That One Kid

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[that---one---kid]

Master List

Liste principale

Rainbow Six Siege

Neighbor Thermite

Yandere Doc, Yandere Doc HC, Français

Smoke- Joyeux anniversaire, II couche à droite à gauche

Bandit- Je te veux

SAS 4 V 1

Caviera - Reste avec moi

Black Beard

BatFamily

Golden Cage, Velvet Chains- Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5.

Yan! BatFam with touch starved reader

Dick Grayson- Undressed

Hunger Games: Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes

The Cold Snow

[that---one---kid]

Undressed

Dick Grayson x Reader

Procrastinating my main fic has turned into a full time job at this point. Small One shot of 20yr old Dick dealing with a break up.

It’s not like he misses you.

Not really.

He just thinks about you. A lot. At weird times. Like right now, pacing his apartment at 1:36 AM with his shirt halfway unbuttoned and the city bleeding in through the windows like a bruise.

Not missing you. Just... remembering.

The way you laughed when he tried to impress you. The way your hands always found the back of his neck when you kissed, the way you said his name.

Dick swipes a hand through his hair and exhales hard, like maybe he can force the thought of you out through sheer willpower. It doesn’t work. It never does.

The record player’s spinning something low and smoky—he didn’t even mean to put it on. His fingers just went there. Vinyl crackles. Some lo-fi beat. Something that feels like the smell of rain. It feels like you.

God, he’s being dramatic.

He flops onto the couch, letting his head hang back over the armrest, chest exposed to the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. Shirt clinging to sweat and memory.

You always said he lived like he was half-feral. He never understood what you meant until you were gone.

Now every part of him feels loud and barely contained. Too much energy in his muscles, nowhere to put it. Like he wants to fight something and kiss something and climb onto a rooftop just to scream. Maybe all three.

He still sees you sometimes.

Not in real life, obviously. You’ve got a new routine now. New people. New smile. He stalks your socials more than he should. Tells himself it’s just curiosity.

But in his head? You’re there.

You’re in his passenger seat with your feet on the dash. You’re straddling him on the bed after a play fight. You’re tugging his jacket on because you forgot yours, again, and he’s pretending not to watch the way it swallows you.

And sometimes—just sometimes—he thinks you’re thinking about him, too.

Maybe you hear a song. Maybe you walk past a rooftop you once kissed on. Maybe your new guy doesn’t know that your favorite sandwich isn’t actually turkey, it’s tuna, but you were too polite to say anything.

Maybe he calls you by your name, and it doesn’t sound right.

Dick laughs under his breath. Bitter. Warm. Stupid.

He never said the things he should’ve. Thought he had time. Thought you’d always be there when he swung back through your fire escape. But love is more fragile than bone, and Dick Grayson knows exactly how many ways a body can break.

He lets his eyes fall closed, lips parted, head still dangling off the couch.

Not missing you, he tells himself.

Just... wanting.

[that---one---kid]

New Fic Poll

As Golde Cage, Velvet Chains, wraps up, I still haven't scratched my yandere batfam itch. I really want to make a one shot. based on just one member of the batfam to really hone in on their crazy.

Pick a yandere

Damian Wayne(aged up)

Dick Grayson

Jason Todd

Cassandra Cain

Voting ended onDec 21, 2025

[that---one---kid]

Golden Cage, Velvet Chains

Chapter 5

Hey y'all, so I've been just a tiny bit busy and haven't really felt like writing. This chapter isn't the best, but I really want to wrap up this fic soon and do it justice.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

It’s been months. The thought of escape still lingers, a faint ember smoldering at the back of your mind, but there’s nothing left to feed it. The fire’s gone thin, starving, flickering lower with each passing day. Freedom no longer feels like something you’ll reach for—it feels like something you’ll have to be torn into, violently, or not at all.

Evenings came and went and this evening your core still ached, thighs slick from Bruce’s cum, the slow throb between your hips a reminder of how thoroughly he’d just fucked you. The sheets were twisted and damp beneath you, clinging to your skin where sweat had cooled. His breath still ghosted against your neck, his scent—leather, clean soap, and something woody—woven into the rumpled linen like it had seeped into the fibers. You wondered if this was romantic in his mind.

Bruce’s arm banded around your waist, hauling your bare back tight to his chest. His body was a furnace at your spine, each slow exhale warm against the sheen of sweat along your shoulder.

“You’re safe here,” Bruce murmured, voice low and deliberate, the words spilling into your skin like they belonged there. “The manor will protect you… I will protect you. Out there—” his lips brushed the damp hollow beneath your ear, lingering for a kiss “—you wouldn’t last. The world would devour you whole. The world doesn’t deserve you.”

The weight of his presence pressed into you as tangibly as the ache in your muscles. You counted the minutes in your head, waiting until enough had passed to seem compliant before easing yourself from his grasp.

Bruce let you go, though his gaze stayed fixed. Propped on his forearms, the shadows clung to the sharp planes of his face. You reached for the silk nightgown discarded on the floor, the cool fabric whispering over flushed skin and still-tender thighs.

Crossing the bedroom, your steps muffled on polished wood, you heard Bruce’s voice follow.

“I think the boys are warming to you. Dick, especially,” he said like it was praise.

Deranged, you thought, the chandelier’s glow stretching his shadow across the floor. Every single one of them.

The bathroom greeted you in silent opulence—black marble veined with gold, antique brass framing mirrors tall enough to dwarf you, warm lighting wrapping your reflection in false softness.

Even without turning, you felt Bruce in the doorway—solid, watchful, immovable.

Cool water kissed your face, chasing away the lingering heat, grounding you in the simplest of motions. The nightgown shifted against your thighs, silk catching faintly over sensitive skin. Bruce’s voice came again, smooth and certain:

“You don’t need to think about the outside anymore. Everything you need is here.”

You shivered—not from the water, not from the nightgown, but from Bruce. From the truth in his words: every kiss, every touch, every murmur was another link in the invisible chain he’d locked around you.

And in the fractured light of the chandelier, you wondered if the others were listening, waiting… or if Bruce had already decided what they’d do next.

He had moved back into the bedroom, the shift of the sheets telling you he’d settled in, patient and unhurried, waiting for you to finish. You kept your eyes on the mirror.

Damp skin caught the light in uneven patches, a faint sheen tracing your collarbones, your cheekbones, more hollow than when you first came. Your lips were swollen from his kisses, the tender sting along them a lingering reminder of how hard he’d just fucked you.

 You looked… worn. Aged, even. Once, your skin had a glow, a softness; now you barely recognized the dull, hollow face staring back at you.

You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not another day. You felt yourself dying here—slowly, deliberately—your spirit, your hope, your sense of self being ground down into nothing.

Your hand moved without thought, opening the vanity drawer. Not yours. Bruce’s. The one where he kept his razors for shaving.

They were scattered inside, spare blades lying like pieces of silver glass. Smooth, reflective, catching the warm chandelier light and slicing it into glints. They looked cold. Clean. Final.

You stared at them, pulse crawling into your throat, the silk at your hips suddenly suffocating. The room seemed to still around you, your own reflection fading at the edges until all you could see was the gleam of steel. Enticing in its simplicity.

Behind you, you could just barely hear the quiet weight of Bruce shifting in the bed—still there, still waiting.

Your fingertip glides along the edge of the blade, cool and smooth as if it were an extension of the marble beneath you. You lift it delicately, its weight almost nonexistent—like holding a sliver of frozen air. A small tilt, a slip, and the metal kisses your skin. A thin bead of crimson blooms on your fingertip, warm against the cold steel. You don’t flinch.

Escape.

 The word roots itself deep inside you, solid and certain.

Somewhere beyond the bathroom, you hear the faint shift of Bruce’s weight on the mattress, the quiet creak of springs, the whisper of bare feet meeting the rug.

It’s now or never.

The blade rests against the soft skin of your wrist, and before you can think again, it tears you open. Fire blooms instantly—sharp, pure, and all-consuming—racing up your arm until your fingers spasm and curl. Blood spills in hot pulses, slipping between your knuckles.

You pass the blade into your injured hand, the metal slick in your grip, and draw it across the other wrist in one swift, shaking motion. The second wound is deeper. The pain is so bright it almost feels cold. You grit your teeth, desperate not to wince. 

The world shifts under you. Your knees give way, silk nightgown spilling around you as you sink to the polished marble. The impact sends a soft echo through the room, swallowed by the thick, warm sound of your own blood pattering against the gold-veined floor.

It spreads quickly—thick rivulets crawling outward, pooling in molten shapes that catch the chandelier’s light. Your reflection in the marble is warped and unreal.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, each pulse slower than the last. You press your wrists to your stomach without knowing why—it’s instinct, desperate and pointless. The warmth keeps spreading, soaking into the silk, sticky against your thighs. You shake near uncontrollably, shock courses through you and you almost regret it. Almost.

Breathing feels strange. Each inhale is shallow, ragged, as if the air itself has grown too heavy to lift. Your lips part, a quiet sound slipping out, more exhale than voice.

The world smells faintly of iron. Your vision blurs, edges melting away until the chandelier above is nothing but a golden smear, swaying in the stillness.

And beneath it all, in the midst of the pain and the cold, there’s an aching calm. Like sinking into deep water.

From the bedroom, Bruce’s voice—distant, uncertain—calls your name.

Footsteps follow, the pace quickening.

He bursts into the room. A shadow falls over you. Silence stretches.

You’re out before you can even register what he was shouting.

You wake with a sour taste in your mouth, heavy-lidded and disoriented, every muscle stiff and protesting. The dull ache in your wrists and arms is a cruel reminder of what you tried to do—and failed. Your eyes flick across the hospital ceiling, sterile and oppressive, and a rush of frustration coils in your chest.

Your gaze drifts downward, to the thick bandages binding your wrists. Every line of red, every sting from the IVs tethered into your veins whispers that you didn’t finish it. That you weren’t finished. Dread pools in your stomach, cold and insistent.

The room is plain, stripped of personality, except for the flowers—too many, too loud—and the cards scattered across the bedside table and windowsill. Handwriting you know too well: Dick’s neat loops, Cass’s frantic swirls, even Tim’s careful scrawl. Love notes. Every one of them is a jab, a reminder of the people you loathe more than anyone, and it makes bile rise in your throat.

The silence presses down, but it’s not comforting. It’s the kind of quiet that feels like a countdown, like the moment before they find you, before they realize you’ve survived long enough to think again.

You reach for the call button and press it, almost angrily, your fingers trembling from the aches in your arms. The beep echoes in the room, meaningless and hollow, but at least it’s a sound you control.

And beneath it all, the bitter truth settles: you’re still here. Stuck.

The faint clack of heels and the squeak of a door break the stillness. You tense, breath catching, half-expecting the heavy cadence of boots—his boots—or the faint, suffocating trace of leather and smoke. When neither comes, a thin, shaky breath escapes you in relief.

It’s only a nurse.

She slips into the room, young and soft-voiced, her presence a fragile contrast to the sterile quiet. Blonde hair tucked beneath her cap, clipboard pressed to her chest, she offers a cautious smile.

“Where am I?” you rasp, your voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it.

“Wayne Memorial Hospital,” she replies, stepping closer to check the monitors by your bedside. Her tone is careful, rehearsed, but not unkind. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. How are you feeling?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you could, even if you tried.

The nurse studies you for a moment, then begins asking a series of gentle, practiced questions—each one ticking off some invisible checklist. Her politeness feels almost mechanical, but there’s something beneath it too. A glimmer of sincerity, faint but real.

Still, you can’t shake the unease curling in your gut. Wayne Memorial. Of course. Even here, even now, they find a way to surround you.

The nurse finishes checking your vitals, her pen scratching quietly over the chart. For a moment, you cling to the ordinary rhythm of it—the faint beeping of the monitor, the clean smell of antiseptic—pretending it’s just a hospital stay.

Then her badge catches the light. Wayne Memorial Hospital.

Your pulse jumps.

“When will I be discharged?” you ask quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “And—can I use a phone? I need to call my parents, they—they don’t even know I’m here.”

The nurse freezes mid-note. Her lashes lower, just for a heartbeat, before she looks at you again with a gentle, practiced smile. “I’m afraid you’ll need to speak with Mr. Wayne about that.”

“What?” You try to sit up, but the IV tugs painfully at your arm. “Why would I have to ask him? He’s my boss, not—”

“Mr. Wayne has assumed responsibility for your care,” she interrupts softly. “You’re listed under his guardianship until you’ve been cleared for independent decision-making.”

Your heart lurches. “No, you don’t understand. I’m not supposed to be here. Please—he’s dangerous, he’s keeping me here against my will—”

Her expression softens in the way people do when they think you’re delirious. “You’ve been through a great deal,” she says gently. “Sometimes the mind protects itself with stories when it’s overwhelmed. Try to rest. Mr. Wayne only wants you to get better.”

“No.” you whisper. “You don’t understand. They're terrified. They think I’m—”

“I understand,” the nurse says, though her tone makes it clear she doesn’t, not really. “It’s policy for situations like this. Mr. Wayne’s been very involved. You’re safe here.”

Safe.

The word tastes like ash.

“I’m telling you the truth!” The IV tugs painfully when you try to sit up.

The nurse presses a calming hand to your shoulder. “You’re safe here. I’ll bring you something light to eat.”

You turn your face toward the window, but the light there is too bright, and every flower on the sill wears the same black ribbon stamped with a silver W.

He’s everywhere, even here.

You’re not sure how much time has passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. The light hasn’t changed, and the machines still hum their sterile lullaby beside you, beeping in a steady, mechanical rhythm. The air tastes faintly antiseptic and something metallic, like the tang of blood that won’t quite leave your tongue.

You lie still, staring at the ceiling. You’ve tried to sleep, to shut out the white noise of the hospital and the ache in your body, but it doesn’t stick. The thoughts come crawling back, too familiar, too loud. How long you were in that house. How quiet the halls became once you stopped begging. How easily the fear settled in and became something permanent.

You tell yourself you’re safe here, but the word doesn’t mean anything anymore.

You haven’t touched the food they brought—some gray broth, a cup of water you can’t make yourself drink. The nurse tried coaxing you, her tone soft but rehearsed, as though she’d said the same words a hundred times before. You’d ignored her. The thought of swallowing anything only twists your stomach tighter.

The silence stretches. You try not to think about the phone that hasn’t rung, or the calls that should’ve been made. They would’ve told your parents, wouldn’t they? Someone should’ve told them.

The door clicks softly. A knock, followed by a pause long enough to make your chest tighten.

You turn your head.

He’s there.

Bruce stands framed in the doorway, a dark shape against the sterile white light. Even in the hospital’s washed-out glow, he seems out of place—too composed, too clean. The kind of calm that hides everything dangerous underneath.

Your heart stutters, but not from surprise. From recognition.

You thought—hoped—it might be one of the others. Dick with his watery worries. Jason with his temper barely held in check. Even Tim, quiet and unnervingly gentle, would have been easier. But some small part of you knew it’d be him. Maybe to establish control again? Show the others he’s still top dog. You could only assume, but you just knew. 

Your breath hitches, something in you curling inward instinctively. You don’t move when he steps closer, the sound of his shoes muted on the linoleum.

It’s useless, all of it—the running, the pleading, the attempt. You can already see it in his eyes. He’s calm, collected, looking at you like he always does, like a child who acted out and he was here to offer a guiding hand.

You glance toward the window, the door, anywhere but him. But there’s nowhere to go, not this time.

Because Bruce Wayne doesn’t let go. Not when he finds something he likes

Bruce crosses the room with that same quietly commanding gait, and your stomach flips the way it always does when he's around. You avert your gaze, looking at him fills you with shame. The way he looks at you like a child, lesser than. Like, of course, your little attempt wouldn't work, how could you be so dumb to try and pull a fast one on THE Bruce Wayne.

“There are going to be some changes around the house,” he says, the kind of statement that isn’t a suggestion. You wince.

“Or you could let me go back home,” you whisper, voice small and brittle. It comes out more like a plea than you mean; a sulk, almost.

Bruce exhales and sinks into the chair by your bed. He looks tired, more so than usual. His hands brace on the railing of the bed like anchors. “You are home,” he says softly but firmly, as if repeating a lesson. “This is my fault.” It’s the sort of confession that sounds like contrition but feels calculated.

You sit up a fraction, fighting a laugh that’s too sharp to be amused. Of course it isn’t your fault—nothing about this ever is. “Yeah. No kidding,” you say, voice flat.

His jaw tightens; for a second his composure cracks. “I should have been spending more time at home. Helping you adjust—” He falters, glancing away, and blames the Riddler in the same breath like an excuse sewn into an apology. The words crumble.

Anger bubbles under your skin, hot and fierce. He treats you like some fragile thing that needs training, like a puppy that doesn’t understand house rules. You grit your teeth until the IV line tugs. “Fuck you,” you snap, the words brittle and precise. If you weren’t tethered to tubes, you think, you’d reach across and slap the smugness off his face.

Bruce moved toward you, and the sheer gravity of him made your stomach twist. Even here, under harsh hospital light, he carried himself like a force of nature—measured, deliberate, impossible to ignore. You turned your face away before his shadow reached the bed, your gaze fixed on the sterile white wall. You couldn’t look at him. Not when every inch of you still felt raw with failure—too alive, too present. Shame crawled beneath your skin. Shame for surviving. Shame for even thinking escape was possible.

“There are going to be some changes around the house,” Bruce said, his voice even but edged with finality. The tone of someone announcing a verdict.

You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Or,” you muttered, voice hoarse, brittle around the edges, “you could just let me go back home.” The words were small, but the bite was there—a bitter pout curling at the corners.

Bruce exhaled, long and low, before lowering himself into the chair beside your bed. The motion was careful, deliberate, as if he thought sudden movements might spook you. He looked exhausted—dark shadows bruising the skin under his eyes—but even that fatigue couldn’t soften the weight of his presence.

“You are home,” he said with a finality that made your eyes burn with tears.

The phrase landed heavy in the air, and you wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. You pressed your lips together instead.

His hands came to rest on the edge of the bed—large, solid, grounding. His gaze met yours, steady and solemn. “This is my fault.”

You sat up slightly, a half-hearted gesture of defiance. The IV line tugged at your arm. “Yeah,” you said, voice flat and cold, “no kidding.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I should’ve been spending more time at home. Helping you adjust myself,” he continued, like this was some corporate oversight, a misstep in management. “It’s just—with the Riddler on the loose, and patrols running late—”

His voice trailed off. He sighed again, heavy, regretful, but you could hear the distance in it. The way he spoke about you was the same way he spoke about Gotham—something fragile, volatile, in need of control.

