annjo-wolfe

[annjo-wolfe]

you are the only exception. (yandere! damian wayne x gn! reader drabble)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

tw: implied s/h, bullying, and self-esteem problems.

ngl i'm thinking of damian — who's well past his childish tantrums and haughty behavior, once a child who has bloomed into a fully mature individual who can hold back his irritation towards his blockmates, courtesy of being raised dutifully by his family — paired with a pick-me reader who's the complete opposite, one so insufferable to everyone, to every professor, to the people who sit beside them, but most especially him.

you who loves to run your mouth off, talking in woes and poor attempts at prose to earn sympathy point: at how nobody ever likes you at all, how your friends are all unsupportive trash, how nobody ever chooses you as a group mate for class projects — not because you were some loner, no, your loud, grating mouth guarantees it could be heard from beyond the four walls encasing the suffering class; you were just lazy, cynical, someone who depends on others to achieve your goals yet somehow, some way, you'd end up with passing gpa — and when your professors would beg for anybody else to just pair up with you, while you sulk some corner and throw out some more venomous words to everyone else; it's oddly damian who has to stand up and just take one for the team, no matter how much he wants to shove a piece of paper down your throat to shut you up, no matter how much he sees his old self in you but denies it at every accusation.

at first, he actively despises you, because you're every bit of a liability under his responsibility whenever you're grouped with him.

and worse yet, he's the only guy around who can ridicule you without any sympathy for how you may have felt at the moment when he's degrading your poor attempt at your part for a project, he's the only one who can match up with your heartless statements, reduce your arguments with an equally unyielding drive to back you up to a corner when you realized he's the only one who wouldn't fold to you in defeat, when he wouldn't take your excuses at being late or absent to another group meeting. people around him praise him for how he handles the situation, somehow, even his professors, who'll greet him by the hallways, happy, smiles reaching past their ears, like the boy's a miracle granted by the world, and thank him for another job well done.

but he's also the same guy who breaks past your shell of false pretenses, who sees a misdirected sense of self-hatred in your widened eyes when he brings up another point to bring you down. who, as much as he pretends to hate you, hates it worse when you run off and past the double doors whilst the people in the background would emerge in celebration at another one of damian's win in your losing arguments; the boy could only drown out their pats in his back and invitation to treat him to lunch, he could only focus in the way your eyebags have been progressively worse, in the way bruises would appear more and more on your once, pristine skin, and how you'd just about avoid everyone else now— fear, he knows that emotion like he does the back of his hand, an undeniable weight swimming in your eyes when his "group of friends" would throw mockery in your way.

he's ultimately the only one to track you down afterwards.

actually, he's the only one who ever searches for you.

and then he finds you sobbing — without your normal bravado, without your fabricated, laid-back smiles — by an unlocked restroom. your cries were loud enough that you don't even flinch back at the sound of the stall's door opening, whilst he sees you emptying the contents of your empty stomach, witnesses you cry, and cry, and cry, unaware of his existence from behind you, as you beat at your heart endlessly, cry some more, scrape your bleeding knees against the tiled floors while he watches in utter dismay.

you mumble incoherently, in silent stutters through bitten, skin-peeled lips, yet somehow his sharp ears hear it.

— or maybe he's trained himself to always be the one who hears your voice, who recognizes it from a far distance when the people in your vicinity would groan at the sound of it; who knows its vibrato, its little quirks, how it wavers and how it quivers, all memorized by heart and by mind—

and he says it's part of what being born and raised as an assassin would do to you, but he's integrated into a seemingly normal life during the daylight, he knows when to block out people's voices, knows when to mind his business and knows when to carefully stay silent to analyze the surroundings like what a vigilante could do— and you're not villain, you're just a nobody to everybody, especially to damian, especially to him.

