Summary: Bruce Wayne brings the Justice League to his mansion, only to find chaos unfolding inside. The members of the Batfamily are frantically running around, panicking about a creature named Razor who has escaped. To the league's shock, Razor is revealed to be a young demon—appearing as a 16-year-old boy with fox-like ears and a tail—who was found wandering Gotham by Jason Todd. Jason had brought him home, where Razor quickly formed strong attachments to Jason and Damian Wayne, imprinting them much like a lost puppy.
Part 1 Part 2
🦇Bruce Wayne🦇
He's brooding right now...
❤️🔫Jason Todd🔫❤️
Sanctuary in the Shadows (jason todd x reader)
When a coordinated attack compromises the security of Wayne Manor, the Batfamily is forced to evacuate immediately. With limited time to find a secure location, Jason Todd insists he knows the perfect safe house. Trusting his judgment, the family reluctantly agrees despite their reservations about Jason’s unconventional methods.
💙🖤Dick Grayson🖤💙
Civilian Crush (Dick Grayson x reader)
Summary:
The Batfamily grows suspicious when Dick Grayson consistently patrols the same area of Blüdhaven every night. Curious, they follow him and discover he’s secretly watching over a civilian girl—you—a cozy, grunge-loving literature student with a soft spot for warm drinks on the balcony. After returning to the Batcave, Tim runs a full background check, pulling up your entire life story, which the Batfam gleefully uses to tease a flustered Dick. He’s officially busted—and now everyone knows about his civilian crush.
☕️Timothy Drake☕️
Not a joke
Summary:
You waited two hours at the restaurant. Tim never showed. What was supposed to be a date turned into public humiliation and a quiet, painful drive back to Smallville. But when you walk through the farmhouse door and break down in Clark’s arms, the heartbreak doesn’t stay yours alone. And when Superman shows up in the Batcave—furious, protective, and done—everyone learns exactly what it means to break the heart of Superman’s kid.
Nobody Hurts A Wayne
Summary:
After Tim Drake stands the reader up for their date, the heartbreak follows them all the way back to the Kent farmhouse. Surrounded by the love of Clark, Lois, Martha, Jonathan, Jon, and Kon, the reader slowly begins to recover while their fiercely protective family reminds them exactly how valued they are. Meanwhile, in Gotham, Bruce forces Tim to face the damage he caused and the possibility that “sorry” might not fix everything this time.
🗡Damian Wayne🗡
He's walking Titus...
☕️Alfred Pennyworth☕️
Littlest Pennyworth
(Y/N) is Alfred Pennyworth’s ten year old grandchild, and somehow, the entire Batfamily is emotionally compromised over one tiny, overly polite child with perfect posture and a matching tea set.
Part 2: Pennyworth & Pennyworth
Part 3: Littlest Pennyworth vs. The Common Cold
X-Men
👓Scott Summers👓
Little Mutant, Big Problems
Summary: The X-Men have faced Sentinels, evil timelines, cosmic threats, and the end of the world more times than they count. None of it prepared them for parenthood.
In the world of soul reaping and dramatic flair, you are Grell Sutcliffe’s fiercely loyal girlfriend — a fellow reaper who won’t tolerate creeps, insults, or anyone who dares disrespect the love of your undead life.
Summary: When the youngest and most organized member of the Wayne household comes down with a fever, the entire Batfamily quietly declares a state of emergency.
A/N: wowie, guys, you really like my littlest Pennyworth stuff, huh? Thank you so much! ❤️ This part 3 is dedicated to @i-am-minding-my-own ❤️
Three weeks after the Batcave Reorganization Incident, the impossible happened. You got sick. It started with a sneeze. A tiny sneeze. One little "achoo" over breakfast.
Every head at the table turned. You blinked. Jason pointed dramatically. "The child is compromised."
"I'm fine."
You sneezed again. Dick immediately placed the back of his hand against your forehead. You frowned. "Uncle Dick, that's not how temperatures work."
"I know that."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"I panicked."
Alfred narrowed his eyes. Bruce looked concerned. Damian looked offended. Tim looked like he was calculating survival rates. Within ten minutes, Alfred had confirmed what nobody wanted to hear. You had a fever. The entire house descended into emergency mode. Not Gotham emergency mode. Worse.
Family emergency mode.
The first surprise was that nobody argued. Normally, every decision resulted in at least three debates, one lecture from Bruce, and Jason threatening someone with a pillow.
This time?
Everyone immediately fell into formation. Alfred directed operations, Bruce handled medical supplies, Tim researched symptoms, Dick organized schedules, Jason acquired snacks, and Damian stood guard outside your room. Nobody questioned it. Not even once. You were too tired to appreciate how strange this was.
☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️
Bruce took the first watch. You were curled beneath three blankets, looking far smaller than usual. Bruce sat beside the bed reading reports. Every few minutes, he checked your temperature. "You don't have to stay."
"I'm staying."
"You have work."
Bruce looked up.
"You are my work."
You stared at him.
Bruce immediately realized how sentimental that sounded. He looked horrified. You smiled sleepily. "That was nice." Bruce pretended to focus on the thermometer. His ears turned slightly red.
A few minutes later, you drifted asleep. When Alfred checked on you both, Bruce had fallen asleep in the chair beside the bed with one hand still resting on the blanket. Alfred quietly took a photograph. For historical purposes.
Dick arrived next. You woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor.
"What are you doing?"
"Entertainment."
Dick held up a stack of old photo albums.
You gasped.
"Are those baby pictures?"
"Oh yes."
Dick grinned.
"And since you're sick, nobody can stop me."
Three minutes later, you were both laughing over photographs of a younger Jason covered in spaghetti.
"You carried that picture around?"
Dick nodded proudly.
"For years."
Jason burst into the room. Took one look. And immediately shouted.
"THAT'S EVIDENCE."
He tried to grab the album. Dick escaped. You laughed so hard you started coughing. The brothers instantly stopped fighting. Jason handed you water. Dick adjusted your pillows. The album was forgotten. Your health came first.
Tim's shift happened at two in the morning. Naturally. You woke to find him sitting beside your bed with a laptop. The screen brightness was turned almost completely down.
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
"Fair."
You sniffled. Tim closed the laptop. "What do you need?" You thought for a moment. "Can you tell me a story?" Tim blinked.
"A story?"
"Please?"
Nobody had ever successfully resisted that word. Tim spent the next hour telling increasingly ridiculous stories about Robin missions. Some were true. Some were definitely not. You fell asleep halfway through a dramatic retelling involving a goat and a stolen motorcycle. Tim never clarified which parts were fictional.
Jason was surprisingly good at taking care of sick people. Nobody talked about it. Because Jason would deny it. Violently. You woke from a nap to find a tray beside your bed.
Soup.
Crackers.
Juice.
A small stuffed bat.
You looked at Jason. Jason looked away.
"The bat came with the soup."
"It has a price tag from the gift shop."
"It came with the soup."
You hugged the stuffed bat. Jason immediately pretended to examine the ceiling.
"Thank you."
"Yeah, whatever."
A pause. Then Jason quietly adjusted your blanket when he thought you weren't looking. You absolutely noticed. You wisely said nothing.
Damian's care was...different. He entered carrying Titus. The enormous dog immediately climbed onto your bed. You laughed weakly as Titus carefully settled beside you.
"Titus will aid your recovery."
"Titus is very warm."
"Exactly."
Damian sat in the chair nearby. Arms crossed. Expression serious. Every time you coughed, Titus lifted his head to check on you. Every single time. You eventually fell asleep with one hand buried in the dog's fur. When you woke later, Damian was still there.
Reading. Guarding.
Pretending he hadn't spent three hours making sure nobody disturbed you. The worst night came when your fever spiked.
You felt miserable. Everything hurt. Nothing helped.
Alfred was preparing medicine when Bruce received an emergency call from Gotham. Normally, that would have been enough. Batman would go. End of discussion. Instead, every brother spoke at once.
"We've got it."
"Go."
"We'll stay."
Bruce hesitated. He looked toward your room. Then toward Gotham. For a moment, he seemed torn. You solved the problem yourself.
"Master Bruce."
Bruce turned.
"We'll be okay."
Bruce smiled. The tired, genuine smile he rarely showed anyone.
"I know."
By the time Bruce returned hours later, the entire family had somehow ended up in your room. Tim was asleep against the wall. Jason was asleep in a chair. Dick had somehow stolen half the bed. Damian was pretending not to be asleep. Titus occupied the remaining available space. Alfred sat nearby reading.
You were sleeping peacefully in the middle of it all. Bruce stopped in the doorway.
Nobody was arguing.
Nobody was working.
Nobody was running off on missions.
Everyone had gathered around the smallest member of the family. Alfred looked up.
"Feeling sentimental, sir?"
Bruce shook his head.
"A little."
"Understandable."
Bruce carefully pulled a blanket over Jason's shoulders. Adjusted Tim's position so he wouldn't wake up with a sore neck. Moved Dick's arm before he rolled off the bed.
Damian opened one eye.
"I was not asleep."
"Of course not."
Bruce sat beside your bed. You stirred slightly. Half-awake. Your hand reached out blindly. Bruce took it immediately. Satisfied, you fell asleep again. Bruce looked around the room.
His family. All of them. Together.
For once there was no crisis.
No mission.
No disaster.
Only a sick child being cared for by far too many overprotective vigilantes. Alfred smiled knowingly. Bruce squeezed your hand gently. The manor had always belonged to the Wayne family.
But somehow, since the Littlest Pennyworth had arrived, it had started feeling more like a home.
Hello! I absolutely love your littlest pennyworth fic! may we perhaps have a part two of it? the concept of a little kid being more mature and stable than the batfam is so funny but cute at the same time
Pennyworth & Pennyworth
Summary: As the family adjusts to having a tiny Pennyworth in their midst, one thing becomes painfully clear:
One Alfred kept the Batfamily functioning.
Two might be unstoppable.
Part 2 of: Littlest Pennyworth
A/N: Thank you so much for all the love and attention given to the first part! I never expected it to get this much attention 🥰
It happened three weeks after your arrival. Nobody knew exactly when it started. Only that one morning, Alfred walked into the kitchen and found every single member of the household sitting properly at the breakfast table. Nobody was late. Nobody was standing. Nobody was eating over important paperwork. Nobody was attempting to consume coffee as a substitute for sleep.
Alfred stopped in the doorway. The silence was so shocking that even Bruce looked confused. You sat in your usual chair, calmly drinking orange juice. "Good morning, Grandfather." Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. "What have you done?" You blinked innocently. "Nothing." Nobody believed you. Not for a second. Especially not when Jason immediately raised his hand. "Can I have more toast, please?" Alfred nearly dropped the serving tray. Dick looked horrified. "Jason." "What?" "You said please." Jason looked equally disturbed. "...I did, didn't I?"
You slid a basket of toast toward him. "Good manners cost nothing." Jason accepted the toast automatically. "Thank you." The entire table gasped. Even Damian looked concerned. "Father," he said quietly, "I fear the child has developed mind control abilities."
"I have not."
