Dick who rocks you while having a panic attack from the sheer amount of stress of being kidnapped.
He’d coo in your ear as he rocks you back in forth to try and soothe youre mind and body while squishing you against him.
Dick who would eventually get you to calm down as he whispers words of encouragement on how you’re so brave and such a good baby.
Dick who just sits with you until you fall asleep and carries you up towards his room to cuddle with you because god forbid he was apart from his precious baby sibling
YOU🫵🏾 you’re the one who got me into IWTV, and I just finished it yesterday night (September 8th😭😭). Thank you for posting about, and therefore introducing me to this wonderful, amazing show❤️🩹
Since I see that requests are open, may we please get more platonic yandere Armand headcannons? This man has been living in my head😭
Platonic Yandere Armand (AMC Interview the the Vampire)
I'm doing Gods work guys, no need to thank me. Seriously though, I'm glad you enjoyed the show, more people need to watch this show, so I'll write anything you want me too.
I also love Armand, even though I was a hater of him for a while.
Also if you're new here please go read my original headcanons. Please feel free to send any IWTV related asks my way, this is literally my obsession.
---
I mentioned in a previous post, Armand is a lot more strict, especially if he's raising you with Louis. He will not make the same mistakes Louis did with Claudia, and even if he's not outward about it, he definitely doesn't trust Louis with you. He sees Louis as negligent, as too filled with human emotions to truly care for someone he cares about. He will not make those same mistakes with you.
How Armand comes to know you doesn't matter as much compared to Louis. Armand is old, so regardless of your age, he views you as a child in comparison. He's mainly concerned with being viewed as important, and someone who is needed. How that happens is irrelevant in his eyes, it's the emotion you fill him with that matters. He's more careful, he doesn't get close to you immediately, but once he does, he's never letting you go. Another thing he's concerned with is your mortality. Human or Vampire, he treats you relatively the same, so afraid of your death that he keeps you so restricted that you'll never know what's true freedom or something that is allowed by Armand.
Armand is very particular about how he cares for you, planning out every aspect of your life. Unlike Louis and Lestat, who give you a sense of freedom, Armand is the end all be all when it comes to your freedom. Even when you believe you're free, you're immediately proven wrong. If your human, he knows exactly what your eating, how many calories it has, all the nutritional information. If you're a vampire, he picks who you eat from, he decides how much you eat. It doesn't matter if you've been hunting for years without him, you'll never do that again. He knows when you're sleeping, when you're talking to friends, where you're going, all detailed in his brain.
Something that ties Louis and Armand together is whether or not to turn you. He feels as though changing you restricts you more, you can only leave at night, you can only live if he allows it. But the idea of you getting stronger and stronger as the years go by gives him pause. He thinks back to Claudia, who resented Louis for the life she was forced to live. It's one of the reasons why he doesn't immediately change you, along with his general unwillingness to create other vampires. He's also able to infantilize you in a way that wouldn't be possible if you were a vampire. He can treat you like a child regardless of your age because in his eyes you are. It's less about actually wanting a "child" and more about wanting something that can't leave him. By treating you like a child who is dependent on him, their parent, you're less likely to leave him. It's a psychological thing.
How he infantilizes you is very subtle, getting more obvious over time. He reinforces this idea that everything in the world is out to get you, that without him you would be dead. He implies that the only reason you've gotten this far without him would be because of struggle and strife, something you don't have to go through now that he's here. He reads your mind in order to solve your problems before you even fully realize they exist, placing himself just far away enough that you don't know if he's truly the reason they're solved. Like mentioned before, he keeps you restricted just enough, slowly and slowly withholding more and more from you before you never want to leave him.
I don't want to paint this idea that Armand is this extreme puppeteer who controls all, I think that’s a popular interpretation of him that makes him more evil than he really is, but I do think he puts a lot of effort into making sure he controls every part of you that he can. That's why he places so much importance on your health, because he knows it's something he can control. He can monitor it in a way that he can't control your thoughts about him.
Armand does genuinely want you to like him, similar to Louis. He's not fully driven by just wanting someone to see him as useful, he does want a relationship with you, he wants you to like him, to rely on him. I couldn't talk about Armand without mentioning his mind control and memory warping. I do think he would use this on you, making you view him as someone who is a crucial part of your life. He'd implant himself all over your memories in order to keep you with him, and to keep your view on him positive, even if that positivity is false.
On a more pleasant note, I think that Armand is the most domestic of the vampires. He genuinely enjoys caring for you, and doesn't simply view it as something done out of obligation. He finds a lot of fulfillment in caring for you, brushing your hair, picking out your clothes, watching you eat. He's wants you to feel comfortable around him as well, encouraging you to be yourself around him. He tries to engage in your hobbies, painting with you, reading with you, anything you want if it means getting close with you.
Something I think about a lot is Armand with an obsession who's also the obsession of Louis and Lestat. Armand wants to be the one you choose, the one you pick. He despises the idea of you choosing Lestat, or even Louis over him. Even if he's raising you with Louis, he wants to be your favorite. I mentioned this in a previous post, but he wants someone who cares for him in a way he cares for them. He's not against using you against Louis in order to keep you away from Lestat.
Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)
Chapter 10.2
Well I am going to edit both parts now. Don’t mind any mistakes oops.
She didn’t hear the window in the other room slide open.
She didn’t feel the shift in the air until it was too late.
“Enjoy your field trip?”
The voice came from the dark like a blade sliding from its sheath.
She shrieked.
The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor as she spun around, heart slamming violently against her ribs. Her eyes struggled to adjust, and then she saw him. A silhouette leaning against the far wall near the fire escape window, posture familiar, rigid, unmistakable.
“Damian.”
Her voice cracked around his name.
He stepped forward slowly, and the faint streetlight spilling through the window caught the sharp lines of his face. He was not in full uniform, but he might as well have been. His presence filled the room like a storm front.
“What,” he asked coolly, “did you think would happen?”
Her lungs felt too small. “How did you—”
“You used your real name,” he cut in sharply. “At Arkham. Did you truly believe no one would notice?”
Her blood ran cold.
Arkham.
Tim.
Of course.
