How Tall Are Damian In Your Perspective?

How tall are damian in your perspective?

In my “Your secrets are ours, kid” fic, Damian is aged up. You can view him as 16, 17, or 18. The age depending on how the reader wants to interpret him. However he is not a child.

Taking that into account + Bruce’s DNA I’m assuming he’s pretty tall, and in my mind the reader is probably not over 6’3. I apologise if you are, you can still definitely read the fic. It doesn’t mention anywhere your exact measurements.

Saying that, I don’t have a fixed view on how tall everyone is. Just that all of the batboys (excluding Tim) are taller than the reader.

You can pretend that they’re like a finger over your height or that they’re all a foot taller than you.

I hope that answers your question🥰

Link to chapter one.

Cat reader? declawing me? Nuh uh, I'll bite them if they take away my claws. Muzzle? Easy peasy, I'll wrestle them, I'll die before obeying them, on god. I mean it.

Die?

Hide from them?

You really want to act out after last time? No. No. Reader. They’d never let that happen.

The bad behaviour is just piling on and on.

Don’t you understand? They’re only doing this out of love!

Do you know how to fix unwanted bad behaviour in a cat?

It’s alright, you don’t have to worry anymore… if it’s their only option then Tim will schedule the operation. They won’t have to worry about this… unfavourable treatment again.

I’ve heard that desexing a cat actually reduces their antisocial behaviour! …they’re doing you a favour, really.

Aw, don’t cry… don’t cry. You put this upon yourself. All you needed to do was be a good little kitten for them, is that really so hard?

Look, they’ll be generous. They’ll give you one more chance! Aren’t they just the best? Come sit in Bruce’s lap and Tim will put the phone down. You just need to be good. Can you do that for them, reader? Or does Jason need to hold you down again…

Previous on Cat Reader

Link to offical chapter

3939 words, 22942 characters, 232 sentences, 136 paragraphs, 15.7 pages.

Please don’t ask me what this is. I just started writing and didn’t fucking stop.

I’m a Hufflepuff. You may ask why I wrote a Ravenclaw reader then… Well, Simple. I’ve gone feral over Batfam fics with bird terms of endearments and wanted to write about a weak lil nerd who gets called bird.

TW — Dark. Theo’s mean, dick Theo. Yandere-ish. Non consensual touch, but not really bordering anything sexual, just implying that it would happen. & others. I’m not good at the trigger warnings.

GHOSTS

Theodore Nott x Male Reader

As you make your way down the long, deserted corridors of Hogwarts, the shadows stretch and creep in the soft moonlight. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, as if tales and secrets are whispered through the very stones themselves. Suddenly, you accidentally bump into a fellow student.

His voice, a deep, velvety whisper, breaks the silence.

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Nott, a quiet and solitary figure, had spoken, startling you. He’d taken notice of your aversion to the shortcut many other students so carelessly wonder. Choosing to walk along the longest path lead away from any of the roaming undead creatures.

You find yourself caught off guard as you realize it's none other than Theodore Nott, known for his eerie silence and his dangerous connections. A Death Eater, a member of the dark lord's inner circle, and a man associated with fearsome tales of torture and blood supremacy. Your gaze travels up, taking in his imposing presence.

You run your fingers through your soft hair anxiously, the moonlight illuminating your face, making you look almost otherworldly. You lean back a little, taking in the sight of the notorious Nott. Having grown up hearing about the Nott family's dark legacy, the very presence of the boy in front of you is frightening.

Licking your chapped lips nervously, you struggle to find the words to answer Nott's question.

"…I am.” you finally admit, you know better than to lie to someone whose family is of such high status.

Theodore tilted his head, studying you from behind a mask of unreadable expressions. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, betraying no particular thoughts or feelings.

"Perché i fantasmi? Why?" Theo asked simply, crossing his arms. The Italian words slipping past his lips naturally. He leaned against the stone wall, seemingly at ease. His body was slender, but still stronger than his gaunt appearance suggested.

"What's so frightful about..." he paused, giving a little gesture that encompassed the vast castle around you, "Ghosts?"

You were not sure how to respond.

He continued to study you intently, taking in every detail, as if you were a puzzle to decipher. You could feel his eyes tracing your features, your body language, trying to discern your emotions.

His silence was unnerving.

You swallowed hard, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you become acutely aware of how dry your throat is. Licking your chapped lips for a second before speaking. “...Ghosts are the lingering spirits of the departed. They’re a reminder that death is... inescapable. That the line between life and death is fragile.”

You pause, his gaze unwavering, making you feel slightly uneasy.

“Ghosts are shrouded in mystery. The unanswered questions surrounding their existence make them frightening. Their presence serves as a reminder that there may be more to this world than we can comprehend, and that the boundaries between life and death are thinner and more complex than we realise.” You looked up, meeting his watercolour eyes. He looks almost amused.

A hint of a smile played on Theodore's lips. He was faintly amused by your answer. It was so eloquent and philosophical. Typical of a Ravenclaw to put such emphasis on the mystery and uncertainty surrounding ghosts.

"You speak as if you've studied the subject," he observed, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted in the dim light, his expression inscrutable.

You nibble at your bottom lip, your coloured eyes boring into the other boys. “... it’s hard not to.”

Theodore pushed himself off the wall, moving towards you. He was slender, yet there was a certain elegance in his movements. He moved with the grace of a predator, silent and fluid.

He stepped closer to you, his tall stature looming over you. His eyes had darkened, as if contemplating something. He studied your features once more, his gaze flickering over your face, your neck, almost like he inspecting your every blemish, every little detail.

You swallowed again, feeling strangely out of breath. His proximity was overwhelming, his silence making every moment feel like an eternity. It wasn’t until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, that you realised he had moved closer still.

“You’re shaking,” he stated, his eyes never leaving your face. You hadn’t noticed, but in the cold air of the corridor, your body was trembling.

You felt the heat rise on your cheeks, realising how vulnerable you looked in front of him. You averted your eyes, trying to gather your composure.

He was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent- a blend of leather, parchment and spices- filling the air around you. “Are you scared?” he questioned, his voice low and quiet. “Of me?”

You dared to glance up at him, your eyes widening as you met his gaze. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found your fear amusing. Yet, there was something else in his expression- something you couldn't quite place. He tilted his head, studying you intently.

“You seem… interesting.” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His eyes raked over you once more, as if he was trying to see beneath the surface, to get a glimpse of your thoughts, your fears, your secrets.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, making you feel small and exposed. You found yourself unable to look away, your heart racing in your chest. You knew he was dangerous, a Death Eater, someone not to be trusted.

But there was something about him that drew you in, a magnetic pull that you couldn’t resist. His fluffy hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes seemed to have captured the moonlight, making them appear almost liquid silver rather than watercolour green.

He stepped closer still, your bodies nearly touching. You could feel the warmth of his skin just inches from yours.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your exposed skin, so softly it was barley a touch. You felt as if you couldn’t move, like being transfixed by a serpent. Nott’s cold fingers gently brushed a strand of hair off your face.

“Such soft skin…” he murmured, his eyes flickering over your features. He seemed almost mesmerised by you. He slowly moved his fingers over your jaw, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “And you bite your lip so often. It’s… distracting.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so… fragile…” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Like a perfect porcelain doll.”

His fingers continued their journey, tracing along your neck, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. He paused for a moment, his hand still resting on your skin. Thumb tracing over the Adam’s apple in your throat.

Theodore let out a soft, humorless chuckle as he observed you, his normally reserved demeanor replaced by a mixture of amusement and condescension.

"Look at you..." he began, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Trying to be all tough, trying to put on a show of bravery. But I can see right through you.”

He hummed, studying your shaking form with a critical eye. Then, his lips twisted into a sly smirk.

"You're just a scared piccolo uccello."

