It's An Average Day In Gotham, And You Are The Horrible Duck-master Of Disaster

Also skull what readers do you write for?

hmm, currently I write Gender Neutral, Female, and Male.

When I have more confidence in my skills, I'll venture out but that it's for now.

Thanks for asking, Hermes!

The Making of a Villian - Chapter 2

The name "Duck" had followed you for years, a small, unexpected part of the legacy you built—one that you didn’t quite understand back then, but now, as a fully-fledged villain, it made all the sense in the world.

It wasn’t a loud, grand name, or one that screamed power. It was quiet, unnoticed by most, just like you had been. And perhaps that was the charm of it. The sound of it felt like a soft whisper, a reminder of where you started and how far you’d come. It wasn’t about the grandeur, the attention, or the recognition that they had all failed to give you. It was about something simple. Something you could control.

The first time you’d heard it, you were barely twelve, sneaking through the wet, grimy streets of Gotham, following Croc and his crew down into the sewers. They’d told you it was a joke at first. The way you waddled after them, not quite a threat but eager and always trailing behind like a duckling in the shadows.

That had been the moment the name stuck.

But how did it all start?

You leaned back in your chair now, letting the weight of the memory sink in. You weren’t the same naive kid you once were—chasing validation from people who never even cared to look at you. Now, as you sat in the middle of your own chaotic empire, the name didn’t feel like a joke anymore. It felt like a symbol. A testament to the quiet and steady growth of your plans.

But it all started the day you got grounded.

You had been there, sitting in the Batcave, eyes fixed on the screen in front of you, outlining a plan. Another disaster was unfolding in Gotham, and once again, you had seen it coming. It was easy, really—too easy. The way you had tracked the patterns, mapped out the potential escape routes, made sure everything would play out perfectly if you followed the right script.

You had presented it to them, as usual—quietly, carefully, just a small note on the edge of a conversation.

But it was ignored. Again.

They were too busy arguing, too caught up in the rush of being heroes to take a minute to listen to you. It wasn’t anything new. But this time, you could feel it—feel the sting of your constant invisibility.

You had a plan. You had something real to offer. And all it got you was a cold shoulder.

It wasn’t until the mission went south that anyone noticed. The hostage situation had escalated quickly. The building collapsed, lives were lost, and they were scrambling. But no one took the time to check why it had happened in the first place, why your plan was never followed through.

“Why didn’t you see this coming?” Bruce’s voice had been cold, his disappointment cutting sharper than any weapon.

“Are you sure that’s all you have to say?” You had asked, biting your tongue, your voice low. But Bruce didn’t even glance at you.

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

After that, the grounding was inevitable. You were sent to your room, the doors locked, no one listening to you when you said you had a better way, no one even asking what you had to say.

You had spent the rest of that evening staring at the walls of your room, the reality of being ignored sinking in. Alone. Always alone.

But that night, the first of many escapes, was when you decided to make your move.

When they thought you were sleeping in the comfort of your bed, you slipped out. No alarms. No loud noises. Just a small slip through the window, down the ivy growing next to the windeo sill and into the shadows of the night you went. The mansion wasn’t your home, it was a gilded cage. So, you ran.

You had learned, over the years, the paths no one else knew about—the secret tunnels beneath the mansion, hidden entrances that the Wayne family had forgotten long ago. You knew the streets of Gotham like the back of your hand, but tonight, you weren’t headed there. You were headed underground.

The sewers.

It was where the real world lived. Gotham’s villains made their home in the depths of the city, far away from the pristine walls of Wayne Manor. It was there, in the muck and the grime, that you had first encountered him—Killer Croc.

You weren’t sure what had drawn you to him, but you had always felt a strange pull toward the criminal underworld. Maybe it was the way they operated outside the rules, the way they didn’t apologize for their existence.

The first time you saw Croc, he was a giant in the dark, his scales catching the little light that filtered into the sewers. He had been talking to some other low-level crooks, and you’d been careful to stay out of sight.

But then his gaze landed on you.

“You,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the rumble of an earthquake, “You’re the kid from the mansion, ain’t you?”

Your heart had stopped for a second. There was nowhere to hide now. But you didn’t back down.

“Yeah. So?”

He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “You don’t belong up there, kid. You want to learn how to really survive? You follow me.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.

And you followed.

Over time, Killer Croc had become your first true mentor. He wasn’t interested in your background or where you came from. He didn’t care that you were just a kid trying to escape the shadows of a family that ignored you. All he saw was potential—a survival instinct that matched his own.

He taught you the ways of the underworld—how to move silently, how to navigate the city's forgotten paths, how to get what you needed without anyone noticing. Most of all, he taught you to be ruthless. In Gotham, if you showed weakness, you didn’t survive.

And you would survive.

It was Croc who had given you the name “Duck.”

He’d laughed the first time he said it, his large form towering over you in the dark. You had been trailing behind him again, always just a little too eager, always one step behind.

“Look at you, duckin’ and weavin’ through this city,” he had said, a grin spreading across his scarred face. “Little duckling followin’ after the big bad croc, huh?”