so it's strange, truly, how he knows you better than any person would, knows you better to the point where he knows your cries weren't a product of crocodile tears, to know that his words, how he called you "useless, a classless waste of air, pollution in the minds of like-minded, actually intelligent individuals," in a class of over thirty students, where all eyes are plastered on you; they did more than hurt you, they did more than just stinging your already crumbling persona— broke your rotting confidence, sliced it in half, sliced your heart in half at how everybody else laughed, agreed with his sentiments all mustered in a momentary whim.

even damian knows he doesn't mean those words, yet he also knows that everyone's perception of you is what he's stated— he knows the damage he's done.

he knows the sound of your heartbreak, feels the same pit of doom trembling in his heart as he watches you, watches your fingers dig deep into your battered skin, the high pitched scream rattling far beyond your parched throat.

and you are his business, you are his responsibility, even if you weren't, even if it wasn't his business to look after you after he's said all those cruel, degrading words.

he hears your legitimate woes: your undeniable self hatred, how it's your fault that everyone really does hate you, and it's your fault, it's your fault— that the only friend you could consider to be yours, that him, damian wayne, the same person who'd put you down, broke you with the simple truth, to the point where everyone else thought it as an invitation to destroy you even further; you hate yourself for leading him to hating you.

the only guy who's willing to share a desk with you, who listens to another wave of your superficial rambling, who sat beside you on the cafeteria table when you're all alone because all your old friends have cut you out of their lives, told you you were too draining, too attention seeking, too fucking annoying to be with and you know you are— and yet damian somehow managed to conceal his bubbling irritation at yet another one of your statements, talking about how, "people just can't get me, dami. they just can't."

and he listens, he listens because he's the only one who could, whose patience never wavers amidst your terrible display of affection; when your laughs sounded like crackling fire, which only burns brighter and warmer, when you'd slap his shoulders way too hard at another unfunny joke of yours, when you belittle your ex-friends because they can't handle your true self, or whatever you call it.

he does it with an air of coolness, until he couldn't anymore.

he slammed his fists on the plastic desk, and told you to shut up, insulted you, spewed venom towards you in front of everybody else after days, stretching past weeks 'til he couldn't handle the months of being forced to hear you rambling about yourself during a lecture, always yourself, that he loses it.

heartless as it is, you know his words were true.

you know you're hated by everybody, why else would damian be the exception to that hatred for an individual so unwanted like you?

it's shameful of you, it's terrible of you. you're a waste of space, a waste of air, a waste of life that you scream: about wanting to die, about wishing you were never born in the first place because everyone hates you.

damian, whom you thought made you an exception, hates you.

he hates you, he hates you so, so much and he admits to only tolerating you, everyone only tolerates you.

and he hates you.

— he doesn't.

it doesn't take much for him to drag you out of that stall, pin you down on the floor when he sees a blade on your dominant hand, inches away from drawing out blood from your wrist, from landing on a vein and slicing mercilessly like your life doesn't matter.

— like you don't matter to him.

it doesn't take much to shove that piece of metal away and onto another empty stall, far away from your reach, as he finds himself heaving on top of you, his arms pinning down your wrists to stop you from hurting yourself, legs locked on your waist to ground you even further, as he finds unfamiliar panic rise in his throat at— at that.

at your disregard for your life, at how he could've been the reason he's lost you.

when he returns to his senses, when he sees your disbelief on your poor, sunken eyes, hollowed, tear-stricken cheeks. when your attempts at kicking him, at the muscles on his thighs wouldn't do you any good, you're forced to return his heartbroken gaze towards you, forced to feel every shiver racking from his body.

how his fingertips would press deeper on your wrists, how he gulps in a patterned succession, how you never really see someone like damian be so utterly wrecked, even more-so than you that another tear escapes your waterline, your eyes closing in resignation, ignoring the way his head has slowly been lowering itself to you.

until the tip of his nose touches yours, nuzzles against it even, until you open your eyes and find his face so intimately close with yours, his warm breath hitting your skin clashing with the cold feel of the clean tiles. you can see every imperfection littering his skin: the split on his lips, the slit at his brows, those brilliant eyes greener than emeralds; wide, imposing, looking at you and only you.