"You somehow convinced Todd to use manners."
"That is admittedly suspicious," Tim agreed.
You took a bite of your pancake.
"I simply asked politely."
Nobody found that reassuring.
☕️ 🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍
A few days later, Bruce returned from patrol with a bruised shoulder. He hadn't told anyone. He hadn't planned on telling anyone. Unfortunately for him, you had inherited Alfred's terrifying observational skills. Bruce entered the study. You looked up from your homework. "Your left shoulder hurts." Bruce froze. "...No, it doesn't." You stared. Bruce stared back. You stared harder. Bruce felt unexpectedly judged. "...Maybe a little." You nodded. "I'll get the first aid kit." "That's not necessary." You were already gone. Bruce sighed.
Five minutes later, he found himself sitting obediently in a chair while a ten-year-old and Alfred worked together. You handed Alfred bandages. Alfred handed them back. The process ran with frightening efficiency. Bruce felt like he'd been ambushed. "You should be more careful," you informed him. "I'll try."
"You said that last time."
Bruce blinked. "What?" You consulted your little notebook. "The previous shoulder injury. Three weeks ago."
"You keep records?"
"Of course."
Bruce looked toward Alfred. Alfred looked delighted. Bruce had never felt more outnumbered.
🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍
Meanwhile, Dick had developed a problem. The problem was that you had somehow discovered every embarrassing story from his childhood. Nobody knew how. Nobody wanted to know how. "Did you know," you said conversationally one afternoon, "that Uncle Dick once attempted to fly using bedsheets?" Dick choked. Jason immediately sat upright.
"What?"
"Three times."
"DICK."
"I WAS SIX."
You continued. "The second attempt resulted in a broken flowerpot." Tim was crying with laughter. Damian looked fascinated. Dick pointed accusingly at Alfred. "You told them!" Alfred sipped tea. "I have no idea what you're talking about." The innocent expression fooled absolutely nobody.
🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍
The true disaster occurred when you discovered the Batcave. Technically, you already knew about the Batcave. Nobody had bothered hiding it from you. The problem came when you saw its organizational system. Or lack thereof. You stood silently in front of a storage shelf. There was a long pause. Then another.
Finally:
"This is unacceptable." Tim looked up from a computer. "What is?" You pointed. A grappling gun sat next to medical supplies. Medical supplies sat beside spare tires. Several labelled boxes were entirely in the wrong section. One shelf appeared to contain random objects chosen by throwing darts. You looked physically distressed.
"Who organized this?" Nobody answered. Because everyone knew. It had been Bruce. Years ago. And then nobody had fixed it. You slowly turned. The expression on your face carried the exact same disappointment Alfred used when someone tracked mud across clean floors. Every vigilante in the cave instinctively straightened. "Tomorrow," you announced, "we are fixing this."
Tim immediately looked at Bruce. Bruce looked at the ceiling. Jason started laughing. "Good luck, B."
🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍
The Batcave was reorganized within forty-eight hours. Nobody knew how. Nobody understood how. Somehow, you had convinced Batman and his entire family to spend a weekend sorting equipment. Even Damian participated. Although he claimed it was because efficiency mattered. Not because you asked.
Definitely not because you asked.
When the final shelf was completed, you stood back with your hands clasped behind your back. "Perfect." Bruce stared at the cave.
Everything was labelled.
Everything was categorized.
Everything was accessible.
For the first time in years, he could actually find things.
"...This is amazing."
You smiled. The proud expression on your face looked so much like Alfred's that Bruce's chest ached unexpectedly.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Your smile widened. Bruce immediately decided he would destroy anyone who made you sad. Judging by the expressions around the room, every member of the family had reached the same conclusion.
🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍
Several nights later, Alfred found you sitting alone in the library. You were looking through an old photo album. Carefully. Quietly. Alfred settled into the chair beside you. Neither of you spoke for a while. Your small fingers rested against a photograph of his daughter. The resemblance was obvious. Around the eyes. Around the smile.
Little pieces of someone Alfred had loved dearly. "She looks kind," you said softly. Alfred's expression gentled. "She was." You nodded. "I wish I could have met her." For a moment, Alfred didn't answer.
The room stayed quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace. Then Alfred reached over and rested a hand atop yours. "So do I." You leaned against his shoulder. Alfred looked down at you.
His grandchild.
Safe.
Loved.
Home.
A blessing he had never expected to receive. Across the hallway, Bruce happened to glance through the open doorway. He paused. Saw the two of you together. And smiled. Because Wayne Manor had always been many things.
A headquarters.
A battlefield.
A refuge.
Now it was something else, too.
It was a home where Alfred finally had someone who fussed over him as much as he fussed over everyone else. And if Bruce caught you later that night reminding Alfred to take a break and drink water?
Well.
Nobody needed to mention the fact that Alfred obeyed immediately. The family had already learned an important truth.
There was one Alfred. That was enough to keep everyone in line.
Two Alfreds? The rest of them never stood a chance.
Summary: The X-Men have faced Sentinels, evil timelines, cosmic threats, and the end of the world more times than they count. None of it prepared them for parenthood.
Between sleepless nights, uncontrolled baby powers, destroyed nursery walls, and tiny hands wrapped around their hearts, every member of the team learns what it means to raise a child in a world that fears mutants.
The team never expected the mansion to become this loud. Tiny footsteps. Midnight crying. Logan arguing with baby formula instructions. Scott pacing at 3 a.m. because you sneezed once.
Then again, nobody expected the X-Men to become soft this fast either...
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
👓Scott Summers👓
You inherited:
Ruby red eyes hidden behind tiny custom baby shades
Thick dark brown hair
Strong mutant energy control instincts
Scott’s serious stare
Scott as a father: Scott treats parenthood like the most important mission of his life. He keeps schedules for feeding, sleeping, medicine, and tummy time pinned across the mansion kitchen.
The first time your optic powers flicker during a nightmare, Scott reacts instantly. His visor activates before he even wakes fully. He scoops you up carefully while whispering calm instructions like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Easy. Easy, sweetheart. Breathe with me.”
You stop crying the second he rests your tiny head against his chest.
Everyone notices Scott smiling more after you’re born. Not huge smiles. Small ones. Soft ones meant only for you.
He carries your diaper bag with military precision.
Nobody is allowed to joke about it.
❤️👓 ❤️👓❤️👓❤️👓❤️👓❤️👓❤️👓❤️👓❤️
🧠Jean Grey🧠
You inherited:
Auburn curls
Golden-green eyes
Early telepathic empathy
Jean’s calm expression
Jean as a mother: Jean knows what you need before you cry for it. Sometimes before you even wake up.
When you’re upset, she gently projects warmth and comfort into your mind. No pressure. No control. Only reassurance.
The nursery feels peaceful because of her. The air itself calms down around Jean.
One night, she wakes from a nightmare about the future and rushes to your crib. You’re asleep peacefully with tiny psychic sparks floating around your hands like fireflies.
Jean bursts into tears from relief.
Later, she rocks you beside the window while telepathically humming lullabies directly into your dreams.
You sleep better with her than anyone else.
💜🧠 💜🧠💜🧠💜🧠💜🧠💜🧠💜🧠💜🧠💜
🍺Logan🍺
You inherited:
Wild dark hair with pointed tufts
Sharp canine teeth even as a baby
Heightened senses
Tiny healing factor
Logan as a father: Logan pretends he has no idea what he’s doing.
Everybody knows he’s lying.
The mansion finds him asleep in the nursery recliner almost every night, holding you against his chest while old country music plays quietly nearby.
You stop crying whenever he talks.
His claws never come out around you. Ever.
When you start teething, you accidentally bite through one of his cigar cases. Logan stares at the destroyed metal for ten seconds before laughing harder than anyone’s heard in years.
“You’re definitely mine.”
He becomes terrifyingly protective. Nobody raises their voice near you without Logan appearing instantly.
Storm once finds him sewing tiny animal patches onto your jacket by hand at 2 a.m.
He threatens anyone who mentions it.
💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛🍺💛
⚡️Ororo Munroe⚡️
You inherited:
White curls
Bright blue eyes without visible pupils
Weather sensitivity
Ororo’s graceful features
Storm as a mother: The weather changes with your emotions.
Tiny thunder rumbles during tantrums. Soft snow falls outside when you sleep peacefully.
Ororo never loses patience with you.
She carries you through the gardens after rainstorms while teaching you the names of every flower. Her voice stays gentle even when the world around her becomes dangerous.
One evening, lightning flashes during a storm, and you get scared. Before anyone reacts, Ororo wraps you in her cape and lifts both of you into the sky above the clouds.
The storm disappears above you.
Only moonlight remains.
“See, little one? Even storms pass.”
🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍⚡️🤍
🤠Anna Marie🤠
You inherited:
White streaks through your hair
Rogue’s southern accent
Energy absorption through touch
Freckles across your cheeks
Rogue as a mother: Rogue spends months terrified of holding you skin-to-skin.
The first time she does, she cries harder than you.
Nothing happens.
You only grab her finger and laugh.
After that, Rogue refuses to let anyone else carry you for long. She kisses your forehead constantly and calls you every sweet nickname imaginable.
Sugarcube. Darlin’. Honeybee.
You learn to fly before you learn to walk because Rogue keeps carrying you through the air around the mansion.
When your powers first activate accidentally, Rogue stays perfectly calm while everyone else panics.
“Hey now. Mama’s got you.”
You believe her instantly.
💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚🤠💚
🃏Remy LeBeau🃏
You inherited:
Red-on-black eyes
Soft brown curls
Charm and kinetic energy powers
Constant mischievous grin
Gambit as a father: Remy spoils you endlessly.
Tiny trench coats. Mini playing cards. Expensive stuffed animals from every mission.
He cheats at baby games and still acts proud when you win.
The first word you say is “Papa,” and Remy brags about it for six straight months.
When your kinetic powers first activate, every toy in the nursery explodes into glittering sparks.
Remy laughs so hard that he falls onto the floor while holding you safely against his chest.
“Dat’s my bébé.”
You become attached to his coat as a comfort item. He acts annoyed every time you drool on it.
He secretly keeps every stained coat forever.
🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷🃏🩷
📖Beast📖
You inherited:
Blue fur
Large expressive eyes
Enhanced intelligence
Oversized hands and feet
Beast as a father: Hank reads to you constantly.
Classic literature. Science journals. Poetry.
You chew on half the books.
He still keeps every damaged copy.
Your nursery contains both stuffed animals and advanced educational holograms because Hank genuinely believes babies benefit from “early intellectual stimulation.”
Logan calls him insane.
Hank ignores him.
One afternoon, Hank catches you stacking blocks in perfect mathematical patterns before you’re even old enough to speak properly.
He immediately takes fifty photos.
“You, my dear child, are extraordinary.”
💙📖💙📖💙📖💙📖💙📖💙📖💙📖💙📖💙
⚔️Kurt Wagner⚔️
You inherited:
Indigo fur
Yellow eyes
Pointed tail
Teleportation sparks
Nightcrawler as a father: Kurt treats parenting like a blessing he never expected.
