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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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Forgive Me
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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11th April
Dearest Bats,
Will you please forgive me for the letter I wrote you yesterday? After I posted it I was sorry, and tried to get it back, but that beastly mail clerk wouldn't give it back to me.
It's the middle of the night now; I've been awake for hours thinking what a Worm I am—what a Thousand-legged Worm—and that's the worst I can say! I've closed the door very softly into the study so as not to wake Harriet and Barbara, and am sitting up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history notebook.
I just wanted to tell you that I am sorry I was so impolite about your cheque. I know you meant it kindly, and I think you're an old dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat. I ought to have returned it very much more graciously.
But in any case, I had to return it. It's different with me than with other girls. They can take things naturally from people. They have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but I can't be on any such relations with any one. I like to pretend that you belong to me, just to play with the idea, but of course I know you don't. I'm alone, really—with my back to the wall fighting the world—and I get sort of gaspy when I think about it. I put it out of my mind, and keep on pretending; but don't you see? I can't accept any more money than I have to, because someday I shall be wanting to pay it back, and even as great an author as I intend to be won't be able to face a perfectly tremendous debt.
I'd love pretty hats and things, but I mustn't mortgage the future to pay for them.
You'll forgive me, won't you, for being so rude? I have an awful habit of writing impulsively when I first think things and then posting the letter beyond recall. But if I sometimes seem thoughtless and ungrateful, I never mean it. In my heart, I thank you always for the life freedom and independence that you have given me. My childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now I am so happy every moment of the day that I can't believe it's true. I feel like a made-up heroine in a storybook.
It's a quarter past two. I'm going to tiptoe out to post this off now. You'll receive it in the next mail after the other; so you won't have a very long time to think bad of me.
Good night, Batman,
I love you always,
Y/N
21st April
Mr. Batman Smith
I received your second letter and I confess I do not know what to do. The proud part of me wants to demand you take this cheque back, but the side of me that knows you are doing it out of the kindness of your heart is holding me back. You have never failed me in your support! I am no different than any other of your sponsees and you have never been remiss in your care. I will keep the cheque this one time but please do not make this a habit for I feel I will be unable to cope with such generosity.
Yours in immense gratitude,
Y/N
 
4th May
Dear Batman,
Field Day last Saturday. It was a very spectacular occasion. First we had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white linen, the Seniors carrying blue and gold Japanese umbrellas, and the juniors white and yellow banners. Our class had crimson balloons—very fetching, especially as they were always getting loose and floating off—and the Freshmen wore green tissue-paper hats with long streamers. Also we had a band in blue uniforms hired from town. Also, about a dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus, to keep the spectators entertained between events.
Barbara and I weren't in the parade because we were entered for the events. And what do you think? We both won! At least in something. We tried for the running broad jump and lost; but Barbara won the pole vaulting (seven feet three inches) and I won the fifty-yard sprint (eight seconds).
I was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling:
What's the matter with Y/N Abbott? She's all right. Who's all right? Y/NAb-bott!
That is true fame. Then trotting back to the dressing tent and being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. You see we're very professional. It's a fine thing to win an event for your class because the class that wins the most gets the athletic cup for the year. The Seniors won it this year, with seven events to their credit.
The athletic association gave a dinner in the gymnasium to all of the winners. We had fried soft-shell crabs, and chocolate ice cream moulded in the shape of basketballs.
I sat up half of last night reading Jane Eyre. Are you old enough to remember sixty years ago? And, if so, did people talk that way? There's something about those Brontes that fascinates me. Their books, their lives, their spirit. Where did they get it? When I was reading about little Jane's troubles in the charity school, I got so angry that I had to go out and take a walk. I understood exactly how she felt. Having known the matron, I could see Mr. Brocklehurst.
Don't be outraged, Bats. I am not intimating that the Bowery Home was like the Lowood Institute. We had plenty to eat and plenty to wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar. But there was one deadly likeness. Our lives were absolutely monotonous and uneventful. Nothing nice ever happened, except ice cream on Sundays, and even that was regular. In all the eighteen years I was there I only had one adventure—when the woodshed burned. We had to get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in case the house should catch. But it didn't catch and we went back to bed.
Everybody likes a few surprises; it's a perfectly natural human craving. But I never had one until I was called to the office to tell me that Mr. John Smith was going to send me to college. And then she broke the news so gradually that it just barely shocked me.
You know, I think that the most necessary quality for any person to have is imagination. It makes people able to put themselves in other people's places. It makes them kind and sympathetic and understanding. It ought to be cultivated in children. But the Bowery Home instantly stamped out the slightest flicker that appeared. Duty was the one quality that was encouraged. I don't think children ought to know the meaning of the word; it's odious, detestable. They ought to do everything from love.
Wait until you see the orphan asylum that I am going to be the head of! It's my favourite play at night before I go to sleep. I plan it out to the littlest detail—the meals and clothes and study and amusements and punishments; for even my superior orphans are sometimes bad.
But anyway, they are going to be happy. I think that everyone, no matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have a happy childhood to look back upon. And if I “ever have any children of my own, no matter how unhappy I may be, I am not going to let them have any cares until they grow up.
(There goes the chapel bell—I'll finish this letter sometime).
 
Saturday morning
Perhaps you think, last night being Friday, with no classes today, that I passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of Stevenson that I bought with my prize money? But if so, you've never attended a girls' college, dear. Six friends dropped in to make fudge, and one of them dropped the fudge—while it was still liquid—right in the middle of our best rug. We shall never be able to clean up the mess.
I haven't mentioned any lessons of late; but we are still having them every day. It's sort of a relief though, to get away from them and discuss life in the large—rather one-sided discussions that you and I hold, but that's your own fault. You are welcome to answer back any time you choose.
I've been writing this letter off and on for three days, and I fear by now vous etes bien bored!
Goodbye, nice Mr. Man,
Y/N
 
2nd June
Dear Batman,
You will never guess the nice thing that has happened.
The Gordons have asked me to spend the summer at their camp in the Adirondacks! They belong to a sort of club on a lovely little lake in the middle of the woods. The different members have houses made of logs dotted about among the trees, and they go canoeing on the lake, and take long walks through trails to other camps, and have dances once a week in the clubhouse—Jimmie Gordon is going to have a college friend visiting him part of the summer, so you see we shall have plenty of men to dance with.
