myself less suspicious."
"For someone who claims they're not stealing it, that does sound like you put a lot of thought in it." Mustafa admitted.
You frowned. "I was just pointing out the obvious. As I said, I am not a thief!"
"Then who are you?"
"I'm Y/n, Mihirmah sultana's Quran teacher-" He chuckled. "Sure, that's believable."
"Its true."
"You expect me to believe Mihirmah, my little sister who would much rather spend her days skinning someone, is learning Quran?" He smiled, making dimples appear on his cheeks.
"Its not by choice. Sultan Suleiman hired me." He stopped smiling.
"The Sultan... hired you?" Mustafa asked. What- why would his father hire you? You're just a young girl, almost the same age as Mihirmah.
"You can ask him if you dont believe me." You were tired of being insulted. What, does he think you're not smart enough to teach someone? Or just plain ole ugly?
"I-"
"Y/n! Ugh! There you are!" Baris Agha voice cut through, and as soon as he spotted Mustafa, he bowed, but you saw the momentary glance of confusion of why you were with him.
"Sehzade." Baris greeted him. Mustafa acknowledged him with a single nod. "Please excuse me, but I must take Hatun Y/n. Mihirmah sultana has demanded her presence."
Mustafa nodded again, letting Baris Agha drag you out by the arm. He looked at you trying to free your arm from his painful grip while Baris chewed your ear out. Mustafa shook his head before turning around to look at the portrait you were "admiring".
It is... something.
-
By dinner time, your head was pounding to the point you thought someone was hammering a nail in your head. Instead of spending the rest of the day catching some sleep, Mihirmah had demanded you help her dress "modestly" for her Quran recitation tonight. She wanted a look that really captured her "angelic and spirutal" personality.
You were sure your eyes were blood shot, from the lack of sleep. You didnt eat anything since yesterday, because you were almost constantly with royalty and God forbid you ate with them. No, they're "superior" and you dont deserve to eat or take care of yourself unless they allow you to.
"How do I look?" Mihirmah asked you. You were standing outside the royal dining room, where she would first go and have dinner with her family before showing what she's learnt so far.
"Like you just returned from Hajj pilgrimage." You rolled your eyes. She shot you a glare. "You look fine, Mihirmah. Just... stay calm and remember what I've taught you. You got this." She nodded before entering the room where her family awaited her.
You leaned against the wall and sighed, about to close your eyes to take a power nap when Baris Agha nudged you.
"Wake up! Sultana and sehzade are here." He whispered harshly, just as you spotted Mahidevran and Mustafa walking down the hall. You and Baris bowed with the guards.
"Sultana. Sehzade." Baris greeted them sweetly. "The dining hall is currently occupied. Sultan Suleiman is having dinner with his family."
"And what are we, Baris?" Mahidevran snapped, making Baris's courteous smile falter. "I am his first wife, Mustafa- his first son. We have more right to be here than Hurrem and her kids."
"Sultana-" Baris tried to persuade her but she beat him to it by walking past and knocking on the door.
"Enter!" Suleiman called from inside. The servants opened the door, allowing Mahidevran and Mustafa inside.
They bowed to Suleiman. "I hope we're not interrupting, sultan. We just heard that our dear Mihirmah would be reading Quran today and I just couldnt stop myself from coming. I just want to witness our little Mihirmah becoming so connected with her religion, perhaps even inspire me." She smiled widely, placing a hand on Mustafa's back. "I brought her elder brother to show our support. May we join you, sultan?"
Suleiman stared at them before nodding. "Of course, Mahidevran. We're all family here."
Mahidevran couldnt help the smirk that formed on her lips as she saw the pissed off look on Hurrem's face and the alarmed one Mihirmah's. While Hurrem did hope to teach a lesson to her daughter to not lie to her, she wouldnt want to do it by embarrassing her in front of Mahidevran.
The doors closed and their dinner began. You leaned against the wall again to rest your eyes but of course, Baris Agha had to mutter incoherently about the whole situation.
"Allah! Allah! What are we going to do? This might as well be the start of another war inside! Hurrem sultana and Mahidevran sultana head-to-head again-" He elbowed you hard, making you yelp. "Did you tell Mahidevran to come here?! I swear, I will yank your tongue out and strangle you with it."
"Baris Agha, at this rate, I'll be the one to strangle you if you touch me one more time." You threatened, shoving him away roughly.
"You little-" The doors opened again, a servant walked out.
"Hatun Y/n. Sultan has summoned you."