He sings German lullabies while teleporting gently around the nursery to entertain you. Every bamf leaves tiny clouds that make you giggle uncontrollably.
You love grabbing his tail.
He never minds.
When you have your first teleport accident, you disappear from your crib and reappear hanging halfway out of the kitchen cabinets.
The mansion panics.
Kurt finds you first because he follows your giggling.
Afterward, he baby-proofs the entire mansion in one night.
Even Logan helps.
💙⚔️💜⚔️💙⚔️💜⚔️💙⚔️💜⚔️💙⚔️💜⚔️💙
🧲Magneto🧲
You inherited:
Silver-white hair
Magnetic abilities
Sharp facial features
Intense eyes
Magneto as a father: Erik becomes softer only around you.
Only you.
Metal objects float gently around your crib like mobiles whenever he watches over you. You grab floating spoons and forks like toys while Erik watches proudly.
The Brotherhood never expected Magneto to carry baby wipes in his cape pockets.
Neither did he.
One night, you cry during one of his speeches. Erik immediately stops mid-sentence, walks off stage, and carries you until you fall asleep against his shoulder.
Nobody comments on it.
Nobody survives being stupid enough to comment on it.
Still, every member of Genosha notices the ruler smiling more after your birth.
Summary: After Tim Drake stands Y/N up for their date, the heartbreak follows them all the way back to the Kent farmhouse. Surrounded by the love of Clark, Lois, Martha, Jonathan, Jon, and Kon, Y/N slowly begin to recover while their fiercely protective family reminds them exactly how valued they are. Meanwhile, in Gotham, Bruce forces Tim to face the damage he caused and the possibility that “sorry” might not fix everything this time.
A/N Here's a long awaited part two to my Tim Drake x reader fic 'Not a Joke' which was requested by @one-pea-in-a-pod so here you go!
Part 1: Not A Joke
The Kent farmhouse felt warmer the next morning. Not because anything had changed. You still woke up with swollen eyes. Your chest still hurt every time you remembered the empty chair across from you at the restaurant. Tim still never called. Never texted. Never explained. But downstairs smelled like pancakes.
Kon leaned against the counter with crossed arms. Jon sat bside him, already glaring on your behalf before you even spoke. “Morning, sunshine,” Lois said softly. You tried to smile. It failed immediately. Martha opened her arms without hesitation. “Oh, sweetheart.” That was it. You buried your face in your grandmother’s shoulder while she held you tight.
And in a house full of Kents, heartbreak never stayed private for long. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing one of Kon’s oversized hoodies. Immediately, six pairs of eyes turned toward you. Clark stood by the stove in a Smallville High shirt and flannel, spatula frozen midair. Lois sat at the table with a coffee mug in hand. Martha Kent reached for you instantly from her chair while Jonathan Kent looked about five seconds away from marching to Gotham himself.
“I feel stupid,” you mumbled. Jonathan Kent snorted. “You are many things, kiddo. Stupid ain’t one of them.”
“You waited two hours,” Jon said, horrified all over again. “Two. Hours.” Kon looked ready to punch drywall. “Conner,” Clark warned immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“You heard nothing.”
Clark sighed.
Clark pointed the spatula at him. “No space.”
Lois slid a plate of pancakes toward you. “Eat first. Emotional devastation second.” You let out a weak laugh. Small victory. Jon perked up instantly like he’d won an award. “There it is,” he said. “That’s the sibling laugh. We’re making progress.” Kon dropped into the seat beside you and nudged your shoulder carefully. “For the record, if you want me to throw Tim into the moon, I’ve got the afternoon free.”
“Kon,” Lois warned.
“What? I said if.”
“You’re not throwing anybody into space.”
“Okay. Fine. Near space.”
Jonathan Kent muttered into his coffee, “I still say Bruce oughta tan that boy’s hide.”
“Dad,” Clark scolded. “What? If Clark stood somebody up for two hours when they were young, I would’ve buried him in chores until retirement.” Clark visibly decided silence was the safest option. You looked down at your plate. “Maybe he forgot.” The entire kitchen went quiet. Kon stared at you like you’d personally insulted him. Jon looked offended for you. Lois set her mug down carefully. “Honey.” “No,” Kon cut in sharply. “Absolutely not.” You blinked. Kon leaned forward, voice gentler now. “You don’t get stood up for two hours by somebody who forgot. Tim’s not stupid. He knew what he was doing.”
“That’s the problem,” Jon muttered.
Back in Gotham, the atmosphere inside Wayne Manor felt colder than usual. Tim sat in the cave, staring at the Batcomputer without really seeing it. Bruce stood behind him. Silent. Which was worse. “You embarrassed them publicly,” Bruce finally said. Tim closed his eyes. “I know.” “You ignored every call from Clark. From Lois. From Jon. Conner threatened to come to Gotham personally.” Tim rubbed both hands over his face. “I know.” Bruce’s voice hardened. “You made someone wait alone for two hours wondering why they weren’t enough.” That hit. Hard.
Clark finally sat beside you. His expression softened in that painfully kind dad way that always made emotions worse instead of better. “What Tim did hurt you,” Clark said quietly. “You don’t need to make excuses for him.” Your throat tightened again. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I thought he liked me.” “He does,” Kon said immediately. Everyone looked at him. Kon rolled his eyes. “Please. I know Tim. That idiot’s been gone on them since day one.” “Then why would he do this?” you asked quietly. Nobody answered immediately. Because nobody had a good answer.
Tim flinched visibly. Because that was the exact thought that had been eating him alive since yesterday. Not enough. “I messed up.” “You did.” Bruce walked around the console until Tim finally looked at him. “When you care about someone, you do not disappear when things become inconvenient,” Bruce said. “You communicate. You show up.”
Tim looked exhausted. “I was trying to protect them.” Bruce stared at him for a long moment. “By hurting them first?” Tim had no answer. Bruce sighed quietly. “Clark was furious.” Tim winced immediately. “Is he still?” “Yes.” “…Fair.” Bruce crossed his arms. “You are going to apologize.” “I know.” “And you are going to accept the possibility they won’t forgive you.” That hurt worse somehow. Tim looked down at the floor. “I know.”
Back in Smallville, Jon and Kon had apparently decided sadness was illegal. Which explained why you were currently trapped between them on the couch under three blankets while watching terrible action movies. “This one’s objectively awful,” you informed them. Jon gasped dramatically. “How dare you.” “The shark has six rows of teeth, Jon.” “That makes him efficient.”
Kon handed you popcorn. “Don’t argue with the film scholar.” Jonathan Kent snorted from his recliner. “That movie looks dumber than a bag of hammers.” “It’s art, Grandpa,” Jon defended. Martha smiled softly from the kitchen doorway while Lois snapped a secret photo of all three of you tangled together on the couch. Clark caught her doing it. “They already saw you take six.”. “I’m documenting healing,” Lois whispered back.
From love.
You leaned your head against Kon’s shoulder. “Thanks,” you said quietly. Kon immediately softened. Jon threw an arm around you from the other side. “Always.” “You’re our sibling,” Kon added simply. “Nobody gets to make you feel unwanted.”
Clark looked at you carefully from across the room. “You know that, right?” Your eyes stung again. This time, not from heartbreak.
For the first time since yesterday, you laughed properly. Real laughter. The entire room relaxed at the sound. And hundreds of miles away in Gotham, Tim Drake stared at his phone for almost twenty straight minutes before finally typing:
Martha crossed the room and kissed the top of your head gently. “One boy disappointing you doesn’t change your worth, sweetheart.” Jonathan pointed toward the window dramatically. “And if it helps, your brothers have been arguing over who gets first punch rights.”
“I said emotionally,” Clark warned immediately. Kon looked offended. “I am being emotional.” Jon nodded seriously. “Violently emotional.”
Then, deleting it.
I’m sorry.
Because somehow, two words didn’t feel big enough for what he’d done.
Sorry if I don’t make sense with this cause I’m a little high rn.
But wass your mini Alfred fic ment to be a black/poc reader or are you a poc blog. If fine if you are but I’m like whiter than white and I’d hate to be imposing in black ppls spaces. I’m asking cause the fic mentions reader having brown skin and I didn’t see any tags or anything indicating it was black/poc reader. I just would like to know so I can block you, not cause I have anything against you or there’s anything wrong with if I just would like to mind my own white ass lol. Again sorry if this all over the place or doesn’t make any sense. I just got home from my graduation and smoked a blunt. Okay thank you love youuuuu
Hi, it's no problem at all! I'm white as hell as well, lol. Reader is described as having brown skin because they're the kid of Alfred’s daughter Julia Pennyworth, and in the comics, Julia is drawn with a slightly darker skin tone than Alfred! But that's totally my bad. I should've tagged my post better or described it better when writing 😅
(Y/N) is Alfred Pennyworth’s ten year old grandchild, and somehow, the entire Batfamily is emotionally compromised over one tiny, overly polite child with perfect posture and a matching tea set.
Featuring:
• Damian getting corrected on his manners
• Tim being bullied into sleeping by a ten year old
• Jason losing every verbal battle imaginable
• Dick deciding “mini Alfred” is the greatest thing to ever happen to Wayne Manor
• Bruce getting handed coffee and instantly adopting another child emotionally
AKA: Alfred finally gets to watch everyone else deal with him.
The first thing Damian said when Alfred opened the manor doors was, “There are two of them.” You stood beside Alfred with your little overnight bag in one hand, and your chin tipped up in a way that looked painfully familiar. Same neat posture. Same polite expression. The same silver serving tray balanced perfectly in your other hand.
“Master Damian,” you said calmly, “good afternoon.” Damian blinked once. Then twice. “Grandfather,” he said slowly, eyes still locked on you, “why is the child speaking like you?” Alfred looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Genetics, perhaps.”
You looked a little like Alfred’s daughter had as a child. Soft brown skin, careful eyes, and tidy hair brushed back with far too much precision for a ten year old. Your cardigan was buttoned properly. Your shoes were polished. Dick took one look at you and immediately dropped to one knee dramatically. “Oh no,” he whispered. “They made another one.”
“I can hear you, Master Richard,” you replied. Jason barked out a laugh, so sudden he nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, I like this kid already." You smiled politely. “Thank you. Your shoelaces are untied.” Jason looked down automatically.
Dick cackled loud enough to echo through the foyer. “Okay,” Tim said from the staircase, squinting down at you over a coffee mug, “that was terrifyingly accurate.” You spent exactly one hour in Wayne Manor before Bruce walked into the kitchen and found you standing on a stool beside Alfred.
You were wearing one of Alfred’s aprons. A tiny one. Tailored. Bruce stared silently. Alfred continued buttering toast like this was normal. You turned slightly. “Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Your tea is steeping.” Bruce looked at Alfred. Alfred looked smug. Bruce looked back at you. “…Thank you.” You nodded once with incredible seriousness. Dick lost it. He had to leave the room because he was laughing too hard.