At first, you had bristled, wanting to argue. But then you realized, there was something strangely fitting about it. You were small. You were quiet. You moved through the shadows, unnoticed, until you weren’t.

The name stuck, and you wore it like a badge. It was your first taste of being something more than invisible. You were a part of something now, even if it wasn’t the Batfamily.

And so, Duck was born. Not a victim of neglect, but a force in the making.

As the days turned into weeks, you grew into your new identity. Croc had been your first real ally, but you wouldn’t stop there. There were others. Poison Ivy, Riddler, Harley—each teaching you their ways, their tricks, and their mindset. And with each lesson, the name Duck became less of a joke and more of a promise.

You weren’t the Batfamily’s forgotten child anymore.

Now, you were something far worse.

As you stood now in your lair, the name still with you, the memories came flooding back. Croc had seen something in you that the Batfamily never did. And while the world might’ve called you a sidekick, a follower, a mistake—they had no idea what you were truly capable of.

“Duck,” you whispered to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “It’s time they remembered who I am.”

AAAAA

Alpha Jason my beloved

It’s so good omgg

-🪼

I'll have you know that trying to figure out how to write Jason as an alpha actually killed me a little.

I refuse to read any omegaverse fics and yet, I just broke that rule for that fic.

Y'ALL SHOULD BE HAPPY cause there is little chance I will write another, unless it's a very good prompt. We'll see....

BUT I'M GLAD YOU LIKED IT.

Skullyyyy I NEED Dick and a male!Reader to have a really cutesy first date please 🥺 pretty please with sprinkles on top 👉🏼👈🏼

👨🏼‍🍳

Tilt-a-Heart

(Dick Grayson x Male!Reader — First Date)

You didn’t expect a text from Dick Grayson at 11:07 PM that said, simply:

“Hope you’re not in pajamas. I’m kidnapping you. :)”

Ten minutes later, he was at your door, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, grinning like he hadn’t just spent the evening beating up muggers and rooftop-hopping across Gotham.

“You good with carnivals?” he asked. “Or do I need to bribe you with deep-fried sugar?”

“I’m a guy. I can be bribed with food,” you smirked, stepping in beside him.

He drove out past the city lights, humming along to whatever was on the radio. You didn’t talk much at first—not because it was awkward, but because he was humming, and you liked the way he looked when he was relaxed.

The carnival was smaller than expected—tucked behind a warehouse lot, almost hidden—but glowing with string lights and distant laughter. He bought your ticket before you could argue.

“Let me have this one, tough guy,” he teased, nudging your arm.

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

The night blurred into rides and games: Dick trying to show off at the ring toss (and missing every time), you winning a plush bat on your first try, and him insisting that was a setup.

“You sure you’re not secretly trained for carnival warfare?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

You leaned close. “And if I was?”

“I’d kiss you on the carousel,” he shot back—then looked slightly surprised at himself.

You raised an eyebrow. “Guess you better win us a ride then, Grayson.”

He did. You ended up side by side on slowly moving horses, lights spinning above. He reached over halfway through, awkwardly at first, then more sure, linking his pinky with yours.

By the end of the night, when he walked you back to your door, there was a quiet tension. Not nervous. Just… warm. Real.

“Hey,” he said, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Mind if I—?”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned in first, kissed him lightly. He smiled into it, hand brushing your jaw.

When you pulled back, he laughed softly. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

You shrugged. “I’m a guy with good taste.”

Dick winked. “Yeah. So am I.”

Dadman: Rise of Cringe

Summary: Bruce is benched from Batman duty. Instead of resting, he becomes... too much of a father.

It started with a pulled muscle.

Bruce—Batman, scourge of the Gotham underworld, peak human conditioning, walking myth—had slightly tweaked his back during a rooftop chase and had the audacity to wince in front of Alfred.

Within twenty-four hours, he was grounded by the Justice League, medicated by Leslie Thompkins, and scolded into submission by every member of the Batfamily.

“You need rest,” Dick said, concerned.

“You need to stop whining,” Damian added.

“You need to sit down before you drop dead,” Jason grunted.

Bruce, in his infinite wisdom, nodded.

And then decided to go full dad mode.

The Batcave was reorganized by “chore rotation.”

“Family Dinner Thursdays” became mandatory. If you missed it, he’d send a sad-face emoji. In the group chat. With a Bitmoji of himself wearing a “#1 Dad” hoodie.

Jason was the first to crack.

“Why is he like this?” he whispered at the dinner table, poking his lasagna like it offended him.

“He made me go on a walk this morning,” Tim whispered back. “A brisk walk. Around the Manor. For 'mental clarity.'”

Bruce entered the room in khakis and a tucked-in polo shirt. “Who’s ready for family game night?”

Dick groaned audibly. Damian tried to crawl under the table.

Later that week:

Bruce showed up at Damian’s fencing match in a shirt that read My Son Can Beat Up Your Son.

He cheered. Loudly.

“GO, DAMI! USE THE FOOTWORK WE PRACTICED!”