Wasn't it sweet of Mrs. Gordon to ask me? It appears that she liked me when I was there for Christmas.
Please excuse this being short. It isn't a real letter; it's just to let you know that I'm disposed of for the summer.
Yours, In a very contented frame of mind,
Y/N
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 The atmosphere in the gentlemen's club was subdued, with low lighting and the occasional murmur of hushed conversations. Bruce and Clark sat in a quiet corner, their focus on the matter at hand - the summer plans for Y/N.
Bruce took a sip of his scotch before broaching the subject. "Clark, I've been thinking about Y/N's summer arrangements. I believe it would be best for her to spend it at Kent Farm, rather than with the Gordons."
Clark raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "And why is that, Bruce?"
Bruce hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "It's a safer environment, more secluded. Away from the city, and she seemed to thrive there last year.”
Clark studied Bruce's expression, sensing an underlying motive that went beyond concern for Y/N's well-being. "Bruce, I know you well enough to sense when something else is at play. What's the real reason you want her with my parents?"
Bruce sighed, realizing he couldn't keep his true feelings hidden from someone as perceptive as Clark. "I just don’t think that the Adirondacks with the Gordons is the most appropriate of choices.”
Clark leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. "Bruce, are you telling me that you want to keep Y/N away from Jimmie?"
Bruce's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I just... I think it would be in her best interest. She's vulnerable, and I don't want her getting involved with someone who might not have her best interests at heart."
Clark leaned forward, his expression serious. "Bruce, you can't control every aspect of her life. Y/N is not a child, and she deserves the freedom to make her own choices. If you're concerned, finally speak with her. Don't make decisions for her."
Bruce sighed, a mix of frustration and concern etched on his face. "I just want to protect her, Clark. I don't want her getting hurt."
Clark placed a reassuring hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I understand, Bruce. But remember, protecting someone doesn't mean controlling their every move. Y/N is strong, and she can handle herself. Trust her to make the right choices and be there to support her when she needs it."
“I’ve already sent the letter saying that she may not attend.”
Clark snorted and rubbed the spot between his eyes, “I’m sure this will go well.”
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5th June
Dear Batman,
Your secretary man has just written to me saying that Mr. Smith prefers that I should not accept Mrs. Gordon's invitation, but should return to Kent Farm the same as last summer.
Why, why, why?
You don't understand about it. Mrs. Gordon does want me, really and truly. I'm not the least bit of trouble in the house. I'm a help. They don't take up many servants, and Barbara and I can do lots of useful things. It's a fine chance for me to learn housekeeping. Every woman ought to understand it, and I only know asylum-keeping.
There aren't any girls our age at the camp, and Mrs. Gordon wants me for a companion for Barbara. We are planning to do a lot of reading together. We are going to read all of the books for next year's English and sociology. The Professor said it would be a great help if we would get our reading finished in the summer; and it's so much easier to remember it if we read together and talk it over
Just to live in the same house as Barbara's mother is an education. She's the most interesting, entertaining, companionable, charming woman in the world; she knows everything. Think how many summers I've spent at the Bowery Home and how I'll appreciate the contrast. You needn't be afraid that I'll be crowding them, for their house is made of rubber. When they have a lot of company, they just sprinkle tents about in the woods and turn the boys outside. It's going to be such a nice, healthy summer exercising out of doors every minute. Jimmie Gordon is going to teach me how to ride horseback and paddle a canoe, and how to shoot and—oh, lots of things I ought to know. It's the kind of nice, jolly, carefree time that I've never had; and I think every girl deserves it once in her life. Of course, I'll do exactly as you say, but please, please let me go. I've never wanted anything so much.
This isn't Y/N Abbott, the future great author, writing to you.
It's just Y/N—a girl.
 
9th June
Mr. John Smith,
Sir: Yours of the 7th inst. at hand.
In compliance with the instructions received through your secretary, I leave on Friday next to spend the summer at Kent Farm.
I hope always to remain, 
(Miss) Y/N Abbott
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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Our Manhattan
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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24th March, maybe the 25th
Dear Batman,
I don't believe I can be going to Heaven—I am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. Listen to what has happened.
Y/N Abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the Monthly holds every year. And she's a Sophomore! The contestants are mostly Seniors. When I saw my name posted, I couldn't quite believe it was true. Maybe I am going to be an author after all. I wish Mrs. Lippett hadn't given me such a silly name—it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it?
Also I have been chosen for the spring dramatics—As You Like It out of doors. I am going to be Celia, own cousin to Rosalind.
And lastly: Harriet and Barbara and I are going to New York next Friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'Master Brucie.' He invited us. Harriet is going to stay at home with her family, but Barbara and I are going to stop at the Martha Washington Hotel. Did you ever hear of anything so exciting? I've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the Catholic Church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count.
And what do you think we're going to see? Hamlet. Think of that! We studied it for four weeks in Shakespeare class and I know it by heart.
I am so excited over all these prospects that I can scarcely sleep.
Goodbye, Bats.
This is a very entertaining world.
Yours ever,
Judy
PS. I've just looked at the calendar. It's the 28th.
Another postscript.
I saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. Wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story?
 
7th April
Dear Batman,
Mercy! Isn't New York big? Worcester is nothing to it. Do you mean to tell me that you actually lived in all that confusion? I don't believe that I shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. I can't begin to tell you all the amazing things I've seen; I suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself.
But aren't the streets entertaining? And the people? And the shops? I never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. It makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes.
Barbara and Harriet and I went shopping together Saturday morning. Harriet went into the very most gorgeous place I ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. A perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. I thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats—at least Harriet was. She sat down in “front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all.
I can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! There's no doubt about it, Bats; New York would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the Bowery Home so patiently built up.
And after we'd finished our shopping, we met Master Bruce at Sherry's. I suppose you've been in Sherry's? Picture that, then picture the dining room of the Bowery Home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way I felt!
I ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed.
And after luncheon we went to the theatre—it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable—I dream about it every night.
