All This Talk About Wishing They'd Turn Sophie Into A Man

scenario based on my atla/Avatar Spider au:

The first time Spider enters the Avatar state is when the humans return to Pandora, their flaming ships bringing inferno like wildfires to Eywa's forests act like a comet, and the boy loses control, and the only way to protect him from himself was for Eywa to induce the Avatar state so his body could withstand the way his own flames reacted. He ends up in the center of some of the worst of the flames, engulfed, but shielded by a sphere of his own flames, stone, and air, as he draws water up from the soil to soften the wildfire's rage.

When the infernos die down days later, he rises from the ashes barely scathed, ready to make himself known as the Avatar, despite his fear and the hostility he knows he'll face as an "abomination to Eywa's blessings". But he doesn't care. He's too angry, his eyes and stripes still glowing, the rage of thousands of centuries of warriors and healers and mothers and fathers and devotees coursing through him.

But he is young. He has had no teachers. So his anger only takes him so far, and very few trust him enough to allow him to truly partake in the battles and planning, not within the Omatikaya anyway, seeing him as some cruel hoax formulated by the humans.

The second time he enters the Avatar state is the night the recoms lay their filthy hands on his baby siblings. He rages. Beyond rages. His power comes in the form of animalistic rage. His eyes and stripes white out. One second his siblings are held in bounds, the next they're free and he's yelling at them in a voice they don't quite recognize to run. Then he is gone, his anger quickly spent, leading to his capture, but not without fight. The recoms never expected to deal with a fire bender like themselves, let alone the Avatar.

The casualties left behind that night were his doing.

The third time he reaches the Avatar state is the night Neteyam dies. The boy was a healer, but not with water. He had no teachers to show him the way of using it to heal. He had no herbs or plants at his side that he recognized as Neteyam bled out before him. He screamed to Eywa for help, for the strength and skill to heal his brother. He pleaded for her to force him into the Avatar state so he could keep his brother from slipping away. But she couldn't save him, not this time. She wanted to, but she could not allow him to upset the balance.

Neteyam dies as Spider weakly, despite all of his might, holds an orb of faintly glowing water over the hole in his chest, as his eyes track over the burns left by over eager fire benders with no true skill. He dies as Spider screams and begs. The one time he needed his blessing, his curse, his punishment, his reward- Whatever anyone wished to call it -to do Hun why good, it could not save his problem.

Instead it comes the moment it is too late to do anything, enough rage and grief and hurt pooling in his chest as Neteyam's eyes glaze over and Neytiri begins to scream and his Father's voice begins to mock. That is when he rises to the ground in a cast of white light. He ravages the ship. He isn't alone, but he claims his casualties.

It takes a very long time before he ever allows himself to enter the Avatar state again, and he learns to never depend on it. For anything. And while his faith in Eywa is not lost, it is jaded, because she blessed him with a curse, whether she meant to or not, and couldn't even answer his one prayer.

I love Neytiri, as a character all her actions make sense. Does that mean she's always right? No. Did she make mistakes... maybe as much as Jake did but I'm not gonna get into details with that.

That beeing said, I do not think she's racist... but she need the nav'i equivalent of a therapist. So much happened to her and she needs help or she's gonna go crazy. It's not healthy to have such a problem with a litteral child, even he has a link to a horrible person that you hate.

no, neytiri is not a “racist bigot towards humans”. no, she was never a hypocrite for marrying jake but mistrusting spider.

she is completely unequivocally justified in hating humans. this inverse racism/bigotry isn’t a thing. humans took everything from her, they invaded and destroyed her land, bombed her home, killed half of her family and slaughtered her people. she has every damn right to loathe humans as a whole.

but jake? jake is the exception. he was personally mentored by her, he was taught the way of the na'vi and is officially part of the omatikaya. and when he betrayed her, he underwent impossible lengths to protect her and the people by becoming toruk makto and literally turning his back from his species forever. again: he is the exception. it was jake’s job to prove that he was different. it was NOT neytiri’s job to change her mind about humans.

and obviously she recognizes that not all of them are like that. but that doesn’t mean she has to like them. she tolerates the scientists’ presence but doesn’t interact with them. and why should she?

the reason she mistrusts spider (not full on despise him, like a lot of people think) is not that he’s human, but that he’s quaritch’s son. does he deserve it? no. is he innocent? of course. should he be blamed for his father’s sins? obviously not. but is neytiri’s position completely absurd and incomprehensible? absolutely not.

also: you are talking about the little girl that was excited about learning from humans, that was curious about them, that was one of grace’s students that loved her and viewed her as a mother. her hate doesn’t come from nothing. it began with immense loss and none of us have the right to judge her for that or say that her feelings are extreme.