She stepped back instinctively, bumping into the counter. “I just went to visit—”
“I know who you went to visit.” His jaw tightened. “Are you insane?”
She flinched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop acting like it.” His voice rose despite himself. “Arkham is not a park. It is not a school field trip. It is a containment facility for the worst minds in Gotham.”
“She’s my mother.”
The words burst out of her before she could swallow them.
He went still.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Something sharper. Something complicated.
“And?” he demanded, but the edge had dulled slightly. “That gives you immunity?”
“She understands,” Y/N snapped back, fear turning quickly into defensiveness. “She understands what I am.”
“What you are?” His brows drew together. “You are our sister.”
She laughed weakly. “That didn’t stop you from treating me like a liability.”
The accusation landed harder than she meant it to.
His hands curled at his sides.
“You disappeared for months,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “You vanished. We thought you were dead. And now you walk into Arkham alone.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
Her breath hitched. “You don’t get to—”
He moved suddenly.
Not to strike. Not to hurt. Just to close the distance.
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
She gasped.
He was stronger. Infinitely stronger. She knew that. She had always known that. Even when they were children and he had been all sharp elbows and fury, he had been stronger.
“You are coming home,” he said tightly. “Now.”
“No.”
Her panic surged like a live wire.
“I am not asking.”
“I’m not going back.”
He pulled her a step closer.
She saw it then, not just anger. Not just frustration. Something frantic underneath. Something that looked too much like frantic fear.
“You think you can survive out here?” he demanded. “In this hole? In this city? Alone?”
“I was doing fine!”
“Working in a nightclub?” His voice sharpened dangerously. “Do you take me for a fool?”
Her stomach dropped.
“You followed me?”
“We have been searching for you every day,” he snapped. “You are not difficult to trace when you insist on using your real identity in high-security facilities.”
She yanked against his grip. “Let me go!”
“No.”
The word was iron.
Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy.
“I don’t belong there,” she said desperately. “You suffocate me.”
His grip tightened reflexively.
“You would rather suffocate out here?”
She felt it building under her skin — that familiar, uncontrollable swell of emotion and power mixing in her bloodstream.
“Let go,” she warned softly.
“Stop fighting.”
The plant on the windowsill shuddered violently.
Damian’s eyes flicked toward it just as the soil cracked.
Green erupted upward in a sudden burst, vines snapping toward the ceiling, curling instinctively between them. They did not strike him. They did not harm him. But they rose like a barrier, thick and alive, separating them in an instant of startled silence.
He released her wrist.
For a fraction of a second, both of them stared.
She hadn’t meant to. God, what did she do?
“I told you,” she whispered, backing toward the window. “I can’t control it.”
His expression shifted from anger to shock to something almost wounded.
She didn’t wait for it to settle.
She shoved the window open, scrambling onto the fire escape as the vines tangled briefly around the metal frame.
“Y/N—”
But she was already climbing.
Cold air hit her face as she moved upward, heart racing, breath ragged. She didn’t look back.
⸻
Back at the Manor, Tim’s fingers froze over the keyboard when the apartment feed went dark.
“Damian moved,” he said sharply.
Bruce looked up.
“He left ten minutes ago.”
Jason swore. „Damn brat.“.
They had agreed. One of them only. Careful. Slow. Controlled.
Not Damian.
Not first.
Bruce’s jaw hardened.
“Location,” he ordered.
Tim pulled it up.
Narrows.
Of course.
Jason was already reaching for his helmet.
“Before he ruins this.”
Dick exhaled sharply. “If she panics—”
“She already has,” Tim muttered, watching the security feed glitch with sudden bursts of green across the frame.
Plants.
Bruce’s eyes darkened.
“Move.”
⸻
On the fire escape, Y/N’s hands shook as she climbed higher, tears blurring her vision. She had tried to build something different. Something small and hers. And now they were here. Again. Always.
Below her, Damian stepped into the alley, gaze tracking upward.
He had not come to drag her back in chains.
But he had come to take her home.
And he was not leaving without her.
She was not built for rooftops.
That was the first thing her body told her as her shoes slipped against gravel and loose tar, as the wind clawed at her skirt and tried to pull her backward. Gotham’s skyline stretched jagged and unforgiving around her, all sharp edges and empty spaces waiting to swallow her whole.
Behind her, a window banged open.
“Y/N!”
His voice cracked across the alley like a gunshot.
She didn’t turn around.
If she turned around, she would stop.
If she stopped, he would reach her.
And if he reached her—
She didn’t let herself finish the thought.
She ran.
Her lungs burned almost immediately. She was not trained for this. She was not Robin. She had never been taught how to distribute her weight across unstable surfaces, how to measure distance with a glance, how to fall without breaking bones.
She was just a girl.
A girl with shaking hands and borrowed courage.
“Stop!” Damian’s voice cut through the night again, closer this time. Too close. “Do not take another step!”
She reached the edge of the building.
The gap between this rooftop and the next was wider than she had anticipated. Too wide. Her breath stuttered in her throat as she stared at the empty space yawning between concrete and concrete.
Below, the alley looked like a throat.
“You will fall,” Damian warned, voice low now, dangerous. “You are not equipped for this.”
“I don’t want to go back!” she shot back, turning just enough to look at him.
He stood several meters away, balanced perfectly on the roof’s edge as if it were solid ground. His chest rose and fell too quickly, eyes bright with something feral and frantic.
“You think I am asking?” he demanded.
There it was.
That edge.
That possessive sharpness that made her stomach twist.
“You’re not my jailer!” she cried.
His expression hardened. “If that is what keeps you alive, then I will be.”
The words struck her harder than the wind.
Monster.
The thought bloomed again in her mind, ugly and familiar. A monster with vines in her veins and a villain for a mother. A liability. A weakness. Something to be contained.
“I’m not a thing to lock up!” she shouted, and before fear could swallow her resolve, she ran forward and jumped.
For a heartbeat, she was suspended in nothing.
The world dropped away beneath her.
Her foot barely caught the ledge of the next building. Gravel slid. Her body pitched forward violently, hands scraping raw against concrete as she slammed down hard. Pain exploded in her palms.
She nearly slipped.
For one sickening second, her shoe dangled over open air.