“... Trembling at the slightest touch,” he continued, his thumb slowly tracing up and down your neck. “Your heart’s racing. You’re practically quivering.”

His lips were hovering maddeningly close to your ear now, the whispered words sending a small shiver through you. He leaned in a bit closer, his hand sliding down your neck, towards your collar.

"Do you know what they do to pretty little birds like you in the wild?” He inquired.

His voice was almost a whisper, low and menacing, his fingers lightly tracing the buttons of your shirt. “They catch them, break their wings, and keep them in little cages. Trapped, completely at their mercy.”

He moved his hand further down, stopping just above your hip, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your shirt.

“Would you like that? To be my little pet?” he mused, his breath warm against your skin.

You tried to speak, but your mouth felt dry and your mind was in disarray. Your head was spinning, and your heart was racing so fast you feared it might explode.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your trousers, pulling you closer with a sudden jerk. You stumbled involuntarily, landing against his chest.

“You’d look stunning in a collar,” He murmured, his lips gently brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt his other hand grip your hip, as if to hold you in place. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the hard press of his muscles.

The moment he grabbed your waistband and pulled you close, your mind became a maelstrom of confusion and panic. Your heart raced to an almost concerning pace, and your dry mouth made it impossible to form coherent words. Stumbling against his chest, you felt the heat of his breath against your ear as he murmured his suggestion.

The mere mention of a restriction around your neck, metaphorical or not, sent a shiver down your spine, and the firm grip on your hip left you feeling trapped. You were suddenly all too aware of the proximity of his body, the contour of his muscles pressing against your own.

“I...”

He chuckled quietly at your inability to form a coherent response, enjoying your evident distress. He didn’t give you time to regain your bearings, though. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the hem of your shirt, sliding underneath the loose fabric to gently brush against the skin of your hips.

“Don’t be shy.” he whispered, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “Use your words, pretty boy.” He was mocking you.

Theo’s touch was both gentle and possessive, his fingers teasing the edges of your shirt, slowly slipping beneath the fabric to touch skin. Trailing over your hard stomach. The subtle mockery in his tone was like a knife to your pride, the taunt causing a mix of embarrassment and frustration to bubble up in your chest.

Clenching your jaw, you forced yourself to speak, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

"Don't call me that."

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with what looked like a hint of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying your growing irritation. His touch grew firmer, his hand wrapping around your hip, pulling you even closer.

Your protest seemed to amuse him even further. He chuckled again, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Why not?” he drawled, his breath hot on your ear. “Such a pretty little bird, fluttering its feathers when I’ve only just begun to touch it.”

He slowly tilted your chin up with his other hand, forcing you to look into his eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“It’s a compliment,” he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “To call you pretty. It’s what you are- Pretty. Delicate. Fragile.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it before he spoke again.

“Do you not like being called pretty, my pretty raven?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Pretty. The word was simultaneously flattering and demeaning, highlighting the vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. His thumb gently caressing your lip only served to emphasize it.

His touch was infuriatingly gentle, as if he was both mocking you and enjoying your discomfort. You took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, but his words, combined with his actions, were making it increasingly difficult.

“I’m not... fragile,” you mumbled, your voice sounding weaker than you would’ve liked.

His eyes darkened, amused by your weak protest. He took a step closer, his body now pressing against yours, pinning you against the wall. The smirk on his face grew, his voice lowering to a dangerously quiet level.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, his hand releasing your chin to slide down your chest, his fingers tracing your collarbone.

“You’re shaking. Heart’s racing. All from a little touch.”

The proximity of his body to yours, the feeling of being trapped between him and the wall, was overwhelming. His hand on your collarbone, tracing the shape as he spoke, only served to highlight your own physical reactions, your involuntary tremors and the fast pace of your heartbeat.

Feeling both humiliated and panicked, you tried to take a step back, but your back was already against the wall. There was nowhere to escape.

He didn’t give you the chance to escape, though. He took a step forward, effectively closing the already minimal space between you. His body was pressed against yours, his height and strength making you feel even more vulnerable.

His nose gently brushed against the side of your neck, as if he were breathing you in. His grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re so on edge, love...” he murmured. “Like a little bird, about to take flight. But there’s nowhere to go, is there?”

Feeling overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated by Nott's condescending tone and possessive touch, you finally manage to find your voice. Your words are sharp, your tone a mixture of indignance and determination.

Gritting your teeth, you practically hiss at him, your voice low and tight with barely suppressed anger.

"Let go."

His smirk widened as you finally gathered the courage to speak up. He leaned in closer, his body pressing more firmly against yours, effectively trapping you.

“Let go? But I’m not done playing with you yet, il mio uccellino.” he cooed, his thumb idly tracing the line of your happy trail. My little bird.

The condescension in his tone was almost patronizing, as if he was amused by your attempt to stand up to him.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching your ear, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“You’re trying so hard to put up a brave face. But I can feel you trembling against me. I can practically hear your heart racing.”

He nipped the sensitive skin of your ear, his grip on your hip becoming almost painfully tight.

“Such bravado... It’s almost endearing, Raven.”

He lets out a soft hum, his dark eyes raking over your form, drinking in every detail. He takes a moment, then grins, a sly, mocking expression that irritates you even more.

He then speaks, his voice low and taunting.

"Come with me to my dorm, little raven. Wouldn’t want any wayward ghosts to snatch you away now, would we?”

Theodore’s soft hum seemed almost mocking, his gaze raking over your form with a sort of arrogant, detached interest. As if he was a cat toying with a small, frightened mouse.

The mention of ghosts and his dorm made you stiffen. You instinctively wanted to protest, but his amused tone and condescending smirk made you hesisitate. You loathed the idea of being lead somewhere private with him, a Death Eater, a dangerous person, yet the fear of being caught alone in the darkened halls was stronger.

He seemed to notice your hesitation, and chuckled softly to himself. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed your expression.

"Oh, don't look so afraid, darling," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "I promise I won't bite. Not tonight, at least."

His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, a subtle, commanding pressure urging you to step forward.

You found yourself moving forward without much thought, the subtle pressure of his hand on your lower back guiding you towards the dungeons. The corridors were dimly lit, the shadows cast by the flickering torches making everything look eerie and ominous.

Nott walked beside you, his pace seemingly leisurely, his hands in his pockets as if this were all entirely casual. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, watching your every move, taking note of every reaction. You were supposed to be smart, little raven.

The journey was quiet and tense. Every sound echoed too loudly through the dark halls, making everything feel even more foreboding. Nott said nothing, his eyes occasionally flicking from your face to the surroundings, keeping a look out for any passing professors or patrolling Prefects.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reach the entrance into the dungeons. Nott placed his hand on the cold stone wall, and the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room slid silently open.

You came to a halt, your gaze fixated on the open door before you. As you stood there, a sense of unease suddenly hit you like a punch to the gut. What were you doing? Why had you followed so blindly? The realization struck you, a sizzling sensation of revelation coursing through your veins.

Wait, did you actually... want this? A mix of embarrassment and confusion swirled within you, the thought both unexpected and, disturbingly, not entirely undesired.

Nott seemed to notice your hesitation, his sharp gaze watching your expression carefully. He raised an eyebrow as he observed your internal struggle, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Having second thoughts, my little bird?" he teased, his voice a low, velvety murmur. He took a step towards you, closing the space between you. The scent of his cologne enveloped you - musk, expensive fabric, and pine.

"Too late to back out now."

He reached out, gently grasping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were now a dark, smoldering black, filled with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance.

"You're mine now, il mio uccellino." he murmured, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "And I don’t let go of what's mine."

His fingers trailed over your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake.

The Slytherin stepped closer, the heat from his body radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes, his presence almost suffocating. He leaned in, the whisper of his breath against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

"Come on. Don't be shy. I don't bite." he crooned, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "Well, not tonight, anyway. Unless you beg."