Isn't Shakespeare wonderful?
Hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; I “appreciated it before, but now, dear me!
I think, if you don't mind, that I'd rather be an actress than a writer. Wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? And then I'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. Only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so I'll surely smile at the right man. It would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if I picked out the wrong one.
We came back Saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps. I never heard of meals being served in trains before, and I inadvertently said so.
'Where on earth were you brought up?' said Harriet to me.
'In a village,' said I meekly, to Harriet.
'But didn't you ever travel?' said she to me.
'Not till I came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said I to her.
She's getting quite interested in me, because I say such funny things. I try hard not to, but they do pop out when I'm surprised—and I'm surprised most “of the time. It's a dizzying experience, to pass eighteen years in the Bowery Home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the WORLD.
But I'm getting acclimated. I don't make such awful mistakes as I did; and I don't feel uncomfortable anymore with the other girls. I used to squirm whenever people looked at me. I felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. But I'm not letting the ginghams bother me anymore. Sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof.
I forgot to tell you about our flowers. Master Bruce gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. Wasn't that sweet of him? I never used to care much for men—judging by Trustees—but I'm changing my mind.
Yours always,
Y/N 
 
10th April
Dear Mr. Rich-Man,
Here's your cheque for fifty dollars. Thank you very much, but I do not feel that I can keep it. My allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that I need. I am sorry that I wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that I had never seen anything like it before.
However, I wasn't begging! And I would rather not accept any more charity than I have to.
Sincerely yours,
Y/N Abbott
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Bruce stared down at the check. He had barely thought about it when they had been out in the city and once Y/n had sent the letter, he’d dispatched the check without a second thought. 
Clark Kent, who had been present during the discussion about Y/N's shopping woes, entered the study with a knowing expression. "Having trouble with the whole 'helping' thing?" Clark quipped, a  smile playing on his lips.
Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to make things a bit easier for her. She didn't have to return the check."
Clark leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Bruce, you know Y/N at this point. She's independent and proud. Accepting help might not come naturally to her, especially from someone like you."
Bruce frowned, the frustration evident in his eyes. "But I want to help. She shouldn't have to feel lesser than her peers."
Clark nodded, understanding Bruce's genuine concern. "Maybe it's not about the help itself, but how it's offered. Try sending her a letter with a short note explaining why you sent the check. Make it personal. Sometimes, a few carefully chosen words can make a big difference."
Bruce considered Clark's suggestion, recognizing the wisdom in his friend's advice. "You think that might work?"
"Y/N's a writer, Bruce. Words matter to her. A thoughtful note can make the gesture feel less like charity and more like a friend looking out for another," Clark explained.
Taking a deep breath, Bruce reached for a pen and paper. 
Miss Abbott, I go against my rules by penning this letter but I find myself unable to let this matter go. This check is not charity but a gift from a friend who wishes to see you excel in all matters. I wish you to be able to experience all that your peers are able to. I have never sponsored a woman before and I confess that I lack the knowledge to ensure that you are equal to your peers.  I kindly request that you keep this cheque as an apology for my own failings as your patron.  Mr. Smith
As Bruce sealed the letter, he handed it to Alfred, who was passing by. "Alfred, make sure this gets to Miss Abbott. And let's hope this time, she accepts it."
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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Master Brucie
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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6.30, Saturday
Dear Batman,
We started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. I like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain. 
Harriet’s desirable uncle called at the college this afternoon—and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. There are advantages, you see, about rooming with Harriet Kane. 
Our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. We had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. It's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. Harriet had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk's certificate attached. (Don't I know a lot of law?) And even then I doubt if we could have had our tea if the Dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking Uncle Bruce is.
Anyway, we had it, with brown bread Swiss cheese sandwiches. He helped make them and then ate four. I told him that I had spent last summer at the Kent Farm, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the Kents, and the horses and cows and chickens. All the horses that he used to know are dead, except Grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit—and poor Grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture.
He asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry—and they do! He wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture—and there is! Amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one Master Brucie caught when he was a little boy.
I called him 'Master Brucie’ to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. Harriet says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. But Harriet hasn't a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal. They purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (That isn't a very elegant metaphor. I mean it figuratively.)”
We're reading Marie Bashkirtseff's journal. Isn't it amazing? Listen to this:
 'Last night I was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.'
It makes me almost hope I'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about—and awfully destructive to the furniture.
Mercy! how it keeps Pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel tonight.
Yours ever,
Y/N
 
20th Jan.
Dear Batman,
Did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy?
Maybe I am she! If we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn't it?
It's really awfully queer not to know what one is—sort of exciting and romantic. There are such a lot of possibilities. Maybe I'm not American; lots of people aren't. I may be straight descended from the ancient Romans, or I may be a Viking's daughter, or I may be the child of a Russian exile and belong by rights in a Siberian prison, or maybe I'm a Gipsy—I think perhaps I am. I have a very wandering spirit, though I haven't as yet had much chance to develop it.
Do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time I ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? It's down in the books free for any Trustee to read. But really, what could you expect? When you put a hungry little “little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn't you expect to find her a bit crumby? And then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that it's because she's a thief, wouldn't you expect her to run away?
I only ran four miles. They caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week I was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the backyard while the other children were out at recess.
Oh, dear! There's the chapel bell, and after chapel I have a committee meeting. I'm sorry because I meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time.
Auf wiedersehen
Cher Bats, 
Pax tibi! 
Y/N
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The atmosphere in the dimly lit study grew tense as Bruce Wayne read the distressing details of Y/N's childhood in the letter she had sent him. The words on the page painted a vivid picture of a small child, vulnerable and mistreated, enduring punishments that were both harsh and degrading. The injustice of it all stirred a storm of anger within Bruce, fueling an impulse to intervene immediately.
"To be hit and shamed for something as simple as taking a cookie," Bruce muttered under his breath, his fists clenching involuntarily. The vivid imagery of Y/N, tied to a stake like an animal, ignited a fierce protective instinct within him.
Alfred, ever the calm and composed voice of reason, observed Bruce's reaction with concern. "Master Wayne, I understand the anger you're feeling. However, charging into the orphanage may not be the most prudent course of action. We must consider the consequences and think strategically. Do not forget that this was before your time as a Trustee and it is possible that such reaction is no longer the practice."