You walked inside, courtesying to the royal family.
Suleiman had this gentle look in his eyes. "Ah. This is Y/n, the teacher I hired for Mihirmah." He introduced you to his family, unbeknownst to him they'd already met you. He looked at you. "I wanted you to be here as Mihirmah recited for us."
"I'm honoured, sultan." You said softly, eyes to the ground as Mihirmah stood up and walked to the center of the room.
Suleiman gave her a nod to start.
Mihirmah took a deep breath in, closed her eyes and started reciting.
إِنَّآ أَعْطَيْنَـٰكَ ٱلْكَوْثَرَ "
فَصَلِّ لِرَبِّكَ وَٱنْحَرْ
"إِنَّ شَانِئَكَ هُوَ ٱلْأَبْتَرُ
15 seconds. Thats all it took for Mihirmah to recite the shortest surah in the Quran, with almost perfect qirat. The surah that usually took 10 minutes for children to learn, took Mihirmah all night to memorise with near-perfect pronunciation. Sure, this was not what anyone was expecting, especially not Hurrem when she challenged you and Mihirmah, but the deal was to recite a surah from Quran, by memory. It just so happened to be the shortest one, the easiest one. You won fair and square.
"MashAllah, Mihirmah. That was beautiful. I am so proud of you." Suleiman beamed, his eyes shining with pride. Mihirmah grinned, running to kiss her father's cheeks.
"Yes, Mihirmah. That was... nice." Hurrem feigned a smile, just happy that she wasnt embarrassed in front of Mahidevran.
"Thank you, mom. I guess I just had a really good teacher." Mihirmah shot you a grateful look, making everyone in the room look at you. Your face flushed, and you were grateful for the niqaab to hide your face.
"Oh- um, you're just a keen learner, sultana." You said softly.
Mahidevran lips quirked up, and Hurrem saw the evil glint in her eyes. "Oh Mihirmah, you read so wonderfully. Your voice- ah! It just moved me. Please, Mihirmah- would you be kind enough to recite for me again? I'm sure your father would love to hear you as well."
Mihirmah's brows furrowed slightly. "I- of course, sultana." She closed her eyes and was about to recite the same surah again when Mahidevran's voice stopped her.
"Oh no, Mihirmah. I was hoping to hear something else."
Mihirmah's face fell. "But this is what I've memorised-"
"That's quiet alright, sweetie. You can always read it from the Quran. This isnt a test!" She chuckled. "I'm sure your teacher has taught you the basics! Here, I even brought the Quran with me." She handed Mihirmah the Holy book.
So this is how she planned to embarrass Mihirmah. She knew the young girl was neither interested nor good at learning Quran, so now when Mihirmah would stammer upon her words, then Suleiman and Hurrem will be ashamed that their Muslim daughter, at the age of 19, cannot even recite properly. Hopefully, this might even cause the couple to fight and Mihirmah to fall from the graces of her father's eyes.
Nervously, Mihirmah slowly opened the book, turning to the first page. She cleared her throat, as it'd help.
It didnt.
Mihirmah stammered and stumbled over her words many times, to the point that the first surah that should've taken less than a minute to recite, ended up taking way longer than anyone would like to admit.
As Mihirmah finished reading, you could see the tears welling up in her eyes and redness in her cheeks. She was utterly embarrassed, she felt she had let her parents down.
"Oh Mihirmah~" Mahidevran cooed. "That was.... not good at all, darling."
"I-" Mihirmah tried to muster up an excuse but the sultana did not care.
"I mean- you were just a disaster! Stuttering and making so many mistakes, and that too with the book open!"
"Mahidevran, enough." Hurrem warned.
Mahidevran narrowed her eyes at her. "What? Oh Hurrem, I am not trying to embarrass Mihirmah! In fact, I think she's not at fault. Well, not completely. I suppose she just doesnt have a good teacher."
Everyone was now looking at you.
Is this how everything ends up becoming your fault and you're the one who gets punished?
Fuck. This.
"Excuse me?" You couldnt help the irritation seep in your voice.
Mahidevran raised a brow at you. "Am I wrong? You were supposed to be the one responsible for teaching our princess Quran. And yet, she just made a fool out of herself. You tried to fool us by making Mihirmah learn the shortest surah, but look at her now- barely able to read from the book!"
Your eyes widened. Is she for real?