There was a predatory edge to his voice, a barely contained impatience hidden beneath his smooth tone. He wanted to get you into the dormitories and away from the corridors as soon as possible.

His hand slid down to your lower back, the pressure firmer now. "Let's keep moving, shall we?" he drawled, urging you forward.

He didn't give you an opportunity to argue or resist. He firmly guided you through the open entrance of the dorm, his grip on your lower back guiding you past the threshold into the dimly lit common room.

It was quiet down here, the only sounds coming from the soft bubbling of the water in the tank by the back wall, and the low chatter of other students lounging in the common area. A couple of fourth years glanced at you with mild curiosity, but quickly looked away when they spotted your escort.

Theo paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you. He gently propelled you towards the winding stone staircase, leading you up to the seventh year dormitories.

The silence between you was thick, the only sound being the soft pad of your footsteps on the cold stone. He was so close behind you that you could feel him against your back.

The climb up the stairs seemed to last an eternity, the silence only broken by your footsteps and the occasional creaking of the old stone walls. All too soon, you reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt.

Theodore stepped around you, brushing past you closely to reach the large oaken door leading into the seventh year boys' dormitories. He leaned against it with one hand, the other gesturing for you to enter.

Your breath hitches. ‘Should I run?’

You stood in front of the imposing door, your heart racing in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn and run, to escape the predicament you've unwittingly entered.

But something held you back. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was foolish curiosity. Or it might’ve been that strange, twisted part of you that secretly wanted this.

Nott watched you quietly, his gaze calculating as he observed your internal struggle. He seemed to see right through your indecision, his smirk growing more confident, more condescending.

"Are you going to just stand there, staring at the door, or are you going to come in?" he drawled, his voice dripping with arrogant amusement.

In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, and maybe even distract yourself from the confusing realization, you tried to joke, but your voice trembled with desperation, making it clear that your words lacked any real conviction. You managed to stutter out a reply.

"... I'm not sure yet."

The Nott's smirk widened at your pathetic attempt to play coy. He pushed away from the door and stalked towards you, his gait predatory and confident.

He stopped a mere inch from you, towering over you with his greater height. His gaze softened slightly, his head tilting to the side as he studied your expression.

"Oh, my little bird," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You're a terrible liar."

He raised a hand, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing over your skin in a disturbingly intimate gesture.

"Deny it all you want," he whispered, leaning in so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "But I can see right through you."

He leaned even closer, his body pressing against yours, his words a low, sensual murmur whispered directly into your ear.

"You’re scared." he breathed, the smirk returning to his voice. "Confused. Aroused. And you don't even understand why. That's adorable, really.”

He hums, his pretty emerald eyes darken the longer he looks over your form. His hand running down your chest. “Don’t worry, my little wizard. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was soft and almost comforting, like a dark, poisonous lullaby that wrapped around you like a suffocating embrace.

He stepped back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His gaze was still just as intense, but there was a softer edge to it now.

"So, will you come in, or will you run away?" he said, his tone still arrogant, but there was an underlying hint of hope in it. As if he actually wanted you to enter, even though he knew he could force you if he so desired.

You couldn't know if it was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. Either way, the choice was yours. Would you enter the dorm and give yourself to this boy with the beautiful viper eyes? Or would you run away, back into the dimly lit corridors filled with the creatures of the unknown wandering the dark hallways?

As you stood there, the silence between you two thick with tension, you wondered if his offer was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. The choice was laid out before you like a treacherous path, each step promising either the allure of a dangerous liaison or the safety of the unknown corridors.

With a pang of anxious uncertainty, you ask yourself if you're willing to give in to the boy with the beautiful viper eyes, knowing that what lies beyond might be more perilous than the ghosts prowling the night.

You had to ask yourself: Would you cross the threshold into the serpent's den, or flee from the enticing jaws of the beast?

The choice was yours, dear reader.

No use of y/n, no in-depth descriptive features.

Please feel free to send in requests.

What would you have chosen? Let me know in the comments or reply with a reblog!

I was wondering how you think readers life would be different if they were a puppy hybrid instead of a cat? I had a dream about this last night after I reread your works

You had a dream abt it after my fic?🫢🥹💚

The dynamics between the reader and the family would noticeably change if the reader took on more canine traits rather than feline. The bat’s would likely respond differently, as canine behaviors and characteristics can vary significantly from those associated with cats. The reader's dog-like nature could shape how the family interacts with and cares for them, adding a different layer to their relationships and potentially influencing the family's behaviour. They’d expect more from you.

The nature of a dog is typically more sociable and dependent, leading to different expectations and interactions.

So if you don't immediately respond to their affections by showing signs of eagerness, like a happy, loving puppy would, the family would interpret your behaviour as abnormal. They might worry that something is wrong with you, as canine behaviour typically involves being sociable and receptive to affection.

They'd expect you to enjoy being petted, as dogs often crave human touch and attention.

You’d promptly be sent out on your way to a vet. Because, something must be the matter with you. It could never be their faults. They'd assume that the issue lies within you rather than considering the possibility that they might be the source of the problem.

In contrast to their care for Kitten Reader, they'd be more inclined to allow Puppy Reader to spend time in human form. This is because it's easier for them to monitor and assess your mental state when you're in human form. As they find it less challenging to gauge your emotions, well-being, and mental state when you're human if you’re completely unreceptive as a pup.

For a kitten it’s natural to be less receptive to affection, batting at their hands or hissing when they get too close. But it’s completely abnormal for a pup. You’re supposed to seek out their touch, not flinch from it.

So they need to nip your behaviour in the bud.

Damian, being the meticulous and dedicated individual that he is, will take it upon himself to arrange online training sessions with the most skilled and highly regarded trainers available. He believes that you ought to behave in a manner that befits your canine nature and will take great care in selecting trainers who can help you learn and adapt accordingly.

He will diligently oversee your progress, taking notes on your behavior and ensuring that you receive the necessary guidance.

Dick, being the “loving and dedicated older brother” that he likes to call himself, will dive into a thorough online research session to discover the best ways to force have you to be affectionate with him. His search queries including phrases like "How to get your dog to like you," "How to create a bond with your new puppy," and "How to make a puppy love you instantly." He’ll immerse himself in articles, videos, and guides that provide tips and techniques to form a deep and affectionate connection with you.

This ends up resulting with every time you manage to do literally anything besides growling at him, whether it be making eye contact, sitting, or even just existing in his presence, you’re immediately rewarded with a dog biscuit as an incentive.

Jason, with his rugged exterior and rough edges, is the type to carry you, no matter how large your fluffy canine physique, in a practical doggy bag. While he may appear tough on the outside, he has a deep attachment to you in your puppy form, as in some underlying level he sees himself in you.

Especially if you have any visible scars that can’t be concealed in your canine form, he might find an even stronger affinity towards you, mirroring his own experiences in a strange yet comforting way.

Tim, being the methodical and detail-oriented individual, he is, would design an unnecessarily intricate and ultra-luxurious dog pen for you indoors. This pen would be thoughtfully equipped with every amenity and comfort appropriate for your puppy needs. However, he's also pragmatic and meticulous, and would ensure that appropriate measures were in place to lock you up if you needed disciplining for misbehavior, demonstrating his keen attention to both your comfort and safety.

Tim's favorite creation thus far for you is the collar fused to your skin in a way that causes no discomfort when you transform from one form to another. It relays live data to the Bat-computer and a specially designed app installed on each family member's phone. The collar monitors everything you consume, tracks your whereabouts, keeps tabs on your vitals, and records your voice continuously for 24 hours. Moreover, it also picks up on any intense emotions you're experiencing, providing the family with a comprehensive understanding of your canine state of mind at all times.

The collar is discreetly designed to blend in, looking just like any ordinary dog collar one would purchase at a pet store, except perhaps a bit more posh and expensive. However, the back of the collar is adorned with a beautiful tag bearing all the family members’ contact details.