Your anger sparked, quick and bitter. He wasn’t treating you like a person. You were a responsibility, a dependent thing that needed to be corrected, protected, contained.

“Fuck you,” you snapped. The words came out sharp and flat, cutting through the sterile quiet like glass.

Bruce blinked once, the faintest sign of surprise.

“You think this is helping?” you went on, voice trembling now, more from fury than fear. “You think keeping me locked away like some prisoner is love? That I’m going to just—adjust?”

He said nothing, but the faint downturn of his mouth said enough. Pity. Concern. Restraint.

It made your blood boil.

“If I didn’t have these stupid tubes in me,” you spat, glaring down at the IV line, “I’d beat the shit out of you.”

Silence followed. The kind that suffocates. Bruce’s eyes flicked over you, unreadable—half sorrow, half calculation. Then he stood slowly, straightening his coat.

“I’ll let the others know you’re awake,” he said softly. “You should eat something.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. You just stared at the blank white wall until the sound of his footsteps faded, leaving only the steady, mechanical beep of the monitor beside you—mocking you with every beat that said you were still alive.

The days started to blur together after that. Hours bled into one another, marked only by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the mechanical beep of the heart monitor. You weren’t sure how long it had been—three days, maybe four—when the visitors started.

They came one by one, like a parade of ghosts you never asked to see.

Dick arrived first, eyes red-rimmed and voice soft, every word steeped in guilt that wasn’t his to carry. Then came Jason, pacing the room like a caged animal, muttering things that sounded like comfort but landed like barbs. Tim hovered in the doorway, analytical and quiet, pretending not to cringe when he saw the bandages around your wrists. And Cass… Cass couldn’t speak, not really, but the way she looked at you—like you were already halfway gone—was better than all the others combined, almost like you could melt away.

Each visit left you more drained than the last. By the end of the week, you found yourself fantasizing about stealing a bottle of pills from one of the nurses, just so you could silence the pity, the hovering, the endless questions.

Seven days. That’s how long it took for the hospital staff to decide you were “stable.” A few sessions with the psychiatric team, a few forced meals, a few dozen hollow assurances from Bruce that “things will be different,” and they released you.

Back to the manor. Back to him.

Only different; didn’t mean better.

You didn’t return to the master bedroom. Instead, you were taken to the far east wing—isolated, cold, stripped of the illusion of comfort. The room was bare in a way that felt deliberate. The once-lavish bed was gone, replaced by something plain and utilitarian. The chairs were slanted, uneven, designed to frustrate rather than soothe. The windows were sealed—bulletproof, bolted shut—and the air smelled faintly of metal and fresh paint.

Even the door handles had been replaced. You stared at them for a long time the first night, realizing the design was intentional—smooth, rounded, impossible to dismantle. Every sharp edge, every potential tool, gone.

And then there were the cameras.

Small, unblinking eyes fixed in every corner. Their faint red lights followed you wherever you moved, tracking each breath, each shift of fabric, each moment of restless pacing. You could almost hear them hum in the silence, a low static whisper reminding you that privacy was a relic of another life.

Bruce had called it precaution.

“It’s for your own good,” he’d said, voice steady, eyes full of that false tenderness that always made your stomach turn.

You remembered the conversation too clearly: standing in the middle of your new cell—because that’s what it was, no matter how softly he said in the room—while he explained your restrictions like a doctor going over a patient’s chart.

“Someone will be on watch at all times,” he’d said, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve carved out more time in my schedule to be here when I can. But when duty calls…”

He trailed off, as if that unfinished sentence excused everything.

You didn’t respond. You barely heard him. Your mind had already drifted elsewhere—far, far away from the sound of his voice, from the scent of leather and cologne that still clung to the air.

You only caught fragments after that. Something about safety. Something about care.

None of it mattered.

All you could think was that you had traded one coffin for another.

And this one had walls that watched you breathe.

You had to get out of here.

You were keenly aware of the cameras. If the hills had eyes and the walls talked then you were placed on a petri dish and put under a microscope. 

Escaping wouldn't be so easy this time. Not that it ever was, but you could play to your strengths. Even if you would rather die then suck up to bat brains and his delusional gang of misfits.

A knock caused your eyes to shoot up from the book. You weren't really reading, simply blankly staring at the pages, plotting in your head. You trail your eyes from the ground up, black socks, baggy grey sweatpants, a t-shirt, and that shit eating grin you couldn't stand. Tim.

He was smart, maybe if you didn't meet him as a hostage and instead on campus, you would've liked him. Maybe even a crush, but no, they had to go and blow up your life. You huff through your nose and fold the soft back book, placing it in your lap.

“Bruce thought you could use some company,” Tim said, his lopsided smile twisting a little too wide to be comforting. You never believed books when they described people as having an evil look in their eye — until now. You wished this was one of those exaggerated stories.

He walked in with a confidence that echoed Bruce’s, each step deliberate, though lacking the same crushing weight. Still, the resemblance was enough to make your stomach tighten.

Tim hopped onto the plush bed without hesitation, landing on his stomach before rolling fluidly onto his back. Chin propped in his hands, he watched you with bright, intrusive curiosity.

“Soooo,” he drawled, rolling again in a smooth, catlike motion — a little Cheshire, a little unhinged. “Whataya wanna do? Read, paint, watch something, sit on my face.”

His voice trailed off as he bit his lip, like he was trying to swallow whatever expression threatened to break through — amusement, perhaps.

“Y’know, Tim…”

You bit the inside of your cheek. It took everything in you not to punch this annoying, deranged orphan in the face.

Your sweet(ish) tone was enough to shock him. His head snapped up, his whole body going rigid. He froze like a deer in headlights — careful not to move, not to breathe, not to blink. Anything to keep you walking toward him without pure hatred burning in your eyes.

You moved slowly, intentionally, hyper-aware of every shift in your body. Your hips swayed just enough as you approached, and you offered him a soft smile — fake to the core, but thankfully, this idiot didn’t seem to notice.

“Maybe we can just watch something,” you murmured. “Or you can show me some home videos — I know you have some.”

Your fingers slid through his dark hair, and you felt him practically melt beneath your touch. A soft sigh escaped him, his eyes fluttering upward to meet yours with shameless adoration.

“I’ll go get my camera and tapes,” he blurted, pushing himself upright with a burst of excitement.

You slipped into the space he left behind, letting yourself fall back onto the bed.

“Oh — Tim?” you called, eyes closed.

He paused at the door, hand tightening on the knob, watching you closely in case you tried anything.

“Yeah?”

“Bring some film,” you purred. “We should make our own home videos.”

Tim lit up instantly — smile stretching so wide it almost looked painful. “Okay!”

He nodded vigorously before practically sprinting out of the room — still careful to lock the door behind him.

The click of the lock echoed through the quiet room.

As soon as the door shut, you let yourself fall back onto the bed, eyes slipping closed.

The waiting game, you thought.

Win their trust back. Pretend. Play along until the walls soften just enough for you to slip through them. Maybe you’d try to escape the manor. Maybe you’d try to escape this world, life itself. The difference didn’t feel important anymore—not when living life came with the same gnawing anxiety you felt in the manor.

Because escape wasn’t freedom. Escape came with the certainty of footsteps behind you, the quiet terror of being dragged back into this gilded cage and told it was home.

You inhaled slowly, letting the false calm settle over you like dust.

Then the door unlocked—too quickly.

Tim burst back into the room, bounding toward you with a kind of overeager energy that made your skin prickle. Like a puppy, yes—wide-eyed, breathless—but one that had never been taught boundaries.

“Okay! I got everything!” he said, voice bright, almost proud, clutching the camera like it was sacred.

He came to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring at you with hope so intense it bordered on feverish. His hands trembled around the camera—not with fear, but with excitement. Devotion. A kind of manic anticipation you’d seen too many times in the eyes of people who insisted they loved you.

“I, uh—” he cleared his throat, trying to sound casual but the excitement in his voice was clear, “I figured we could, y’know… start with the old stuff and then… um… make new memories.”

You opened your eyes slowly, turning your head just enough to look at him. Not fully—never fully—but enough for him to think you were giving him a sliver of attention.

His breath hitched.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows.

“Tim,” you said, tone velvety, measured. His spine straightened instantly.

“Why don’t you show me,” you continued, “exactly what you brought?”

He nearly moaned. “Right! Yeah—okay!”

He rushed to set the camera on the desk, fumbling with the tapes, completely absorbed in impressing you. It would’ve been almost pitiful if it weren’t so dangerous.

As he busied himself, you studied the room—your room now. A prison disguised as comfort. The bolted windows. The lock on the door. The camera blinking red in the corner.

And Tim, humming to himself, thrilled just to be near you.

You realized something then: You weren’t entirely powerless. Not if they wanted you this badly.

Tim turned back toward you, beaming. “Ready?” he asked.

You gave him the smallest smile.

“Show me.”

A few days passed and the room didn’t change.

But your performance did.

You smiled more. Ate what they gave you. Asked polite questions. You even thanked Bruce once—with the right amount of hesitation, like the words cost you something.

They were softening. Just a little.

Enough to send the next visitor in alone.

No nurse posted by the door this time. No silent chaperone pretending not to listen.

You knew the footsteps before they reached the threshold—lighter than Bruce’s, less surgical than Tim’s. Familiar. Familiar enough to make you sit up straighter without thinking.

Dick stepped inside, smile already faltering, his gaze sweeping the corners of the room as if looking for proof of what they’d done to you. His eyes caught on the bolted windows. The blinking camera light.

“Hey,” he said gently. Like you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare off. “Thought you might want some company.”

You sat curled in the armchair near the window, blanket wrapped loosely around your legs like a cocoon. You blinked at him slowly, then gave a faint smile—the same one that had melted Tim. Just a flicker of vulnerability. Nothing too eager.

“Sure,” you said softly. “You can sit, if you want.”

He hovered for a moment, scanning the room again, then stepped in with that same careful kindness. He didn’t sit immediately. His posture was cautious—like he expected to find blood on the floor.

“This isn’t…” he started, then trailed off. “This isn’t what I wanted for you.”

You tilted your head. “You think I wanted any of this?”

Not sharp. Not bitter.

Just tired.

That landed harder than anything else. He flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I know that doesn’t fix it. I just—God, I didn’t think it would get like this. I thought… if I—we just showed you that you were loved…”

You watched him. Let the silence hang.

Then dropped your gaze like it hurt to meet his.

“I miss talking to you,” you whispered. “I used to idolize you, back when I’d talk about you with my friends. I had the biggest crush on you.”

That did it.

The ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth, softening the guilt etched into his face. When you gestured to the chair beside you, he moved without hesitation.

“We still can,” he said, voice quiet. “If you let me.”

You watched him sit. So easy. So trusting. He didn't even hesitate.

“Then make me laugh,” you murmured, the corners of your lips curving just slightly. “I could use it.”

He relaxed like he’d just passed some kind of test. Like you were finally letting him be the person he wanted to be—needed to be—for you. Like this was his shot at redemption.

He didn’t know he was already being played.

You stepped toward him, one slow, deliberate footfall at a time, until you were just close enough that he could feel your presence—just close enough to make it hard for him to think.

“Then show me,” you whispered.

Something in Dick snapped.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle—a flicker behind his eyes, a tremor in his breath, a stillness that felt predatory instead of gentle.

He stared at you like you were a miracle he wasn’t allowed to touch.

A miracle he needed to touch.

“I tried,” he murmured, voice trembling in a way that didn’t match the steadiness of his body. “I tried to stop all of this. I begged Bruce to let you rest. I told him the cameras were too much. I told him you were scared.”

His gaze dragged over your face like he was memorizing it.

Like someone starving memorizing a feast.

“But he doesn’t understand you like I do.” His voice softened until it was almost a breath. “He doesn’t see how warm you are. How good you are. How much you need someone who actually listens.”

He stepped closer without seeming to realize he’d moved, his hand hovering in the air like he wanted to touch your cheek but was terrified you’d vanish if he did.

“You talked to me today,” he said, shaking slightly. “You smiled. You said you missed me.”

His throat bobbed.

“That meant everything.”

You angled your head, letting your expression soften—just enough to let him believe he was right. Just enough to keep him unraveling.

“I did miss you,” you whispered.

It wasn’t true. But God, did it land.

Dick inhaled sharply, an unsteady, broken sound. He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth like he was overwhelmed, like he was trying not to fall to pieces right there at your feet.

“You don’t know what it’s been like,” he said. “Coming into this room and seeing you look through me. Watching you hurt. Thinking you hated us. Hated me.”

His voice cracked—quiet, jagged, far too raw.

“I can’t stand it. I can’t—”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping suddenly. “You’re better now. I know you are. You’re looking at me again. Talking to me again. That means it’s working.”

His eyes gleamed with something feverish.

“It means you trust me.”

You let a small, trembling breath escape, just enough to make your eyes glisten.

“Dick…” you whispered, stepping closer, tilting your face up toward his.

He froze—absolutely still—like a predator waiting for permission to pounce.

“Of course I trust you.”

It was a lie.

A weapon.

And Dick Grayson—golden boy, firstborn, savior of lost causes—absorbed it like gospel.

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I would burn this whole manor down if it meant keeping you safe.”

His pupils were blown wide, his expression soft and terrifying all at once.

“Just don’t shut me out again,” he breathed. “Please. I can’t lose you.”

He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff—one nudge away from falling. One word away from dragging you down with him.

And you realized something then:

This deranged sociopath might just be your ticket to survival.

TAG LIST

@nervousalpacalady

@23s0fia

@irenehart02

@himikoquack

[that---one---kid]

Yan!Batfam with a touch starved reader

Warnings: Smut(it's literally just smut but batfam x horny reader looked weird)

AN: It's my birthday! The next chapter for golden cage, velvet chains is still a work in progress, but since it's a special day, here is my gift to y'all!

How would the batfam react to the reader being incredibly horny at one of Bruce's extravagant parties? This is meant to take place in the yandere batfam universe! Enjoy

Jason Todd

The ballroom is a blur of glass and laughter, a sea of tuxedos and diamond necklaces. Jason looks out of place, broad shoulders tense in his suit, his hand wrapped around a lowball glass of whiskey like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You brush against him, letting the silk of your gown drag over the sharp cut of his thigh. His eyes flick down, dark and warning — but then you lean up, lips brushing hot against his ear, your voice filthy and sweet enough to curdle him from the inside.

“I can’t stop thinking about your cock inside me, Jason. I want you to bend me over one of these pillars and fuck me until I’m dripping down my thighs. I don’t care if anyone hears — I just need you to use me.”

The glass slams down on the bar, amber liquid splashing over his knuckles. He doesn’t wipe it away. His jaw flexes once, twice, and then his fist is in your hair.

“Christ, sweetheart… you’re gonna make me do something real fucking stupid.”

He hauls you across the room, cutting through the glittering crowd like a blade. A handful of heads turn, but nobody dares stop him. He drags you into the shadow of a massive marble column, the hum of music muffling the sound of your body slamming against cold stone.

Jason’s hand covers your mouth before you can gasp too loud, his other hand already hiking the slit of your gown up your thigh. He grinds into you from behind, cock straining hard in his dress pants. His breath is a growl against your ear.

“You want this? At Bruce's party? Fine. Keep your mouth shut.”

You whimper against his palm, hips pressing back into him. That’s all it takes — he’s unzipping, freeing himself, the head of his cock sliding rough between your slick folds. The obscene sound makes his teeth grit.

“Fuck—” He pushes in hard, splitting you open against the pillar. Your knees nearly buckle, but his grip on your hip is bruising, holding you steady as he buries himself to the hilt.

The music, the clinking of glasses, the chatter of Gotham’s elite — it all roars around you, oblivious, while Jason slams into you from behind, your cheek pressed to cold marble. His thrusts are rough, unrelenting, each one punching little muffled moans against his hand.

“That’s it. Take it. God, you’re so fucking wet for me — dripping down my cock while they’re all sipping champagne.” His teeth scrape your ear, his voice a feral rasp. “Bet you wanted this, didn’t you? To be fucked like a whore while they’re all just a few feet away.”

You clench around him, your body giving him away — and Jason chuckles, low and dark.

“Yeah, you like it. You fucking love it.”

He pistons into you faster, hips slamming your ass against the stone, the obscene sound swallowed by the strings of the orchestra just meters away. His fingers find your clit, rough and merciless, working you in time with his thrusts until you’re shaking against the wall.

“Cum for me. Do it, baby. Paint my cock while the whole damn party’s out there.”

You shatter, your body convulsing against him, muffled cries broken under his palm. Jason groans low, rutting hard into your spasming heat before he bites down on your shoulder and spills deep inside you, grinding it in with possessive little thrusts.

For a moment, there’s only ragged breath and the heavy thud of your heart. Then he pulls out, shoving your dress back into place, smirking as he wipes his hand on his suit jacket.

“Better get back out there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dripping sin. He leans in, lips brushing your jaw. “Or maybe I’ll keep you hidden here and fuck you again. Let’s see how long before they start missing you.”

Dick Grayson

The gala swirls around you in a haze of laughter and champagne, and Dick is the center of it — the perfect golden boy in a tailored suit, dazzling Gotham’s elite with that practiced smile. His hand rests lightly at your back, polite, gentlemanly. But when you lean in close, lips ghosting over his ear, your whisper shatters the image.

“You’re so hard under that suit, Dickie. Take me upstairs, fuck me like I’m yours. I want to be screaming into your sheets while they all wonder where you went.”

He freezes for a half-beat, his laugh catching in his throat. He recovers fast, excusing himself smoothly to a cluster of board members, but the grip he keeps on your waist is iron. He pulls you through the glittering maze of gowns and tuxedos, his smile never faltering until you reach the staircase.

By the time he’s dragged you into his bedroom, his mask is gone. The door slams shut, and suddenly your back is pinned against it, his lips devouring yours with a hunger that tastes like years of denial.

“You can’t—” he pants against your mouth, hands already dragging your dress up your thighs. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me to hold back.”

You laugh breathlessly, rubbing against his thigh, feeling him straining hard against his suit pants. “Then don’t hold back. Fuck me, Dick. Pretend I’m yours.”

He groans, deep and guttural, lifting you easily by your thighs and tossing you onto his bed. The silk sheets are cool under your skin, but his body is fire as he crawls over you, tearing at his tie and shirt buttons with shaking hands.

When he finally frees himself, his cock is flushed, thick, already leaking. He drags the head through your slick folds, watching your face as you writhe under him.

