oatyoooo

[oatyoooo]

Webs of Pain. chapter one: a cruel world

summary | you died. you should be buried, or at least not waking up. yet you lie there, suffering, very much alive.

pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has a severe depression and many scars of what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how did she end up like that. not the nicest point of her life.

word count | 4.7k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3

this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.

dick is 25. cass is 21. jason is 20. reader is 20. tim and steph are 18. duke is 17. damian is 13.

next.

AFTER DEATH, THE HUMAN BRAIN PLAYS IT'S MOST TREASURED MEMORIES FOR SEVEN MINUTES.

It doesn’t feel like that. Time doesn’t move. Time doesn’t end. It just bends inward, pulling back on itself, dragging you into yourself. You don’t feel the weight of your body anymore — there’s no pain, no sense of dying, no echoes of the final blow, of blood pooling beneath your ribs, of lungs collapsing.

All you feel is warmth. Not the warmth of your skin, or the sun. No, this is different — this is the warmth of love.

Seven minutes of love. Of snapshots stitched together by your soul. Memories you never thought you would have to relive—not because they were buried, but because there was no reason to believe you would ever need to hold on so tightly. They were yours. They lived with you. 

And then, in four hundred and twenty seconds, they unfurl like silk through your mind. Bright. Soft. Agonizingly perfect.

Your parents — your biological ones. Mary, with her sweet smile and gorgeous curls. Richard, his soft blue eyes, his gentle explanations. You were six when the Joker killed them. You were six when Bruce adopted you. You were six when you became a younger sister to Richard Grayson. 

Bruce follows quick — you don't call him that, you don't remember ever calling him by his name. He was dad. Your dad. Yours and your brother's. His proud smiles, his way of loving —not the easiest to understand, but his love anyway—, him patching you up. Running alongside Batman. 

He trained you. You never got to be just a kid, but in some way, being Dragonfly was your childhood. Your dad designed your wings. Your tech. Your suit, that midnight lilac that shimmered like if a fairy was in place. He watched you soar.

Oh, how you would miss being her, the most precious creature to run with a Robin.

Alfred came by immediately, his warm hands —how they smelled faintly of mint and old books—, his tender words. The way he knew you. His tea was a love language, his honey-lemon remedy for every scraped knee and broken heart. Every time you thought you had finally fallen too far, done something too reckless, said something too cruel, Alfred never once looked at you like you were lost.

Dick was your older brother, the one who made you a sister, as you had been the only child in your parents marriage. He was the light in the house, the laugh in the cave. The first time you went out on patrol, he called you Dragonfly because you were fast, sharp, beautiful in the way you cut through the air. The name stuck.

You would miss that name. You would miss him most of all.

Then Jason.

And God, if Dick was light, then Jason was fire. Uncontainable, furious, alive in a way you never were before he entered your orbit. You were both twelve and had been rivals from the second he arrived, but not in a cruel way — no, it was more like iron sharpening iron. You trained together. Fought together. Bled together.

Perhaps that was what made you both so close. Powder and fuse, had once Alfred called you. Your twin in everything but blood. 

You remember when he first died.

That was the first time you felt your soul break all over again. You were fifteen. You had been grounded — again — for going on missions without your father's permission. And then, just weeks later, he was gone. You were supposed to be with him. You were supposed to—

You stopped fighting after that. For months.

Then one day you started again — harder. With rage.

When he came back, angry and carved from vengeance, you tried to hold him the same way you used to. But Jason wasn’t Jason anymore — not for a long time. Still, he always softened around you, called you “Bug,” his voice dropping in pitch when no one else could hear.

You two were the same age. Same chaos. Same grief.

And in your last year alive, he had started calling you “sis” again. Just once. But once was enough.

Tim came next.

He was awkward when he met you, all logic and eyes too wide for his head. You were fifteen still. He was ten. He didn’t smile much, but he didn’t have to. He listened. And that meant more than anything. You used to steal his headphones when he was coding, just to mess with him. He’d scowl, sigh, and hand you a second pair.

Tim was your constant. When everything fell apart — Jason’s death, Bruce’s disappearances, your injuries, your silence — Tim was there. Steady. Intelligent. Often overlooked, always observing.

Steph was loud, sun-bright, and wild in ways that made the manor feel less like a mausoleum and more like a dorm room. You don't exactly remember when she moved in more regularly, and though you tried to act above it all, you loved her presence. She left your makeup bag notes. Borrowed your boots without asking. Hugged you like she meant it.

And then came Cass. She didn’t speak with words, and you hadn’t needed her to. You had connected through movement. The memory that burns brightest with her is the silent training session under moonlight, just the two of you — your bodies flowing like water, like poetry, like rage. The only sound was your breathing.

Afterwards, she pressed her forehead to yours and signed something with her fingers.

“I see you.”

You had burst into tears. 

Were you crying now as well? You couldn't exactly know.

Duke came later. Light, quite literally.

You were older when he joined — already hardened. But he softened you. He reminded you of everything bright that Gotham tried to strangle. You remember him racing you on patrol, skateboarding off rooftops just to make you smile. His optimism was relentless.

And finally — Damian.

Only a year you had with him. But it mattered.

You remember the cold shoulder, the bitterness. But more than that, you remember the slow thaw. Seeing him alongside that cow he loved, the dog he commanded and still treated with so much love. You saw through him, as once your father had with you. 

Seven minutes.

You were dead for much more than seven minutes. 

And then . . . you weren't. 

Water.

Cold, thick water.

You choke on it as you jolt back into existence. Not awake — no, this isn’t waking. Waking is peaceful. Waking is gentle. This is violence. This is agony carved into the shape of resurrection.

Your body convulses. Your lungs scream. River water floods your throat, burns up your nose, and you thrash beneath the surface — flailing, spiderlike, unnatural, primal. Your senses are all wrong. They come too fast, too loud, too bright. Every drop against your skin is a blade, every ripple a scream. Your hands — god, your hands — twitch and tremble, joints locking and unlocking like marionette strings yanked by God Himself.

You claw to the surface.

The air cuts into your lungs like knives. You sob, but it sounds feral, not human. Half-spider, half-death. Your fingers grasp the muddy embankment, tearing into the dirt like your body is demanding to stay this time.

You don’t know how long you lay there.

Time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Not when your memories are still flickering behind your eyelids like film reels melting in heat. Not when you can still taste Joker’s laughter in your mouth, his filth on your skin. Not when you can still hear Crane’s voice, calm and clean and clinical, saying things like "subject stability" and "arachnoid molecular elasticity."

Your skin is raw.

You heave again. River water, bile, and rage spill from your mouth.

And you scream.

A scream that splits the air open. A scream that is seven minutes late.

You don’t know who you are anymore.

You don’t remember coming back. You only remember dying. You only remember blood. And needles. And the look on your father’s face — Dad’s face — when he found your mask, broken in two, lying in a pool of blood.

Why? Why were you there?

Didn’t you have a family? Didn’t you have brothers? Where were your sisters? Didn’t someone come for you? Didn’t he come for you?

“WHERE ARE YOU?!”

You don’t realize you’ve screamed the words until your throat cracks. Your voice is nothing like it used to be. It’s not light or soft or sharp. It’s gravel and glass. All cracked edges and venom beneath.

You drag yourself up the bank. Knees collapsing beneath you. Limbs shuddering with effort.

Your fingers twitch — and from your wrists, soft threads pulse, wet and twitching like veins. But they don’t fire.

You blink. Your eyes adjust to the dark. And you run.

You don’t know how far. Maybe blocks. Maybe miles. Your feet don’t feel the ground. You don’t feel anything. Not until you crash into the rusted gates of Crime Alley.

Of course. You always end up here.

This place was your grave once. Now it’s your shadow.

You collapse in the corner of an abandoned laundromat, curling into yourself. Shaking. Your clothes are too tight. Or maybe your body is wrong. Everything hurts.

You dig your nails into your arms — but you don’t bleed. Not properly. The skin seals again in seconds. You hate that. You hate how quick your body fixes itself. Like it’s trying to forget what happened. Like it’s trying to pretend you weren’t broken at all.

“You should be dead,” you whisper.

You say it again. And again.

“You should be dead.”

You mean it. You were dead. For months. Years. You know you died. You remember the cold, the rot, the last sound being Joker’s voice in your ear, whispering something horrible — something you’ve blocked out because if you remember it, you’ll break apart again.

So you don’t. You press your forehead to the tile. You tremble. You try not to vomit.

Your fingers twitch again, and the webs flex. Unfired. Uncontrolled. You need something. You need someone.

But who? Bruce?

He didn’t come for you. He didn’t save you. None of them did. Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Tim. Not Cass. Not even Alfred. You were just... gone.

Buried in an empty casket. A name on a plaque. A whisper in the manor halls.

You want to believe they looked. That they searched. That they tore the city apart. But you don’t know.

You curl in tighter, and for the first time in years, you cry. Not rage. Not fury. Grief.

You cry because you don’t feel human. Because your reflection is gone. Because the world moved on. Because the girl who was once Dragonfly died and no one ever found her.

Because now you’re something else.

Something more.

Something wrong.

Scarecrow had called it “Project Spider.” As if giving it a name made it less monstrous. As if branding your horror made it a triumph.

You still remember the needles.

Twelve-inch syringes of something black. He called them serum trials. You called them torture. Your veins remember — you can still see them, your skin pale and thin and patterned with scars. Two symmetrical paths running from your wrist to your elbow, like rivers of ruin.

You had screamed.

They had laughed.

Joker. That bastard.

His voice still haunts your dreams. Still echoes in the rhythm of your heartbeat, because sometimes it beats too fast — spider-fast — and that makes it worse.

“Sing for me, little bug,” he’d said once, pressing a scalpel to your throat.

You hadn’t sung.

You’d bled instead.

You are not what you were.

You feel it.

The way your muscles twitch without command. The way your skin itches from the inside. The way your senses sharpen and shatter simultaneously. You feel everything. The worms in the earth. The dew on the grass. The distant heartbeat of a rat two blocks away.

And worst of all — the hunger.

It claws at you.

You need.

But you don’t know what. Or why. Or how.

You stumble to your feet. You’re barefoot, and your legs tremble under your own weight.

Something is… wrong with your spine.

Your balance is off — until you adjust, and your limbs shift with the grace of a predator. It’s not human. It’s not you.

You wander for days.

The sewers. The back alleys. The places even Gotham forgets. You eat trash and rats and once — once — a pigeon. You weep after. You vomit it up and cry so hard you almost pass out.

You aren’t human.

You aren’t.

The city doesn't feel like yours anymore.

But you clawed your way back. Bone by broken bone. Breath by burning breath. And now the city you once lived in lives in you. It breathes through your skin. It pulses with every strand of web you shoot, every scream you silence, every desperate child you wrap in warmth before vanishing into shadow.

You are Crimson Silk now.

Crimson, like blood. Silk, like the threads you cast to protect the only places that still feel real. Crime Alley. The Narrows. The places no one else dares to watch.

They don’t get heroes. They get you. And that’s enough.

You do not own them — you protect them. As best you can. In the way only something like you can.

You move through the city like smoke. The rooftops don't creak under your weight. You work in silence, in spider-patterns. No flair, no flourish. A body hits the ground — a molester trying to corner a teen behind a bar — and within ten seconds he's webbed to the wall and gagging on his own fear. You don’t even stop. He’ll be found. Eventually. And it will take a lot to take off those webs.

You leave notes now. Sloppy handwriting on torn papers or napkins.

“Tell them I said hello.”

You sign them with a bloody spider. Not your blood, that one is poisonous, would kill anyone in contact with it, or at least burn them bad. 

No one needs to know who you are. Not really.

You patrol until you collapse. You live that way. Move, move, move until your muscles start to tear, until your stomach caves in, until the hunger swallows thought. Then, and only then, do you stop.

Then it’s back to the den. A racked apartment above a pawn shop where the landlord only comes once a month to collect rent. He doesn’t speak English. You don’t speak Portuguese. You give him the cash and he gives you a nod. It works.

No one else knows you live there but three cats that won't leave. You don’t mind them. One sleeps on your chest sometimes. You call him Alfred. He’s gray. Stern. Judgy.

You haven’t seen the real Alfred since…

You bury that thought like you bury everything else.

You have a system now.

Feed the kids. Break the gangs. Avoid the Bats.

Especially Red Hood.

Jason is out there. You feel him in the same way your spider-sense warns you when something shifts in the air. He doesn’t patrol like the others. He stays. He breathes the Narrows like you do. He sees more than he should.

But you’re faster.

You’ve seen his eyes once — through his helmet.

He’d stared at the fresh webbing across an alleyway, half a man stuck to the side of a dumpster with a sticky note slapped on his cheek.

It had said: “Keep your hands off the girls.”

Jason had tilted his head. You were already gone.

Anyways, the floorboards of your apartment at least don't creak. But the heater doesn’t work, and the window locks are broken —nothing you couldn't replace with your fresh webs. You fixed the sink yourself. Ripped out the moldy pipes and welded them back together with pieces of scrap you stole from the junkyard. Rewired the whole breaker box. Built your own water filter using gravel and charcoal and an old coffee tin.

You survive.

Your mattress is old, your blanket stolen from a motel linen bin, but it’s warm . . . Sort of.

By day, you work at Cecilia’s Diner — a rusty little dive on the edge of Crime Alley, where the windows fog up from grease and the neon sign buzzes loud enough to drive anyone sane up a wall.

You’re the waitress most nights. Sometimes the cook, if Luis doesn’t show up. Occasionally the bouncer, if things get ugly.

They get ugly often.

Gotham doesn’t let anything stay clean. Not for long. Men come in bleeding, high, staggering. Women with black eyes and nowhere to go. Kids hungry enough to eat sugar packets straight.

You serve them all.

“Three eggs, overdone, no yolk?” you ask without writing it down.

Cecilia watches you from behind the counter, chewing on the end of a pencil. She knows you’re not normal. Doesn’t say anything. Lets you eat free. Pays you in cash. Keeps her mouth shut.

You’d bleed for her. You already have.

Once, a guy grabbed your wrist too hard. Tried to drag you toward the kitchen when you brought him the wrong drink. You dislocated his elbow with a flick of your hand and webbed him to the door before he could even scream.

No one questioned it.

They just started calling you Silky.

The name stuck.

By night, you patrol. No tech. No Bat-support. Just instinct. And your suit.

You made it from scraps — stolen Kevlar panels, spandex, other materials you don't even remember the name. The base is black, from toes to neck, a white web pattern you painted with your own hands covers the chest and the abdomen, sharp angular white lines on the arms and thighs. A single red mask covers the lower half of your face, leaving the eyes; they tend to get white when you are too spidey-like.

The web-shooters are homemade. Not pretty but they work.

Your spider sense guides you — a thousand whispers inside your skull, dragging your head toward crime like a moth to flame. Your eyes adjust to pitch black. Your bones bend in ways no human’s should. You leap across rooftops with the silence of something more insect than girl.

The kids love you.

They scream and point when you swing overhead. “It’s her!” “It’s Crimson Silk!” “She’s back!” “Did you see that? She crawled on the wall like a lizard!”

You stop for them.

Drop into alleyways with your mask half-down and crouch low so they don’t feel too small. You mend their toys with webbing. Carry them to the clinic when they’re sick. You make them feel safe.

You used to feel that way once.

Once.

Before the needles.

Before the Joker.

Before Scarecrow cut your body open and called it science.

You don’t hate the Joker, though. Not anymore. Not really.

Maybe, once, you did. Once, you were Dragonfly, and the thought of his face made your fists clench. Once, he was the monster in the closet, the bogeyman in your bloodstream, the voice in your nightmares whispering, laugh, little bug, laugh—

But now?

You thank him.

He pulled the trigger, even if it was a knife, and it was slow and so painful, he ended it. Ended the cage, the surgeries, the ice-cold labs, the peeling scent of Scarecrow’s toxin mixed with your sweat. He dumped your body in the river. He ended the experiment.

Joker was a madman.

But Crane? Crane was methodical.

He didn’t laugh. He recorded. He took notes while you screamed. Adjusted the dosage while you convulsed. Tilted your face toward the light and measured pupil dilation while your organs begged for mercy.

You remember the click of his pen better than the sound of your own name.

You ache for him. Not in any human way. Not with longing or hope or justice.

You ache with the same sharp hunger that your body does when you haven't eaten in two days. That need to consume. To end. To burrow into his chest and tear him apart from the inside out.

You whisper his name sometimes, when the walls get too quiet.

You want him to hear it coming.

But that's another story. For another day.

You eat five meals a day now. It’s required.

Your metabolism burns too hot — you need mass, carbs, salt, iron. You once cleared half the diner's pantry in one sitting after a particularly brutal patrol. Cecilia didn’t blink. She just refilled the fridge the next day.

