feng

[onlyfeng]

────── feng ─ she,they ─── 19!

"english isn't my native language" final boss ── belgian ─ enfp ── sagittarius ─ cabin 12, child of dionysus ── ravenclaw ──── bi(lingual)(sexual)(tch)

currently working on: THE AFTERTASTE SERIES.

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[onlyfeng]

i haven’t disappeared i’m js working on 20 billion projects at once

[onlyfeng]

────── DOUBLE TAKE, TRIPLE TAKE.

pairing: bruce wayne x reader

before the devotion, it was just you two, against the world, against Gotham's elite's expectations, filling the hollow in your chests with glitter, whiskey and scandal. [first part - the meeting]

tags: no use of y/n, 2nd person pov, lack of capitalisation, fem!reader, casual drinking (a glass of champagne each), both are 18yo, pre-Batman!Bruce, reader is a nepo baby warnings: mentions of death with a light tone (reader's family kinda died). w/c: 2.1k notes: song is obvi "When Did You Get Hot?" by Sabrina Carpenter. find more in the 'minx's best friend' masterlist.

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you were barely 18. you weren’t grieving your family anymore -you were grieving the peace you had when you were still the youngest. the family’s baby. daddy’s girl. your brothers’ princess. your mom’s favorite. 

but then, yeah. private jet crash, etc, etc, your dad being the only survivor, drinking salt water while you were sipping mocktails with your amazing aunt in her penthouse in Metropolis. infinite guilt. the story’s old news. that had been two years ago. 

sole heir to your father’s enterprise, you made sure to mingle with the elite early on -and your friend Veronica made sure to introduce you to the coolest people in these boring social circles. 

hence the reason of your introduction to Bruce Wayne. orphan. just came back from four years abroad, only the gods know where.

but you know that guy. you were at his parents’ funeral, and had held his hand at the fountain with the statue of a siren, whose face had the traits of his mother. you knew knew him. he wasn’t an ugly kid, but he had that whole wet kicked kitten thing going on. you were eight at the time, you didn’t think about romance.

you called Veronica so she’d open the back door for you -you loved grand entrances, but not at her mom’s galas. her eyes lit up when she saw you. 

“so, how’re you doing?” she inquired, hands clapping together in excitement. “great, actually! very much… untouched,” you add with a grimace, referring to last night’s date. 

“aw, shucks. don’t worry, there are so many people our age tonight! it will be less boring than mom’s previous gala, at the very least. i will introduce to so, so many new persons!” she sounded ecstatic, that earned a smile from you. she managed to ramble about Rimbaud’s quote on not being serious at seventeen. you had to remind her you both had turned 18, and couldn’t use the excuse anymore. 

“the Wayne heir is back in town,” she started, earning a surprised look from you, “his looks are to die for, but he’s not very… good at public relationships. nor is he media-trained. it’s a shame, really,” she added, opening the door the buzzing room. 

you stepped in with her, offering tight smiles as you walked past people you vaguely knew. “i bet he really has some potential,” you started, not really knowing where you were going. Veronica snorted and said, “you gave your father a fashion sense and put him back on track after the crash, you could give Bruce a hand. my mother would be enthusiastic if he could use his trust-fund to donate to her charity,” she pried, and you smiled though scoffing. 

“i would enjoy the challenge,” you admitted. once she was finished, you left the room together, arm in arm, giggling about fine men who owed you their success, fantasising about molding someone into exactly what they should be. the discussion had shifted away from the tragedy that was Bruce Wayne, to.. whatever that was. 

just like your kid self, you didn’t think about romance either when your friend introduced you to a Bruce Wayne serving once again wet kicked kitten. but maybe a teeny tiny bit of lust filled your eyes. 

huh. 

he’d grown a lot. in the best way possible. in width, too. you found yourself admiring him as he exchanged a few polite words with your friend.

“actually, Veronica…” he had started. “we already know each other.” you bit your cheek in an attempt to suppress your smile. her eyes fell on you. “oh, really?” she had used that fake sweet tone every aristocrat had learned to use. his eye twitched. 

“yes, our mothers…” you trailed off. yeah, painful images of ghosts. great way to rekindle. “...they knew each other,” you said, voice lower. 

he nodded. 

“sweet! i’ll leave you to it, then, i see my aunt struggling with the canapés.” she walked away and mouthed, “good luck,” thumbs up, exaggerated. you loved her for that.

he looked down at you. like, down, down. and you weren’t so small. how tall is that man?

“didn’t think i’d have the pleasure to see you here,” he said, solemn, looking… extremely boring. “didn’t plan on coming, but my friend -Veronica, you know her obviously she came to you in the first place- insisted. for… a social upbringing.” 

he looked amused at your disinterested tone. you had looked away for a second, already bored, but the sight of his smile made you take a double take. what a fine man.

you grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, and handed one to him. “sooo… why are you back in Gotham? i didn’t think you’d ever come back.” 

“i think… i wanted more stability? and the board members of Wayne Enterprises are… insistent.” you raised your eyebrows, sipping on your champagne, “oh, that sucks.” he chuckled, a silly laugh you didn’t expect for him. “you don’t have to fake caring about it.”

“i’m not faking!” you laughed, then your face fell into an easy smile, holding your glass with two fingers. “so. four years abroad. where did you go?”

he hesitated, tipped his head down to look at his shoes, then raised his gaze. not his face. you noticed his eyebrows then -bushy yet taken care of, kind of hot if anyone had asked you. “here and there,” he said, looking at you intently, waiting for a reaction.

you scoffed, “okay, mysterious. lemme guess, self-discovery?” he nodded, amused, and you kept on going, “something like Tibet, or maybe the Italian Alps? you were most likely ‘finding yourself’ and meditating. or taking care of goats.” 

he laughed, discreet, measured, but laughed nonetheless. “something like that.”

a beat passed. you looked away, then back at him, to find him gulping down his champagne for liquid courage. it crossed your mind that it was one of his first social events. you switched the conversation to a lighter topic.

“it has been, i’d say… ten years, since we last saw each other?” 

it earned you a glance your way from him, because he had been looking everywhere but at you. after a glance, he turned back at you, full body angled towards you. your lighter topics had a tendency to circle back to death.

his shoulders look like they could handle three existential crisis and about four more public appearances. 

“yes,” he started, then seemed about to start a sentence. you raised your brows, attentive -that made him back up. he started over, “yes, indeed. since your family’s departure, i believe?”

you winced. talk about lighter topics.

“we haven’t met in many light-hearted situations,” you said, without really knowing why. he offered a sad smile. “we haven’t. i do have good memories with you though,” he let out while finishing his champagne, not that there was much to finish. “playtimes as kids,” he explained, when he saw your pleasantly surprised face. 

“oh right! i remember,” you nodded, then winced once again. “we truly destroyed my mother’s roses.” 

he chuckles, “yes, we did. is it…?” he didn’t finish the sentence there, he didn’t need to, you brushed it off by waving a hand dismissively. “oh, it’s in perfect shape. my father uncovered a passion for gardening. it helps me feeling better for leaving him all alone, back home.” 

he tilted his head on the side, and you had to tilt your head down to hide a smile, fawning over his cute looks. he didn’t look cute, far from it, he’s rather been on the “handsome” side, but he looked like he was still learning the dimensions of his own body -you were so into it. 

he looked like the kind of guy who didn’t want to mess up, the uncertain but not insecure kind. you liked that about him instantly. made you want to stick around and find out.

“it really has been a while. and you’ve grown so much!” you said, putting a hand near his elbow. he looked down at your fingers and smiled to himself. “yes, really-”

you were cut off by a woman -mid forties- who’d apparently worked with his father. she bathed and drowned Bruce with pity right in front of you. his face read like an open book, and he wasn’t pleased, nor was he angry, he looked taken aback, and honestly fed up. 

you reached out to take Bruce’s glass from his hands. he looked down at you, then back at the woman, and still stole another glance at your retreating figure. you put the glasses down as a waiter walked past you and headed towards other super rich kids for a little networking, acting as if Bruce’s gaze across the room wasn’t heavy. 

around midnight, the boring people had left, leaving only vultures and the younger crowd. Bruce was nowhere to be found, according to Vanessa’s mother, but when you went to the balcony for fresh air, his frame leaned against the balustrade next to you. 

“oh, hi,” you breathed, the chilly air doing wonder for your buzzing skin. “hello again,” he breathed back. you stood in silence for a while, and after a few minutes, his lips parted, as if ready to speak but not knowing what to say. noticing his struggle, you spoke first.

“i thought you had left, my friend’s mom has been looking for you everywhere,” you teased, amused to see him struggle in that kind of social event. he shrugged it off, “i’ll reach out when i want to, i’m just…”

you watched him hesitate, silent, until he sighed, “i am not that ready for galas. especially those thrown in order to pump money out of us,” you heard him mutter. you chuckled. he looked at you then offered an apologetic smile.

“i guess they have been asking about your parents,” you stated, trying to get some informations out of him. he wasn’t the kind to easily let anything out. he sighed, yet another time, and nodded, “they all have. i wonder if my leave didn’t make it worse. look at you, they’re leaving you alone,” he says, his hand opposite to you gesturing your way. 

you scoffed, “don’t go around thinking that’s luck, Bruce. it is all thanks to my natural charm, easy personality, and gorgeous smile,” you deadpanned. he smirked. “how humble,” he said in the same tone.

you put a hand on his forearm, watching his reaction to contact. “i am serious. well, kind of,” you admitted, making him raise a brow. “you have the look. sad eyes, brooding face, set jaw,” you detail him, gesturing vaguely to his face with your free hand, watching him frown more and more as you keep going.

“don’t be that,” you say, letting go of his forearm, looking back at the illuminated city further away. “be something else -anything you want, really. i don’t think ‘the orphan’ will work out for you.

“something else?” he repeats. you smiled, happy to have sparked up his interest. you loved attention, and his was very much focused on you. “yes! look at you, really. you’re tall and, let’s be honest, ridiculously attractive. you have money, more than anyone can count, and you have that whole… mysterious thing going on. just use it!” 

“i don’t-” he started, the frowned, “use it for what?”

it was your turn to sigh, “whatever you want, honestly. people here see what you wanted them to see, if you’re good enough.”

he was about to reply, face in a frown, but Veronica swooped in. “okay, i have to steal you, my cousin just arrived, she’s fuck-” “Veronica,” you warned, and she huffed. “she is insufferable. i should be able to use bad words.”

without leaving you any time to reply, she tugged your arm. “let me use you as backup, please,” she implored. you took it as your cue to leave.

you promised her to come right that second then turned to face Bruce, a smile on your face. “I’m in thz same events as you, we’ll talk more.” he nodded, a little taken aback. “uh- i’d like that. “welcome back to Gotham!” you said, running off to your friend.

his surprised smile followed you until you disappeared in the crowd.

taglist | @stargirl17 @matildavol6 @hikari-michiko @fawntasee @scarecrownboo @notme102707

notes | thanks a lot to milky for she has motivated me to actually write something for this whole series. part one of the actual series needs to be proofread, but it's done!