What if Spider was Spider-Man?

Just got done watching Spider-verse and now I can't help but think about Spider as the Pandoran version of Spider-Man.

-) While practicing his archery a mile away from Hell's Gate, Spider is bitten by a strange arachnid creature unlike anything catalogued on Pandora: Eight eyes, a small bioluminescent body, and too many limbs that skitter up his arm too fast for him to bat away with his bow.

-) The pain on his upper arm is searing, cold venom is flooding his system, and his body is shaking. Spider knows he should tell Jake and get himself checked out, but Jake is spending time with his family, and Spider doesn't want to bother him. Instead, Spider stumbles back to Hell's Gate alone, locks his bedroom door, and sleeps for days, plagued by fevered dreams of glowing silk threads covering his entire body in a cocoon and the feeling of being watched by all eight eyes.

-) Eywa does not speak, but he feels her. The bite was no freak accident. It was an acknowledgement. A transformation.

-) The mutation amplifies his strength, speed, and reflexes to rival young Na’vi. He can leap through the trees with uncanny grace, run silently across branches, and wrestle his siblings with ease.

-) Spider hits a sudden, aggressive growth spurt. His bones stretch, he shoots up like a weed, and his posture shifts. He grows into a broad-shouldered, coiled force of nature in just a few days. Norm jokingly asks, "Did Jake feed you a special protein powder?" But Spider just shrugs, quietly avoiding the question with lowered eyes.

-) Against RDA soldiers, Spider is terrifying. He moves faster than their sensors can track, weaving traps of glowing silk webbing that strangle, immobilize, or slice. He’s even developed kill zones in different parts of the vast forest, leading enemies there like a spider luring prey into its web.

-) Spider's methods of killing are precise. He drops from a tree in total silence, snaps necks with his super strength, and webs the body into the trees as a warning. In moments of desperation, he uses a special venom-infused bite passed down from the spider that changed him. It paralyzes instantly and causes intense hallucinations. Some unfortunate survivors go mad from the encounter.

-) Spider takes no pleasure in killing, nor does he look forward to it, but when he kills, it is swift, silent, and deliberate. Spider kills because he knows that every RDA life he spares will cost dozens of innocent Na’vi or creatures. To show mercy is to be complicit because these people will never stop.

-) Even Lo’ak gives Spider a curious once-over and mutters, "You been lifting boulders or something, bro?"

-) Spider wants so badly to tell everyone about his abilities, but he fears that Neytiri will misunderstand and see him as a threat. No one trusts him as far as they can throw him, and as far as Spider is concerned, he's on his own.

-) When Spider connects his webbing to a living thing: beast, plant, even another person, he feels a tug in his chest, a strange warmth in his mind. It’s not language, but sensation. A feeling. Spider’s webbing can read an enemy's next move, like a spider sensing a fly tremble in its web. He wraps it around their weapons, and in that fleeting connection, he feels intention. He dodges before they shoot. He moves before they do.

-) Spider can breathe the air, but keeps his mask on to avoid suspicion.

-) His "spidey suit" is made from his webbing, and he even wears a handmade mask to hide his identity. At first, the mask was entirely blank until Spider decided to draw eight eyes on it, giving him a more intimidating look.

-) The cat is out of the bag when Spider uses his webbing to "heal" Netyam's injury, but that's a story for another day,

love how my development of timebomb went from:

“I’ll go ahead and count that as flirting”

to

“OH I WILL NEVER RECOVER!!!”

For baker!Reader, I'm just imagining Tim hiding the fact he found where Y/N was.