When the hunger hits too hard, you get twitchy. Mean. Shaky. You smell things no human should. Taste colors. Your fangs poke out whether you want them to or not. You have to chug honey and rice just to calm down.

You learned the hard way that venom leaks when you’re starving. It paralyzes. Not forever. But long enough. You’ve only used it on people three times.

You don’t like to remember. You don’t want to remember what you’re capable of when you lose control.

The rooftops are slick with rainwater, summer heat refusing to cool even under the weight of dark clouds pressing down on the skyline. Gotham breathes in smog and exhales smoke; its heartbeat pulses in alleys and fire escapes, in the rustle of newspapers blown through empty streets, in the groan of buildings old enough to remember the blood that stained their bricks. You move with it. You always have. Or at least, you did—back when you were still someone else. 

You land without sound, crouched low like instinct demanded, fingers pressed to the ledge of a dilapidated old clock tower near the upper east blocks—still too close to the nice part of town. You shouldn’t be here. But you followed a lead, and when someone whispers “Scarecrow” in your ear through black market contacts and dying dealers with bleeding noses and red-glassed eyes, you don’t exactly get picky about which roof you bleed on.

Your eyes flick toward movement—blurred but deliberate. Another vigilante silhouette, sleek, red-trimmed, confident.

Red Robin.

He’s standing tall in the spotlight cast by a security beacon that’s been out since last winter. Of course he’d find the one light still working. He’s like that. You can’t hear him yet, but his posture is so damn smug, you don’t need to. It drips off him in waves. You could smell that arrogance even if your spider-sense didn’t warn you first.

You straighten slightly, head tilting.

He speaks before you do. Of course he does.

“New mask,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “New name, new face… but same drama, I’m guessing?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone. Especially not a kid who still smells like Wayne Manor shampoo.

“Didn’t know the Bat let metas out to play without a leash now,” he continues, stepping forward, motioning vaguely at you. “We doing that? Some sort of spider-themed affirmative action?”

Your shoulders roll with a pop as you stand, eyes narrowing beneath your mask.

“I’m no meta.”

He snorts. “Sure. And I’m not tired of getting dive-bombed by people with bloodthirsty nicknames and unresolved trauma.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you uttered.

He drew his staff in a single, fluid motion. “You won’t.”

You descend in a blur, faster than he expected. His back hits the gravel rooftop with a sharp exhale, but he’s already swinging a baton before your feet even land. You leap, mid-flip, body folding tight over his strike, back bending unnaturally as the baton sweeps under your ribs. You land behind him and kick.

He spins just in time, catching your foot with his forearm and sliding backward.

“Ow,” he says flatly. “Was that supposed to hurt more, or are you pacing yourself?”

“I don’t pace,” you reply, and your voice comes low, measured. Like something that’s learned to sound calm before it bites.

“Noted,” he grunts, and this time he lunges.

Your fights are always quick. They have to be—your strength is nothing short of brutal, and even when you try to pull back, bones break. But Red Robin isn’t just good. He’s calculated. He moves like he knows he’s two steps behind but bets he can fake being ahead long enough to catch you off guard.

Your limbs move faster than human—he notices. His brow furrows mid-swing, even as he ducks your elbow and tries for your side again. You grab his cape mid-motion, twist, and yank him to the rooftop. He gasps, lands on his side, rolls—and smiles.

“You’re really not the friendly neighborhood type, huh?”

You bare your fangs.

You are not going do to anything with them, but you bare them to scare him, to make him run away from you, so you don't have to force yourself to hurt him. 

Venom glistens faintly in the shadows of your mouth—two sharp canines that have long since grown used to being out of place in a human face. You clench your jaw, willing the urge down. You're not hungry, but your hunger doesn’t care. Your body is always reminding you of how much it costs to stay alive.

He freezes, just briefly, eyes locking on your mouth, and you know he's trying to place it—trying to match it with files, images, lost faces.

You leap again.

This time, he doesn’t try to be funny. He fights like a trained weapon, baton in one hand, throwing disks in the other, shouting mid-fight like he can’t turn off his damn commentary.

“You know, for someone this bendy,”—your leg folds around his throat, flips him to the ground again—“you really don’t have a lot of chill.”

You hiss. “Stop talking.”

“Can’t. Contractually obligated.”

You slam him into a metal ventilation unit, denting it in the shape of his ribs. It knocks the wind out of him, but still he gets up. Of course he does. You almost admire it. Almost.

“You’re not a meta,” he coughs, rubbing his side. “But you’re definitely not normal. Not even Gotham-level weird.”

You crouch low, spider-like, wrists twitching subtly. “There’s no one like me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh, you’d get along great with Jason.”

That makes something ugly twitch behind your ribs.

You dart forward again, spider-sense flaring bright white across your nerves. He throws smoke. You web it apart midair.

He whistles, low. “Oh, that’s cheating.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, flipping onto a higher ledge. “You fight like someone with something to prove. But you don’t kill. You don’t maim. You just knock the air out of me and bounce.”

You follow. He barely gets a block of movement before you web his ankle, yank him down, and flip him mid-fall.

“Whatever you are, you shouldn’t be here,” he said, tone shifting. “You’re interfering. Gotham has a system. If you’re rogue, then you’re a problem.”

“You think Gotham’s system works?” you asked. “Go look at the kids two blocks from here selling powdered poison to keep the lights on. Go tell them the Bat’s system is working.”

“I do,” he cracked. “Every damn night. Which is why I’m not letting some half-feral experiment run wild through it.”

His breath is hitching, his stance slower. He’s buying time. You feel it in the way he keeps baiting. The talking isn’t just annoyance—it’s cover. He doesn’t understand what you are. And maybe, if he talks enough, it won’t hit him. That awful feeling that creeps into your skin like static.

Your spider-sense tingles again. But this time it’s not him.

Something far away—watching.

You twist sharply toward the distant skyline. A flash of blue. A glint of escrima sticks. A rooftop higher than yours, and too far to act on.

Nightwing.

Just for a second, you see him. Tall, composed. Shoulders squared like a warning beacon in a city full of ghosts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interfere.

Your breath catches in your chest like guilt.

“Hey!” Red Robin’s voice yanks you back. “Eyes on me. That’s rude.”

You throw the last of your web fluid without hesitation.

It fires in tight spirals, engineered for speed and impact. You slam him against the wall of the rooftop stairwell, wrap him up head to toe before he can move. Arms pinned, legs locked, mouth left free.

“Wha—seriously?” he grunts. “Do you know how much this suit costs?”

“I don’t care.”

He wiggles a little. “I’m gonna get out of this in, like, ten minutes.”

You’re already backing up toward the edge of the roof. “That’s all I need.”

“And when I do, I’m following you.”

“No,” you say, stepping onto the ledge. “You’re not.”

And with that, you vanish into the night. Web-line launched toward the old power lines that string across Crime Alley like ribs, you swing low, fast, pulse racing, heart torn between venom and sorrow. The world behind you shrinks into silence. But your ears still ring.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize you. The younger brother who used to annoy you in the kitchen, beg to train with you, joke until you were wheezing from laughter—he doesn’t see you now. Just another shadow in the city. Another threat. Another thing to chase.

And maybe that’s better. Maybe it’s safer that way.

You slip back into the darkness of your own making, breathing hard, tears you won’t cry stinging at your throat. The kids in the Narrows need you. Crime Alley is waiting.

But your limbs still ache with the memory of the fight. And your chest still aches with the truth that you can’t say.

You are Crimson Silk.

And you're not supposed to be alive.

[oatyoooo]

the perks of time

summary | a night spent together in silence changes everything between bruce and you; from then on, there's no turning back.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, bruce being a sugar daddy ? not actually but he's totally the type to try to win you with gifts. there's a bit of sadness around because bruce is depressed inside. THEY KISS 

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. this can be read as part 3.

taglist |  @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippingdots @sirlovel @aixaaingela @pjmgojo

THE NEW YEAR CAME GENTLY TO THE KENT FARM.

It wasn’t loud or wild. But there were fireworks. No grand countdown parties. Just a quiet, perfect evening.

Clark cooked dinner, insisting he had perfected the recipe for pot roast (he hadn’t), and Ma made her famous four-cheese cornbread. Pa sat by the fire, poking the logs and drinking cider, humming a Johnny Cash song under his breath. The snow outside muffled everything else. No wind. No trains. Just the slow creak of the old house settling under another year.

At eleven-fifty-five, Clark pulled out a small radio, fiddling with the dials until he caught the New York countdown broadcast. You spent most of the night in thick wool socks and a sweater that Clark had outgrown and then handed down to you ten years ago. The sleeves still covered your hands, your back pressed against the couch, the blanket Ma made you wrapped around your shoulders. You and Clark counted together—off by a second or two, laughing when you realized.

Then came the clink of cider glasses. A kiss to your forehead from Ma. A bear hug from Pa.

Clark swept you up into a spin that had your socks sliding on the wood floor.

“Happy New Year, little sis,” he whispered against your hair.

“Happy New Year, Clark,” you said, laughing.

The old farmhouse clock chimed twelve. The stars glittered above the snowy sky. Kara joined the family a bit after, hugging you just as strong as your brother had. While you and her had no actual family link, you still considered her a cousin, and you knew she did as well.

So, no, you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except you did, when the phone rang.

It was late. Clark and Kara had gone out for a flight, Ma and Pa were already tucked in. You sat on the front porch in a coat, your breath visible in the cold, your phone warm in your hand.

When the screen lit up again—Mr. Wayne—your heart squeezed.

You answered immediately.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak at first.

But when he did, his voice was quieter than ever.

“Happy New Year.”

You smiled so softly it felt like your face might melt with the warmth of it.

“Happy New Year, Bruce.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t going to call,” he admitted.

You looked up at the stars. “I’m glad you did.”

Your smile twisted, fond.

“You drunk again?”

“Mm,” he murmured. “Probably.”

“What did you drink this time?”

“Something expensive,” he said. “Didn’t check the label.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like you.”

He didn’t argue.

Another long silence. You could almost hear the ice clink in his glass. The way his voice dragged low and slow, a little too heavy, just like before.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Porch swing,” you said. “Back at the farm.”

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“You don't have a blanket?”

“Yeah, Ma’s. It’s blue. Well, is not actually hers. She made it for me.”

Another pause. You let your voice fill the silence, telling him about the pot roast, the way Pa fell asleep halfway through the countdown, the way Clark had gotten cider in his sock, how much pie had Kara ate. You told him about how the snow had glittered that morning, how you’d stayed in your pajamas all day.

You talked about your hopes. About turning twenty-two. About how you wanted to try painting again. About how you might look into night classes, maybe something with writing.

“I think,” you said, playing with a loose thread, “I want to do more things that make me feel like myself.”

You didn’t hear him speak again. But you heard him breathe.

And then you knew.

He’d fallen asleep with the phone still in his hand. Your voice still in his ear.

You stayed on the phone anyway. It was easier now, somehow. Letting him rest while you carried the quiet.

You only hung up once his breathing slowed and steadied again, the sound of it like a heartbeat through your phone.

You whispered, “Goodnight,” to a man who wouldn’t hear it.

And then let yourself fall asleep.

January moved like a quiet fog.

You came back to Gotham the second week of the month, your cheeks still pink from the Kansas wind. Your apartment was exactly as you left it—neat, small, slightly cold—and everything in the city had a thin coat of gray slush. Life fell back into rhythm: you unpacked, did laundry, bought groceries, dusted your bookshelves, and fell asleep early.

Bruce didn’t call right away. But on Thursday, your phone buzzed just after 2 a.m.

You didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t say much. You knew the rhythm now. These calls weren’t for long talks—they were for breathing. For silence. For your voice.

You told him about a short story you’d started writing. About how you missed the stars in Gotham. About how your upstairs neighbor seemed to be bowling at 1 a.m. every night.

He didn’t say more than six words. But he listened.

On Saturday, he called again. Same time. Same quiet. Same half-drunk hush in his voice.

You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your knees, and this time, you read to him. A chapter from the book Ma had given you for Christmas. You didn’t know if he liked it, but he didn’t hang up, so you kept talking.

You knew he’d only call after being out there. After being Batman.

Like his mask didn’t quite hold when your voice was there. Like something softened. Like he could come down from the rooftop and be something else. Something human again.

The third Monday of January, your alarm went off at 6:15 sharp.

It was your first official day back at the office.

You dressed in one of your favorite work outfits—something soft and practical, flattering but warm. You pinned your badge to your coat, grabbed your scarf, and made your way down the apartment stairs with a reusable coffee cup in one hand and your purse in the other.

You paused in the foyer.

Blinking.

There was a cab outside.

No—a car. Sleek, black, not a limo. Something newer, smaller, louder. Not a model you recognized—but definitely the kind of car that only a billionaire would think of as “just a ride.”. The kind you only saw in glossy magazines and early 2000s science fiction movies.

Your brow furrowed.

Before you could step outside, the door opened—and a woman beamed at you from the driver’s side.

“Miss Kent?”

You blinked. “Yes?”

She clapped her gloved hands together. “Ah, lovely! I was worried I might’ve gotten the wrong building. This is for you!”

You blinked again.

“I—what is this?”

She moved around and opened the passenger-side door for you with a proud little flourish.

“I’m Rita! Your driver.”

“My—what?”

“Mr. Wayne sent me.”

Your mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“He what?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked, blinking with absolute innocence. Her accent was soft and lilting, Portuguese with a lilt of Lisbon pride. “He said it was all arranged. I’m to take you wherever you need. Day or night. Office, home, grocery if you like. Rain, snow, sunshine.”

You gawked.

She smiled wider, eyes crinkling.

“I used to drive for Mr. Fox,” she said with a warm, confident shrug. “But there has been a . . . change, and Mr. Wayne said he had someone special who needed my help now.”

You blinked. “Special?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s not what he said exactly, but I can read between the lines.”

You flushed immediately.

She laughed. “Climb in, querida. It’s cold.”

You obeyed mostly because your hands were too numb to argue and you had no better options. She shut the door behind you gently and got into the driver’s seat with the elegance of someone who knew the car better than she knew her own apartment.

Inside, the seats were warm. The cup holders glowed faintly. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and leather.

“So,” she said, steering smoothly into traffic, “are you ready for your day?”

“I guess I am,” you replied, still half-stunned.

She gave you a look in the mirror. “You work directly for Mr. Wayne, yes?”

“Yes,” you said. “His executive assistant.”

“Then you must be very good at your job.”

“I try,” you murmured, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks again.

“Well,” she said, nodding sagely, “I will tell you what I told Mr. Fox: when you ride with me, you are safe. I will not let traffic touch you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s very kind.”

“It is professional,” she said with mock offense. “And also kind, yes. And I like you already.”

“You’ve known me five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all I need. I am excellent at character reading.”

You laughed.

By the time you reached the Wayne Enterprises building, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Rita pulled to the side entrance like a queen delivering royalty, opened the door with a bow, and handed you your coffee cup like it was made of gold.

“You have a good first day back, Miss Kent.”

You stared at the building’s towering windows for a beat longer than necessary. Then, you took a breath and you stepped inside.

The doors to Wayne Enterprises hissed open like always—smooth, polished, air-conditioned—and for a moment, the world inside seemed to blink at you like a sleepy beast waking from hibernation.

The lobby was warm, gleaming in morning light, polished marble floors humming under the heels of countless Gotham elite. There was a quiet thrum of familiarity in the air—of keyboard clacks, hushed conversations, the soft trill of phones and printers and the occasional bark of urgency through a walkie-talkie.

You smiled at Eloise first.

She waved from her post at the main desk, where she was already fielding two calls and typing with nails the color of candy canes. “You’re back! Happy New Year, sweetheart. You look fresh out of a Hallmark postcard.”

You laughed. “Don’t let Clark hear you say that.”

She beamed. “He came by some weeks ago, didn’t he? That tall boy could light up the building with that smile.”

You grinned, eyes fond. “That’s him. My brother.”

Eloise smiled sweetly. “Let me know if you want any coffee later—I found a new creamer that tastes like heaven.”

You nodded your thanks and kept walking.

You passed Luis, the janitor, humming along to some Sinatra classic while buffing the floors. You waved, and he waved back, giving you the same crooked grin he always had since your second week on the job. Then a passing intern who gave you a shy smile.

Everything was the same.

Until it wasn’t.

You turned the final hallway leading toward Bruce’s office—familiar steps, muscle memory—and stopped in your tracks.

Your desk was gone.

The space directly outside his office door—your usual spot, nestled beside the potted plant that only half-thrived under the industrial lighting—was empty. Not messy. Not moved aside for cleaning. Simply… gone. Vanished. The carpet beneath was perfectly untouched, like you’d never been there at all.

You blinked, heart fluttering in your chest.

“…Huh.”

Before you could even make a decision—turn around, find someone, maybe crawl under a decorative table—his office door opened.