[onlyfeng]

— THE THIRST "STARE, DON'T TOUCH"

pairing: kaldur'ahm x reader

THE AFTERTASTE SERIES, FIRST CHAPTER Manta handpicks you as his son's lieutenant. between Kaldur'ahm and you, a common interest grows and is instantly ignored.

tags: no use of y/n, 2nd person pov, lack of capitalization, fem!reader, moral ambiguity, reader is inspired by Medea, unresolved s*xual tension, touch-starved Kaldur'ahm, kinda forced proximity, loyalty k*nk low-key, canon-compliant mostly, warnings: heavy Young Justice season two spoilers, morally grey protagonist (past murder), mentions of past death (mother), brief non-s*xual nudity word count: 4.7k notes: oh how i love that man. ik this is probably gonna get like 11 notes but honestly idc, Kaldur deserves sm more fics

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the perpetual movement of the waves always makes you remember everything. water memory or, more likely, the familiarity of it all.

it helps remembering your mother’s last, frantic breaths, bubbles fading into the dark abysses you lived in. it helps remembering the way you left to live as a homeless teen in a coastal town, hiding your gills and avoiding the beach at all costs.

the sea itself remembers how you shamefully came back to serve your mother’s protector, because it was all you knew. you couldn’t have cared less about his motives, unless maybe had it been coral destruction. you just wanted to have a place to belong to. 

it -the sea- remembers your first murder, the arsons, the hurt you’ve caused on purpose, just to earn your place in the slightest.

everything brought you here, to this moment. the sea brought you to him. you didn’t feel a particular connection to the ocean but you liked to believe in destiny. helped you get through shit.

you broke the water surface without a sound. you’d always been stealthy. a monument to grace, restraint. so good at making yourself invisible. so, so good at being forgotten.

not quite like a ghost or some sea creature. more like a shadow, trying hard not to be a bother, and succeeding. 

as you emerged from the dark waters, two figures stood there, noticeable only thanks to the faint glow of the moonlight. you would wait, then would be acknowledged, you would take your place, easy peazy.

but then again, he was some kind of child soldier, with the instincts of a marine. he moved his father to the side, and he charged. you dropped, took a step back, and grabbed your halberd. you extended it, not to kill but to strike his calf, which you missed. you didn’t get the chance to prepare for another strike of his, because Black Manta then moved forward, one heavy step being enough to stop the both of you. you lowered your halberd. his son did not lower his water blades, but his expression tempered. very, very slightly. it was mistrust instead of threat assessment now.

oh, joy.

“Kaldur.” he turned his back to you, a hand on his son’s shoulder, “she is Idiya’s daughter.” 

Kaldur’ahm looked up at his father in confusion. for someone who had never lived in Black Manta’s circle, he probably didn’t know much about whom had lived before he came. but her, he definitely knew about. his father’s lieutenant. the fiercest, most loyal soldier that ever existed in Black Manta’s ranks. the most phenomenal ghost to ever overcome, for Manta’s respect for her was too great. you owed your survival to her ghost. that’s probably what Kaldur saw first, you thought.

because you saw yourself through his eyes, right away. a problem. 

only then did the red gaze of the helmet swing your way

“this is my son. you know.”

a few days earlier, you were in a dark echoing chamber. you had pledged allegiance, no, you had sworn to dedicate your life, to someone you were to meet later on. it was an abstract oath then. now, it seemed pretty clear that this was an oath Kaldur’ahm never accepted, one that he had never heard of.

you bowed your head, curtly, shortly, maintaining that bland face you’ve learned to keep over the last few years. “I have taken the liberty of hand-picking your lieutenant. right hand woman, if you will.” Black Manta’s voice didn’t leave much room for debate. he added, “she has to prove herself worthy, because, and you’ll understand I’m sure, blood proves very little loyalty.” 

the hypocrisy wasn’t lost on you. it was even so vast you almost let your eyes roll.

you didn’t have any reason to be here. standing in front of Manta and his son. you could have -should have- gone away, escaped, and honestly, at the time they wouldn’t have found the care to chase after you. 

maybe it was all you’d known -living by Manta’s rules.

maybe then, meeting Kaldur and having someone with whom making the journey to Manta’s trusted circle was the best thing you could get. and as you looked at him, for real this time, his conflicted gaze, the set of his jaw, yeah, maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

he didn’t like you, didn’t hate you. you felt how much of a bother you were to him, despite his false kindness about it. 

oh, well.

you told yourself he was a loner. the kind that didn’t like having someone next to them as they climbed the ladder. but you were here now, anyway. 

though your exchanges were tense at first, you two had something in common that helped the mutual acceptation, and it was efficiency. no irrelevant talk between the two of you or during a fight, no unnecessary risks taken during missions, and though stealth wasn’t your favorite thing, you were good at it -great, even. he even taught you some things. 

you were more vocal than he was, with a tendency to ask for clarifications, whether it was about his behaviour, odd at some times, the tone he had employed to give you orders, or said orders, when these seemed weird to you. he didn’t always like the questions, but they were, indeed, necessary at first. and you quickly caught on his strategic thoughts process. it was no telepathy, but once again, it was efficient. that’s all you were, really.

and today, like most of your shared days had been recently, is a boring day. you don’t lead a squad, you don’t have chores, so you two are just bored and pretending to have something useful to do by recounting the previous missions’ mistakes and thinking of ways to avoid making those again. 

a knock on your door, you open, and without an ounce of surprise, you see his face. he does seem tired, more than usual, it’s more weary than out of a lack of sleep. “hi,” you breathe, and step aside to let him in. he takes you in, his eyes flutter close, his nostrils and gills flare, and he steps in.

he’s kind of a weirdo.

“let’s begin,” he announces, sitting at the end of your bed. it’s a habit, you always sit against the metallic headboard, and he faces you. 

for half an hour, you exchange about a mission carried out two days ago. you voice your concerns, how he still looks out for his team members, when he really doesn’t need that anymore. he tells you how your covering of his left flank was perfect, yet unnecessary, and could’ve put you in danger. 

there’s something soft in his voice as he says it, his eyebrows knitted together in a way you aren’t sure he’s aware of. it’s cute. it makes you feel cared for, too. looked after, maybe.

but as always, you run out of topics before the sun had risen. you two aren’t allowed in most parts of the ship, and Kaldur had never even thought about risking himself to unnecessary silly escapades in those metal hallways.

“where is your father at, again?” you ask, not even bothering to fake innocence. you two are playing hearts -the deck of cards you bought on a mission five weeks ago is already worn out. “on a meeting with the Light, I believe.” 

you frown. “at 7 o’clock?” 

he shrugs. you don’t push further. 

an hour later, after two defeats on your side, he sits on the floor, staring at the wall, watching your hands work as you play solitary. “how is it going with the Light’s approval of you?” you ask to break the silence, and he squints, unable to tell if you really mean to make small talk, or if you’re fishing for informations. you can’t tell either. 

but watching him so doubtful, you add, “Kaldur’ahm, you really should stop trying to second-guess me constantly. at some point, you’ll have no choice but to trust me.” something in his throat blocks, saliva or air -you can’t tell. you turn your attention back to your cards. 

“sure. well, about the Light… i still need to prove myself to my father, I doubt I’m close to getting their approval.” you frown, putting the final card to the hearts deck. “but we’ve done so much.” 

his jaw tightens. “i know. it is… frustrating, to say the least.” 

you almost tell him his betrayal of the Team should be enough, but you know you can’t afford to wander into such territory for now. so you just nod and put the cards back in their packaging, to get up and look at him expectantly. “i was thinking we could go for a swim.” 

you never go anywhere without him. it’s part of the “loyal lieutenant” package. it also meant if you wanted to wander, you had to hope he wanted to have a walk as well.

he gets up and eyes you up and down. “mh. let’s go.” 

you wonder when he’ll let any kind of guard down around you. he already does, occasionally, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders when you stand behind him being the most trustful he’s ever been of you. 

that’s not enough, not for you, who had put much trust in him after three months spent together. you decide it’s maybe time to withdraw some of that trust. to put your own guard up. you look up at him as the thought crosses your mind. he looks back, cold at first, then a polite smile breaks on his face.

your trust is just fine were it is.

once in the airlock, you both dress up, helmets on, grabbing a much more efficient weapon than your helberd. it may be your armament of choice, it isn’t one that’s easy to handle, especially underwater -hence your specialization in missions taking place on the surface world.

brows furrowed, both of you, from overthinking, both of you, you swim towards the coral barrier, one that hosts many different kind of fishes, not that you care, but he does. you like the plants, so you don’t mind. 

though he could take you to a location you despise, you wouldn’t mind either, so your judgement might be a little biased. 

usually, you two talk, mimicking normalcy as best as you could, but he’s out of it today. and it’s not even 9 a.m. so inevitably, after an intense staring contest with a fish, Kaldur announces he has to go. of course he has. and once again -he asks you to cover for him. not to rat him out.

“Lieutenant, I know it puts you in a sensitive position…” he trails off, voice dropping lower, taking a step forward. his hands trail from your wrist to your elbows. you don’t look up. “...but I need to make sure I have your word before I go. It is important, and I wouldn’t do any of it if I thought you’d be endangered, so.. trust me, please,” he implores. you almost scoff, but you can’t.

loyalty is your key word. you are, indeed, more loyal to him than you are to his father, so you still don’t look up, but nod in the direction opposite to the ship, and whisper to him that he can go. that you’ll cover.

once his figure is no longer visible in the ocean, you swim back to the ship, alone, throwing the borrowed dagger on the ground in irritation once you’re back to the locker room. you’re not angry at him, you couldn’t possibly be, but his secrets are annoying. 

these furtive escapades have been happening ever since he got under Black Manta’s guard, and every time you’ve covered for him, long enough so he’d have time to come back in the ship and act as if nothing happened. you didn’t mind. figured it was either real and much-needed alone time, or a secret liaison. worse: he could be meeting with Manta and get information unbeknownst to you, making you the fall guy. but you don’t push it, don’t overstep, and wait for him to share said secret.

you’ve been nothing but faithful. for three months, you’ve got his back, saved his ass, and advocated for him. you’re not tired of this, you could never be. you’re far from ‘on the verge of telling his father’, but close to ‘irritated as fuck’. he’s already so secretive, not that you mind, but if secrets meetings are to be added, you’re not sure you could do it -handle the resentment, for that matter.

and when he comes back, around 11.30 (you’d been keeping watch), you ignore him as he asks how your morning went. his brows furrow but he doesn’t push further.

you do follow him around the whole day though.

that’s as far as the arguments have always gone. he never argued, and your role was to call him out, more or less kindly. but you were compliant. your patience barely ran thin. you did enjoy when those pretty eyes looked like those of a sappy kitten as he implored for you not to tell anyone. he knew you wouldn’t tell. at some point, you began to suspect he just kept begging for the thrill of it.

that’s not far from the truth. as deep in denial as he was, he loved seeing you succumb to whatever charm he was using.

the sacrifices for a greater good started the moment you agreed to keep his secrets, and only grew more important. it was more about helping him prove himself and social-climb as his lieutenant after that. you were already seen as an extension of him, in the eyes of Manta’s troops, so why not use it to your advantage?

therefore you missed on the first chance you’d ever gotten to truly prove yourself in a more active way (because apparently murder didn’t count), just to watch Kaldur as a blinking red dot on a radar while he was doing the hardest part. 

but he did come back, assessing his father’s reaction, until said father removed his helmet and proudly congratulated his son. everybody knows he’s not “off the hook”, he still has some loyalty to prove, some point to make, but it’s looking good for him -and you couldn’t help but be relieved. proud, even. 

as he reported the events, including his encounter with Nightwing, he put a hand on your shoulder, earning a tensed spine.

if it were just a hand on your shoulder, you wouldn’t have minded, wouldn’t have cared, actually. but it was at the base of your neck, right below your gills, brushing his thumb in the nape of your neck, a gesture his father couldn’t see, but that left you questioning.

eventually, Black Manta left to contact the League, leaving Kaldur and you alone in his office. it took you a hot fifteen seconds to look up at him. he lets go of your neck, not without a tap on your shoulder, “sparring session at 1900.” 

you wanted to tell him the military hour didn’t make him look smart or serious. it was laughable. 

you didn’t utter a word. you nodded.

the “sparring session” or training, whatsoever, wasn’t usually much enjoyable. he’d evaluate your close-quarters combat, teaching you Atlantean things he got to learn from queen Mera, such as spells or arts, the integration of your halberd in confined spaces, blah, blah, blah. 

his water bearers weren’t charged with the usual electricity. it was only water, and every time it hit you, it was just that. a wet spot on your training gear. you should’ve remembered that, when he ‘killed’ Artemis. you didn’t. and right now, you were too focused on his hand pressing against your ribcage with his right waterbender against your belly.

you’ve overseen a lot of things, when it came to him. blinded by love, or on purpose. it became so recurrent that it felt like second nature.