Things escalated from there. You organized the spice cabinet alphabetically. You folded Damian’s discarded jacket before he could pick it up himself. You reminded Tim to sleep. Twice. “Master Timothy,” you said gently from the doorway of the Batcomputer room at two in the morning, “your eye twitch is concerning.” Tim stared at you with the hollow expression of a man who feared he was being haunted by a tiny British ghost. “…Alfred,” he said weakly into the comms, “there’s two of you now.”
You started carrying around a little notepad. Nobody knew where you got it. You somehow knew everyone’s preferred drinks within a day. Dick liked extra sugar. Jason liked coffee strong enough to legally qualify as poison. Tim forgot his drinks existed half the time. Damian preferred tea but refused to admit it openly. Bruce took his coffee black. You memorized all of it.
“Here you are,” you said, handing Bruce a fresh mug while he worked in the study. Bruce blinked down at it. “You didn’t have to do this.” “You looked tired.” Something in Bruce’s face softened immediately. “…Thank you, sweetheart.”
The manor changed around you. Not dramatically. Quietly. Jason started putting his dishes in the sink without being asked because you thanked him every single time with such genuine enthusiasm that he felt weirdly guilty otherwise. Tim began sleeping in actual beds because waking up to a disappointed ten year old standing over him was somehow worse than Alfred’s lectures. Damian let you sit beside him while he sketched.
That one shocked everybody. You sat quietly at his desk while Titus rested his massive head in your lap. “That line is crooked,” you informed Damian politely. Damian narrowed his eyes. “…You have excellent observational skills.” “Thank you.” That was Damian language for affection.
Dick adored you instantly. He carried you around the manor at least twice a day despite your repeated reminders that you were “perfectly capable of walking independently.” “You’re tiny,” Dick argued. “I am average sized for my age.” “Still tiny.” You sighed the exact same way Alfred did. Jason had to sit down after witnessing it.
One evening, the power briefly went out during a thunderstorm. The manor fell dark. Dick immediately yelled, “I blame the haunted child.” “I am not haunted,” you replied from somewhere in the darkness. There was a pause. Then: “Master Richard, you left laundry in the dryer again.” Jason started wheezing.
Bruce found you later curled beside Alfred in the sitting room while rain tapped softly against the windows. Your head rested against Alfred’s shoulder while he read aloud from a book. You had fallen asleep halfway through. One tiny hand still clutched the edge of his sleeve. Alfred looked up when Bruce entered. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Bruce looked at you. At the familiar careful posture even in sleep. The soft resemblance to Alfred’s daughter around your eyes. The way Alfred’s expression gentled into something achingly fond whenever he looked at you. “You’re happy they’re here,” Bruce said quietly. Alfred glanced down at you again. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “Very much so.” Bruce smiled faintly. “So are we.”
The next morning, everybody came downstairs to find six perfectly made breakfasts waiting on the table. You sat proudly in the middle seat wearing your tiny apron. Alfred stood beside you like an approving mentor. Dick stared at the table. Then at you. Then at Alfred. “This,” he declared emotionally, “is the best thing that’s ever happened to this family.”
pairing: Ryomen Sukuna (as Micheal Myers) × male reader
synopsis: The shape moves in silence through the night, always just a shadow behind you. Every step you take, he’s there. When he catches you, there’s no mercy, only the slow, perfect filling that leaves you trembling and marked from the inside out.
content warnings: 18+, smut, stalking, toxic ex dynamics, bottom male reader, raw sex, breeding kink, filthy talk + creampie + cum stuffing, cum play, choking, biting, possessiveness, public danger setting, orgasm control/overstimulation.
word count: 1.2k words
Halloween had always been noisy in the city, too many strangers in cheap masks crowding the sidewalks, but tonight the noise blurred into something muffled, drowned beneath the weight of footsteps that weren’t your own. Every time you turned, you saw him—tall, broad, standing just close enough for him to be in your line of sight, his face hidden by a plain white mask that didn’t belong among the cheap plastic fangs and neon makeup. He never brushed shoulders, never touched, just lingered a few paces back like your shadow had stretched into something solid.
At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Too many drinks, too much smoke and laughter from the party clinging to your head, but the pit in your stomach didn’t ease. The streetlights flickered overhead. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he was there again. Watching.
By the time you cut into a narrow alley to lose him, your chest was already tight, sweat breaking beneath your collar. The brick wall at the dead end hit you like a slap—you’d trapped yourself without meaning to. And when you spun, he was already there, stepping closer, head tilted like he was amused by the panic rolling off you.
“Who the fuck are you?” Your voice cracked sharper than you wanted.
The man reached up, fingers dragging slow against the mask before tugging it free.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
Sukuna.
The scars on his mouth twisted into that grin you knew too well, the kind that had once made you weak, the kind that still made heat crawl up your throat even now. He looked good in the worst way, like a wound you hadn’t let heal.
“Miss me?” His tone was casual, mocking, but his eyes burned. “Been a long time, huh? Didn’t think I’d just let you walk away.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came. Weeks of silence. Weeks of convincing yourself you’d done the right thing, leaving him behind, refusing to keep swallowing his chaos. And now here he was, like your thoughts had dragged him out of the dark.
“You’ve been—fuck, Sukuna, you’ve been following me?”
He chuckled, low, head dipping closer until you felt the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “Every night. You think I wouldn’t keep track of what’s mine? You thought you’d find someone else, let some other asshole touch what belongs to me? No chance.” His voice curled lower, taunting. “I know every step you’ve taken since you left. I know every person who’s looked at you. None of them deserve you. You’re mine.”
You hated how your body reacted, the shiver running down your spine, the way your thighs pressed together. Old habits, old memories—you could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the stretch of him splitting you open, the way he never left you empty.
“You’re insane,” you spat, though it came out thinner than you meant.
He grinned wider, scarred mouth cruel and knowing. “And you’re still hard for me.”
Then his mouth was on yours, hard and taking, teeth scraping until your lips burned. You tried to push him away weakly, hands braced against his chest, but when his tongue shoved between your lips, your knees buckled. He swallowed the noise you made triumphantly, grinding you into the wall like the city outside didn’t exist.
When he pulled back, your chin was wet, your breath stolen. He looked feral.
“You taste the same,” he muttered, one hand sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing until you gasped. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to come back.”
The fight bled out of you when he spun you into the wall, pressing his chest to your back, rutting against you like he couldn’t hold back. His zipper dragged open and the hot weight of his cock pressed against your ass, thick and heavy, grinding until you whimpered.
“Sukuna—”
He cut you off with a growl. “Shut up. You wanted this. You wouldn’t be shaking like this if you didn’t.” His breath was sharp at your ear, his voice rough with need. “You think leaving me changed anything? This hole still belongs to me. Still begging to be filled.”
You gasped as he shoved your pants down, spitting into his hand before smearing it between your cheeks. There was no slow prep, no patience—just his cock nudging against your rim, the blunt head pushing until your body gave way with a sting that made you curse. The stretch was brutal, familiar in the worst way, every inch splitting you open until he was seated deep, groaning against your neck.
“Fuck—tight as ever. Clenching like you missed me.” His teeth scraped your skin, biting down until pain sparked hot. “Say it. Tell me you missed this cock splitting you open.”
You didn’t answer, too busy clawing at the brick for balance as he pulled back and slammed in again. The alley echoed with it—skin on skin, your muffled moans, his guttural groans. Each thrust was deeper, harder, grinding into the spot that had you seeing stars.
“You’re mine,” he growled, pace picking up, the sound of his balls slapping against you filthy in the night. “No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to stuff you full and keep you leaking. Gonna fuck my cum so deep it won’t leave for days.”
Your cock slapped against your stomach, dripping, untouched, every thrust jarring pleasure through you until you couldn’t hold back the noises spilling out. Shame burned your face, but your body was already betraying you—pushing back into him, desperate for more.
“That’s it,” Sukuna snarled, one hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision spark. “Take it. Take all of me. You’ll come untouched, won’t you? Just from being stuffed like my personal cocksleeve.”
You choked on a whimper, the heat in your abdomen snapping. You came hard, spilling against the wall, legs trembling as he held you steady and fucked you through it. The orgasm wrung you out, left you raw and shaking, but Sukuna wasn’t close to done.
“Pathetic,” he spat, hips slamming faster. “Already creaming around me, begging for more.” His hand pressed hard against your stomach, feeling the drag of his cock inside. “Gonna pump you full. Gonna breed you until your hole knows no one else but me.”
The words burned, filth coating every thrust, until his hips stuttered. He shoved in deep, grinding until you swore you could feel him in your throat, and then the heat flooded you. Thick, hot, spilling over as his cock throbbed inside you, filling you until it leaked down your thighs. He groaned against your neck, hips rocking, forcing it deeper, holding you there as though he could mold you to keep it all inside.
When he finally pulled out, cum spilled down your skin in messy rivulets, obscene in the glow of the streetlight. He laughed low, shoving two fingers into your hole, scooping the mess and pushing it back in while you whimpered.
“Not wasting a drop,” he said, smug. He licked the mess from his fingers, eyes locked on yours as he sucked them clean. “Tastes like mine. Always will.”
You sagged against the wall, legs barely holding, your head spinning with the smell of sweat and sex. Sukuna tugged his mask back on, still grinning like a psychopath.
“Next Halloween?” he mused, stepping back into the shadows. “Fuck that. I’m not waiting a year. You’re mine now, and I’m taking you whenever I want.”
The alley went silent when he vanished, but the ache between your legs and the cum dripping down your thighs was proof enough he’d been real. Proof you weren’t rid of him at all.
synopsis: You step out to gather produce on your family’s farm, only to stumble upon something horrifying hidden in the dust. Before you can react, a massive, silent stranger appears, dragging you into a dim, grimy butcherhouse. Your heart pounds, breath ragged, every press of him against you leaving you trembling, slick, and helpless under his weight.
content warnings: 18+, smut, talking, capture, bottom male reader, graphic gore and violence, primal sex, dubcon-ish, messy, body fluids, intense suspense and horror, dominance and power imbalance.
word count: 1.4k words
Sunlight poured down in lazy golden streams, warming your shoulders, your neck, the backs of your hands dusted with soil. The dirt under your boots was soft and familiar, crumbly in the way only a well-loved farm’s soil could be. Your basket jostled gently against your hip as you walked along the rows of vegetables, tomatoes bumping against onions and fresh sprigs of rosemary peeking out, their fragrant scent filling your nose.
You crouched to pick a particularly plump tomato, rolling it carefully in your palm, smiling at its perfect sheen. The slight warmth of the sun soaked through the skin, and you inhaled its earthy sweetness. Behind you, the cabbages swayed gently in the breeze, corn tassels brushing against each other, leaves whispering secrets you couldn’t quite hear but somehow felt in your bones.
A few bees buzzed lazily around the herbs, their tiny wings a soft hum in the quiet afternoon. Somewhere distant, a bird trilled, hopping from branch to branch, chasing an invisible melody. You wiped your hands on your pants, smudging dirt across your skin, and couldn’t help but grin. There was something about this—the sun, the dirt, the scent of herbs, the weight of the basket in your hands—that felt completely yours.
