MASTERLIST ..⋆. 𐙚 ̊

I am not a "doll". I am not a dickgirl, I am not a femboy, I am not a TMA, I am not a boymoder, I am not a futa, I am a TRANS WOMAN. And if I am not loved... then I will leave.

HELP YOURSELF

summary : in a family filled with intriguing members of their own right , duke has a particular interest in a certain vigilante in the family that everyone seems to overlook . this interest leads to the family to spiral into obsession .

When he was first introduce to the Wayne family , Duke was overwhelmed , everyone was so talented , so special and unique and came from such - complex backgrounds , it was hard to ever find something or anyone dull in the family . Duke had his highs with the family - from patrol , to movie nights every Saturday , food fights on Monday mornings because of course Jason had to rile up Damian but he had his lows - particularly the fact that he was the only sole meta in the family .

Something so minute shouldn't affect him , I mean come on isn't badass that he's in a family that can accomplish so much with sheer willpower without powers ? Though , it hurts every time he sees Conner teach Jon how to use his super strength without hurting himself in the process . He seethes in envy every time he witnesses it because he swears it ensnares him in a painful grasp - reminding him that he's the bystander in this family and that he's the only odd one out.

He shakes away the chill that runs up his spine and returns his focus back to the scene in front of him , a young woman is desperately trying to yank her purse away from some lacky burglar. ' Easy' Duke thinks to himself as he effortlessly swoops down from the rooftop he is perched on and landed on the thug . " Leave this poor woman alone " Duke commands as he pressed his legs onto the burglar's back. The burglar growls and pushes himself off the floor - practically making the woman scream . Duke immediately goes to jump away and reassess the situation when the burglar spins around inhumanely fast mid air to face the vigilante .

Bewilderment and confusion was all Duke felt but regardless he goes to land a sucker punch to the burglar's mask face when suddenly the burglar takes out a bomb from his inner pocket and throws it at the woman behind them. The woman screams as the bomb makes a beeline towards her and Duke wants to scream in frustration at how utterly stupid she's being and the fact that the burglar has outplayed him.

Suddenly , a figure clad in black with red accents jumps in front of the lady and catches the bomb effortlessly and throws it aside like it was nothing. Duke takes this time to sucker punch the burglar into the floor while he was distracted with the bomb's dentation , causing the man to groan in pain . While Duke is handcuffing the burglar , he eyes the figure in the corner of his eye handing the woman her purse before approaching him.

" Thank you ..... " Duke trails off as he watches the figure properly . He notes that they adorn a black body suit but has a red spider symbol in front near their chest . They adorn black helmet that covers the entirety of their face , only showing the user's dark brown eyes.

"Widow "the figure answers before leaping away from Duke . " Wait ! Who are you , I've never met you before !" exclaims as he extends his hand in attempt to reach out to them . " Just stay safe kid you don't know what you're doing " the figure says , directing a glare at him before they vanish.

That afternoon , Duke returns back to the mansion , he slumps against the kitchen table , the weight of patrolling all day and the situation of meeting a strange entity named ' Widow'. Alfred gently pats him on the back and serves him a plate of snadwhiches.

" I take it that today's patrol was exhausting Master Duke" , Alfred asks him as he begins to wash up wares in the kitchen. " You have no idea , met some weirdo who called me a kid like what the hell " , Duke complains as he takes a bite of the sandwich . " Weirdo ?" Alfred questions as he dries a plate. " Yeah some named Widow " Duke replies . Alfred drops the plate.

He feels every muscle on his body tense at the mention of her name , a name that may have been a bygone memory to many but not to him never him . Duke scrambles out of his chair and approaches Alfred . " Hey are you okay ?" Duke asks as he holds the elderly man by the hands. Alfred tries - he tries to talk but is too shocked to say anything - he fears this is a dream , a cruel dream that god bestowed upon him as a punishment - a reminder of his failure .

"Widow - are you sure they said Widow ?" Alfred asks the boy frantically , panic old eyes watching Duke's intently. Duke stumbles back but answers , " Yeah that's what they said why does it matter ?" . Pin drop silence fills the manor as Alfred registers Duke's words. Alfred crouches to the ground , his hands run along the jargoned edges of the broken plate - the rough feeling grounds him , reminding him that all of this is real .

" It matters because that is your sister young master " Alfred forces out. Silence consumes them again . " What ?" Duke questions as he holds onto Alfred tighter. For the five years he has lived with the Waynes - no one never mentioned a Widow or a sister not ever so why is it now that he finds out that he has a sister and one that he has not heard or known about.