Other features are installed to keep you in line. A built-in shocker to administer a warning shock in case of any misbehaving behavior. After all, a little shock can go a long way in shaping a puppy's behavior. The collar is also equipped with a feature that bypasses the need for conscious thought to shift between your human and puppy form. It sends signals directly to your brain, creating a sort of mental “shortcut” to seamlessly transform between states. It takes much of the guesswork out of transforming, streamlining the process and making it effortless, forcing you to shift and taking away your ability to choose with a click of a button.

Bruce, being the overprotective father figure that he wishes to be, would be disheartened with the limitations placed on him. He’d long to take you to the grocery store, show you off to his co-workers, or even simply take walks around the park in his neighborhood. However, the others would be quick to point out that your canine form might attract unwanted public attention, and the less people knew about your existence, the better it would be for everyone’s security.

Like, What the fuck do you mean he can’t take his purebred puppy inside this fine dining establishment?? He’s a billionaire. Make the exception before he has your whole restaurant shut down and each of your employees knee-deep in debt by the end of the day.

Link to official chapter

Like to previous cat reader

I’m so tired… really hope you liked this, anon.

Your batfam fic really gives me both fuzzy feelings and flight and fight reactions.

You are an amazing writer :)

Thank you so much, anon!

I really appreciate your message, your support for my writing means a lot to me. It’s epic knowing that people are actually enjoying my work and it makes it so much easier to continue writing each chapter. Thank you.💚

Your secrets are ours, kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH10 -> CH9 -> CH8 -> CH7 -> CH6 -> CH5 -> CH4 -> CH3 -> CH2 -> CH1

8919 words, 46418 characters, 408 sentences, 290 paragraphs, 32.8 pages.

The car comes to a stop outside a fancy restaurant. The building is huge, the exterior lit up with soft, warm lights. A Doorman is standing outside, the entrance framed by a pair of elegant lion statues either side.

Bruce gets out first, holding out his hand to help you out of the car. His face is neutral as you step onto the sidewalk, his hand still gripping yours. He gives a short nod to the Doorman, who immediately opens the door to the restaurant without a word.

The interior of the restaurant is just as impressive as the outside. High ceilings, a grand lobby, and a row of archways leading to the dining areas. Expensive artwork hangs on the walls, the lighting soft but flattering. The interior is opulent, with glittering chandeliers and high arched ceilings. The soft buzz of conversation fills the air, mixing with the sound of silverware clinking against china.

The sound of soft classical music filled the air, mingling with low murmurs of hushed conversations. Almost immediately, as soon as Bruce steps inside, the atmosphere hushes. Every eye turns to look at him, then at you. The way everyone was watching you made you squirm. It was like everyone except you was in on some sort of secret.

Bruce leads you through the restaurant, his hand is still holding yours, his steps confident and assured. You get the sense that the staff know him well as you both pass, various people nod in greeting as Bruce murmurs a few words to them.

Finally, you reach a private booths, secluded in a corner, away from any potential interruptions.

The private booth you’re settled into has a dark, rich oak interior, with a large semi-circular leather booth wrapping around the table in the centre. The table is covered in a crisp white tablecloth, with a variety of fine china and sparkling silverware laid out.

Bruce motions for you to take a seat as he slips into the booth opposite you, his eyes still quietly taking in your features. You mumble a soft thanks in return. Feeling well underdressed.

A waiter appears beside your table, a tablet in his hand, a fake, courteous smile on his face as he addresses you both.

"Good evening, Mr Wayne. What can I get for you tonight?"

Bruce’s voice is measured as he responds, his gaze never leaving you. "Good evening. A bottle of the house red, and two glasses, please."

The waiter nods and disappears, leaving the two of you alone and enveloped in quiet. There's a strained atmosphere in the air, Bruce's eyes watching you intently as you shift awkwardly in the booth.

The atmosphere in the booth is tense, the silence between you and Bruce almost deafening. Trying to break the ice, you attempt a joke, your voice soft as you speak.

"Buffet, huh? You'd think a place this fancy would have a set menu."

Bruce quirks an eyebrow at your joke, a small smile flickering across his face. Despite the situation, he can't help but find it endearing.

He leans back in the leather booth, his broad frame taking up the majority of the space. "Well, I figured you might prefer to pick your own food.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes still trained on you, "Unless you'd rather I pick for you."

Your chuckle is nervous and soft, a strange mix of anxiety and amusement. You feel a touch out of place, sitting in this posh restaurant, with Bruce Wayne staring across at you.

"No, no," you say quickly, "I can pick my own food. I don't want to trouble you."

The tension in the air is thicker now, the weight of expectations almost palpable. You fidgeted nervously in your seat, your eyes darting around the booth before settling back on Bruce's unwavering gaze.

You take a deep breath, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the hem of your shirt. You feel embarrassed, almost vulnerable in your ignorance. "Um, actually," you admit, "I'm not really sure what's on the menu here."

There's a hint of vulnerability in your voice, a vulnerability you'd usually try to hide in these situations. But in front of Bruce, you can feel yourself slipping, your guard lowering just an inch. He always seemed to leave that effect with you.

His expression softens as he watches you fidget nervously across from him. He notices every little detail, the way your fingers play with the hem of your shirt, the way your gaze darts around the booth before settling back on him.

Bruce's eyes soften as he hears the hint of vulnerability in your voice. It's a sound that's all too familiar to him, yet coming from you, it tugs at his heartstrings nonetheless. He leans forward, his forearms resting against the table, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Don't worry about it," he reassures you, his voice gentle, "You don’t have to pretend to have a taste for fine dining or anything. You can tell me what you want, or I can order something for you."

Bruce's words are a surprising contrast to the confident, almost arrogant persona he usually exudes. Here, in this moment, he seems... gentle, almost fragile in his own way.

He pauses for a moment before continuing, his eyes studying your face for any kind of response. "Although, I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to find you out alone at this time of night."

Your head snaps up suddenly as realisation hits you. "Oh, shit." You curse under your breath, your eyes wide with realisation.

The guilt settles in as you start to consider the possibility that you've interrupted something important. Maybe Bruce had a prior commitment, a business meeting or a social event, and you've stumbled right into the middle of it.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly, your voice filled with genuine remorse. "I didn't mean to intrude. Did I ruin your plans for tonight?"

Bruce watches you carefully as your realization sinks in, your eyes widening in guilt. He notices how your body tenses, how your fingers twist nervously in your lap.

He lets your words hang in the air for a moment before responding. "Ruin my plans? You think you're the one interrupting my night?"

His words are soft, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone. As if the thought of you interrupting his plans is almost absurd to him.

Bruce had patiently waited for nearly forty-five minutes, his evening already planned out. He had booked out the entire restaurant, reserved for just the two of you, and a select few of nobodies, with the kitchen specially rented for your taste in food. He had gone through all of this trouble, just to see you.

And now, sitting across from him, you had believed that your little run-in had ruined all of his well-laid plans.

Bruce sees the guilt and worry in your expression, your shoulders tense and brow furrowed. He can't help but feel a pang of something within his chest at your expression. Of course, you would think you ruined his plans, that you somehow inconvenienced him or got in the way of something important.

As your words hang in the air, he considers telling you the truth. That these were his plans. That spending time with you - watching you grow, listening to you breathe, hearing your voice - meant more to him than anything else that the world could ever offer.

Spending time with you, his precious one, trumped all else. He would willingly cancel any other plans, rearrange any meetings, just for the opportunity to sit across from you like this. Spending time with you trumps anything and everything else.

Tonight, however, he would feign ignorance. He would act as if you were merely a convenient disruption to his otherwise busy schedule. He didn't want you to know the extent of his dedication and devotion to you. Not yet. One day you would come to be aware of the fact. Tonight however, he’ll pretend.