Erasing all evidence that he found Reader. Making sure Barbara can't see that he found them and purposely makes sure the recognition software doesn't pick up Y/N. But he still watches. Still searches. Even starts planning on going to Europe and 'end up' in Paris.

Only for one of the other's to grow suspicious and take Tim's back up phone he's suddenly using more frequently. Revealing that Tim damn well knew where their missing sibling ran off to. Tim is dragged off his bed and through the halls, probably by Dick. Dick screaming and hollering "How could you not tell us!" and "We're all so worried and you're keeping secrets?!?!"

Only for Tim to start shouting back about how none of them deserved the Reader. How he didn't deserve them, either. How it'd be unfair to drag them back and ruin their life. Again!

"Y/N is happy! They're happy- and it's because we're not in their life anymore! We'll ruin them if we drag them back! I knew you'd over react! And I knew you'd want to make a mad dash over and tear apart everything they built for themselves, not even caring if it hurts Y/N!!! You're too focused on your guilt that you still don't see them as a person! Just a way to force things to go back to how they were. Because you think Y/N will be happy to do so if you just pay attention this time! That's not how people react- nor is it how they think!"

Tim being the only Yandere there that's aware that dragging the Reader back could make it easy to hate the Bat Family. Mind you, he's still planning on how to bring the Reader back; just trying to get it to be of their own free will. Or, at least, with the understanding that things have changed on a larger scale and it's less to do with guilt (only for Tim at the moment) and more to do with how he actually wants to get to know his sibling now.

Tim’s Secret, and the Night Everything Fell Apart

The Batcave was dark, silent except for the rhythmic clicking of keys. Screens flickered low blue light over Tim’s face, eyes red from too many sleepless nights, too many tabs open.

And in the corner of the screen—minimized, encrypted, and hidden behind five layers of false protocols—was a livestream of a quaint little Parisian bakery.

You stood behind the counter, apron dusted with flour, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens. Smiling. Talking to customers. Alive. Happy.

Tim watched you every night.

He’d found you six months ago. A lucky glimpse on a tourist’s Instagram, face nearly turned from the camera. The bakery’s name blurred in the background. But he had known it was you.

His fingers had trembled on the keyboard that night.

He’d disabled every facial recognition alert. Set up firewalls Barbara wouldn’t notice. Even rerouted signals so no GPS pings would appear. He had a second phone now. One that only ever showed you.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not Bruce. Not Dick. Not even Alfred.

They didn’t deserve it.

But Tim still watched.

He knew your morning routine. The way you'd open the shop with headphones in, humming along to music. The way you’d place tiny chocolate hearts on your cakes—like the ones you used to make back at the Manor, the ones they never appreciated.

And he planned. He planned carefully. If he ever ran into you, it would be accidental. Casual. Maybe at a café across the street. Maybe he'd ask for a menu, pretending not to know who you were.

Maybe you'd talk. Maybe you'd smile at him again. Maybe you’d forgive him.

But his plan shattered the moment Dick burst into his room.

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

Tim blinked, sitting up too slowly. His backup phone was gone—ripped right off the desk while he had been in the shower minutes ago.

Dick stood there, shaking with rage, backup phone gripped in his hand.

“You knew, Tim. You knew where she was this whole damn time?!”

Tim’s heart dropped. He lunged for the phone. “Give that back!”

But Dick shoved him back, dragging him out of his room by the collar.

"BRUCE!" Dick shouted, voice booming through the halls. "JASON! DAMIAN! Get down here—Tim KNEW! He knew where Y/N is!"

Jason was the first down, yanking out an earbud. “He what?”

Damian’s boots slammed down the stairs, face dark with something unreadable. Bruce emerged from the study, all calm tension and silence.

“Explain,” Bruce said sharply.

But Dick didn’t wait. He shoved Tim in front of them all, shoving the phone into Bruce’s chest. The livestream was paused, frozen on your smiling face in the bakery.

Tim yanked away from Dick’s grip, chest heaving.

“I had to hide it!” he snapped. “Because look at you! You’re all doing it again! Treating Y/N like she’s an object you’re entitled to just because you missed her!”