Alfred can feel warm hot tears running down his worn cheeks as nostalgic memories of him making a younger you a hot chocolate in the afternoon as you sit in the same chair as Duke had , coloring whilst simply blabbering about your day. He recalls how every night , he can feel your tiny figure sneaking into his bed to hug him with your stuffed bunny You were practically his daughter .

He also remembers that you weren't particularly liked by the Wayne family , at the time only consisted of himself and Bruce - a younger much fragile Bruce that had no idea how to raise a kid - a kid that was just put into his custody because their parents got too drugged up and k*lled themselves in the living room.

The situation wasn't ideal , Bruce was immature , till learning how to navigate his own feelings , his own anger , his own loss and so were you , a small , fragile thing that didn't quite yet understand why mommy and daddy were being put in a box .

He also remembers that tragic day - the day he lost you - . It was like any ordinary day , he dropped you off at kindergarten and watched you run to your teacher , excitedly showing her a drawing you made. He watches you smile and wave him goodbye as the teacher escorts you to your classroom. Alfred does what he usually does , returns back home and begin his preparations when he receives a call from your teacher . He remembers the dread , the sheer panic , the bone chilling anxiety that consumed him when he picked up that call to hear your teacher utter the words

" two government officials barged in class around recess and they took ( name ) I'm so sorry I tried to stop them - tried to grab the tiny thing but they had her really tight and - and they left "

𓈒⠀݁⠀﹙ 𝓢﹚𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 ☆ ₊⠀ ៸៸៸

君を愛しすぎて、 恐ろしいくらいだ。

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓉 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℬ𝓇𝓊𝒸ℯ 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃ℯ ☆ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ³

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥⚠

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

She could hear him pacing.

The sound of his shoes slamming against the floor.

She sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, her fingers digging into her arms.

She had been expecting this.

Ever since she threw up that morning and Alfred had seen.

Ever since Bruce’s sharp eyes had noticed the way her body had begun to change.

She should have run.

She should have come up with something, anything, to stop this moment from happening.

But there was nothing.

There was nowhere to go.

And now Bruce was here.

Pacing.

Breathing hard.

Trying to control the rage rolling off of him like a storm.

Then, suddenly—

“Who is he?”

His voice cut through the air like a whip.

She flinched.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Her heart was hammering so loud, she could barely think.

“Who’s the father?”

He was standing in front of her now, towering over her, fists clenched at his sides.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

She couldn’t.

Her lips parted.

Nothing came out.

“Who is that man?” Bruce growled. “Tell me.”

She shook her head, tears blurring her vision.

“I—I can’t.”

His breath came out in a sharp, furious exhale.

“You can’t?”

She shook her head again, shoulders shaking.

“I can’t tell you.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so heavy, it felt like it was crushing her.

And then—

Something shifted.

Something in Bruce’s eyes.

His sharp, analytical mind was spinning.

Working.

Piecing things together.

She could see it.

And then—

His eyes went wide.

His breath hitched.

His fingers tensed.

“Oh my god.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. “Tell me it’s not Dick.”

Her eyes snapped to his in pure horror.

“What?! No! Of course not!”

His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched.

He wasn’t done.

“Then Jason.” His voice dropped to something dark, something almost begging. “He's the only one other than Dick that is close to you.”

Her stomach turned.

She felt sick.

“How—how can you even say that?!” her voice cracked. “They’re my brothers!”

Bruce’s hands ran through his hair, his breath ragged.

He turned away for a moment, as if he needed to regain control.

As if he needed to force himself to breathe.

Then, slowly, he turned back to her.

His gaze was burning, piercing, his entire body tense.

“Then who?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

No words came.

No sound.

Nothing.

Because she couldn’t.

She couldn’t say it.

She couldn’t make the words leave her throat.

Because if she did—

It would make it real.

Bruce stared at her.

His eyes darkened.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely more than breath.

“It’s someone I know, isn’t it?”

Her body shook.

Her fingers dug into her own arms so hard she could feel her nails breaking skin.

Bruce took a step closer.

“Isn’t it?”

A sob ripped out of her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t—

“I CAN’T TELL YOU!” she screamed.

Tears poured down her face.

Bruce’s expression twisted, something between anger and devastation.

He turned away from her, hands clenched into fists, breathing hard.

His shoulders were shaking.

He knew.

Maybe not the name.

But he knew.

Of course he knew.

The air was crisp, cutting through the night with the kind of sharpness only Gotham could hold. The city stretched before them, endless and dark, its heartbeat pulsing in the distant hum of traffic and the flickering of streetlights below.