Bruce stood in the threshold, jacket off, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled, eyes cutting toward the glass hallway wall. He looked up once, probably out of reflex.

Then he saw you. And saw you again.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something in his expression softened.

He tilted his head toward his office. “Miss Kent,” he said, quiet and even. “Come in.”

You stepped forward, caught off guard by the gentle lilt in your name, the way it didn’t sound like a command—more like an invitation.

You entered slowly, heart still kicking unevenly behind your ribs. The door clicked softly behind you. He didn’t seem surprised to see you, just observant. He leaned one hip against his desk, arms crossed.

“I thought I’d be more nervous,” you blurted. “About seeing you face-to-face again.”

His brows lifted, curious. “And are you?”

You considered it. “Not… exactly. I think I’m just—processing. A lot.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what “a lot” meant. Just let it float there, between you.

And then that ache curled up your spine again, like an old memory pressing in. You looked at him—really looked at him—and he wasn’t cold today. Not distant. Not closed off. Just quiet. Calm. Softer than Gotham ever allowed him to be.

Your voice returned, smaller now. “Um. I couldn’t help but notice… my desk.”

He nodded once. “I moved it.”

“I noticed that.”

“You couldn’t find it?”

“No,” you said, trying not to sound sheepish. “I… sort of thought maybe you replaced me for a second.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “And then what? I let the replacement waltz back in?”

You laughed nervously, brushing your knuckles down your coat sleeve.

He stood straighter then, stepping around the desk until he was at your side—not too close, but close enough for you to smell faint cologne and something else you couldn’t name. Metal, maybe. Cold air. Him.

“I thought,” he said, voice measured, “that I can’t very well keep my own secretary in the hallway. Especially not when the receptionist has more privacy.”

You blinked. “Sir—”

“I wanted you to have your own space,” he added. “Somewhere you can work. Breathe. Not get bothered every time someone walks through the floor.”

Your throat bobbed.

“…That’s… kind. I… didn’t mind,” you replied carefully.

“I did,” he said without pause, meeting your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable in his face.

Then he gestured with his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

You followed without another word, the two of you walking silently down the hallway, his steps a slow guide in front of yours. He opened a door diagonally across from his—discreet, tucked away beside the corner conference room. It had always been locked. Always closed. Always marked Reserved.

But now—

Now, when he opened it, light spilled across the most stunning office space you’d ever seen.

It wasn’t just an office. It was yours.

You froze in the doorway.

It wasn’t massive—not the corner penthouse with windows to heaven—but it was yours. Completely, irrevocably yours.

The cherry wood desk glowed warmly beneath soft overhead lights. L-shaped, clean, elegant. The two monitors were huge—far bigger than your laptop, already synced to your usual workspace judging by the light hum of the desktop wallpaper. A thick black leather chair sat behind it, sleek and soft-looking, already reclined just slightly like it had been waiting for you.

The floor was layered with a thick, dove-colored rug that curled neatly under your desk and swirled into the sitting corner with two soft chairs. The bookshelf along the wall was already stocked with some familiar binders, a few volumes you recognized from home—someone must have carried them from your last space.

There were plants. Real ones.

A tiny pothos in a hanging pot, a fern nestled by the window. A pale gold lamp with a dimmer sat in the corner of the desk, beside a crystal paperweight you’d mentioned liking once during a department tour months ago.

And beside the desk, under the screen, sat your favorite mug, filled with pens.

You didn’t say anything. You just… stood and blinked. Once. Twice. Then again. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was watching you. Quietly. Like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d miscalculated.

“I wasn’t sure about the rug,” he said, low. “But they told me it matched the walls.”

You turned to him slowly. Your voice came out too high, and you cringed inside. “You did this?”

“Someone had to approve the requisition forms,” he said dryly.

You blinked again.

He looked toward the corner of the office. “The light’s adjustable. You can change the temperature if it gets too cold. I’ve already rerouted your calls to the phone system here. And I had IT install the dual screens yesterday.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“…Why?” you finally breathed, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. And for once—once—he let it show. Not much. Not everything. But enough. Enough for you to see something warm, something regretful, flicker behind his eyes.

“Because you deserve a place here,” he said quietly. “Not a chair in the hall.”

You stared at him.

And then—

You laughed. Half gasp, half laugh, half breathless kind of noise that bubbled up before you could stop it. Your smile broke through like sunlight, wide and open and real.

“Oh my god, Bruce,” you said, laughing again, almost bouncing where you stood. “I thought I lost my desk, not that I—oh my god.”

You turned in a small circle, eyes wide, hugging your coffee to your chest.

“Are you serious right now? This is mine?”

He nodded, one hand in his pocket now, brow lifted like he wasn’t sure why you were so surprised.

“Thank you,” you said, blinking fast. “Thank you. Thank you—this is—this is so nice, I don’t even have words.”

“You’re welcome.”

You took two steps forward, half-tempted to hug him, then stopped yourself, fidgeting instead with your sleeves.

“I mean it. This is—this is my first office. Like… ever. Properly. And you—it’s so nice, and the—” You touched the chair. “This is a recliner. You bought me a reclining desk chair. Who does that?”

He said nothing.

Your eyes shone. “You do, apparently.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable,” he said softly. “You deserve a space. Not a hallway.”

You shook your head, lips wobbling with a smile.

“This is more than a space, Bruce.”

He didn’t answer, at least not out loud. Just looked at you like maybe he understood. Like maybe this, too, was a kind of apology. A gesture for everything he couldn’t say.

You beamed at him suddenly, walking around the desk to sit in the chair, spinning once.

���I don’t know what kind of spell you’re under,” you said lightly, “but please don’t snap out of it.”

His mouth lifted just slightly. “Noted.”

“And this is my printer now?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t one of those things where you’re going to fire me next week because I sat in the expensive chair too long?”

“No.”

“Okay, but like—hypothetically—if I fall asleep here one night, are you going to call security or…?”

“I’ll leave a blanket.”

You stared.

He didn’t smile, but you saw it in his eyes.

You laughed, and something burst open in your chest.

Because in this moment, you didn’t feel like a girl from Smallville playing secretary to a billionaire with a secret.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything

Rita greeted you every morning like the sunrise.

Bright smile. Coffee in hand. Her curls pulled back beneath a neat scarf that changed colors every few days—today it was plum. Tomorrow, who knew. You’d grown used to the sound of her humming from the driver’s seat as she opened the car door for you, always five minutes early, always excited to hear about your evening like you’d been apart for years.

“Did the cat come back?” “She did.” “Did she steal your tuna again?” “She did.” “Villainous.”

The drive always passed quickly, filled with conversation about whatever book she was reading, whichever telenovela her sister was addicted to, or the old record player she was trying to fix. Sometimes, you brought her coffee too. Sometimes, you just watched the city flicker by, warm and safe in the leather seat with a paper cup in your hands, cheeks pressed to the cool window.

And then there was the building. Your office.

Your name—engraved on the door in polished gold letters: Y/N Kent. Executive Assistant. Right beneath the Wayne Enterprises crest.

Every time you saw it, your heart squeezed a little.

The office itself had become a soft haven, filled slowly with your own touches—a small crocheted blanket over the back of your chair, a framed photo of Ma and Pa by the bookshelves, a little ceramic pig you kept tucked behind the phone. The two monitors you used were brilliant and fast; the light in the room was warm; the seat adjusted perfectly to your back.

Bruce’s office was right across the hall.

And sometimes, you could feel his eyes drift toward your door. Just a second or two. A glance through the glass. You never mentioned it.

You didn’t need to.

The phone calls didn’t stop when you returned to Gotham. If anything, they deepened.

Sometimes they came just after 10 p.m., when your skin was still warm from a shower and your tea was still steeping. Other times, they came at 2 or 3 in the morning—soft vibrations against your pillow that didn’t startle you anymore. You didn’t even say hello most nights.

You just answered.

You talked. He listened.

You spoke about Clark and Smallville and your mother’s new obsession with lavender candles. About a dream you had where the moon fell into the barn. About books you wanted to read, places you wanted to see. Your voice was quieter at night. Softer. More intimate.

Sometimes, Bruce would say a word or two. A hum. A gentle “Mm.” Sometimes, he just breathed.

Sometimes, you swore you heard his breath steadying because of yours.

You’d wake up in the morning to a call that had ended sometime while you were asleep—your phone still warm under your hand.

You never questioned why he called, and he never explained.

But each time your name came out of his mouth, low and soft and a little too slow, it felt like something real. Something only yours.

There was something comforting about it—how routine it became. How safe.

You’d been working late—later than usual. The building was dimmer than it should’ve been, quiet in that oddly still way that Gotham got after dark. You’d just returned from the break room with a second cup of tea when you noticed the box resting on your desk.

Not just any box—a branded one. Thick cardboard, the kind that came from upscale boutiques you only knew by reputation. The name embossed in silver. A thick satin bow stretched across it.

You paused at the door, balancing your coffee and files, staring at the package like it might grow teeth.

You didn’t open it right away.

Your office was silent except for the low hum of your desktop computer and the faint ticking of your vintage desk clock. The late afternoon light was muted and gold, slipping through the tinted windows in warm waves.

You set your cup down. Your fingers brushed the edge of the lid.

Inside—carefully folded, almost reverently arranged—was a dress.

Not just any dress.

This was silk, champagne-colored with a whisper of shimmer, delicate cap sleeves and a soft neckline. It looked like something you’d seen in old movies, the kind that made your throat close when the heroine entered the ballroom and the orchestra swelled. The kind of dress you didn’t just wear—you became something else in.

Your breath hitched.

You lifted it carefully, cradling it like it might disintegrate. The fabric was cool against your hands, light as air.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

You blinked hard and whispered, mostly to yourself, “What the hell is this doing here?”

“You like it?”

You jumped, your heart lurching.

You spun around, clutching the fabric, only to find Bruce leaning against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets, watching you with unreadable eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound like it. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You stared at him. “What is this?”

“The dress.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you like it?”

“I—” You hesitated. “Yes. I mean—it’s stunning. It’s… I didn’t know they made clothes like this outside of Vogue covers.”

He nodded once. “Good. I asked them to send over a few options. That one seemed right.”

You held it against you, blinking. “Right for what?”

“For you.”

You stared.

“If it doesn’t fit,” he added, “or if the color isn’t to your liking, they’ll send another.”

You opened your mouth. “You bought this?”

“I did.”

“…For me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you.

Then finally—his voice even, as if it was the simplest thing in the world—he said, “Yes, for you. For the gala.”

Your stomach flipped.

You blinked again. “The… gala?”

He nodded. “Next Friday.”

“I know. I mean, I helped organize it, yes, but—I wasn’t planning on going.” You looked away. “I figured I’d just coordinate things from here.”

“Y/N,” he said.

You hesitated. When you looked back, he had stepped into the room. Not close. Not intimidating. Just… there.

He glanced down at the dress still in your arms, then back at you. And then he said, “I want you to go.”

You stopped breathing for a second. The room felt too quiet. Your heart too loud.

“You… want me to go.”

“With me,” he clarified.

Your lips parted.

He stepped to your side, slow, deliberate, until his arm brushed yours. He didn’t touch you beyond that. Didn’t crowd. Just stood close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet tension under his tailored sleeves.

You looked up at him.

“I—Bruce,” you started. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

You closed your mouth. He kept his eyes on yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly. “I want to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. He leaned forward a little, just enough that his voice dropped, quieter than before.

“You looked beautiful the last time.”

Your cheeks flushed.

“You were the best-dressed person in the room,” he added, “and you didn’t even stay.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening.

“I want you there,” he said again. “This time… with me.”

You searched his face, tried to look past the polish, past the restraint, but found only honesty there. A touch of something tentative. Like maybe this was the bravest thing he’d said in days.

You looked back at the dress. Your voice was soft. “You think this will fit?”

He smiled faintly. “If it doesn’t, we’ll find another. You deserve something that does.”

You turned toward him again.

“Bruce…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. But he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Because in that moment—in the quiet glow of your office, surrounded by screens and spreadsheets and three years of not being seen—you felt like he was trying.

In his way.

You clutched the dress tighter, your voice trembling a little.

“I guess I’ll need shoes, too.”

“I’ll have a few pairs sent up tomorrow.”

“Bruce.”

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re going with me. Not as staff. Not as an assistant.”

Your breath caught.

“But as…?” you prompted.

His eyes held yours.

“As you.”

Your apartment smelled faintly of perfume and warmed curling iron, the radio playing something festive and jazzy in the background while you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

Silk. Champagne-colored. It shimmered even in the dim bedroom light, clinging in all the right places and floating like a second skin in all the rest. The delicate cap sleeves framed your shoulders; the neckline, smooth, barely skimmed the tops of your collarbones. There was a whisper of shimmer when you moved—just enough to feel like stardust.

You look… ethereal.

You also feel like you’re about to faint.

Rita was already downstairs in the car.

You’d expected to walk down the steps and see her grinning at you through the rearview mirror, maybe give a cheer when you stepped outside all dolled up.

You hadn’t expected him.

Bruce Wayne, in the flesh, waiting on the sidewalk.

Not just waiting, either.

He was standing near the rear of the car, half in shadow, his posture long and elegant, one hand in his coat pocket and the other straightening the cuff of his suit.

And what a suit it was.

Tailored black with a subtle sheen under the streetlamps, cut perfectly to his frame, the fabric smooth and crisp. A simple black tie. Clean lines. Understated power.

You froze halfway down the steps. You weren’t sure if it was the cold air or the way your heart gave a traitorous thud, but you stood there for a second, breath misting in the air, your fingers twitching against the silk at your waist.

Bruce turned at the sound of your heels. And his eyes—those sharp, unreadable, endlessly quiet eyes—met yours and didn’t move.

You stood up a little straighter. Tugged the skirt gently to settle it, and descended the last few steps like it was a scene from a movie.

His gaze didn’t drift once. He stepped closer just as you reached the last stair. “You look…”

He trailed off.

You tilted your head. “I look…?”

He gave the smallest breath of a smile. “Worthy of making people forget what they came for.”

You flushed from the collar down.

Rita grinned from the front seat, watching discreetly in the mirror.

Bruce opened the door for you himself. The way he helps you into the car, the way he closes the door after you, the way he settles in beside you and breathes in like he’s grounding himself — all of it makes your heart flutter somewhere behind your ribs.

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. Then you glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You smile. “Nervous?”

He tilts his head. “I thought I was supposed to be asking you that.”

“I organized most of it,” you say lightly. “I know what to expect.”

“Do you?”

You shrug. “Overdressed socialites, bored billionaires, empty praise, passive-aggressive conversations, a charity auction no one actually cares about, and enough champagne to drown a horse.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Warm. Real.

And your heart stumbles.

The gala was held at the Gotham Grand Conservatory—glass ceilings, marble floors, the kind of floral arrangements that looked like they'd cost a year’s rent. You know the wallpaper, the guest list, the table designs.

The whole city’s elite was there. Quite the few photographers as well, and their flashes eat you alive.

Bruce had kept a hand on the small of your back as you entered, steady and grounding. His fingers never gripped too tightly, but the warmth of him lingered long after they dropped away.

People stared. They always stared at Bruce. That was nothing new. But tonight, their gazes followed you too. And when they realized you weren’t just staff… that Bruce Wayne had entered with you on his arm…

The whispers started.

You did your best to focus on your breathing. On the strings playing in the background. On not tripping over the heels.

“Stay with me,” Bruce murmured as you paused beside a decorative fountain, feigning interest in the sculptures.

You looked up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I mean it,” he said, a bit lower. “You don’t have to deal with them alone.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing in that quiet, aching way again.

The room sparkled with chandeliers, dresses, and diamond-cut masks of thin politeness. And you were right in the center of it. Beside him.

For the first hour, it felt manageable. A glass of champagne helped. A few polite greetings came your way. Some people even smiled warmly. You talked logistics with someone from public relations and made a joke about charity tables with one of the Wayne Foundation board members.

And then—it happened.

You turned a corner in the lounge and met a trio of women dressed in varying shades of couture and condescension.

“Oh,” one of them said, eyes flicking from your shoes to your earrings. “You’re the assistant.”

The tone made the word secretary sound like a slur.

You straightened. “Executive assistant.”

“Of course,” another murmured, swirling her drink. “And now the executive escort, it seems.”

Your chest tightened.

“I mean, really,” the third added, lips barely curved, “I suppose Bruce always had a taste for… the provincial. The occasional poor girl with alluring eyes.”

Your jaw twitched. “Excuse me?”

The first one smiled, teeth sharp. “It’s just—how quaint. A girl from Smallville, was it?”

You were halfway through gathering a response when you felt him behind you. Not touching—but close enough that his shadow swallowed the smugness off their faces.

Bruce’s voice was low, slow, and deathly polite. “Do you speak to all women this way, or just the ones who intimidate you?”

They froze.

He took one small step forward.

“I’ve heard better manners from men begging for mercy.”