"I think you're wrong, sultana." Everyone looked at you as you stated boldly. "Yes, Mihirmah sultana did stammer and made mistakes as she read but I think thats much more valuable." You sighed. "Mihirmah sultana had to make twice the effort to read the Quran than one usually would, but she will also get twice the reward from Allah for her efforts. She knew she wont read well, she knows she's just a beginner at this stage, but she didnt let it stop her. And Allah will reward her for that, He knows what was in her heart, her intentions, despite what anyone has to say about her skills."
"And as for "trying to fool" anyone here- "You looked her dead in the eye. "I find that accusation insulting to the very core. You say that I made Mihirmah sultana memorise the shortest surah in the Quran. I did. Surah Kawthar is indeed the shortest surah, but does that mean it is less important? Not worthy to be read, or be in the Holy Book altogether?"
Mahidevran was frowning as you looked at her. "Do you claim to know better than Allah as to what should or shouldn't be in His divine book? Surah Kawthar may be the shortest surah in the Quran but it is one that I find deep comfort in. As the surah translates-
Indeed, We have granted you ˹O Prophet˺ abundant goodness.
So pray and sacrifice to your Lord ˹alone˺
Only the one who hates you is truly cut off ˹from any goodness˺.
And what does this tell us? The background of these verses is that when our beloved Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) lost his son, his enemies, the non believers would make fun of him that "Islam will end now because Muhammad had no male heir to continue to grow the religion, to spread the word of Allah." But Allah wouldn't abandon his beloved prophet, even when he was depressed.
This Surah was sent down when the nonbelievers of Makkah taunted the Holy Prophet (PBUH) because he had lost all his male issues, and called him 'abtar' or insulted him for some other reason. The present Surah gives an answer to the taunts of the nonbelievers, and maintains that there is no justification for calling the Holy Prophet (PBUH) an 'abtar' only because he had no male child alive, not only because his lineal offspring will remain till the Day of Judgment, though from his daughters, but he was destined to be the spiritual father of a multitude of sons in all ages to the end of time, sons who were to be far more faithful, obedient and loving than the sons of any father, and they will outnumber the followers of all the Prophets that came before him. The Surah has also highlights the great honor and respect given to him by Allah.
I also like to think that the reason why this Surah was included in the Quran was so that Muslims in general would also be comforted by the word of Allah. That all the Muslims, even if they were not from Prophet Muhammad's direct lineage, we are his ummah and so we will also enjoy the river Kawthar.
Kawthar refers to a river in paradise, which translates "a river that contains abundant goodness" and we will enjoy the greatest honour and respect, as our Prophet Muhammad's ummah."
You took a deep breath. "So, Mahidevran sultana... do you still accuse me of fooling anyone?"
The room was dead silent. You may have indirectly insulted Mahidevran and broken so many rules, but everything you said was true. It was clear. You were smart and educated, Suleiman had no doubt about it when he first met you. And now, he was only more reassured of his decision to make you Mihirmah's teacher.
"Very well said, Y/n." Suleiman broke the silence. Standing up, he walked over to Mihirmah, holding her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her forehead, comforting his daughter.
"I am very proud of you, Mihirmah. I can see the hardwork you did." He hugged her again, pressing another kiss to her forehead as she sniffled softly. "I knew you'd do well, so I brought a gift for you."
Mihirmah watched as a servant brought a wooden box lined with velvet and gems. Opening it, she gasped softly.
It was a gold bracelet with rubies and emeralds, lined in an intricate pattern.
Hurrem smiled as Suleiman put the bracelet around his daughter's wrist, before bringing her hand to his lips and pecking it.
He was a proud father.
"And Y/n-" You stiffened. Suleiman turned towards you, his body towering over you. "You did a fine job at not only teaching Mihirmah, but also helping us understand the significance of Surah Kawther."
A servant brought box, similar to Mihirmah's. Opening it, you saw a bracelet, identical to Mihirmah's.
"This is for you." Suleiman smiled as he placed the bracelet around your trembling hand.
"I- sultan-" you tried to return it but Suleiman silenced you.
"I crafted this with my own hands. It'll be rude of you to refuse." Your eyes widened at his serious tone and you immediately bowed your head.
"T-thank you, sultan." He hummed, returning to his seat while Mihirmah hugged you, giggling.
Dinner continued on as Mihirmah and her siblings began chattering once you left, but something had disturbed both Hurrem and Mahidevran.
-
"What happened inside? Catfight?" Baris Agha, the gossiper asked as you stumbled out of the room. His eyes fell on the bracelet and he snatched your hand. "Allah! Allah! Did you steal this?! I will have you-"
"Sultan Suleiman gifted it to me." Baris dropped your hand.