‘no more digressions,’ you scolded yourself mentally, and pushed him back, mid-explanation. you aimed with your halberd and he did too, striking for weak points. halfway through the fight, he stilled. “you should stop holding back.” 

you let your arm go limp, your weapon falling onto the ground on accident. your heads fall down to look at it in silence, before you look up and cross your arms over your chest. “my goal isn’t to hurt you but to learn from you safely.” 

“safely?” he repeats, dumbfounded. you wince. “okay, not really.”

he raises his brows. your gaze hardens.

you two stare. you blink, once, and he says, “i won.” you try to frown but the smug smile tugging at his lips is too adorable to ignore. “won what?” 

“the stare contest,” he says matter-of-factly. you huff, “what are you, twelve?” but your own lips are too busy fighting back a smile to actually sound condescending.

over the weeks, you grow weirdly complicit. you’d die rather than admitting it, because it was a silent agreement. once voiced, it’d be over and you would both have to take a step back in this relationship. you weren’t friends, it was less than that.

yet it was more than mutual respect or whatever relationship a lieutenant and her officer were supposed to have. 

he held you when you’d escaped a near death experience. you’d reach for his wrist to check his pulse during stakeouts. it was utterly ridiculous, but so reassuring. you had each other, and most things outside of your weird friendship mattered, but at some point, he was what mattered the most.

it sat on the fence, dangerously leaning on the ‘something more’ side everytime a little too much skin was shown. you never considered yourself lustful. he most certainly thought of himself as virtuous -until he inadvertently opened your bedroom as you were changing, your arm covering your chest, your wet suit half pulled up on your body. 

in his opinion, it is worse than if he had effectively seen your bare skin. the image is on replay in his head, his mind filling in the blanks, imagining a hundred ways of what your body would look like.

he finally understands why a lady showing her ankles in the 19th century was considered arousing when you sprain yours and he’s the one who applies pain relief cream, massaging your tendon, kneeling before you. 

he also has a weird pull to the nape of your neck. for any occasion, whether it is to reassure you, praise you, comfort you or make you stand down when you get too carried away, his fingers always found that spot between your gills, a sensitive spot not because of arousal but because it was usually hidden under a helmet, protected. 

he never makes you feel vulnerable. he’d always been so steady. 

maybe that’s why you lean against his touch so easily, albeit guarded. because he’s someone you could rely on. because when he touches you, it feels purposeful, it is deliberate, and those moments may be rare and impulsive, the both of you are constantly looking forward to them happening. 

it lasts a few weeks before it becomes undeniable. 

waiting for Kaldur’ahm near the corals the boat had destroyed when landing on the seabed, you are tending to the marine flora absentmindedly, mind quiet for once. 

you don’t notice him returning, his figure a blurry dark shadow far away, getting nearer and nearer until the red details of his metal suit clashed too much with the ocean for your peripheral vision to ignore him; only then do you look up. you hold back a sigh and/or a smile.

his lips part, the words dying somewhere between his throat and the tip of his tongue; you watch him walk towards you. 

from where you stand, the sun hits your face and hair the right way. you look divine –in a way that he just couldn’t ignore. you observe him, eyes plunged into his, until he stands two feet away. 

“...safe … way back?” is all he hears. he clears his throat and nods, while his gaze never wavers away from yours, as if dissociating. “what was that escapade about?” you inquire, as it seemed to be the right moment to extract informations from him. he takes another step forward, gaze flickering to the corals you’re trying to salvage.

“solo mission,” he lies, “for Father,” badly. you know he can do better than that. you point to  the ship, with your thumb, which is sitting quietly forty feet away from you. “heading back?” his lips part once mroe. you tilt your head, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “i’ll… wait for you.” 

“to be honest, I am ready to head back,” you try, so he looks at the ship. “i shall join you there then, i will stay here in the meantime,” he affirms, voice leaving very little room for your (unusual) retorts. he wasn’t making any sense, and on top of that, ever since he got here, he’d been looking at you like a starved man, eyes detailing every trait of your face, skin flushed. “as you wish,” you tell him, counting to five before you turn around, just in case he’d change his mind.

he doesn’t move; he can’t possibly entertain that idea. the water feels thick around him as he watches you go, every movement you make to swim away from him physically paining him. his hand comes up, fingers clutching at his chest, right over his heart. oh, he wants you so bad, and that thought alone overwhelmed him. 

that is messy. he was a mess. allowing a woman, no matter how pretty, to conflict in his mind with a lifetime of discipline and discretion. the forced proximity is a cruel joke and it deepens his guilt, for you, for his friends, for the League, but for you most importantly. he is ashamed. how can he just want you so bad, at the wrong moment, wrong place, and how can he allow your loyalty to lie with him while his is miles away? 

he has forbidden himself to touch you. he was  a madman now -looking like he has been hit with sex pollen when really, it is the thought of coming back to you that had unravelled him so bad. and yet he still has to push you away. he doesn’t ‘give in’, he can’t possibly entertain that idea.

he has never allowed himself much, in how whole life. he prohibited any unnecessary physical contact between the two of you; but selfishly, he allows for his cravings for you to remain, buried deep, entertaining the idea of trailing kisses up your back, to map your body with his hands, and most importantly to hold you close. he wants you. so, so bad.

for a wild, desperate moment, breathing heavy with the burden of his needs, he fantasises of Hawkman and Hawkgirl, a love so destined it defies death, circling through the ages to reunite. maybe it was like that. maybe it was an Atalantean version of that storyline. his affection is something independent of him, for sure. it must be.

but Kaldur’ahm isn’t a man of myths; he was a man of facts. he’s no immortal lover, he is just a soldier. 

so he tells himself it is loneliness, or hormones, pathetic excuses (can hormones still be blamed for a grown man’s urges?) that he holds onto as a choked sound escapes him underwater. his gills flare, the water feeling suddenly like it isn’t enough. maybe he needs fresh air. most likely -he needs for this mess to solve itself. more likely even -he needs air from your lungs. he needs to breathe you in to feel like his respiratory systems work properly. 

he doesn’t have any solutions in mind, just an overwhelming feeling of wronging people he cares about no matter the outcome of any choice he’ll make starting from now on. if he restraints himself, it’s only fair he gets to indulge in the absolution in your eyes when you look up at him, unknowing that he was a fraud.

and how unfair, that the enemy’s side turned out to be not full of spineless motherfuckers, but to have you amongst its troops, with your intellect and complex mind, how unfair that you walked these halls and not Poseidonis’s. yet the most painful part was that he knew, with certainty, that he is going to let himself bleed that way until it ends. he will ache voluntarily, and carry these wants until the end of this mission, and then he’ll let it go. he has to, he can’t figure out another way. 

only when he wraps his mind around that fact is he able to get up from the sand and head towards those damn hallways, single-drop tears invisible in the water as they formed in the corner of his eyes. with that mindset, the persuasion of becoming no better than a monster, he steps inside the ship.

you greet him when he steps inside Manta’s poorly decorated office, who had gotten ahold of you when you were leaning against a wall, trying hard to find composure after a few tears, so the rest of the crew wouldn’t see those. 

because it’s gotten hard, trying not to ask any questions. knowing he had a whole life going on on the side, no matter what kind, and you couldn’t be part of it. because as soon as you had stepped foot on the ship, you had wanted to swim back out there and order him to tell you everything, because no matter what the truth is, you know you’re able to handle it. you want him whole, in a pure and lustful way, and it burns, it aches, and fuck it if you don’t know he feels the same.

he puts a hand, once again, in the back of your neck, because Manta is asking about absences and unnecessary outings. you can’t focus on the explanations your officer in command is nicely putting together. you want the warmth of his palm not on your neck but cradling your cheek; to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the tension there melt under your touch. you wanted to kiss him until neither of you could remember the excuses you both had made to keep one away from the other.

but you could be, too, a monument to restraint. you bottle up like no one else can. you hide your feelings better than Kaldur’ahm did. and you two were talented, with hiding and bottling up and being unassuming and suffering in silence. 

before you knew it, you have exited the office, an uncomfortable warmth coiling low in your stomach. 

“i’m unwell,” you announced. “i’ll be resting, do not-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, weary. “please, do not wake me up, i will meet you at 7 in the morning. tomorrow.” he hesitates.

then tilts his head and puts a hand on your forehead. “we did go near preschoolers last time. maybe you’ve caught a cold-” your hand reaches to place itself on his wrist, lwoering it. “not, it’s not a cold. i’ll handle it myself, thanks for your concern -i’ll see you. tomorrow.” his fingers curl, like he didn’t want to stop holding on.

but he drops it, both his hand and the topic, and gives a curt nod, which you reciprocate before leaving, back straight and shoulders squared. he doesn’t watch you go, instead fixates on a fingernail on the ground.

he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up. you don’t either.

taglist | @saintblk @fanficwritersworld @matildavol6 @chibitronxoxo @hikari-michiko @jayteacups @izzyloveslobsters @g1oba1_s1ore

notes | i might post part 3 before part 2 ngl i suck at writing sm*t

S.MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER

[milkybbun]

fic recommendations from moots and other wonderful writers

right of the bat i want to apologize for being super inactive lately. both with writing and reblogging. emotional load is taking a stall on me and online time has to get cut. but i hope this post will remind you how much i love you guys 🫠🩷

@batwngs — now this is the moot of the year. no, CENTURY. not only batwngs is an incredible author, but the best reblogger (aka art reviewer) ever. the attention to detail, the intricate stylistic cues, the love for writing craft. batwngs could be the writing museum coordinator and we'd all pay to visit every day!!

🍫 blackberry jam : yearning artist kyle in creative agony, what more can i say? it's gorgeous

🍫 bruce wayne, the distant dreamer : this is my most favorite character study ever, i kid you not. bruce's in particular and character in general. i love the deep understanding of his tragedy, i love the form of writing that supports the density of his thoughts. i love this, top to bottom

@batslvrr — the dark yet soft aesthetic. the intense themes yet poetic language. the noir shade yet delicate touch. nor's works and blog is gorgeous. sometimes i just click on it to see the beautiful theme again. and to add links to a tbr list ofc!!