“We could’ve gone to her—” Jason began.

“Exactly!” Tim yelled. “You would’ve rushed to her! Torn through her life like a wrecking ball and expected her to just be okay with it! That’s what you always do!”

The room fell deadly silent.

Tim’s voice cracked now, raw and real: “Y/N is happy. She’s finally living without trying to earn love that should’ve been given to her. She’s smiling. She has friends. She has a life. And you—we—we’d destroy that if we tried to drag her back.”

Damian's fists were clenched. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? You called her a cockroach,” Tim spat, eyes blazing. “You all laughed when she tried to bake for us. You all left her out and then acted surprised when she vanished.”

Bruce looked like stone, unmoving—but his fingers tightened around the phone.

Tim turned slowly, bitter exhaustion in every word now.

“You want to find her because you feel guilty. I want to find her because I miss her. Because I want to know her again. Not the version we ignored. The real her. But dragging her back here would kill everything she built.”

He looked at the screen. At your smile.

“I’m not ready to do that to her. Not again.”

They all stood there, stunned. Guilty. Silent.

And none of them—not a single one of them—could argue with what he said.

Not because they disagreed.

But because it was true.

This look like the kind of post that should have someone add on in a reblog... unfortunately that's not me.

Rebloging this in hope someone add on it.

Rowdyruff Boys On The Spectrum? [THEORY/HEADCANON]

his is such a stupid theory/headcanon but I just get the vibe for numerous reasons. Yes I know they’re four year olds and four year olds can do random things +most disorders like autism aren’t figured out until the kid is older. But screw it im projecting a tad being autistic myself so I’m putting it out there. 

We all know the RRB definitely have PTSD so I’m not going to get into that one. I’m more gonna focus on autism and adhd. 

Off the bat a big thing I can mention is stimming. The boys stim quite a bit. Mainly Butch and Boomer. And it’s usually triggered when they’re excited and can’t stay still or control said excitement. Biggest examples being The Boys Are Back In Town. Lots of stimming there. 

Ways of speech and miswording. -  People can stretch this to the boys being super young and that’s valid. It’s common in young kids. Show examples would be Bubble Boy, when Brick writes his graffiti. “BRIK WUZ HER”. But the main spots I’ve seen this happen is the comics. For example, CN Action Pack #6, Butch mixing up “invisible” with “invincible.” Certain ways they talk as well can be seen on the spectrum. Or at least that’s how I see it. Like when Brick mentions a bus to help their heist in CN Action Pack #4. Instead of Butch adding to the convo. he speaks on how much he likes buses and why. Or Brick stating he likes eggs randomly in CN Action Pack #6. Again kid stuff too, so see it how you like. 

MANY examples here.

Distractions - Kid thing again but could be spectrum as well. The boys have sort attention spans and get bored super easily. An example here from CN Action Pack #1. Which also makes me think they would get distracted by their fixations a crazy amount. 

Fixations - Ok this is cheating cuz I spotted this in Multiversus but since it’s Ruff media I’m adding it. The boys definitely fixate to specific things. Like Butch with his constant ticks and urge to fight, while Brick fixates on The Joker. Wanna see what I mean? Watch these two videos. 

Brick - https://youtu.be/paA3XZ0-Feg?si=PTaho72oYo18ZTVS

Butch - https://youtu.be/s92Ksrdk5aw?si=JvOlCBrV5yUIgf

Sleep Issues - Also Multiversus but it’s something I found interesting. The boys HATE getting up early and constantly have the urge to sleep. Perhaps from sleep issues or staying up late being mischievous. This one hit personal for me. Wanna see for yourself? Check this video out. 

Triggers - Comic based this time, and this can line up to PTSD a bit more. But autistic people including myself can and do have triggers so I’m adding this too. The boys have a huge trigger to the idea of being kissed. As shown in CN Action Pack #6, when the girls defeat them with cooties. The boys don’t even try to fight, and fly away in tears. I count this up to PTSD, but I can definitely see the boys getting overstimulated in their own ways. 

Repetitive behaviors - I feel this one speaks for itself. If you watched any RRB episodes you’ll see what I mean. 