"S-sultan? Sultan's gift?" He whispered to himself in disbelief, but you were already walking away. You were tired, your headache had now turned into a migraine and your energy levels had dropped. All you wanted was to curl up in bed and at this point, you dont care if you wake up or not.
But sleep is for the fortunate ones. For you, Baris Agha was written.
"Y/n! You- stop! Listen!" He ran up behind you, pulling your shoulder to make you stop. "You- Sultan Suleiman gifted you the bracelet?! Do you know what this means?"
You heaved a sigh, your vision getting blurry. "Baris, just- just shut up. I need to... sleep." You turned around and started walking, not realising just how blurry your vision was, or how you were leaning against the wall for support.
All you saw was blurry figure standing in front of you, before you lost your footing. The figure caught you, and you heard Baris yell your name before losing consciousness.
-
Hurrem was in Suleiman's chambers. She was going to spend the night here, it seemed. Suleiman had summoned her himself tonight.
Suleiman walked inside, and when he spotted his wife, he smiled. Hurrem returned the smile, walking upto him and kissing him.
"Suleiman..." She whispered against his lips. "You summoned me?"
"I did." He lead her to the bed, sitting down. "What do you think of Y/n?"
She tilted her head. Y/n? "I suppose she is a good teacher. Smart. Well educated, at least religion wise."
He let out a hum. "What else?"
"What else, Suleiman? I dont know her." Suleiman chuckled, making her even more confused. Why are you being brought up right now?
"Well, try getting to know her better." "Why?"
Suleiman shrugged. "You'll know in due time."
Hurrem couldnt put her mind at peace the rest of the night. Why was Suleiman curious about you? He couldnt possibly want you- no. No. She saw him with you. He practically looked at you the same way he looked at Mihirmah. Thats why he gave you both the same bracelets-
Oh no.
-
You woke up when you felt something cool on your forehead. Opening your eyes, a wet rag blocked your vision. You pushed the rag away, accidentally touching the hand that was holding the rag there.
A man was sitting on your bedside. He had honey-coloured eyes, short, well kept dark brown hair and tanned skin.
"You can let go of my hand, Hatun Y/n." He grinned.
Your face turned red as you dropped his hand. "I- sorry."
"No worries. You're just disoriented from earlier. Exhaustion, the physicians say." He chuckled, standing up and you noticed Baris standing in the corner now. "You will need to get used to working long hours, especially now." Baris raised his brows at you as he said that, making the man laugh again.
"I will take my leave now. Take care, Hatun Y/n. And let me know if she needs anything, Baris."
"Of course, Ibrahim pasha." He bid farewell to the vizir.
The man said before leaving. Baris immediately rushed to you, grinning from ear to ear.
"What?"
"Who would've guessed- the preacher to be the tempteress?"
"Excuse me?" You glared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Baris waved you off. "Well, be flattered! I mean- you're going to be married to a sehzade soon-"
"Woah woah! What are you talking about?"
Baris stared at you. "Oh, you really dont know, do you?" You looked even more puzzled. Baris grabbed your wrist, showing you the bracelet. "This is made by sultan Suleiman. The sultan only gives handmade gifts to family and close relatives. And since I've been here since the sultan married the first sultana, I know you're not his secret love child, which means..." he waited for you to catch on, but giving up when you took too long.
"Y/n, if you're not related to him blood, then you will become related to him by becoming a part of his family. Which will be by you becoming his daughter-in-law!" He exclaimed.
Your face paled. No, no!
"Close your mouth, you'll catch flies, darling." Baris tapped your chin. "And I suggest you hide your bracelet for a while. Dont want the concubines to get jealous, hm?"
So?? Thoughts??? Who do you think will be the yanderes? What do you think will happen next???
Yandere batfam x neglected reader
So, pack up your car, put a hand in your heart, sing what ever you feel, be wherever you are
We ain't angry at you love. ⋆·˚ ༘ *
The pain of the neglected soul. Under the heavy mood lingering in the manor. An architectural design that screams wealth but is never wealthy with love and laughter. well, at least not to the second youngest child of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy, the most powerful man in Gotham City.