🍫 love you less & love you more : this is intense. this features douchebag dick. this might not be your cup of tea if you are in for something lighthearted. but if you go for it? this fic is going to be the best experience you could have. i love a good longread

🍫 like best friends do & like lovers do : now that you got your heart broken with douchebag dick, it's time to mend it with the fluffiest, softest, oblivious dick. i'm yet to properly reblog these fics, but let's just say they are super comforting and cute

@cherryvvave — ma cherie!! i just realized just how much of cherry's works i'm yet to check out. and it's a blessing! her works are always so interesting and endearing, you just can't get enough!!

🍫 may i have this dance? : nobody needs a reminder of how much i love roy harper. this fic is fluff, it's about a slow date, and it's about dancing together. i both died and got reborn from its perfection

🍫 do your best (or more like worst) : roy harper is meant for archery lessons. so if you ever need that ginger urge scratched, this is the place to go

@cinnamon-girl-writes — i said it once and i'll say it again: cinnamon's works feel like coffee with the warmest spices. so coquette, so femme fatale, like lipstick stains on book pages!!

🍫 matching tattoos : the concept itself is just too cute to handle. and i love your attention to detail, it's chef's kiss!! the tattoo picture is just the cutest too

🍫 bejeweled : who in dc fandom doesn't enjoy a good gala fic? and here you have a whole menu of all our favorite characters in the most dashing setting ever

@froggibus — froggi is the reason i decided to join tumblr as a creator. froggi's works are just so good, they literally became my muse. i really don't know how to put it down in words. let's just say that you just have to experience reading froggi to understand what i'm talking about!!

🍫 pumpkin patch : when i say this fic rewired my brain?? this is the motherload. this is the treat for my heart, soul, and whole existence

🍫 the flash wears lifts in his shoes : wally west meets conspiracy theorist? yes ma'am!!

@lechelovestoyap — leche is a sweetheart, her works and her blog and her whole personality feels like she could be anyone's friend. the ray of sunshine really. can't wait to see more of her writing!!

🍫 colors : wally, my baby! this fic is so cute. the dynamic between the characters and the premise itself just melt my heart each time

🍫 parenthood: round 2 : this one is so special to me. i'm forever grateful to be able to inspire you to write something so soft and gentle and just beautiful. roy the girl and BOY dad now

@luviery — i'm yet to read more of luvie's works but i'm already hooked. writing style is so strong and woven with her own aesthetic. it really feels like stepping into oil paintings like the one's on luvie's theme!!

🍫 fall in love again and again : the hopeless romantics anthem. you've got the batboys and the best stage of romance—the quiet rediscovery of love for a person who could never not surprise you. my heart just can't

🍫 your eyes tell : such an adorable fic! i actually relate to dick in it. a lot. yarning for you crush but being overall nice to everyone so your said crush doesn't understand that they are special to you? been there done that

@onlyfeng — feng seems like one of the most fun and chaotic people who just have the best stories up their sleeve. and the series concepts? ahhh i can't wait to read them!! so here are feng's upcoming series we all HAVE TO check out

🍫 the aftertaste series : kaldur'ahm is such an underappreciated and underrepresented character. and the aesthetic of the series looks so good??

🍫 the devotion series : this one sounds like the most classy and cool action movie you watched. and it suits bruce so well

@that-dumb-bunny — the queen of hal jordan in my eyes. bunny's works are filled with so much passion, not just the lustful kind, but the kind of passion romantic people have for everything in life. it's beautiful like old hollywood movies!!

🍫 scared cat : it's a sweet sweet blurb that i find absolutely cute and relatable. i honestly can't wait more for hal and scared!reader because the contrast is just right

🍫 pretty doe eyes : this might be my favorite fic of all time. i love every aspect of it but especially looking through old photographs. it smells like the end of may, it feels like that ray of sunshine hitting through the window, it tastes like drinking green tea with your family

[onlyfeng]

thank you SO MUCH to milky!

check out her stories as well, every single series (special kudos to the next door neighbour one, doorsteps away) eats soooo much

[onlyfeng]

────── MINX'S BEST FRIEND.

before the devotion, it was just you two, against the world, against Gotham's elite's expectations, filling the hollow in your chests with glitter, whiskey and scandal.

────── masterlist! taglist (google form)!

miss carpenter

MINX ERA ────── when did you get hot?! please, please, please! espresso! tears! nonsense! don't worry i'll make you worry! paris! bed chem! a nonsense christmas! go go juice (i.)! juno! taste!

SPLIT ERA ────── sharpest tool! vicious! never getting laid! go go juice (ii.)! such a funny way!

britney spears

MINX ERA ────── i love rock'n'roll! radar! piece of me! if u seek amy! circus! till the world ends! toxic! toy soldier! breathe on me! blur! outrageous! freakshow! get back! lace and leather!

zara larsson

MINX ERA ────── cant tame her! none of these guys! if i was your girl! escape! tg4m! sundown! symphony! stick with you! what happens here!

SPLIT ERA ────── soundtrack!

others (whatever fits the vibe)

MINX ERA ────── long way 2 go! promiscuous! telephone! 4 minutes! paparazzi! the boy is mine! she wolf! lovegame! don't stop the music! say it right! rumors! give it to me! maneater! von dutch! dj got us falling in love (again)! strategy!

SPLIT ERA ────── so what!

[onlyfeng]

𓃠 — THE DEVOTION SERIES.

⇘ bruce wayne x reader.

you used to be everything for each other, until he cut ties with you, no apparent reason. now Bruce Wayne's a playboy, you're Batman's undercover agent, and any interaction is to be avoided. you seem to forget that last part after a few drinks.

────── masterlist!

— MAIN SERIES.

i, dedicated. ii, fully committed. iii, no strings attached. iv, interlinked.

— DRABBLES.

𓃭 , watchin' me? 𓃭 , still tuned? 𓃭 , minx's best friend.

────── taglist (google form)!

onlyfeng,, 2025

[onlyfeng]

𓃠 — THE AFTERTASTE SERIES.

⇘ kaldur'ahm x reader.

Manta handpicks you as his son's lieutenant. your relationship may be peculiar -as Kaldur insists you mustn't fall for him despite the intensity of your interactions-, you soon acknowledge you'd do anything for him, even if that involves treason.

────── masterlist!

— MAIN SERIES.

i. the thirst, "stare, don't touch" ii. the sip, "strictly physical". iii. the starve, "claws out". iv. the binge, "trust is to be earned". v. the taste, "as normal as it gets".

────── taglist (google form)!

onlyfeng,, 2025.

[onlyfeng]

— MAMA BEARAT. 

pairing: bruce wayne x reader Batman finds a new Robin, but there’s a worried single mother on the other line. it takes a while, but eventually, she finds peace. she might’ve messed up with her boy, but she sees in Bruce Wayne a way of making her way back into his trust circle. tags: no use of y/n, 2nd person pov, lack of capitalisation, fem!reader, mentions of sex, no graphic depiction (i think so), arguments (bruce gets called a trauma vampire), 'one-night stand' kinda thing they've got going on, lmk if i missed any. warnings: motherly kinda angst, canon-typical violence. word count: 9554 (out of 18k) notes: sooo it's been in the works for a while, ts is NOT proofread, i apologize for any mistake and weird phrasing, keep in mind that english isn't my first language but i try my best!

“thanks for coming, miss”. you give Oliver a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder before sitting on the chair facing his French teacher. “no worries, thanks for having me in the first place,” you reply, clutching your handbag, bracing for impact. parent-teacher meetings were usually no fun. 

you had birthed and raised a handsome young man, who looked exactly like you, but ever since his father had been locked in Arkham, paying for all his crimes (and having started some kind of cult you weren’t even aware of), Ollie hadn’t been the same. he went through puberty like any other teen, but he developed a habit of bottling up everything, even more than the norm. you tended to do the same, although you had always tried to make him be open about his own feelings and insecurities. guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 

“you know what i’m about to say, right?” you don’t even bother nodding. you know. the kid knows. the whole fucking faculty knows. “i’ll cut right through the chase, madam, Oliver’s a great kid, and if he did some effort, he’d probably get rid of all failures in the school report,” you nod, compliant. 

“i, personally, adore this kid,” Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his seat, earning a glare from you. “i’m sure you do,” you reply. 

“but he’s gotten into some… troubles with other students. fights.” 

you give your son a disapproving look. “mh. has he now?”

Mr. Patel waits for a bit, before the silence becomes to embarrassing for him to endure. “he’s doing great academically, despite the absence of much-needed efforts –his english teacher praised his essay on “Macbeth”. and i can tell he’s got so much to say, if only he studied his vocabulary a bit more. he tries, trying’s not the issue, it’s just… Oliver,” the teacher shifts his gaze from you to your kid, “if you keep making efforts on the long run, you’d probably have the best grades in class,” he says, trying to sound convincing. Ollie nods, looking down. he’s not shy, he’s not shameful. it does look like it, but you know him better than anyone; you know he’s just as willing as you to get out of here.

“ehm, mister Patel.. about these fights you mentioned earlier,” you say, back on track.

bad grades, lack of effort, you can get over it; but hurting others, that you can’t.

“yes, the fights” he resumes, “let’s say... Oliver here has a sharp tongue and little patience. i can understand, but his words could be hurtful, and i think he does realize the impact he has yet isn’t doing it on purpose.” he pauses, “although, calling his classmates ‘intellectual troglodytes’ is not okay. and using another language to insult them isn’t either. connard, enculé, salaud, sac à merde, i wonder where he learned these. not from me.”

you bite back a laugh, an imperceptible twitch of your lips making its way through. “i’ll… get over that at home. is that all? i mean, this isn’t what I’d call a fight.” 

“oh, he makes use of his fists as well. every time he gets called ‘son of a bitch’, each time there’s some insult on his physique, he has a tendency to… go overboard. now it’s adorable that he defends your name when you aren’t here to do so, but you’ll easily understand how it’s a common insult that isn’t directed towards you specifically, and more importantly, violence really shouldn’t be the answer.” 

you hummed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“but i personally think that whatever your son has got going on, it’s not so bad.” you thought it was a terrible choice of words. “he just needs to channel that strength, that.. fire that ignites inside of him”. ────── 𓃠 back home, you don’t say much. the teacher might have tried to soften the blow, you’re still pissed. you did your best with Ollie, and despite everything that happened to him, he turned out an amazing kid. he had many friends, for sure, and the advantage with boys, especially in Gotham schools (not to make generalizations), is that they fight their arguments through instead of talking it out. you didn’t enjoy it, but it was their truth, who were you to change that? nevertheless, Ollie was strong, broader and taller than most. and you may or may not have learned him where the blows hit harder. his strength wasn’t proportional to others’ and you were pretty sure he knew that already- so instead of scolding or lecturing him, you asked him to call that mexican place you loved to order something. later on, after a tense dinner, you were both curled up on the couch, watching ‘Look who’s talking’, Oliver slumped against you, his head resting on your shoulder. when James was doing the plane with Mikey, something Oliver’s dad used to do with him, he spoke softly, “ ‘m sorry, ma.” your hand paused in his hair, previously brushing his curls. “for what, sweetie?” he shrugged, “all of it. i don’t know, i’m so weird. i just… don’t really think twice before acting. or talking.” he takes a deep breath and turns his head to look at you, movie still playing. “i swear i don’t want to hurt people. it’s just, when they say something mean or stupid… and it’s so unfair, i really want them to hurt. i’m so sorry for that, ma, i feel like a fucking weirdo.” he looks at you, pouting and puppy eyes and everything and you scoff. “language, sweetheart”. you pull him close for a hug, fingertips tapping his back as you’re deep in thought. “whenever you annoy me a little bit, i tell myself it’s like a chemical warzone in your body, with the hormones and shit. also, i learned that brains aren’t fully developed until you’re like, 25. it helps to put things into perspective.” “those are easy excuses, kinda,” he mutters, head on your shoulder, facing away from your neck, probably watching the tv. “not really. well, i don’t think so,” you reply. you pull back for a bit, adding, “i’m trying to think of something. like your teacher said, maybe you need an outlet.” 