Bruce's face betrays nothing as he watches the guilt and worry etched on your features. He can see it clearly, the worry and guilt in the set of your shoulders, the furrow of your brow. It hurts him to see you this way, to think that somehow, you are the one who ruined his evening plans.

As your words hang in the air, a deep, silent pang resonates within his chest. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow as you chew on your lip. He notices every little change in your expression, and it makes his heart ache a little bit. He wants to tell you. He wants to reassure you. To tell you that you didn't ruin anything, that you were the plan.

Finally, he lets out a soft sigh, his voice breaking the silence. "You didn't ruin anything," he says, his voice low and reassuring. "I'm not too bothered. It's not like I had something particularly important to do tonight."

He pauses for a moment, watching as your expression changes to reflect the relief that washes over you. He can see the tension leaving your body as his words sink in.

He lets out a soft chuckle, his mouth curving into a small smile. "Besides, I'd rather spend my night out with you than anyone else."

He's treading dangerously close to revealing just how important you are to him, how much you actually mean. But he just can't keep the words from escaping. To not let you know who you really are to him. You were his child. His sweet, broken, child. One that he will soon mend back together gently. Give you everything you deserved yet never got to experience.

Your expression immediately relaxes, relief washing over your face as you take in his words. It's hard to describe the feeling that floods through you. It's a strange mixture of comfort, surprise, and reassurance.

His soft chuckle and smile bring a warmth to your chest that only he can manage to ignite.

As he says he'd rather spend the night with you than anyone else, your breath catches in your throat.

You can feel the danger in his words, his care and devotion carefully concealed behind a thinly veiled facade. There's a raw honesty to his tone that makes you shiver.

The meaning behind his words hitting you like a wave. This man, this powerful, wealthy, influential man, would rather spend his time with you.

You have to bite your lip to conceal the small smile. No one has said they’d rather spend their time with you. Definitely not that woman. It so unexpected and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.

The way your expression relaxes, the surprise and relief etched on your features, makes his chest tighten a little bit. It's a feeling he's never experienced before. You're reacting in a way that is completely foreign to him. Completely new. Something he's never really gotten to experience.

Bruce notices that you're biting back a smile, and a wave of satisfaction courses through him. He's able to elicit such an unexpected, genuine reaction from you. One he's sure you don't give to just anyone. It's a feeling of pride.

He’ll have to message Tim to send him the cameras footage of that moment later.

The waiter suddenly reappears at the table, a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands.

Bruce's attention momentarily diverts as he nods his thanks to the waiter, taking the bottle and the pair of glasses.

He gives the waiter a dismissive gesture, indicating that he can take his leave. The waiter murmurs a soft, "Please enjoy your evening, Mr Wayne," before he exits the booth once more.

He pops the cork from the wine with ease, his hands almost like a practiced expert.

He then pours a generous amount into both glasses, the liquid a dark, rich color as it sloshes against the glass.

He hands you one of the glasses, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment as his eyes meet yours.

"Take a sip," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“Oh. I’m not the biggest wine drin...” the words die on your tongue by the encouraging grin on his lips. You look down to the rich red liquid, swirling the glass for a second before closing your eyes and drowning down a small sip.

It... wasn’t bad.

He watches as you hesitate, the words dying on your tongue, before taking a small sip of the wine. He can see the surprise flicker in your eyes as you taste the liquid. There's a hint of doubt on your face, as if you're expecting it to taste awful.

When you don't wince or make a facial expression, he lets out a soft chuckle. A satisfied sound that's low and gravelly.

"See? I don't have that bad taste in wine, do I?"

You manage to make a small sound of agreement, despite the heat of embarrassment that creeps up your face.

His chuckle, low and gravelly, sends a shiver down your spine. It's a sound that never fails to make you feel both calm and a bit flustered.

You take another, slightly larger sip of wine this time, the liquid warm as it slides down your throat, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake.

He observes as you swallow the wine, his eyes never leaving your face. He can see the slight flush to your cheeks, the way your body reacts to the warm liquid in your system. There's a small spark of triumph in his eyes.

He takes a sip of his own glass, his gaze still fixed on you.

"You're not a frequent drinker, right?" he asks, his tone casual. He already knows the answer.

You shake your head, the heat still present on your cheeks. You take another small sip of the wine, almost in an effort to cool down.

"No, I'm not," you admit, your voice a touch more shy than you wanted it to be, "I don't really drink that much. Bad experiences in the past.”

It was the truth. You didn't drink often, and you certainly didn't want to accidentally embarrass yourself in front of Bruce Wayne of all people. And the men that woman used to bring home left a sour view on alcohol for you.

His eyes soften a bit at your admission, a look of quiet understanding passing over his features. He lets the silence hang for a moment before responding.

"I see," he says. There's an undertone in his voice, almost a hint of anger at the implications of your past.

But he doesn't press the subject any further. He has his suspicions, but he won't ask you to dig up painful memories. At least, not here. Not now. Maybe someday. Maybe someday he'll get you to open up to him fully.

As the quiet stretches between you two, you take another sip of the wine, letting the warmth of the liquid soothe your nerves.

You can feel his eyes watching you, his gaze steady and intense, even as he tries to soften his features. It feels both terrifying and reassuring at the same time. Terrifying, because you feel so seen under his gaze. And reassuring, because you trust that he's being sincere.

The wine is starting to take effect now, your head feeling a bit fuzzy, your inhibitions slightly lowered.

The change in topic is abrupt, but it allows you a moment to compose yourself.

Bruce's voice breaks the silence, his fingers absentmindedly rolling the stem of his wine glass between them as he addresses you. "Have you had enough time to think over what you're craving?" he inquires, his eyes fixed on your face, observing your expression. His gaze soft.

Your thoughts are slightly fuzzy now, the wine having settled in your stomach, making it easier for you to express yourself.

You think for a moment, your mind swirling as you try to think of something to eat. Your first instinct is to tell him it doesn't matter, that you can eat anything. But the look on his face, the way he's studying you, tells you that he won't accept that answer.

So you say the first thing that comes to your mind.

"Nuggets," you murmur.

Humiliation washes over you, the realization of your faux pas sinking in. You cringe inwardly, mentally kicking yourself for even entertaining the idea that there might be something like a children's menu in a high-class establishment like this one. There's practically a "no minors allowed" sign plastered over the door. You can almost hear the staff snickering behind your back.

You want to bang your head against the table, sink into the leather seats and disappear.

He can't help but raise an eyebrow at your response. Nuggets.

He almost wants to laugh, the sound bubbling up in his chest. He manages to hold it back however, sensing the embarrassment that's painted on your face. There's a certain... charm to your honest, albeit slightly tipsy response.

But he finds the suggestion endearing, the image of you with a plate of nuggets amusing. It's such a simple request, a request that so many people would immediately dismiss. But the fact that you had suggested it, had actually thought there was a possibility of this place offering such a thing, somehow makes his chest feel lighter.

Your ears burn with embarrassment, and your eyes fall to the table, avoiding his gaze. You half expect him to roll his eyes, to make some comment about how childish your choice is.

But instead, you notice a flicker of something in his eyes before he speaks. It's a mixture of surprise, and something akin to amusement.

He holds back a laugh, the sound coming out as a low rumble in his chest. When he speaks, there's a hint of a smile on his face. "Nuggets, huh?"

The heat on your face increases at his words, your cheeks flushed with a mixture of the wine and the embarrassment. Your hands fidget nervously in your lap, fingers twisting and untwisting, looking for something to do.

You can't believe you just admitted that. That you actually suggested you order nuggets in a fancy establishment like this one. God, this is so pathetic.

You open your mouth to try to amend your statement, trying to salvage the already ruined evening, but no words come out.

He notices your flustered state, the way your face is flushed and your hands nervously fidgeting in your lap. It's an endearing sight, and he feels a pang in his chest, a mixture of protectiveness and affection. He wants to reassure you, to tell you that there's nothing wrong with wanting nuggets.