"wh—!"

"don't you even dare do that again, (name)."

his right hand releases its harsh grip on your wrist, making way to cup your face whilst his face only moves closer, so close you could almost feel his disheveled hair touching your forehead, his lips nearly slotting with yours, almost feel your chest fuse with his— hear the thumping in his chest match your own heartbeat. when his palms move to touch your chin, thumb nimbly pressing itself on your cracked lips, he releases a tsks, swiping away at the blood as he brings it up to his lips to taste it.

you can only watch in breathless awe as his tongue licks away at the remaining blood, his eyes still plastered on you, glaring, squinting as he waits for your reply in bated breaths. the fingers from his other hand pinning you down eventually tangles with yours, calloused palms warm, refusing to let go; his other hand, meanwhile, returns to your face,

you can't comprehend the gears churning on his otherwise stoic expression, but you can tell from how his brows subtly furrow, that he's probably irritated, or nitpicking you like some specimen. you don't know, you can't tell, you're still... still experiencing the withdrawals of your wasted tears easlier, unable to understand the brewing desperation in damian's chest.

(and you can't exactly imagine the exact process going on in his mind. you can't picture someone like damian trying his damned best to not kiss your pretty face while you're on the floor with him right now. how he wants to feel your chapped lips pressing deeply against his own moist one, for you to taste the chapstick on him that you lovingly complimented him using one day; what it would feel like for his face to fuse so closely with yours until he could feel his eyelashes batting on your own— he can't, not while the restroom's doors are unlocked and he wouldn't want to share that intimately passionate moment with anyone else but you, and not while he can see the fading colors of yellows and blue splotched on your eyes that he once clumsily dismissed as imagination).

"tell me what happened," he bluntly demands, a grunt reverberating from deep in his throat. he's becoming more and more like his father these days, he notes to himself, but he can't deny how effective the intimidation factor is when he sees your eyes widen, knows he's gotten you right where he wants you to, when those precious orbs would flitter somewhere else in hesitation—

"(name)," this time, he calls more domineeringly, shifts in his leaning position just so that his face would be even closer to yours than it already possibly is — to the point you can smell peppermint and hints of that tea he loves to drink during early morning break time — yet you refuse to share eye contact with him, looking away, drowning out the sound of his heavy intakes of air; afraid, possibly, of the consequences if you were to confess how those friends of his loved to torment you in more ways than one—

no, you'd rather nobody knows about how truly weak you were, not even the person you proclaimed as your own friend.

those people would push your body to the walls of the campus' main building, uncaring if it inflicts bruises all over your body. they'd take your belongings, record you begging on your knees that they won't hurt you, and they'll fucking bash your face against the surface of the nearby garbage bin once they discover you're short on cash to pay enough for a day where they won't bother you.

you don't want him to worry about someone like you, who already caused him enough irritation. and if it means masking this stupid weakness of yours with artificial confidence, then you'll fake it 'til you make it.

that's what you're good at, that's what makes you survive in this world.

at least, that's what you thought until damian eventually had enough, clamps his thumb and index fingers on the sides of your face to force you to look him straight in the eyes, still unyielding from his position. you can't exactly move, you don't have anything else to distract you from damian nearly breathing down on your neck, and you don't know why he's so insistent on finding out what's wrong with someone he oh-so obviously despises.

"i—" he sighs before you could get a word in, like he's predicted an excuse to befall from your tongue, warm fingers gently grazing your cheeks, eyes still focused on your befuddled face.

"... fine, if you wish not to tell me..." his fingers stop mapping your face, thumb settling on the marred bruising on your right eyes, feeling the way you wince at even the slightest of contact. he can feel his adrenaline spike, the anger boiling right beneath the seams of his fingertips, ready to inflict pain and suffering on whomever dared to touch you.

because with just how avoidant you are of discussing the issue with him— that means it's someone else who caused these injuries on you, someone idiotic enough to mess with him of all people.

"... i will find out myself, and i will impose the proper punishment on those... those sub-humans who dared touch what is mine."