But she dragged herself up, knees shaking, chest heaving. She had made it.
She pushed to her feet, dizzy but upright, and took two staggering steps back—
Too long.
She had waited too long.
When she looked up again, Damian was already landing on the same rooftop with effortless precision.
He didn’t even look winded.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She spun, searching for another escape route, but the next building was too far. There was no fire escape. No adjacent ledge. Only the city stretching out in impossible distances.
She backed toward the opposite edge without realizing it.
“Do not,” Damian warned, voice dropping into something almost unrecognizable, “take another step.”
She did.
Her heel scraped empty air.
She gasped and flung her arms out to balance, barely catching herself before gravity claimed her.
“Y/N.”
This time her name sounded different.
Not barked. Not ordered.
Pleading.
She hated that it made her hesitate.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, and her voice trembled so badly it almost fractured. “I don’t want to be this.”
“You can’t hurt me. You are not hurting me,” he snapped. “You are hurting yourself.”
“I can’t control it!” she cried. “I can’t control any of it!”
The wind shifted.
And suddenly, they were not alone.
A dark shape landed on the far side of the rooftop.
Then another.
And another.
She froze.
Batman stepped forward first, cape swallowing light, presence swallowing air.
Nightwing followed, quieter but no less tense, blue emblem catching the faint glow of the city.
Red Hood landed last, helmet reflecting her small, trembling silhouette back at her.
The world felt smaller.
Boxed in.
Her breathing turned shallow.
“Kid,” Jason muttered, voice filtered through modulator, rough and strained, “this is getting old.”
She took another step back instinctively.
“Don’t,” Dick said quickly, hands lifting slightly, palms open. “Hey— hey, look at me. Just breathe, okay? We’re not here to hurt you.”
“That’s not what it feels like,” she whispered.
Bruce’s voice cut through the night, controlled but tight around the edges. “You went to Arkham.”
It wasn’t a question.
She swallowed. “She’s my mother.”
“And we are your family,” he replied immediately.
The words landed heavy.
“Family doesn’t cage you,” she shot back, tears finally spilling over. “Family doesn’t neglect you. Family doesn’t—”
“Family doesn’t survive losing you twice,” Jason snapped.
Silence fell like a blade.
Her eyes flicked to him.
Even through the helmet, she could feel it. The rawness. The fury. The fear.
“You think this is about control?” Dick asked softly. “You think we’re doing this because it’s fun?”
Bruce stepped forward one measured step.
She stepped back one frantic one.
Her heel slid.
“Stop!” Damian barked, panic finally breaking through his composure.
She wobbled violently.
Strong arms caught her from behind.
She didn’t even see who moved first.
One second she was teetering over empty air. The next, she was yanked backward into solid, unyielding muscle.
She screamed and struggled instantly, panic surging like wildfire. “No— let me go— let me go!”
Jason’s helmet was inches from her face as he pinned her arms to her sides with ease. “Enough.”
She twisted, kicked, fought uselessly. She was nothing compared to them. Nothing against this strength, this training, this coordinated precision.
“I hate this!” she cried. “I hate feeling like this!”
Her powers flared again under her skin, but there was no soil here. No roots to answer her. Just cold rooftop and iron grips.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she sobbed.
“You won’t,” Dick said hoarsely, stepping closer, hand hovering uncertainly near her shoulder. “You won’t hurt us.”
Her breaths came too fast.
Too sharp.
Her vision blurred.
“Bruce,” Tim’s voice crackled faintly over comms from somewhere below, tight with calculation, “her heart rate’s spiking.”
“I know,” Bruce muttered.
Jason felt it too — the way she was spiraling, not fighting strategically, but unraveling.
“She’s going to pass out anyway,” he growled quietly.
Bruce hesitated.
For a fraction of a second.
Then he nodded once.
Jason’s grip shifted just enough for Damian to step forward.
She didn’t even register the small device in his hand until she felt the prick at her neck.
Her body jerked.
“Damian—” Dick started sharply.
“She will not survive another fall,” Damian snapped back, though his voice shook.
Warmth flooded her bloodstream almost instantly.
Her limbs turned heavy.
“No,” she whispered weakly. “Please don’t…”
The city blurred.
Her knees gave out completely this time.
Jason caught her fully against his chest as her body went limp, her fingers clutching weakly at his jacket before sliding away.
Darkness swallowed her.
For a long moment, none of them moved.
They just stood there, wind whipping around them, holding the fragile, unconscious weight of the girl who had nearly slipped through their fingers again.
Jason exhaled slowly. “Got her.”
Damian stared down at her face, jaw tight, eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to guilt.
Bruce stepped forward and brushed dirt gently from her cheek, his gloved hand trembling just slightly.
“She will never run like this again,” Damian said quietly.
Bruce’s gaze did not leave his daughter’s face.
“No,” he agreed.
But whether that was promise or warning, none of them clarified.
Jason adjusted his hold, cradling her more securely.
She looked smaller like this.
Smaller than rooftops.
Smaller than Gotham.
Smaller than the fear they all carried.
And as they disappeared into the night with her in their arms, each of them understood the same twisted truth:
They would rather sedate her.
Chain her.
Track her.
Overwhelm her.
Than ever stand on a rooftop again and watch her almost fall.
_____
When she wakes, she will not recognize the ceiling.
For now, she does not wake at all.
She lies still in a bed that is too soft for the Narrows and too bright for the life she tried to build. The room is not the one she left behind months ago — not the too-clean, museum-like space that felt more like a guest room than a daughter’s sanctuary. This one is warmer. Lighter. The curtains are pale cream instead of sterile white. The shelves hold books she actually likes. There are plants by the window — carefully chosen, harmless ones. A thick rug softens the floor. There are framed sketches on the wall. Her old elephant plush sits carefully propped against her pillow, stitched ear slightly crooked, waiting like it never stopped.
She does not see any of it.
She is pale against the sheets, lashes resting too heavily against hollowed cheeks.
Alfred stands at her bedside with a glass of water and a physician’s report in hand, his expression composed but carved from something much older than calm.
“She is underweight,” he says quietly. “Vitamin deficiencies. Iron low. Dehydration markers present.”
Jason swears under his breath from the doorway.