He lets out another soft chuckle, his eyes softening even more as he speaks. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with that. I can order them for you."

He’s silently thanking Dick for the list of food places you frequent.

Your face only flushes deeper, the heat practically emanating from your skin now. You hadn't expected him to actually agree to it. You were sure he'd laugh, or tell you to pick something more suitable for your surroundings.

You hazard a glance up at him, meeting his gaze, and are met with a soft, earnest look in his eyes. He's not mocking you. He's not looking down on you.

The realisation sends a wave of relief through you, and the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. "You would? Really?"

Jason would have made fun of you for how you sounded.

"Of course," he responds immediately, his tone completely genuine.

He motions to the waiter, who's standing at a discrete distance, waiting to be summoned. It takes only a moment for the waiter to hurry over to the table, his expression schooled into perfect professionalism.

Bruce addresses the waiter bluntly. "Nuggets," he states, his eyes flicking back to you, silently asking you to confirm.

When you avoid the waiters eye contact Bruce lets out a small chuckle, quickly hidden into his palm as if he’d coughed. “And one medium rare steak with mixed vegetables.”

The waiter nods, his expression remaining neutral, though you can see a hint of bemusement in his eyes. To hear Bruce Wayne, billionaire and Gotham City's biggest philanthropist, order nuggets of all things must be an unusual sight for the man.

You can't help but feel relieved that the waiter doesn't comment on the order though. The last thing you need is even more embarrassment.

Your eyes widen a bit at the addition of the steak, and you shoot Bruce a questioning glance.

Bruce catches your questioning glance, his eyes sparkling with an impish mischief. He can see the surprise and confusion in your expression, and he can’t help but smirk a bit.

"Don't worry," he assures you, his tone a touch too innocent, “the steak's for me.”

You deadpan. Seriously? That was his way of assuaging your worries? Steak for him?

As you give him a flat look, he can't help but chuckle at your unimpressed expression.

"What?" he asks, feigning innocence, "I'm hungry."

He leans back into his seat, a small, amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches you. He can see the mixture of surprise and skepticism on your face, and he finds it almost endearing.

You roll your eyes, a small huff escaping your throat. Typical rich guy, ordering steak.

There's a comfortable silence that falls over the both of you, as you watch the waiter walk away from the table. The alcohol in your system has left you feeling a bit light-headed, and you can’t help but feel a bit more at ease. Like you can fully relax for once.

But a question burns at the back of your mind, and the alcohol makes it a bit easier to voice it.

You break the silence, your voice somewhat slurred as you speak. "Can I ask you something?" you say, your tone casual.

Bruce turns his attention fully back to you, his gaze steady and attentive. He can see the light flush on your cheeks, a result of the alcohol in your system.

"Of course," he responds, leaning forward a little bit, "ask me anything."

You pause for a moment, searching for the right words as you try to articulate your thoughts. Your mind is a muddled mess of alcohol and shyness, which makes it a bit harder than usual for you to speak. But with a bit of willpower, you manage to push the words out of your mouth.

"Why do you do what you do? Why do you want me to do it?" you ask, your voice soft.

His eyebrow raises in a silent, inquiring question, encouraging you to elaborate on your question.

Your voice cuts through the air, your words firm and a touch bewildered. "Everything," you gesture emphatically with your hand, the vague motion encompassing everything you're trying to convey. "The business. Helping people, charities. You could have anyone to do whatever you wanted."

You pause for a moment, your confusion and disbelief clear in your expression as you meet his gaze. "Why would you need to fund my random blog?"

Bruce leans back into his seat, his features taking on a contemplative look. He can sense the confusion and disbelief in your tone, and he can understand why you're asking such a question.

He takes a moment to answer, letting his words settle in your mind. When he speaks again, his voice is steady and sincere.

"It's simple really," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "I see potential. I see someone who’s willing to try, to make a difference. I suppose I just want to give you the means to do it."

It’s a nice sentiment, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

Your eyes flick to his face, searching his expression for any hint of deception. But there’s nothing but honesty in his gaze. He truly believes in you, in your potential. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

You try to process his words, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

There’s a question burning on the tip of your tongue, but you’re hesitant to ask it. It feels too personal, too vulnerable. But the alcohol in your system makes you brave, and the question slips out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop it.

"Why me?" Your voice is soft, almost inaudible.

Bruce's gaze softens at your question, his eyes studying your face intently.

"Why not you?" he replies. The words are simple, but they carry a weight to them.

He can see the vulnerability in your expression, the desire to hear a more detailed answer. But there’s a part of him that’s hesitant to fully divulge his reasons.

You lean back against the plush leather of your seat, your thoughts racing.

You're honestly not sure how to respond to that. The depth and sincerity behind his words catch you off guard, and you're momentarily at a loss for what to say.

Bruce watches the emotions play across your face, the mixture of surprise and flattery at his answer. He can tell you’re surprised, maybe even a bit wary in accepting his response. But he can also see a hint of curiosity, a hint of eagerness to know the why behind him.

He takes a subtle breath before he speaks, choosing his words carefully.

"Because I believe you have a voice worth listening to," he says quietly.

You bite your tongue, looking away in thought.

Bruce knew that his words would get to you. That he could charm his way through an explanation rather than admit the truth.

You can feel his words stirring something within you, a mixture of emotions. On one hand, it's flattering, almost dizzying, to know that someone like Bruce Wayne believes in you that much. But on the other hand, there's a nagging skepticism, an inkling that there's more to his reasons than he's letting on.

Your fingers pick at the fabric of your sleeve, a nervous habit you can never quite shake off. You glance up at him, your eyes meeting his.

"Is that really the only reason?" you ask, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Bruce can see the skepticism in your eyes, the way your fingers pick nervously at the fabric of your clothes. He can tell you're searching for more, that you want to hear a deeper reason for his actions.

His gaze doesn’t waver, his composure not faltering even a bit.

"Why? Do you think there's another reason?" he asks, his tone as casual as ever, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

You shake your head, feeling slightly flustered at his response. You had hoped he'd offer up more information, give you a deeper explanation. But he's not budging, not willing to divulge more than he's letting on.

You let out a small, frustrated huff, the sound almost inaudible. You're not sure how to respond to his casual denial, his nonchalance in dismissing your question.

For a brief moment, you almost contemplate asking more direct and personal questions. But the moment passes, and the waiter returns with your food.

The waiter silently places your plate in front of you, the golden-brown nuggets sitting innocently on the white china. There's an awkward moment of silence as Bruce and yourself glance at the plate, before the waiter quietly slips away.

You stare at the heaped plate of food before you, your eyes widening at the sheer amount of food placed before you. The white china plate is practically overflowing, not a single part of it left untouched by the generous portions of food. You swallow hard, your gaze shifting to Bruce, who is calmly cutting into his own steak.

"Why is there so much...?" you can't help but ask, your voice laced with bewilderment. "Is this normal here?"

No, this isn't normal. Bruce has made arrangements to ensure you have a substantial meal, much more than usual. He’d grown worried over the small portions you’ve been making for yourself recently. Each day watching the cameras with an angered expression. So you will be eating every piece of chicken on that plate and you will be enjoying it.

He’s scolded Jason far too many times for letting you do this to yourself, it’s about time he’d taken it into his own hands.

Bruce can see the surprise written all over your face, the way your eyes widen at the sight of the food on your plate. He lets out a small, amused huff, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"They tend to be... generous with their portions here," he responds, an air of nonchalance in his tone. "Don't waste it."

He cuts another piece of his steak, taking a bite as he watches you. His gaze flicks back and forth between his own plate and yours, making sure you’re actually eating.