“You practiced with him?” Dick asked, mortified.

“In the backyard,” Bruce said, beaming. “We bonded.”

Damian scowled. “He made me drink coconut water and called it ‘dad fuel.’”

It only got worse.

Bruce cornered Tim in the kitchen at 8AM with a breakfast burrito and a question sheet titled “How’s College, Champ?” It had bullet points.

He helped Jason change a tire then handed him a handshake coupon for “One Free Hug, No Questions Asked.”

He dragged Dick to a farmer’s market, bought a dozen jams, and told vendors about “my acrobat son.”

Nightwing’s PR was never the same.

The final straw came when Bruce made the family record a TikTok to a trending dance.

He wore socks with sandals.

They all begged Zatanna to curse him.

Two Weeks Later:

Bruce was cleared for field duty. Suit polished. Cape pressed.

But at family dinner that night, he brought out a tray of grilled kabobs.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smirk. “I’m back. But Dadman’s here to stay.”

Tim dropped his fork.

Jason muttered a prayer.

Damian screamed into a napkin.

Dick, exhausted, lifted his lemonade. “To Dadman.”

Bruce raised his own glass proudly. “To family.”

Alfred, in the background, smiled softly and took a photo for the fridge.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ No one asked for this so why did I write this? Because free will is a thing apparently. Don't ask me what this is or why because I have no idea. I just needed it out of my brain.

Hi! So I'm the 🌃 anon witherby's blog and I read your fic because of it. I just wanted to say I loved it! I don't read a lot of DC fics with Danny Phantom in them since I've never watched the show (though I'm starting to consider it).

Your ideas are incredible as is your writing style. I hope you keep writing!

1. Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed my story and for letting me know who you are lol

2. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU WATCH IT!!! IT'S A GOOD SHOW!!

what if

what if I post Chapter 2 of The Making of a Villian?

It's in my drafts, finished it a couple days ago.

hmmmm

I have recently come to the realization that I am going to be known for writng Alpha!Jason x Reader fanfics and I do not know how to feel about that lmao

(I don't even read omegaverse fanfics, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)

Because of the tags I used for my fic and the tags I use to find said fics to read, I now have to deal with seeing my own fic while I scroll.

Chat, is this something all writers have to deal with??

(also, too lazy to put tags in this post)

the Logan x reader was very nice! can u do one where they kiss?

Just This Once

Logan Howlett X GN!Reader

(warning, because it wasn't stated, I did make this angst, so be prepared for that)

You were packing when he found you.

Your bag was half-zipped, clothes shoved inside without care. The mission was over. The damage was done. You weren’t staying at the mansion—not after what happened. Not after what they lost.

Not after what you lost.

Logan stood in the doorway, silent for a long time.

“You don’t have to run,” he finally said.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not running. I’m leaving.”

“That’s what running is.”

You zipped the bag all the way and threw your jacket over your shoulder. “Not everyone can heal from everything, Logan.”

That made him flinch, just barely. But you saw it.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you’re hurt.”

You turned, finally facing him, and god—you hated how tired he looked. Like he hadn’t slept since the explosion. Like he hadn’t stopped blaming himself since the moment you pulled yourself out of the rubble with blood on your hands and someone else’s name on your lips.

“You weren’t the one who died,” you whispered. “But you act like you were.”

“Because it should’ve been me.”

That stopped you cold.

His eyes locked with yours—haunted, full of all the things he never said.

“I’ve lost people,” he rasped, voice breaking. “More than I can count. But watching you walk out that door? That’s a different kind of hell.”

Your fingers clenched around your jacket.

“Don’t do this now,” you said. “Not when I’m finally strong enough to leave.”

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, stepping forward. “I should’ve told you when we had time.”

Your throat tightened. “But you didn’t.”

Silence.

Then, like it was the only thing that made sense, he reached for you—slow, gentle. His hand cradled your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. And you didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t stop him.

The kiss was desperate. Not soft. Not romantic. It was years of grief, guilt, longing, and what-ifs poured into one stolen moment neither of you had the right to ask for.

When it broke, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing like you were drowning.

“I loved you,” you whispered.

“I still do,” he said.

And then you stepped back, picked up your bag, and walked out—because love wasn’t always enough, and this time?

It was too late.

You walked out.

You had to.

But the moment the mansion's front doors shut behind you, the cold hit harder than it should’ve. Not just the weather—Logan’s absence clung to you like fog, sinking deep into your lungs.

The kiss still burned on your lips. Not gentle, not sweet—but real. And it lingered.

You didn’t look back. Not when you stepped into the snow. Not when the trees swallowed you whole.

But Logan did.

He stood at the window long after your silhouette vanished behind the white, jaw clenched like he could hold the pain in his teeth.

“I’m not gonna chase you,” he muttered to himself. “You said you needed space. You’ll get it.”

His hands curled into fists.

“But I’m not done.”

He turned away from the window, jaw set.

He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know when, but he would see you again.

Because some people you fight for—quietly, steadily, without a deadline.

And some loves don’t end at goodbye.

They wait.