Bruce's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he continued to read the letter. The injustice described seemed unbearable, and he could feel the urgency building within him.
"Alfred, this is unacceptable. No child should be subjected to such treatment," Bruce declared, his voice edged with frustration.
Alfred stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I share your sentiments, sir. But you must remember that not all children get the privilege of such a life and storming in without a plan may do more harm than good. You should speak to the other Trustees. It's essential to approach this matter with a clear strategy to ensure a lasting change for all the children under her care."
Bruce looked up, meeting Alfred's steady gaze. The older man's wisdom and practicality began to quell the storm of anger within him. Taking a deep breath, Bruce nodded reluctantly. Bruce closed the letter, a steely determination replacing the initial rage. He knew that Alfred's guidance was invaluable, and together, they would navigate the path toward rectifying the injustices Y/N had endured as a child. He certainly would not continue to provide money to this home without some serious changes occurring. 
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4th February
Dear Batman,
Jimmie Gordon has sent me a Princeton banner as big as one end of the room; I am very grateful to him for remembering me, but I don't know what on earth to do with it. Barbara and Harriet won't let me hang it up; our room this year is furnished in red, and you can imagine what an effect we'd have if I added orange and black. But it's such nice, warm, thick felt, I hate to waste it. Would it be very improper to have it made into a bathrobe? My old one shrank when it was washed.
I've entirely omitted of late telling you what I am learning, but though you might not imagine it from my letters, my time is exclusively occupied with study. It's a very bewildering matter to get educated in five branches at once.”
“The test of true scholarship,' says Chemistry Professor, 'is a painstaking passion for detail.'
'Be careful not to keep your eyes glued to detail,' says History Professor. 'Stand far enough away to get a perspective of the whole.'
You can see with what nicety we have to trim our sails between chemistry and history. I like the historical method best. If I say that William the Conqueror came over in 1492, and Columbus discovered America in 1100 or 1066 or whenever it was, that's a mere detail that the Professor overlooks. It gives a feeling of security and restfulness to the history recitation, that is entirely lacking in chemistry.
Sixth-hour bell—I must go to the laboratory and look into a little matter of acids and salts and alkalis. I've burned a hole as big as a plate in the front of my chemistry apron, with hydrochloric acid. If the theory worked, I ought to be able to neutralize that hole with good strong ammonia, oughtn't I?
Examinations next week, but who's afraid?
Yours ever,
Y/N
 
5th March
Dear Batman,
There is a March wind blowing, and the sky is filled with heavy, black moving clouds. The crows in the pine trees are making such a clamour! It's an intoxicating, exhilarating, calling noise. You want to close your books and be off over the hills to race with the wind.
Wewent off and didn't get back to college till half-past six—half an hour late for dinner—and we went straight in without dressing, and with perfectly unimpaired appetites! Then we all cut evening chapel, the state of our boots being enough of an excuse.
I never told you about examinations. I passed everything with the utmost ease—I know the secret now, and am never going to fail again. I shan't be able to graduate with honours though, because of that beastly Latin prose and geometry Freshman year. But I don't care. Wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy? (That's a quotation. I've been reading the English classics.)
Speaking of classics, have you ever read Hamlet? If you haven't, do it right off. It's perfectly corking. I've been hearing about Shakespeare all my life, but I had no idea he really wrote so well; I always suspected him of going largely on his reputation.
I have a beautiful play that I invented a long time ago when I first learned to read. I put myself to sleep every night by “pretending I'm the person (the most important person) in the book I'm reading at the moment.
At present I'm Ophelia—and such a sensible Ophelia! I keep Hamlet amused all the time, and pet him and scold him and make him wrap up his throat when he has a cold. I've entirely cured him of being melancholy. The King and Queen are both dead—an accident at sea; no funeral necessary—so Hamlet and I are ruling in Denmark without any bother. We have the kingdom working beautifully. He takes care of the governing, and I look after the charities. I have just founded some first-class orphan asylums. If you or any of the other Trustees would like to visit them, I shall be pleased to show you through. I think you might find a great many helpful suggestions.
I remain, sir,
Yours most graciously,
Ophelia,
Queen of Denmark.
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Bruce looked over to his bookshelf where the hole where Gulliver’s Travels used to sit made him smile before pulling Hamlet off the shelf and putting his feet on his desk, trying to read it with the same level of imagination that Y/N possessed.
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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A Winter's Ball
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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The grand ballroom of the Gordon residence was aglow with flickering candles, a festive atmosphere lingering in the air just days after Christmas. The Gordon family had decided to extend the holiday cheer by hosting a winter ball, and the opulent setting lent itself to a magical evening. Y/N, donned in a stunning white dress that seemed to reflect the glistening snow outside, stood amid the elegantly attired guests.
Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, and Lois Lane had been graciously invited to the celebration. Bruce had nearly had to beg his friends when he realized the opportunity had arisen for him to see Y/N again. He was beginning to regret that choice as Lois and Clark continued to terrorize him with little remarks and jabs. As Y/N twirled around the dance floor with Jimmie Gordon, the eldest son of Commissioner Gordon, Bruce watched from a distance, an unusual tension lingering in his normally composed demeanor. The sight of Y/N dancing with another man stirred a sensation he wasn't accustomed to – a twinge of jealousy.
Clark and Lois noticed Bruce's subtle discomfort and exchanged knowing glances. Lois couldn't resist teasing him as they observed Y/N's grace on the dance floor. "Well, Bruce, looks like your protégé is having a splendid time with young Jimmie. I never knew you had competition in the mentorship department."
Bruce shot Lois a glare but refrained from responding, choosing to focus on the dance floor. Y/N and Jimmie moved with an easy rhythm, laughter and joy evident in their interactions. It was clear that they had formed an easy companionship over the winter break. Bruce found himself clenching his jaw, the unease within him growing.
As the dance concluded, Bruce couldn't help but feel relieved when Jimmie escorted Y/N back to the sidelines. Seizing the opportunity, Bruce approached her, a genuine smile forming on his face. Y/N's eyes lit up as she saw him, and she greeted him with a warm hug.
