afraid - chapter one
yandere/dark!Bruce Wayne x reader: You’ve struggled with anxiety all your life. It seemed to dissipate when you left a controlling relationship with your lifelong friend (and later fiance), Bruce behind. But when he manages to track you down after years of being apart, you can’t help but feel completely and utterly terrified.
warnings: non-con elements, kidnapping, stalking, obsessive behavior, stockholm syndrome, mental health issues. 18+ only.
“You don’t have to cry.”
His voice was low. Quiet. He kept his tone measured, trying to calm you—just like he used to. “Don’t panic. I forgive you, okay? I’m not angry. You don’t have to cry.”
You felt two things at once.
One: A hand pushing your hair away from your face, pulling your head back so you were facing upwards. And two: a familiar heaviness; an imposing weight on your shoulders, your chest, seeming to materialize out of thin air. Leaden, burdensome. It made it hard to breathe, so much so you began to feel lightheaded. Queasy. You weren’t sure where that was coming from.
But as you looked into the dark eyes peering down at you, you knew. And you began to hyperventilate.
You hadn’t felt this way in a very long time.
Tears rolled down your cheeks. The back of your neck felt like it was on fire, and beads of sweat started to gather along your forehead. Bruce looked down at you sympathetically, slowly moving his hand away from your mouth to cradle your face in his hands.
“Breathe. Can you breathe?”
You stared at him with wide eyes, too winded to respond. Throughout your life, you had plenty of anxiety attacks in front of Bruce, but never before had you felt quite so vulnerable.
A skittish, unsuspecting rabbit in the presence of a wolf.
He’d found you. He’d finally found you.
Of course he had.
As hard as you tried to suppress your intuition—preferring instead to live in the delusion that he’d never track you down—you were surprised it had taken him this long. You wondered if that was intentional, if he had spent your time apart licking his wounds. Tempering his anger, so as to not hurt you when he finally did see you again. He didn’t want to hurt you, not really. If there was one thing you knew about Bruce, it was that he usually never intended to hurt you.
“Bruce,” you croaked, your voice nearly unrecognizable. Raspy. Sputtering. “I don’t feel well.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”
He pushed your head into the crook of his neck, threading his fingers through your hair. Time passed. Seconds. Minutes. You weren’t sure how long, before finally he pulled away and grabbed hold of your shoulders, steadying you as you shook. His gaze shifted to your necklace, the ring looped around the chain. Your engagement ring. He reached up and grabbed the ring, holding it delicately between his thumb and pointer finger. Inspecting it. The corners of his mouth turned upward as his eyes met yours once more.
“You kept it.”
There was affection in his gaze. Admiration. It felt familiar. Comforting. It was a look that pulled on your heartstrings, a look that only you knew. Bruce. Your Bruce. You felt comforted by it. Content. And then he looked around the room. He frowned again, and you felt that surge of panic return. It suddenly occurred to you just how temporary that look always seemed to be. The sunlight instantly evaporated, and there you were, left out in the cold. Bruce’s gaze held power, his moods had power over you. Even now.
Even after all these years.
And that made you feel sick.
“Your place.”
What about it? you wanted to ask, but your tongue felt too heavy to allow for that.
“It’s…quaint.” He paused for a moment, chuckling to himself. He sighed. “Small.”
You felt a stab of anger in your chest. He had no right to come here and invade your space, terrorize you, insult you. He had no right to be here. Not after everything. No right at all. And besides, everywhere was small compared to Wayne Manor.
“This is what you left me for, a studio apartment in a bad area of town? This is what you decided was better for you?”
Your stomach lurched. Here we go.
His brow furrowed. “Just…help me understand.” He grabbed onto the ring again. “We’ve known each other for so long, yet I feel like I don’t know you at all. Help me understand. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I want.”
“No it’s not.”
He stared at you for a moment, then chuckled. “Well. I suppose you’re right.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You could’ve pawned it.”
“Bruce—”
“Could’ve thrown it away, kept it in a drawer somewhere. You could’ve done anything.”
“Bruce—”
“Why’d you keep it?” he asked. “I know you. I know the way you see me. You’re scared. You’re horrified. Maybe even disgusted. But if I’m so bad, why’d you keep it?”
“It’s…” you sighed, coughing. “It’s complicated.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then his gaze hardened.
“Then I’ll make it easy for you.”
And then he lunged forward and grabbed your neck, plunging something into the side of it—hard. A needle. You hated needles. Your eyes widened in terror, arms flailing wildly.
“Don’t cry. Don’t be afraid.”
He wrapped his arms around you, hushing you in the seconds that remained before darkness consumed you.
🦇
Bruce knew he could be moody.
Your friendship was a close one, closer than anything he’d ever experienced. Your romantic relationship wasn’t much different. You were inseparable. But throughout your relationship, his frame of mind slowly became dependent on your actions and reactions. He analyzed and dissected every little thing, read into every minute detail. Everything served as an indicator that you didn’t really want to be with him, that you could and would and should do better. Arguments were frequent and damaging. You were often accused of things you didn’t do, things you wouldn’t do.
Nevermind the whole billionaire thing. That didn’t matter to you. It never had. That was just one reason why he loved you so much, why he held onto you so tight, so tight it became painful.
Bruce Wayne was a mess. An insecure, overbearing, temperamental mess.
You couldn’t take it. Not anymore.
You ended things with an apology, a brief letter (brief being an understatement). No details or expansion apart from Bruce, I’m sorry. The letter was a little under twenty five words, scrawled in messy, loopy handwriting. Hurried. Rushed. It was pathetic, really. Five years down the drain, reduced to just a few short sentences. A last minute ordeal, something you clearly hadn’t given much thought to.
Deep down, though, Bruce knew that wasn’t true.
This letter was likely something you had put too much thought into—so much so that you put off writing it until the last minute. Probably out of anxiety. In Bruce’s experience of you, you probably knew just what you wanted to say. You just had trouble finding the words.
You were always afraid to say the wrong thing.
That was his fault.
Everything was.
But what were you sorry for, and just how sorry were you?
He was determined to find out. And he would.
You were harder to find than he thought you’d be. But you would, too, he decided.
You would, too.