You bent to tuck a sprig of thyme back into the basket, brushing your fingers over the tender leaves. The smell of fresh earth, ripe vegetables, and sun-warmed herbs mixed together like a song you knew by heart. You hummed a little tune your mother used to sing when she weeded the garden, letting it drift lazily into the air. For a moment, everything was perfect. Quiet. Ordinary. Safe.
Even your boots seemed to celebrate the simple work of walking the rows, kicking up dust that sparkled in the sunlight. You paused to admire the neat rows of green, leafy cabbages, the sun glinting off their broad leaves. Corn stalks swayed with the wind, tassels brushing like old friends greeting each other. You could feel your chest swell with pride: this land, this produce, the way the earth gave back what you put in—it was a rhythm, a comfort, a small, perfect world in your hands.
You straightened, basket in hand, and glanced down a row of tomatoes, smiling at their ripeness. Maybe tonight you’d slice a few for dinner, maybe toss them with olive oil and herbs you’d just picked. The thought made your stomach flutter in the simplest, happiest way. You crouched, ran your fingers through the soil, brushing away tiny clumps, marvelling at the faint warmth still trapped there.
And then—something, a shape that shouldn’t be there, catching the sunlight in all the wrong ways.
It wasn’t red like the tomatoes. Not green like the leaves. Not brown like the soil.
It lay there, twisted in the dirt. Limbs bent wrong. Skin pale and streaked with dark, dried blood. Your stomach dropped, bile rising as the gentle hum of life around you—bees, birds, wind—seemed to vanish, swallowed by an instant, horrific silence.
Your basket slips from your hands. Tomatoes crumble against the dirt. Herbs scatter. Onions roll and tumble.
It’s a corpse. A mangled corpse.
A scream catches in your throat, but you can’t make it out. Your hands fly to your mouth, knuckles white, fingers trembling. You step back, slip on the dust, stumble, and your basket tips over. On instinct, you try to scramble away, but your legs feel heavy, leaden. Heart hammering, chest tight, panic rising.
Then you sense him.
A shadow shifts in the corner of your vision. Massive. Broad. The air seems to thicken around him. Thick arms, a chest so wide it seems to swallow the space around him. A leather mask stitched roughly together, eyes hidden behind dark holes. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move like a normal human. Every step is predatory.
You stumble back, heart hammering, trying to retreat, but the shadowy figure moves faster than seems possible. Hands clamp around your arms, yanking you off your feet. You crash through the low brush behind the farmstand, branches tearing at your clothes, and then—suddenly—you’re slammed into the doorway of a small, grimy butcherhouse tucked just past the treeline, metal hooks scraping as you hit the counter inside.
Then his hands are on you, unyielding as he grabs your wrists, and yanks them behind your back. You hit the ground, knees scraping against the floor, and his body presses against yours. The only sound is the low rumble of his breath and the scrape of leather against your clothes.
“I—I’ll do anything!” you choke out, voice high, broken. “Please—please just don’t—”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to. His grip is iron, holding you flush against him, and you can’t move or think—just feel.
Your chest heaves. Hips tremble, trembling uncontrollably against him. Your knee catches on a stone, scraping the skin. You hiss, pressing a hand to it, ignoring the sting as he presses closer, the heat of his body pressing you into the counter Panic twists with shameful arousal, and you can’t stop yourself from shivering, pressing back instinctively.
He moves more slowly, every inch measured. Hands on your hips, fingers pressing, dragging you flush against his body. Grinding, rocking, testing. You whimper and shiver in fear and lust. Every motion is punishing. Every inch of friction presses you closer to breaking.
He presses against you first. You can feel the weight of him through your clothes, the solid heat of his chest against yours. His hands grip your hips, dragging you flush against the counter, holding you in place. You can’t move, can’t escape—the rough wood scratches your palms, hooks scrape lightly against your wrists, and the tension in his body radiates through you.
Slowly, he shifts his hips against you, grinding. The friction is overwhelming. Your breath catches, chest heaving, knees trembling. You whimper, pressing back instinctively, arching, and he presses harder, trapping you against the cold metal. Every movement is teasing, staking claim, dragging out the tension until your body is trembling, desperate, aching.
Only after that—after your muscles are taut, your body slick with sweat and warmth, after the grinding has wrung you half-mad—does he finally begin, slow and heavy, every thrust deliberate, every motion measured. Hooks scrape against your wrists as he pins you, pulling you closer, forcing you exactly where he wants you. Your back arches against the counter, nails digging into the rough wood, and a strangled groan escapes your throat as heat and pressure consume you completely.
The air is thick with sweat and the faint scent of sawdust. You feel it on every inch of your skin. Each thrust presses you deeper, harder. The mixture of panic and raw arousal curls through your veins. Every gasp, every whimper, every tremble seems to excite him more. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. He moves against you like he owns the space, pulling you further into the impossible weight of him.
You try to move, squirm, escape, but the hooks, the counter, his hands, his sheer strength—nothing budges. You’re trapped, pinned, held in place, and every motion he makes drives you further into desperation.
Sweat drips down your spine. Blood and grime coat your palms. Your chest heaves. Your knees threaten to give out. And yet, his rhythm never falters. Every motion crushes you into the counter, pulling you further than you thought you could go.
You cry out. Shudder. Leak everywhere, sticky and trembling. Your body betrays you, writhing, arching. He adjusts, pressing deeper until you’re utterly undone. Every thrust is chaotic. You’re coated in sweat, your own fluids all over him.
Time slips. You can’t tell if seconds or hours pass. Only the relentless rhythm, the oppressive heat, the raw, filthy, overwhelming sensation of him.
When it’s over, you collapse onto the counter, trembling, soaked in your own filth. He stands back for a moment, chest heaving, silent. You’re gasping, knees weak, body trembling uncontrollably.
And then…he lifts the mask.
Sweat streaks down the stitched leather as he peels it away. Black hair plastered to a forehead. Jagged scars across a strong, angled jaw. Eyes dark, piercing, intense. Broad shoulders, thick arms, chest powerful and slick with grime and sweat. Lips thin, but full when slightly parted. You can’t speak. Can’t move. Your chest heaves.
He doesn’t need a name. You don’t need one. He is the butcher, the stranger, the predator who left you trembling, ruined, coated in sweat and grime, entirely his.
Hi hi! If you don't mind me asking and if you write for him, can I request Brook x reader who is like Emily from the corpse bride? (Emily is the name of the corpse bride of you didn't know :3)
Thanks!
Yesss, i love the Corpse Bride!! This was fun to write, thank you for your request!
Moonlit Bones
Brooke x CorpseBride!Reader
The island was thick with fog, the kind that clung to skin like a damp shroud. The Straw Hats weren’t strangers to eerie places, but this one… it had the feeling of a graveyard masquerading as a forest. Trees twisted like reaching claws, flowers bloomed in shades too pale for daylight, and the air carried a faint sweetness, like old roses decayed in the vase.
That’s when they saw you.
Your dress looked like it had once been something beautiful—blue and flowing—but the hem was frayed and torn, dirt clinging to the fabric. Your skin was pale as candle wax, touched with a faint bluish hue. A veil trailed behind you, tangled in branches, and in your hand you carried a delicate bouquet of wilted flowers. You turned at the sound of crunching leaves, your eyes glowing faintly like stars caught in sorrow.
The crew froze, unsure if you were ghost or girl.
Luffy tilted his head, fascinated. Sanji nearly combusted from the gothic beauty of you, though he trembled, uncertain if he should flirt with someone who looked half a breath away from the grave. Nami and Usopp stepped back, whispering that this was definitely cursed. Zoro’s hand rested on his swords, cautious but not reckless. Robin just smiled, intrigued.
And then Brook stepped forward.
For a moment, it was like the two of you were alone in the moonlight. Bone meeting bone, death meeting death, yet somehow it wasn’t grim—it was tender. Brook’s empty sockets widened, as if he could truly see for the first time. You blinked slowly, recognizing something in him too.
“Another…” Your voice cracked, soft as brittle leaves. “Another who has crossed the veil.”
The crew shifted uneasily, but Brook raised his hand politely, his usual jovial tone gentler now. “My apologies, young lady… though I am but bones, I am still very much alive! Yohoho… at least, in spirit.” He bowed low, cane against the ground. “Might I ask your name?”
You tilted your head, veil slipping to one side, revealing a cheek streaked with faint tears that could never dry. “(Y/N).”
Luffy immediately grinned, ignoring the atmosphere. “She’s cool! Join my crew!”
The others groaned, but Brook couldn’t tear his gaze from you. Your sadness was stitched into your being, yet when you looked at him, there was a faint flicker of something warmer—recognition, perhaps even hope.
The night air felt less heavy as Brook reached out a bony hand. “It seems… we are both cursed, in our ways. Perhaps, if you’ll allow me, I could play you something.”
When his violin sang, the island grew quiet. Shadows leaned in to listen, the moonlight softened around you, and your lips curved into the smallest, most fragile smile. For the first time in a very long while, you didn’t feel so alone.
And Brook thought, maybe—just maybe—he had finally met someone who could understand the melody of his heart.
--
The fog hung lower as Brook’s violin faded, the last trembling note lingering in the air. You stood still, bouquet pressed against your chest, as though the song had sewn some long-forgotten heartbeat back into you. The Straw Hats shuffled uncertainly, but Brook didn’t move, his hand still outstretched in silent invitation.
Luffy broke the silence first, as always. “You should come with us! We’ll take you outta this creepy place!”
Nami smacked the back of his head lightly. “Don’t just blurt things like that, Luffy. We don’t even know if she can leave.”
You smiled faintly, lowering your gaze. “No one’s ever asked me before.”
That made the crew still. Robin’s eyes softened, Usopp’s throat went dry, and Sanji swore softly under his breath.
You let the bouquet fall, petals scattering across the moss like the remnants of a wedding long past. “I was meant to be a bride once. Long ago. I waited beneath the trees, veil ready, heart hopeful. But the man I loved never came. He promised me the world, but… he only wanted my dowry. I was left here, betrayed, and I… never quite moved on.”
Your hands twisted in your tattered skirts. “Since then, I’ve lingered. Neither living, nor dead, but something in between. A song unfinished. A vow unkept.”
The forest seemed to sigh around you, as though even the trees pitied your tale.
Brook stepped closer, his voice gentle, stripped of theatrics. “Yohoho… then we are alike. I too once waited, stranded alone in the fog of death, my crew gone, my promise to Laboon unfulfilled. Until I met these wonderful people.” He gestured to the Straw Hats, who—despite their usual chaos—stood in solemn support.
You blinked at him, eyes shimmering with spectral light. “And they let you stay?”
Luffy threw his arms up like it was obvious. “Of course! He’s our friend!”
Zoro smirked faintly. “We don’t really do ‘normal’ anyway. You’d fit right in.”
Nami crossed her arms but her voice softened. “If you want a new start… this crew knows how to give one.”
Usopp swallowed nervously but nodded. “Yeah, we’re… uh, good at picking up strays. In the best way.”
Sanji stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. “A lady like you deserves more than rotting in a forest. You deserve the sea, the sky, and a table always set for you.”