Honestly I’m out of topics so imma end this here. If you disagree that’s cool, I just like exploring characters' heads. 

Nobody talks about Kiri's role in Neytiri and Spider's bad relationship...

I know Neytiri and Spider's relationship has been talked about to death already, but there's one important aspect of it everyone seems to overlook that I want to write down all my thoughts about: Kiri's role.

(Just FYI The High Ground comics are explicitly confirmed to be canon by Avatar's creative team, so please don't try to tell me something's not true because it happened in the comics)

With everything Neytiri has been through, it's understandable that she'd feel uncomfortable with Quaritch's son spending so much time around her children to the point where he starts calling them his "siblings." Contrary to what I've heard others say, Neytiri does not have a "blind hatred" towards Spider. She doesn't want him to be hurt or killed, she just wants him to stay away from her family and mind his own business. From her perspective, an "invader" is acting like he's entitled to being around her family and claiming them as his own, the same family that has been hurt so badly by other "invaders." This perceived entitlement coupled with the fact that he's the son of the guy who thought he was entitled to destroy her homeland is what gives her such strong feelings about Spider compared to the other Na'vi-allied humans.

But is Spider's behavior towards Neytiri's family really entitlement like Neytiri thinks or is it something else? Let's look at why Spider does the things he does:

Why does Spider spend so much time with the Sully kids? Kiri and Lo'ak invite him. From what we see in the movie and the comics, Kiri and Lo'ak don't seem to have any friends before meeting Tsireya and Rotxo, which means Spider is not just their best friend, but their only friend. There is nothing about Spider, Kiri, and Lo'ak's dynamic that implies Spider is the only one seeking them out. They mutually seek each others' company because they all feel like outcasts among their respective species.

Why does Spider call the Sully kids his siblings? Kiri started calling him her brother first. In vol 1 of THG, Kiri tells Spider he's like another brother to her. Shortly after this is when Spider starts referring to the Sully kids as his family. Since Spider has no biological family and a bad relationship with his foster family, it's understandable he would latch onto the people who actually care for him and explicitly say they feel like he's their family member.

Why does Spider insert himself into the Omaticaya? Kiri insists he joins them. in Vol 1 of THG, Spider is present for a Na'vi celebration and Neytiri asks him to leave because he's not a part of their family. Spider is perfectly okay with this and he starts to excuse himself, but Kiri stops him and insists he stay because he is a part of their family. Later, in Vol 2 of THG, the Sullies and the Omaticaya are evacuating to High Camp while Spider's foster family and most of the other humans choose to surrender to the RDA. Spider is initially upset and begs Jake to come with them, but after Jake scolds him, Spider accepts the adults' choice and willingly stays in Hell's Gate, waiting to surrender to the RDA. Kiri, on the other hand, insists Spider come with them to High Camp and goes back for him. This results in Kiri, Lo'ak, and Tuk getting captured by Spider's foster dad and Spider needing to rescue them. In both of these instances, when Spider is told he's unwelcome somewhere, he is okay with it and backs off, but Kiri is the one who fights for him to stay. The only instance where Spider insists he has a right to stay of his own volition is when Jake asks him to turn himself into the RDA soldiers hunting them after Spider helped the Sully kids escape his foster father. Since the RDA likely would've imprisoned, tortured, or even killed Spider for helping the valuable hostages escape, Spider's insistence he stay with the Sullies is completely understandable.

Why does Spider paint himself blue and emulate the Na'vi lifestyle? Kiri again. The only time we see Spider applying his stripes on screen, Kiri is right there helping him. From this we can assume that Kiri and possibly also Lo'ak regularly help Spider apply his stripes since he wouldn't be able to paint his back without help. And while we don't have exact information on when Spider started wearing a loincloth and behaving like a Na'vi, I think we can safely assume Kiri and her siblings are the ones who encouraged this behavior.

After analyzing the origins of what Neytiri perceives as "entitlement," it becomes clear it's not really entitlement at all. Spider never does something he has not been "invited" to do by Kiri or Lo'ak. Spider is not trying to cross any boundaries and he's not trying to hurt anyone; he's just a lonely orphan who has latched onto the only people who show him real care.