Silence.

“Miss Kent,” he said, looking at you gently, “would you like to walk with me?”

You nodded, throat tight. He offered his arm, and you took it.

And the way he looked back at the women as you walked away? It was the closest thing Gotham’s elite had ever seen to a warning.

You exhale, still frozen. Bruce doesn’t move.

Then, quietly, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. “You know how they are.”

He shrugs. “They know how I am.”

You let out a small laugh. “That might’ve been the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in this dress. Or ever, actually.”

His gaze slides down to you again.

“I was right,” he says softly. “It fits you perfectly.”

You go quiet, but your chest burns, your cheeks grow flushed. Then, because the moment is growing too hot, too big, you say, “Do you want to step out for some air?”

You found a balcony tucked away behind a side hallway, past ivy-wrapped columns and the hum of the ballroom. The city spills out in front of you in gold and slate and whispers. The moon is tucked behind clouds. The lights below look like a galaxy trapped in glass.

You lean your palms on the carved stone railing, letting the chill wake up your skin, your thoughts. The silence is pleasant. Comfortable. The party inside buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, but out here, it's just the two of you and the way your heartbeat won't settle.

Bruce stands beside you, a tall shadow, broad-shouldered in his tailored black suit, the cut sharp, the lines soft in the moonlight. His tie is a little loose now. His collar slightly undone. But his posture remains precise, shoulders pulled back like he was carved from tension.

You glance over at him. His profile is striking in the dim light—classic, solemn, but there’s a gentleness in his expression, a softness that doesn’t match the reputation the tabloids gave him.

He’s watching the skyline. You’re watching him.

You speak first. “Are you always this good at rescuing damsels from elitist wolves in designer gowns?”

His mouth lifts into a subtle smirk. “Only when they’re wearing champagne silk and stealing the room.”

You huff a laugh and glance down, smoothing your hand across your skirt. “That woman’s going to wake up bitter for the rest of the month.”

“She already was,” he says dryly. “You just gave her something new to be bitter about.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

He turns his head toward you, slow, deliberate.

“That I’m here with you.”

Your breath catches. You look at him. Really look.

There’s no teasing in his voice. No public mask. He’s not Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden boy billionaire. He’s not Batman, either.

He’s just Bruce. Quiet. Clear-eyed. Looking at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in a long, long time.

You swallow softly. “You didn’t have to say anything. Back there, I mean.”

“I did.”

You glance away. “I’m used to people making assumptions. Talking. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You go quiet.

His voice drops a little. “You shouldn’t have to feel small just because they don’t know how to handle someone who shines.”

You laugh, but it’s breathy, nervous. “You’ve been practicing these lines?”

“No.”

You turn your face toward him again, cheeks warming in the cold. “Then where are they coming from?”

His jaw shifts. His eyes are darker now. Intent.

“They’ve been sitting in my throat,” he says. “For a while.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to say them before. Or if I should.”

You whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t look away. “Because you deserve to know.”

Your heart drums against your ribs like a bird trying to break out of a cage.

Your voice wobbles a little. “Know what?”

“That I see you,” he says. His voice is low. “That I’ve been seeing you.”

You search his face for something you can hold onto—doubt, confusion, uncertainty—but there’s nothing. Only sincerity. Only the quiet ache of a man who doesn’t know how to wear his heart out loud but is doing it anyway.

You look down, lips parting. “Bruce…”

“I asked you to come tonight because I couldn’t stand the idea of looking around that room and not seeing you.”

Your breath leaves you.

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, his gaze pinned to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him from vanishing.

“You’re the only person in that building who doesn’t treat me like a shadow or a myth,” he says. “You talk to me like I’m a person. You make me laugh when I forget how. You…” His voice catches. “You see me.”

He exhales, almost like he regrets speaking—but he doesn’t look away.

“You’ve been with me through every impossible hour. Every late night. Every moment where I didn’t even know how to ask for help, and there you were. With coffee. With your kindness. With your voice.”

His voice falters, but he steps closer. Just enough for the distance between you to feel like it’s melting.

“And when I was bleeding on your couch, when I was barely upright, you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t scream or run or freeze. You took care of me.”

Your eyes meet his. And the world tilts.

You feel his hand brush your arm, then lower, steady and warm as it curls around your waist. Gentle. Questioning. Not demanding anything.

You don’t pull away.

Your hands come to rest lightly on the lapels of his coat, heart in your throat, body humming with anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “More than okay.”

He hesitates for only a second longer, eyes flicking between yours, and then he leans in.

The kiss is nothing like what you imagined.

It’s better.

It’s not fast, not urgent. It’s soft. Patient. Reverent. Like he’s been waiting a long time to learn the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid of breaking the moment if he breathes too hard.

His lips brush against yours with quiet certainty, and everything inside you tilts forward—your hands tightening in his jacket, your body leaning into his like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, your noses touch. His breath fans your cheek.

Neither of you speaks.

Then—

“I’ve wanted to do that for a few months,” he confesses, voice barely a rasp.

Your eyes flutter open, lashes brushing your cheeks. “You could’ve.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You blink. “But you still tried.”

He smiles. The smallest thing. But real.

“I’ll keep trying,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

You lean your forehead against his, eyes closing. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bruce Wayne breathes like a man who doesn’t have to pretend.

[oatyoooo]

„Just One Hour.“

(Yandere Batfam)

A/N: this was inspired by a ask from @oatyoooo

Hope you like it!! And yeah somehow I love writing drabbles so much. But I’m working on the next chapters!! and maybe a new series?🧐

Anyways have fun reading! Some facts that I mentioned here (like Y/N being able to speak multiple languages) I will explain further in the main series :)

She could hardly breath anymore.

Not from sickness — but from their version of love. If that’s what it even was.

To Y/N, it didn’t feel like love. It felt like a gilded cage. Velvet-wrapped chains. She could smile, speak, move — but only within the lines they traced for her. Everything she did was monitored, shadowed, echoed back to her in suffocating waves of “care.” Cameras in her room. Panic buttons in her school bag. A bracelet tracker disguised as a charm. And her brothers — rotating guards who never let her walk alone.

Even her breath felt observed.

Today it was Damian.

As always, he walked her to her first class, stood at the door until she stepped inside, and then lingered for a moment longer — making sure she didn’t try anything stupid. He’d taken to doing that since she ran. He didn’t say it aloud, but she could tell by the way his hand always rested near the hilt of his katana — even inside the school.

Once she was seated, he turned and left for his own class.

But today…

Today was different.

One of her teachers was sick. No substitute. Meaning Y/N had a free period.

Usually, this would mean Damian would expect her to sit with him in one of his more advanced courses — or at the very least read quietly in the library under a dozen invisible eyes.

But this time…

He didn’t know.

Nobody knew.

It was sudden. No one informed him. And for once, no one stood breathing down her neck.

She sat with the news in silence. Her books unopened. Her eyes fixed on the grey clouded sky.

And then — like the smallest rebellion cracking through stone — she stood.

She told her friends she had to go see the nurse. Something small. Nothing to worry about. She gave them the smile she always gave. That perfect, sweet, believable curve that no one ever doubted.

And she left.

She didn’t even realize she’d left her phone in the classroom — still zipped in the front pouch of her bag. It buzzed softly against her book, unnoticed. Unimportant.

Her feet carried her out the gate.

Out of the school.

Out into the city.

She didn’t plan on going far — she just wanted air. Just one hour. She wanted to exist without their eyes, their rules, their guilt. She just wanted to walk where she wanted. Without a shadow behind her.

And somehow, her body had remembered the way.

The botanical gardens.

The ones she had loved as a child. The ones she stopped visiting because she feared it would remind her family who her mother was. Because when you’re the daughter of Poison Ivy, touching soil always felt like a loaded question.

But now?

Now it felt like a sanctuary.

The air was humid and green, heavy with flowers. The plants — bright, blooming — called to her. And they listened, too. She stepped through the overgrown paths with soft fingers brushing petals, and something in the stems curled toward her as she passed. She didn’t mean to make them — but they did.

She sat in the heart of the conservatory, where no one ever looked. Her shoes off. Her skirt brushed with pollen. Her hands sticky with petals. And for the first time in months, Y/N breathed.

She didn’t notice time slipping past.

An hour became two. Two became nearly three.

She didn’t see the text notifications piling up on her school phone. Because it was still zipped in her bag… back at school.

⸻

Meanwhile, back at Gotham Academy…

Damian’s eyes flicked toward the clock.

She should’ve passed his hallway ten minutes ago.

He stood. Books forgotten. The soft murmur of his classmates drowned beneath the buzz in his skull. Something was wrong. He felt it. Like blood freezing under skin.

His steps were sharp and fast as he returned to the wing where Y/N’s cancelled class had been scheduled. The halls were half-empty — most students having dispersed after the unexpected free period.

Damian didn’t knock. He shoved the door open.

A few students still loitered inside, talking, giggling.

No teacher.

His eyes scanned the room.

She wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there.

His vision narrowed. His boots were already stomping toward a group of familiar girls — her so-called “friends.” He didn’t bother with introductions.

“Where is she?” His voice was low. Sharp.

The girls blinked. One flinched.

“W-We don’t know,” one whispered. “She said she had to go… somewhere. She said it was just for a little bit.”

Damian’s fists clenched.

And in his mind — all hell broke loose.

Damian’s fingers were white around his phone as he pressed it to his ear.

He was already pacing the empty hallway when the call connected.

“She’s gone.”

Tim blinked.

“Gone?” he repeated slowly, eyes flicking to Dick and Jason, who were sitting on the couch across from him. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean she wasn’t in her class. She lied. She left school. Her friends said she went off on her own.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jason’s voice cut in from behind the phone — loud and hot like gunfire. “What the hell do you mean she left? You were with her, demon spawn!”

“I brought her to class,” Damian growled, his voice low and strained, “She had a free period. It was last-minute. I didn’t know. She slipped through.”

Dick was already standing. “I’ll run a trace.”

“No need,” he said grimly. “After her last stunt, we all agreed she couldn’t be trusted. I made sure of it.”

Jason sat up straighter. “What did you do?”

Tim’s voice was cold and steady. “She has a chip. Internal. In her shoulder.”

Jason’s mouth twitched, jaw tight. Even Dick, whose fingers were curled into fists against his knees, didn’t speak for a moment.

None of them liked that it had come to this — drugging her during sleep, inserting a tracker without consent. But after what she did the first time — after the month she’d spent hidden from them, alone in some godforsaken part of Gotham, starving, shaking, terrified — they couldn’t risk it again.

Love meant protecting her from herself.

Even if she hated them for it.

“Where is she now?” Dick finally asked, voice hard. The old warmth was gone. His blue eyes burned sharp, hot with something possessive, something near-broken.

Tim glanced down at the glowing signal on the map. “Downtown Gotham. Botanical garden.”

Jason let out a string of curses. “Of course she went there. Of course.” He threw on his jacket, already striding toward the bikes. “Let’s go.”

Damian’s voice snapped out over the comm. “Not without me. No one touches her until I’m there.”

They didn’t argue.

_____

Y/N sat cross-legged in a small patch of dappled sunlight, hidden beneath the swaying arms of a white wisteria tree. The petals swayed gently around her face. Her fingers stroked a curling vine at her side, and the stem shivered — as if nuzzling back.

The garden had changed since she was little.

Or maybe she had.

The plants didn’t shrink from her anymore. They watched her. Responded. Whispered back, in their own way. They curled toward her fingers, bent toward her breath. One vine in particular coiled upward slowly, swaying toward her cheek as if trying to tuck behind her ear.

“You guys remember me, huh?” she whispered, voice quiet and cracked with soft laughter. “I used to be scared someone would see. That if I talk with you, they’d think I was just like her.”

She didn’t say the name.

She didn’t need to.

But here, the ghosts of Ivy were kind. Not cruel.

She leaned back against the bench and let her eyes flutter shut, letting the plants hum around her in their secret way. Her stomach growled after a while, a soft pathetic sound.

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “Right. Food.”

That’s when she realized—

Her backpack was gone.

It hit her all at once. Her bag. Her phone. Her watch. Her class schedule. Everything was still at school.

Her blood ran cold.

Her brothers were obsessive. All of them. She’d survived under their radar for barely more than a month when she first ran. And that was before the craziness, the implants, before the curfews, before they reminded her what they were willing to do when she disobeyed.

Panic shot through her lungs like cold water.

“I need to get back,” she whispered aloud, stumbling upright. “I need to go. I need to go now—”

She sprinted out of the wisteria grove, heart pounding. Her flats slapped the pavement as she pushed through the winding hedges and warm glass walls. If she could just make it back, sneak in before the final bell, grab her bag—

Maybe they wouldn’t know.

Maybe they’d never know.

She darted around a corner, breath hitching, only to freeze—

Her breath caught.

Jason’s hand slammed against the glass wall beside her head, his towering figure casting a long shadow over her. His other hand wrapped around her upper arm in a grip that made her freeze. She flinched instinctively — cheeks warm, knuckles scratched, her school skirt rumpled and dirt-speckled from kneeling in the garden for too long.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jason’s voice was low. Not quite yelling. But almost worse — like thunder building behind steel.

She opened her mouth, but her words caught.

Behind him, the others had caught up. Dick, flushed with exertion, eyes glassy with disbelief. Tim was silent, his arms crossed, his jaw set like a ticking bomb. Damian stood stiff at the back, chest heaving beneath his uniform, green eyes narrowed and burning.

“I—” she started, licking her lips, “I had a free period. Mr. Keane didn’t come today. I just— I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think,” Jason snapped, “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Jay,” Dick’s voice was quiet, warning — but he didn’t stop him. None of them did.

Y/N stepped back, but Jason’s grip didn’t let go. “I just wanted to be alone for a bit. I didn’t even realize I left my bag— I didn’t mean to—”

“You forgot your phone,” Tim said sharply. “We couldn’t reach you for almost three hours. Your last ping was in school. You know what that looks like from our side?”

“I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Didn’t mean to—?” Damian let out a sound close to a scoff, stepping forward at last. “You’re lucky we found you. Do you even realize the risk? You could’ve been snatched off the street by any low-tier thug with half a brain. Or worse.”

“I wasn’t— It’s the garden,” she said quickly, her voice rising with desperation. “I was in the botanical garden, I just wanted to— I used to love going there— I thought it’d be okay—”

Jason exhaled hard, scrubbing his face with one hand. “If you needed space that bad, you come to me. I’ll take you out. You don’t disappear. Not again.”

Y/N’s lips parted. Her voice was small. “But I didn’t want to burden—”

Before she could finish, Dick had already reached her, tugging her out of Jason’s hold like it was nothing. He threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing — which compared to him, she did. She yelped, kicking weakly.

“No, no, I can walk—!”

“You lost that privilege the second you lied,” he said coldly, not even breaking pace.

Her fists hit his back, but it was like trying to punch marble. “Put me down, Dick!”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re being unreasonable! It was just one hour—!”

“It was three,” Tim corrected sharply.

She whined, her fists falling uselessly at her side.

„"يا حمقاء صغيرة,”

(— little idiot) Damian muttered behind her

Her eyes widened as she twisted in Dick’s grip.

“I am not—!”

“You are,” he growled, stalking after them. “You’re too weak to even go to the restrooms alone in school without getting dizzy. And you thought running off alone to play with plants would be safe?”

Y/N froze.

The mention of plants— his tone.

Then he added, tone colder now, sharper than glass:

“Tell me, did they whisper to you like your mother’s always did?”

That shut her up.

Her body tensed like a slap had landed. Her fists curled into her skirt. The breath in her throat vanished. Dick felt it immediately in the way her small frame stiffened against his shoulder.

“Damian,” he warned, his voice suddenly icy. “Shut. Up.”

Jason didn’t warn. He struck.

A hard jab against Damian’s arm sent the younger boy stumbling sideways.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked, voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“She has to hear it,” Damian snarled, but Jason pushed him back with another shove, harder this time.

“You don’t speak to her like that.”

Behind them, Y/N was silent, face buried against Dick’s shoulder now. Her eyes were wide, wet, full of something she couldn’t name. Shame. Pain. That old ache that had clung to her since childhood.

The fear that no matter what she did — they would always see her as Poison Ivy’s daughter. Not theirs.

Not truly loved.

None of the brothers spoke after that.

Even Tim, who usually deflected the tension, cracked a quiet joke or shifted the conversation to calm her down — stayed silent.

They were tense. Quiet. Fury buzzing beneath the surface. The weight of it followed them all the way to the car. All the way back to the Manor.

Back to the place she already knew would feel like a cage again.

______

The manor was cold when they stepped inside, yet her skin burned under Dick’s hold.

He hadn’t let go.

Not for a second.

He sat her down on the plush couch in the great room, but his arms stayed around her like a steel frame. Not tight — not hurting — but immovable. She squirmed once and he pulled her a little closer, as if to remind her:

You ran. I caught you. You don’t get to slip away again.