Chopper sniffled, tears already brimming. “Y-you don’t have to be alone anymore!”
Franky flexed, grinning. “Besides, the Sunny’s got room for ghosts, babes, skeletons—whatever you wanna be called!”
Brook chuckled softly, but his gaze never left yours. “What say you, Miss (Y/N)? Would you let me… and us… accompany you away from this sorrow?”
You hesitated, staring at his bony hand. For so long, all you’d known was silence, betrayal, and the endless ache of waiting. Yet here was this strange, lively crew, looking at you not as a specter to fear, but as a person worth saving.
Your pale fingers slid into his skeletal ones. The fit was strange, yet perfect—two remnants of life holding onto one another. “Yes,” you whispered. “I think… I’d like to try again.”
The forest seemed to shiver, petals lifting on an unseen breeze, as if even the island itself released you.
Luffy whooped with joy, the crew cheering as Brook bowed low, his laughter—warm, not hollow—rising into the night. And for the first time since your heart stopped beating, you felt something like hope bloom inside you.
--
The Thousand Sunny’s dining hall glowed warm and golden, a stark contrast to the eerie gloom of the island you had left behind. Laughter bounced off the walls, cutlery clinked, and Sanji practically danced as he ferried dishes to the table. Platters of meat, bowls of steaming rice, fresh bread, and plates of fruit crowded every inch.
But at the end of the table, beside Brook, there were two delicate cups of tea.
You held yours carefully, fingers curling around the porcelain like it might shatter. The steam coiled upward, warm against your face. Brook lifted his own cup, and the two of you shared a look, an unspoken understanding.
Luffy was already face-first in a mountain of meat, talking with his mouth full. “So, (Y/N)! What kinda Devil Fruit did you eat to end up like that?”
The room stilled a little. Nami nudged him, hissing, “Luffy! Don’t just ask things like that—”
You set your cup down softly, the liquid untouched. “It wasn’t a Devil Fruit.”
Robin’s eyes sharpened with interest, leaning forward slightly. “Oh?”
You folded your hands in your lap, pale fingers ghostly against the blue tatters of your dress. “I’m cursed. Betrayal bound me. When I was… left beneath the trees, I should have gone to rest. But instead, sorrow rooted itself inside me. I became what I am now—caught between living and dead.”
Usopp swallowed hard, pushing his plate back a little. “So… like… an actual ghost?”
Franky tilted his sunglasses down, staring at you with awe. “That’s… SUPER metal.”
Chopper’s ears drooped, his little hooves clutching the table. “That’s so sad…”
You smiled faintly, but it was fragile, like cracked glass. “I don’t need food. I don’t need sleep. I don’t need much at all. Just… companionship. I never thought I’d find it again.”
Brook set his teacup down with a soft clink. “Then it seems fate was kind enough to bring us together, yohoho. A skeleton and a bride without a wedding… we make quite the pair.”
Sanji frowned, cigarette trembling slightly as he lit it. “A lady cursed by heartbreak doesn’t belong in some dark forest. You’ll have warmth here, cursed or not.”
Nami gave you a small smile. “You don’t have to explain yourself to us. Devil Fruit or curse, you’re one of us now.”
Zoro shrugged, chewing lazily. “Doesn’t matter what you are. You can hold your own and you’ve got guts. That’s enough.”
Luffy, predictably, was grinning again, crumbs stuck to his cheek. “Yeah! Who cares! You’re our friend now!”
The crew erupted back into chatter, the weight of your confession melting under their loud warmth. Sanji slid a plate of food in front of you instinctively, then paused, realizing. You shook your head gently and pushed it toward Luffy, who happily devoured it.
Instead, you lifted your tea again, sipping slowly. Brook mirrored you, and the two of you shared a quiet moment amid the chaos. His bony jaw couldn’t smile, but you felt it anyway. For the first time in centuries, the tea didn’t taste like ash—it tasted like belonging.
--
Life aboard the Sunny was loud—so loud, in fact, you began to feel your curse quiet just a little. No more endless silence, no more weeping forest. Instead, laughter, arguments, footsteps across wood, Sanji’s cooking scents curling through the air, and Luffy’s laughter shaking the deck.
But adjusting to you was… an adventure of its own.
For starters, you didn’t exactly walk. You drifted—bare feet gliding soundlessly across the Sunny, veil trailing like mist. Usopp nearly screamed the first three mornings when you appeared silently behind him. You swore it wasn’t intentional… but the faint little smile on your lips suggested otherwise.
Robin chuckled every time, calling it “a charming habit.”
Then came the clothes. Nami clasped her hands together one day, eyeing your tattered, dirt-stained gown with a grimace. “Alright, sweetheart, no offense, but you can’t keep running around in a ruined wedding dress. You’re part of the crew now, and you’re going to look the part.”
You tilted your head, curious. “I… only have this one.”
Nami’s response was to shove a bundle of skirts, blouses, and belts into your arms. “Try these. And no complaints.”
So you did. The first blouse slipped over your shoulders easily, soft linen instead of stiff satin. But as you buttoned it, the crew waiting outside the women’s quarters heard a very distinct tearing sound.
When you stepped out, smiling innocently, the entire left side of the blouse gaped where fabric could not—would not—cover the skeletal ribs exposed through your pale skin. A clean, macabre split, like the corset bone structure had simply given up centuries ago.
Sanji fainted.
Usopp screamed into his hands.
Chopper skittered forward, horrified. “Y-your ribs are right there! I can see them! Doesn’t it hurt?! Should I—should I try to wrap you up?! Or—or glue them?!”
You looked down at yourself, blinking. “Oh. I forgot.” You tugged the blouse closed, ribs still gleaming faintly through the gap. “It doesn’t hurt. It never does. I’m… more ornament now than organ.”
Luffy poked a rib experimentally, fascinated. “Cool! You’re like Brook!”
Brook, ever the gentleman, coughed politely. “Yes, though I must say Miss (Y/N) has a… far more charming figure. Yohohoho!”
Zoro muttered from the corner, hand covering his face. “We’re sailing with a skeleton and a zombie bride now. This ship is cursed.”
“Cursed?” Franky laughed, slamming a hand on Zoro’s shoulder. “Nah—this ship is SUPER!”
Robin simply smiled, calm as ever. “I think it suits you, (Y/N).”
You looked down at the torn blouse again, then back up at them. “Does this mean I failed the dress code?”
Nami groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. It just means I’m going to have to tailor things around your… unique figure.”
Sanji still lay twitching on the floor, a nosebleed trailing.
And through it all, you stood with that faintly eerie, almost serene smile—half ghost, half bride, all Straw Hat.
--
Days passed on the Sunny, and you slowly shed the last remnants of your old world. The tattered wedding dress was folded away, a relic you no longer needed. In its place, you wore the clothes Nami had forced—lovingly—upon you: flowing skirts, loose blouses, belts cinched at odd angles.
No matter what you wore, though, the faint gleam of ribs peeked through the gap at your side. The crew had, in their own way, adjusted:
Usopp avoided sitting directly across from you at mealtimes, because every time the light hit your bones just right, he swore they were winking at him.
Chopper fussed constantly, threatening to “patch” you up with bandages, tape, or glue, despite your assurances that nothing could heal what was never meant to heal.
Sanji, after recovering from his initial fainting spell, started designing meals he thought you might enjoy—teas flavored with fruit, delicate pastries you could at least nibble for taste. He never pressured you to eat, but the small plates that “just happened” to appear by your teacup said enough.
And Brook… well. Brook stayed close.
One night, while the others bickered loudly over a card game inside, you slipped to the deck. The moon spilled across the water, turning it silver. You leaned against the rail, hair catching the glow, bones gleaming faintly through the loose blouse. The sea breeze caught your veil—no, not a veil anymore, just a shawl Nami had given you—and made it flutter like a ghost’s whisper.
Brook joined you quietly, violin tucked beneath his arm. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were both used to silence, after all.
Finally, you murmured, “It feels strange. To wear another’s clothes. To laugh again. To… not wait anymore.”
Brook rested his bony hands on the rail beside yours. “I know that strangeness. I wandered for fifty years, waiting for my promise to Laboon. A gentleman keeps his word, no matter how much it hurts. But when I met this crew, I learned something else… sometimes, you’re allowed to begin anew.”
You turned your head, studying the empty sockets of his eyes. Somehow, they felt softer than any gaze you’d ever known. “And do you regret it? Choosing to stay?”
Brook chuckled low, shaking his skull. “Not for a second. Yohohoho. They gave me a song again. And perhaps…” His voice softened, his free hand tapping lightly near your exposed ribs. “They’ve given you one too.”
The touch didn’t hurt—it never could—but it lingered, warm in a way you didn’t think your body could remember.
From inside, Luffy’s voice bellowed: “OI! (Y/N)! BROOK! GET IN HERE, WE NEED A TIEBREAKER!” followed by Usopp shrieking something about cheating and Zoro yelling that he was going to flip the table.
You laughed softly, a sound both brittle and beautiful. “Perhaps they have.”
Brook raised his violin, bow gliding into place. “Then may I accompany you, Miss (Y/N), as you begin your new verse?”
The song that followed wove into the night, carrying laughter from inside and your smile on the deck. Even cursed, even broken, you belonged.
And your bones—gleaming faintly in the moonlight—looked less like decay, and more like silver threads in the fabric of your new life.
--
Dinner that evening was lively as usual—Luffy slurping noodles loud enough to rattle the bowls, Usopp spinning tales of his heroism while Chopper gasped, and Nami trying (and failing) to keep order. You sat near the end of the table, sipping your tea, ribs glinting faintly beneath the fabric of your borrowed blouse.
Sanji, though, kept sneaking glances at you. Finally, cigarette smoldering low between his fingers, he leaned forward. His voice was softer than usual, not the lovesick sing-song he used for Nami or Robin—this was genuine curiosity.
“So, mademoiselle… forgive me if this is too bold, but… how did it happen? Your curse. The moment it… bound you?”
The table quieted, eyes flicking toward you. Even Luffy paused mid-bite, noodles dangling from his mouth.
You tilted your head, thinking. Then, with the same calmness you’d explain the weather, you said, “I was murdered. As soon as the dowry was paid.”
Silence.
Utter, bone-deep silence.
Usopp dropped his fork. Chopper squeaked. Nami’s knuckles went white around her glass.
Zoro muttered, “Well. That’s… blunt.”
Sanji’s eyes widened, cigarette trembling at his lip. “Murdered?!”
You nodded slowly, not a hint of theatrics. “Yes. He never intended to marry me. He wanted the gold. Once it was his, I was no longer needed. So he killed me beneath the trees where I waited.”
The crew stared. The casual way you said it unsettled them more than the words themselves—like you were talking about misplacing a scarf rather than the moment your life ended.
Brook, seated beside you, reached for his teacup with a steady hand. “Yohoho… that’s rather ghastly, Miss (Y/N).”
You smiled faintly, looking down at your cup. “It’s been years. Decades. The sadness burned itself out long ago. What remains is… emptiness. The worst part wasn’t the betrayal, or even the death. It was the loneliness. Being forgotten. No voice but my own for so long.”