“well i’ve been asking for boxing lessons for ages…” he attempts. you smile, not without a sigh escaping your lips. “but can i trust you not to make use of the techniques you learn against.. well, humanity?” 

he smirks, “you know me, ma. i wouldn’t.” you scoff before turning back to the movie. “i’ll find something out,” you promise. “okay. yeah, okay. thanks mom.” you ruffle his hair with a smile.

────── 𓃠

next morning, at work, you were on your computer, browsing for boxing lessons within your resources, when a tall, good-looking yet awfully out of place man came your way. 

“hi? i come for Bruce Wayne?” you deadpan. “you’ve got an appointment?” “well- uh- no, but if you tell him it’s me-” 

you offer the fakest smile you’ve got. “do i strike you as Mr. Wayne’s personal assistant, sir?” “uh… no?” he asks, trying to get the good answer. “I’m a receptionist, not a carrier pigeon.” “sure, i was just-” 

you sigh. “what is your name?” you’d swear you saw ears drooping, metaphorically, as well as a tail happily wagging. “Clark Kent. Daily Planet reporter.” “Dail- shouldn’t you be in Metropolis?” “I need to see Bruce. please, ma’am…” 

“eleventh floor, try with his personal assistant.” he thanks you a billion time and gives you his card ‘in case you ever need anything’. once he’s out of sight, you whisper, “good luck.”

his assistant’s awfully strict when it comes to your boss’s schedule. you were pretty sure he wouldn’t let that awkward giant go through his office doors. 

hell, you never went past those doors. 

────── 𓃠

Oliver had been taking boxing lessons for a while. it was cheap, the coach was an old friend of your husband’s, but he resented him just as much as you did, so you thought you could trust him. he showed himself very competent. Ollie was calmer, and now moved aside to calm himself instead of throwing punches. 

he was coming out of the cinema with some childhood friends when he sent a text- ‘just finished, coming home!’. he waved goodbye to his friend, heading north. stepping into Crime Alley, he noticed a sleek black car parked there. he moved around it, admiring the refined details, wishing he could see the interior instead of the tinted glass, because he was pretty sure it’d be leather stitched manually.

then he heard an argument. a deep male voice against a much younger one. a boy around his age, he’d say. 

he considered going back to take the long route, but then again, you’d worry yourself sick if he had to around another block and come home fifteen minutes later than planned. so he just walked forward, slowly, until he caught the sight of an… ear?, above the bin. 

he stopped dead in his track, not even bothering to sneak a peek.

“..you dove directly into his path, Robin! what were my orders?” “Father, do not-” “what were my orders?” 

“...to hold the line. but-” “no ‘but’! you- you’re gonna be grounded, i tell you!” “stop treating me like a child, Father! i’m not even-” “-stop acting like one, Dami. i can retrieve the mantle from you, if you’re unable to think of your safety first.” 

a beat. 

“you know i’m moving out soon, anyway.” “you haven’t received your admission letter yet, Damian.” “you doubt i’ll have a positive answer?” 

the man sighs. “get in the car. those are not matters that should be discussed here.” 

Oliver heard light footsteps begrudgingly head to the car. next to him. where he’d be fully visible. he barely moved, hesitated to breathe, as the car unlocked. a brooding Batman passed in front of him, and he thought it’d be a good idea to step in, faking confidence the best he could. 

he luckily avoided the Birdarang that stuck itself on the wall above his shoulder. 

“Batman. Robin. I, uh… nice to meet y’all?”

they looked at him dead in the eyes. he cleared his throat. thought things through clearly. and then, boom, everything made sense.

the nickname had seemed familiar. Damian, Dami, he knew that guy. flashes of champagne flutes, overlapping conversations and his mom’s perfume that stung his nose came into view.

────── 𓃠

almost ten years ago, at a gala, when his parents were still together and his father was still part of Gotham’s elite. you used to work as his associate, since you were teenagers with a dream of grandeur. before he got you pregnant, obviously, when he was 19 and you were seventeen. it had been four years since you started working for Wayne enterprises, first as an intern which was a little demeaning, then as a receptionist, and you hadn’t really gotten a promotion since then. you weren’t chasing it, anyway. 

that evening, five-years-old Oliver was playing at your feet, under the standing table, uncomfortable in his miniature smoking but happier than ever thanks to his new figurines. 

eight-years-old Damian, however, wasn’t as happy. he’d try to engage in mature conversations and had only been called cute or endearing. he didn’t quite understand why people weren’t taking him seriously, and here he was, coincidentally standing next to you, arms crossed and bottom lip jutted out, making the cutest pouty face ever. 

he glared at your son, unbeknownst to you, his father or the kid’s father, and Ollie stared back. he soon got uneasy under Damian’s icy glare, pulling on your dress. “Ma, carry me?” without noticing Damian, you took the young boy in your arms, your back turned to the Wayne heir, the kids staring at each other until Dick got a hold on his young brother. “Dami, where have you been? B’s going crazy, he thought you sneaked out to god knows where. C’m’here.”

and the kid got taken away, leaving Oliver still staring in the distance.

────── 𓃠

“i know everything.” “you do not know shit, boy,” Robin sneered. 

Batman chimed in, just to add, “Language, Robin,” before crossing his arms over his chest, gesture that Oliver mimicked. 

“what do you think you know, boy?” “you’re most likely my mom’s boss. Dami, I’m disappointed you didn’t recognize me. we had a staring contest like, ten years ago. one that i won. i thought we had a strong connection. you don’t recognize your dearest friend?”

“tsk. you’re off the mark.” 

“I could tell everyone. people would start seeing the correlations. how bothersooome…”

your son was never one for delicacy. he isn’t smooth, he’s a little raw around the edges, but he isn’t hard to understand.

“why would you try and link Bruce Wayne to me, young man?” “Damian’s going to med school or something, isn’t he? you’d need a new Robin. I can help. I know how to fight. I do parkour and boxing. i listen to orders, i’m not doing anything on most nights, i’m free as air.” 

the man stares down at him, a little surprised at the full-on curriculum vitae Oliver’s trying to present. the silence stretches.

“the Robin mantle dies with Damian’s departure.” “hah! so you admit?” Ollie’s heart is hammering against his ribs. 

he takes a step forward, Batman mirrors him. Damian gets in the car. “you are not saying anything.” “or what?” “who’s your mom’s boss again?” “oh, you wouldn’t.” “watch me.”

Oliver groans. “okay, please, I won’t tell. but you do need a new Robin. there are like, theories, and testimonies. you go batshit when you don’t have a Robin.”

Batman’s scowl deepens but he uncrosses his arms. Ollie does too. “i’ll contact you. do not tell your mom.” 

Oliver’s badly contained smile is blinding. 

he gets to be something important. he gets to have a relieve somehow. he can finally see the perspective of feeling like someone not worth losing.

────── 𓃠

you knew in three weeks. 

first he dyed his hair black. he “just wanted a change”. you didn’t care, really. helped him, even (just to make sure he wouldn’t mess up your bathtub). 

but then he sneaked out. your son was no rule-breaker. yet there he was, slipping out of his window and running into the night as if your room wasn’t right next to his. 

you envisaged all possibilities. a girlfriend (you weren’t thrilled for the ‘sneaking out’ part, but it was cute, in a way. you wouldn’t have minded if it had been the truth.), bad influences (but he didn’t reek of smoke or drugs and his arms weren’t covered in bandages, so you let that idea go), a secret rock band, a need to escape, whatever. everything would’ve been fine (except for the drugs). and then the final straw; the news reports started. a new Robin. the body type was different, broader, larger, scarier. the fighting style was more… aggressive. people online noticed. it wasn’t the scary, silent menace like the previous one. it wa s fucking boar. 

the bruises were the confirmation. no calls from school saying your kid was getting into fights, yet he had cuts on his arms and bruises all along his spine?

you didn’t say anything, because how the hell does one bring this subject up?

but then you got a call from the principal. Oliver wasn’t in class, it was the fifth day he skipped that month. you checked his localisation, thanks to the airtag you hid in his shoe, only to find out he was home. sat behind your desk at work, watching people pass by, you reconsidered your whole education system.

you called your neighbor to ask if he was alone in the apartment. he said no, that they crossed paths when himself was going out for grocery shopping, that Ollie came in with a well-dressed young man, talking about the internet access and some mission. 

you usually stayed behind to talk with some colleagues or finish some tasks, but that day, you left work as soon as your shift had been clocked. 

you barged in Oliver’s room, his friend having seemingly left, your heart frantic. “we’re having the talk, Ollie. sit up.” you hadn’t used that voice since he was a toddler putting his hand in every electronic device. 

“about what? condoms? ma, i’m sixteen, i know…” “nope. no, definitely not that. more about the fact that there’s a new Robin that looks an awful lot like my son. or about your school attendance.” 

he tried to defend himself, but you raised an awful liar. “sht! you’re giving me Batman’s number. or comms. anything, really, so i can contact this awful bastard.” he grimaces. “now, Oliver.” 

he stands up. “mom, the fuck? i can’t give you his number-” “language!”

you walk towards the living room, storming off of his room before you start hitting something as well, “and you are so grounded, young man! no phone, no hangouts, no sneaking out either!”

the punishment wouldn’t hold. you never could actually punish him. he’d look at you with those kicked-puppy eyes, and you’d fold. but the anger and frustration remained, lodged in your chest.

────── 𓃠

a few mornings later, Bruce Wayne himself was looming over your reception desk at Wayne Tower.

he said your last name, voice smooth, his public, charming smile not quite reaching his tired eyes. “I was wondering if you had a moment for a meeting later today? my office. four o’clock?”

your brain short-circuited. wtfwtfwtfwtfwtf.

at 4p.m., you sat across from him in his opulent office. he beat around the bush for a while, talking about your work performance, your dedication. then he slid a thick stack of papers across the desk.

“these are… standard confidentiality agreements,” he said smoothly.

you skimmed them. they were about “private security consulting.” they mentioned owing Wayne Enterprises a truly obscene amount of money if you breached the contract. You looked up at him. “you’re being deliberately vague. is that… am I getting fired?”

he was about to reply when the door burst open. Tim Drake strode in, “hey, B, when’s Ollie coming down to the Cave? we need to run diagnostics on the new suit.” he stopped, his eyes landing on you. “oh– that’s embarrassing. my bad. have fun.” he gave a weak wave and backed out. Bruce muttered a weak “for crying out loud…” biting the inside of his cheek.

“you’re not getting fired,” Bruce resumed as if that never happened, though his eyes remained on the now closed door. “what did he say?” you asked, voice weak and low. 

“I, uh. let’s simplify and say I finance Batman.” 

“I thought you hated the guy?” “I like what he’s doing, not the persona.” 

you remain silent, pinching the bridge of your nose, eyes closed. you’re so done with all these mysterious guys. you’re tired of all your bosses being so deep in shit. one ended up a cult leader, the other’s financing Gotham’s most well-known vigilante. hopefully you don’t have a baby with the second one. one’s a mistake, two’s a pattern.