Being a product of a mistake between an infamous prostitute and a well-known, almost "celebrity"-like man was not really an ideal life. Being shunned away by the woman who you call Mom, who's supposed to whisper sweet words to you and rock your fragile body back and forth to ease you of whatever you feel bad about, instead shoves you into the arms of an unknown man who's your supposed father. Yeah, that sucks.You've always adored your mom. Despite the horrible words she casually whispers to you - "you ruined me, kid"—you turn a blind eye to her actions and act deaf to her cruel words and instead pretend that she's the mom who loves you and adores you just as much as you do for her. Because it was better. It just was. Your brain can't really process the fact that your abusive mother can be abusive. No, not when she was the one who carried you for 273 days, birthed you, and gave you your name. A 5-year-old's brain can't possibly carry the thought of having that same woman hate you. So even when it was your birthday, you waited for her all day to come home and give you kisses and maybe a birthday cupcake or present. just for once, she comes home drunk, messy, and dizzy with a man on her arms while laughing feverishly. It crazy to think that was the most happiest you've seen her; she was always scowling when she was with you. Strange. Even so you greet her with a hug. "Momma, I've been waiting for you all day—" she cuts you off and tells you to get away from her and calls you this strange name "annoying" huh. Wonder what that means. And for the next hours you spend your birthday alone, in your bedroom. Awake and hungry. But it doesn't matter at least mom came home! Sometimes she doesn't even come home for a few days, but she came home today! That means she must love you. Only for a few days she stays at home with the strange man she brought home on the day of your birthday. It doesn't bother you, it was normal after all. She always do this and then after a few days the man's gone. Yeah, this is just temporary. You say as you clean the house full of dirty clothes and empty alcohol bottles. And then one night the strange man is yelling at your mom; screams filled the tiny apartment with smashing sounds of bottles echoing around the room. You're furious, and you want to defend the woman who you oh so lovingly call "mother" You push the man away, and it angers him. With his bloodshot eyes, he grabbed the bottle and smashed it at the side of your tiny head. You soon wake up in a large room with bright lights and thick white walls. Soon you find out that you're in a hospital; its so cool, it's the size of your living room! Maybe even bigger… Moments later you found out that your mother gave you up to some unknown man who is to be called your "father.". You thrash and scream against the nurse's hold and scream for your mommy, yet she never came.A strange man came and introduced himself. He said he was "Alfred" and said from now on he will take care of you. That's silly because no one in your entire life has had someone take care of you. Soon he drives you to a gloomy big house with lots of statues as Alfred proceeds to tell you that this will be your new home now. Different portraits adorn the walls, and shiny pottery and impressive works of art fill the house. Alfred soon introduced you to your father, Bruce Wayne. Now this is where it all starts. With your new home, hope sparked through your heart, and you believed that somehow, someway, maybe you'll be able to get the love that you have always longed for, yearned for, waited for.
Wrong.
Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the most powerful man of Gotham, the heartthrob, the Batman, but never the father of y/n l/n. He doesn't even know you. Doesn't even try to acknowledge you and your hard work, desperate to try anything to make him pay attention to you. To give you the attention you crave and yearn for ever since you arrived at the comfort of his home. You weren't stupid. You knew who he was and his nightly activities. You understood. But what hurts was that despite this, he managed to give every. Single. One. Of his children, attention except you. Was it because you weren't like them? Was it because you didn't fight bad guys for a hobby? Or was it because he never deemed you worthy of his time? Why? Were all the things the kids and big adults whispered behind your back true? That you were a child of a whore and you were bound to become one too over a matter of time? Was it true you'll never compare to your siblings? Being compared to your siblings, who had so much talent and had their own special abilities that yours can't compare to, was draining—and partially true. Your little ballet classes can never impress bruce over his other children's combat skills, multilingual abilities, and genius calculations. And you learned to accept that over the years as you grew up.
Richard grayson, dick, the loving big brother, the family guy. Maybe he was a good guy. After all, he managed to acknowledge you for about 6 seconds one time! He even asked you about your ballet classes! Though that was only to distract his self before Damian came. Always the big brother and Lil brother duo! .. Despite being busy with being a full-time cop and a vigilante, he still makes time for family, the ones he considers as family. Not you, never you. Who were you kidding? Dick is the star of the show, and you're just another side character in his main character life! Just a plain, old, boring bystander. That's all you will ever be to little Richard Grayson's glam life story.