From Spider's perspective, Neytiri hates him for no reason other than his dad. In actuality, Neytiri's strong feelings aren't just about who is dad is, but moreso about the way he behaves on top of who his dad is. Neytiri doesn't have a "blind hatred" for him like Spider believes, but she has a deep trauma-rooted discomfort with his proximity to her family in the context of his heritage, and this discomfort makes her lash out at him. But of course Spider doesn't understand this because he's A. a teenage boy with limited emotional intelligence and B. has no reason to think there's anything wrong with his behavior because Kiri and Lo'ak encourage it so enthusiastically. With Spider's limited understanding, it makes sense that he chalks up Neytiri's behavior as "she hates me!"

So we have these two wildly different perspectives. Neytiri views Spider as an entitled invader and she doesn't understand why he can't just leave her family alone, and Spider views Neytiri as a cruel woman who judges him for his heritage and he can't understand why she can't just let him hang out with his "siblings" in peace. When these two different perspectives clash, it gets ugly, and leads to scenes like the time Neytiri lunged at Spider (to attack him? shake him? it's unclear) and Spider yelling at Neytiri and blaming her for his situation (which is really Quaritch's fault for making his postpartum mother fight).

Then we have Kiri's perspective. Kiri loves her mother and her best friend, but doesn't seem to understand why her mom doesn't want her best friend around and she also doesn't seem to understand why her best friend thinks her mom hates him. In vol 1 of THG, she even tells Spider that Neytiri loves him. Ironically, even though Kiri clearly wants her mom and her best friend to get along, she is inadvertently the source of most of their issues. In all the instances where Spider's behavior makes Neytiri upset, we can trace the behavior back to Kiri as outlined in the bullet points above. The more Kiri pushes for Spider to stay close, the more it triggers Neytiri trauma, the more Neytiri lashes out Spider, the more Spider thinks she hates him, and the closer Kiri gets to Spider to comfort him and try and prove him wrong. It's a vicious cycle.

And just to be clear, I'm not trying to say Kiri is at fault for Neytiri and Spider's relationship. Kiri and Spider are just kids with little understanding of the trauma Neytiri has been through. They just know they enjoy spending time with each other, and neither of them fully understand why it makes Neytiri so upset. Neytiri, on the other hand, is not a kid... she is not responsible for her trauma and for her negative feelings towards Spider, but she is responsible for her behavior towards him.

The one thing I don't understand is why neither Neytiri nor Jake nipped Kiri's behavior in the bud before it got to the point where it is now. If Kiri keeps calling Spider her brother and insisting he stay for family celebrations, and it's obviously very upsetting to Neytiri, why did neither of her parents sit her down and let her know its inappropriate? Spider was clearly okay with being left out of the events. If they'd talked about it with Kiri, they would've avoided all that strife in the first place. Hell, Spider wouldn't even be around them anymore because he would've surrendered to the RDA and lived in Bridgehead if not for Kiri insisting he come with them!

And actually, why didn't they stop the kids from spending so much time together in the first place? Neytiri was telling Jake she didn't like Spider around her kids since they were very little. Why did they continue to let them play together if it made her so uncomfortable? Was Jake letting it happen behind her back? Were the kids sneaking away to play with Spider? Did Neytiri let it happen because she thought they would grow out of it or something? At that age, parents have a lot of control over their kids lives, and I don't understand why Neytiri didn't just redirect her kids to play with anyone other than Spider if it upset her so much. In THG, Neytiri threatened to ban Spider from seeing Kiri, but she did it way too late. The kids were teenagers at that point and already saw each other as family, so if she tried to separate them they would've just snuck out and seen each other anyway. If Neytiri is okay with putting a "ban" on Spider, why did she wait until they were teens and much more difficult to control to do so?