"Mr. Wayne, I had no idea you would be here," Y/N exclaimed, her excitement palpable.
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Wayne. Allow me to introduce you to my friends, Clark Kent and Lois Lane," Bruce said, guiding her towards the couple. Y/N exchanged pleasantries, expressing her gratitude for the chocolates Bruce had sent her and her friends earlier in the year.
Lois, always eager to get the entire story, turned to Y/N with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "So, Miss Abbott, I'm curious. Was Mr. Wayne on his best behavior during his visit to the college. He is not always the greatest conversationalist. 
Y/N chuckled, the warmth of her laughter filling the air. "Not at all! We had a lovely time and I found no issues with his conversation. Then again, I speak so much that I do not always know if there is an awkward lapse in conversation.”
“I found no issue,” Bruce grunted. 
Clark hid his laughter at his friend’s short answer in his drink. “Bruce was telling us that you intend to be a writer. We will have to be amongst your first readers.”
As the conversation flowed, Y/N spoke about her time at the college and how she was trying to catch up and read all of the greats. Bruce, ever the literature enthusiast, recommended one of his favorite books, Gulliver's Travels. Y/N listened attentively, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as Bruce shared his love for the classic tale.
Their conversation deepened, and Bruce found himself drawn into the conversation. Lois and Clark shared a look at how verbose their friend was being. The tension that had gripped Bruce earlier on the dance floor faded away, replaced by a genuine connection. As the winter waltz continued around them, Bruce and Y/N lost themselves in conversation, the ballroom becoming a backdrop to the growing bond between them.
As the melody of a soft waltz filled the ballroom, Clark held out his hand to Lois and gave Bruce a meaningful look. 
With an air of determination, Bruce turned to Y/N, offering a hand with a genuine smile, "May I have this dance, Miss Abbott?" he asked, the subtle warmth in his eyes contrasting with his usual stoic demeanor.
Y/N's face lit up with surprise and delight. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. I'd be honored."
They moved to the center of the ballroom, joining the other couples who were swaying gracefully to the enchanting melody. As Bruce held Y/N, their movements became a seamless blend of elegance and quiet intimacy.
The atmosphere around them seemed to shift, the world narrowing down to the gentle rise and fall of the music. Bruce's usually guarded expression softened as he focused on the person in his arms. Y/N, in her white dress, radiated a timeless beauty, and Bruce couldn't help but marvel at the sight of her.
"You look beautiful tonight, Miss Abbott," Bruce remarked, his voice carrying a rare warmth.
Y/N smiled, a warmth rising in her. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I must insist you call me Y/N if we are to be friends.”
“As you wish.” The dance continued in a comfortable silence for a while, the unspoken connection between them growing stronger with each shared step. The flickering candles in the ballroom created a dreamlike ambiance, casting a soft glow on their faces.
As the waltz reached its conclusion, Bruce and Y/N paused, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of quiet understanding. The music faded away, leaving them standing together in the middle of the ballroom.
"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Wayne. That was truly wonderful," Y/N said, a genuine appreciation in her eyes.
Bruce nodded, a rare smile playing on his lips. "The pleasure was mine, Y/N."
They rejoined the festivities, the dance leaving an indelible mark on the evening. The winter ball continued with laughter, music, and the shared memories of a dance.
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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Christmas in Gotham
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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From the Home of the Gordon Family
31st December
Dear Batman,
I meant to write to you before and thank you for your Christmas cheque, but life in the Gordon household is very absorbing, and I don't seem able to find two consecutive minutes to spend at a desk.
I bought a new gown—one that I didn't need, but just wanted. My Christmas present this year is from Batman; my family just sent love.
I've been having the most beautiful vacation visiting Barbara. She lives in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street—exactly the kind of house that I used to look at so curiously when I was in the Bowery Home, and wonder what it could be like inside. I never expected to see with my own eyes—but here I am! Everything is so comfortable and restful and homelike; I walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings.
It is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fireplaces for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has lived in the family thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. Just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again.
And as for families! I never dreamed they could be so nice. Barbara has a father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet, and a big, good-looking brother named Jimmie, who is a junior at Princeton. 
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Bruce's eyes scanned the words on the paper, his usually stoic expression revealing a flicker of surprise and something akin to dismay. He couldn't deny the unease that settled in his chest at the mention of this mysterious young man. The thought of Y/N, someone he had mentored and grown fond of, showing interest in someone else triggered an unexpected pang of discomfort.
A low groan escaped him as he set the letter down on the desk. The idea of Y/N having an interest in a man didn't sit well with him, stirring emotions he hadn't anticipated. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it bothered him so, but the realization that she might be drawn to someone outside their mentor-mentee relationship brought a sense of unrest.
Leaning back in his chair, Bruce ran a hand through his hair, contemplating how to react to Y/N's letter. He couldn't deny the connection they shared, and the notion of someone else vying for her attention created a subtle tension in the air. 
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We have the jolliest times at the table— everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don't have to say grace beforehand. It's a relief not having to thank Somebody for every mouthful you eat. (I dare say I'm blasphemous; but you'd be, too, if you'd offered as much obligatory thanks as I have.)
Such a lot of “things we've done—I can't begin to tell you about them. Mr. Gordon is the Commissioner of Gotham and Christmas Eve he had a tree for the officers’ children. It was in the long packing room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. Jimmie Gordon was dressed as Santa Claus and Barbara and I helped him distribute the presents.
Dear me, Batman, but it was a funny sensation! I felt as benevolent as a Trustee of the John Grier home. I kissed one sweet, sticky little boy—but I don't think I patted any of them on the head!
And two days after Christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for ME. It was the first really true ball I ever attended—college doesn't count where we dance with girls. I had a new white evening gown (your Christmas present—many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. The only drawback to my perfect, utter, absolute happiness was the fact that Mrs. Lippett couldn't see me leading the cotillion with Jimmie Gordon. Tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the B. H.