Dick looks like he might be sick.
Damian says nothing.
Bruce stands at the foot of the bed, still in half-armor, gloves removed but gauntlets unstrapped. His eyes do not leave her face.
“She was starving,” Tim mutters, scanning through the lab readouts on the tablet. “Not intentionally. Just… not enough.”
“She was working in a nightclub,” Jason snaps bitterly. “What did you expect?”
“She should never have needed to,” Dick fires back, voice tight.
“That is not the point,” Bruce cuts in sharply.
Silence falls.
It is heavier now. Different. Not panic — something more deliberate.
Alfred clears his throat gently. “Master Bruce.”
Bruce nods once.
Tim’s fingers hover over another file. “If we’re going to do it,” he says quietly, “this is the safest window.”
Jason’s gaze flicks to him. “You’re sure?”
Tim’s jaw tightens. “If she vanishes again, we might not get a second rooftop.”
No one argues with that.
Bruce moves closer to the bed and gently brushes a strand of hair away from her forehead. She doesn’t stir.
“Minimal,” he says. “No more than necessary.”
Alfred nods.
The procedure is small. Clinical. Controlled.
A micro-tracker — smaller than a grain of rice — is inserted beneath the skin near her shoulder blade while she remains unconscious. It is done cleanly, efficiently, without ceremony.
She does not know.
She will not know.
When it is finished, Tim syncs the signal to the cave’s network. A blinking dot appears on the map of Gotham.
Stable.
Alive.
Here.
Damian watches the screen longer than anyone else.
Bruce finally turns to him.
“You disobeyed a direct agreement,” he says flatly.
Damian does not look away from the monitor. “She would have run regardless.”
“That was not the point.”
“She is my responsibility as well.”
Bruce’s eyes harden. “You do not get to decide that unilaterally.”
Damian finally looks at him. There is no arrogance in his expression now. Only something bruised and defensive.
“She was at Arkham,” he says quietly. “Alone.”
“And you believed confronting her by yourself would improve that?”
A flicker of frustration flashes through Damian’s eyes. “I could have handled it.”
Jason scoffs from the doorway. “Yeah. You handled it straight off a roof.”
Dick shoots him a look, but he doesn’t deny it.
Damian’s hands curl at his sides. “She panicked because all of you arrived.”
“She panicked because she doesn’t trust us,” Tim corrects, voice subdued.
That one lands.
Bruce exhales slowly, exhaustion bleeding through the edges of his control. “We will not repeat that mistake.”
Damian’s jaw tightens, but he inclines his head slightly.
It is as close to an apology as he ever offers.
Alfred adjusts the blanket around her shoulders, movements careful, tender. “She is not your prisoner,” he says gently, without looking at any of them. “She is frightened.”
Bruce’s gaze softens — only barely — as it returns to his daughter.
“I know.”
Do you?
The question hangs unspoken.
She shifts faintly in her sleep, brow furrowing as if caught in a dream. Her fingers twitch toward the elephant plush beside her pillow. Damian notices first and steps forward instinctively, but stops himself.
Jason moves instead, slower than usual, and carefully places the plush into her hand.
Her fingers curl weakly around it.
The room stills.
“She will wake confused,” Dick murmurs.
Bruce nods. “Then we will explain.”
“Not everything,” Tim says quietly.
Bruce doesn’t respond.
On the screen in the cave below, the blinking dot continues its steady rhythm.
Here.
Jason crosses his arms. “She’s not leaving again.”
It isn’t a question.
Bruce’s eyes remain fixed on her fragile form.
“No,” he says softly.
This time, it sounds less like a promise to control her.
And more like a vow to the universe.
Outside her window, the night deepens over Gotham.
Inside, the family keeps watch.
And for the first time since she ran, she is sleeping under their roof again — pale, fragile, and surrounded.
The social worker arrived with a police officer. You'd been sitting at the kitchen table trying to read a library book—one of your few escapes—when the knock came. Loud, official. Different from the usual sounds of the building.
Your mother had been passed out on the couch, same clothes she'd worn for three days, empty bottles forming a glass garden around her.
You'd opened the door, blinking up at the two strangers.
"Is your mother home?" the woman had asked. She wore a gray suit and had kind eyes that made you suspicious immediately.
You'd nodded, stepping back.
What followed was a blur. Voices rising, your mother stumbling awake, yelling, the police officer's calm but firm tone. Words like "custody" and "paternity test" and "Bruce Wayne" floated through the chaos.
That last name made your mother laugh, harsh and bitter. "Finally figured it out, did he? Took him long enough."
You didn't understand. You stood in the corner of your closet-room, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to be invisible as always.
The social worker—Ms. Chen, she'd said her name was—had knelt down to your eye level.
"Sweetheart, you're going to come with me for a little while, okay? We're going to make sure you're safe."
Safe. Another one of those words that didn't mean anything in your experience.
The next few days existed in fragments. A hospital where doctors examined you with furrowed brows and gentle hands that made you flinch. Someone taking photographs of your scars, your too-thin body, the fading bruises. Questions you didn't know how to answer because you didn't understand what they were really asking.
"Does your mother hit you?"
Sometimes. When you deserved it.
"Are you hungry often?"
Everyone got hungry.
"Who takes care of you?"
You took care of you.
Their faces had grown more concerned with each answer, but you didn't understand why.
Then came the test. A woman in scrubs had swabbed the inside of your cheek, placed the sample in a tube. "Just routine," she'd said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Ms. Chen had taken you to a foster home temporarily. The house was clean, warm, overwhelming. The foster mother, Mrs. Palmer, had shown you to a room—a real room with a bed and a dresser and a window with actual curtains.
"You can put your things here," she'd said.
You had no things. Just the clothes you'd been wearing.
Mrs. Palmer's smile had faltered. "Well, we'll get you some things tomorrow. Are you hungry? I made dinner."
Dinner. Actual dinner. Chicken and vegetables and mashed potatoes and bread. You'd stared at the plate in front of you, at the portions that seemed enormous, and eaten slowly, carefully, waiting for someone to snatch it away or tell you it wasn't really for you.
No one did.