“I’ll pay for all of Oliver’s equipment, medical bills, everything. I apologize work and private matters got tangled up like that, but it’s the least I can do. Do you want another company car?”

the offer felt like poison. it was poison. “I don’t want to sell my child,” you said, your voice cracking.

“it’s not about selling him, of course. it’s about protecting him.” you didn’t like the tone employed. like you were a lost child, a little dumb, and he had to explain everything to you. a little condescending. hell, a whole lotta condescending.

“i don’t want a cent, Mr. Wayne.”

it took you a moment to wrap your head around the insanity of the situation. “...and I want to meet the one in charge.”

────── 𓃠

you did meet Batman. it was, easily, top 2 of the scariest experiences of your life, but except for the overall gruffness, he was understanding. agreed on most of your terms. 

but you couldn’t say it helped. you were spiraling, each and every time Oliver was out. he didn’t tell you his actual schedule, so in the middle of every night, you set up an alarm and went to check in his room. most of the time, he wasn’t there. when he was, you were crying as soon as you plopped down on your bed. when he wasn’t, you made two cups of hot chocolate, one heated and the other not, sitting down on the couch to watch TV, seeking distraction from his return. around 2am, you heated his mug every thirty minute. most of the time, by the end of the week, you weren’t even making one for yourself and instead scrolled on your phone until you eventually heard rustling in his room. 

your work efficiency plummeted. you’d doze off at your desk, lose track in the middle of your sentences, drink way more coffee than a normal human being should. 

eventually, your work colleagues worry or start being annoyed. the few female ones told you the others were a little mad. except making people come in when they shouldn’t, or indicating the wrong floor to newcomers, so the mistakes weren’t tragic; mildly annoying at best.

after yet another worry from a friend of yours, you went to the eleventh floor and told Mr. Wayne’s personal assistant to get lost, storming in the boss’s office. he looked up, removing his glasses when he recognized you, letting you sit down in the seat in front of his. 

“I can’t do this, Mr. Wayne. I feel like i’m sending my boy off to war. everytime he leaves, i’m half-sure it’s the last time i’ll see him. i spoil him just because i can’t afford regrets now, I’m failing at my job too, it’s truly catastrophic. i’m failing as a mother. i want this all to stop, Bruce.” you never once dared use his first name, even when he wasn’t in the room, but right now, it called for a little vulnerability. you were truly exhausted, weary, emotionally and physically. 

he looked utterly out of his depth, but then he sighed, got up, rubbing the back of his neck, looking every bit of the tired CEO. you squinted.

he sat next to you, “I understand. more than you think.” “it’s not like you’ve got your kid out there,” you scoff, looking away. “actually, the five previous Robin were mines.” “damn,” you let out. then you frowned. “the blonde girl too?” he hesitated. “she’s not… technically mine, but she’s in the family. not officially, but she is.” 

“fuck me,” you sigh, your hands covering your face. “so now I really can’t have other children, or he’ll take them too? what’s wrong with this man?” 

he doesn’t reply for a while, eventually letting a low, “I’ll find a solution. eventually, we could… meet up more regularly. to discuss Oliver’s progress.” 

great. now you need your boss to have updates on your son’s life.

────── 𓃠

in a two-months span, you met three times, over a cup of coffee in some café (it was the first time you ever made it to the tabloids), to talk about trivial matters more than your son, but it felt nice, to have someone that wasn’t on the verge of death. well, you thought. you couldn’t even say what your discussions were about. not yourselves, that’s for sure.

soon enough came your birthday. you didn’t see Oliver at all that morning, but your work buddies made up for it. by noon, your desk was covered in gifts and cards, so much that you dreaded the time to go back home because you’d have to fit everything in your car then go home, on the third floor, carrying everything in your arms.

but it seemed your boss had taken that matter into hands. literally. by the end of the day, he was standing near your desk, handing you a birthday card and a reservation for two at a pricey restaurant. “happy birthday. you can.. invite whoever you want. for a date or a casual dinner. tell me the date, and my boys will organize a sleepover for Ollie.

you smiled, the gesture moving you. “thanks, Mr. Wayne.” 

“not calling me Bruce anymore?” “not in a professional setting, no.” he smiled, seemingly amused. the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it seemed more genuine than any of his previous ones. a win is a win. 

he watched you pack your stuff, sighing when you laid your eyes on the pile of gifts. “you were spoiled.” you smiled. “i was. it’s the same thing every year, since… well, for a while.” not that your colleagues were pitying you, but despite your exhaustion, you were a nice person to hang out with. people liked you and you were the first they’d see every morning, and that had been the case for ten years. they could only thank you that way. 

“you deserve it, of course. want some help?” “you’d help me carry everything?” “sure I would.” “wouldn’t refuse an offer like that.” 

he asked his driver to follow your car while the two of you were driving to your apartment. you learned he was quite picky and changed the radio every twenty second, which pissed you off. you ended up connecting your phone to the bluetooth of your car and letting him pick the songs. talk about a passenger princess.

you were walking in the hallways, nodding as a ‘hello’ to your neighbor, quite forgetting you had 6 foot-something billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne tailing behind you, earning you a look of shock and incomprehension from your dear neighbor.

initially quite bummed Oliver seemed to have forgotten your birthday, you smile to Bruce and invite him in for a cup of whatever he’d like. he accepts, as stern as ever with the faintest shadow of a smile on his lips. once your door’s closed, you reach to switch the lights on, and are met with a surprising sight. 

“Surprise, ma!!” Oliver, Tim and friends of yours are there, around twenty people in your apartment laughing and clapping at your face. you meant to take a step back, but hit Bruce’s chest instead. he puts a hand on your shoulder, smirking down at your face, such shock and happiness mixed with the start of a heart attack probably. “oh, fuck.” “language,” he says before making you step forward. 

your boy runs to hug you and two of your friends help Bruce put your gifts aside. “to what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask, a hand in his curls, the other around his shoulders. “well, i’ve put you through a lot. it’s the least I could do.” you smile and pull back. “you didn’t have to, but thanks, sweetie.” “i’ve got a gift, but i have to give it when everyone’s gone”. you chuckle at his smug smile. “sure. i’m excited to see what this is all about.

you get to rekindle with some friends you hadn’t seen in a while and have a talk with Tim, who was surprisingly nice and mature. you had met Damian before (stopped him from entering the building because you hadn’t recognized him in a hoodie) but Tim was way nicer than his younger brother. 

once everyone had left, Tim waiting in his car for his father, you sat on the couch, looking expectantly at Bruce and Oliver. he handed you a black box made of lead, which you opened, only to find some electronic device. you looked up at them, to see Bruce’s hand on your son’s shoulder. “so… it’s linked to our comms. you can’t talk, but you can listen. we thought it’d prevent you from being so restless?” you smile. “thanks, Ollie. you’re so sweet.” “well I just got the idea, it’s all Tim and Bruce but-” “thanks nonetheless. I’m.. sorry I get in the way of your hobby so much.” you could only see the gift as a cry for freedom. but he did think of you by doing that, and you very much enjoyed it.

you hugged him, before asking him to tidy up the living room while you were walking Bruce back to his car. 

in the elevator, he cleared his throat. “Oliver’s truly a wonderful kid.” “I’m lucky, ain’t I?” he smiles and nods.

after a while, you add, “thanks for everything, boss. it’s a lot, and you’re a busy man, I’m really… thankful?” you try, searching for the right words. you may have had three coffee rendez-vous with him, you still aren’t so comfortable with his presence. scared to mess up, to slip up and say something stupid. 

“for everything you go through,” the elevator dings and the doors open, “it’s the least anyone could do.” you smile. you don’t bother finding another topic of conversation, instead walking all the way down the hallway and to his car. he stops and you hesitate before leaning in to hug him. nothing intimate, but it’s not awkward either. it’s friendly, it’s warm, it doesn’t feel weird. he wraps a hand around your shoulders, the other resting on the car’s roof, while your arms wrap around his torso, not squeezing him so hard. just casual. 

he waits until you pull back, rubbing your back. “you’re a great support, Mr. Wayne. thanks, really. for everything.” 

he smiled and breathed out a goodbye followed by your name, spoken the softest way you’ve ever heard. 

it takes a while for you to come home, surprisingly, because the apartment is seemingly stuck on the fifth floor. probably these young adults that just moved in. they have a habit of getting ‘stuck’ in the elevator and coming out of it breathless. you ain’t no fool.

too lazy to take the stairs, you just wait for the elevator to finally come to your level, relieved to notice whatever reason why the elevator had temporarily stopped working wasn’t in the elevator. 

once home, the silence made you frown. “Ollie? where are you?” you notice the dirty dishes in the sink and sigh, moving them to the dishwasher. when it’s done, you go to his room, only to find out the window’s open. again. 

you’re not even sad, it’s just that after the bliss, everything brutally goes down. the apartment feels emptier than it has ever been. you raise the temperature, setting all radiators on their maximum temperature.

you then reach for the device Ollie just offered you. could it solve that, even in the slightest bit? 

well it has to charge first.

you let out a string of curse words you’d really hate for your son to ever use before searching the apartment, looking for the right charger. you eventually find it and try to distract yourself by ordering Thai food and turning on the TV, watching whatever romcom was on. 

it takes thirty minutes for it to fully charge and you turn it on as soon as it beeps, frantic, hands shaking. you didn’t hear a thing, except for a quiet buzzing -probably meaning he wasn’t in the Batmobile, and that wherever he was, you couldn’t know what was happening.

a bad feeling settling in your stomach, you dial Bruce’s phone number. he doesn’t answer. you try again, and this time, you’re welcomed by the sound of wind rustling, as well as your boss saying your name, trying to overcome the interference that was your name. “yes, ehm- Ollie left? and he’s not in the car or wherever the channel is and- why did he leave? Bruce, I just… i don’t think I can do this anymore. i don’t think i want him to keep doing it. i miss my son- my baby, and is it so selfish? i’ll ask him to stop tomorrow.”

he takes a sigh on the other end of the line. “i understand, better than you think. i don’t… i don’t think that’s a good idea, to make him stop. you know how he is, right? he’ll just dig in his heels. i can come by, if you want.” you barely heard him, because of the wind hurling, but you still shook your head negatively. “no, i’m good. i’m just… a little dramatic. i really should go, i don’t know why I called, it’s silly.” 

“no, don’t w-” you hung up before he couldn’t finish his sentence.

they always felt empty. empty promises, empty words, phrasing he’d probably memorised. it felt good to hear once you decided you wanted to believe it, but as soon as you realized it, it could only feel hollow. don’t worry, we’ll find a solution, blah blah blah…

you were tired of this shit.

────── 𓃠

next day was a Saturday. you took a day off, encouraged by one of your closest colleagues, and were sitting at the dinner table, reading through this month’s expenses, to find out it was much less than the previous years.

nothing surprising, since Ollie spent most of his time at the Manor, and was barely home for supper. your weekly movie night tradition died when Robin arose, so you could cut off on that as well. talk about sacrifices.

around 1pm, Oliver emerged. you had been awake for an hour (both of you became night owls due to this hobby of his, usually waking up late on weekends), going through the boring adult shit. 

“morning, sleepyhead.” he yawns and hugs you from the back. “hey, ma. sorry for last night, B kept us late for debriefing.” 

you stopped whatever you were doing. “Bruce?” he hums mindlessly. you turn to look at him. “Bruce debriefs you on patrol?” you feel him stiffen. “...no?” 

you frown, and he cuts you off before you could say anything. “i meant Batman. same nickname, same letter. B, B, tomato tomato, y’know?” “ahh. makes sense,” you deadpan. he offers a tentative smile. “ehm. want some help.” 