“God, you’re perfect. You were made for this — made for me.”

He pushes in slow, savoring the stretch, forehead pressed to yours as he buries himself to the hilt. You arch, moaning his name, and he swallows it with a desperate kiss.

The rhythm he sets is deep and unhurried, like he wants to savor every second — hips grinding into yours, his hands exploring every inch of your body like he’s memorizing you. He whispers feverishly between kisses, words tumbling out like a prayer:

“Mine. You’re mine. You’ll never leave me. We’ll have this every night — I’ll make sure you don’t need anyone else.”

Your nails rake down his back, your body trembling around him, and he speeds up, thrusts sharper, more desperate. The bed creaks, sheets twisting beneath you as his control frays.

“Cum for me, sweetheart — show me you belong to me.”

Your release rips through you, shuddering, clenching around him so tightly he groans into your neck. His thrusts turn erratic, messy, until he buries himself deep and spills into you, grinding his hips to force it deeper, holding you down like he’ll never let go.

After, he doesn’t move right away. He stays inside you, lips pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your jaw, your shoulder. His voice is hoarse, worshipful.

“We should’ve skipped the party entirely. Just you and me, right here. Forever.”

Tim Drake

Tim’s standing with a group of WayneTech executives, posture tense, eyes rimmed red from too much caffeine and too little sleep. He nods politely as they talk about profits and projections, but his mind is far away — until you press against his side, sliding your hand under his jacket, fingers brushing the waistband of his pants.

You tilt your head up, lips hot against his ear, your voice a filthy purr no one else can hear.

“I want you to bend me over the Batcomputer and fuck me until I’m dripping down my thighs. I want your cum running down my legs while the city sleeps above us. Nobody will ever know — just you, filling me up like you’ve dreamed about.”

The champagne flute nearly slips from his hand. His whole body jolts, eyes wide, face blazing red. He stammers some nonsense to the suits before seizing your wrist, dragging you away with a grip that trembles with adrenaline.

Down service corridors, down hidden staircases, deeper and deeper until the roar of the gala is nothing but a muffled memory. And then — the Batcave yawns open, cold and vast, humming with the sound of machines.

He slams you against the Batcomputer desk, breathing hard, his hands frantic as they tear at your gown. His lips crash into yours, messy and desperate, teeth knocking as if he’s starving for you.

“You—” he gasps against your mouth, rutting his hips into yours, his cock already straining through his pants. “You can’t say shit like that — I can’t fucking stop if you—”

You grind against him, smirking wickedly. “Then don’t stop. Use me, Tim. Fuck me.”

Something breaks in him. His hands yank your dress up, tearing the delicate fabric, his fingers shoving your panties aside as he lines himself up. He doesn’t ease in — he thrusts, hard, burying himself deep in one rough stroke that makes you cry out.

“Fuck, fuck—” His voice is broken, feverish. “You’re so tight, so wet, god, I’ve thought about this every night—”

He pounds into you, hips slamming against your ass, the sound of your bodies obscene in the cavernous space. His fingers clutch at your waist hard enough to bruise, his other hand reaching around to rub your clit with messy, desperate circles.

“Cum on my cock, please — I need it, I need to feel you squeeze me—” His words tumble out, frantic, filthy. “I want you dripping for days, I want to fuck it back into you again and again until you can’t walk. Fuck—”

You shudder, the orgasm tearing through you, your body clenching around him. He nearly sobs when he feels it, his thrusts turning erratic. He slams deep, holding himself there, grinding into you as he spills hot inside, filling you to the brim.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried in you, trembling, his lips dragging over your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, as if he can’t get close enough.

“I’ll keep you here,” he whispers, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Down here, where nobody can touch you. Nobody but me.”

His hips rock again, already hardening inside you, and his grin is shaky, delirious. “You’re not going back upstairs.”

Bruce Wayne

The gala sparkles above you — crystal chandeliers, tuxedos, and champagne flowing like liquid gold. Bruce’s arm snakes around your waist, his touch deceptively calm as he leads you through the corridors, away from Gotham’s elite. His voice is measured, smooth, the epitome of Bruce Wayne charm.

“You’ve been… very distracting tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as he guides you toward the back hallway. “Whispering filth like that in front of my guests. I might have to teach you a lesson.”

You press against him, hips grinding, lips just grazing the shell of his ear. “I need you, Bruce. I want you to punish me and then fuck me until I can’t walk. I want you to take me right here…”

His jaw tightens. The slow burn begins. One large hand slides to your hip, fingers digging in slightly, holding you as if restraining both your body and your mischief.

“You’ve been insufferable,” he growls low, the calmness in his voice masking the storm beneath. “I suppose… I could start teaching you right now.”

By the time the heavy master bedroom door clicks shut, the mask falls entirely. His fingers are in your hair, yanking you to him as his body slams against yours. The slow burn explodes into control.

“You think you can whisper like that, dress me in sin in front of Gotham’s finest, and get away with it?” His voice is sharp, possessive, filled with a hunger that tastes of obsession and fury.

He shoves you onto the bed, the silk sheets cold under your trembling body. His mouth is on yours, teeth scraping your lip, hands tearing at your gown until it’s twisted around your thighs. His cock, thick and heavy, strains against the restraint of his suit pants.

He doesn’t ease in. He thrusts hard, claiming you with a violence that steals your breath. His hands clutch your ass, shoving you up into him, every slam of his hips a mixture of punishment and pure lust.

“God, you’re mine,” he growls. “Mine to ruin, mine to take, mine to destroy tonight and every night you forget yourself around me.”

You whimper, hips meeting his, lips gasping against his as his fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you flush against him. “Bruce… I need you… please fuck me until I can’t stand…”

His response is cruel, deliberate, and terrifying: every thrust is deeper, sharper, each one punctuated by a growl, a hiss, a low bite on your shoulder. He moves inside you like a predator, making you scream, moan, whimper — all evidence of his control.

“Do you understand now?” he rasps, voice ragged, fingers clutching your hair as he spins you onto your stomach. “You’ll never speak like that in front of anyone again without me wanting you to. You exist to please me.”

Your body shakes, every nerve alight with overstimulation, and he rides you through the peak of your orgasm, filling you with his hot, possessive release. He doesn’t relent, not until your body is slick, trembling, fully marked by him.

Afterward, he collapses beside you, forehead against yours, breathing heavy. His voice softens, almost tender, but still tinged with dominance.

“You will remember this,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over your temple. “Every time you forget… I will remind you.”\

Cassandra Cain

The garden is quiet, moonlight spilling over ivy and statues, the gala a distant hum behind the glass doors. Cass leads you here silently, one hand firm on your wrist, the other gripping your hip as she presses you against the cool stone wall. Her dark eyes are electric, predatory, daring anyone to come close.

You press into her, lips brushing her ear, voice dripping with want. “I need you, Cass. I want you to take me anywhere — make me scream, make me cum over and over, make me yours.”

Without a word, she’s sliding her hands under your dress, fingers pressing into your slick folds. You gasp, arching into her, hips grinding, nails clawing her shoulders.

Cass lifts you suddenly, legs wrapping around her waist, thrusting into you with feral precision. Your body jolts against hers, moaning, hips snapping in perfect rhythm. She flips you onto the mossy ground, pinning you above her, rolling your bodies together in a tangle of limbs, hands, and heat.

Every motion is chaotic, thrilling — squirming, twisting, rotating, her hands and mouth everywhere at once. She bites, licks, and presses herself against you, spinning you into wild positions — seated, standing, all fours — always grinding, always driving you to the edge.

“Cass… fuck me, harder… please, don’t stop,” you whimper.

She doesn’t. She spins you into a kneeling position, forcing you down onto her, hips snapping, hands clutching your thighs as she rides you, pressing herself flush against your dripping core. You shudder, orgasm ripping through you, and she groans, sinking deeper, holding you tight, reveling in the chaos of your bodies colliding.

She flips you again, back arched, lips grazing your neck, hands tangling in your hair, and you’re cumming again, trembling, completely spent but still burning from the intensity.

Finally, she lifts you into her arms one last time, grinding slowly, possessively, until her body shudders with release, painting you fully with her slick. She sets you down, holding you close, silent, breathless, eyes dark with obsession.

You know this garden, this night, this wild, energetic madness… belongs entirely to her.

[that---one---kid]

Golden Cage, Velvet Chains

CHAPTER FOUR

Warnings: Dubious consent, stalking, obsessive behaviors, Rape/Non-con

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

You stirred awake to the quiet rustle of fabric and the low murmur of Bruce moving around the room. Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, just enough to catch the soft morning light filtering through the heavy drapes.

The pale beams stretched long, casting shadows across the dark wood paneling — the same walls that had witnessed your slow unraveling. The air smelled faintly of cedar and leather — his scent, constant and suffocating even now.

Bruce stood near the window, pulling on his shirt with that practiced ease, the taut muscles beneath his pale skin moving smoothly under the fabric.

The subtle rise and fall of his broad shoulders felt like a reminder — of what you’d lost here, what you’d been forced to surrender. Your throat tightened, but the exhaustion was stronger. You parted your lips without thinking, barely a whisper, as he turned your way.

His eyes held a quiet tiredness, but there was a gentleness there, and before you could protest, he crossed the room, pressing a brief, almost tender kiss to your temple.

You didn’t resist — too drained, too hollowed out by the lingering haze. The softness felt strangely out of place, like a flicker of warmth in a room that was supposed to be cold.

Then, a soft, measured knock broke the fragile silence. Bruce’s brow furrowed as he cracked the door open just enough to let in Alfred’s calm, deliberate voice.

“Master Bruce, pardon the interruption. There are visitors at the front door asking for you.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. His tired gaze flicked back to you — a silent apology, or maybe a warning. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll be down shortly.”

His voice was low, rough but careful, like he was trying not to shatter the stillness. “I have to go downstairs. There’s something I need to check.”

You nodded wordlessly, your mind still foggy, your body too sluggish to argue or plead. The heavy oak door swung closed with a soft click, swallowing the last thread of warmth in the room. Silence settled like dust.

Minutes dragged on, the quiet so deep you could hear your own breath. You lay still, muscles aching, heart thudding erratically beneath your ribs. The sedative’s weight still clung to you, dulling the sharp edges of fear, but beneath it all, a restless pulse stirred.

Then, faint voices began to filter through the hallway — low, urgent, but unmistakably real. Your pulse quickened, anxiety stirring beneath the haze. They were close. Too close.

Something inside you tensed, a flicker of resolve breaking through the fog. You couldn’t just lie here. You needed to know. You pushed yourself up, legs shaky but willing, and crossed the room, each step slow but determined. You pressed your ear to the cold, unforgiving wood of the door, straining to catch the words, to make sense of the murmurs that twisted through the air.

But before you could piece anything together, the door creaked open.

Dick stood there, his presence immediate and unyielding, eyes sharp and unreadable as they locked onto you. Your breath hitched, surprise slicing through the haze.

“Hey,” his voice was calm, firm — but it carried an edge, a quiet command. “No need to be eavesdropping.”

You blinked, caught off guard, stepping back, but refusing to look away. Something about the way he stood—so steady, so controlled—made your chest tighten with a mix of fear and frustration.

Behind him, the hallway framed more voices — low, measured. Bruce’s voice, unmistakable, and then another — your parents. Reality slammed into you with icy weight.

Dick closed the door quietly, moving closer, his calm presence pressing in on you like the manor itself. “Bruce asked me to keep you company while he’s busy,” he said, flat but laced with something darker, “Let’s keep things calm, yeah?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frantic prisoner. The walls of this place closed in again, suffocating and unyielding. You nodded slowly, exhaustion and dread folding over you like a heavy shroud.

Trapped. Not just in this room — but in everything that had become your life.

And for now, there was no escaping it.

You blinked, caught off guard, stepping back but refusing to look away. Panic surged, raw and urgent — your throat tightening as you opened your mouth to scream, to demand answers, to call for help. But before a sound could escape, Dick’s hand shot up, clamping firmly over your mouth. The rough pressure muffled your protest, cutting off the air like a vise.

His other hand pressed against your back, pushing you hard against the cold, unforgiving wall nearby. The wood pressed into your spine, solid and unyielding, pinning you in place. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unblinking — a silent warning that resistance was useless.

Your breath hitched beneath his grip, panic twisting your insides, but there was no fight left in you. Only the sinking realization: you were utterly trapped.

Dick leaned in, his breath hot and heavy, brushing against the bare skin just beneath your ear. Your eyes snapped wide open, panic flooding through you like icy water, your heart hammering so violently it seemed to shake your ribs. The air felt thick and suffocating, every shallow breath catching in your throat as the distant murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs — your parents, reminding you of everything you wanted to flee.

Your gaze locked with his, and in that terrifying moment, you saw what lurked behind those dark eyes. His pupils were blown wide, black and shining — not with desperation or fear like yours — but with a fierce, feral hunger. A fire burned beneath his calm exterior, possessive and insatiable, igniting a cold shiver that crawled up your spine and settled deep in your belly. Where you felt caged and small, Dick’s eyes gleamed with dark, relentless desire, like a predator savoring its prey.

You tried to scream, a sharp, desperate sound clawing at your throat — but before it could escape, his hand shot up, rough and unyielding, clamping firmly over your mouth. The rough texture of his palm pressed hard against your lips, muffling your terror. The cold, unforgiving wall pressed into your back, unforgiving and close, every muscle in your body tensed and trembling.

His body pinned you tight, heat radiating through your clothes and sinking deep into your skin, a burning pressure that made your pulse thunder louder. The sharp scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and something darker—something dangerously close—wrapped around you, thick and suffocating. His breath, ragged and warm, stirred the fine hairs at your neck, sending an involuntary shudder through your frame.

His fingers dug slightly into your cheek as he held you, the pressure firm, almost claiming. His voice dropped to a low, predatory whisper, every word sliding over your skin like a knife. “You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, his hand still sealing your mouth, his grip unrelenting. “Not without me.”

A cold dread seeped into your bones, icy and raw, as your body trembled under the weight of his hold. Your limbs felt heavy and powerless, the fierce pounding of your heart drowned out by the thunderous beat of helplessness. His obsession wasn’t some shadow lurking in the dark anymore — it was here, crushing, real, and terrifying. In those wild, hungry eyes, you understood with brutal clarity: there was no escape. 

Not now.

Not ever.

Dick’s hand loosened at last, though not without lingering. His fingers ghosted over your lips, slow and deliberate, as though memorizing the shape of them. His gaze followed the movement with rapt attention — not casual, but almost reverent, as if touching you was some sacred act. There was a roughness in the way he held you, the restrained force of someone obeying limits they didn’t set themselves. You knew — with a strange, bitter clarity — that if it were up to him, he’d smother you in roses and silk, keep you pressed beneath him until the day he died, lips stealing your breath until you had none left to give. But he wouldn’t. Not while Bruce still claimed you as his.

It was twisted, but you almost found his loyalty, his devotion, to Bruce… endearing. In the same way you could pity a wild animal that had only ever known life in a cage. None of this was really theirs — the kids. They were echoes of him. Learned behavior wrapped in finely tailored suits. Bruce had shaped them, molded them, and if this was the result… well, “parenting” was hardly the word you’d use.

His grip softened on your cheeks, palm sliding down the curve of your jaw, tracing the slope of your throat before settling, lingering far too long at your waist. His touch was weighted — not in force, but in intent — and his eyes wandered in a way that made your skin feel too tight.

You held his gaze, but inside you were screaming. You wanted to run, to shove past him and tear down the stairs before he could blink. You wanted to reach your parents, who you knew — knew — were somewhere in this house, their voices faint but real. But no matter how gentle his hands, how carefully they tried to “tame” you like a half-feral pet, you couldn’t love them. You wouldn’t. Not when you were a possession on display — something they could admire, touch, take, as though you belonged to them.

And even if you tried… what were your odds? Outrun a vigilante? Someone trained to dismantle armed men twice his size? You’d have to cripple him in less than a second, and there wasn’t a weapon in reach.

So you let him guide you — step by reluctant step — toward the bed. He eased you down onto the edge and moved in, caging you with his arms, a lover’s embrace that was really a lock and key.

“Bruce talked about you a lot,” he murmured, voice muffled against your hair as he inhaled deeply, greedily.

“What?” you breathed. But your mind was already scattering, spiraling — what was Bruce telling your parents? Were they still searching? Had they been convinced you were gone for good?

“After he came back from Virginia, he told me about you,” Dick continued, his voice quiet, almost dreamlike. “How smart. How full of life. How beautiful.” His lips brushed your cheek in a fleeting kiss.

“I was sent for surveillance,” he said, mouth pressing lower, to your jaw. “At first, I didn’t understand what Bruce saw. But then—” a kiss at your neck, “—I saw you. The real you. Your care. Your love.” His fingers swept your hair over your shoulder, lips finding the newly bared skin, teeth grazing in a delicate threat. “Your body,” he added, voice dipping into something husky, dangerous.

The heat of his arousal was impossible to miss. Your heartbeat stuttered and climbed, breath hitching as you squirmed away from him. To your relief, he let you go.

You crawled backward until your spine hit the headboard, curling into yourself, knees to chest, trying to shrink into something unnoticeable. If you could just fold in enough, maybe you’d vanish.

He turned toward you, unhurried, eyes locked on yours in a quiet, unblinking standoff.

“And what about now?” you asked, your voice low but steady despite the shaking in your chest. “You all killed the real me.”

His mouth quirked in a small, almost pitying smile. “I still see you. Beautiful as ever.” He tilted his head, studying you like a painting he’d memorized a thousand times. “But I see something new.”

He began crawling toward you, deliberate, closing the distance. You pushed back, but the plush pillows only gave beneath you, offering no escape.

“When I look at you,” he said — and in his mind, you could tell, this was love. This was devotion. But in yours, it was pure predation. To him, he was a lovesick fool. To you, he was the fox, and you the rabbit, heart pounding in your throat.

“I see a mother,” he murmured, eyes flickering with some delusion you couldn’t track. “I see a wife.”

You wanted to gag. They were insane, but apparently also idiots.

His hand caught you, pulling you into his arms with a finality that made your stomach twist.

“Dick, I’m—”

“Shh,” he hushed, his voice low and coaxing. “It’s okay. You’re a bit young, but you’ll grow into the role.”

You didn’t fight beyond a few token pushes. His arms were a vice — suffocating, warm, unyielding.

Time bled together after that. An hour, maybe more, until Alfred’s knock broke the air. “Master Bruce wishes to see you in the cave.”

You loathed that voice, that calm civility. The way he helped keep this machine running.