Your gaze lifted, sweeping over each of them—their shocked faces, the warmth of their company, their very aliveness. Your smile softened, fragile but true. “But now I have you. And that loneliness… it’s gone.”
Chopper burst into tears, leaping across the table to cling to you. “That’s so sad but also so sweet! You’re not alone anymore!”
Nami’s expression tightened, but she reached out, touching your hand gently. “You’re safe with us now.”
Franky sniffled behind his sunglasses. “That backstory is SUPER tragic.”
Usopp muttered, still pale, “I’m never sleeping on a spooky island again.”
Sanji leaned forward, steadying his cigarette at last, and gave you the kind of look reserved for things delicate and precious. “For what it’s worth, mademoiselle… that man was a fool. To harm someone like you. You deserved better then—but you’ll have better now.”
Brook set his cup down with a clink, his voice carrying quiet weight. “And should the loneliness ever whisper back, Miss (Y/N), know that my music—and this crew—will always drown it out.”
The table filled with voices again—comfort, laughter, promises. And as their warmth surrounded you, your smile grew.
You no longer felt like a forgotten bride. You felt like a crewmate, a friend, a song finally being played again.
--
The ship rocked gently against the night tide, the air still, the sea whispering in its endless hush. You stood at the rail, eyes lifted to the pale, glowing moon. It bathed you in silver, gleaming faintly across your exposed ribs, turning the shawl Nami had given you into a veil of starlight.
Above, Zoro sat in the crow’s nest, silent, pretending not to notice the way you stared at the horizon like it might answer questions long buried.
Footsteps tapped lightly across the deck. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Brook’s violin rested under his arm, his cane tapping against the wood. He stopped a few paces from you, the faint creak of bones filling the quiet.
“You look beautiful in the moonlight, Miss (Y/N),” he said softly, voice without its usual showmanship.
You smiled faintly, gaze still on the moon. “I used to dream about this, you know. Nights like this. I wanted to marry beneath the trees, then dance beneath the stars. I wanted to see the sea with someone beside me. I wanted… a life. Something simple. Something warm.”
Brook rested his bony hands on the railing beside you. His empty sockets tilted toward the sky as if he could see your dreams in the stars. “And yet those things were taken from you.”
“Yes.” You turned, your pale features softened by the moonlight. “But now… I have another chance. Not as I imagined it, but perhaps even better. A crew, laughter, a place to belong.” Your lips curved with the faintest smile. “Though… I never did get that dance.”
Brook’s spine straightened, the gentleman in him rising like an old memory. He clicked his cane against the deck, bowing low. “Then, Miss (Y/N), may I have the honor of giving you your first dance? Even if my body is but bones, I assure you my manners remain intact.”
For a moment, you froze. Then you placed your hand into his, skeletal fingers wrapping gently around yours. “I’d be honored.”
The violin came to life beneath his chin, bow gliding smoothly, the melody sweet and mournful all at once. He played one-handed, guiding you with the other, leading you into slow, graceful steps across the deck.
The sea became your ballroom. The moon your chandelier.
Your skirts swirled, your bones glinted, your laughter—soft and fragile—rose into the night air. Brook’s playing wrapped around you both, and for once, the music didn’t ache with loneliness. It felt like fulfillment. Like promise.
Above, Zoro leaned in the crow’s nest, watching briefly. He muttered to himself, “Cheesy skeleton bastard,” but there was no bite in it—just the faintest curve of a smile.
As the song ended, Brook dipped you low, bowing his skull over your hand. “There. Your first dance, Miss (Y/N). And I pray, not your last.”
You looked up at him, eyes shimmering like starlight. “It was everything I hoped for.”
The curse hadn’t lifted. Your ribs still gleamed in the moonlight. But for the first time since betrayal had chained you to this form, you didn’t feel broken. You felt whole.
And Brook’s music carried your heart into the sea, no longer forgotten.
--
The night blurred into something timeless. The two of you danced through song after song, sometimes slow and careful, sometimes clumsy when Brook made you laugh so hard you forgot the steps. The moon waned into dawn, stars fading one by one until the horizon blushed pink.
By the time you finally stopped, your hands were still clasped in his, your cheeks warmed with a flush you hadn’t felt in centuries. Brook guided you to sit, settling on the deck with a pot of tea Sanji had left cooling the night before. Steam curled between you as the ship rocked gently, and you talked.
About everything. About nothing.
You told him about the silly things you once dreamed of—tending a garden of bluebells, learning to swim, having a song sung for you. He told you about Laboon, about his old crew, about music as a thread that ties memory together.
By the time the rest of the crew began stirring, the two of you were side by side, teacups in hand, soft laughter spilling from you like morning light.
The first to appear was Zoro, climbing down lazily from the crow’s nest. He stretched, yawning, his single open eye flicking toward you both. His gaze lingered on your posture—still tilted toward Brook, hands almost brushing on the deck between you.
He smirked. “You two were dancing all night, weren’t you?”
Your hand froze halfway to your teacup. The warmth that had bloomed so naturally last night turned into something else entirely—heat rising to your cheeks, stiff and startling. For the first time in decades, you looked utterly flustered.
“I—ah—no, well—yes, but—that isn’t—” you stammered, pale skin glowing faintly under the sunrise. You pressed your cup to your lips as if it could hide your expression.
Brook chuckled softly, ever the gentleman but unable to resist. “Yohohoho! Indeed we did, Swordsman-san. The lady has quite the natural grace, though I fear I may have tired her out.”
“Not tired!” you blurted, far too quickly, gripping your cup. “Just—just—” Your ribs glinted as your blouse shifted, betraying the way you squirmed.
Zoro arched a brow, enjoying the sight of someone other than him or Sanji being embarrassed for once. He muttered as he walked past toward the galley, “Cheesy skeleton… and you’re worse for letting him.”
Brook tilted his skull toward you, voice gentle despite the teasing lilt. “Miss (Y/N), are you… blushing?”
You gave him a flat look, though the corner of your lips betrayed the smile fighting its way free. “I don’t blush. Not anymore.”
“Ah, then forgive me. Perhaps it’s the morning sun reflected on your lovely face.” He bowed slightly, sipping his tea.
You huffed, turning away, but the smile bloomed fully now. The curse had dulled your heart for so long, but sitting there, tea in hand, Brook beside you, you could feel it again—alive, racing, flustered, foolish.
And you liked it.
--
By the time breakfast was on the table, word had spread. Whether Zoro had let it slip in that smug, offhand way of his or whether the crew simply knew (as Straw Hats somehow always did), the air in the galley was buzzing.
You sat between Robin and Brook, sipping your tea quietly. Too quietly. The air was thick with the effort of pretending nothing had happened, but it was doomed from the start.
Nami leaned across the table, chin in her hand, eyes gleaming. “So…” she drawled. “Did you have fun last night?”
You blinked, feigning innocence. “Fun?”
Usopp leaned in on the other side, grinning. “Oh, come on! Zoro saw you. Dancing on deck with Brook. All night.”
Sanji, who was still plating fruit, nearly crushed an apple in his hand. “Dancing all night?!” He turned, scandalized. “With a lady as beautiful as you, and he didn’t even—” He froze, realizing mid-sentence he was about to condemn Brook while also swooning over you. He pivoted gracelessly. “I mean—HOW COULD HE TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOUR DELICATE INNOCENCE LIKE THAT?!”
Brook raised his bony hands in surrender. “Yohoho! I assure you, gentlemen, it was entirely respectable. Merely dancing, sipping tea, and conversing.”
Nami’s smirk sharpened. “Mmhm. Entirely respectable. That’s why our dear (Y/N) came into breakfast this morning looking like she’s been blushing.”
Your teacup nearly slipped in your hand. “I—I don’t blush.”
“Then what’s that?” Usopp pointed gleefully at your face, where the faintest heat still lingered across your cheeks.
Chopper scrambled into your lap, staring up at you with wide, teary eyes. “You’re alive again! Look! You’re blushing! That’s amazing!”
You covered your face with your hands, groaning. “This is mortifying.”
Franky slapped the table, roaring with laughter. “Our spooky zombie bride got her first dance, and now she’s glowing! That’s SUPER romantic!”
Robin only chuckled softly, touching her chin as if observing some long play unfold. “It suits you. You should allow yourself more of these moments.”
Luffy, cheeks full of meat, grinned ear to ear. “So are you two married now?!”
You choked on your tea. Brook nearly dropped his violin case.
Zoro, smirking from his seat, drawled, “Give it time.”
The galley erupted with laughter, chatter, teasing that seemed endless. You sat there, bones glinting faintly through your blouse, tea trembling in your hands. For the first time in centuries, you didn’t mind being flustered, teased, or embarrassed.
Because it meant you were alive again—among friends, among family. And maybe… just maybe… something more.
And across the table, Brook’s empty sockets met your gaze. His bow tapped gently against the table, and though he couldn’t blush, his aura carried the same warmth.
⚠️ Trigger/Content Warnings: Emotional distress / heartbreak, Standing someone up / Rejection, Public embarrassment / Humiliation, Crying / Panic response, Parental confrontation / Anger, Verbal confrontation / Threats, Mentions of emotional neglect, Disappointment from loved ones, Mild language / Strong emotional tone, Themes of self-worth and abandonment
Summary:
You waited two hours at the restaurant. Tim never showed. What was supposed to be a date turned into public humiliation and a quiet, painful drive back to Smallville. But when you walk through the farmhouse door and break down in Clark’s arms, the heartbreak doesn’t stay yours alone. And when Superman shows up in the Batcave—furious, protective, and done—everyone learns exactly what it means to break the heart of Superman’s kid.
A/N: Y'all this is a heavy one. Wanted to try some angst for a change and whose better to practice on than my least favourite Robin Tim Drake! Enjoy :)
You glanced at the time on your phone again.
9:12 PM.
Two hours. Two full hours.
The screen's glow lit your features in pale blue, too cold against the flushed warmth of your cheeks. You set the phone down again, face blank, hands numb. The candle on the table had burned low, a pool of wax edging toward the glass base. The white tablecloth, once pristine, now had the ghostly shape of a wine ring, a glass you'd barely touched.
The restaurant staff had stopped coming by a long time ago. They no longer asked if your “plus one” would be joining you. Instead, they just floated around you with gentle, pitiful glances—like circling a dying star. A waiter eventually brought out a complimentary slice of cheesecake, as if dessert could mend the rupture clawing its way through your chest.
You didn’t touch it.
You couldn’t.
The soft clink of silverware, the buzz of casual conversations at neighboring tables, the low hum of violins from the speakers overhead—it all blurred into one excruciating, echoing silence inside your head. Everyone had begun to notice. Whispering. You could feel their stares crawling up your spine like static. A couple in the corner exchanged a look. Someone snickered. Another person offered a frown and quickly looked away.
Your vision blurred—not from tears, not yet—but from the pressure in your skull. Your chest ached like a cracked rib, and every breath you took only seemed to deepen the fracture.
Tim said 7.
You had confirmed that morning.