"wh- what do you mean—?" it's the first time he hears you talk without that grating pitch in your voice, the first time he hears that airy disposition that comes out in your most vulnerable moments; shit, he swears by the world that he'll protect this side of you from anyone who dares it away from him.

"i mean what i said. you are mine."

"so do not take my previous words to heart, i never meant it, i never meant to hurt you, habibi/habibti."

you're frozen in place as he sighs again, shakes his head, moves up so that his lips could kiss your temples, then it trails down to your cheeks, all the way to your heated ears. he mutters an apology in his mother tongue, you know because he mutters it with a pout during the times when his strength was too much, when he'd accidentally deliver an all-too powerful strike on your body that one time when you'd attempt to wake him up the first time you witnessed him sleeping in classes; and you can't tell the exact words, but it sounds like poetry, like silken honey dripping down on your thoughts.

all you can do is nod, which garners a kiss on the shell of your ears, before he ultimately shares another stare down with you.

"i am your boyfriend now," he declares, like it's some unbreakable law with no loops to escape from, "and because i am yours, and you are mine, that means i have every right to find the people who hurt my beloved, i have every right to deal the necessary pain towards anything that hurts you."

"you do not have to pretend around me anymore, do you understand?"

somehow, some way, the only thing you can plaster up right now is a shaky hum and your own fingers cupping his cheeks — the action alone caused tingles to erupt from his spine, and he swears it's like magic, your touch — afraid to reject him after he's practically confessed to you... which was enough.

enough for him to seal the deal, to finally slot his warm lips on yours, eyes closed, on the clean, restroom floors, sealing the deal.

you can only return the passion ten fold, when you realize just how devoid you are of human contact.

and that's when it clicks— how much he means it, how much he's deeply in love with you, with this persona of yours and the real you.

how he's willing to make an exception as long as it was you.

damian never expected already having planned his wedding vows to the likes of someone like you, someone so terribly foul-mouthed, that in some strange, twist of the world, he ends up falling in love real hard for you.

day by day.

he ends up falling for you when he's the only one you show your true colors to: someone vulnerable, someone who reflects the past him, someone who didn't have anyone to correct your mistakes.

he loves that version of you, he loves it when he is your exception, too.

to the point that when you eventually returned to your old persona, when you go off into another insufferable tangent— when someone rolls their eyes at you, or when someone opens their mouth to rebut and tell you to, for once, shut your fucking trap; somehow, this guy who used to glare daggers at you during chem classes, who would dig his fingers on your shoulders as a warning that it's not even the time to talk—

he was now actively defending your statements with all his passion, no matter how ridiculously ear grating, unrealistic, downright egotistical it may sound. those people would end up with dirt dug up on them, suspended, sometimes even expelled. his old "friends" were no exceptions once he realized they were the reason for your bruises, from when they pushed your body and beaten you black and blue from behind the campus' main building; they were thoroughly dealt with, efficiently, silently.

they were no more.

and just as quickly as he defends you, you're both now renounced as the gotham u's most untouchable couple. professors couldn't possibly attempt to expel any one of you because your behavior conducts, paired with damian being oddly professional with dealing the people who'd talk you down, doesn't truly disrupt anything.

... or at least, that is what everyone convinces themselves out of fear that they'd tick you off and they'll be victimized by another one of damian's threats.

'cause in the end, you did end up being chosen by, quite possibly, the worst contender for your own attention seeking method of gaining affection.

in the end, you're the only exception.

no matter how insufferable you may be.

a/n: if this flops, i will cry and then disappear some more /j also, june 16 is again & again's one year anniversary, and i have writer's block 😭🙏 that's the worse nerfing in one of my most special occasions. anyways, don't mind the subpar writing, i wrote this on a whim since i just got a random burst of inspiration but it's not the best i have so far because again, writer's block. apologies for this 😔✊ it's genuinely so bad but it's what i can only produce rn.

[annjo-wolfe]

She just wanted to be loved—even if it killed her.