Dick sighed, finally pulling away. One last look, and he was gone.

You sat in the silence, breathing too hard, trembling too much. Thoughts crowded in like vultures. Your mother’s tears. Your father’s panic. And Bruce — lying to them without flinching.

Heat swelled in your face before the tears came, hot and heavy. Your breathing hitched and splintered until the whimpers escaped.

This was agony. A hollow gnawing in your chest that chewed through every shred of hope.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up from the bed, feet touching the icy floor. The door creaked softly as you cracked it open and peeked into the hall.

You slipped out, not quite sneaking — but careful, deliberate. Down the staircase, through the living room, past the yawning dark of unfamiliar halls.

A lone mouse, loose in the fox’s den.

You hugged the hallway wall, breath shallow, heart hammering. Every polished floorboard echoed your careful steps, every archway a shadowed trap. Almost to the back staircase…

The air shifted. You felt a pair of eyes on you.

Cass. Leaning casually against the wall, one hip popped to the side, arms crossed, her grin too wide, bright enough to hurt.

“Found you,” she chirped, voice lilting, the cheerfulness masking something sharp beneath.

You froze. “…Hi.”

She stepped forward before you could react, her boot scraping softly against the wood. Her body pressed into yours — shoulder brushing, chest grazing your arm. Her fingers trailed up your spine before settling at your hip, gripping lightly but firmly. You stiffened, instincts screaming.

“Relax,” she teased, voice low and playful. Her fingers didn’t leave you — sliding over your hip, down the small of your back, brushing the curve of your side. “You’re so tense.”

You tried to step back, but she mirrored every movement, keeping your chest and back pressed to the wall. Her hair brushed your neck, her breath warm against your ear. She leaned close enough that the scent of her shampoo filled your senses, sharp and sweet, making your skin crawl and burn all at once.

“Where you going?” she asked, chin tilted, gaze sharp, scanning you like she owned this hallway.

“Back to bed,” you murmured, but she didn’t release her hold.

Her fingers traced your waist, lingered near the small of your back, then drifted to your hip again — playful, teasing, invasive. Every touch was deliberate, claiming you in a way that made your stomach clench.

She pressed closer, chest to back now, and whispered, “Oh c’mon, you just came out.” She whined.

Her hand slid along your side, brushing against the curve of your ribs, then back to your hip as if she were just casually holding you — but every movement was intimate, teasing, a soft pressure that made your blood pound and your pulse spike.

“Come on,” she murmured, nudging you forward with her hand on your back. “Before anyone else sees, or they’ll try and intrude on our time.”

Every step was invasive; her warmth pressed into you, her fingers brushing too far, her body a constant reminder that she chose when to let you move, when to stop, when to tease. Her playfulness was a mask, but the possession under it was real — her eyes watching you, a spark of hunger behind the bright, carefree grin.

Even the bubbly ones didn’t let you go completely.

Cass pushed the door closed behind you, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness. She didn’t give you a chance to back away. One hand pressed lightly, insistently against your shoulder as she guided you to the plush sofa in the center of the room.

The moment your back hit the cushions, she sank beside you, sliding close enough that your thighs brushed. Her fingers trailed up and down your arm, over the curve of your side, lingering along your waist. She rested her head near your shoulder, letting her hair brush your cheek as she pressed in, warm and impossible to ignore.

“Relax,” she purred, pressing a little more of her weight against you. “You’re too stiff.”

You stiffened, every nerve on fire, heart hammering. The proximity was maddening, her fingers deliberate in their teasing, almost claiming. Her warmth pressed into you, the softness of her body against yours a constant, intrusive reminder that she was choosing to invade every space you had.

“You can’t run,” Cass whispered, the words playful, but the grip of her hands on your side was possessive. “Not yet.”

Her fingers danced along your ribs, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt for just a second before pulling away teasingly, tracing the edge of your clothing, every touch calculated to make you squirm. You wanted to shove her off, to leap to your feet, but her weight pinned you, and the combination of her playful insistence and the softness of the sofa made it almost impossible to move without drawing attention to your panicked pulse.

She laughed softly, a lilting, mischievous sound, as if she were sharing a secret with the shadows. “See? I told you, I’ve got you now.” She shifted, letting her leg brush against yours, fingers lingering at your waist and hand resting on your breast, pulling you subtly closer, but always with a teasing pull-back that left you aching, tense, aware of every inch of her.

Her eyes met yours, sparkling, bright, and completely unrepentant. “I just want to cuddle,” she said, almost innocently, her lips brushing against your temple in a fleeting, teasing touch. “Just a little. You’re mine for now.”

Every nerve screamed, every instinct yelled escape, but her touch, warm and insistently playful, kept you rooted, aware, and trapped in a tension that was almost unbearable. You could feel her presence in every inch — her fingers, her thigh, her shoulder pressed against you, her breath warm against your ear.

Even her giggle carried the weight of control, light and airy but laced with an unspoken claim.

Cass’s body molded to yours on the sofa, every curve pressing deliberately against you. The weight of her chest against yours made it impossible to pull away, and the warmth of her presence pooled through your body like fire. Her lips found the soft hollow between your neck and shoulder, pressing light, teasing kisses that made your skin shiver. Each kiss was a promise, a brush of heat that left your nerves taut and humming.

Her hands were bold, roaming past the edge of your shorts, brushing along the thin cotton of your underwear. She traced the hem slowly, deliberately, a teasing exploration that hovered just on the edge of what she wasn’t supposed to cross. You could feel the subtle pressure of her fingers, the deliberate teasing that left your pulse hammering and your cheeks burning.

“Have you ever… been with a girl?” Her voice was soft, intimate, playful, vibrating against your ear with a husky warmth. The words made your stomach twist, a lump forming in your throat as heat rushed to your face, and you realized you couldn’t look away from her bright, mischievous eyes.

She shifted closer, letting her lips trail lower along your neck and shoulder again, nipping lightly this time, teasing. Her fingers pressed a little harder against your hip, sliding just enough to make your heart stutter. Her touch was invasive, but not cruel — deliberate, hungry, yet restrained, like she knew exactly how far to push without shattering the moment entirely.

You tried to squirm, tried to pull back, but her body pinned yours effortlessly, the plush cushions giving under you both, making escape impossible. Her eyes held yours, bright and teasing, and you felt the weight of her attention press into your chest, suffocating and electric all at once.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she murmured, lips brushing against your shoulder again. “I just like having you like this. So close.” Her fingers lingered, tracing lazy patterns over your waist, hips, and the curve of your side, making it impossible not to feel every inch of her pressing into you.

And there you were, caught, pinned, aware of every brush of skin, every stolen inhale, every pulse of heat between you. Your body wanted to rebel, your mind screamed, but your senses were drowning in the bold, playful insistence of Cass’s touch, and you couldn’t escape the intensity of her presence.

As much as you wanted to despise her—for being another piece of this twisted family puzzle—you couldn’t deny a strange flicker of enjoyment.

She was part of the chaos, yes, but she was also one of the two who were close to your age, whose energy wasn’t entirely warped by the manor. The other being Tim who you were positive had only ever felt the touch of his hand and whatever he felt like rutting up against because it looked at him the wrong way. In her presence, the madness of it all felt slightly softer, a little less suffocating. Somehow, that made her harder to hate.

Her kisses pressed harder, more insistent, and a startled sound escaped you, soft and involuntary. Cass hummed in delight, her touch teasing and probing along your sides, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your panties as she leaned closer. Her other hand moved from the side of your face to your shoulder, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns that made your chest tighten.

She peppered kisses along the line of your jaw and neck, capturing your lips with a messy, fervent kiss. Her body pressed against yours, warm and unrelenting, guiding your movements as if you were part of a rhythm only she knew. The heat pooling in your stomach twisted and tightened, making your breath hitch as she smiled against your mouth, playful and triumphant.

You tried to pull back, to reclaim some distance, but her presence was magnetic, overwhelming. Every small touch, every press of her body, sent sparks of tension through you, and you found yourself melting into it despite yourself, caught in the storm of her energy. 

Her mouth was hot, feverish, against yours.

Her kisses got harder, more desperate. You couldn't help the moan that came out of you, soft and surprised, but Cass hummed in delight, no doubt because she found your sweet spot. 

Her hand slipped entirely into your panties now, thumb ghosting over your clit in a soft circle. Her free hand slid down from the side of your face, taking time to ghost over your throat and down your ribs, slow and agonizing like she was memorizing every ridge of your ribs. 

Her hand found it was under your shirt to your breast, kneading it with a gentleness, you felt the subtle dig of her rounded nails into the soft skin though it wasn't unpleasant, though.

She moved in peppered kisses from your neck to your mouth, capturing you in a sloppy kiss. Her body and hand rocks with yours as she rubs faster circles against you. 

You're now moaning unabashedly into her mouth, teeth clacking against each other as her tongue explores your mouth. You feel the heat and knot building in your stomach, burning like a hellfire. 

"Fuck" she breathes against your mouth in-between making out. Her breath is hot, so wet that you can barely distinguish her tongue from your own. Lips once again meeting in a heated clash.

"You're so wet" she groans. "You're close, aren't you." she quips and you can feel the smile she has against your lips, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when there's a fire in your stomach and your head is clouded with pleasure

Your back arches upward, hips digging into Cass's own’. Her hand moves from your breast back to your face, keeping you pressed into her and lips hot on hers. Your moan and orgasm rips through your body like a tidal wave. 

You shudder when she doesn’t stop rubbing your clit in quick, precise circles. She moans with you, loud and unabashed of who might hear you.  

After some time, the storm of sensation ebbed, leaving your body trembling and flushed. Your chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths, your back heavy against the warmth of the couch, muscles still humming from the intensity. Cass had pressed close, her presence lingering like a tether, grounding you even as your mind drifted in the fog of afterglow.

And then—click.

The sharp sound of a camera shutter cut through the quiet. Your heart skipped, every nerve firing, and your body stiffened. Your eyes darted toward the doorway, disoriented, breath hitching as the realization sank in.

Cass’s head snapped up instantly, spotting Tim frozen by the door, camera in hand. Her expression shifted from lingering heat to pure fury, a protective, blazing fire igniting in her gaze. Without hesitation, she surged off the couch, the movement sudden and deliberate, her energy coiling like a spring.

“You fucking creep!” she hissed, voice low but fierce, echoing in the library. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her heat and force of presence enough to send Tim stumbling backward toward the exit. Face beat red and sporting a clear hard on.

He barely had a chance to react before she cornered him at the door. Her eyes blazed, her body a coiled warning, and with a sharp shove, she chased him out, the door clicking loudly as it slammed behind him.

The library fell silent again. The sudden absence of Cass left you sprawled across the couch, flushed and trembling, your body still buzzing from both the lingering heat of the moment and the shock of what had just happened. The heavy quiet wrapped around you, the polished wood and dim light holding the echo of tension and heat like a tangible weight.

You stayed there, pressed into the cushions, alone now, heartbeat still racing, breath uneven, mind clouded with a mix of warmth, intensity, and the lingering trace of Cass’s touch

It took a few long, trembling moments before your mind began to settle, the haze of heat and adrenaline slowly giving way to awareness. Your body felt heavy, tingling with the aftershocks of sensation, but the fog was lifting. You pressed your palms into the cushions beneath you, letting your fingers sink into the soft fabric as you tried to orient yourself.

Slowly, cautiously, you pushed yourself upright. Muscles protested with every movement, still loose and trembling from what had just passed, but the thought of staying put, alone and vulnerable, pushed you forward.

Your bare feet met the polished wood of the library floor, cool and grounding, sending a shiver up your spine. You took a deep, shaky breath, the quiet of the manor pressing in around you, shadows stretching long across walls lined with books and dark wood. You could hear the faint sound of pounding on doors and shrill shouts from Cass, no doubt ready to kill Tim or at the very least kick his shit in. The dim light filtered through the tall windows and made everything feel almost unreal—like the world was suspended in a fragile pause.

Step by careful step, you moved toward the doorway. Every creak of the floor beneath your weight made your pulse spike; every shadow in the hall seemed alive, waiting. Yet there was something liberating in the small act of movement.

 The manor stretched out before you, dark corridors and hidden staircases winding like a labyrinth. Your heart hammered, not just from the lingering heat, but from the thrill of slipping through it unseen, untethered—for now. You had no plan, only the raw, sharp need to be somewhere else, anywhere that wasn’t trapped beneath the gaze of the Batfamily.

The hallways yawned before you, a maze of shadows and echoes, as you moved quietly, deliberately, letting your bare toes press into the cold floor, each step a small reclaiming of 

yourself. Every corner you passed, every soft creak of a floorboard, reminded you of how fragile your freedom still was—and how precious.

“I bet French whores look like angels compared to you.”

You nearly jumped, your pulse spiking as Damian’s words cut through the quiet hallway. Spinning around, you found him leaning casually against the wall, smirk firmly in place.

“Oh, how sweet,” you say glaring at him. “Did you memorize that line from a romance novel, or is this all natural charm?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to entertain you. Just making sure you don’t ruin anything Father owns.”

You let out a half-laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Relax, the only thing getting ruined is my will to live.”

Damian’s narrowed gaze didn’t soften. “Clever words won’t protect you. You’re nothing but an annoyance.”

“Noted,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Father’s little psycho-in-training doesn’t like me. Got it.”

Even as your pulse raced from the jump, the adrenaline sharpened your words. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of fear—just enough bite to keep him on edge.

“I wouldn’t be so smart if I were you,” Damian said, voice low and dangerous, stepping a fraction closer. “I could still tell everyone about that boyfriend of yours.”

You took a sharp inhale at his words, your chest tightening as a flicker of panic raced through you. “You think I’m scared of you?” you asked, trying to steady your voice, though it wavered more than you wanted.

Damian’s smirk deepened, eyes cold and calculating. “Scared? Perhaps not. But you should be. You wander into places you don’t belong, kinda like a rat.”

Your stomach knotted, the warning in his tone pressing against your ribs like a hand. “I—” you swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat. “I’ve been careful.”

“Careful isn’t enough,” he said, stepping just a fraction closer, voice low, dangerous. “One mistake, and Dick might think your boyfriend is a threat. And then…” His smirk twisted, sharp as a knife. “He doesn’t miss.”

Fear lanced through you, cold and sudden. Your fingers clenched at your sides as your pulse thundered. You forced your gaze to meet his, though your chest heaved and your throat felt tight. “I… I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, voice quieter than you intended, your usual snark dampened by the weight of the threat.

Damian tilted his head, as if savoring the flicker of panic in your eyes. “Good. I warned you. Stay alert.”

He stepped back into the shadows, leaving you trembling and hyper-aware of every creak and whisper in the hallway.

“Demon spawn,” you muttered under your breath, though your voice felt small, even to you.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. The manor seemed to stretch endlessly around you now—hallways yawning open like mouths, the gilded sconces casting pools of gold that felt more like traps than light. Every step you took was measured, careful, your eyes darting to each shadow as though Damian might materialize again.

Your pulse hadn’t slowed. It pounded in your ears, blending with the distant hum of the air through the vents. Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creaked—someone moving. You couldn’t tell who, and that uncertainty made your stomach twist tighter.

You forced your pace casual, keeping your chin up despite the heat prickling at the back of your neck. Cass was gone. Tim was lurking somewhere with a camera. Damian knew more than he should. And Bruce—Bruce was always a silent presence in the back of your mind, watching without ever needing to be seen.

The manor didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a maze designed to make sure you never walked out without someone’s permission. And after Damian’s words, the walls seemed to have ears sharper than you’d ever imagined.

You tightened your grip on the banister as you moved toward the next room, every instinct screaming that the safest thing to do would be to vanish—but knowing that here, even disappearing might not save you.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow haze. You drifted from room to room, never lingering too long anywhere, but always circling back to the couch like some restless animal. The manor’s stillness pressed in, thick and suffocating, but your mind stayed sharp, pulling apart scenarios piece by piece.

Who could be swayed? Who could be played? Cass was out—too perceptive, too wordless to lie to. Damian… not worth the risk, and now more dangerous than ever. Tim was unpredictable. Dick—absolutely not. Too intense, too watchful. He wouldn’t help you escape; he’d just try to keep you for himself, and you had no doubt he’d be harder to slip away from than Bruce. That left Jason—volatile, yes, but volatile could be bent with the right leverage. If you could find it.

You were mid-thought, staring absently out the tall windows and watching the sun bleed toward the horizon, when a voice—low, gruff—cut through the quiet.

“Thinking too hard, sweetheart.”

Your head snapped toward the sound before you could stop yourself. Jason stood just inside the doorway, posture loose, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on you—measured, weighing.

Nonchalant, but not unguarded. You could tell.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” you said, the words casual, though your pulse had ticked up a notch.

Jason’s mouth twitched into something halfway between a smirk and a warning. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking half your view of the hall without even trying.

“Wasn’t trying to be heard.”

You didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked—just once—to the windows behind you, then back. He still remembered. The last time you slipped out under his watch. As if all the windows weren't bolted shut. You thought bitterly.

Now, his stance carried that same silent caution, like he was ready to move if you even breathed wrong.

Jason dropped onto the sofa beside you, letting the cushions sink under him. One arm stretched lazily across the back, brushing your shoulder just enough to be noticed. He leaned back, cocky grin in place, but his eyes were sharp, scanning you like he’d memorized every detail.

“You sure did play me,” he said, voice easy, flat, but his gaze made it clear he meant it.

You shrugged, keeping your tone light. “Wasn’t exactly difficult.”

His grin didn’t falter. “I’ve got to admit,” he said, shifting slightly so his knee nudged against yours, “I didn’t expect you to have the guts to do it.”

You felt a flicker of unease, the memory of that escape vivid. “Lucky break,” you muttered.

He leaned just a fraction closer, the faint scent of old leather and musk wrapping around you like a cloak. His hand drifted casually along the back of the sofa, brushing your skin, lingering at the curve of your shoulder without actually touching you fully—yet every inch of that nearness made your skin pulse with awareness.

“Lucky break, huh?” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating against the quiet hum of the room. “I’d say it was skill… or maybe just reckless charm.”

The heat in his gaze was slow, predatory, yet patient. He didn’t rush, didn’t force his presence on you—but every movement, every small shift, drew your awareness tighter, made your breath hitch in ways you couldn’t quite control. His fingers traced lazy circles along the edge of the sofa cushions, brushing near your thigh, teasing proximity that made your pulse spike.

“You’ve got fire,” he whispered, leaning so his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot and measured. “I like that. It shouldn’t be wasted on the crazies in this house. They don’t..”