You swallow hard, your gaze shifting back to your plate. You're not sure how you're supposed to eat this much food, let alone even finish it. The small bites you're accustomed to taking seem pitiful in comparison to the massive amount of food before you. But you know you can't refuse, not with Bruce watching you, silently waiting for you to take a bite.

You pick up a single nugget, gingerly taking a bite. The crisp texture and flavor of the nugget fill your senses, and for a moment you momentarily forget about your worries.

Bruce watches you carefully, his gaze fixed on your every move. He takes another bite of his steak, his eyes lingering on you for a few moments longer before he speaks.

"Slow down, you'll choke," he advises, his tone jokingly admonishing.

You pause for a moment, the nugget halfway to your mouth. You shoot him a brief glare, momentarily forgetting your manners.

"No, I won't," you argue, your voice slightly muffled as you chew.

Bruce can't help but suppress a small chuckle. Your stubbornness amuses him, your irritation at his comment almost endearing.

"You will," he says, his tone firm, though there’s an amused sparkle in his eyes. "You're eating too fast. Slow down, enjoy the food."

He takes another bite of his steak, his gaze still fixed on you. It’s amusing to see you pout at him, your expression somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment.

You huff in irritation, rolling your eyes at his words. But deep down, you know he's right, his voice echoing your own internal thoughts.

You take a moment to collect yourself, forcing yourself to slow down as you take another bite. The food is good, the flavors rich and satisfying. But you can't help but grumble under your breath.

Your words are delivered with a mix of petulance and half-hearted jest. "You're not my parent, you know," you mutter, the words leaving your mouth with a hint of teasing.

It's clear you're unaware of the way his knuckles tighten around the handle of the knife until they're almost white, nor do you notice the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly at your words. You're entirely oblivious to the possessive, dark fatherly look that flashes in his eyes.

Bruce has to bite his tongue to refrain from correcting you. He was your dad. You just didn't know it yet.

Patience, he has to remind himself.

Bruce is thankful for the years of his rigid self-discipline, years of controlling his thoughts, feelings, and emotions. He’s thankful for the tight control he has over his mind, the strict control over his senses. Because in that moment, the urge to correct you, to claim you as his child is immense. It’s difficult for him to keep his words at bay.

He clears his throat, the sound more of a forced noise than anything. His voice is slightly strained as he responds to your words. Though he forces the calm, steady tone of his words to remain.

"Just eat your food.”

You're too preoccupied with the taste of the food in your mouth to notice his brief change in tone. His words break you out of your thoughts, your attention shifting to him.

You glance back down at the plate in front of you, the pile of food still standing despite your efforts to eat it.

"I’m trying," you say, a slight hint of annoyance in your tone. "But you're giving me a lot of food here."

Bruce remains silent, his gaze fixated on your plate, calculating the amount of food left.

He takes a moment to think, silently observing you. He scans the remaining food on your plate, mentally calculating how many more bites you’d have to take. He’s not satisfied in the slightest, not until he can see your plate completely empty. He needs to be sure you're going to finish all of it.

“You can do it,” he says, his words a simple, casual statement.

You groan. “dude.”

You roll your eyes at his words, your annoyance with the situation growing. The amount of food still left in front of you seems almost intimidating, especially with Bruce silently watching you.

You’re not used to eating so much, and the thought of finishing all of it makes you slightly nauseous.

“I feel like I’m being fattened up for something,” you grumble under your breath, your tone half-serious, half-joking.

Bruce leans back in his seat, a silent chuckle escaping his lips at your comment. The sound is subtle, only barely heard in the quiet restaurant.

The corners of his mouth twitch, a hint of a smirk forming.

“You ate more than this the last time we were out together, kid.” He says in return, his voice teasing.

His words are meant in playful jest, but there’s a hint of possessiveness in his tone, a hint of protectiveness, the protective fatherly instinct lingering within him.

Your eyes widen in surprise at his words, your expression quickly morphing into annoyance.

"Oh, shut up," you retort, a hint of petulance in your tone. You continue to eat, trying to ignore the smug smile on his face.

You chew on a nugget for a few moments, contemplating his words. "...You remember that?”

Bruce’s smirk widens, watching as your expression morphs to an obvious mixture of surprise, annoyance, and mild humiliation. His tone is casual, yet the amusement is obvious.

“Of course I do,” he responds simply. “I pay attention to things.”

For a normal person, what you ate over two weeks ago would be forgettable, insignificant. But Bruce Wayne isn’t a normal person, not by a long shot. He’s observant, his mind committing details to memory almost second nature to him. Anything that relates to you he makes sure to keep note of. All of his kids interest, really.

You huff in annoyance at his response.

“Oh, right. You’re a billionaire, how could I forget,” you snark back, rolling your eyes at the casual way he responded.

The fact that he’d remembered such a small, insignificant detail of your night together caught you off guard. And for a brief moment, it makes you feel… special, the idea that you’re important enough for him to remember things about you.

“What else do you remember from that night?” you ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

Bruce takes a moment to respond, his gaze locked on yours. There’s an almost imperceptible smirk on his face, a hint of pride.

He remembers the entire night, every little detail. Every word that slipped from your lips, every small gesture you made. He remembers it all, committing each memory to the back of his mind. And even if you could somehow forget the colour of your coat, he’s always got the footage from that night to look over time and time again.

But he won’t tell you that, not yet. Instead, he responds with a casual yet vague answer.

“I remember a lot.”

You hum, “mysterious.”

You raise an eyebrow at his response, the vague yet casual tone of his voice. It’s an answer that gives nothing away, yet at the same time makes it clear that he remembers more than he’s letting on.

The thought of all the possible things he could remember makes something churn in your stomach. Part of you wants to pry, to ask more.

But you know better. There’s a reason Bruce Wayne is Gotham City’s most popular billionaire. The man’s secretive, that much is clear.

Your curious expression does not escape Bruce’s notice. He can see the way you’re contemplating your next question, your mind working a mile a minute.

His gaze flickers over your expression, taking in every detail. He knows you’re tempted to ask more, to pry and probe him for more information. He can read you almost as easily as he reads a book.

But he remains calm and collected, his smile never wavering.

“Finishing your food, yet?” he asks in return, his tone shifting the topic away from his memory.

Your eyes widen in surprise, darting down to the plate in front of you. Two lonely nuggets stare back at you, their former coating of sauce now reduced to a glistening sheen.

The sight of the near-empty plate triggers a wave of realization. You had been so caught up in conversation that you hadn't even realized how quickly the food on your plate had vanished, the satisfying sensation of your grumbling stomach barely even registering in your awareness.

Bruce can see the moment realization washes over you. The way your eyes widen, the surprised expression that crosses your features.

He can tell you hadn’t even noticed how quickly you’d finished your food, too caught up in conversation to pay attention to the almost empty plate.

He lets out a small, pleased hum, his eyes flickering across your face for a moment longer before he speaks.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he teases quietly.

You flush, your cheeks burning slightly from embarrassment. It’s embarrassing to think that you’d actually finished all the food on your plate, without even realizing it.

You open your mouth to reply, but Bruce continues.

“One more bite,” he says, his tone almost fatherly, yet firm. His gaze flicks down to the two last nuggets on your plate.

You look down at the food, your stomach feeling full. You don’t think you can eat anymore without feeling nauseous. But the expectant look on Bruce’s face makes it clear this is not a request.

The tone of his voice, the fatherly insistence of his words, leaves no room for argument. The way his eyes flicker expectantly to the two remaining nuggets on your plate tells you that it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

You grimace slightly. The thought of forcing down one more bite of food makes your full stomach churn, the feeling of nausea rising in your gut.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” you protest, your voice almost a petulant whine.

“No, you won’t,” Bruce responds simply. He can see the nausea in your face, the look of discomfort in your eyes. But he’s not backing down from this, not now.

His jaw is set, his gaze unwavering as he locks eyes with you, silently making it clear he won’t accept any arguing.