Her legs dangled off the edge of the cushion like a child’s. Dirt smudged her socks and the hem of her uniform skirt. Her hands were curled in her lap, nails bitten to the quick. Her face tilted down.

She didn’t dare look at any of them.

Still, when Alfred stepped in — calm, quiet — she managed a small, broken, “Hi, Alfred…”

His gaze swept over her in an instant, old eyes catching everything. Her flushed cheeks. Her mussed hair. The tension vibrating off the boys like a coiled spring. She wasn’t crying, but she looked like she might if one of them raised their voice too loud.

He knew the signs.

He always had.

“I see we’ve had a bit of an afternoon,” Alfred said gently, folding his hands behind his back. “You’ve stirred the lions’ den, Miss Y/N.”

She smiled weakly, eyes glossy. “Wasn’t on purpose…”

He hummed. Then softened. “Well. I was just about to prepare cinnamon rolls. Fresh. Extra soft. Shall I bring you one, dear?”

Her entire expression cracked open like sunlight through fog. She nodded instantly, eyes wide, round, desperate. “Yes, please…”

Jason, standing with his arms crossed by the fireplace, said nothing — but his jaw unclenched. Even Tim relaxed slightly.

Damian grumbled from his post behind the couch, “She wouldn’t be hungry now if she hadn’t skipped lunch to roll in garden weeds.”

Y/N flinched.

Then—

SLAM.

The front door snapped open with a crack like thunder. It slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle a frame loose.

She jumped in Dick’s hold — heart jumping to her throat, twisting around to look.

Bruce.

Her father’s silhouette stood at the threshold, tall, cloaked in tailored black. No cowl, no armor, no Bat — but the same grim gravity. The front of his shirt was still half-buttoned, the collar askew. He hadn’t come from the Cave.

He came from Wayne Tower.

And it had taken him less than seven minutes.

Y/N turned sharply to Dick, eyes wide. “You… you told him?”

He looked almost guilty — almost — but firm. “He’s your father.”

Even Jason didn’t protest. Even he knew this wasn’t something to hide.

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

If the brothers were fire, Bruce was ice. Controlled. Composed. Crushing.

His heavy steps echoed into the room. He didn’t say a word at first. He simply walked toward her, scanning her body the way only he could — for injury, signs of harm, danger. He crouched in front of the couch where she sat wrapped in Dick’s arms.

His eyes — steel-blue, unreadable — narrowed at her cheeks.

"You’re dirty,” he muttered, thumb swiping at a patch of soil.

She stiffened.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked lowly.

“N… no,” she whispered.

A beat. Then he stood. Tall. Unforgiving.

“Then explain.”

Every brother was silent now.

Jason leaned against the wall, arms folded. Tim stood behind the couch, half in shadow. Damian was unreadable but sharp, like a blade ready to draw.

Bruce’s gaze bore into her like a spotlight. “Why did you leave school. Why did you go off alone. Why did you leave your phone. And why the hell didn’t anyone know where you were.”

“I… I had a free period,” she mumbled. “I didn’t know I would— I thought I could—”

“You thought wrong,” Bruce snapped, voice cutting through the air.

She shrank into herself. “I just… I saw everyone was busy and I didn’t want to be a bother—”

“You’re not a bother,” Tim said tightly, the first to speak.

“I just needed air,” she said faster. “The garden— I haven’t been there in years—”

“Why?” Bruce’s tone was unrelenting.

She blinked.

“Why that garden?” he pressed.

“…Because I used to go there with Mom,” she whispered.

A pause.

Her voice broke. “She used to tell me the poppies whispered back.”

Bruce said nothing.

The entire room held its breath.

Jason looked away.

Damian’s jaw twitched.

Tim’s fingers tightened around the back of the couch.

Dick held her just a little closer.

And Bruce, for one brief flicker of a second — seemed to hesitate. A twitch in his brow. A flicker behind his eyes. Something he would never voice. Guilt, maybe. Memory. Something older than shame and deeper than pride.

But it passed.

“I should ground you for a month,” he said calmly.

She looked up at him, startled.

“But you’re not leaving my sight for a minute.”

He turned to Alfred. “Set up a cot in the Batcave. She’s coming down with me tonight.”

“But—!”

“No phone. No friends. You want air? I’ll give you filtered oxygen. The safest in the world. But you’re not walking out of a five-foot radius again without one of us at your side.”

“You can’t—!”

“I can. And I will.”

He looked at her. Dead on. “You don’t vanish on us again, Y/N. You don’t get to vanish. Not now. Not ever.”

Her lips trembled.

But she said nothing.

Because part of her — the part that had died once already — knew he meant it.

And another, smaller part…

…wondered if this was what love looked like, when it was so twisted it wrapped around itself.

——-

Y/N sat on the edge of the stiff cot like it had personally offended her.

Her arms were crossed. Her chin tilted high. The toes of her fuzzy socks tapped the steel floor in uneven frustration. Alfred had brought her pajamas and tucked her hair gently behind her ears before retreating with the same calm grace he always had. But even the cinnamon roll he left behind — warm, dusted with sugar, perfect — sat untouched on the tray in front of her.

She wasn’t eating.

She wasn’t talking.

She was pouting.

And grumbling.

Loudly.

In German.

Tim, hunched over a monitor just a few feet away, flicked his gaze to her every few seconds like she might suddenly explode. Bruce, standing by the Batcomputer, had tried ignoring it.

It hadn’t worked.

“Was habe ich getan, um das zu verdienen,” she muttered in a pointed tone, hands flopping into her lap as she stared at the cave floor. “Kein Buch, nicht mal ein Fernseher. Nichts. Aber sie erwarten, dass ich hier wie ein Hund sitze.”

(What did I do to deserve this? …. No book, not even a TV. Nothing. But they expect me to sit here like a dog)

Tim blinked slowly. “Did she just call herself a dog?”

“I didn’t talk to you,” Y/N snapped in English.

“You said it near me.”

“I was talking to the floor.”

Bruce closed the file on the screen. The glow of it dimmed.

Then he turned.

Y/N immediately looked away, her brows twitching into a deeper sulk.

Without a word, Bruce stepped over, towering like always. She expected him to bark another order. Or drop a lecture from ten feet above. Instead…

…he crouched.

His knees popped slightly as he bent to match her height.

It still didn’t quite work — he was too massive, too broad — but he tried.

“Du bist wütend,” he said calmly in German.

(You’re mad)

She blinked.

Then narrowed her eyes. “You don’t get to use my secret language against me.”

He tilted his head, amused. “It’s mine too. You were just better at remembering it.”

She didn’t answer.

He looked at her — properly this time.

No cape. No growl. No cowl. Just Bruce. And in that moment, somehow… her dad.

“I know you think this is unfair,” he said gently, voice low. “But I have to do this.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, you want to. Because you all like keeping me in cages.”

His jaw clenched. “You ran.”

“I sat in a garden.”

“You didn’t tell anyone where you were.”

“I forgot my phone!”

“You forgot us.”

That shut her up.

For a moment.

Then she exhaled hard through her nose. Her voice cracked slightly.

“I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“I know.”

She blinked, surprised by the immediacy of his response.

His eyes held hers. “I know you didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

Then she shook her head, expression tight. “I just needed space, Daddy. Just… a second. You guys left me alone all the time before. You didn’t even care. For years, you didn’t even notice I was at the table. Now I’m not allowed to blink without all of you watching.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“It’s too much.”

His face didn’t move. But something in his shoulders shifted — almost imperceptibly. The Bat didn’t bow. Bruce Wayne did.

“I’m trying,” he said, so quietly it was almost a confession.

She sniffled. Her hands balled in her lap. “You’re all so mean to me.”

His breath caught. “Y/N…”

She looked up.

And for a moment — a sharp, heart-wrenching second — she wasn’t a runaway or a danger or a rule-breaker or a risk.

She was just his daughter.

His little girl.

And she looked so small in this cave.

Bruce exhaled softly. He reached out — let his hand rest on the tray, not her, not yet. He wasn’t sure if she’d let him.

“You don’t understand,” he said lowly. “None of us can imagine this world without you. Not anymore.”

Her lip wobbled.

He reached for the cinnamon roll, tore off a small piece, and held it out.

“Eat.”

She stared at it like it was poison.

Then — slowly — she reached for it, bit the corner of it off like a sulky bunny. Her lips chewed. She glanced up to make sure he wasn’t smirking.

He wasn’t.

He was watching her like she might fall apart again.

“…It’s good,” she mumbled after a second.

He nodded.

She took another bite. Then a third. Soon the whole piece was gone and she was licking sugar off her thumb.

“Don’t tell Jason I ate it. I‘m mad at him.” she said.

“Too late,” Tim called from the side, not even looking up. “The Cave has audio.”

She groaned.

But she kept chewing.

And Bruce, still crouched, simply stayed there. Watching. Guarding. Not as Batman.

Just a man who didn’t know how to hold the world… except through her.

_____

The soft sound of breathing filled the Batcave.

It wasn’t coming from the men pacing between computer terminals, or the quiet clicking of keys. It came from the cot in the corner, tucked just beside the Batcomputer’s glow — where the youngest member of the Wayne family had finally fallen asleep.

Y/N layed curled on her side, a blanket half-draped over her legs, her cheek pressed against a plush pillow Alfred had insisted be added for her comfort. Her lips were parted slightly, a smudge of cinnamon sugar still tucked at the edge of her mouth from the roll she’d devoured in slow, sleepy defiance.

And curled protectively around her frame — like a sentinel — was Titus.

The massive dog rested his snout gently across her calves, tail flicking once in mild alertness. No one was getting close to her without getting past him first.

Tim sat in front of the main monitor, legs stretched, one hand lazily navigating security feeds. The other hand was curled beneath his chin. His coffee had gone cold.

He hadn’t stopped working.

But his eyes kept drifting.

Back to her.

Every thirty seconds.

His sister.

His soft, delicate, reckless little sister.

He studied her curled fingers. Her flushed cheeks. Her messy hair that had fallen from its clip.

He exhaled slowly.

“Good thing I put that tracker in her.”

He muttered it under his breath, a near-whisper. Not proud — but not ashamed, either. She didn’t know, of course. None of them had told her it was in her. In her arm, just beneath the skin, placed during a routine visit after her last escape. Painless. Seamless.

Permanent.

He tapped the screen.

The red dot — her signal — blinked steady from her current location. Safe.

He let himself breathe again.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

He didn’t need to turn to know who they belonged to.

Dick came in first, helmet tucked under one arm, still in Nightwing gear, hair windswept and eyes immediately scanning the Cave.

They softened the second they landed on her.

Jason followed a second later, tossing his helmet on a nearby table with a huff. Red Hood was still splattered with grime from the streets, but his expression cracked the moment he saw her there — safe, asleep, untouched.

He blinked.

“…Tch. Gremlin,” he muttered, low.

Dick walked right to her and knelt beside the cot. His gloved hand reached out, fingers running lightly through her hair.

She didn’t stir.

“She refused to eat earlier when I offered,” Jason grumbled, folding his arms. “Acted like I was trying to poison her.”

Dick smiled faintly. “She took it from Bruce. Of course she did. She’s still mad at us for telling him.”

“She can be mad,” Jason said gruffly, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Better mad than missing.”

Tim hummed in agreement from the desk.

“Doesn’t matter how much she hates it,” he said, turning slightly. “She’s not going anywhere again. Not without one of us. Not without ten of us, if I can help it.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Tim tapped the side of his temple.

“Every message she sends. Every step she takes. I see it. She’s not going anywhere I don’t approve.”

Dick didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and tucked it beneath her chin.

“…Good.”

Jason sighed through his nose, eyes still locked on the quiet, dreaming girl in the cot. His voice was softer this time.

“Next time she wants flowers, I’ll drive her myself.”

Tim snorted. “You’d burn the garden down if it looked at her wrong.”

Jason didn’t deny it.

Dick leaned over and kissed her temple.

“…Goodnight, little bloom,” he whispered.

They didn’t leave the Cave for hours.

They watched her sleep.

And not a single one of them planned to let her out of their sight ever again.

[oatyoooo]

“Stay in Bed”(Yandere Platonic! Batfam x Reader)

A/N: I made this based on two asks. And I’m sorta satisfied with the outcome. Could be better but it already got so long.

It started with something small — it always did.

She was sitting in the kitchen, curled on one of the tall barstools with a textbook propped open in front of her and a mug of tea in her hand. Her usual favorite — honey and chamomile — untouched. Dick had only been passing through the Manor that morning, en route back to Bludhaven, until he paused mid-step, his eyes locking on her.

“Little Flower,” he said, almost casual, but his voice hitched on the end.

She didn’t lift her head. Her cheek was propped against her palm, and her lips were slightly parted, breath too quiet. Her lashes trembled. Her eyes were unusual dull.

He crossed the kitchen in two strides. “Y/N,” he said again, this time softer. Concern bled through. “Hey.”

That got her attention. Her head snapped up — too fast — and she blinked at him like someone just waking from a dream. She smiled automatically, and he hated (and also loved) that about her — how she always smiled like it was her job to put everyone else at ease.

“I’m fine,” she croaked.

Dick’s brows furrowed. “That’s funny,” he murmured, crouching beside her and pressing the back of his hand to her forehead before she could stop him. “Because you feel like a fever wrapped in fleece.”

“It’s not bad,” she mumbled. “Just a cold. I still have to get to school—”

“No, no, nope. Absolutely not.” He was already pulling his phone out. “You’re staying home. That’s final.”

“I have a presentation.”

“I’ll present it for you. I’ll wear a wig. Get surgery and makeup to be half as cute as you and shorten my legs. It’ll be great. I’ll cry on cue.”

She gave a weak laugh. Her shoulders sagged.

Dick leaned forward, gently tugging her against him. “You don’t have to push yourself, okay? You’re allowed to be taken care of.” His voice dropped lower. “Let us take care of you.”

And just like that, the first domino fell.

⸻

She had expected more fight from Dick. But the real battle came twenty minutes later, when Damian came storming downstairs in his uniform and found her still in the kitchen, pale and swaying like a paper daisy in the wind.

“What is she doing here?” he asked Dick sharply, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your uniform downstairs and waiting for me?”

“She’s sick,” Dick answered for her. “Fever. Sore throat. Lethargic.”

Damian made a sound of pure contempt. “A minor inconvenience. My sister is stronger than a mere virus.”

“Your sister couldn’t stand up straight five minutes ago.”

“I’m not fragile,” Y/N said — but it came out more like a whimper than a protest, and she immediately went into a coughing fit.

“Tt,” Damian said, disgusted. “You sound like a dying goose.”

Dick smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not going,” he said, more firmly this time.

Damian crossed his arms and glared. “Fine. But I’m sending Titus to stand guard. Can‘t trust any of you with her safety.”

“That’s not—”

But Titus was already at her side, nuzzling into her with a soft whine, curling around her legs as if she might disappear again.

Y/N’s heart tugged. “Thanks, Dami.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and stalked off with his usual drama. But she caught the way his ears turned red.

_______

“Bed,” Dick said sternly, standing at the edge of the couch with his arms folded, looking every bit the overbearing parental figure he’d once sworn he’d never become. Not even ten minutes after Damian had left to go to school, Y/N had gone to the living room. She wanted to do some schoolwork and not slack off even when she felt like shit. But to her surprise (not) her oldest brother would not allow that.

“I said I’m fine,” she mumbled, blanket half-hugged to her chest. But Dick had her in his arms already. Her head to his broad chest.

“And I said bed.” His voice was gentler this time, but it brooked no argument. “Now.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Ten minutes later, she was tucked beneath two layers of blankets in her room — the same room that had only recently been refilled with her things. The elephant plush was nestled against her pillow. Titus lay sprawled at the foot of her bed, assigned by Damian with militant precision before he left for school.

Dick stood over her with a mug of tea in one hand and a digital thermometer in the other. The look on his face wasn’t warm — it was too tense, too strained. Every time he looked at her, it was like he was trying to count her breaths.

She rolled her eyes but drank the tea. He sat beside her and tucked a hand against her temple.

“Still hot,” he muttered. Then, half under his breath: “Still too hot.”

“Are you gonna take my vitals every five minutes?”

“If I could shrink myself down and fight the virus directly, I would.”

She laughed weakly, then coughed harder than she expected to. Her ribs hurt.

Dick’s eyes darkened. He pressed a hand gently to her back and looked like he was about to break down her immune system with sheer older-brother rage.

⸻

By mid-afternoon, her temperature had climbed.

“She’s at 39.4,” Alfred said in a hushed voice, leaning beside Dick in the hallway. “She’s sleeping, but her breathing is shallow. I don’t like how warm her hands are.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I should’ve called a doctor.”

“You did everything right,” Alfred said. Then added, more quietly, “But perhaps you should inform your father.”