The way he spoke, the weight in his eyes, pressed into your senses like a bassline vibrating through a dark, empty club. Every brush of his skin against yours, every lingering glance, felt like a beat in a song made just for this room, for this tension, for the slow burn curling tight in your chest. The lingering words left unsaid felt like lead in the air, heavy, and that was the reason you told yourself you couldn’t lift your eyes to meet his gaze fully.

He shifted again, closer now, letting the sofa cushions give beneath him, his body almost—but not quite—against yours. Every subtle touch, every quiet shift of his weight, drew you into him, made your senses taut and raw. The room felt smaller, the dim light softer, the air heavy and warm, thick with the scent of him and the weight of inevitability.

“You should stop pretending this isn’t what you want,” he said, voice low, teasing, a growl hiding beneath the surface. “You can fight me, or you can just feel it. Either way… you’re here.”

His hand finally brushed your thigh—light, teasing, deliberate—and you felt the pull of him, the rhythm of his presence, the unspoken promise that whatever came next would be slow, intense, and unavoidable. Every inch of the space between you vibrated with the tension of inevitability, a beat like pulse you couldn’t escape.

Dick’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and dangerous. “What are you doing here, Jason?” His gaze was fixed, burning, the anger in his stance enough to set the room on edge.

Jason didn’t flinch. He leaned back against the sofa, arm stretched lazily behind you, fingers brushing along your thigh with slow, deliberate care. His smirk was infuriating, cocky. “Can’t visit my family?” he said, voice smooth, teasing, dripping with insolence. 

Dick’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be with her,” he said, every word precise, measured, angry. “After she nearly got her killed, after everything that happened under your watch, what were you thinking?” He bites out, venom dripped from every word.

Jason shifted slightly, his hand trailing higher along your leg, slow and teasing—but his eyes never left yours, locking you in the middle of this tense chessboard. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he murmured, low, almost intimate, brushing his breath along your ear. “I call it having fun, you just got a bit…carried away”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. Jason’s thumb traced teasing circles along your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and the smirk on his lips darkened as he pressed just enough to make the tension unbearable.

Dick’s hands were rigid at his sides, every muscle coiled with controlled fury. His eyes flicked to you, then to Jason, then back again, measuring, calculating, the storm of protective heat radiating from him. You could feel the pull of Jason’s presence, grounded. Even as Dick’s anger pressed against it like a live wire.

Jason leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, voice low, teasing, velvet-dark. “I’ll see you later,” he whispered, the words soft but charged, leaving heat that lingered long after he began to rise. Each movement was slow, deliberate—he left the room like a predator sauntering past, leaving you at the center of his and Dick’s unspoken battle.

Dick closed the space between you as Jason walked out, his presence heavy, solid, protective. “Did he—” His voice was low, controlled, his hands came to rest on your arms, begging to pull you close to his chest. You flinch, you always hated how touchy he was. “Did he hurt you? Scare you?”

You met his gaze, steady and grounded, feeling the intensity of him, the magnetism that made you keenly aware of every inch of his proximity. His hands moved down and found your waist. His touch was firm but not crushing, pressing into you hard enough to remind you of his strength.

“I’m fine, Dick.” you murmured. He’s been with you all of five seconds and you’re already tired of him.   “I don’t want you alone with him. Not while I’m here.” Every word was a tether, a promise—and the charged energy between all three of you still hummed like a heavy, dark pulse, slow, insistent, impossible to escape. “I’ll talk to Bruce about it.” 

You cringe. Handling the boys was one thing, you could lead them astray and guide them into the corner you needed them to be in. Bruce, however, saw through everything you did, always had a contingency plan. 

Dick’s gaze lands on you, softening in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes. He probably thinks your look of disgust is for him, not Jason. Too bad—it’s meant for all of them. Too subtle, clearly.

“Come on.” He springs to his feet, grabbing your hands and pulling you up. “Alfred made dinner. Everyone’s already there.”

He pivots toward the door with that effortless charm of his. Perfect timing, you think. Maybe I’ll just slit my throat with a butter knife.

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[missfool]

[that---one---kid]

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[that---one---kid]

Jeu, set… et toi

Je veux vraiment avoir une idée de la façon dont cette histoire devrait se dérouler, König devrait-il être diplomate ou rester soldat, le lecteur devrait-il être en stage ? Faites-moi savoir ce qui a le plus de sens.

C’était censé être un stage pour “m’ouvrir au monde diplomatique”. Traduction : distribuer des cartons d’invitation, sourire comme une idiote pendant les cocktails, et faire semblant de comprendre les conversations sur la politique européenne. Mais il y avait Vienne. Et le club de tennis à deux pas de mon logement. Et puis… il y avait lui.

Je l’ai vu la première fois en sortant de l’ambassade, encore en tailleur beige, la raquette coincée dans mon tote bag. Un géant, masque sur le visage, épaules larges au point de faire paraître la porte vitrée minuscule. Il parlait à l’un des attachés militaires comme si c’était un vieil ami. Je n’ai pas retenu la conversation — juste cette stature qui donnait envie de lever la tête… et d’écarter un peu les genoux.

Le soir même, je l’ai revu. Pas à l’ambassade, mais sur le court voisin du mien. En sweat sombre, capuche relevée, frappant la balle comme si chaque coup devait traverser la clôture.

— Vous jouez sérieuse, a-t-il lancé, son accent traînant sur les voyelles.

— Ouais, et je gagne, j’ai répliqué, une main sur la hanche.

Je savais que j’avais ce ton mi-enfant, mi-insolent, celui qui agaçait mes profs… et excitait mes “mentors”. Il a juste incliné la tête, comme pour me scanner de haut en bas.

Les jours suivants, c’est devenu une habitude. Lui qui apparaissait “par hasard” quand je finissais un match, m’observant comme on observe une arme dont on connaît déjà la portée. Moi qui faisais exprès de laisser ma jupe de tennis remonter quand je ramassais une balle

. — Vous n’avez pas peur de provoquer quelqu’un comme moi ? m’a-t-il demandé, un soir, alors que je buvais de l’eau à la fontaine, encore haletante.

— Et pourquoi j’aurais peur ? ai-je souri, relevant les yeux vers son masque. Vous avez peur de moi, peut-être ? Il s’est approché. Si près que j’ai senti la chaleur de son corps à travers la fine toile de ma jupe. Sa main — énorme — est venue effleurer ma taille. Pas un geste franc. Un test.

— Pas peur, non… mais je sais discipliner les petites têtes brûlées.

J’ai ri, un peu trop fort, comme pour masquer le frisson qui me parcourait. Moi, disciplinée ? Bien sûr que non. Mais l’idée de voir jusqu’où il irait… Ça, c’était une autre histoire

[that---one---kid]

Golden Cage, Velvet Chains

CHAPTER THREE

Warnings: Drugging, Kidnapping, Stalking

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Hi y'all, I'm really trying to write longer chapters, I kinda ended this one abruptly because I didn't know what else to add without it warranting a new chapter so it is what it is.

The first time you woke, it was to the weight of Bruce’s arm draped heavily over your waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. The faint morning light spilled across the rich mahogany walls and heavy drapes, cutting through the dark like a blade. His breath was warm against the curve of your neck as he pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder — a ritual you’d learned was as habitual for him as breathing.

He murmured something low, a rumble you barely caught until he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“I’ll be gone until this evening. Wayne Enterprises business. Meetings I can’t skip.”

You hummed, keeping your eyes shut, pretending it didn’t matter. The mattress shifted as he reluctantly pulled away, the sound of him dressing in the dim light echoing through the quiet. His cologne lingered long after the soft click of the door closed behind him.

You let yourself sink back under, chasing the fragile peace of dreamless sleep.

It didn’t last.

The second time you woke, it was to the sound of the sheets rustling — the kind of sound you wouldn’t have noticed if not for the creeping awareness crawling up your spine. Your eyes opened to see Dick Grayson, crawling toward you on all fours like a cat stalking prey, the early morning glow catching in his dark hair.

“Morning,” he said with a grin that felt too intimate for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in your bed. He slipped under the covers without hesitation, his body warm and solid against yours as he hooked an arm around your waist.

You went stiff. His touch made your skin crawl, bile threatening to rise in your throat, but you didn’t flinch — you’d learned long ago that showing discomfort only made them linger longer.

“Comfortable?” he murmured against the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair, then another along the side of your neck.

You forced your voice steady. “Oh, totally. Nothing like waking up to find you breaking and entering.”

He chuckled, unbothered, as if your sarcasm was an invitation. “The door wasn’t locked. Besides, Bruce isn’t here. Thought you might be lonely.”

You didn’t answer. You could go to Bruce if Dick ever crossed too far — he’d put a stop to it. Not because he’d care about you being uncomfortable, but because he thought of you as his. And in this place, that was the closest thing you had to safety.

Dick’s arm tightened around your waist, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “You’re warm,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You swallowed down the urge to tell him exactly what his warmth felt like — a trap, a weight you couldn’t shake. Instead, you lay still, staring at the canopy above and counting the seconds until this day ended.

You tried to pretend you’d drifted back to sleep, counting the muffled ticks of the grandfather clock in the hall. Dick’s hand had stilled at your hip, but you could feel his gaze on you — the kind that lingered long enough to make your skin itch.

A knock, sharp but brief, broke the silence. The door opened before either of you answered.

“Breakfast,” Cassandra announced, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. She had a lopsided smile that never quite reached her eyes — the kind of expression that made you feel like she was reading every thought you didn’t want her to.

Her gaze slid lazily down the length of you before she stepped inside, her stride unhurried. “You’re slow,” she said, voice lilting almost playfully. Without asking, she perched on the edge of the bed and let her hand trail up your calf in a slow, deliberate stroke.

You pulled your leg back. “Morning to you too,” you muttered, your voice dry as bone.

Dick’s head snapped toward her, his grip at your waist tightening. “I’ll bring her down in a second,” he hissed through his teeth, the softness gone from his tone, replaced with an annoyed one.

Cass tilted her head, unfazed. “Sharing is polite,” she teased, her hand hovering just above your knee now.

“Not with you,” he shot back, sharp enough to cut.

For a moment, they just stared at each other — siblings locked in a silent, simmering argument you wanted no part of. Then Cass gave a little shrug and slid off the bed, her grin curling wider as she backed toward the door.

“Don’t be long,” she said, and the click of the door shutting was far too loud in the morning quiet.

You exhaled, trying not to make it sound like relief.

After breakfast, you slipped out before anyone could suggest spending time together. Not that they ever phrased it like that — with them, it was always follow me, or worse, stay here with me before being locked in a vice grip hug that could rival a bear trap.

The east wing was quieter, far from the constant footfalls and muffled voices that made the manor feel smaller than it really was. You drifted down a hallway lined with oil portraits and half-forgotten sculptures until you found one of the smaller libraries — high windows, the air faintly smelling of dust and old paper.

Perfect.

You ran a finger along the spines of books without reading the titles, just savoring the stillness. Your plan was simple: sit, read something you wouldn’t care about losing interest in, and wait out the hours until Bruce came home. Or better yet, stay hidden and die of hunger. Whichever came first, you supposed.

You were halfway through scanning the nearest shelf when you heard the faint tch from one of the armchairs.

Damian sat slouched in the far corner, legs sprawled in a way that made the chair seem too small for him. A sketchpad rested on his knee, his pencil moving in quick, sharp strokes. He didn’t bother looking up.

“Oh,” you said, hesitating in the doorway. “Didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

“That’s because you don’t realize much,” he replied, voice flat. His eyes flicked up only long enough to confirm it was you before returning to his page.

You stared at him for a beat, then stepped inside anyway. “Nice to see you too.”

“I doubt you care.” His tone wasn’t even hostile — just matter-of-fact, like he was stating the weather. “You’re only here because you’re hiding from the others and they’re too stupid to think to look here.”

You pulled a book from the shelf, not even checking the title. “And what does that make you? My safe zone?”

Damian gave a small, humorless laugh. “Hardly. I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing with them. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another one of Father’s… acquisitions.” His lip curled slightly at the word. “A dumb college girl who’s too naïve to realize she’s only here because he finally lost it and needs something other than Batman to obsess over.”

Your grip on the book tightened, but you forced a smile. “Glad we’re clear, then.”

“Good. Now be quiet.” He went back to his sketching, already forgetting you were there — or pretending to.

You sank into a chair on the opposite side of the room, the weight of his words hanging heavier than the book in your hands.

You were halfway through absentmindedly reading when Damian’s voice slid into the quiet like a blade.

“I was looking over Father’s files on you,” he said, almost casually, not bothering to glance up from his sketchpad. “You had a boyfriend. For years.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. “That’s… none of your business.”

“I disagree,” he replied, pencil scratching steadily. “The name’s all over your old socials, photographs, text records. Father’s very thorough. The rest of them haven’t seen the file yet, but…” He paused, letting the silence stretch before lifting his gaze. “…I could always share.”

You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.

Damian watched you, assessing, like a cat toying with an insect. “Don’t panic. I’m not going to tell them. Yet. But you should know… they wouldn’t take it kindly. Especially Grayson.”

A faint burn started in your throat, the sting of bile you fought to swallow back. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I just like seeing you squirm.” He returned to his sketch as if the conversation were over, his voice almost bored. “Still, you might want to think about what happens if someone else finds out. You wouldn’t want… accidents.”

Your grip on the book tightened, nails digging into the cover until your knuckles ached. You could picture Dick’s face if he knew — the shift from that easy smile to something darker, more possessive. And Bruce… Bruce wouldn’t stop them if they decided your boyfriend was a threat.

You looked at Damian one last time, but he was already drawing again, entirely at ease, knowing he’d planted the seed and left it to grow in you. God, you hated that little bastard. 

You’d managed to keep your expression steady in front of Damian, but the moment you were out of the library your legs moved on their own, carrying you down the east wing’s quieter halls. The morning light here was softer, muted by dust-heavy curtains, but it didn’t calm the jittering pulse in your veins. You didn’t even realize you’d slowed until a voice slid in behind you.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you over here.”

Tim.

You turned, already bracing yourself. He was leaning in the doorway you’d just passed, arms crossed, eyes locked on you with an intensity that felt like it peeled through skin.

“You always drift off to the parts of the manor with the fewer cameras,” he said casually, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. “Not that it matters. I’ve still got plenty.”

Your throat felt dry. “Plenty… what?”

His lips curved, faint and sly. “Pictures. Videos. Moments.” His gaze lingered too long on the neckline of your shirt, then traveled deliberately down. “The kind you don’t even know I’ve taken. You have this habit of curling your toes when you’re reading, did you know that? Or the way your skirt rides up when you sit on the third step of the west staircase? God, that one’s perfect lighting in the mornings.”

Bile crept up the back of your throat.

“You should see my room,” he went on, ignoring your stiff posture. “It’s like… a shrine, I guess. Every shirt you’ve left behind, every coffee mug you’ve touched. I’ve even got that lipstick from the first night you came here. It still smells like you.” His voice dipped, warmer, almost reverent. You had wondered what happened to that lipstick. “I like knowing I have pieces of you. Real ones.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you managed, trying to keep the disgust from trembling into fear.

“Every word,” he said smoothly. He was close now — not touching, but close enough you could feel the heat of him. His eyes flicked up to yours. “And every sound you’ve ever made.”

The implication made your stomach twist violently.

Tim tilted his head like he was considering something, then smiled again, softer this time, more dangerous. “You should smile more. It looks better on camera.”

You turned and walked — not too fast, not enough to give him the satisfaction — but his gaze clung to your back the entire way down the hall. You could feel it, the way you could feel a hand pressed between your shoulder blades.

You slipped into the first empty room you could find — dark, cool, and lined with high shelves of untouched crystal and silver. You shut the door behind you, leaning back against it, forcing your breaths to slow. The silence was a balm, fragile and temporary, but you clung to it anyway.

“Rough morning?”

The voice was low, easy, almost amused. Your head snapped toward it.

Jason was sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the window, book in hand, the late noon light cutting across the sharp lines of his face. He looked… normal. Normal in a way no one else here ever did.

You exhaled, letting some of the tension bleed from your shoulders. “Didn’t know you were home.”

“Just got in,” he said, setting the book aside. “Place still feels like a zoo?”

“That’s one word for it.”

He studied you a moment longer before leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You look like you’ve been cornered.”

You didn’t answer, but your silence must’ve said enough, because he tilted his head, considering you. “You need space? Take it. Hell, I can drive you somewhere if you want.”

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “Now?”

“Yeah. Now.”

It was reckless, impossible — Bruce would lose his mind — but the thought of getting out, even just for a little while, was intoxicating. You found yourself nodding before you could talk yourself out of it.

Jason’s smile was slow, almost boyish. “Good. C’mon.”

The next thing you knew, he was holding the door open for you, guiding you down a quieter back staircase. His hand brushed the small of your back once, just enough to steer you without seeming forceful, and you told yourself it was nothing.

“Don’t tell the others,” he murmured as you reached the garage. “They wouldn’t understand.”

You thought he meant the fresh air, the freedom — but there was something in the way he looked at you when he said it that made you feel like you’d just agreed to something else entirely.

The city felt sharper on the back of Jason’s bike — every gust of wind cutting across your skin, every change in speed making your grip on his jacket tighten. He’d shoved a helmet into your hands without a word before you left the manor, and now the world was a blur of traffic, sunlight, and the low, steady growl of the engine beneath you.

“Not bad, huh?” His voice carried back over his shoulder as he turned onto a quieter street.

You nodded, the movement small inside the helmet.

He took you somewhere you never would’ve guessed — a cramped little diner wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat. He parked the bike at the curb and pulled the keys free, slinging his helmet onto the seat before jerking his head toward the door.

Inside, the air was warm, the smell of frying butter and coffee syrup wrapping around you like a blanket. Jason ordered for both of you, and when the plates came, the food was so good it made your stomach hurt from eating too fast.

“You eat like you’ve been starved,” Jason said, one brow raised as he cut into his own stack of pancakes.

You chewed, swallowing before answering. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I’ve been… holding back. At the manor, I’m never really relaxed enough to—” You caught yourself, shrugging. “You know.”

Jason smirked, leaning back in the booth. “Yeah. I know.” He took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving you. “They’re… intense. Even for me. And I’m used to their crap.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Intense? Try suffocating. I can’t even shower without worrying someone watching from the shadows.”

He tilted his head, studying you like he was weighing something. “Sounds like you need more time out here. Away from them.”