Clark stood next to Bruce, arms crossed, staring into the skyline. He didn’t dare look at him.

He couldn’t.

Not after what he had done.

Not after that night.

Bruce was quiet. Too quiet.

They had just finished a League meeting, the usual endless war against an ever-growing darkness. But none of it mattered to Clark. Not now. Not after what he had taken.

And then—

Bruce spoke.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I'm going to be a grandfather, you know?"

Clark's breath hitched.

What?

His fingers clenched against his arms as he forced himself to stay still.

Bruce never talked about personal things. Never.

But now—

Clark could hear the weight in his voice.

The way it pressed down like a slow, creeping tide.

He tried to smile, forced out a laugh, something light, something normal.

“That’s great, Bruce.” He swallowed. His throat was dry. “I’m sure Dick will be a great father.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so suffocating, it froze the city.

Clark finally turned his head—

And saw it.

Bruce was smiling.

Smiling.

But it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right.

It was wrong. Twisted. Something that should never be on his face.

A chill ran down Clark’s spine.

And then Bruce spoke again, and his words gutted him.

“Dick?”

He shook his head, slowly.

And then, still smiling, still mocking, he said—

“No, Y/N is pregnant.”

His daughter.

Clark stopped breathing.

The world stopped turning.

Everything—everything—crashed.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

His face went white.

His mouth opened—

Nothing came out.

His ears were ringing.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Bruce knew.

He knew.

Oh god. Oh god.

Clark felt his whole body lock up, every muscle going stiff as a corpse.

He tried—he tried so hard to find words.

To say something.

To fix this, to pull back, to undo—

But then—

Bruce’s smile fell.

It was gone.

And what replaced it—

Was worse.

His face darkened, the lines of his expression turning sharp, his eyes sinking into shadows.

He said nothing.

Nothing.

Because he didn’t need to.

Clark knew exactly what was happening.

What this was.

There was no need for screaming, no fists being thrown, no explosion of rage.

That would have been better.

But Bruce didn’t work that way.

Clark could feel it.

Bruce knew what he did.

It was only a matter of time.

Clark barely made it through the door.

His hands were trembling. His legs felt weak. His chest was tight, too tight—like something was crushing him from the inside. His breath came short, quick, shallow gasps that weren’t enough, weren’t nearly enough.

He staggered forward, gripping the nearest wall as he pull at his suit, fingers fumbling, desperate.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—he couldn’t breathe.

His mind was spinning, drowning in a black fog of guilt and disgust, thick and suffocating.

Bruce knew.

Bruce fucking knew.

He ripped his suit off, throwing it to the ground like it burned him. His chest rose and fell in erratic, panicked movements, sweat breaking along his skin as his stomach twisted violently.

He felt sick.

God—he was sick.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, fingers gripping at his scalp as a sharp buzzing filled his ears, loud, deafening—

He deserved this.

He deserved so much worse.

God, how did this happen?

How did he let this happen?

How did he ruin her?

A young girl. An angel. Someone who had looked up to him with wide, trusting eyes, a girl who had spent her childhood watching him, admiring him.

She had been just a child.

And now—now she was ruined.

Because of him.

His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited, heaving up nothing but acid and self-loathing, his body rejecting itself.

A knock at the door.

Soft at first.

Then urgent.

"Clark?" Lois.

God. Lois.

His hands gripped the edges of the sink as he tried to steady himself, his breath still coming in rapid, uneven gulps. His vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut.

What would she say if she knew?

What would she do?

The thought alone was unbearable.

He sucked in another broken breath, forcing his shaking hands under the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. It did nothing.

It wouldn’t wash this away.

Nothing would.

Another knock.

Louder this time.

"Clark, open the door. What's wrong? You're scaring me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the mirror.

I love you, Lois.

The words almost slipped out, almost choked him.

She deserved better.

She deserved a husband who wasn’t—who wasn’t—

He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

His chest was too tight. His throat too dry.

He gripped the sink harder.

His reflection stared back at him, empty.

He wanted to smash it.

He wanted to shatter himself into a thousand pieces.

But it wouldn’t change anything.

It wouldn’t erase what he had done.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ PART 1. PART 2.

— © stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.

I want to be able to have relatively the same person at the age of 25 but born in different times like one or in the Middle Ages and one born in the 90s and so on. Then I want to give the all copious amounts of the same drug(still trying to decide which one) and see what that shit does to em.

---

me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

happy valentines day