Also, who should have been invited to this event but Mr. Bruce Wayne himself! Apparently he is friends with the Gordons and I had the opportunity to thank him again in person for the lovely chocolates. He introduced me to his friends and inquired about my education and recommended a book to me. In the most gentlemanly of actions, he sent the book to the Gordon home the next day with a note that I should keep the book and add it to my personal collection. He says that every respectable writer should have a collection of books and I find that I agree with him completely. I find myself dreaming of a day where i can live in a grand home and collect books to my heart’s content.
Yours ever,
Y/N Abbott
PS. Have you ever read Gulliver’s Travel? I wonder what you would think of such a fantastical novel!
PPS. Would you be terribly displeased, Bats, if I didn't turn out to be a Great Author after all, but just a Plain Girl?
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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Back to School
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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All of August, Bruce waited and waited for a letter and one never came. He’d driven Clark crazy asking him to call on his parents and make sure that Y/N was well. Hearing that she was indeed perfectly healthy only made him want to tear his hair out more. Everyone around him was waiting for him to boil over, and yet he continued to pace.
When halfway through September when Alfred appeared at his study door with a letter in hand, Bruce nearly crawled across the desk.
28th August 
Dear Batman,
I am so sorry for forgetting to write you this month of August. It seemed that every time I sat down to write, something else would arise and draw me away. 
I was weighed yesterday on the flour scales in the general store at the Comers. I've gained nine pounds! I no longer feel like a gangly orphan, drowning in someone’s leftover dress. Let me recommend Kent Farm as a health resort.
Yours ever,
Y/N
 
September 1st
Dear Batman,
I hope this letter finds you as well as I feel. I truly believe you have delivered me to an oasis and in it, I have discovered the meaning of happiness. Being offered such freedom after a life of rigidity has revealed to me that the secret to happiness is to just enjoy this ride. To not let the journey be tainted by pride and not to mourn the past.
I plan to enjoy this life and I will not rush to the end when there is so much good to discover. I want to run through the hills and listen to the wind rush through the trees. I want to see the world and write about everything I’ve learned and I have you to thank for such a discovery. 
Happiness, it seems, unfolds when we learn to be still amid the constant motion of life.
In essence, the secret of our happiness is not elusive—it is clear, near, and here. It is a culmination of these realizations, a blend of living in the moment, embracing challenges, and finding joy in the simplicity of being. I hope my ramblings make some sense to you and I hope that you have felt even a bit of the joy that you have given me.
Wishing you all the joy,
Y/N
 
September 25th
Dear Batman,
Behold me—a Sophomore! I came up last Friday, sorry to leave Kent Farm, but glad to see the campus again. It is a pleasant sensation to come back to something familiar. I am beginning to feel at home in college, and in command of the situation; I am beginning, in fact, to feel at home in the world—as though I really belonged to it and had not just crept in on sufferance.
I don't suppose you understand in the least what I am trying to say. A person important enough to be a Trustee can't appreciate the feelings of a person unimportant enough to be a foundling.
And now, Bats, listen to this. Whom do you think I am rooming with? Barbara Gordon and Harriet Rutledge Kane. It's the truth. We have a study and three little bedrooms—voila!”
Barbara and I decided last spring that we should like to room together, and Harriet made up her mind to stay with Barbara—why, I can't imagine, for they are not a bit alike; but the Kanes are naturally conservative and inimical (fine word!) to change. Anyway, here we are. Think of Y/NAbbott, late of the Bowery Home for Orphans, rooming with a Kane. This is a democratic country.
Barbara is running for class president, and unless all signs fail, she is going to be elected. Such an atmosphere of intrigue you should see what politicians we are! Oh, I tell you, when we women get our rights, you men will have to look alive in order to keep yours. Election comes next Saturday, and we're going to have a torchlight procession in the evening, no matter who wins.
I am beginning chemistry, a most unusual study. I've never seen anything like it before. Molecules and Atoms are the materials employed, but I'll be in a position to discuss them more definitely next month.
I am also taking argumentation and logic.
Also history of the whole world.
Also plays of William Shakespeare.
Also French.
If this keeps up many years longer, I shall become quite intelligent.
I should rather have elected economics than French, but I didn't dare, because I was afraid that unless I re-elected French, the Professor would not let me pass—as it was, I just managed to squeeze through the June examination. But I will say that my high-school preparation was not very adequate.
There's one girl in the class who chatters away in French as fast as she does in English. She went abroad with her parents when she was a child, and spent three years in a convent school. You can imagine how bright she is compared with the rest of us—irregular verbs are mere playthings. I wish my parents had chucked me into a French convent when I was little instead of a foundling asylum. Oh no, I don't either! Because then maybe I should never have known you. I'd rather know you than French.
Goodbye, Batman. I must call on Harriet now, and, having discussed the chemical situation, casually drop a few thoughts on the subject of our next president.
Yours in politics,
Y/N Abbott
 
17th October
Dear Batman,
Supposing the swimming tank in the gymnasium were filled full of lemon jelly, could a person trying to swim manage to keep on top or would he sink?
We were having lemon jelly for dessert when the question came up. We discussed it heatedly for half an hour and it's still unsettled. Barbara thinks that she could swim in it, but I am perfectly sure that the best swimmer in the world would sink. Wouldn't it be funny to be drowned in lemon jelly?
Two other problems are engaging the attention of our table:
1st. What shape are the rooms in an octagon house? Some of the girls insist that they're square; but I think they'd have to be shaped like a piece of pie. Don't you?
2nd. Suppose there were a great big hollow sphere made of looking-glass and you were sitting inside. Where would it stop reflecting your face and begin reflecting your back? The more one thinks about this problem, the more puzzling it becomes. You can see “with what deep philosophical reflection we engage our leisure!
Did I ever tell you about the election? It happened three weeks ago, but so fast do we live, that three weeks is ancient history. Barbara was elected, and we had a torchlight parade with transparencies saying, 'Gordon for Ever,' and a band consisting of fourteen pieces (three mouth organs and eleven combs).
We're very important persons now in '258.' Harriet and I come in for a great deal of reflected glory. It's quite a social strain to be living in the same house with a president.
Bonne nuit, cher Bats.
Acceptez mez compliments, 
Tres respectueux,
Je suis, 
Votre Y/N
 
23rd October
Dear Bats,
I find myself once again pondering your appearance. I know you are not bald, so now I am destined to wonder what color your hair is? 