You poked at your eggs with your fork. “I used to have that. Before all this. I had this tiny apartment near campus — crappy water pressure, paper-thin walls, but it was mine. I could walk to the corner store at midnight, chill with my friends, whatever I wanted. Now it’s like… I’m always being watched.”

Jason’s expression softened in that practiced, steady way that made you want to trust him. “Yeah, I get it. Freedom’s hard to come by in that house.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of clinking silverware and the low hum of conversation filled the space.

You finally said it — the thought you’d been holding onto since the first night you’d arrived. “Sometimes I think about just… leaving. Disappearing. I mean, it’s not like they’d let me, but—”

Jason’s mouth twitched in something halfway between a smile and something else. “Careful. You say that to the wrong one, you’ll never see daylight again.”

You stared down at your plate, picking at a piece of toast. “Yeah. I know.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “But you say it to me? Maybe I’d help.”

Something in his tone made your stomach tighten. It wasn’t a promise, exactly — but it was enough to make you look up and meet his eyes.

Jason’s bike roared back to life after the meal, the vibration running up your legs where they hugged the seat. The ride to his place was shorter than you expected, winding through streets you didn’t recognize until he slowed and pulled up beside a weathered brick building.

It wasn’t the dingy hideout you’d imagined — no peeling wallpaper or flickering lights. His apartment sat above a tattoo shop, the hall smelling faintly of ink and cleaning alcohol.

“Home sweet home,” Jason muttered, unlocking the door.

Inside, it was… lived-in. Scuffed hardwood floors, mismatched furniture, a leather jacket tossed over the couch, and a half-finished beer sweating on the coffee table. It didn’t have the manicured, suffocating perfection of the manor. It felt human.

Which almost made you want to relax. Almost.

Jason tossed his keys onto the counter and nodded toward the couch. “Water? Coffee?”

“Water’s fine,” you said, sitting where he gestured.

He poured you a glass, handed it over, then dropped into the armchair across from you. The TV murmured in the background, but his gaze was the real weight in the room — heavy, unblinking.

“You don’t gotta look so tense,” he said, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not gonna bite.”

You forced a dry laugh. “That’s… not really the problem.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. The others make it hard to breathe sometimes.”

Your fingers tightened around the glass. “Sometimes? Jason, they’re insane.”

“Oh, I see it,” he said, leaning back. “Doesn’t mean I’m better. But I’m not gonna lie about it.”

That bluntness made your chest tighten. “Before all this, I had… a life. Classes. Friends. I could go anywhere without feeling like someone was two steps behind me.”

“Sounds nice.” His voice was even, but you couldn’t read the look in his eyes.

“It was. I used to run just to clear my head. Cross-country. Could go ten miles without thinking about it.” You swallowed, setting the glass down. “Now I can’t even go to the mailbox let alone outside.”

Before Jason could reply, his phone buzzed loud against the counter. He glanced at the screen, and you caught the name — Dick.

Jason’s smirk was gone. “Yeah?” A pause. “I’ve got her. She’s fine. No, I’m not—” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll call you back.”

The second he hung up, it rang again. Same name. Jason sighed. “They’re not gonna shut up until I deal with this.” He stood, muttering, “Hang on,” and disappeared down the short hallway toward his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Your pulse kicked hard. This was it — maybe your only shot.

No bag. No phone. Just you, your shoes, and lungs that still remembered what it felt like to burn. You moved quietly to the door, each step light and measured, your ears straining for movement from the hallway.

The second you hit the stairwell, you didn’t just run — you launched.

The stairwell spat you out onto the street, and you didn’t think — you ran.

You tried to pretend it was like before. Like cross-country practice after school, when the world was just grass under your shoes, not pavement that scraped skin if you fell. You imagined the air was clean, not choked with exhaust, and that when you finished, your parents would be waiting, your friends cheering, your boyfriend somewhere in the crowd.

For half a block, you almost believed it.

Then the city swallowed you.

You pushed through clusters of pedestrians, shoulders knocking into strangers. Some cursed, others stumbled, but you didn’t stop to apologize. You were too busy running through traffic lights, cutting between cars when the light was red, ignoring the blare of horns.

The gold light of early evening painted long shadows across the street, but you could already feel the clock ticking down to nightfall — the hour when they came out. And you didn’t have to wonder if the family knew you were gone. Jason’s call to Dick would have lit the alarm, and now Tim would no doubt be hacking into traffic cameras, tracking every intersection you passed. Tracking you like an animal.

So you ran harder.

You ducked your head when you spotted cameras mounted to lampposts, sprinting past the blind spots you knew had to exist. You took turns without slowing, every step a gamble — could be losing them, could be heading right into their arms.

No bag. No phone. Just the small weight of coins you’d palmed from Jason’s counter when he wasn’t looking.

By the time your breath started to burn, you saw it — wedged against the boarded-up side of a convenience store, glass cracked and graffiti curling over the frame — a payphone.

You skidded to a stop, chest heaving. It was dark now, you quickly slid into the safety of the phone booth. The receiver was grimy, the cord twisted, but you didn’t care. You shoved the coins into the slot and dialed the number for the university, fingers trembling so badly you almost missed a digit.

One ring. Two. A tired voice answered: “Registrar’s office.”

“It’s— It’s me. I’m—” Your voice cracked. “I need help. Please. I’m in Gotham and I— I can’t get home—” Your voice is frantic, suddenly forgetting all common sense. 

Static buzzed. Then: “Who is this? This is the registrars o—”

“I don’t have time, just—” You glanced over your shoulder, heart slamming. The street was empty, but the gold light was bleeding toward orange now, the sun sinking. “Please. My name is Y/N and I’m a sophomore at the university? I’ve been abducted and I think the police here wouldn’t help can you call—”

The woman interrupted. “Gotham PD won’t—”

“NO,” you snapped, scanning the rooftops. “Just— please. Help, I’m—”

BANG.

The booth shuddered, glass rattling in its frame. Something heavy had slammed onto the roof hard enough to make the metal buckle above your head.

You screamed — high, raw — the sound tearing down the open line. Your free hand slapped at the door, shoving hard, but the weight above made the hinges groan.

The voice on the other end was shouting something urgent, but you couldn’t hear past the pounding of your own blood. Shadows slid down the glass, swallowing the light from the street lamps.

And then — he dropped.

The door ripped open, and the booth filled with him. Towering, broad-shouldered, the black cowl gleaming under the streetlight before the door slammed shut behind him.

“NO!” you screamed again, lunging for the gap, but his arm was already around you, pulling you back against the armored wall of his chest. You kicked, clawed, your nails catching in the seams of his gloves, your fists slamming into unyielding plates.

A gloved hand wrenched your jaw open, and cold liquid splashed over your tongue. You gagged instantly, trying to spit it out, but his fingers clamped your mouth shut. You thrashed harder, shaking your head, but the bitter burn was already sliding down your throat.

The fight started bleeding out of you in pieces — first in your hands, your fingers loosening against his wrist no matter how much you willed them to hold. Then your knees began to weaken, refusing to brace no matter how you ordered them to.

Panic spiked, white-hot, as you realized you were losing the fight against your own body. Every kick slowed, every twist dulled. Your vision swam, the edges darkening, his masked face the only thing clear in your sight.

Your final shove was little more than a twitch. He caught you as you sagged, the weight of your limbs no longer your own.

You’d wondered if he’d come for you.

Now you knew.

You came to like surfacing through warm water. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just… rising. Everything slow. Everything heavy.

No glass rattling. No roar of engines. No sudden weight pinning you down. Just stillness. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breath. Tick… tick… tick… somewhere far away.

Cedar. Leather. That cologne that lived in the hallways, in the fibers of your clothes, in your hair. In you. Bruce.

Your eyes stayed closed, but the shape of the room was already there — tall windows, high ceiling, the deep weight of the four-poster bed beneath you. The sheets were warm, almost too warm, like they wanted to hold you still.

Bruce’s room. Your own personal hell.

The thought curled in your stomach like a fist.

You pushed the blanket off, but your hands didn’t quite listen. Fingers slow, heavy. Your legs followed, swinging down to meet the floor with all the grace of a marionette whose strings had been cut. The sedative still clung to you — not sharp anymore, but thick, like fog in your veins.

You stood, or tried to. The carpet swayed gently, the walls leaning in and out. The lamp’s light spread golden over the rug, but everything beyond it was swallowed in shadow. No figure in the chair by the window. No sound of someone breathing too close.

Empty.

The door was there — dark oak, tall as you remembered. You knew the distance. Knew the number of steps it would take.

Your feet found it almost on their own. Brass knob, cool under your palm. Twist.

It stopped halfway. Click.

You tried again. Harder. The latch rattled but didn’t give.

A small sound escaped you — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. You pressed your forehead to the wood. It was solid. Cold.

Locked.

Of course it was locked.

Maybe he was in the Cave. Maybe he was just on the other side.

You stumble back to the plush warmth of the bed. For a while, you lay there, eyes half-lidded, watching the molding above the bed curl and spiral in quiet patterns you didn’t remember noticing before. Your breathing came slow and shallow, like each inhale had to climb through syrup. The thought came — the door — but it didn’t push you upright. It only lingered, soft and shapeless, dissolving as soon as it touched the edges of memory.

If you’d been clear-headed, maybe it would have startled you. Maybe you’d already be on your feet. But clarity felt a long way off.

You remembered the weight of him on the phone booth roof, how his arms had locked you still, how the air had left your lungs. Even in the haze, the ghost of that pressure stayed, stitched into your muscles. The sedative kept you sunk too deep, your limbs heavy and warm in a way that made the idea of moving… illogical. Even now you feel its effects.

It would be stupid to try again. To run again. Not yet.

So you stayed. Staring at the shadows shifting slow along the walls, listening to the silence swell and collapse in strange waves. Time folded in on itself — seconds dragging until they snapped, whole minutes vanishing into nothing. You could’ve sworn it had only been a breath when the sound came.

A slow, deliberate click. The lock turning.

The door opened. Bruce stepped in, shadow first, then the tired lines of his face. His shoulders had sloped with exhaustion, the black of his sweater rumpled, the faintest edge of stubble catching the low light. He didn’t look at you until he shut the door — and then he crossed the room without pause, like gravity had decided where he belonged.

You noticed the navy of the sky beyond the window now, the kind of blue that clung to the hours before midnight. That meant—

But he was already here, already untying boots, setting them aside. Climbing in without hesitation. The mattress shifted, the heat of him spilling against you before you could shift away. An arm found your waist and closed the gap until your spine fit to his chest. His breath moved over the shell of your ear, slow and steady.

“It’s the next night,” he murmured, like he was telling you the weather. “You’ve been under since yesterday. The sedative is strong… I didn’t want you hurting yourself.”

The words slid into you without resistance, like warm water.

“I spoke with them,” he continued, voice quiet, almost tender. “Jason… he’s still finding his place here. He forgets what’s best for the family. Taking you out like that—” A slow inhale. “You were scared. You didn’t know what was happening. That’s all it was.” He said it in a tired way, like he was trying to convince himself of it and not that his kids were all insane and you took a chance at escape. Jason may have been your safe haven for comfort, but he was still complicit in your confinement. 

His hand pressed flat to your sternum, feeling the steady pulse there, as if confirming you. The arm around you drew tighter, until you couldn’t tell where your breath ended and his began.

“You’re here now,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s what matters.”

My AO3

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@23s0fia

@irenehart02

[that---one---kid]

Golden Cage, Velvet chains

CHAPTER TWO

Warnings: explicit Rape/non-con, EXTREMELY dubious consent   Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Sometimes I listen to music to help me think of what vibe I want the characters to give off, this time it was Magical mystical. Anyways. This takes place directly after chapter one.

For a moment, he doesn't move.

Just breathes. Heavy. Unsteady.

His forehead still hovers near yours, his hand still cups your cheek, but something in him seems to flicker. A shift — like a thread pulled too tight, loosening just before it snaps.

He closes his eyes. Takes a breath through his nose.

When he pulls away, it’s slow — deliberate — like it hurts him to do it.

He turns his back to you, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders visibly rising and falling as he tries to get himself under control.

“You should get dressed,” he says after a long silence, voice rough but calmer. “Everyone’s waiting.”

You don’t move.

Not yet.

You clear your throat. “Um, yeah… could you at least look away?”

His jaw flexes. Then, slowly, he walks across the room, facing the far wall, arms crossed — a picture of patience stretched thin.

“I’ll stay here,” he murmurs. “So no one else walks in.”

You hesitate.

“I won’t look,” he adds. “Promise.”

That really makes you feel safer.

“Thanks.” You say sarcastically.

You grab clothes from your suitcase — casual, nothing too fancy — and get dressed as fast as you can, hands fumbling with the buttons.

You’re almost finished when you hear him again.

“You looked beautiful this morning,” he says softly, not turning around. “Still do.”

“Thank you.” you say softly, it would usually make your stomach flip, a compliment from someone as handsome as him, but instead it made you uneasy.

The walk to the dining room feels like moving underwater.

The hallway stretches too long, too soft. Sunlight spills through tall windows in golden smears. The air smells like old wood, linen, and something sweet burning faintly beneath it — like a candle left too long lit. It felt like a dream, because there’s no way this is actually happening, right?

You drift.

Feet barely touching the floor. Breath shallow.

Dick’s just a step behind you — too close for comfort.

You don’t have to look to know he’s staring. You can feel it. Like fingers brushing the back of your neck, like his presence is stitched into your shadow.

The dream frays when you step into the dining room.

They’re all already there. Waiting.

Bruce looks up from the head of the table, expression unreadable, but his eyes lock on yours like a vice.

Tim grins — wide, easy, too sharp. There’s something wolfish in it.

Jason doesn’t smile at all. He stares like he’s cataloguing your every breath.

Damian noticeably absent.

Cass only tilts her head, watching you with that strange softness she wears like armor — not emotion, but intent.

Your seat is already pulled out. Cass’s hand rests lightly on the back of the chair — a silent invitation. Or a command.

The smell of food hits you like a drug. Warm, familiar, perfect. Everything you like — nothing you’ve ever mentioned.

You sit, slowly.

The cushion is warm. Someone was here before you.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, voice smooth, almost kind. “You’re right on time.”

“Sleep well?” Cass asks, twirling a fork between her fingers. Her eyes don’t leave your face — not even when she smiles. “You looked real cozy.”

Dick takes the seat beside you. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t move away.

“Hungry?” he asks. His voice is low, careful. He places a plate in front of you, already full.

Dick pours your drink without being asked. His hand brushes yours as he sets the glass down. The contact is intentional.

You stare at the plate. Steam curls up in delicate ribbons. You can’t remember the last time you were this hungry.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this watched.

Bruce leans forward slightly. His tone is gentle, but every word weighs heavy.

“I hope everything is to your liking.”

You try to swallow. The air tastes like syrup. You’re sinking into something warm and sweet and slow, and it’s wrapping around your limbs like a velvet vice.

And still —

You feel their eyes on you.

Not protective. Not polite.

Possessive. Fixated. Devouring.

Every bite you take is met with approval. Quiet smiles. Subtle nods.

Tim watches your hands. Cass watches your lips. Dick watches your eyes.

Jason watches everyone else.

You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat.

You wonder if they like that they can.

After breakfast you quickly make a retreat back to your room, giving an excuse of wanting to unpack and needing to think, which of course sets the boys off, Tim clings to, nails dig into your arm like a snake's teeth in its prey. His eyes

look wild with worry and a bit of confusion.

“You’re leaving already, you just got here!” His voice comes out louder than what was probably intended, desperation laced every word. You look down, biting back the disdain you feel at the action, forcing a smile as you try and pull his nails out of your skin.

“Of course not,” You say, voice shaky as you pull up more frantically on his hands, worried it’ll draw blood soon.

Cass, thankfully comes up to Tim, smacking the back of his head lightly and bringing him out of whatever haze he was in, Tim snaps back to reality, letting go of your arm, indents if his nails imprint into the soft skin of your arm.

Her hand drifts to rest where Tim’s hand just was, her fingers are light on your elbow as she murmurs something you can’t make out — her tone too sweet, too steady. It almost makes your skin crawl worse than Tim’s panic did.

You smile — brittle — and step back, pulse rattling under your skin like a trapped insect.

“I’m just going to unpack,” you say quickly, not meeting their eyes. “Long trip and I didn’t get a chance to finish last night, y’know? I just… need a second.”

They don’t believe you.

Cass tilts her head, watching you the way a housecat watches a trembling bird. Tim’s hand twitches toward you again, but you’re already turning — brisk, polite, holding your breath until you're up the stairs and out of the hallway, shutting your bedroom door with a soft click.

Then you exhale.

Your back hits the wood, eyes fluttering shut.

God.

What is this?

The grunge-haze over everything — their stares, the way every word felt like a secret you weren’t in on. The way they all touched you like you were something soft, a possession. Something to be kept locked away.

Your skin burns in the places they’d held you.

You barely make it to the edge of the bed when the knock comes.

Three soft taps.

Then silence.

You don’t answer. Not right away.

But the door creaks open anyway.

“Fuck” you think mentally, of course you forgot to lock it in a rush.

Bruce steps in like he owns the room — the house — the air between your lungs. He’s in a dark sweater, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Just… looks at you.

Like this moment means something.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says finally, voice low and smooth. “The transition. The move. But you’ll adjust.”

You blink.

“…The move?”

He nods once. Steps closer.

“You’re not going back to Texas or Virginia."

It’s not a question. Or a suggestion. His words held a finality that made your stomach do flips and a cold sweat break out across your body.

Your breath catches. “Bruce, I—”

“You belong here,” he says gently, interrupting. “With me. With us.”

He reaches forward — brushing a strand of hair from your face the same way he did that first night. Only this time, his fingers trail lower… to your jaw, your throat. His thumb rests just under your chin, tilting your face up.

You want to slap him, run and scream about how he’s psychotic and his deranged family can go fuck themselves.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Not just because he could probably snap your neck like a pencil if he really wanted to, but because you’re frozen in place, fear keeping your limbs rigid and your throat dry.

“I’ve already told Alfred to move your things into the master bedroom,” he says, as if announcing the weather. “You’ll be more comfortable there. Closer to me.”

Your mouth opens — but nothing comes out.

His eyes search your face, slowly. He squeezes his hands around you, not hard, but enough to bring you to your senses.

“I know this is new to you,” he continues, voice like velvet and heat and control, “but this is for the best. That school, you were too good for it, and those people didn’t deserve to have you in their presence.”

You try to pull your face from his grasp, but his hand tightens — this time harder.

Just enough to say: don’t.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “You feel it too. I can see it every time you look at me.”