Platonic Yandere!Batfam x Neglected!Reader

Warning: emotional neglect, domestic abuse, physical violence, emotional manipulation, loss of pregnancy, gaslighting, yandere behaviour, obsessive familial control, stalking, overprotection, psychological trauma, implied death threats.

In many stories, Reader is portrayed as someone completely alone. And hey—those stories are beautiful too. But this isn’t one of those. She had people. Friends. Some good. Some toxic. Some who only called when they needed a favour, or a shoulder to cry on. But no one ever truly listened when she spoke. Not really.

She was always there for everyone else. The comforter. The fixer. The secret keeper. But when it came to herself? Her feelings were locked away, pressed deep beneath a tired smile and a soft voice that always said: “I’m fine.”

She struggled to open up. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was habit. Either way—no one ever saw how much she was hurting. Not her friends. Not even her family.

So when he came into her life, she didn’t resist. He was kind. Charming. And most of all—attentive. He saw her. Heard her. Touched her face like she was sacred. He told her she mattered. That she was enough. That he couldn’t breathe without her.

It was intoxicating.

So when he started yelling—she flinched, but stayed. When he shoved her—she apologized. When the bruises bloomed across her skin, she covered them. Because even if it hurt… at least he was still there.

She told herself, “This is what love feels like, right?”

Her friends started to notice the change. The forced smile. The constant excuses. But she always brushed them off.

And her family?

They didn’t see it. Not at first.

Bruce had been too busy—always too busy. He assumed that if she wasn’t screaming, she was fine. He never once asked her if she was happy. Because deep down, he didn’t want to know.

Dick adored her in his own way—but only when it was convenient. He promised brunches, movie nights, afternoons in the park. But he always cancelled. Always had some mission, some emergency, some excuse. She’d sit alone in cafés for hours, hoping maybe this time he’d show. He never did.

Jason barely acknowledged her existence. To him, she was just another mouth Bruce fed, another responsibility in a house already full of ghosts and broken kids. He never bothered to ask her anything real. She tried, once, to ask him about one of the books he read. He brushed her off without even looking up. She didn’t try again.

Tim saw everything—except her. Always distracted, always overworked. He forgot her birthday. Forgot her favourite food. Forgot she was someone who could shatter.

Damian pushed her away with harsh words and colder stares. Called her useless. Weak. And once—just once—he lost his temper and struck her. It wasn’t hard, not enough to leave a mark for long, but enough to silence the room and stop her breath. He muttered an apology the next day—dry, forced, as if she had made him do it. He never mentioned it again. And she never dared speak of it.

Cass noticed the silences. The way her eyes lingered too long on closed doors. But she didn’t know what to say. She thought her presence was enough. She believed silence meant peace. She didn’t realise silence could scream.

Steph was sunshine and noise. Always pulling everyone out for ice cream or rooftop dance breaks. She talked at Reader, never to her. Never stopped to notice how often she smiled without her eyes. She called her “quiet,” “shy,” “a little ghost.” But she never asked why she haunted her own home.

Duke was all warmth and bright intentions. But he assumed she’d speak up if something was wrong. He believed in checking in—with everyone else. She was always the last one on his list, if she even made it at all. When she didn’t answer group texts, he just figured she was busy. He never knocked on her door.

She was there. But no one saw her. Not really. Not as a whole person. Not as someone whose heart bled behind closed doors.

To them, she was quiet. To her, she was invisible.

Then came the night everything changed.

The boyfriend had been angry. Jealous. She had laughed at someone’s joke—that was all. He hit her so hard, she collapsed.

The next thing she knew, she was in a hospital bed, bright lights burning her eyes, pain radiating through her body.

She heard murmurs. Machines. A doctor’s voice.

“Internal bleeding.” “Multiple fractures.” “Possible concussion.” And then— “She was pregnant.”

Everything stopped.

She blinked, unsure if she heard right. Pregnant?

She hadn’t even known.