How old are you? I know you won't tell me but you can't stop me from wondering
Where are you now? How goes your day? And are your sporting silver or grey? What are you like? Who could you be? 'Cause I have imagined a kindly old man of at least ninety-two. 
On my own I can only imagine. But if we could meet It would lift my heart beause I'd know the colour of your eyes.
The silly thoughts that dance through my mind,
Yours in curiosity,
Y/N
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From the desk of Mr Bruce Wayne
The dim glow of the Wayne Manor study cast long shadows as Bruce Wayne found himself unable to escape the haunting thoughts that lingered in his mind. The weight of his deception, the web of half-truths and concealed identities, weighed heavily on him, disrupting any chance of finding solace in the embrace of sleep. Frustration gnawed at him, and in the quiet of the night, he decided to confront the turmoil within by putting pen to paper.
Seated at his desk, Bruce began to write, the ink flowing from the nib of his pen as he poured out the thoughts that had plagued him for far too long.
Dear Y/N, I've been meaning to write to you for quite some time, but with no success. It felt rather dishonest writing to you as Bruce Wayne when all your letters were being written to me as Batman. So I put it off. I shouldn't have done. But I did. Your discovery of my connection to Kent Farm has made a confession all the more necessary, yet I still don't know whether to write to you as Bruce telling you I'm Batman or Batman telling you I'm Bruce. Either way, I feel I shall be a terrible disappointment to you. What can I say? What would make sense? I've made a mess of things at your expense. My little deceit is haunting me now. All I want is to tell you the truth, but I just don't know how. How can I manage to soften this blow when you know the color of my eyes? I am in agony, guessing what you might do once you find out I have thoroughly lied to you. Would you forgive me? I write this to you only because it's late and I can't get to sleep as I think of the hurt in your eyes. I feel like an idiot, knowing the color of your eyes and not revealing to you that you already have the answer to every question about my appearance. Yours in the sincerest of regrets, Batman Bruce Wayne Bruce
Folding the letter with a sense of finality, Bruce tucked it away in his desk, knowing that he couldn't send it. As dawn approached and the night's shadows slowly gave way to the light of a new day, Bruce found himself still grappling with the uncertain path that lay ahead, wondering if he could ever find a way to bridge the gap between the man behind the mask and the person he longed to reveal himself to.
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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The Kent Farm
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Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires
a monthly letter of her academic progress.
Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
last part // series masterlist // next part
Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!
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Saturday night
Dearest Man of the Bats,
I've only just come and I'm not unpacked, but I can't wait to tell you how much I like farms. This is a heavenly, heavenly, heavenly spot! The house is square and old. A hundred years or so. It has a veranda on the side and a sweet porch in front. A picture couldn’t do it justice. That is the way Kansas goes, in a series of Marcelle waves; and the Kent Farm is just on the crest of one wave. The barns used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down. The people are Mr. and Mrs. Kent and a hired girl and two hired men. The hired people eat in the kitchen, and the Kents and I in the dining-room. I have always been a kitchen person and I am unused to being served in any way. We had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper—and a great deal of conversation. I have never been so entertaining in my life; everything I say appears to be funny. I suppose it is, because I've never been in the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive ignorance.
The room that I occupy is big and square and empty, with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch them. And a big square mahogany table—I'm going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel.
Oh, I'm so excited! I can't wait till morning to explore. It's 8.30 now, and I am about to blow out my candle and try to go to sleep. We rise at five. Did you ever know such fun? I can't believe this is really mylife. You haven give me more than I deserve. I must be a very, very, very good person to receive this . I'm going to be. You'll see.
Good night,
Y/N
PS. You should hear the frogs sing and the little pigs squeal and you should see the new moon! I saw it over my right shoulder.
12th July
Dear Batman,
How did your secretary come to know about the farm? (That isn't a rhetorical question. I am awfully curious to know.) Listen to this: Mr. Bruce Wayne used to own this farm, the bank tried to take it but he bought it and returned it to the Clarks. Have you ever heard of such a funny coincidence? Mrs. Kent calls him 'Master Brucie’ and talks about what a sweet little boy he used to be. Apparently, he was school friends with their son, Clark, and he even attended  
 Since she discovered that I know him, I have risen very much in her opinion. Knowing a member of the Wayne family is the best introduction one can have at Kent Farm. And the cream of Gotham is Master Bruce—I am pleased to say that Harriet belongs to an inferior branch.
The farm gets more and more entertaining. I rode on a hay wagon yesterday. We have three big pigs and nine little piglets, and you should see them eat. They are pigs! We've oceans of little “baby chickens and ducks and turkeys and guinea fowls. You must be mad to live in a city when you might live on a farm.
It is my daily business to hunt eggs. I fell off a beam in the barn loft yesterday, while I was trying to crawl over to a nest that the black hen has stolen. And when I came in with a scratched knee, Mrs. Kent bound it up with witch-hazel, murmuring all the time, 'Dear! Dear! It seems only yesterday that Master Brucie fell off that very same beam and scratched this very same knee.'
The scenery around here is perfectly beautiful. There's a valley and a river and a lot of wooded hills, and way in the distance a tall blue mountain that simply melts in your mouth.
We churn twice a week; and we keep the cream in the spring house which is made of stone with the brook running underneath. Some of the farmers around here have a separator, but we don't care for these new-fashioned ideas. It may be a little harder to separate the cream in pans, but it's sufficiently better to pay. We have six calves; and I've chosen the names for all of them.
Sylvia, because she was born in the woods.
Lesbia, after the Lesbia in Catullus.
Barbara.
Harriet—a spotted, nondescript animal.
Y/N, after me.
Batman. You don't mind, do you? He's pure Jersey and has a sweet disposition. 
I haven't had time yet to begin my immortal novel; the farm keeps me too busy.
Yours always,
Judy
I've learned to make doughnuts.
If you are thinking of raising chickens, let me recommend Buff Orpingtons. They don't have any pin feathers.
I wish I could send you a pat of the nice, fresh butter I churned yesterday. I'm a fine dairy-maid!