Jason todd was different. He was known as someone who was brutal and full of anger. So it was no problem for him to shove you and tell you off. He had no conscience in telling you to go away, and you liked that. You like the fact that at least he had the decency to not give you false hope. Jason todd hates you, and you know it. Jason todd is jealous of your normalcy and how oblivious you are to the danger of the world. In his eyes, you were his replacement; looking at you makes the green monster of envy crawl out of him and take his anger out on you. The way you are so vulnerable stirs something up inside of him, and he realizes that your eyes look just like his when he was full of wonder and innocence. It made him restless and irritated. It reminded him of his mistakes, foolishness, and those memories he buried deep inside his mind to save him from countless nightmares he desperately ran away from.
Timothy Drake, the genius Robin, the hero by choice, the prodigy son. You would be lying if you said that you weren't jealous of Tim at all. I mean, look at him! He's a genius, a hero, a heartthrob, and a role model to several youths of Gotham. He was exactly like Bruce, and I mean exactly like Bruce. His life revolved around solving crimes, fighting bad guys, acing all of his tests, and coffee. Anything was more important other than you. Sure! He has time to cuddle with his family for movie night (without you, of course) but never has the time to play video games with you. Everything seemed to send thrills to his veins and spark an interest in him except your very existence. If you were just a mere bystander in Dick's story, you weren't even in Tim's!
Cassandra. The girl of the family. You have always envied her. Not only was she the only girl of the family and doted on by every single one of your brothers, but you and she also shared the same interest. What's even more infuriating was that she didn't even have to try. She didn't have to beg countless times to have anyone attend her performances because they were all there. Even Jason, who hid in the shadows. They were all there to support her and show her the love you have always asked for, begged for. She swooned all of them with her dancing, and you can't help that maybe her hands are more gentle, maybe her feet are more pointed, maybe her posture is more straight than yours, maybe she's prettier than you, maybe she's more worth than you.
And finally. Damian al Ghul Wayne. The youngest son, the baby brother, the scarred child loved by his family. When Damian came into the manor, you were thrilled. You thought that maybe you and he could bond over the same trauma. Maybe finally someone can understand you.You thought wrong again. Damian thought you were weak and a disgrace to the bloodline of the Wayne family clan. He called you thousands of cruel names and insulted you whenever he had the chance to. He always belittled you and showed you no mercy, going as far as to drag the blade of his sword across your neck, drawing blood, just for him to cruelly laugh in your face and tell you that you are being dramatic. You forgave him. You were a good kid. Right? So why is it that a kid who made thousands of innocent lives bleed through his sword is sitting with his father—your father—on the couch, sleeping soundly on his chest? It's not fair.
They were never fair.
As Dick was checking the CCTV footage of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage—about 2 weeks ago—of a person packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates; it's impossible. Unless…Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed in on the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled, and his eyes dilated.
It can't be.
I just read the 2 chapters of the y/n into batfamily, do u post ur chapters anywhere else? Also I love how heartbreaking the story is
Thanks! And no, I only post my stories in tumblrrrr
Yn: Remember, when burying a body, make sure to cover it with endangered plants so it’s illegal to dig up!
Yn: Make sure to follow me for more gardening tips!
Batfamília: 🤨
Bruce: There's no more salvation
Yandere batfam x neglected reader
Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *
You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.
As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.
Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.
In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.
Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.
Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.
You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.
You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.
You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.
They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-
Whimper
You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.
After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.
You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.
You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.
Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.
“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.
She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?
"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.
"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."
Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.
She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.
"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."
You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.
As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.
For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.
That's what you thought.
It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.
Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.
Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.
Dick? What's happening here?
A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.
"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."
Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.
Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?
Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.
Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.
"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.
Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."
As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.
Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.
He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.
It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.
Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.
Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.
The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?
The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.
As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.
Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.
he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.
Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?
Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.
Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.
It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.
“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.
"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"
"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.
"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.
Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.
Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.
Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?
Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.
Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.
He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.
Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.
He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.
The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.
He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.
After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.
With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.
Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.
Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.
Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.
Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.
As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.
He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.
Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.
Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.
"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."
Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."
Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!
"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."
Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.
"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.
Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."
Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.
As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.
He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.
Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.
Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.
So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.
Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.
And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.
The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.
The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.
You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.
"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."
You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."
The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.
She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."
Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”
As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.
"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."
You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.
"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."
You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.
"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.
But then Des said something that made you freeze.
"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.
You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.
Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"
Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.
In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.
What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.
The fates were clearly playing with you now.
Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.
As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.
Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.
Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.
Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.
The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.
The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.
The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.
She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."
A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.
The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.
Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.
As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.
The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.
Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.
The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.
They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.
For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.
Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.
Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.
Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.
Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.
Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.
As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”
Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.
Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.
Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.
Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.
As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.
Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.
In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.
Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.
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