No symptoms. No missed signs—just denial. Her body had been too tired, too beaten, too fragile. She thought the blood was just another bruise. She didn’t even realise what she’d lost until it was gone.

The child. The tiny, fragile life inside her. Gone—just like that.

And that’s when her family finally saw her.

Bruce stood outside the hospital room, fists clenched, jaw locked. He had let this happen. Under his watch. Under his roof. And the thought that he hadn’t even noticed she was pregnant? It broke him. And twisted him.

Dick didn’t stop crying. He kept whispering, “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen.” But guilt changes nothing.

Jason went silent. Dangerously silent. He didn’t speak—he planned. Planned how to kill the man who did this. Planned how to make sure she never felt pain again.

Tim disappeared for hours, only to come back with every piece of that bastard’s life ruined. Bank accounts. Identity. Everything—gone.

Damian stared at her through the hospital window and said only one thing: “I will make sure he dies screaming.” And he meant it.

Cass refused to leave her side. She didn’t speak. Just held her hand, brushing her hair back gently, as if to say: “I’m here now. I won’t let go.”

Steph fell apart in the hallway. Cried against Duke’s shoulder, whispering, “We failed her. We failed her.”

Duke blamed himself. He had trusted her silence. And now, he couldn’t stop replaying her every word, wondering how he’d missed it.

They all failed her. And they would never forgive themselves.

So when she finally woke up…

They changed.

It started slow. More “check-ins.” GPS apps “for safety.” Cameras outside her apartment. A curfew.

Then it escalated. Bruce wouldn’t let her out of the manor without a reason. Dick followed her to the store. Jason installed locks—ones only he could open. Tim monitored her phone and social media. Damian threatened every male who dared speak to her. Steph “redecorated” her apartment so she’d feel “more at home” at the manor. Cass became her shadow. Duke started sleeping on the couch outside her room, “just in case.”

She thought they were just overprotective. Then she realised—she wasn’t allowed to be alone. Ever.

They had already lost her once. They wouldn’t risk it again.

It wasn’t just obsession. It was possession. A twisted, suffocating, overbearing kind of love.

And maybe, just maybe… They didn’t want her to heal. Because if she healed— She might try to leave. And they would never let that happen.

[annjo-wolfe]

Handsome

[annjo-wolfe]

The Heller siblings again ! Because I missed drawing kittens so much <3

[annjo-wolfe]

www.nokings.org

If you're able to go tomorrow, please stay safe and thank you!

[annjo-wolfe]

I did like Lars, so cautiously optimistic.

[annjo-wolfe]

happy pride month everyone :)

[annjo-wolfe]

awesome, great to hear it

[annjo-wolfe]

Do Birg blacksmiths and other metal workers shave their fur to avoid setting themselves on fire?

This is another one from @merkabatraindepot

"As a rule, only a few birg ethnicities have fur naturally long enough to present a fire hazard while working. Given that Hyperborea's answer to hair is actually somewhat less flammable than the terrestrial equivalent, most blacksmiths consider their luxurious coats an added layer of protection from stray sparks burning their otherwise quite vulnerable skin. Cold Islanders do actually trim the peleage on their first two pairs of limbs to avoid singing off the feathering entirely, but don't shave. Ss'wassoum blacksmiths will tie their luxurious mustaches back into a braid (admittedly that style is an upper middle class affectation to begin with, so only a few artisan oriented smiths wear it at all) and slip on a leather cap.

For more information on this topic, please contact the cultural affairs department of the Hyperborean State League museum, Concourse Drive, SF!"

[annjo-wolfe]

"...so someone new can learn the trade."

Happy Unofficial-but-Official Birthday, Hunter~

[annjo-wolfe]

[annjo-wolfe]

No kings

[annjo-wolfe]

[annjo-wolfe]

If the Architects had started breeding chelicerates, they would have achieved different color variations of this shrimp. They'd also make it smaller x)

[annjo-wolfe]

bruh

[annjo-wolfe]

new fave video

[annjo-wolfe]

The resemblance is uncanny