For three weeks, you existed in this strange limbo. Mrs. Palmer was patient, gentle, but you didn't trust it. You waited for the other shoe to drop, for the real rules to be revealed, for the pain you knew had to be coming.
It never came. Which somehow made it worse. You didn't understand this place, these people, this version of life.
And then Ms. Chen had sat you down with an expression that tried to be reassuring.
"We have some news," she'd said. "The paternity test came back. Do you know who Bruce Wayne is?"
You'd shaken your head. The name was familiar from your mother's drunken rants, from whispers you hadn't understood.
"He's a very important man in Gotham City. Very wealthy. And..." she'd paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's your biological father."
The words meant nothing at first. Father. You knew the word, but it held no meaning for you. It was like being told you were made of stardust or descended from ancient kings—interesting perhaps, but irrelevant to the reality of your life.
"He wants to meet you," Ms. Chen had continued. "He didn't know about you before, but now that he does, he wants you to come live with him. With your family."
Family. Another meaningless word.
But you'd nodded, because nodding was safe, agreeing was safer than protesting. Adults made decisions, and you endured them. That was how the world worked.
The day you'd met Bruce Wayne, Ms. Chen had dressed you in new clothes—jeans that actually fit, a sweater that was soft and clean, shoes without holes. You'd stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the child looking back.
The car ride to Wayne Manor had been long. You'd pressed your face against the window, watching Gotham's rough neighborhoods gradually transform into suburbs, then into rolling hills and estates hidden behind gates and walls.
Wayne Manor had appeared like something from a dream—or a movie, not that you'd seen many. Massive stone walls, towers, windows that seemed to go on forever. The driveway alone was longer than your entire street had been.
Your stomach had twisted with anxiety. This was wrong. Places like this weren't for people like you.
Ms. Chen had squeezed your shoulder. "It's going to be okay. This is your home now."
Home. You'd had a home. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it.
The door had opened before you'd reached it—a tall man in a suit, older, with gray hair and a kind but formal face.
"Miss," he'd said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. I am Alfred Pennyworth."
You'd stared at him, mute.
Inside, the manor was even more overwhelming. Marble floors, a staircase that split in two directions, chandeliers, artwork, space—so much space you couldn't comprehend it. Your entire apartment could have fit in the entryway.
And then he'd appeared. Bruce Wayne. Tall, dark-haired, handsome in a way that seemed almost unreal. He'd descended the stairs with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral.
"Hello," he'd said, stopping a few feet away. "You must be..."
He'd trailed off, and you'd realized he didn't even know your name. Your mother had probably never told him. Maybe she hadn't known who to tell.
Ms. Chen had filled the silence. "This is—"
But you'd found your voice, small and rough from disuse. You'd told him your name.
Bruce had nodded slowly. "It's... nice to meet you. I'm... I'm your father."
The word sounded strange in his mouth, uncertain.
"I know this must be overwhelming," he'd continued, and you could see he was uncomfortable, searching for the right words. "But you're safe now. Things are going to be different. Better."
Better. Different. They kept using these words.
You'd wanted to believe them. Some small part of you, the part that hadn't been completely crushed by ten years of neglect and abuse, had desperately wanted to believe that yes, here, now, finally, things would be better.
Ms. Chen had gone through paperwork with Bruce in another room, voices too low to hear. Alfred had shown you around the manor, pointing out rooms and wings and facilities that seemed impossible. A library, a gym, a pool, kitchens—plural—rooms for purposes you couldn't even name.
"This will be your room," Alfred had said finally, opening a door to reveal a space larger than your entire apartment had been. A massive bed with a canopy, a desk, bookshelves, a window seat overlooking gardens that stretched beyond seeing.
"My... room?" you'd whispered.
"Yes, Miss. Your father thought you might like this one, though if you'd prefer a different room, we can certainly arrange that."
You'd stepped inside slowly, afraid to touch anything. Everything was clean, pristine, beautiful. You didn't belong here. You were dirty on the inside in ways soap couldn't reach. You'd contaminate this place.
"I'll leave you to settle in," Alfred had said gently. "Dinner will be at seven. I'll come fetch you."
And then you'd been alone in this enormous room, in this impossible house, and the reality had crashed over you.
You'd been told this would be better. They'd said things would change.
You'd tried so hard to believe it.
The first night, you'd barely slept. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the darkness too complete without the familiar sounds of the city, the neighbors, the violence that had punctuated your nights. You'd ended up curling on the floor beside the bed, the hardness more familiar, more comfortable in its discomfort.
When Alfred had knocked at 6:30 AM, you'd scrambled back onto the bed, not wanting to be caught doing something wrong.
"Good morning, Miss. Breakfast will be ready shortly."
Breakfast. Every day. The concept was foreign.
You'd found your way to the dining room—after getting lost twice in the endless hallways—to find a table that could seat twenty with only a few places set. Bruce sat at the head, reading a newspaper. A boy around your age sat to his right, dark-haired with blue eyes that were sharp, assessing. An older teenager sat across from him, talking about something called "patrol" while Bruce gave distracted responses.
They'd all looked up when you'd entered.
"There you are," Bruce had said, the cheerfulness forced. "Everyone, this is... this is my daughter."
He'd stumbled over the words again. Daughter. As if testing them out.
"This is Dick," he'd gestured to the teenager, "and Damian," the boy your age.
Dick had smiled, warm and welcoming. "Hey! It's nice to meet you. Welcome to the family."
Damian had stared at you with barely concealed disdain. "Another one. Father, this is becoming ridiculous."
"Damian," Bruce's voice had carried a warning.
"I'm merely stating facts. How many children do you intend to collect?"
You'd stood frozen in the doorway, not understanding the dynamic, only sensing the tension.
"Sit down," Bruce had said to you, gentler. "Alfred makes excellent pancakes."
You'd sat in the indicated chair, hands in your lap, staring at the empty plate in front of you. When Alfred had brought food, you'd waited, watching to see what the others did first. You'd learned long ago not to take food without permission.
"You can eat," Dick had said, noticing your hesitation. "It's okay."
You'd picked up your fork with careful fingers and taken the smallest bite possible.
That had set the pattern for the first few days. You'd moved through the manor like a ghost, trying to take up as little space as possible, speaking only when directly addressed, waiting for the rules to become clear.