Your chest is tight — lungs struggling to pull enough air. Everything is slow. Heavy. The scent of his cologne is suffocating.

“I’ll give you some time to settle in,” he adds, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip now. “But tonight… come to bed.”

He leans in and pauses with his mouth hovering just above yours, not in hesitation, but more like he’s savoring it. He lingers a second longer before connecting your mouths, his lips were wet against yours and in any other circumstance you would’ve flung your arms around him and jumped his bones, but instead you felt hot tears prick your eyes as his tongue slid across your bottom lips before he pulls away entirely.

Composing himself he turns and walks out like it’s all settled.

The door clicks shut.

And the silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Later that night, after dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal — all glances and hushed words, forks scraping china and too many hands brushing yours — you’d excused yourself.

Feigning a headache, bidding all of them a goodnight in the nicest way you could manage.

They let you go.

Bruce said nothing. Just watched you leave, eyes following every step like he was memorizing your retreat.

Now, you sit in the master bathroom. Staring at your damp reflection in the fogged up mirror.

It’s the kind of room that was built for people who never raise their voices — all expensive silence and museum-like stillness. The floors are black marble, veined with gold. Tall mirrors are framed in soft antique brass, and the lighting is warm, flattering, like candlelight on velvet. The freestanding tub behind you is the size of a small pool, claw-footed and gleaming. A chandelier — an actual chandelier — glows faintly above, throwing warped gold reflections across the polished floor.

You look out of place.

Like a ghost that wandered into a palace and didn’t know how to leave.

Your robe — silk, deep forest green, complimentary of Bruce — clings to your damp skin, slipping off one shoulder. Your thighs are bare against the cold air. You can still feel the water from your shower dripping from the ends of your

hair, sliding down your back in cold, ticklish trails.

The brush moves slowly through your hair. Mechanical. You're not detangling so much as doing something. Anything so you don’t have to think of your mothers crying face and fathers frantic shouts as they try and find answers to where you are in three months' time.

But you’re more trying to avoid thinking of the now, of what happens next.

You feel it like a pressure in your throat, thick and hot. The inevitable moment where you’ll hear the soft creak of the bedroom floorboards. The quiet rustle of his breath behind you.

You know he’s coming.

Because he always does.

And sure enough — like the house breathes him in before you can — he’s suddenly there.

Bruce enters without a word. Gliding across the marble floor with a practiced silence.

And just… appears in the reflection, like he always belonged there. Like he’s part of the manor itself — carved into its bones. Like an eighteenth century painting you fit perfectly into, a woman trapped.

He’s shirtless. Bare chest broad and golden in the warm light. Sleep shorts hang low on his hips exposing a V-line that would make most salivate, and his hair, for the first time, isn't perfect, (or perfectly imperfect), instead it curls messily over his forehead.

You don’t say anything, but your grip tightens on the brush, like it's some kind of lifeline keeping you grounded.

He moves behind you, slow and sure. His footsteps are silent on the marble.

Your eyes track his reflection.

He doesn’t look at the robe. Or the way your legs are buckling slightly. He doesn’t even seem to notice the surroundings.

He only sees you.

He stops behind you, palms resting lightly on your shoulders, pressing his body against your back, framing you against himself. His skin is warm. His thumbs stroke over the silk slowly, thoughtfully — like he’s reading something written into the fabric.

Then, his lips find your bare shoulder.

Soft. Lingering.

You freeze your body tensing up until you're impossibly rigid..

He kisses higher — just beneath your jaw now. The heat of him floods your skin.

And still, you don’t move.

You can’t.

Not out of submission. Not out of want. But because the air has thickened again — like honey — like smoke. Like a dream where every movement feels delayed, uncertain.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Bruce murmurs into your skin. His breath is warm. Wet. “For us.”

His reflection watches yours — his eyes fixed on you like a man in prayer.

“You belong here,” he says, almost too quietly, his teeth graze over your exposed skin. “You always did.”

His fingers slip under the robe’s collar, tracing the edge of your skin, not possessive — not yet — but reverent.

You don’t recognize the look in your own eyes in the mirror.

You look… gone. You can’t seem to recognize your own face.

Not melted or seduced or even scared — just lost. Disassociated. Like you’re watching this happen to someone else.

The brush falls from your hand with a dull clatter.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Bruce hums, like that was answer enough.

His wandering hands drift lower, warm and insistent, while his mouth presses slow kisses into your cheek. His touch is deliberate — large, calloused hands slipping beneath the silk robe clinging to your damp skin. One hand pushes the robe off your shoulder, baring your left breast to the cool manor air, the other gliding down your stomach with reverence, tugging loose the delicate sash that had been your last pretense of modesty.

What little safety the robe offered falls away like it was never there.

His left hand cups your exposed breast, fingers spreading, kneading the soft flesh while he pulls you back against him — harder this time, possessive. Like he wants to fold you into himself. Like he might if he could.

Bruce leans over you from behind, mouth hot against your jaw, nudging your face toward his. His stubble scratches lightly, and when he captures your lips, it’s all teeth and heat — biting softly, dragging his lower lip over yours until your knees threaten to buckle. His right hand slides lower, fingers dipping into your panties. The slow pressure of his thumb begins its work over your clit, gentle circles that make your breath catch in your throat.

You try not to make a sound.

But you do. A soft, unwilling groan slips out.

He hears it — of course he does. He always does. And it only spurs him on.

Bruce touches you like he’s memorizing every inch, every reaction. Lips moving messily, wet and deep. His tongue tastes the corner of your mouth before he kisses you again, devouring and deliberate.

“We should move to the bed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with arousal.

You meet his gaze in the mirror — and it’s obscene.

His hulking frame dwarfs yours, bare-chested and sweat-slick, muscles tensing with every breath. His skin is golden in the dim lighting, broad chest scattered with old scars, abs taut beneath the trail of dark hair that leads below the waistband of his sleep shorts. He looks like sin incarnate. Like something ripped from a late-night daydream, all hunger and heat and ruin.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

With practiced ease, he turns you toward him, scoops you into his arms, one arm beneath your thighs, the other firm against your back. You barely register the hallway blurring past before you're on the bed — your back sinking into

soft, perfumed sheets — and then he’s on you again.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and needy, tongue sliding past your lips before you can breathe, before you can think. His cock grinds against your clothed sex — thick, hot, and insistent — as he ruts into you, letting out a low, ragged groan at the contact.

You didn’t mean to.

But your hips twitch up, chasing friction. A sharp, humiliating moan slips free before you can swallow it.

Your body betrays you. Burning low in your stomach, pulsing heat between your legs. Slick soaking your panties, aching with want. You hate it. Hate how badly you want him to do it again.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Bruce pulls back just enough to slip his hand between you again. His fingers dive beneath your panties, thumb stroking over your clit with slow, practiced precision. His ring finger dips further — teasing your soaked entrance before sliding back up to circle your bundle of nerves again.

“So wet for me.” His voice is lower now, more gravel than words, and it sends a shockwave through your body.

You can’t respond. Can’t breathe. You’re clutching the sheets, fingers curled so tight your knuckles ache.

In a few swift motions, he strips you both of the remaining barriers. Your panties, his shorts — gone.

And then he’s kissing you again, all-consuming, while he lines himself up. The head of his cock slides against your folds, gathering your slick before nudging at your entrance. You groan, louder this time, head tipping back into the pillow.

Bruce moans into your mouth as he presses in, slowly, carefully, but not stopping — not hesitating.

A whine breaks in your throat as he stretches you open, inch by inch. It burns, but it’s good. It’s too much. It’s everything.

Your hips move on their own, needing more, needing him deeper. Shame curls in your gut.

He breaks the kiss, just long enough to look at you — really look.

His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, sweat beading at his temple. His cheeks are flushed, lips red from kissing, and there’s something wild in his gaze. He grips your hips, holding you still, thumbs pressing deep into your skin as he slides in the rest of the way, thick and perfect and devastating.

“You take me so well.” His voice is raw, reverent.

And he doesn’t look away. Not once.

He watches himself disappear into you, watches the way your body tightens, how you whimper and writhe beneath him.

You try — you really do — to hold out. But the pressure builds too fast, too sharp. Your body clenches around him, your back arches, and a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your throat.

Bruce growls — deep and low — and fucks into you harder. His rhythm falters as he reaches his edge, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you as he spills, hot and thick, filling you in messy, shuddering waves.

He collapses forward, pinning you to the bed, caging your body beneath his.

For a moment, it’s just breath. Heat. Sweat. Your body trembling.

He presses soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your hairline. Murmurs praises and promises in your ear.

“I’m so glad you’re home now,” he whispers. “It’s safer here. You’ll see. You’ll be happy.”

His arms wrap tight around you, dragging you into his chest. His face buries in your damp hair, holding you like something precious.

Like something won.

And you lie there.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

And dread slowly replaces the warmth in your stomach.

My AO3

Tag List:

@irenehart02

[olivias-ramblings]

Nothing quite like opening ao3 while at one of my sorority’s events :)

[that---one---kid]

Golden Cage, Velvet Chains

Warnings: Rape/Non-con, Obsessive behavior, Stalking, Older man/Younger woman, Kidnapping, Abusive power dynamics, deceptive behavior, emotional manipulation

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

I recently stumbled across a fic called The Fawn Instinct by citrius_daydream, (yandere-daydreams on Tumblr) and I’ve been OBSESSED so I’ve decided to write a fic myself. I loved the characterizations and have taken heavy influence from their story. This does have a lot of heavy trigger warnings so please make sure you read them carefully, each chapter might have different tags so I heavily advise you to read the description for chapters.

You never asked to be saved, didn’t need to be saved, but he thought otherwise.

Bruce Wayne took your life and twisted it until it was barely recognizable to you. 

Freshly twenty felt like freshly nineteen and freshly eighteen and blah blah, so on and so forth. College had only gotten harder with the passing time, but that was life, getting harder the older you get. Life was quiet, manageable. Virginia was beautiful, the campus far enough out of the chaos of the world to create your own bubble. 

You came painfully normal, you didn't try to stand out, but you didn’t draw unnecessary attention. A criminal justice major with a minor in behavioral psych, transferred from Texas, still adjusting to Virginia winters, and still finding glitter in your tote bag from rush week two months ago.

Life was loud. Bright. Fast-paced.

Your world was made of early morning spin classes, sorority mixers, half-finished essays, color-coded planners, and inside jokes shouted across the apartment. You made friends in every class. You could name half the lacrosse team on sight and had a standing coffee order at the café down the street — extra shot of espresso, always iced.

That day, you’d barely made it to the keynote on time. Hair half-damp from a rushed shower, heart still racing from sprinting across campus in wedges.

You weren’t even supposed to be there.

But the second you sat down — third row, center aisle, lip gloss smudged from your water bottle — you caught his eye.

Bruce Wayne.

The billionaire. The philanthropist.

The father of five. The surprise speaker of the university’s criminal justice series.

You had to admit, he was handsome. A kind of handsomeness that wasn’t only achieved by genetics, there were plenty of guys you had hooked up with that were handsome, you could pick out any generic white boy and the majority would call him handsome.

No, Mr. Wayne was handsome in a way that could only be achieved through time. His slicked back black hair was sprinkled with grays, his eyes weren’t the tired ones you’d see day to day in students, they were hardened and steely, sharp like a hawk looking for prey, his crisp suit and demanding figure gave him an edge that, if you were his peer, would have you throwing yourself in his way. 

You raised your hand before he’d even opened the floor to questions. You didn’t mean to challenge him — not exactly — but something about the way he spoke, the way the whole room leaned in like his words were gospel, lit that little fire in your chest.

“You talk about systemic reform,” you said, “but where does corporate influence end and personal interest begin?”

Your voice was bright. Curious. Maybe a little sharp around the edges — but not rude. You could never be rude. He smiled. Then he answered. And then he asked you something. And somehow… you kept talking.

After the keynote, he found you again. Leaving the auditorium, he bounded up friendly and charismatic as ever.

He said he liked your energy. That you had "presence."

You laughed — awkward, surprised, but flattered. Said something about how you talk too much and ask too many questions. Said you were just trying to stay awake after pulling an all-nighter for your comparative politics paper.

He told you he admired your curiosity.

You told him he had a good voice for podcasts.

And that’s when he offered you a position you couldn’t turn down. An internship at Wayne enterprise, sure it didn’t have much to do with your major, but surely the experience and highly cuvetted position would look amazing on any resume, so you accepted. 

School ended in May. You packed your summer essentials. Said goodbye to Virginia with a whirlwind of tearful brunches, going-away parties, and one last chaotic Pi Beta mixer that ended with one of the worst hangovers you could imagine.

Your roommate, Jules, cried at the airport. She squeezed your hand too hard and made you promise you’d call the second you landed.

“I know Gotham’s rich and dark and sexy, but don’t get serial murdered, okay? I don’t want to have to get a randomly assigned roommate next year. ” Her whining was met with a soft smile as you squeezed her hand back.

“Please. Bruce Wayne is like… dad-adjacent.”

“That doesn’t make it less likely.”

You laughed. She wasn’t wrong. But still — it was an opportunity.

You were ready for the next chapter.

You just didn’t know that chapter had already been written for you.

The flight was quiet. Private. Arranged entirely by the company. A car met you at the terminal — sleek, black, windows tinted.

You expected to be dropped off at some luxury intern housing downtown.

Instead, the driver smiled politely and said:

“You’ll be staying at the Manor. Mr. Wayne insisted. You’re his guest.”

You blinked.

“Wait — like his house house?”

“Yes, miss.”

“...Is this normal?”

The driver didn’t answer.

Wayne Manor appeared like a silhouette pulled from a gothic novel. Huge. Imposing. Beautiful. The kind of house that feels haunted even when it’s not.

Bruce was waiting when the car pulled in.

He opened your door himself.

You were still brushing yourself off and trying to seem presentable, you didn’t think you’d be seeing Bruce so soon, let alone his family, and had definitely not dressed accordingly. The car door opened and you were greeted by the sight of Bruce, still tall, still demanding, still undeniably handsome.

“Welcome home.”

Dinner was... strange. Elegant. Too formal. The table was set for twelve, but only seven seats were filled — Bruce at the head, you at his right, and the rest of his kids watching you like you were some new animal being introduced to the enclosure.

Dick was the first to speak. All bright eyes and too-smooth charm. 

“We’ve heard a lot about you.” He didn’t stop staring. 

Jason gave you a nod. Said nothing. You caught him glancing at your hands. Like he was trying to memorize them. 

Tim didn’t even look up from his plate. But he sat right across from you. Dead center. Silent. Still.

 Cass didn’t look away once on the other hand. “Mhm,” she hums mid chew. “I hear you’re quite the social butterfly, I wanna hear all about your life.”

 And Damian — the youngest — didn’t blink once. He just kept chewing like a cat watching a bird through a window.

You smiled anyway. Because that’s what you do.

You smiled anyways because, despite the initial awkwardness, it was nice that they made — or at least tried to make — you feel welcomed. Even if it unnerved you that the food was your favorite, despite you never mentioning what you liked. Coincidences happen. That’s what you told yourself.

Just like when Cass corrected a detail in a story you told — one you only vaguely remembered sharing, and definitely not with her.

Small things. Easy to brush off.

But they kept happening.

Little slips. Familiar glances. Inside jokes you weren’t supposed to be inside of.

And still — you smiled. Because you were a guest. Because it was polite. Because it was easier to ignore the cold edge curling in your gut than admit something felt off.

That night, you stayed in your room longer than you meant to. Showered. Changed into your comfiest shorts and a faded sorority tee. Tried to text Jules again — still no signal.

You figured it was the walls. Old houses were like that, right? Heavy stone, weird wiring.

The sitcom playing on your laptop barely held your attention. Something about the day kept tugging at you. Something you couldn’t name.

Then came a knock at the door.

Steady. Calm.

You hesitated before opening it.

Bruce stood there. Dressed down, but only slightly. Shirt sleeves rolled. No tie. Hair still perfect.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, voice low, almost warm.

You smiled automatically. “No, just relaxing.”

He stepped inside without waiting. Looked around like he’d been here before. Maybe he had. You couldn’t be sure.

“I wanted to check in,” he said. “See how you’re adjusting. First day in a new place can be disorienting.”

You nodded. “It’s definitely… different. Beautiful, though.”

His gaze flicked to you. “You’ll get used to it.”

He moved to the desk, brushing his fingers over your planner. The one you hadn’t filled in yet — or hadn’t thought you had.

Now it was full. Notes in your handwriting. Appointments, tasks, reminders. Even the time you usually woke up, even though you hadn’t told anyone.

Bruce didn’t comment on it. He didn’t have to.

“You’re fitting in well,” he said instead. “The family likes you.”

You gave a cautious smile. “They’ve been… welcoming.”

He watched you for a long moment. “That matters to me.”

Then he stepped closer. Just close enough to feel it.

“You’re important here,” he said softly. “I hope you know that.”

You nodded, unsure what else to do. Your hands were cold.

Bruce tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light but deliberate. His hand resting on your cheek just a second longer than would’ve seemed appropriate for this already inappropriate scene. 

“We want you to feel at home.”

His breath hitched, those hawk-like eyes bore into yours, you finally knew what it was like to be the prey.

Then, just as smoothly as he entered, he left.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

You stood still for a long moment. Listening.

After a long moment, you slowly walk to the bed and slip into the silk sheets, eyes locked onto the door knob until darkness consumes you and you fall into a restless sleep.

You woke to warmth. Too much of it.

An arm draped across your stomach, pulling you close. Legs tangled with yours.

Breath on your neck. Slow. Steady. Your eyes flew open.

And you froze.

You weren’t alone.

You twisted, heart hammering—

You register that the person behind you was a man, a well built one, much bigger than you, he was curled around you, pressed flush to your back, holding you like he’d never let go. You tried to fling yourself from the bed, a wild and desperate attempt to make it to the door, but alas, it was a futile attempt. His grip tightened when you moved, a vice grip that was next to impossible to break away from.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice low, thick with sleep. “You were having little twitches… I didn’t want you to wake up scared.”

You shoved against his arm. Hard.

You turn to face the man, slow recognition comes across your face as you realize it’s Bruce’s oldest. 

“Dick, what the hell are you doing?”

He blinked slowly, like he didn’t understand the question.

“Watching you sleep.” He smiled, small and reverent, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You look different when you’re not thinking so much. Calmer.”

You twisted harder, panic crawling up your spine. “Let go of me.” You half yell, voice thick with confusion.

He didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, he leaned in, nose brushing your hair, and murmured: “You don’t have to act scared. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

That made it worse.

