|The D.C Collection | Imagines, One-Shots, Preferences, and More |

Choose | Batfamily x Reader

Description: Dying is a conflicting expirience.

Words: 2265

Notes: I wrote this after I watched a horror movie and I literally have ZERO idea where this came from. What part of my brain could create this?

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You felt uneasy in the light. That's why your dreams were dark and often colorless. You had control in that spectrum, you had control in the dark. So it was when you dreamt of a dark field of white roses that you thought you were in control.

It was more of a clearing than a field, but the flowers were so plentiful you could barely find a place to put your feet between their stems. The sky was a dark lavender, smoky and foggy, empty without its moon. The moon was the red bouncy ball of your dreams. It signified control. So where was it?

Vines and dark tree-trunks knotted into the ground behind you, and with every step between the thorned roses, it was your shadow. You held the slippery fabric of your cape between your fingers, the edges torn after you tugged it off a bundle of briars. Even with your cape and your hood the rest of your costume was replaced with a black dress that fell to your knees. It didn't save your shins from being scratched by the thorns, but in this dream, you couldn't feel pain... yet.

In the distance, the mouth of a clown awaited your entry, the remains of an amusement park staring at you intensely. The clown's eyes wobbled back and forth, run-down mechanical clicking following its movements as it's gaze followed yours. Your nightmares always began in rose fields, reminiscent of your and your father's first meeting. Atop a rose hill, where your mother left you and your father welcomed you. But the roses were always black. Now they were white. What a peculiar transition.

The clown was calling to you without voice, the entirety of the park hissing and sputtering out your name. A black serpent rustled between the pale roses, the ink of his scales spreading to the flora around it steadily. You chased after it with delicate leaps from clear patch to clear patch, where you would avoid being cut by the sharp points. The landscape behind you began to crumble as the snake advanced, the dark trees and sky behind you decaying into a rich black with the reptile's descent into the clown's mouth. Voices lay at the end of the tunnel, and with nowhere else to go, you chased them into the tunnel.

As the voices became louder as did your breathing. The darkness, once so comforting and secure, became suffocating as you realized the voices were coming from everywhere. It was your voice, echoing as you yelled words that slowly began to register in your subconscious. Jason's followed, gruff with determination and ricocheting around you. It was the argument after he'd returned from the dead, a gun to the Joker's head and another to yours if you came any closer. You were crying, trying to reason with him, telling him to come home.

Feeling your hand come to something warm and sticky, you jumped away from the tunnel's wall. You silenced your breathing by biting into your cape, the substance on your palm smelling more like chemicals than metal. Your breath hitched as a soft green glow illuminated the tunnel. The glow sticks on the floor began to light the tunnel with greens and yellows, purples and oranges. The graffiti sprayed into the concrete around you was freshly painted, the source of the sticky liquid on your fingers. The words seemed to be ineligible until you came closer, your and Jason's shouts dying with the empty silence.

Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne were crossed out with green paint, other names like Richard Grayson and Barbara Gordon left untouched and uncrossed. You spun away, bunching your cape around yourself as you put on a brave face. It was a dream. You knew that, even without the moon to guide you.