He had sent a smiley face emoji.
You wore your best outfit. You’d gotten there early. You even practiced what you might say if the conversation hit a lull. You made yourself believe he cared.
You finally stood, the wooden chair dragging a soft, scraping whimper across the hardwood floor. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You waved over the server, that one who had been kind without saying much, and forced a smile that felt more like a splintered mirror than anything real.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “For being kind.”
You reached into your wallet and pulled out a crisp $100 bill. You laid it on the check, which you'd insisted on paying despite the fact your dinner had amounted to a lonely drink and a sympathy slice of dessert. The bill looked absurd now. Like trying to tip fate for being cruel.
“I... just didn’t want it to be for nothing.”
The server blinked, mouth parting with visible discomfort. “You don’t have to do that, seriously—”
“I know. But I want to.”
You left before your voice cracked.
---
The drive back to Smallville was long. Long in the way time feels when your stomach is empty, but your heart is heavier than stone. The countryside stretched into the dark, broken only by headlights and the occasional passing truck, its rumble trailing behind like ghost-thunder.
You didn’t cry. Not on the drive.
You couldn’t.
You clenched your jaw so hard your molars felt like they’d crack. You blinked up at the stars once when you hit a red light—silent, cold, beautiful things—too distant to understand heartbreak.
When you finally pulled into the Kent farmhouse driveway and stepped through the screen door, the smell of fresh bread and the soft glow of home hit you all at once.
Clark was there, of course. Sitting at the table in his flannel, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a mug of tea forgotten beside him.
“Hey, kiddo—”
His voice was soft. Warm. Home.
And that broke you.
Your bottom lip quivered, and before you could stop yourself, a sharp sob twisted out of your throat. You didn’t even take your shoes off. You stumbled toward him, legs weak with the weight of everything unsaid.
Clark caught you before you fell.
Strong arms wrapped around you like armor. Like gravity. Like a father who’d catch the entire sky if it meant protecting his child.
“Hey. Hey, I got you. I got you,” he murmured. He guided you to the couch, holding you close as the tears finally came, messy and unstoppable, soaking into his shirt.
You tried to speak, but all you could manage—between sobs and hiccups—were two cracked, breaking words:
“He... didn’t.”
Clark didn’t ask.
He didn’t have to.
---
Thirty-one minutes later, Superman cut through the stratosphere like a bullet of burning light. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, his cape snapping in the wind like a storm flag.
The Batcave was quiet until it wasn’t.
He landed with a deafening gust of air, rattling tech and flickering screens. Silence fell like ash. The Batfamily turned—Tim wasn’t even visible yet, but it didn’t matter.
Clark’s voice cut through the cave like a blade.
“Where. Is. Tim.”
Bruce turned toward the commotion, calm but visibly surprised. “Clark? What—”
“Now.”
Tim descended from the second floor, one bootstep at a time, confused. “Wait, what’s going on?”
But before he reached the final step, Clark was there. Towering. Seething. A breath away. His expression wasn’t just angry—it was betrayed. His eyes glowed faintly, dangerously, the threat of heat vision pulsing in the dark.
“You stood my kid up tonight.”
Tim blinked, caught like a deer in high beams. “Wait... they were serious? I thought they were joking.”
Silence.
It hit the room like a bomb.
Clark recoiled slightly. Not physically. Emotionally. Like someone had slapped him with a truth too ugly to absorb.
“You thought they were joking?”
His voice dropped. Deep and dark and cold. The kind of cold that kills in winter. The kind that lives in a father’s chest when his child is broken and bleeding and all he can do is witness it.
Jason’s jaw locked. He looked away in disgust.
Cassandra didn’t speak. She just folded her arms, disappointment sharp in every line of her body.
Even Damian muttered, “Tt. Pathetic.”
Dick looked down. Barbara didn’t.
Her voice was steel.
“That’s not a joke, Tim. You don’t pretend to ask someone on a date. Not someone like them.”
Tim looked around, starting to realize. Starting to see the crater he'd left in his wake. But it was too late.
Clark stepped forward. Closer. His tone was deadly now—final.
“You don’t get to talk to them again. You don’t get to hurt them again. If I ever see you near my child... we will have a very different conversation.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.
With one last glare that felt like it could shatter steel, Superman turned. The sonic boom of his departure left a thunderclap and a silence even deeper than before.
Tim didn’t speak.
No one did.
---
Back in Smallville, you sat curled on the porch swing. Knees to your chest. The stars above looked the same, but you felt different—like something had cracked open in you and let the cold seep in.
The porch creaked gently as Clark landed beside you. No dramatic gust. No heroic pose. Just him. Your dad.
“Did you say anything to him?” you asked quietly, voice raw and hoarse.
He didn’t speak at first. Then, he gently pulled you to his side, letting your head rest on his shoulder.
“I told him the truth,” he said. His voice was calm again. Grounded. “And I made sure he understood how valuable you are.”
You didn’t answer. You just let the silence settle, thick and warm, like a blanket pulled over bruised skin. Your breathing steadied. The ache dulled—just enough to feel human again.
And there, under the starlit sky, surrounded by chirping crickets and the solid, unshakable presence of your father, you closed your eyes.
For the first time all night, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone.
(First time doing angst, pls let me know if it's good! 😊)
Hei swweetieee, firstly I like soo much Mitsuri s/o request. Would you mind writing some long, headcanons for Sebastian Michaelis and Clauda Faustus and Ciel Phantomhive (ciel is platonic) reacting to an human s/o who's like Makima? She punishes criminals and has her powers and look. Her aim is enind war, pain, etc... thanks in advance ♡
Hi hi! Thank you so much for the first request! Sure I can do that!
Here's Claude, Sebastian, and ciel (platonic) with a makima s/o from Chainsaw Man!
🐈⬛️ Sebastian Michaelis x Makima!Reader🐈⬛️
Power Dynamic & Fascination:
🐈⬛️Sebastian is deeply intrigued by you. Not merely attracted — fascinated. You’re not a normal human, and he knows it immediately. You carry yourself like royalty and radiate an aura of absolute control, even over things you don’t touch. Your scent is faintly divine and infernal all at once, something Sebastian cannot place.
❤️You speak softly, but your words carry unshakable authority. Sebastian notices how criminals obey your commands without hesitation, how even the most rebellious hearts shrink under your stare. It reminds him of contracts… but without the formalities. You bend wills with a glance.
Respect Born of Ruthlessness:
🐈⬛️As the Queen’s watchdog, Sebastian punishes the wicked. But you don’t just punish — you restructure evil itself. You break systems from within. You view criminals not as individuals but as symptoms of a larger disease, and that ideology makes Sebastian both wary and impressed. You're not evil — you're order in its rawest, most terrifying form.
❤️When you obliterate a corrupt noble using your powers (perhaps compressing their body into nothing with just a glance), Sebastian remarks, “I see… your elegance rivals that of death itself, my lady.”
Shared Philosophy, Different Means:
🐈⬛️Sebastian is a being of chaos and indulgence, while you are cold precision masked in angelic calm. Your goal — world peace — makes him smirk, but the lengths you’re willing to go to accomplish it? That earns his respect.
❤️You don’t fear demons. In fact, you use their language against them, control them, bind them to your vision. Sebastian doesn’t know if he’s impressed or mildly threatened. Perhaps both.
🐈⬛️Your presence keeps him grounded in a rare way. For once, he doesn't have total control of the board, and that makes the game delicious.
Romantic Intensity:
🐈⬛️If you’re in a relationship with him, it’s dangerously stable. Passion burns behind the scenes. Touch is rare but deliberate. When you lean into him and whisper, "Sebastian… kneel," he doesn't hesitate. He knows it's not love like humans understand it — it’s devotion wrapped in mutual ambition.
❤️You both would never lie to each other. Your honesty is chilling, and that makes it real to him. You love him, not because you need to — but because you chose to, and that alone makes him feel more owned than any contract ever could.
🕷Claude does not trust easily and certainly doesn’t respect it easily — until he meets you. Your presence is a disruption to his mathematical mind. You aren’t chaos…. You’re an equation he can’t solve. You terrify him in the way only a being that mirrors his coldness could.
💛At first, he observes you like prey. But he quickly realizes you’re not a spider in the web — you are the web.
Obsession and Control:
🕷Claude becomes obsessed with you. Not romantically at first — clinically. He follows your actions, memorizes your patterns, and documents how your power works. How you look someone in the eyes, say a word, and they drop dead or kneel. It’s not just manipulation — it’s domination.
💛You notice his fascination and confront him about it. "Curiosity, Claude? Or submission?" He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know.
Delicate Romance Built on Calculation:
🕷If you're in a relationship, Claude finds himself submitting to your cause, not because he believes in it, but because he believes in you. You are his higher purpose — a being of god-like will. He’d craft the perfect dessert or orchestrate the death of a noble with equal enthusiasm if it pleased you.
💛He calls you "ma belle punition" — my beautiful punishment. Because loving you is like living under a scalpel: sharp, painful, exhilarating.
Shared Vision — Different Execution:
🕷Claude and you both desire perfection, but your idea of peace requires sacrifice. Claude finds oddly romantic. He dreams of a world where you are the only authority. If you asked him to kill Alois for your greater good, he’d consider it. Not out of disloyalty, but because you redefine loyalty.
💛Sometimes, you whisper dark truths in his ear — promises of a world without chaos — and he believes, if only while you're speaking.
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☕️ Ciel Phantomhive x Makima!Reader (Platonic)☕️
Uneasy Alliance:
☕️At first, Ciel distrusts you. You appear too calm, too in control. He’s used to being the smartest person in the room, and you ruin that equation. You make decisions he wouldn’t, punish nobles more severely than even he dares. Yet… he can’t argue with the results.
💙You treat Ciel like an equal, but with subtle undertones of protection — the way one might regard a bright child leading a dangerous game.
Shared Goals, Different Morality:
☕️Your mutual aim — a world without corruption and cruelty — binds you. But where Ciel wants revenge and justice, you want to order at all costs. He questions your methods, especially when you execute war criminals without trial or use your influence to blackmail the crown into submission.
💙"You're playing with fire," he tells you. You smile. "I am the fire, Ciel. And you're smart enough to stay warm without getting burned."
Protective & Platonic Mentorship Vibe:
☕️You don’t talk down to him, but there’s an unspoken awareness that you’ve lived more, seen more, and know more. You guide him subtly — not manipulating him but nudging him toward a broader vision. Not just revenge… but reform.
💙He eventually seeks your counsel in crises, though he’ll never admit it aloud. You help him see the political field as more than personal vendettas. You open his mind to systemic change.
Complicated Respect:
☕️Ciel once asks you, "How many people would you sacrifice to achieve peace?" You answer without flinching: "Everyone who stands in the way." He’s horrified. But also… captivated. Because deep down, he knows he might do the same.
Final Bond:
☕️Ciel respects you more than almost anyone — and perhaps fears you just a little. But he sleeps more soundly, knowing you’re out there, punishing those beyond his reach. You're the blade in the dark that cleanses the world — and though your morality differs, your goal unites you.