But the rules never did become clear, because there seemed to be different rules for different people, and none of them applied to you.
Dick would come and go, friendly but distant, clearly more interested in his own life than a suddenly appearing sister. He'd smile when he saw you, ask how you were doing in that casual way that expected "fine" as an answer, and then he'd be gone—out with friends, on patrol (whatever that meant), busy with things that didn't include you.
Damian made his feelings clear from the start. You were an inconvenience, an intruder, someone who didn't belong. He'd make cutting remarks about your manners (you'd used the wrong fork at dinner), your ignorance (you didn't know what half the items in the house were for), your very existence.
"At least I was raised with proper training," he'd sneered one morning when you'd confused a salad fork with a dessert fork. "You eat like a street urchin."
You hadn't known how to respond. In your old life, you would have made yourself smaller, disappeared. Here, you'd just stared at your plate and continued eating, using your hands when the utensils confused you too much.
Bruce was... absent. Not physically always, but mentally, emotionally. He'd be at the table for meals, in his office working, occasionally asking how you were settling in with that same uncomfortable tone, as if checking items off a list. "Do you have everything you need? Is your room comfortable? Alfred will take you shopping for clothes."
He never asked the questions that mattered. He never noticed that you barely spoke, that you flinched at sudden movements, that you hoarded food in your room because you didn't trust that meals would keep coming.
You'd thought, in those early days, that maybe you needed to prove yourself. Maybe if you were good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough, they'd see you. They'd care.
So you'd tried.
You'd cleaned your room obsessively, made your bed with military precision, kept everything exactly in its place. You'd offered to help Alfred with chores, following him around the manor like a shadow until he'd gently told you that you didn't need to work, that you should "enjoy being a child."
You didn't know how to do that. Being a child had never been an option before.
You'd tried to engage with Damian, asking about his interests, hoping to find common ground. He'd responded with insults and dismissal. Once, you'd tried to join him in the garden where he was feeding his pets—exotic animals you'd never seen before—and he'd told you to leave before you "contaminated his space with your incompetence."
You'd tried to talk to Dick, to ask about school since you'd been enrolled in Gotham Academy and had no idea what to expect. He'd given you surface-level advice—"just be yourself, you'll be fine"—while texting on his phone, clearly eager to get back to whatever he'd been doing.
You'd even tried to connect with Bruce, waiting outside his office one evening, working up the courage to knock. When you'd finally done it, when he'd called you in and looked up from his computer with that expectant expression, you'd frozen. What did you even say? What did normal daughters talk to their fathers about?
"Did you need something?" he'd asked, not unkindly, but busy, distracted.
You'd shaken your head and left.
As weeks turned into months, the initial hope—that fragile, desperate hope that things would be better—began to crumble.
You'd learned the manor's rhythms, its patterns. Bruce worked constantly, either in his office or disappearing at night for reasons no one explained. Dick came home occasionally, staying for a few days before leaving again for something called "Titans." Damian had his routines—training, school, his animals, more training—and you were an interruption to all of it.
Alfred was kind, but he had an entire manor to run, and he treated you with the same polite distance he treated all of Bruce's wards. He'd ensure you had meals, clean clothes, that your needs were met in the most basic sense. But he didn't see you either, not really.
The invisible patterns of neglect from your old life began to repeat in new, different ways.
At dinner, conversations would flow around you. They'd discuss patrol, cases, training, people and places you didn't know. When you'd tried to ask what they were talking about, Damian would roll his eyes. "It's not your concern," he'd say, and no one would contradict him.
You'd started skipping meals because no one noticed whether you were there or not. You'd tested it one night, staying in your room during dinner. No one had come to get you. No one had mentioned your absence the next day.
So you'd tried again. And again.
It wasn't until you'd missed three dinners in a row that Alfred had knocked on your door.
"Miss, are you feeling ill? I've noticed you haven't been down for meals."
"I'm fine," you'd said, because that was the safe answer. "Just not hungry."
He'd studied you for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes, but then he'd nodded. "Very well. But please let me know if you need anything."
And that had been that.
You'd started hoarding food again, pockets full of dinner rolls, fruit hidden in your desk drawer, anything non-perishable that you could take without being noticed. The anxiety of not knowing when your next meal would come had never left, despite the manor's abundance.
At school, you'd struggled in different ways. Gotham Academy was full of rich kids who'd known each other since kindergarten, who had inside jokes and shared histories and social rules you couldn't begin to understand. Your clothes were expensive now—Alfred had made sure of that—but you wore them wrong. Your hair was properly cut and maintained, but you still carried yourself like someone expecting a blow.
"That's Bruce Wayne's new daughter," you'd heard them whisper. "The one from Crime Alley. Can you imagine?"
You'd made no friends. At lunch, you'd sit alone, and when you'd tried to join groups, the conversations would die, awkward and stilted, until you'd leave again.
Damian attended the same school. You'd thought maybe there, away from the manor, he might be different. But he'd been worse. He'd pretend not to know you, and when other students had asked if you were his sister, he'd said, "Only by the most unfortunate technicality."
His friends—children of other wealthy families, equally sharp-tongued and cruel—had taken their cues from him. They'd mocked your manners, your speech patterns, the way you didn't understand their references or know their customs.
Once, one of them had "accidentally" knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. Food had scattered across the cafeteria floor, and laughter had erupted. You'd dropped to your knees to clean it up—automatic response, always clean up your messes—and Damian had walked past without a glance.
The teachers had been polite but distant. You were a Wayne, which meant you were both above reproach and impossible to discipline. When you'd struggled with subjects you'd never been properly taught, they'd offered tutors in that same detached way, as if checking a box. None of them had asked why a ten-year-old didn't know basic multiplication or how to write a proper essay.
Back at the manor, you'd become a ghost in truth. You'd learned which hallways the family used and avoided them. You'd learned what times they trained in the cave (you'd discovered it by accident one sleepless night, following sounds, and had been dismissed immediately by Damian: "This isn't for you. Leave."). You'd learned when Bruce would be in his office, when Dick would visit, when Alfred would be busy with household management.