Dick hesitated.

He didn’t have to decide. Alfred already had.

Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne was out of a board meeting and halfway home, leaving Lucius Fox behind with nothing but an insincere apology and the glare of a man who’d just been told his daughter was sick and hadn’t been informed immediately.

He arrived at the Manor like a storm.

“Why,” he asked as he stepped into her doorway, coat still flung over his arm, “did no one tell me my daughter was burning up?”

“Bruce—” Dick started, but Bruce was already moving.

She stirred when he entered. Blinked sleepily. “You’re home early,” she mumbled.

He went still. The sight of her was worse than he expected.

Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her lips dry, eyes half-lidded and glassy. She looked impossibly small beneath the layers of bedding. One hand clutched her elephant plush like a lifeline.

Something inside him cracked. He crossed to her and sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her face.

“I’m here now,” he said quietly.

“Daddy,” she whispered sleepily. The word was hoarse.

He froze.

And then he didn’t leave her side for the rest of the day.

⸻

Tim dropped into the cave late that night, eyes hollow from another twelve-hour stretch in front of every digital system he could access. Between corporate work and vigilante patrol, he’d still made time to set up two separate medical monitors for her room — just in case anything went wrong while she was asleep.

He also installed a retinal scanner at her door. Just in case.

He stepped inside her room under the guise of checking her fever, but lingered longer than necessary. Her breathing was soft. Her skin still too warm. She stirred occasionally, muttering things in her sleep that made his fingers twitch toward his tablet.

She was always too good, too pure — and none of them deserved her.

But she was theirs. And she was staying.

Even if he had to put tracking software on her toothbrush.

⸻

By the next morning, she was worse.

The fever hadn’t broken. Her throat was raw. Her nose was congested, and she barely touched the soup Alfred made.

The change was visible across the entire family.

Dick stopped his forced smiling. Damian barely spoke. Tim didn’t blink during his patrol.

And Bruce — Bruce stayed at the Manor. He read to her in low, grave tones. He wiped her forehead with a cloth. He held her hand and stared at the pulse in her wrist like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Even Jason checked in.

Not through the door. Not loudly. But at midnight, when the house was still, the window creaked open and the floorboards whispered beneath his boots.

He sat beside her bed, hands gloved, movements careful.

“Don’t you scare me like this,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You hear me, Bloom?”

She didn’t answer. But she breathed — just enough.

The doctor came.

Private. Discreet. Paid well enough not to ask questions about the growling dog in the hallway or the collective glower of Gotham’s most dangerous men all crowded outside a feverish girl’s room.

“It’s not viral,” the doctor concluded with a quiet voice. “A severe immune response, most likely. But with proper rest, hydration, and this medication—” he tapped a slim white bag “—she’ll recover just fine.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Dick nodded. Tim took the bag.

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on his sister with a silent, sharp glare.

“She’s too weak because she doesn’t eat right,” he muttered. “I keep telling her—”

“We’ve all been watching her eat,” Dick said, voice tight. “She eats.”

“Not enough protein. Not enough iron. You think tea and cookies will make her stronger?”

Bruce only murmured, “She sleeps too little.”

Tim added, “She gets cold too fast.”

Jason, from where he stood in the shadows, snapped, “Maybe because she grew up being ignored in a stone mansion, freezing her little hands off while everyone played hero.”

Silence followed. No one argued.

But all their eyes went to the bed.

⸻

The moment the door closed behind the doctor, the interrogation began.

“I don’t like the pills,” she mumbled, burritoed in her blankets and turned to the wall.

Dick knelt beside the bed. “They’ll help your fever.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to. They taste weird.”

“You’re not taking them for the taste.”

She burrowed deeper into the pillow. Her voice muffled. “I’m not sick. Just tired. Let me sleep.”

Damian let out a breath sharp as a blade. “You are sick.”

“You’re being dramatic—”

“And you’re being ridiculous, brat. Tt. Open your mouth.”

“No!”

He reached for the pill bottle, already halfway prepared to pinch her nose shut if she wouldn’t swallow on her own.

Dick stopped him with a hand.

“She’s scared,” he said gently.

“She’s being stubborn.”

Tim crouched by the desk. “We can crush it in honey—”

“She’ll taste it,” said Dick.

Bruce stepped into the room again, looming large in the doorway like a final verdict. “Give them to me.”

He approached her, slow and careful, but his presence was too heavy. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she immediately shifted away, curling tighter into herself.

“Princess,” he said. “You need to take the medicine.”

She shook her head.

He sat beside her. “If I have to make you, I will.”

She didn’t believe him.

She should have.

⸻

It was Dick who held her in the end. His grip tight but not hurtful. She struggled — weakly, sickly, with tearful defiance — but her arms were too light. Her body too hot. She whined, kicked once, and let out a sob when the pill was pressed into her mouth and the bitter syrup followed behind it, held between firm fingers and cradled limbs.

And then Tim’s soft voice: “Just a little sedative, to help her rest.”

Her eyes fluttered.

“Why?” she whispered. Her voice broke. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we love you,” Dick said into her hair.

She looked at him, dazed, betrayed. “This isn’t love.”

But she was too drowsy to keep speaking

________

When Jason returned that night — just past 1:13 a.m. — he didn’t expect her to be awake.

But she was.

He pushed open the window and landed softly on the carpet. Titus raised his head from the rug but didn’t bark. He knew Jason.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.

“You’re supposed to be knocked out.”

She smiled faintly. “Guess your little flower’s stubborn.”

Jason didn’t laugh. He crossed the room, knelt beside her bed, and studied her too-hot cheeks and glassy eyes. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll find out who gave you this.”

She blinked. “It’s a fever.”

“Still. Someone coughed in your direction and I’ll rearrange their lungs.”

She laughed, but it turned into a cough. He leaned over and brushed her hair back, palm pressing gently to her forehead. She leaned into his touch, liking the coldness of his hands.

Still too warm. He didn’t speak for a while. Just stayed.

And then she said softly, “You guys overreact too much.”

Jason didn’t argue. He looked at her, eyes sharp and a little wild.

“I overreact because I remember what it felt like to lose you once,” he whispered. “I’m not doing it again.”

She stared at him. Eyes wide.

He leaned closer.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think we should lock you in a nice, warm white cell. No windows. No exposure. No people. Just books and music and plants. I’ll bring you cookies. You’ll be safe.”

She laughed again, nervously. “That’s… extreme.”

“But you’ll be alive.” He crawled onto the bed, pulling her gently to him. “And that’s all I care about.”

She didn’t answer. Just pressed against his chest, too tired to resist.

He held her there.

And he didn’t leave until morning.

________

The others had patrol.

Dick had retreated to Bludhaven for an overdue meeting. Tim had returned to the Cave to track movement reports. Jason… well, Jason never reported anything. But he’d texted a blunt “You better not let anything happen to her” at 3 a.m.

Which left Damian. The least emotionally expressive. The most overbearing.

The perfect jailer.

He sat stiffly at her desk, legs crossed, scribbling something on school documents, half-watching her from the corner of his eye every third second. She lay bundled in bed, propped up by pillows, face still pale, still recovering.

But her eyes were clearer.

Too clear.

“You’re bored,” he muttered before she even said anything.

Her lips quirked. “Maybe.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask to leave the bed,” he said without looking up. “Or to go outside. Or to play some insipid game. None of those are acceptable.”

She frowned at him. “You’re no fun.”

He smirked. “You’re no doctor. Stay put.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“You’re still coughing.”

“You’re literally watching me like a hawk while doing your little paper assignments.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “This ‘little paper’ is an annotated comparative essay worth thirty percent of my literature grade.”

“Wow. You actually take grades seriously? Thought you didn’t need school because you’re a born genius.”

“Not when you’re around to be a walking medical hazard,” he snapped.

She stuck out her tongue. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re an idiot if you think you’re walking anywhere.”

Despite the bickering, the corners of her mouth twitched. There was something oddly familiar—comforting, even—in this dry, tightrope exchange. But Y/N wouldn’t be a Wayne if she wasn’t stubborn. The girl did try to sit up anyway, just to prove her cocky brother wrong. And the moment her feet touched the ground, the dizziness hit like a wave. Her limbs felt weak.

Her knees buckled.

But she didn’t fall.

Because Damian was there before gravity even finished its threat, arms tight around her waist, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Are you brain-damaged?” he hissed, lowering her back onto the bed with too much care. “Are you trying to collapse? Do you have any sense of self-preservation at all?”

She looked up at him, blinking. “I just wanted—”

“I don’t care what you wanted,” he growled. “You take one more step out of this bed and I will chain you to it.”

Her breath caught.

He noticed.

“…Tt.” His voice dipped, the edge blunting. “You know I would. Don’t test me.”

She bit her lip. Eyes shifting. But she nodded.

He sat beside her on the bed, silent for a while. She fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

“…I’m bored,” she said again, quieter this time. “And lonely.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“But you’re doing homework.”

He scoffed. But when she shifted slightly toward him, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he let her lean. He even tugged the blanket around her shoulders a little tighter and muttered something about her temperature. Her head settled against his arm. He stared at the wall, as if pretending not to notice how soft her breathing had become.

Minutes passed.

“…You can lie down, you know,” she whispered sleepily. “If you’re gonna be here.”

“I’m not—”

But she was already curled toward him, eyelids fluttering shut, breath warm against his side.

And Damian—after one more glance around the room, after one more stubborn sigh—lay down beside her. He let her arm rest against his. Let her cheek press into his sleeve. He didn’t move when she wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

Didn’t complain when Titus padded in and curled up by the foot of the bed.

Didn’t say a word when she sighed in her sleep, a whisper of “Dami” on her breath.

He watched her, for a long time.

He would never say it aloud. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But if she ever collapsed again like that—ever turned pale, ever broke into sweat, ever coughed until her voice cracked—he would burn every lab that sold her medicine. Destroy every hallway that made her walk too long. Fight the world’s air itself if it dared to make her lungs hurt.

He would become her walls. Her ceiling. Her gate. Her cage.

Because some flowers were too delicate to bloom in the open.

And no one would touch this one again.

Not under his watch.

[oatyoooo]

To be honest with you, you are one of the longest series that I have read who haven't gone on hiatus yet 😭 thank you for being my entertainment and have something to look forward to 🤗💜

I’m really really happy that I can bringe you some entertainment 💗😊

[oatyoooo]

OOOOOOO just read chapter 8!! Was amazing as always!! I hope the reader can avoid the batfam for at least a little while, make em suffer for what they did lmao

THANKS MUCHO!! For the next chapter I can say that it’s going to be without interactions between reader and Batfam! It focuses more on single monologues and actions.🥰🩷

[oatyoooo]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.

And yet—

Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.

A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.

Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.

But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.

I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?

I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.

“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.

The birthdays.

The school plays.

The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.

The “I got picked for science fair!”

The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”

The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.

I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.

I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.

I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.

I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.

Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.

I hope the city treats you kindly.

I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.

She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”

Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.

About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.

He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.

His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.

A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.

The chess box.

The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.

His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.

Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.

Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.

“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.

He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.

All of it—

For them.

“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”

“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”

That never happened.

“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”

Even ones for Bruce:

“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”

“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”

The drawings were aged.

Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.

Most were never opened.

Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.

No one spoke.

Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.

“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”

Tim stared into the box.

Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.

A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.

“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.

Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.

And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.

And Dick—

Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”

“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”

“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.

“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.

But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

She was theirs—their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[oatyoooo]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy’s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 7

A/N: this chapter is one of my favorite ones! (After the next one hehe)

There was no time to run, in inhumane quick seconds her older brother was already in front of her.

His hand closed around her wrist.

Too tight. Too sudden.

“Damian—what—”

She barely had time to speak before he was dragging her through the crowd. Past the students. Past her friends. No one dared to stop him.

Because when Damian Wayne was angry—

The whole school moved.

⸻

Her legs stumbled beneath her, but his grip never faltered.

He was taller now.

So much taller than when they first met as children and he had a few centimeters on her.

And stronger—God, he was so much stronger than her.

She wasn’t like them.

She wasn’t trained. She wasn’t built for war. Her muscles were soft. Her limbs delicate. Her bones felt like they could snap in his grip.

She didn’t fight him.

Because she knew she’d lose.

The classroom door slammed shut behind them. The echo cracked like a whip through the walls.

And then he turned.

No space between them.

Nowhere to run.

His eyes—green and burning—locked onto hers.

“What the hell were you doing with Silas?”

His voice was low. Controlled. But only just.

Her mouth opened—closed.

He didn’t give her time.

“Why were you talking to scum like him? Why did he give you a forged signature? What the fuck do you need that for, Y/N?”.

He moved towards her, she stepped back.

Her back hit the desk behind her.

Her breath caught.

“I—I don’t—why do you care?”

It came out smaller than she wanted.

“Why do you even care, Damian?” she said again, louder this time. “It’s not your business.”

Wrong answer.

His jaw clenched.

His hands slammed against the desk on either side of her—not touching her, but trapping her all the same.

“You lied,” he hissed. “You’ve been lying for weeks.”

“You’ve been sneaking around—slipping out—avoiding us—me—why?!”

She flinched.

“I wasn’t sneaking. I was just—”

“Just what?” he snapped.

“You think you can walk around Gotham meeting with scum like him and not have me find out?”

His face was inches from hers now.

“You think I’d let you get away with that? No consequences?”

Her breath hitched.

His presence—his voice—his rage—

It sent her spiraling back.

_______

She remembered the way the walls echoed that day.

It had rained all morning. The clouds outside were grey and mean, and she’d been humming to herself as she carried the folded towel Alfred asked her to deliver.

“Give it to Master Damian. He’s training again,” Alfred had said gently. “And maybe don’t linger, sweetheart. He’s… tense.”

Tense.

That was Alfred’s polite word for furious.

She’d only been ten.

Still small. Still hopeful.

She remembered knocking on the door. The sharp thwack of a practice sword hitting the mat inside. Her voice, gentle, soft:

“Damian? Alfred said I should bring this—”

The door wasn’t locked. She stepped in.

And there he was.

Sweating. Breathing hard. A katana strapped at his back, another laid out on the floor beside him.

He didn’t look at her.

Not right away.

“I said go away,” he snapped after a moment.

She shifted, awkwardly.

“I—I just wanted to say hi.”

His eyes finally cut to hers.

Dark. Furious.

Sharp in a way that made her breath catch.

“You don’t belong here.”

She blinked.

He stepped forward.

“Every Wayne in this house pulls their weight,” he sneered. “They train. They fight. They bleed.”

“You?” His gaze flicked down her arms. “You’re nothing but a flower girl with your hands in the dirt.”

“I—I try my best,” she said, voice wobbling.

“And your best is pathetic.”

He was angry.

She could see it. Feel it.

She didn’t understand why—only that it had nothing to do with her. But still, he aimed all of it at her.

“Father won’t let me on patrol,” he snapped. “Because of you. Because of your whining, and your softness, and your weakness.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“Exactly,” he cut in. “You never do anything.”

She tried to stay kind.

Tried to smile, even as her heart beat too fast.

“You’re not that much older than me,” she whispered. “You act like you’re above everyone, but you’re still just a kid too—”

That did it.

His pride cracked.

In one fast, practiced movement, he grabbed his training blade.

The blunted edge hit her hard across the side, sending her stumbling into the wall.

The towel dropped from her hands.

Her lip split open when she hit the floor.

She cried out—more in fear than pain.

Her hands scrambled across the wood to get up.

But when she looked up, he was there—

Katana drawn. Held at the ready.

Pointed down.

At her.

Her breath stopped.

“Don’t ever challenge me,” he hissed. “Don’t talk back. Don’t pretend you’re like us.”

He crouched slightly, blade tilted low, the warning in his voice like ice:

“If I wanted to, I could end you in two seconds flat.”

“You are nothing.”

Tears blurred her vision.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t move.

She just stared.

The door opened.

“Damian—”

It was Dick.

She turned to him—eyes wide, bleeding, trembling.

But his face was tight. Disappointed.

And not at Damian.

“Y/N,” he said. “What did you do to set him off?”

The words sank into her chest like needles.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Not with her hands shaking. Not with blood in her mouth.

Dick’s tone was clipped.

“Just… go to your room. I’ll talk to him.”

She went.

She didn’t cry.

Not until she got to her bed.

After that, she never stepped into the training hall again.

She smiled at Damian when she had to. Laughed when he mocked her. Pretended to love when he threw barbed insults.

But she never forgot.

Never forgot the steel at her throat.

Never forgot the moment when Dick looked at her bleeding and asked what she did wrong.

His face blurred for a second—just for a second—beneath the pressure behind her eyes.

She saw him again. Ten years old. Eyes sharp, hands cold. Sword drawn.

“I could end you.”

⸻

And in the present, as his voice cracked through the quiet:

“Y/N?”

She flinched.

Her body curled slightly in, hands trembling at her sides.