“i’m fine. go shower, stanka pooh.” you say, though you don’t seem to be big on humor at the moment.

everything makes a lot more sense. Bruce listening to your requests, reassuring you, yet advocating for Batman, a man he was hating on publicly. to get people off track. you had been played. this bastard, though you doubted he meant any wrong, hadn’t been brave enough to look at you dead in the eyes and admit being the one doing all this wrong to your child.

────── 𓃠

it’s only after two weeks of silent treatment that Bruce showed up at your desk. 

“hi, dear, have you been okay? haven’t heard from you in a while.” he leans down, feigning to look at your screen so no one would side glance you both. you cringe at the nickname. “i’m good. are you?” 

“...are you sure?” after a moment silence, noticing you were determined to ignore you, he added, “silent women don’t mean well,” which earned a scoff. you patted his torso. “go listen to another alpha male podcast to understand women better, boss. i’m working here,” you added, giving him the cold shoulders. 

he squinted and left. only to knock on your door the next Sunday.

“bothering innocent women on the Lord’s Day?” “you’re catholic?” “i could be.” he nods, engaging you both in a staring contest you were definitely not losing.

“we need to talk,” he finally said after what felt like an eternity. he blinked. you won. so you let him in, stepping aside, biting the inside of your cheek. “ran out of children to recruit? checking on your investment?” 

he deadpanned, “you’re not fair.” 

you scoff. “wanna talk about fair? sit your ass down, Wayne,” you point to the couch. he obeys, much to your surprise.

you cross your arms over you chest, glaring down at him, “start talking, ‘B’,” you start, “explain to me how it is fair that my son is out there, probably getting shot at, because of you?” “he’s not here?” you grit your teeth. “he’s at your place right now. i feel like that’s something you should know.”

he sighs and puts his hands on the coffee table, looking like a man running for mayor. “first of all,” he said, and you clenched your jaw. he noticed and decided the patronizing tone wasn’t one he should be using. “it’s not because of me,” he says, much more softly. “he made a choice. i gave him the structure to make that choice safely.”

“safely?!” you shrieked. “you put him in a costume like it’s Halloween and sent him off to fight  criminals! armed ones!” “i- no, that’s not- listen,” he starts. you tilt your head, letting him rethink his words. he drops his head back.

“what was the alternative? let him run wild with that anger and drive? i… channeled him, here you go,” it takes everything in you not to slap him. “you channeled him? you barely even know him, Mr. Wayne!” 

“Better than you think,” his voice took a raw edge, “i see myself in him! the same… need to make the pain mean something-” “-oh, no, don’t you dare, don’t you compare your childhood trauma to his. you- y- you lost your parents! i’m still here!! i was doing just fine when you… swooped in and offered him a more exciting way to die!”

he flinched. “it was his decision. he came to me.” you grab your head in your hands. “he’s a kid, Bruce! one could think that with all the children you’ve got, you’d know we can’t let young men make life-and-death decisions! that’s our job, my job, and you stole that from me! you had *no* right to do so!”

his words got stuck in his throat, he could only say, stiff, “i did what i to do. for the- for the mission.” “you’re one hell of a fucking coward, Bruce Wayne. hiding behind the great, holy mission; just because you can’t take account for your very own actions.”

he went utterly still. “you collect broken boys and girls just ‘cause you’re too broken yourself to connect with anyone who isn’t just as scarred.” you clench your jaw, “you fucking… trauma vampire,” you leaned down to face him, “you feed on their pain to feel less alone in yours.” 

“you have… no idea what you’re talking about,” he groans. 

“don’t I?” you squint and tilt your head, standing back up, “then why him, Bruce? why my Oliver? because his father’s not around and his mom’s at your mercy?” he opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off. “was he disposable enough?”

“he’s not disposable,” he assures. before you could reply, he says, leaving no room for argument, “I would never.” you bite back, “then prove it. get out of here and tell him to stop. get out of my home and if you’ve got an ounce of honor, order my boy to come home to his mom, and stop leaving her.” he tilts his head, tired. “hun, you’d wrap him in bubble wrap and lock him down in a cave if you could. you’re not fair.”

you don’t reply for a while before snarling. “did you miss the part where i told you to leave, sir?” 

he looks at you dead in the eyes, another staring contest going on, one that he wins when you look up at the clock.

“go.”

he gets up, stopping at the door. probably waiting for you to call for him back. you don’t give him that pleasure. “forgot how to use a door handle, Mr. Wayne.” he scoffs and opens the door, not a look behind him as he leaves. petty, he leaves the door open. you close it, before plopping down on your couch, heart hammering against your ribs. that definitely dethroned Batman’s encounter as the second scariest thing that ever happened to you.

and apparently, it wasn’t enough, because next week, he’s back. Oliver’s at his place, hasn’t been coming to your place for a while. mad because you want him to quit. you’ve still got his airtag on, unbeknownst to him, but he doesn’t take his sneakers as Robin. you just know he’s been staying at Wayne Manor. you’re not even sad. you would’ve expected yourself to be devastated, but you’re honestly so mad, you can’t even exceed the red-colored lenses. 

you’re in a tank top, jogging and a wool vest, pink and blue and yellow, your hair and clothing are neat, but your eyes are a mess. bloodshot, dark-circled, pupils narrowed. 

he does take a look at your shot before coming in. “hi.” you mumble, “hello, sure, come in, i don’t mind, i totally want you in my house, i really don’t hate you at the moment and am perfectly fine with you invading my personal space.” 

he turns around, removing his jacket, “what was that?” you deadpan, “nothing. you don’t mind Mexican food?” “I’ve got a sensitive stomach.” “of course you do,” you sigh. 

you get a pastries box from the top of the fridge and hand it to him. “suit yourself,” you say before sitting on the couch. he does too, at the exact same place he sat last time.

“we have to get Oliver back to you,” he says, eating a croissant in the least classy manner. “he’s not emptying the dishwasher enough? his room is too messy? what happened that you’d get tired of my boy?” Bruce sighs. “he’s lovely and everyone loves him, he’s not an issue.” “of course. that’s my son, he’s perfect.”

he smiles and looks at you. you take a bite of your food before looking up at him. “what?” 

“nothing.” you glare before turning back to the television.

after a while, you say, “so why you wanna give Ollie back to me?” “he’s a mess. we don’t even mention you, he does it himself and then his eyes do that thing…” “yeah, they get watery and they flicker.” “yes, that.”

you sigh.”i can’t force him. he’s sixteen, i’m lucky he hasn’t rejected me sooner. all teenagers do that. i did that too. well i was pregnant, so no shit i’d reject my mom, but you know.” 

he grimaces. “not exactly”. you send him another glare. “oh, come on. you probably rejected your caretaker as well.” he looked in the distance. oh yes, he did. Alfred had a hard time with him at some point.

“anyway. i’m sorry for what you’re going through. it’s entirely my fault-” “-i know. made peace with that already.” he sighed. “wasn’t going to blame myself for protecting my child the whole week,” you grumble, sinking deeper into the couch.

he sighs. “what are you watching?” 

“Look who’s talking,” you say. “a favorite”. he nods. “what’s it about?” “a woman has a kid with a rich asshole she has an affair with and then he doesn’t want her anymore. then she meets a broke guy and he steps up as the dad. but she doesn’t want him at first, so for the whole movie, it’s ‘will they won’t they’.” 

he sits back down onto the couch, removing his tie. you side eye him. but then he goes back to eating, no, engulfing pastries, and you decide that’s a sight you don’t want.

“what gets them together?” “the baby sneaks out and he’s in danger so they team up and get him. also, they almost fucked earlier in the movie. but she didn’t want a shitty life wed up to a scrub.” “what’s a scrub?” 

you don’t reply. 

when the movie ends, you look at him. black hair and blue eyes. dad material. always been your type, it seems.

you get up and tidy up. “thanks for the company, boss, but you should leave now. it’s getting late and i’ve been on the tabloids twice now.” “you have?” “don’t you read the Gotham gazette?” “barely.”

you roll your eyes and wash the dishes in the sink. “don’t you have a dishwasher?” you shrug. “i like doing the dishes.” he doesn’t say much, just looks around him. he expected the house to be in awful state, but it’s neat. cleaner than it was when Oliver was still there. “are you going through some kind of manic episode?” “are you here to call me out on my shit?” 

he leans against the fridge. “you did call me out on mine.” you chuckle and drop the sponge. “i’m sorry about that, Bruce.” you raise your head to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I wanted you to hurt that bad. I was mean, and it wasn’t correct of me.” he shrugs. “it’s okay.”

after a while, you break the stare to resume your cleaning. he notes, “you sound like a teenager sometimes. but you own up to your actions.” you chuckle. “aouch.” he doesn’t say much.

“i never really got to be one, I guess.” “how old were you?” “seventeen.” “i was doing coke at that age.” you try to fight it but eventually laugh, head dipped down. 

“what kind of comparison is that, sir?” 

“you really should settle on a name. it’s sir or boss, or Mr. Wayne, and then it’s Bruce. i’m lost,” he teases, lowering himself to try and catch your gaze. “it’s all ‘cause your cognitive functions aren’t as high as mine.” he smirks.

“seriously though, you’re gonna stay here all night?” “you planned on having a good night’s sleep?” “i was thinking of binge watching some TV show.” “why couldn’t i stay then? you clearly have no social life,” he adds, face blank.

you glare. “we’re not on that kind of terms, boss,” he holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “my apologies.”

he ends up sitting on your couch next to you, each one on their side, watching TV for a while. “oh, you’ve got a Monopoly?” “of course I do.” “it’s my favorite board game.” 

“I bet it is. capitalist.” he looks at you, unbothered. “wanna play?” 

you accept and you two settle down on your dinner table. 

it’s three a.m. when he wins for the second time. “fuck me,” you groan. he throws the bills around, making a victory dance in the middle of your kitchen. a quite ridiculous one. 

you call out, “you better pick that up right now, Mr. Wayne!”

he does as you put the game away. “thanks though. haven’t opened this one since Ollie was thirteen.” “explains why you’re so bad at it.” you look up, “don’t make me open it again. i’ll whoop your ass.” “no doubt,” he replies. 

you get up and stretch. your wool has long since been forgotten on the chair, and his eyes wander over your body with no shame. “ehm. where are the toilets?” you show him the wooden door painted white behind which was located your bathroom and laundry room. he doesn’t take much time, and when he comes out, you sneak a peek. “Bruce. the toilet seat. it’s a lady’s place.” he makes an ‘oopsie’ face and walks back into the bathroom.

“so,” he says once back. “so,” you echo. “you could come to the manor soon.” “i don’t want to invade your home, Bruce. nor do i want to invade my son’s privacy.” “both of you aren’t in a very good state.” “i’m doing fine,” you argue. “you have high-functioning depression.” you roll your eyes, “didn’t know you had a PhD.” he looks at you, unamused. “you don’t need each other, but i think each other’s absence is wearing out on you.”

“that’s none of your business, sir.” you can’t even lie and say you appreciate his concern. you can hardly lie and say it has nothing to do with him. he’s the center of all of this. playing the role of the mediator and everything hard to handle. 

“you’ve overstayed your welcome, boss. just.. go away.” “i won’t,” he says. he starts saying your name but you cut him off. “shut it. it was nice to pity me and play board games with me, but i’m tired of you pacifying me.” “you know it’s not what it is.” 