You shoved again, and this time he let go — reluctantly. You stumbled out of bed, breath sharp, arms tense, putting as much distance between you and him as you could.

Dick sat up slowly. Watched you with a tilt of his head and something raw in his eyes.

“You’re just not used to being cared for,” he said quietly. “But that’s okay. We’ve got time.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

You stumbled to the door, your hand flew to the doorknob. You turned it—

Key locked.

Of course it was locked.

Your skin prickled.

Dick didn’t even look at the door.

“We all just want what’s best for you.” His voice was calm. Sweet, even. “You’ll see that soon.”

You backed away. Body pressed into the thick wood door as you tried to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

And for the first time, truly — you felt caged.

“Breakfast will be ready soon.”

His voice is low — hoarse, like it’s caught on something in his throat.

He throws the sheets off with slow, practiced ease, like he’s done this a hundred times. Bare feet meet the floor with a soft thud, and he stands — tall, built, calm in the way a snake is calm before it strikes.

He walks toward you. No rush.

You back into the door without meaning to. The cool wood presses against your spine.

“I thought I’d bring you down myself,” he says, stopping just a breath away.

His eyes find yours. Not smiling. Not warm. Just watching.

There’s something simmering in them — dark and deep, lustful. A hunger that sends tingles down your spine.

He lifts a hand to your cheek. Fingers gentle, careful, like you're made of glass.

The touch is tender. Familiar. Bruce had touched you like that. But this is different. This is wanting.

Dick leans in. Slowly.

His forehead nearly brushes yours. His breath is shallow — not from exertion, but from restraint.

You can feel it in the way he’s holding himself back. The slight tremble in his fingers. The too-long pause before he speaks again.

“I watched you sleep,” he whispers. “You looked peaceful. It felt right… being here.”

His thumb brushes your cheekbone.

He’s so close now you can feel the labor in his breath, his heart beating in his chest, the warmth of his breath and the growing hardness barely covered by the thin material of his sweats — he’s trying to stay calm, but it’s slipping, just barely. 

You don’t move.

Because there’s nowhere to move to.

Because the air feels too thick to breathe.

Because something about this quiet — this still, heavy moment — is more terrifying than if he’d screamed and lunged for you.And he’s still watching you like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. Like letting you go would ruin him. Like he wants you to ruin him.

I have an AO3 now if anyone is interested!

[that---one---kid]

why is every sorority thing a fanfic 🥲where are my actual sorority girlies💎

[that---one---kid]

Konig with a bratty college student reader who plays tennis and is a total daddy’s girl? thoughts?

[that---one---kid]

Thermite x Neighbor! Reader

Sorry for the long hiatus y'all, I started college and shit has been ROUGH, this story is a bit more raunchy, more of my own fantasies so if you have issues with an older guy or a younger girl I'd sit this one out. And I apologize for the writing. It's kind of all over the place and weirdly written, but it'll get better as I get back into writing. N/N-nickname ex-Megan, meg

It was wrong, Jordan knew that, he didn't need that pestering devil on his shoulder reminding him, but God, did it feel right. Coming home from a long-way mission to his empty house in a quiet, perfectly cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood. An otherwise boring home to come back to, if it wasn't for you.

Summer in Texas isn't usually something to be excited about, but ever since he actually met his neighbors last June, Jordan can't help but fantasize about summer all year long. It started when he came home and actually stayed for a while. Harry had been killed, Deimos was on the loose and Rainbow was in shambles, but for the time being it was disbanded until Gustave, Eliza, Yuniko, Taiana, and himself could figure out what to do with their respective squadron. Stepping out in the morning to get the paper instead of coming home to it being piled up, same with the mail, was strange, and seeing neighbors he'd lived next to for years that he knew nothing about was even stranger. Little did he know, the people across from his house would soon be his favorite neighbors, a nice perfectly cookie-cutter couple, a dad with a high-paying corporate job, a wife who did menial work and spent most of her time gardening or out with friends, a son in his twenty-somethings starting a family close by, and a daughter in her sophomore year of college. Jordan obviously didn't see either of the two kids much, only in passing did he hear of the daughter, Y/N, when your mom would complain about you or praise you, or both.  But summer had rolled around faster than he had noticed since you came home from college.

In hindsight it was a bad idea, weird on his part to even talk to some 19 year old, but, God, were you hard to resist wanting to talk to. Young, smart, full of life and beautiful by all means. Innocent conversations when you'd walk out to your car, small talk when you'd water the front yard turned into longer talks. He knew it was wrong, God, it was wrong, but damn it all if it wasn't worth it.

It started out with him inviting you into his house on a hot day, offering sweet tea to cool off when he caught sight of you on a run.  "Oh, um, yeah, thank you, Mr. Trace." 'Mr. Trace. Jordan always hated being called 'Mr. Trace'. It made him feel old, a reminder he'd rather go without, but something about it coming from your plush lips, your smooth youthful voice made him like it. You take the glass from him, the condensation running down your hand as you bring it up to your mouth, plush lips parting for it, small water droplets falling onto your chest and sliding into your sports bra. Jordan takes a gulp, his mouth having gone dry suddenly as he rips his stare from following any further. You sigh as you finish your tea, flushed face looking at him so sweetly. "Thank you, Mr. Trace. I really appreciate it." The way your tongue darts out to lick your lips and the way you look at him is enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course, N/N." And that was the beginning of his downfall. He knew it was creepy and bordering-no, WAS, stalking, but he made a point to take note and memorize your running schedule. And like clock work he'd coincidentally be outside to chat with you, either watering his lawn or reading. He didn't only get closer with you, though, he got much closer with your family. "Well, we were planning on going to the beach house in South Carolina for awhile," Your mom says, motioning to your dad. "And we were wondering if you'd be willing to keep an eye on the house while we're gone." Your mom asks almost sheepishly and it takes Jordan by surprise for a moment. "Yeah that shouldn't be a problem, is Y/N going to be gone most of the time? Or going with y'all?" Your mother almost sighs, "No, she has her sports conditioning this summer, but I just don't want her sneaking in her little boyfriend or friends. I know it's short notice but we'll be leaving next week and if you could just shoot me a text if you see anyone who isn't her i'd really appreciate it." Boyfriend? You had never mentioned one. The slight sting of jealousy Jordan feels rising in his stomach is completely unfounded, but not completely foreign to him. The same feeling arising when he'd see you chat with some neighbor boys that seemed to also be home from college. "Of course, it'd be no problem really."

The next day on your run you actually stopped and initiated conversation for once. "I hear you're my new babysitter." You say sarcastically while taking off your headphones. Jordan looks up from his book, his breath briefly catching in his throat as he takes in sight of you. It was an unusually hot day and you were dressed for it. Tinier spandex shorts than normal that perfectly outlined your hips and a tight sports bra contrasted beautifully against your sweat shinned skin that looked more tantalizing than usual. "You don't have to actually watch me, Mr. Trace, I don't know why they treat me like a kid." A slight smile graced your lips, afterall it was somewhat endearing. Jordan peeled his eyes away from your body only to get lost in your face, fantasies running wild as he can't help but do a once over of all of you.  "Aw, it's really no problem. Your mom just told me to keep an eye out for a boyfriend." Jordan teases. Your face turns more red than it already is. "Haha, I wouldn't call him that, but fair enough-" You're cut off when you trip on an uneven pavement while walking up towards jordan. With his cat-like trained reflexes he jumps up from his seat to grab you. Jordan catches you, one hand lands on your lower hip, thumb resting oh-so-close to your bikini lines. His other hand wrapped around your back, pulling you sweat slicked body as close as it could get to him. "You okay?" Jordan says, concern evident in his voice, his mouth so close to your ear that you can feel his hot breath tickle the skin. A shiver runs down your spine and suddenly your knees feel weak and you feel the sudden urge to kiss him. "Uh, yea, sorry." You say somewhat breathlessly. Jordan makes sure you're alright before his brain processes where his hands had just been. "Sorry, I didn't mean to uh," Jordan gestures his hands vaguely towards you. "Oh no! It's totally fine! Sorry I didn't mean to put you in that position." You laugh awkwardly while finding your footing.  Before Jordan could tell you that it was completely fine and that he'd love to let his hands wander your beautifully sculpted body again you were already on your way back to your house. "I'll see you later, Mr. Trace!" You yell before turning back to your jog. Jordan was thankful that you didn't notice the hard on he was sporting, your absence leaving his mind to wander as much as he desired. Turning heel he quickly retreated inside his home to relieve himself.

    Quickly, he walked into his house, shutting the door with urgency behind him. Making his way to his bedroom, he slips off his shoes and unbuckles his pants, shimming them off just enough to slip them half way down his thigh before falling back into bed, releasing his throbbing cock from his boxers. Rough and calloused hands tease the tip of his weeping cock, his thumb swiping over the sensitive tip, smearing his precum with it. Grabbing his length whole, he lets out a shuddering breath. His thoughts wander back to you, the way your skin felt in his touch, soft and smooth. How smooth your toned legs looked, how they would feel wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you. Your pillowy lips spilling out sweet ecstasy as you beg for him to fuck you. Jordan quickened his pace, feeling his pulse in his throat. Imagining what you would look like underneath your tight sports bra, how your perky breasts would look as he slammed you into the mattress as you moaned his name. Thinking back to how you said his name, Mr. Trace, you begging for his cum, the way your flushed face looked and how it would look while you choke on him. Jordan's grip tightened as he released with a soft moan of your name. Lying on his bed he lets his shallow breaths fill the silent room, the sound of rushing blood and his own heartbeat is all he hears. After some time Jordan throws his legs over the side of the bed, sliding off his pants the rest of the way off and walks towards his bathroom. Wiping off his stomach Jordan splashed the warm water in his face, staring at his reflection and sighing. "Ughh, Y/N, you're going to be the death of me."

    The day your parents left came and evening came sooner. Jordan had been pacing patiently waiting for you to get back from swimming at 7. He never paced. You had sent him a text asking him to come over for dinner earlier that day, telling your parents that it was a nice way to thank him for watching over the house and you while they're away, of course your mother agreed, thinking it was a lovely idea. Jordan glances at his phone again, checking the time, 6:42 glared back at him. Groaning, Jordan walked back to his bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. Looking at his trimmed stubble Jordan fiddles with his hair, despite slicking it back with his usual gel it doesn't seem to want to stay, small hairs falling into his face, finally deciding just to leave it. After swishing mouthwash for the 4th time that night Jordan feels his phone vibrate. Quickly fishing it out of his pocket he reads your message. "Back from swim come over whenever🏊‍♀️" Jordan smiles nervously, God, he felt like he was in high school all over again. Why oh why was he so nervous over this? Taking one last look in the mirror he grabs his phone and sends a quick, "Coming" text. Jordan grabs his keys and heads out the door, hitting a light jog across the street.

Walking up the stairs Jordan takes a deep breath, settling his nerves before knocking twice. The solid wood door feels heavy even as he knocks and it's not before he hears footsteps running downstairs. The door opens quickly, revealing you, a tight tank top, sports shorts and wet hair. Jordan takes a sharp inhale, hiding it with a smile. Your cheery face greets him, the soft smell of chlorine is noticeable even at the distance he's at, not an unpleasant aroma. "Hey! C'mon in!" You say while leading him in, closing the door behind you. Walking through the living room you guide him to the kitchen. "Sorry, I just started making the spaghetti-it's the only thing I really know how to make, haha," Jordan smiles, taking a seat at the bar seats across the kitchen counter. " So what do you survive off of in the dorms?" He asks, feeling somewhat awkward and unsure of what to talk about. "Mostly redbarrens, it's kinda a goated dinner. Especially the supreme pizza." There's more light banter until you declare that the clearly overcooked pasta is done. After serving you both a plate you excuse yourself. "Oh, one second," You say while walking across the kitchen and out of sight into the butlers pantry. "Do you like Pinot Noir or Chianti?" You call out. Jordan stands up, walks over to the kitchen sink area, and rests his back against the counter. "Are you even old enough to drink?" He asks in a playful tone, a smirk pulling at his lips. You pop your head from around the corner, smiling and holding a bottle of wine. "Depends. Are you a snitch?" You say in a half-joking tone. "Do me a favor and grab some glasses from that cabinet closest to you." Jordan does as told and grabs two wine glasses, setting them on the counter. You open the bottle and pour you both a generous glass. "Is this a normal pour back at school?" He asks, half laughing. You smirk, leaning over the counter. "Usually, yeah. It's not common to have such nice wine, I've grown accustomed to Coors banquet." Jordan's eyes trail down your sternum. Eyes half lidded you give him a sly smirk.  "Well, I wouldn't want the food to get cold." You say, grabbing your glass and heading to the kitchen table, Jordan following close behind.

After dinner and a bottle of wine later you're both on the living room sofa, watching some hallmark movie. The wine was really setting in now, a warm fuzzy feeling filling both of you as you sit next to Jordan, feet propped up on the coffee table. You take another sip from your glass, slurring your words slightly as you suddenly sit up, leaning dangerously close to him. "Do you want another glass?" You ask, a small laugh follows. Jordan smiles lazily, feeling the effects of the wine himself. "I think I'm all good, thank you." His voice comes out smooth, it sends chills down your spine.Jordan can't help but look at your parted lips, the alcohol flushing your cheeks and swelling slightly parted your lips. The way you look at him is almost predatory. "Y'know, Mr. Trace," You say, shifting so that you're on your knees facing towards him. Jordan shifts his body slightly to face towards you, his heartbeat beginning to quicken and cheeks feeling impossibly hot. "I've alwaaays thought you looked so gooood when you're doing yard work." You're clearly drunk but Jordan can't bring himself to think of anything other than your pretty words and how your nipples are hard beneath that thin, low cut tank top. "Yeah? You think so?" He says, "Yeeeaah," You smile, putting both your hands on his chest, you push him against the soft cushions, throwing right your leg over his thighs, straddling him you pull your face close to his, lips brushing against his. Jordan's breath hitches at the sudden closeness. "Y/N..."He breathes out. This is wrong. So wrong. But, God, does it feel so good. "I've seen the way you look at me, Jordan," He shudders at your words, his cock growing achingly hard underneath you. Part of him hoped you wouldn't notice and the other part wanted to bend you over the coffee table and destroy you. "We shouldn't.." He says, mentally kicking himself for doing the moral thing. It's too late though because you're already taking off that tight little tank top and jordans grabbing your waist for a heated kiss. You slam your lips into his in a frenzied kiss. Gasping as you pull away wrapping your hands around his neck, standing up you pull him up with you without breaking the kiss. The height difference now an inconvenience, you hitch your leg onto Jordan's waist. Taking this as a sign, Jordan reaches down and grabs your ass, giving it a squeeze before lifting your weight. Jumping up, you wrap your other leg around his waist. Jordan trails his kisses down your neck as you throw your head back in a gasp. "Th-the room around the cornerrr-" You cut yourself off with a whine when Jordan hits the sweet spot on your neck. He readjusts you and carries you to the bedroom. Letting you down, you break the kiss, taking his hand and leading him  to the large, cushy canopy bed. Jordan takes a second to look around. "Is this your parent's room?" He asked while you pull him down into the bed with you. "Don't tell me you want to stop." You pout, saying it so sweetly that it almost absolves him of the sin he's about to commit. As if he could care less.

Jordan quickly rips off his shirt, hastily unbuckling his belt while you slip off your shorts, revealing a lacey red thong that barely covers anything. Jordan's mouth water at the sight. "God, you are a minx." He says, his voice dripping with lust. You bat your eyes at him, "less talky, please," You say, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him back in. Jordans' hands trail down your body, thumbs caressing your lower stomach before trailing lower, hooking them around the hem of your panties. You moan into his mouth, feeling your own desire building in your stomach. "Please, Jordan, I need you," You say breathlessly into the kiss. Jordan groans at your words, feeling his own hardness,  rutting his hips against your clothed cunt, the wetness evident. "You want it, baby.." He asks, pulling away to drink in the sight of you completely undone below him. "Please, Jordan, I need you to fuck me." With a final plea, Jordan pulls down your panties, rubbing the head of his cock against your heat. "Fuck..are you sure?'" he asks a final time, barely able to contain himself from ramming into you. Silence follows, slight concern settling into his stomach. You shift nervously under him. "I've just never...gone this far with a guy before..." You mumble, embarrassment heating up your face. Jordan was taken by surprise. "Oh, did you want to-" "No! Uhh, no, just..be gentle, please." You quickly cut him off. Jordan's gaze softens, hands caressing your face. "I don't think your first time should be with-" "But I want it to be you!" You whine. "All I hear about guys my age is how much it sucks, I really want someone hot and who knows what they're doing and..." You trail off, hands roaming Jordans' toned torso. "Someone who..?" He continues, eyes locked on your lips.  "Someone older.."  Jordan smirks. "Hmm, you want someone who knows what they're doing?" You nod sheepishly. Jordan captures you in another kiss. Slowly, he brings the head of his cock to your entrance, slowly pushing in his head into your tight hole. You let out a whine, squirming from the foreign sensation. "J-Jordan, mmgh, you're so-ugh-big!" Jordan groans as he pushes in. "You're doing so good, baby," He coos into your ear. After a moment to adjust he pushes the rest of his length in. Jordan lets out a moan, your tightness feeling heavenly. "Plea-please! Keep moving!" You let out a whine. Jordan obeys almost immediately, slowly at first, the sound of wetness and your moans filling the room. Jordan leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he continues to pump into you. "Ah-I think, i'm gonna-mmmmmff-" Jordan kisses your neck, sucking on your sweet spot. "Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?" Your panting tells him all he needs to know as he feels your muscles contract around him. "Ugh-Jordan!" You let out a yelp as you cum. "Oh, God!" Jordan grits out through clenched teeth as he holds your body close, his thrusts becoming erratic as he finishes.

    Panting, Jordan pulls out, collapsing next to you. Holding you close, he props himself up on one shoulder, taking in your fucked out expression. Sweat shinned and flushed face, you look at him and give a weak smile. "That was amazing, Mr. Trace." You say softly. "Please, call me Jordan." He chuckles and smiles back.  Your phone ringing cuts off the intimate moment, you scramble across the bed to grab it from your shorts. "Hey mom! Yeah everything went great! Yeah, I'm going to bed soon, it's been a loooong night!"

[lanadelreyretroaesthetics]

That was Coachella week one. Let's see what Lana brings us next week. 🌴

[dontbesoweirdkira]

This was so cunty. Lana is back yall😩

[dandysnob]

Berlin | 2010 | 📷 by Guido Karp