You'd carved out a small existence in the spaces between their lives.
Some nights, everyone would be gone. Bruce, Dick, Damian—out doing whatever they did. Alfred would be asleep or tending to his own quarters. And you'd be alone in this massive house, hunger gnawing at your stomach because you'd missed dinner again and were too afraid to go to the kitchen at night for fear of being in the way, of taking something that wasn't meant for you, of being seen as a burden.
Those nights were the hardest. The manor would creak and settle around you, and you'd curl up in your too-soft bed in your too-large room, and you'd think about your old apartment. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it. At least the neglect had been honest.
Here, you'd been promised better. You'd been told things would change. You'd been given this beautiful room and expensive clothes and access to food and safety, but somehow you were more alone than ever.
Because before, you'd had no expectations. Now you had hope, and hope was so much more painful when it went unfulfilled.
You'd think about your mother sometimes, though you tried not to. She'd been cruel, neglectful, abusive. But she'd also been predictable. You'd known where you stood—nowhere. You'd known what to expect—nothing.
Here, you'd been told you were family. Daughter. Sister. Wayne.
But titles meant nothing when you were invisible.
You'd started talking to yourself, quiet conversations in your room to fill the silence, because days would go by where no one spoke directly to you beyond pleasantries. "Good morning." "Excuse me." "Pass the salt."
You'd sit in the library—that massive, beautiful library—and read books about families, trying to understand what yours was supposed to look like. The families in stories loved each other, protected each other, knew each other. They had traditions and inside jokes and memories built together.
Your family had none of that. You were a stranger living among strangers who happened to share blood with one of them.
And the worst part, the part that made everything so much harder to bear, was that they weren't bad people. Bruce wasn't cruel like your mother had been.
Tw: neglected reader, angsty stuff, crying, Bruce calls us ‘sweetheart’ which I know not everybody likes (sorry if this isn’t what you were looking for, it’s just what came out 💔)
Bruce tugs you closer, smushing your cheek against his collarbone and wrapping his arms around you in an unpracticed, untried manner. You felt awkward like this, limp against him rather than melting into the heat of his body.
The fire crackled and popped before the two of you, shedding soft yellows and reds over the room. Neither of you had said a word for the past half hour.
He’s… never done this before. Not with you. Once upon a time, you would have shed happy tears over this. You would’ve stuffed your nose into the crook of his neck and clung to him until he got tired of you and peeled you off with a few inches of skin he’d have to peel off too if he wanted you to get off of him.
Now… now, it felt hollow. Empty.
You, unfortunately, still felt the warmth of it—the love. It was in the kiss he pressed against your temple and the hand that tugged the blankets over the two of you. It was in how tightly he wrapped his arms around you and how lovely it felt to be held without having to beg for it. It was in the heavy hand that laid protectively over the back of your head and in how he refused to let go.
But- but it just felt too late. It was like trying to glue porcelain back together, it just- it just didn’t work. The piece would never be the same as it was.
And it just felt useless to pretend it would be. To even try.
And-
A hand slipped over to your face, cupping your cheek and lifting your head up. Concerned blue eyes met your own. A calloused thumb brushed away something under your eyes and oh- you hadn’t even realized—
“What’s wrong?” Bruce, your dad, spoke softly, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion and his eyebrows all knotted up in the middle like he cares.
You don’t know why. You really don’t know why. But the tears come flooding out after that. You stuff your face into his chest and cry freely, shoulders shaking with your sobs. You can hear him and all his worry, but you don’t have the energy to respond, the willpower, you just want your dad to hold like he was always supposed to.
He tries to tug you away and you know it’s just so he can see your face, you know it, but panic still claws at your chest and suddenly you’re shaking your head violently and wrapping your arms around him tightly so he can’t push you away like he has all these years. (Not again, not again, not again, not again—)
“Dad-“ you sob and you can barely breathe; your heart aches.
“Shh, shh,” he attempts to soothe, obviously trying to fight his own rising panic. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay—“
“Dad-“ your nails are probably digging crescents into his back, probably digging deep enough to make him bleed, but you can’t find it in you to care. He can’t leave. Not again.
You’re inconsolable for what feels like hours, clawing at him in attempt to tug him closer, staining his shirt with your tears and snot, and filling the room with your sobs. He tries to comfort you. You don’t want to let him.
(But you do. You always do.)
He’s here but he never was before and you don’t know when he’ll leave again. When he’s going to leave you in the dust with your father-child dances and half-made birthday gifts and all the promises that you thought he might just keep this time.
But no. You can’t trust him. You can’t- you can’t— you can never-
“I’m sorry, baby, I know,” he murmurs, knowing nothing else to do but to kiss your wet cheeks and rub wide circles into your back.
You can’t- you can’t—
“I’m here. I’m here,” he says softly, gently, like it doesn’t shatter you to pieces.
He can’t do this to you- he can’t- he can’t—
Your dad kisses you again. Places a loving kiss right on your nose bridge like it’s beautiful. (Like you’re beautiful.)
There should be no more tears left in you but there always are.
“I love you. I’m here.”
But why now?
(You want him to go.)
“I love you. I love you.”
(You need him to stay.)
“You’re here. I’m here.”
But one day, he won’t be. (You don’t know how you’ll survive without him. But you’ll have to.)
(He always leaves anyway.)
Your heart aches. Your heart throbs.
(The thought of losing him again is like a heart attack, but you’re not sure you ever had him in the first place.)
“Midnight Ride” (Platonic Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader)
A/N: Needed to do a drabble for my love jason 🤭 I also feel like my drabbles are always way fluffier while the real chapters are just pure angst 😓😭
The knock at the window startled her.
She sat up in bed, blanket still bunched around her knees, eyes puffy from a quiet cry that hadn’t even had a real reason—only that the walls were too silent, the night too cold, and she’d realized again how little of her life belonged to her anymore.
She expected Alfred — a cup of tea in his hand.
Or Damien, maybe—furious again for a reason she didn’t understand.
Or maybe Tim wants to show her some of his games. Again.
It couldn’t be Dick or her father - both of them were on patrol.
But it wasn’t either of them.
It was Jason.