She didn’t answer.

Damian froze.

His mind, always honed to precision, staggered.

Because he saw it.

He saw the terror in her doe eyes.

Not just fear. Not just nerves.

Memories.

She was remembering something.

And he knew what it was.

His breath caught in his chest.

He stepped back, just slightly. Just enough to give her air.

“…I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. Stiff. Quiet. Forcing each word through teeth clenched too tight.

“I—I’m not…” He broke off, brows drawn. Frustrated. At her. At himself.

He didn’t know how to talk to her like this.

She was so small. So fragile.

And suddenly he hated how close he’d gotten. Hated how she looked like a cornered animal.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered.

Still, she said nothing.

Just looked away.

Then her voice came, so soft it barely reached him.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

Her eyes met his again—quiet now. Tired.

“It’s nothing that’ll matter to you anyway.”

“None of you really care. Not really. You don‘t have to pretend.”

That—

That hit.

Like a blade under his ribs.

He straightened, breathing sharp.

“Don’t say that.”

She turned her head.

“I’ll tell Father,” he snapped—because the anger returned, too fast, to cover the panic. “Let’s see what he thinks about you sneaking around with filth like Silas.”

Her mouth parted slightly. Eyes flashing with something between hurt and dread.

He didn’t wait.

He needed to get out before he said more. Before he—

Before he grabbed her again just to hold her still and make her understand she couldn’t leave him. That she shouldn’t treat him, her older brother, her only biological one, like this.

He turned and walked out.

Left her standing in silence.

⸻

He didn’t remember his mother’s voice anymore.

He remembered her commands. The pain of training. The scent of steel. The drills. The pride. The loneliness.

But not her voice.

Not her warmth.

If she’d ever had any.

When he arrived at the manor—ten years old—he expected command.

Control.

He didn’t expect a flower.

She’d toddled into the hall, eight years old. Hair tied up in crooked braids, clutching a stuffed elephant plush.

She saw his sword. And smiled.

“Hi,” she’d said softly. “I’m Y/N. I think we’re the same. You’re my brother, right?”

He’d pointed his blade at her throat.

Alfred had yanked it away before it could lower.

He didn’t like her.

She was weak. Quiet. Too soft.

But he noticed—

She never stopped trying.

Every day she brought him something.

Sliced fruit. Badly drawn pictures. Stories from school he didn’t care about.

Every day, she smiled at him like he wasn’t terrifying.

It irritated him.

And it comforted him.

And it made him feel like maybe he had something no one else did.

He told himself it was his duty to push her away.

To harden her.

To protect her.

Even if it meant bruising her.

Even if it meant making her fear him.

Because if she feared him…

She’d never fear anyone else.

And now she was pulling away anyway.

And it was his fault.

But he would not let her go.

_____

Y/N

She could feel her heart in her throat.

Every step out of that school hallway felt like walking a wire—one mistake, one look back, and everything would collapse.

She told her teacher she had a doctor’s appointment. She smiled. Sweet. Harmless.

She slipped the sealed envelope into her friend’s bags with shaking fingers. The letter was filled with made up stories and lies.

Not that any of that existed.

But her friends believed in her. That was enough.

“Hey, tell us what the doctor says, okay?”

“Don’t disappear for too long, sweetheart!”

She smiled at them.

Promised she wouldn’t.

And then she left the building.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

⸻

The bus rattled against cracked Gotham streets.

Every bump felt like thunder beneath her.

Every face she passed might be the last she’d ever see.

She walked the last block to the manor.

She knew the schedule by heart.

Bruce—at Wayne Tower.

Tim—buried in tech and investor calls.

Dick—off in Bludhaven, probably chasing down a gang.

Jason— being in unknown places and engaging in questionable activities.

Alfred—Thursday was his shopping day.

She would be alone.

She let herself in with the key in her pocket.

Moved up the stairs like a stranger.

Her room waited like a mausoleum.

⸻

Everything was ready.

A single small suitcase.

A backpack with her burner phone, some cash, and a carefully folded jacket.

A box tucked inside with the few valuable things she took—not stolen. Nothing she thought they’d notice. But things she could sell.

Her real phone—the one tied to Bruce’s servers—sat on her desk, screen dark.

Let them track it.

Let them think she was still inside this house until it was too late.

She picked up her elephant plush.

Old.

Faded in one ear.

The stitching behind the button eye was loose.

She remembered it in flashes—not when she received it, but always having it.

Twirling its trunk in her tiny fingers. Holding it during storms. Smuggling it in her backpack the day she died.

She clutched it close for a second.

Just one.

Then slipped it into the bag.

The walls around her were white now. The flowers she’d once grown across her ceiling were long since removed. The drawings were in a box at the back of the closet.

But still—the vines lived.

Quietly. Patiently.

Like they’d been waiting for her to say goodbye.

She reached out her hand.

Let her powers bloom quietly through her fingertips.

One by one, the plants in her room turned. Twisted. Curled inward—bloomed once. Bright. Final.

And then went still.

She didn’t want them to wilt.

Not alone.

Not without her.

She took a deep breath.

Zipped her bag.

And turned to leave.

Then—

A soft sound.

“Woof.”

She froze.

Slowly turned.

Titus.

Damian’s dog.

Massive. Silent.

Sitting just inside the doorway.

Watching her.

Her breath caught.

“Titus…”

He padded forward.

Rubbed against her leg.

She dropped to her knees, instantly crying.

He was the only one—

The only one besides Alfred who had ever come when she cried.

He’d curled up with her under the covers when no one noticed she skipped dinner. He’d followed her to the garden. Let her braid ribbons into his collar.

And now—

Now he was here, staring at her like he knew.

She buried her face in his warm body.

Whispered into it:

“I’m sorry, Titus. I can’t stay.”

“They’ll survive without me. They always did. They will be happier, you will too then.”

The tears came.

She let them.

Just for a minute.

Then she stood.

Kissed the top of his furry head.

“Don’t tell him,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t let him find me.”

She walked past him.

Down the stairs.

Out the side door.

And into the wind.

taglist:

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[oatyoooo]

“Midnight Ride” (Platonic Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader)

A/N: Needed to do a drabble for my love jason 🤭 I also feel like my drabbles are always way fluffier while the real chapters are just pure angst 😓😭

The knock at the window startled her.

She sat up in bed, blanket still bunched around her knees, eyes puffy from a quiet cry that hadn’t even had a real reason—only that the walls were too silent, the night too cold, and she’d realized again how little of her life belonged to her anymore.

She expected Alfred — a cup of tea in his hand.

Or Damien, maybe—furious again for a reason she didn’t understand.

Or maybe Tim wants to show her some of his games. Again.

It couldn’t be Dick or her father - both of them were on patrol.

But it wasn’t either of them.

It was Jason.

Leather jacket. Black dyed messy hair with a white streak. That devil-may-care smirk softened only slightly by the way his eyes dropped to her face—reading her too fast, too easily. And maybe, just maybe, he noticed the sadness she tried to bury under her smile.

He tapped the glass with two knuckles.

“You wanna get outta here?”

She blinked. “What?”

Jason pushed the window open with ease. “I’m going for a ride. Thought you might want to breathe something other than recycled manor air.”

“…I can’t,” she said, hesitant. “They’ll be angry.”

He shrugged, clearly not worried about that. “They can be angry at me.”

“I could get in trouble.”

He smirked. “Not if I carry you.”

And before she could stop him—he did.

He reached through the open window like she weighed nothing, picking her up in a slow, effortless motion. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as he lifted her from the floor and stepped back onto the tiles outside her room, one boot silent after the other.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You think I’d let you fall?”

A few minutes later she was dressed in her fluffy nightgown on his red-black beauty.

The engine purred.

Her heart raced.

The vigilante sat tall behind her, one arm lazily resting over the throttle, the other wrapped snugly around her waist. She was sitting between his arms, perched on the front of the seat, her legs tucked to one side as he held her against him like something he wouldn’t dare risk letting go.

“I can sit in the back,” she’d offered earlier.

“Nope,” he’d said without even glancing at her. “You’re in the front. I’m holding you. No arguments.”

The Gotham skyline blurred around them.

Lights became streaks. Wind tousled her hair. And when she laughed—really laughed—he swore he felt it in his chest like a heartbeat returning.

“Faster,” she grinned into the wind.

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Jason revved the engine, smirked through gritted teeth, and let the bike tear across the long bridge curve—like they were chasing something they didn’t need to name.

For once, she wasn’t the Wayne princess.

Wasn’t the girl with rules and chains.

She was just Y/N.

And for once—Jason wasn’t the boy who came back wrong.

____

The city buzzed quietly in the distance, but where they sat—at the edge of an overlook surrounded by trees and the hum of streetlights—it felt like the world had stopped for them alone.

Jason leaned back against the still-warm bike, one leg kicked out, the other curled slightly.

Y/N sat sideways across his lap, legs tucked under her and arms curled loosely against his chest, fingers nervously twisting the edge of his jacket zipper.

She was… lighter now. Calmer. Her cheeks warm from the wind and laughter. Her breathing steady.

“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes lowered. “For this.”

Jason looked down at her, something thick catching in his throat.

She was smiling. Not a fake smile. Not a careful one. A real one—the kind that made his heart squeeze and his jaw tighten with something like hunger and grief twisted together.

God. He’d missed that smile.

He’d kill to see it again.

“You should be out more,” he said, voice gruff, trying to cover the heaviness in his chest. “Forget the house. Bunch of emotionally constipated idiots.”

She giggled. Giggled.

“That includes you,” she said.

He smirked. “I’m the charming one.”

“Charming, huh?” She nudged his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just leave town one day. Move somewhere quiet. Change my name. Disappear. Then I don’t have to deal with any emotionally constipated Waynes.”

She was joking. He knew she was joking.

But Jason didn’t laugh.

His hand—which had been resting loosely on her waist—tightened, just slightly.

She looked up at him, caught off guard by the stillness in his expression. The way his eyes had shifted—not soft, not teasing, but something deeper. Darker.

“You’re not leaving,” he said, voice quiet but hard.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not leaving, Y/N.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. But it felt like the wind stopped.

His heart was thundering in his ears.

Not anger. Not jealousy.

Fear.

Because for all the demons Jason Todd had faced—death, resurrection, rage, Gotham—nothing terrified him like the idea of her being gone again. Out there. Vulnerable. Without him to guard her.

He could live in hell.

But he couldn’t live without her.

She blinked up at him, uncertain. Maybe even a little startled.

He swallowed hard, looking away briefly before pulling her a little closer.

“You think I’d let you vanish?” he murmured.

“You think I could survive that again?”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.

But deep in his chest, something twisted and anchored. A vow.

He’d give her anything.

Protect her from everything.

Destroy anything that tried to reach for her—

—except her freedom. That, he couldn’t allow.

Because she was his little sister. His light in the gutter. His redemption he never earned.

And he’d rather burn down the world than let it steal her smile again.

[oatyoooo]

Masterlist

Last updated: 6. June 2025

will be improved with time!!

YANDERE BATFAM:

Blossom Reverse. ( yandere Batfam)

if you want to be on the taglist... click here.

Prompt

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

more coming soon…

Drabbles:

"Take it off" - Damian Wayne

"You're not supposed to bleed" - Dick Grayson

"Both Ways“ - Yandere Dick & Damian

"Midnight Ride" - Yandere Jason Todd

JJK

Nightmares

HxH

coming soon…

ONE PIECE

the Sweetpea entries….

Prologue

Sweetpea warms up to them

A normal day

How the Strawhats became Yanderes for Sweetpea

"Strawberry Fingers” (Yandere Sanji x Reader)

"Mental Training“ (Yandere Zoro x Reader)

more coming soon...

Multifandom:

The Dead Poets Department

Fandoms I write for:

JJK

Demon slayer

Star Wars

Marvel

DC

OCs

BNHA

Death Note

CoD

Harry Potter

lowk anything 😓

[oatyoooo]

masterlist

crack baby 'went to your room thinking maybe you'll feel something but all i saw was your burning body waiting'

yandere! batfam x neglected! reader after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing?

[oatyoooo]

Intuition

Masterlist

Yandere Batfam Blurb

Next

The pain faded when you turned sixteen, only having a phantom ache when one more stray was added to your ‘family’. There was no reason to wonder why they were so uninterested in your life, for as long as you could remember, they had been creatures of the night, and you were the anomaly. Oddly enough.

At first, they tried to integrate you into their lifestyle, but it was hard when all you craved was love, affection, and a place to call home. So they grew uninterested. The worst you ever felt was hearing snide remarks and playground bullying just because you were different. 

Your interest lies in the arts that weren’t comparable to figuring out the Riddler's plans or stopping the Joker. To the world, you were most impressive, but after a while even the praise from others meant nothing. Resentment grew easily of course, being giggled at when you left the room was beyond degrading and insufferable. But when offered a spot in one of New York’s best schools for the arts, every memory that left you crying leaped clean off your chest.

A brand new start in a new city—the best city— is exactly what you need. Packing was a challenge as you couldn’t bring the heart to throw away everything and leave without a suitcase and a part of you felt like you would return to the manor one day, so you left everything reminding you of Gotham. 

The last thing on your plate before you left would be telling Bruce. You stalked down the gothic halls filled with priceless paintings and old photos, elated, you planned to simply ask for money and be out of his hair.

No more crying, pleading, begging your pseudo father to have interest shown towards you. You knocked on the door to his office, waiting patiently before he let out a tired grunt to come in. He looked up at you, gaze meeting, his eyes lingering for only a second before focusing back on his papers.

“ Y/n.”

“ Father, I need money for a flight to New York.”

He paused his writing, looking up at you curiously. You went on to briefly explain that you were accepted into a new school and would be leaving later that night. You bit your lip anxiously, wondering why he suddenly looked so shocked by what you said, he had always known about your love for music, dance, and drawing, not that he truly paid any mind to your ‘senseless babbling’ as he would call it. 

“ Do you want one of my credit cards?” he questioned, finally redirecting his intense stare back to his work. 

“ Yes, that will do.” 

He hummed and shooed you away by telling you Alfred would give you everything you needed before your flight. Walking back to your room, that phantom pain visited your chest cavity. Even knowing you were leaving didn’t truly spark anything in him and you thought you knew better than to expect a reaction other than indifference. The little girl in you finally let the last ember of hope fade out that day.

  The flight to New York was brisk but you're glad you chose it. Alfred offered to just drive you, but it would be dreadful having to show your dorm and lifestyle change from the mansion. Although he wasn’t as unkind to you as the others, Alfred never once stopped the rude comments or showed interest in anything about you, not even in what you liked to eat. What was the point of having an uncomfortable ride? 

New York was exhilarating, the city is exactly as described and you couldn’t be more in love. The city was alive and electric, it breathed hopes and dreams to anyone who stepped inside. It was easy to make friends, the school was heavily social and you quickly settled into this new life.

Parties during spring break and recognition for your talents had you in a multitude of social circles you couldn’t even recognize the girl you had become. A newfound confidence in every stride and a smile that never left your face. Now and then you would get some calls, unknown numbers, plus a few in between those calls from Bruce.

It was strange but you ignored both, getting a new number all together because Bruce would never care about your slight over-the-top spending habits to call you about it. Maybe he was beginning to see what he was missing out on, oh well. The heat of the city was something you barely felt under all the smog of Gotham, the pollution seldom let you see the blue of the sky. 

New york was full of people who knew who they were, and what they wanted, and even if they were unsure they stood confident. You embraced it, dressing in clothes that would’ve had you outcasted in Gotham and its gothic glory, letting the colors dance on the bronze of your skin. The caterpillar finally became a butterfly, oh so radiant, that must be what drew everyone into you.

When the semester finally came to its end, furthermore, you had presented your final piece, performed a new play, sending off the graduates and the other students off with glee, you decided it was time for a vacation. “Y/n, do you have any plans for the summer?” your friend asked while the two of you lounged at a small cafe. 

“ I think we should go to the Hamptons if you don’t have anything planned.”

“ I’ll be overseas for the first two weeks of July, I would love to go in August.”

While you spent the first days of summer lounging under the sun, the bats were still surrounded by darkness, following their same routine. It was one of those days where everyone decided to linger around the cave.

Bruce was oddly glued to his phone screen even when his youngest son tried getting his attention by throwing a knife at him. Easily dodging and continuing to tap away only made the young boy angrier. “ Father, we need to continue training, what has you so distracted?” 

“ We can train later, Damien, I’m very busy,” he grumbles. 

All of his children suddenly stopped what they were doing, curiosity beginning to peak, could it be a new villain? The joker again? With one look from Dick to Jason to Tim his screen was easily pulled up onto the large monitor. It was a surprise to all when they saw your face, smiling and radiant all over the screen. “ Since when did Y/n have social media?” Barbra spoke up. 