I know the "real" answer is because James Cameron wants ✨DRAMA✨ but I'm wondering if there's an in-universe explanation cause it just doesn't make sense to me. I guess the most realistic answer is that Jake let it happen knowing full well Neytiri didn't like it, but he let it slide anyway because he didn't want to say no to the kids. Jake had two choices. He could've A. honored Neytiri's wishes and separated the children before they bonded or B. sat down with Neytiri and let her know Spider is here to stay and that she can't lash out at him. Either choice would've resulted in a much better outcome for everyone involved, but then again, it would've had a lot less drama so I understand why the writers didn't have that happen instead. Actually, now that I'm typing it out, it is pretty in character for Jake to ignore a giant problem right in front of him and hope it'll go away on it's own (that's how we lost Hometree, Eytukan, and Neteyam rip). I guess we're going to see this situation blow up in Jake's face in Avatar 3, just like his other ignore-the-problem-and-hope-it-goes-away situations did. I just hope that this situation will have a better outcome for everyone involved.

It just frustrates me because I feel like all this could've been resolved years ago if Jake and Neytiri had sat Kiri and Spider down and had a discussion about boundaries, but there's too much bad blood between Neytiri and Spider for an easy resolution now...

Anyways, if you made it this far, thanks for reading, didn't mean to turn this into a whole essay lol. Please share your thoughts with me if you have any!

Neytiri’s “shame” about her children

I’ve been wanting to talk about this for a while because I saw that some time ago this topic was discussed in the fandom, and even though I’m a bit late, I wanted to share my thoughts. This is about this line from the original/previous script of ATWOW ofc, which stirred up a debate between the fans, especially after the Avatar account made a video about the scene while showing/underlining that specific sentence.

First of all, it’s important to specify that a) this was not the final script of the movie, and b) things have been a bit exaggerated and framed in the wrong way from the get go, by the Avatar official account in the first place. To be honest, I haven’t really followed the discourse with much attention, but from what I’ve gathered, I feel like the discussions people had about this were, imo, based on a misinterpretation of the core meaning of what this infamous sentence means: Neytiri is not ashamed of her children per se, but rather she is ashamed of the fact that her children have Sky People’s blood in them.

And yes, it’s a very different thing. To me, it’s not that Neytiri feels shame about who her children are as people. Just because she feels “shame” about their blood, it doesn’t mean she is ashamed about them, as in who they are as individuals. Nothing will ever change the fact that she loves her children more than anything else, and with no doubt considers them perfect just like every mother does; but it’s still true that she could feel some sort of shame about the fact that her children have the blood of their oppressors running through their veins. I don’t think it’s a “ew my kids are dirty half-bloods and they disgust me” kind of thing (like a lot of people framed it to be), but rather a “I love my children with my whole heart, but I still don’t like and struggle to accept the fact that part of them is human, like the people who murdered half of my family, massacred my clan and destroyed my home and life” kind of thing.

And this is not to say that this feeling is not “problematic”. But, considering everything she has been through, it’s also both extremely natural and irrational. I’m sure that she feels very conflicted emotions about this. She 100% technically knows that her children are Na'vi, but she also can’t help but feel disappointed by the fact that they will always be different, and that this difference is caused by them having human blood (we get a glimpse of that in the comics). I also believe, unlike a lot of people I’ve seen, that this — canon or not — is not a disservice or a misinterpretation of her character at the hands of the writers. I actually think it’s a spontaneous progression of her arc and a natural consequence of the events she has experienced in the first movie/so far in her life, not to mention a very realistic effect of a life-long colonization and oppression. It’s not out of character, it’s an aspect of her character that is deeply complex, nuanced, even somewhat problematic, and therefore uncomfortable for a lot of fans to properly judge, analyze or even accept.

Also, small note about Jake, because I think this insight on Neytiri’s emotions naturally raises another question: does she feel shame about Jake too? In my opinion, yes. But it’s the same “logic” as before: she loves Jake for who he is, for what he has become, but she is not happy about the fact the he’s human, and I think a part of her will always struggle to accept that. I also think she loves him despite Jake being human, not that she loves him because she embraces this side of him. She hasn’t changed her mind about Sky People (and rightfully I would add), she has simply fallen in love with what she considers to be the exception, exactly because he is, at least in her eyes, the exception.