Sunday
Dear Batman,
Isn't it funny? I started to write to you yesterday afternoon out on the porch, but as far as I got was the heading, 'Dear Batman', and then I remembered I'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so I went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when I came back today, what do you think I found sitting in the middle of the page? A real true bat!
I picked him up very gently by one leg, and tossed him into he air and he flew off. I wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. They always remind me of you. We hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the Center to church. It's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three Doric columns in front (or maybe Ionic—I always get them mixed).”
This is Sunday afternoon.
Jackson (hired man) in a purple tie and some bright yellow buckskin gloves, has just driven off with Carrie (hired girl) in a big hat trimmed with red roses and a blue muslin dress and her hair curled as tight as it will curl. Jackson spent all the morning washing the buggy; and Carrie stayed home from church ostensibly to cook the dinner, but really to iron the muslin dress. In two minutes more when this letter is finished I am going to settle down to a book which I found in the attic. It's entitled, “On the Trail”, and sprawled across the front page in a funny hand:
     Bruce Wayne: if this book should ever roam, Box its ears and send it home.
He spent the summer here once after he had been ill, when he was about 18 years old; and he left “On the Trail” behind. It looks well read—the marks of his hands are frequent! Also in a corner of the attic there is a water wheel and a windmill and some bows and arrows. Mrs. Kent talks so constantly about him that I begin to believe he really lives—not a grown man with a silk hat and walking stick, but a nice, dirty, tousle-headed boy who clatters up the stairs with an awful racket, and leaves the screen doors open, and is always asking for cookies. (And getting them, too, if I know Mrs. Kent!) He seems to have been an adventurous little soul—and brave and truthful. I'm sorry to think he is a Kane; he was meant for something better.
We're going to begin threshing oats tomorrow; a steam engine is coming and three extra men.
It grieves me to tell you that Buttercup (the spotted cow with one horn, Mother of Lesbia) has done a disgraceful thing. She got into the orchard Friday evening and ate apples under the trees, and ate and ate until they went to her head. For two days she has been perfectly dead drunk! That is the truth I am telling. Did you ever hear anything so scandalous?
Sir, I remain, 
Your affectionate orphan,
Y/N Abbott
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toomanyrobins2 · 17 days
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So...I don't really post here anymore. I've had many accounts on this platform for years and I can honestly say that the lack of interactions here has really made it hard to find motivation.
I won't be deleting anything and I may occasionally update some old works. If you would like to continue to read anything I write, you will find me much more active on my AO3.
Thank you so much to all of the lovely people I've interacted with on here through the years and this community has meant so much to me <3
-C
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toomanyrobins2 · 21 days
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look at tony holding his little Cuck Goblet while thor’s entire pussy pops loud enough to break the sound barrier next to him. we do stan. 
177K notes · View notes
toomanyrobins2 · 1 month
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Personally I think the Justice League not knowing Batman had kids would be more bad at social things Batman rather than paranoid Batman and they found out like this:
Justice league, minus Batman: *walks into the meeting room*
Superman: *freezes*
Green Lantern: what’s wrong?
Superman: 
Batman. Why do you have three heart beats and why is one of them a cats?
Batman: *throws cape over his shoulders revealing Damian sleeping on his lap and a cat sitting on his lap* this is Robins cat Mr Whiskers
Flash: you have a side kick?!
Batman, confused because he thought they knew: no? I have a team?
Wonder Woman: a team?
Batman: Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin, Batgirl, Signal- I thought you guys knew this *pulls out his wallet and pulls 50+ family photos out of that* how did you not? Have none of you pick pocketed me? *the Robins always steal his stuff and he assumes that both his teams do the same things*
Superman: I’m sorry, what?
Batman: how did you not know?
Green Arrow: well you don’t exactly talk about your life
Batman: yeah but you should’ve figured it out, I give figuring out your guys secret identities out as things to do when the Robins are bored. Who did you think looked after Gotham when I couldn’t?
Flash: I thought your power was being two places at once?
Batman: ??? I don’t have powers?
Everyone: WHAT
Batman: I never have?
Superman: how are you such a good fighter then?
Batman: I trained for two decades?
Flash: what.
Green Arrow: wait, why did you call them ‘the Robins’ I thought there were only two Robins?
Batman: well they were all Robin at some point, most of them anyways. Dick was the first Robin, then he became Nightwing. A while after that I found Jason and he became the second Robin, he died and then got resurrected and became a crime boss for a while and changed his name to Red Hood. And while Jason was dead Tim showed up and became Robin, Tim became Red Robin. And Damian is the current Robin.
J’onn: why do you call them by their real names, I know you know everyone’s secret identities but isn’t that rude?
Batman: what do you mean? They’re my kids? I’ve adopted all of them?
Everyone: WHAT
Superman: Wait, circle back. One of your kids got resurrected and is a crime boss
Batman: he isn’t bad, he just isn’t offically part of the team anymore but we still work togther all the time-
Flash: offically? What is there a list on the Gotham police website.
Batman: yes, it can be wrong sometimes though, they thought Batgirl was my sidekick way before I actually started training her. It took me a while to realise I couldn’t convince her to stop crime fighhting.
Green Lantern: you don’t make them when you adopt them?
Btman: NO! She was like 12! I don’t make kids fight! She wouldn’t stop and it would be mroe dangerous to leave her without proper gear or any way to call for help, and I didn’t want Nightwing to fight when I adopted him he chose to himself and when I said no he went out after Zacoo anyways, and I found Jason stealing my tires so he already knew I was Batman-
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toomanyrobins2 · 2 months
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I made the first page so long ago but hey, I finished.
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toomanyrobins2 · 2 months
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and if you turn to ur left you’ll see the emos
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toomanyrobins2 · 3 months
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has this one been done yet
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toomanyrobins2 · 3 months
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My therapist just told me my problem is that I need to write more fanfiction.
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toomanyrobins2 · 3 months
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My writing abilities when I have an entire free day: twelve words. Take it or leave it
My writing abilities when I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes: I got six thousand more in the pocket
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toomanyrobins2 · 4 months
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I was getting a tattoo done and the artist at the end said I did so good and I was the ideal client. The praise kink is real because it made the rest of my day. Why am I like this?
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toomanyrobins2 · 4 months
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