“ Recently. Since she…moved to New York for school,” Bruce replied. On the screen, a video appeared, you were accepting an award for one of your paintings. The family became engrossed in the new life you had, telling Bruce to click comments and click on your friends' pages.

Jason was irritated, he can’t even remember the last time he saw you, and Bruce never told anyone you were just going to up and leave. “ Why didn’t you tell us she was going to New York? When did she even leave?” He barked at Bruce. Bruce sighed, looking up at him, “ Well, when she left we were dealing with Penguin and you weren’t around until two months ago so I just never got to it.” 

“Well, why didn’t you tell the rest of us? Dick or Tim could’ve told me if you told literally anyone else.” 

Bruce shrugged his shoulders, turning back to his screen, “ Well, now you know Jason, and so does everyone else.” Bruce was becoming agitated by questions, he wanted to continue looking at your little life you’ve been building, watching his little girl laugh and smile made him feel bittersweet.

He was beginning to realize how little time the two of you spent together and how he would ignore you whenever you tried to make a connection. He should be there giving you flowers and taking you sightseeing, but you left all on your own only asking for a credit card. The others went on their way, four of them becoming increasingly interested in this new and improved Y/n Wayne. 

After a grueling night, the four men of the bunch return to the manor, without word, they had Tim pull up everything involving you dating back five years. The pictures became sparse when you got younger, but it was evident you had always been obsessed with art no matter what form it took.

Hacking into your social media was angering, not just because of what they saw behind your public posts, but because of the ease of your passwords. Throughout your posts were dances, paintings, you at galleries, and you with friends… who were also bad influences to a sixteen year old girl. When diving deeper, they knew they might find things they didn’t like, such as videos on your google photos of you at parties.

All but one adorned red ears and everyone was forced to look away, not being able to bear witness to you being as reckless as they were at your age. Wanting to keep their image of you, their baby girl, squeaky clean. 

You painted your first days of summer away, relaxing in your dorm finally having some alone time for the first time in almost a year. It was the most peace you’ve had in life, you should’ve known there was no way in hell that this was truly your life now. 

Too good to be true. It was just too fuckin good to be true. As your first week of summer break ended and you were enjoying the breeze in central park your phone rang, looking down at your bright screen the caller ID read Bruce Wayne. Your scrunched your face, irritation filtering into your spirit. You answer trying your best not to sigh as he began speaking. 

“ Y/n, are you busy right now?” 

“ No Br-father,”

“ O-oh well I wanted to talk to you about returning to Gotham for a while.” Bruce spoke, trying to hide the fact that he was flabbergasted. You almost called him Bruce before quickly correcting yourself. New York has done a number on his baby girl.

You snatch the phone from your ear almost ferociously, return to gotham he said? Return to the place where you spent over a deade miserable? Someone better have died again for you to even consider something so preposterous. 

“ Um I don’t know if I can return any time soon, I have a trip planned and I’m working on a few paintings that I want to submit for a show in September.” You spoke.

He smiled into the phone, the slight waver of your voice let him know you were lying. He hummed thoughtfully, “ I’ll send Alfred over now and we can bring your paintings, and over dinner we will discuss this trip you plan on going on and with who.” You couldn’t hide your bewilderedness, you almost forgot you weren’t speaking to just anyone but Bruce Wayne. A billionaire who could make anything happen including but not limited to sending over his butler to gather his daughter’s painting in under an hour. 

“ I’m honestly just not too keen on being in Gotham—Listen father I have to get back to my work.” With that you hung up your phone rushing to the nearest exit of the park throwing out what was left of a drink you were carrying. You rushed to your dorm, not even to pack an over night bag but to simply gaze at it lovingly.

This space, this mini apartment meant the world to you and every part of it showcased memories old and new. In this moment non of it felt real, it was all dream like to you. 

The sun seeped in through the windows, reaching all the way to your ankles illuminating your dorm in a warmth that Gotham probably only experienced before the existence of humans. Your phone buzzed again and it was a message from Alfred letting you know he would be in front of your dorm in less than twenty minutes.

You bit your lip while a sense of dread washed over you. Such a familiar feeling but the last few months had you believing you’d never experience it again. You’d have to face Bruce and that whole godforsaken family again when you had just gotten used to thinking that part of your life had possibly been a figment of your imagination. 

You laugh at yourself, thoughts running amuck when you knew you now had fifteen minutes to back a bag and put your painting into something that wouldn’t damage it during the drive. You lull your head back and clap your hands before quickly moving around the apartment gathering your belongings. 

When the car pulled up your body fought itself. Run back inside, hide underneath your bed and turn off your phone pretend as if you’d ran away or maybe you didn’t hear— do something but don’t get in that car— do not go back to Gotham. You gave alfred a polite smile that vanished when you turned your head back to the road.

Small talk was even more aggravating when you genuinely didn’t want to associate yourself with people. Your grew angry when the drive was nearing its end, Gotham and New York were too close for your liking and you had little to no time to prepare and rehearse the made up conversations in your head. The manor came into view and your eyes almost buldged out of your head when Bruce was waiting for you outside the manor door with his youngest little goblin. 

You got out of the car, heels scrapping the pavement and extending you an extra pillar of strength. Your eyes met neither Bruce or Damien but you held your head high as they observe you. Bruce smiled at you walking over and embracing you. You were frozen in place. 

“ Y/n you look beautiful, I hope your ride was pleasant.” 

When he realized you weren’t moving to embrace him back he released you stepping back to look you in your eyes. Your lifted an eyebrow and side stepped him following Alfred into the manor trying to shake off the confusion within your spirit. The manor was dark and unwelcoming all but screaming at your bright colors to leave at once.

You grounded yourself with the sound of your heels stalking through the cold manor to your room feeling Damien and your father’s presence behind you. Alfred helped you settle into your room while the two watch, you felt like you were under a microscope from how hard their eyes burned into your every being and movement. 

“ Y/n why don’t you show your brother and I your new painting—”

“ Father can yo please just tell me what the fuck is going on? Why are you behaving as if you even care about a single thing I do? Why am I back at the manor and why on earth was it so important for me to get picked up almost immediately after your weird phone call?” You couldn’t stand another minute of this weird shit.

Why was hovering over you pretending like he cared about you? You knew who bruce Wayne was, especially the Bruce who presetented towards you, his odd child, the child who didn’t have any interest in being a vigilante. The chil he neglected and let get bullied and ridiculed by his other other children who thought she was a useless accessory for the Wayne’s public name.

Bruce sighed, he knew he shouldn’t have come on so strong right off the bat but he couldn’t help himself. He was enamored by the way you simply came out of the car like you couldn’t care any less to be here. You, one of his first children along with Dick whom he barely paid any attention due to his life as Batman.

He had no words that would southe you, he along with the rest of your siblings were riddled in guilt and admiration for you. He knew how the children spoke about you, but he never stepped in due to knowing that although they might sound harsh to outsiders the children were always somewhat jealous of your carefree life that they themselves know they could never have. 

Out of every kid you were the one who had absolutely no interest in him as Batman and becoming one of the vigilanties under his wing. You did whatever you wanted to do without thinking there is a possibility of your identity being revealed and you would need to spend all night fighting someone or something twice your size.

Bruce was only now realizing that you had been ostrasized from them, his baby probably thinking she was hated for simply existing. Without letting his small smile drop from his face he walked in your room further sitting on the edge of your bed. “ I called you because I knew summer had just started and I wanted you to come home, the manor has been empty without you as you know most of your siblings don’t live here anymore.” 

“ I’ll save the in depth version of this coversation for dinner as I have invited over the entire family to welcome you back… and Y/n, I care about you very much.” You gave him an incredulous look as he got up, pat your head, and walked out with Alfred and Damien.

The little demon only sparring you a glare once more before following his father. A wave of nausea unearthed itself in the pit of your stomach.

A/N: Thoughts…Prayers…. Concepts !!! :D

[oatyoooo]

Emotional Support Omega getting scented by an unknown alpha?

Using this also as an oppertunity to just write the part three in too 🙂‍↕️

Part One | Part Two

The barracks were busy, a hum of conversation and the smell of warm, albeit unappealing, food filling the space. You had just returned from a supply run with Soap and Gaz, the three of you still dusted with the frost of the outside world, the winter season felt acutely in this weather.

Though missions continued as they were, you still weren’t a part of them. Not really.

But you were part of the base now.

The rookies adored you, the medical staff always had a cup of tea ready when you wandered into the infirmary, and even the grizzled veterans had started seeking you out when the weight of war grew too heavy on their shoulders.

You weren’t unwanted.

Just… unwanted by them- even if now, they lingered in your space, hanging to your pesence yet unwilling to bring you into theirs. It was a strange balance, and one you desperately wanted them to break.

But maybe… they didn’t want to?

At least, that’s what you had come to believe- until the moment a stranger dared to touch you.

A hand, large and firm, settled suddenly on your wrist as you made your way to the mess hall. The scent that curled toward you was strong, pungent in a way that sent an immediate alarm through your mind- thick with musk, uninvited and cloying. New to the base, though you couldn’t be too sure.

An Alpha.

But not one of yours- not that you had Alphas.

But this wasn’t right.

“You smell too neutral, Omega,” he rumbled, his grip firm but not bruising- yet. He leaned in, voice dropping into something that was likely meant to be coaxing, but it came across as just sleazy. “Scenting you would help. You should-“

“No.”

It was firm, immediate. You tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go, and a flash of irritation sparked in his eyes.

You had spent months on this base without anyone pushing your boundaries like this. Sure, there had been some flirtations, a few playful, harmless offers from Betas and Omegas looking for warmth- but nothing like this. Nothing so entitled.

The Alpha frowned, his grip tightening just slightly. “Come on, now, there’s no need to be difficult. It’s unnatural, the way you smell-”

He didn’t get to finish, and you didn’t get the chance to knee him like you’d been intending.

Because the moment he pulled at your wrist again, another hand caught his and twisted it away from you.

A deep, warning growl filled the space, thick with rage- Ghost.

And he was furious.

The room stilled, the air heavy with the presence of three more Alphas who had materialized so quickly, so silently, that it felt like the whole world had stopped breathing.

John was at your side in an instant, broad frame half between you and the offending Alpha, while Soap and Gaz flanked you like silent shadows, eyes dark with something unrecognizably vicious.

“You don’t touch who’s ours.” Ghost’s voice was quiet- so quiet that it sent a chill down your spine. His grip on the Alpha’s wrist was vice-like, and from the way the man winced, you knew it was taking everything in Ghost not to break bone.

The Alpha scoffed, though he was clearly unnerved. “Didn’t realize she was yours. She doesn’t-“

“She is.” It was Price this time, voice low, commanding, absolute. He took a slow, measured step closer, shoulders squared and stance firm. “Let go and walk away.”

A tense beat.

Then the Alpha, wisely, did as he was told. He stepped back, rubbing his wrist, eyes darting between the four l who had suddenly made it very clear where they stood.

Where you stood.

“I didn’t mean any offense.” The Alpha muttered at last, but he didn’t wait for a response before retreating. You knew that come tomorrow, he would not remain in the military any longer.

Silence stretched in his wake.

Your wrist still tingled where he had grabbed you, but you weren’t focused on that. You were focused on them.

On what they’d said.

Ghost’s hand was still hovering near yours, gloved fingers twitching slightly as if resisting the urge to pull you close- and then he simply gave up and held your hand tenderly. Price’s jaw was tight, eyes scanning you as if checking for any sign of harm. Soap and Gaz weren’t touching you, but their presence was solid, grounding.

And then, the weight of their words settled in.

“She is.”

Not she might be.

Not she could be.

She is.

Your breath hitched slightly. “I…” You swallowed, unsure how to process what had just happened.

Soap was the first to break the silence. “Took us too damn long to figure it out,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual, but still thick with something unyielding. He ran a hand through his mohawl, exhaling sharply, and giving you a weak smile. “Should’ve done this ages ago. Sorry, lass. This is our fault.”

Gaz nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line before he sighed and nudged your shoulder lightly. “You alright?”

You blinked at him, at all of them, before nodding. “Yeah,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. “Just… confused.”

“We were idiots, ‘mega,” Price said, his gaze holding yours firmly- it reminded you of that snowy mission once more, when they gave in and accepted your offered warmth. “We kept you at arm’s length when we shouldn’t have. We didn’t want to admit what was obvious.”

Ghost finally moved then, his fingers tightening around your wrist in silent apology, silent claim, still so gentle. “You’re ours.” The words were raw, gruff, like they had been carved out of him. But he didn’t take them back.

Ours. Yours.

The warmth that bloomed in your chest was overwhelming.

It had taken months. It had taken nearly losing the chance entirely.

But finally- finally-

You were theirs.

cod omegaverse masterlist

[oatyoooo]

[oatyoooo]

Names of scam accounts

A post compiling assorted names from scammers running medical,vet bills,and insulin scams, and more. All names listed here have been recorded from confirmed scam accounts, often hidden in multicolored text. These names are likely stolen off real people who are now being impersonated. Please make sure you haven’t sent money to these names from accounts that are relatively new. These may also appear in other scams.

This update is a WIP so it will regularly update.

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Lucymkira | Steve mwit | AGNES KEBWARO | Mwanasiti Heri | Stella Sipeto | sophia magubo | Martin Gomba | Sarah Migiro | Luciana |

—

Names used in scams pretending to be in Palestine:

Rawan Abu'M (this name is impersonating a real person from a legitimate GoFundMe.) | maryline Otieno | Nicholas Ochieng | Jeff Owino | Grahy Marwa | Taheera Abdallah | Gloria Naomi | Amisi Twaleh | Salima Abdallah | Aisha Mahmood | Remmy Cheptau | Newton ombogo | Godwin Okoth | AHMED SHIMBIR | Wafula Valentine | Rahwan AbdiMahady (same reason as the above; Impersonating a name from a legitimate GoFundMe.) | Nada'r Ab hussein | DIANA MUTENYO | Hakim Malfadho | Leila Rajab | Elizabeth Omasete | George Ochieng | Cecil Wangila | Leila Rajab | Emmily Kimesis | hezron onyango | christine wambura | princereinhard baraka | Iyvon Wabuyele | Wafula Valentine | Raobh Tingo | Sophia Magubo | Sharon Opiyo | Nada,r Ab'r Hus'sein | Jared Orwa | Zalka Yusuf | Khriytine wambura | Ann Stephen | Niva Wangila | Dorine nanjala | Taheera Mohammed | Dorine nanjala | Jastus Kimanzi | Paul Sila | Sussy Wamela | Mwanasiti Heri | Emily Mwelu | Hakim Abdi | Rasher Onchweri

[oatyoooo]

Silver Tongues, like Bullets

Werewolf!141 x Female Reader

Trusting four men in the forest when you were lost was possibly the stupidest thing you could have ever done. Now you find yourself scrambling to escape their clutches.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Copyright © by ethereal-night-fairy. 2024. All Rights Reserved. Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[oatyoooo]

cw noncon, drugging (so reader goes to sleep), somnophilia

Gaz is just perfectttt "best friend turned guy-who's-had-enough" material. your mum, his parents have been rooting for you guys ever since you were littlens. they still go to church together and prattle over the pews about a cute baby with your smile and his eyes, hanging off one of his stout arms.

but that never comes to fruition.

instead, it's Gaz coming to pick you up every Saturday at restaurants or drive-in bars after failed dates. he has a tracker on your phone because you get pigeon-toed and curious when you're tipsy, and he has your wallet clipped onto your purse because you get butter-fingers once you've had one too many english gardens.

Gaz is a good friend. he knows this. you tell it to him every month, week, day. he has to hold his tongue when you sob about great sex with shitty guys or, even worse, bad sex—because why would you keep going to see them, when he's right here? cock stirring in his grey joggers as you cry on his shoulder, nursing a bottle of wine? you don't heed the powdery sediment at the bottom of the wide-shouldered bottle, you keep drinking it blindly because you trust him so much. you trust him enough to undress you after a bad date, you trust him enough to rate your nudes for other guys (which, unbeknownst to you find purchase in the recesses of his camera roll). you trust him enough to not fight when sleep takes over, your eyes slipping closed and soft gasps parting your lips as Gaz starts rubbing your soft, squishy pussy. you trust him enough to not jolt awake when he pulls down your pants and tugs his cock out, popping into you with a maddening squeeze because even though you've been under many-a-men, none of them could have prepared you for Kyle's girth. your body intrinsically trusts him enough—as if you're meant to be, so technically, he isn't doing anything wrong—to take him fully in your hot little cunt, gushing and squirting around him in a daze as you babble more, more more— in your limbo.

you wake with a sore sex and a coin-sized, penny-coloured stain on the bedsheets. you sob in Kyle's arms, speaking of how you'll never trust anyone again, how you'll never go on another date. Kyle swears that you'll never be hurt like this again. not if he has anything to say about it. Kyle comforts you and rubs your back—

—because he's a good friend.