Remember that, whether this is about the kids or Jake, this an extremely nuanced and complicated situation and should be treated as such. In my opinion, Neytiri’s trauma about the Sky People will never truly heal. Even if one day she learns or decides to reconcile with (some of) them, even if she does need to work on some irrational and unconscious trauma responses she has (such as this feeling she has developed about her children), I believe there will always be a hidden part of her that will not accept it, there will always be a part of her struggling with the hate and the rage and void the Sky People left in her, there will always be a scar too deep to be properly healed. And that is legitimate.

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, chapter five pt 2,

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).

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I just saw this tiktok video of what I believe is an Indian drama. I'm not 100% sure if it was a show or movie. I couldn't find the name on it. But in the video, it was described that a village made its money by selling off daughters to wealthy men for marriage. The female lead was the "ugly" girl (she was not ugly) who managed a side business off this main business by having the potential grooms see her first as their bride and then showing the real girl. Basically, helping with negotiations saying, "Hey, you could've gotten me, but instead, we have this gem here. Don't you think she's worth more?" After getting the higher bride price she takes her cut.

After watching, I said I could see Kate and Penelope making a small business doing this around the ton. Not to say they aren't beautiful, they are, and the girl in the original video was beautiful too. They just don't fit society beauty standards. Actually, side note now that I think about it canonically the only one of the wives who did was Sophie. Sophie was described to fit the ton's beauty standards to a t and would probably have been the incomparable/diamond of her debute season if she was born legitimate.

Anyway, Kate probably started it. For one reason or another, they couldn't wait for Edwina to debute, and Kate wasn't having a successful season, so she thought of a way to earn some money to help her family. It started as an accident, Kate was visiting a friend the same time negotiations were happening for her friend's engagement. Her friend has never met the lord, and two just so happened to walk by the room the negotiations were happening in. The lord saw Kate before her friend and assumed she was to be his bride. He was about to be outraged until her friend turned the corner. Things went much better for the bride to be in the negotiations after that.

Kate's friend apologized for the situation, but the wheels in Kate's head were turning. She didn't care all that much about being compared to her friend. Strangers loved to unpromptly compare her to Edwina when they were together and Kate couldn't really bring herself to care she has other things to worry about. But this new development, might work in her favor.

So Kate started offering her services to get brides to be better deals on marriage negotiations. First looks from arranged marriages she'll be in front and then show the real bride. Sometimes, be part of the negotiations by giving little reminders that hey, she is still in need of a husband, and if they want to pay less, then they can negotiate with her family. Sometimes, she didn't have to do anything besides sit next to the bride to be and just talk with her as a silent reminder. Kate also offered services such as attending balls with her clients and spreading word about bride's accomplishments. Kate would get her cut, which helped her family's financial situation longer, just long enough to get Edwina married.

A few years pass, and Kate is booked, possibly overly so. She has more and more parents there who wish for her to be part of the negotiations. There are so many that there is no possible way she can do them all by herself. Unless she gets a partner.

In 1813, Kate saw a miserable wallflower standing at the edge of one of the balls. That yellow dress did not do the poor girl any favors with her complexion, nor did the shape help with her curvy figure. Her poor red hair reminded Kate of an overdone poodle. She looked to be Edwina's age, and that made Kate's big sister instincts go off.

Introductions were made, and Kate learned the girl's name was Penelope Featherington. Kate learned the girl was rather smart and witty when she relaxed around you. She, like Kate, had a good head on her shoulders and it's a shame others don't see that.

Oh well, their loss is Kate's gain.

"Penelope, how would you feel about helping me with some business?" Kate asked one night at a ball. She had a negotiation to go to tomorrow and it would be an ideal time to take her new friend to get her feet wet.

Penelope looked up at Kate. "What kind of business?"

Kate took Penelope with her to the negotiations, and the deals doubled in favor of the bride.

Kate grinned the first time her friend participated in negotiations, raising deals much more favorably for the bride. By mid-season, Penelope will be ready to go on her own. Which will be good because next season, Edwina debutes. Kate will have to focus on her while Penelope takes on the majority of the negotiation calls. When Edwina is settled then Kate can fully jump back in. Which hopefully shouldn't be too hard, Kate knows Edwina will be popular, so it's just a matter of sorting the good men from the rakes. After that Kate can fully focus on her business.

It will all go according to plan.