He leans forward just slightly, his gaze intensifying the slightest bit. “Now eat, Sunshine.”

You want to simultaneously kick his face in and curl up into a small ball of fuzz.

You don’t think that you’ve ever been talked to this way. Not even by the woman who raised you. It’s new.

There’s an authority in his tone, a hint of possessiveness in his gaze. He’s telling you what to do, demanding you finish the food on your plate, expecting you to listen to his every word.

It’s a tone that makes you want to both melt into a puddle and stand your ground and refuse. It’s a tone that makes your gut flip, your heart flutter, the butterflies in your stomach suddenly flying around in an erratic mess. Not in any sexual way, but in a way that makes you long.

“...Sunshine?” you murmur, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow.

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Bruce’s lips when he notices your reaction to his tone, the arch of your eyebrow at his nickname. He knows it caught your attention, the way your eyes widened slightly, the way your voice came out as a soft murmur.

“Yeah,” he repeats in a matter-of-fact tone, the hint of a smirk still on his face. “Sunshine.”

His gaze flickered over your expression, taking in every little detail. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was almost preening.

The tone of his voice, the way he said the single word, sends a shiver down your spine. It sounds almost sweet, almost affectionate. The way he glances over you, the way his gaze seems to linger over you, it’s as if he’s claiming you as his.

“That’s a weird nickname..” you say, your voice almost timid. You can’t keep the hint of a flush from your cheeks.

“Why Sunshine?”

His smirk widening at your quiet words. He can see the way your gaze flickers away, avoiding his, the way the flush on your cheeks deepens.

“Why not?” he counters, his tone almost challenging. He takes a moment, his eyes flickering up and down your face.

“You’re a little ray of sunshine, kid,” he says eventually, his voice quieter but almost affectionate.

The rest of the night blurs together in a rapid succession of events that seem to move almost too fast for your brain to register. In a flash, you find yourself stepping out of the luxurious limousine, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the sidewalk.

Bruce’s larger hand still grips your shoulder, his grip both supportive and affectionate. His voice is warm as he bids you farewell, his words echoing in your ears.

"Good night," he says, his voice gentle yet firm. "I’ll see you soon."

Had you given the man your address...?

You chalk it up to the wine. Bringing your hand up to wave the black vehicle goodbye before adventuring up the worn down familiar steps that you called home.

As you wave farewell to the retreating car, you find yourself pondering for a moment whether or not you had actually given Bruce the address to your apartment. Perhaps the wine had been to blame.

With a slight shake of your head, you turn away from the departing limousine and begin your familiar ascent up the worn-down steps of the building you called home. The night air is cool and crisp, the glow of the streetlights casting elongated shadows on the concrete paths and cracked walls.

You linger outside the door of your apartment building, your keys clutched in your hand. For a few moments, you simply stand there, the cool night air caressing your skin as you press your forehead against the solid wooden frame.

You can't help but let out a soft sigh, the thought of facing Jason on the other side of that door not very appealing. You're not quite ready to deal with him just yet.

With a deep breath, you finally push yourself away from the door, the cool night air still caressing your face as you turn your attention back to the lock. You insert the key into the keyhole and twist it, the familiar click of the lock sliding open filling the air around you. As you push open the door, you brace yourself for what awaits inside.

As you step into the apartment, you're met with a peculiar sight. The living room is dark, save for a few dim shafts of light filtering in from outside and casting flickering shadows across the furniture. There's a strange stillness to the air, an aura of tension that you can feel even before registering the shape sitting nonchalantly on the couch, illuminated by the silvery moonlight.

Jason's tall form is casually sprawled across the piece of furniture, his body tense and his gaze focused on you with an unwavering intensity.

The moment you step into the living room, your eyes immediately land on Jason's form lounging on the couch. His tall frame is casually sprawled across the furniture, each muscle taut with an obvious tension. His eyes, sharp and dark, fix on you with a penetrative intensity that makes your skin tingle.

He doesn't move or speak, instead choosing to regard you with a quiet, almost unsettling stillness. The silence stretches on, the only sound the soft hush of the night outside and the faint ticking of the clock.

Your lips are caught between your teeth as you approach, your movements tentative and slow. Your eyes remain fixed on his face, his tense expression unwavering as you come closer.

Finally, you stop a few feet away, clutching a small bag in your hands tightly. Without a word, you hold it out in front of him, the rustle of the paper bag breaking the heavy silence.

Jason's eyes flicker to the bag extended towards him, tracking your movements with a guarded wariness. He makes no move to take it, instead regarding you with a suspicious eye.

A beat of tense silence passes before he finally responds, his voice low and gruff. "What's that?"

“An apology for storming out.”

Your response is quiet and deliberate, your voice carrying a hint of remorse. Jason regards you for a moment, his eyes fixated on your face. Finally, he shifts slightly, leaning forward to accept the bag from your hand.

His fingers brush against yours, the touch brief yet sparking a small jolt of electricity up your arm. "An apology, huh?" he responds, his voice a touch gruff but edged with a trace of reluctant understanding.

"It's your favourite," you motion, the words leaving your mouth in a soft whisper.

A small moment of silence passes before Jason responds again, his voice a bit gentler this time. "You didn’t have to," he replies, an unexpected but noticeable shift in his tone.

He regards you for a moment longer, a touch of surprise in his expression, before lifting the bag and peeking inside. At the sight of the familiar, beloved treats, a flicker of warmth sparks across his face. He looks up, meeting your gaze.

"You remembered," he mutters, his voice still gruff but laced with a hint of begrudging gratitude.

You nod your response, your movements weary as you finally collapse onto the couch beside Jason. Your body sinks into the soft cushions, the weariness of the day seeping into your bones.

"Made a stop on my way home," you explain, your voice quiet yet clear in the softly lit living room.

Jason grunts, acknowledging your explanation with a barely perceptible nod. He's still carefully avoiding your gaze, his focus fixed on the bag of treats. He’s not really angry. He never could be. Not with you.

After a moment of silence, he finally speaks, his voice a mix of gruffness and reluctant warmth. “Thanks,” he mumbles, the words a testament to his gratefulness despite his usual tough demeanor.

“Anytime man.”

Jason glances up at your response, his eyes flickering to your face. A brief moment of quiet passes, the sound of the night creatures outside the only background to the silent exchange between you two.

Eventually, he replies, a hint of gruff warmth lacing his words. “Damn right, anytime.”

Jason’s eyes flick up as you let out a small, amused snicker at his words. A small, sardonic grin pulls at his mouth, his shoulders relaxing just a bit.

"You think that's funny?" he mutters, his voice edged with amusement.

He teases, his voice taking on a more playful edge. "Don't see what's so funny about me saying you can bring home my favourite treats anytime you want."

Your snicker only increases in volume in response to his faux-offended tone, a smile slowly breaking out on your face. Jason's stoic expression cracks just a little at the sight, a reluctant smile pulling at his own mouth. He scoops his arm around your waist and pulls you close.

His large arm hooks easily around your waist, giving a gentle tug that pulls you closer to him. You end up pressed against his side, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. Despite the initial surprise at the sudden movement, you don't resist.

Jason keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you against him as he shifts a bit to make room for you on the couch. His body is warm and solid beside you, a comforting presence in the dimness of the living room.

He leans back against the couch, his arm still around you as his gaze once again drifts down to the bag of treats in his lap.

"You always know what’ll get me to forgive you, don’t you?" he mutters, his voice low, yet holding a hint of affection.

His fingers idly play with the edges of the bag, the slight rustle of the paper filling the quiet space between you.

“Yep.” You pop the p.

No use of y/n, no descriptive features for the reader mentioned, no gender.

Did I drone on about nuggets? Whattttt nooooo… you must have read that wrong.

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For the Americans, your weird only being able to drink when you’re 21 law doesn’t exist anymore, you’ve joined the rest of the world at 18.