“whatever,” you say. he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. you scoff. “don’t act so irritated, Bruce. i haven’t forgotten the lies. and the child stealing. it’s nice while it lasts, but we aren’t friends.” he looks at you. “i’m starting to get tired of your shit, woman,” you scoff once again. woman. how charming. he takes a step forward and leans down, sending a Kubrick stare your way. as if that’d waver you. “you’ve got too much ego, more than you can afford. i don’t care if you insult me, but it’s time you get out of misery, that’s pathetic. get your sixteen-years-old back home. can’t you do that, huh?” you snap, “who do you think you are, actually? you overstep constantly. you aren’t even in your own home.” you get your face close to his, “just because you’ve got money and some so-called charm, doesn’t mean you get to meddle in my personal life! it’s my business! you’re a pathetic no-life, you just act like a f’ckin’ philanthropist, ‘cause you’re just such a nice guy, s’much for dad material-” you sneer, the word mixing together, forgetting some vowels, until you were cut off.

strong hand grabbing your tank top, a deep scowl you could only recognize as his, he mutters, “won’t you stop being so demeaning?” 

“won’t you stop being so fucking-” “language,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. you scoff, “you’re not enough of a man to-” once again, and for the third time consecutively, he cuts you off. this time by grabbing your jaw and pressing his lips on yours.

you should have pushed him away. you definitely should’ve backed off, make him sit down on your couch and give him a lecture on consent, but instead you grabbed a handful of his shirt and brought him down, muttering “oh, fucking hell” against his lips. he didn’t tell you to watch your mouth this time. he softened the grip he had on you to cup your face with one hand instead, the other resting on your shoulder, sliding in your neck to rub the side of it until he was cupping your face with both hands. you had barely felt so much at once. you were still angry, for sure, but while your resentment remained on your mind, you found yourself enjoying his touch so much that you didn’t want to break the moment.

his kiss was gentle, reverent, uncertain, slowly adapting to you. it may have started rough, it was all caresses and humid lips. you were adults, you possessed some class, you weren’t tonguing each other out.

at that moment, at least.

because soon enough, he pulled back, hands lowering to your waist, sliding up and down, from your ribcage to your lips. you hesitated, fixing his gaze for a while, before asking, half-cocky, half-uncertain, “so?” 

“you’re a goddess,” he breathes before leaning down to kiss you some more. peppered kisses on your lips and forehead. you bit your bottom lip when he trailed down your neck, whispering, “you’re not so bad yourself,” watching him kiss your bust, then your arm, from your shoulder to your fingers. he lowered himself, both knees on the ground, sliding his hands at the back of your legs to grab your thighs. 

when he looked up, you swear you would’ve fainted right then and there, is face barely lit under the streetlights shining through the window of your apartment. he breathed your name, once, and you ran your fingers through his slicked hair, messing it up a little bit. he whispered it a second time, until you replied, as soft as possible, a low “yes?”. 

he planted a soft kiss on your tummy, “would you let me?...” 

“oh god i thought you wouldn’t ask. yes, definit-” he grabbed you, solid arms around your knees, throwing you over his shoulder to bring you to the bedroom. you thought he would’ve dropped you on the couch, but he easily guessed which one was your room and brought you to you bed, helping you lie down on it instead of throwing you down like you thought he would have. 

he removed his shirt under your gaze, one that was much more burning than intended. he was all muscles, scars and more muscles, surprisingly well-defined for a man his age. he put a knee on the bed, rubbing his hands on the outside of your thighs. “Mr. Wayne, I-” “let me treat you, sweetheart.” he leans down, opening your legs to lean down on you, one hand remaining on your knee, the other sliding up to caress the underside of your breasts. “and please, please call me Bruce.”

you two finished the second round around 6 a.m., your throat sore, as well as your back, your legs and hips. especially your hips. it had been… wild, to say the least. Bruce’s back was even more scarred than before, the inside of your thighs were blurry, and you really need to pee. “ ‘m going to the toilets,” you slurred, hardly making it out of the bed. you put on an oversized t-shirt of yours before walking (waddling, truly) to the bathroom. the walk had never felt that long. as soon as you sat down, you start dozing off, exhaustion getting back at you. it was your second sleepless night in a row, the first was thanks to Castle, the second… well the second was because of Bruce. 

who knocked on the door when he noticed you’d been on the toilets for more than 20 minutes. 

“everything okay in there?” “i’m fine, just exhausted. what time is it?” “6.50. i’m gonna get my clothes at the Manor.” “sure. see you at work,” you say, voice raspy. “can i come in for a bit?” you hum, though he can’t hear it. after a few seconds of silence, he peeks inside. “are you sure you’re doing fine?” “so, so tired.” you look up at him, half dressed, wearing sunglasses you were pretty sure were Oliver’s old summer camp sunglasses. bright orange and a bit too tight on Bruce’s head. you smile, tired. “maybe you should take a day off.” “you kidding me? Larry had a date on Saturday, I wanna know how it went.”

he leans down to kiss your forehead. “suit yourself. i don’t think i should come on Sundays anymore.” you hum, watching him leave. “see you soon, boss,” you say before trying, very hard, to recover all your strength before getting up. 

────── 𓃠

you two couldn’t have been less discreet. you could barely hide the smile on your face when you and him crossed each other’s gaze as he passed by your desk, and he didn’t either. he was the boss and his office was on the eleventh floor, yet you had never seen him be on the ground floor so much. 

Emily from accountancy clocked you got laid within thirty seconds of you two talking. others noticed how you seemed like you hadn’t gotten an ounce of sleep, mostly because you decided to use your lunch break sleeping in the coffee room. 

life was shit, your child was going through the worst rejection phase ever and his life was constantly on the line, but hey, you did have mind-blowing sex with Bruce Wayne. 

of course, the first few days were awkward as hell. both of you tried to act normally, and luckily you didn’t have much needed interactions usually, so you could just peacefully avoid each other on the daily. he texted about Ollie (barely, and dryly), but that was pretty much it. co-parenting.

────── 𓃠

Ollie started to come back two days later, when you weren’t home at first, pretending to some alone time (he loved the boys, but they were a lot for an only child who’d always been mama’s favorite), but when you surprised him four days later and hugged him, he broke down into tears and you watched a movie together, though you could barely tell the synopsis with how much your boy had talked, telling you all about his week and a half away from you. every small anecdote, irrelevant or quite funny, had been told to you. 

“hey, B’s throwing a party for me at his place. for my birthday.” you choked on your hot chocolate and it took you twenty seconds of coughing to go back to normal breathing. “he’s doing what now?” “he’s-” “i heard you the first time. why would he- is he in his right mind? oh for fuck's s-” “moooom, come on. it’s not that serious.” 

“aren’t his kids, like, in their thirties?” he snorts. “the oldest will be, soon. but Dami and Tim are, like, around 20.” you glare at the blatant lie. Tim is going on 25. and you know damn well Richard is well over thirty.

“you’re lucky i have no say in this, because-” “don’t you?”

“will you stop interrupting me, Oliver?” he stiffens before sheepishly apologizing. he definitely isn’t used to you saying his name. “yup, s’rry.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose and he scrunches his nose. “i promise i’ll be well-behaved.” you nod. “i trust you on that. got many friends going?” “around, like twenty. and some of Bruce’s colleagues kids.” “my colleagues?” “no, i meant– Batman’s colleagues. the superhero ones.”

“oh boy, that is not safe.” “probably not,” he shrugs, reaching for his hot chocolate. unbothered king.

────── 𓃠

taglist: @thetruecardinalsinner @slowlyshycomputer arghavdhzchz im so anxious i hope it isn't too bad? lmk if u enjoy it and if u have any tip for writing cuz ts wasn't proofread, alpharead, nor betaread. rawdogging it frfr.

[onlyfeng]

𓃠 — THE HONEY COLLECTION.

⇘ bruce wayne x reader.

your journey, from somehow baby trapping Gotham’s prince(ss), playboy billionaire, to the bittersweet feelings you nurture towards Bruce Wayne, to some kind of love.

────── masterlist! playlist!

— MAIN SERIES.

i, loose ends. ii, everything but real love. iii, precious things. iv, sweet escape. v, enjoy the silence. vi, pure possession.

— DRABBLES ; ONESHOTS.

𓃭 ,, winning them over. 𓃭 ,, finding out. 𓃭 ,, mother material. 𓃭 ,, nightmares handling.

────── taglist (google form)!

[onlyfeng]

────── MASTERLIST

──── DC COMICS.

b r u c e w a y n e

— the honey collection (series). from somehow baby trapping Gotham’s prince(ss), playboy billionaire, to the bittersweet feelings you nurture towards Bruce Wayne, to some kind of love.

— mama bearat. Batman finds a new Robin, but there’s a worried single mother on the other line. it takes a while, but eventually, she finds peace. she might’ve messed up with her boy, but she sees in Bruce Wayne a way of making her way back into his trust circle.

— the devotion series. you used to be everything for each other, until he cut ties with you, no apparent reason. now Bruce Wayne's a playboy, you're Batman's undercover agent, and any interaction is to be avoided. you seem to forget that last part after a few drinks.

k a l d u r ' a h m

— the aftertaste series. Manta handpicks you as his son's lieutenant. your relationship may be peculiar -as Kaldur insists you mustn't fall for him despite the intensity of your interactions-, you soon acknowledge you'd do anything for him, even if that involves treason.

[onlyfeng]

— CHARACTERS I WRITE FOR.

fandoms i write for (a-z) + characters (a-z),,

minors will be aged up.

𓃠 AVATAR

— ao’nung — lo’ak — neteyam — tonowari — tsireya

𓃠 DC COMICS

— bruce wayne — clark kent — harleen quinzel — jason todd — john constantine — kaldur'ahm — kon-el (conner k.) — luke fox — richard grayson — roy harper — selina kyle — tim drake — wally west

𓃠 DEMON SLAYER

— daki — gyutaro — haganezuka — hashibira inosuke — iguro obanai — kanroji mitsuri — tomioka giyu — uzui tengen

𓃠 MY HERO ACADEMIA

— dabi (touya t.) — denki kaminari — eijiro kirishima — ms. joke (emi f.) — shoto todoroki — tenya iida — twice (jin b.)

𓃠 OURAN HIGH SCHOOL HOST CLUB

— hikaru hitachiin — kaoru hitachiin — kyoya ootori — takashi mori — tamaki suoh

𓃠 PERCY JACKSON

— butch walker — clarisse la rue — connor stoll — drew tanaka — echo — frank zhang — hylla ramirez-arellano — jason grace — leo valdez — piper mclean

[onlyfeng]

— REQUESTS. please keep in mind that english isn’t my native language!

— RULES.

ill most likely imply it but i can write smut. i wont post drabbles or short format, i don’t do porn w/out plot; but i can def write some.

i try to stay as gender neutral as i can, but it can include mostly feminine traits, and i apologize for that.

i’ll tag you once it’s done but be aware, it can take a while.

i do not write about incest/fauxcest or any other controversial take.

here’s the list of characters i write for.

personal faves (a-z),,

bruce wayne (dc) · connor stoll (pjo) · eijiro kirishima (bnha) · iguro obanai (kny) · ms. joke (bnha) · neteyam sully (avatar) · pantalone (genshin) · roy harper (dc) · takashi mori (ohshc) · tengen uzui (kny) · tim drake (dc)