Leather jacket. Black dyed messy hair with a white streak. That devil-may-care smirk softened only slightly by the way his eyes dropped to her face—reading her too fast, too easily. And maybe, just maybe, he noticed the sadness she tried to bury under her smile.
He tapped the glass with two knuckles.
“You wanna get outta here?”
She blinked. “What?”
Jason pushed the window open with ease. “I’m going for a ride. Thought you might want to breathe something other than recycled manor air.”
“…I can’t,” she said, hesitant. “They’ll be angry.”
He shrugged, clearly not worried about that. “They can be angry at me.”
“I could get in trouble.”
He smirked. “Not if I carry you.”
And before she could stop him—he did.
He reached through the open window like she weighed nothing, picking her up in a slow, effortless motion. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as he lifted her from the floor and stepped back onto the tiles outside her room, one boot silent after the other.
“Relax,” he murmured. “You think I’d let you fall?”
A few minutes later she was dressed in her fluffy nightgown on his red-black beauty.
The engine purred.
Her heart raced.
The vigilante sat tall behind her, one arm lazily resting over the throttle, the other wrapped snugly around her waist. She was sitting between his arms, perched on the front of the seat, her legs tucked to one side as he held her against him like something he wouldn’t dare risk letting go.
“I can sit in the back,” she’d offered earlier.
“Nope,” he’d said without even glancing at her. “You’re in the front. I’m holding you. No arguments.”
The Gotham skyline blurred around them.
Lights became streaks. Wind tousled her hair. And when she laughed—really laughed—he swore he felt it in his chest like a heartbeat returning.
“Faster,” she grinned into the wind.
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
Jason revved the engine, smirked through gritted teeth, and let the bike tear across the long bridge curve—like they were chasing something they didn’t need to name.
For once, she wasn’t the Wayne princess.
Wasn’t the girl with rules and chains.
She was just Y/N.
And for once—Jason wasn’t the boy who came back wrong.
____
The city buzzed quietly in the distance, but where they sat—at the edge of an overlook surrounded by trees and the hum of streetlights—it felt like the world had stopped for them alone.
Jason leaned back against the still-warm bike, one leg kicked out, the other curled slightly.
Y/N sat sideways across his lap, legs tucked under her and arms curled loosely against his chest, fingers nervously twisting the edge of his jacket zipper.
She was… lighter now. Calmer. Her cheeks warm from the wind and laughter. Her breathing steady.
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes lowered. “For this.”
Jason looked down at her, something thick catching in his throat.
She was smiling. Not a fake smile. Not a careful one. A real one—the kind that made his heart squeeze and his jaw tighten with something like hunger and grief twisted together.
God. He’d missed that smile.
He’d kill to see it again.
“You should be out more,” he said, voice gruff, trying to cover the heaviness in his chest. “Forget the house. Bunch of emotionally constipated idiots.”
She giggled. Giggled.
“That includes you,” she said.
He smirked. “I’m the charming one.”
“Charming, huh?” She nudged his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just leave town one day. Move somewhere quiet. Change my name. Disappear. Then I don’t have to deal with any emotionally constipated Waynes.”
She was joking. He knew she was joking.
But Jason didn’t laugh.
His hand—which had been resting loosely on her waist—tightened, just slightly.
She looked up at him, caught off guard by the stillness in his expression. The way his eyes had shifted—not soft, not teasing, but something deeper. Darker.
“You’re not leaving,” he said, voice quiet but hard.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“You’re not leaving, Y/N.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. But it felt like the wind stopped.
His heart was thundering in his ears.
Not anger. Not jealousy.
Fear.
Because for all the demons Jason Todd had faced—death, resurrection, rage, Gotham—nothing terrified him like the idea of her being gone again. Out there. Vulnerable. Without him to guard her.
He could live in hell.
But he couldn’t live without her.
She blinked up at him, uncertain. Maybe even a little startled.
He swallowed hard, looking away briefly before pulling her a little closer.
“You think I’d let you vanish?” he murmured.
“You think I could survive that again?”
He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.
But deep in his chest, something twisted and anchored. A vow.
He’d give her anything.
Protect her from everything.
Destroy anything that tried to reach for her—
—except her freedom. That, he couldn’t allow.
Because she was his little sister. His light in the gutter. His redemption he never earned.
And he’d rather burn down the world than let it steal her smile again.
Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)
Chapter 8
A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹
I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy
The city skyline bled grey against the window.
Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.
And yet—
Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.
It had arrived with Alfred that morning.
No explanation. No label.
Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.
“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”
He hadn’t opened it at first.
Didn’t think much of it.
Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.
But now—he was exhausted.
And he needed something to distract him.
He opened the lid.
Dozens of envelopes.
All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.
A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.
He blinked.
Lifted one.
____
To Daddy
From: Y/N
____
The writing was messy.
Half the letters backward.
The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.
He hesitated.
Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.
The paper inside was pink.
Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.
The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.
⸻
Hi Daddy.
I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.
Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.
But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.
I still like you.
From,
Y/N
(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)
⸻
The final line was in all caps.
The “D” in bread looked like a flower.
He read it twice.
Then three more times.
By the fourth, he had to stop.
He closed his eyes.
The words burned.
The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.
As if she already expected to be dismissed.
He reached into the box again.
Pulled another letter.
Then another.
And another.
⸻
Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.
I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?
I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.
⸻
Some were barely legible.
Some were never even opened.
All were dated between age five to twelve.
All addressed to him.
⸻
He remembered the first time he saw her.
When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.
“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”
He’d thought she was bluffing.
But she wasn’t.
She led them to an address.
Run-down. Hidden.
And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.
Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.
A stuffed elephant held in her hands.
Bruce had frozen.
Because when she looked up at him—
She smiled.
Small. Hopeful.
“Are you my daddy?”
He didn’t know how to answer.
Didn’t know how to hold her.
Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.
But she reached for him anyway.
⸻
Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.
His breath shook.
⸻
Alfred
He had watched her for weeks.
Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.
And he had known something was wrong.
Something was cracking behind that smile.
He couldn’t do much.
Not anymore.
But he could make them see what they had done.
So he packed the letters.
Every single one he’d intercepted.
Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.
Every note that went unanswered.
Every truth her father never read.
He packed them in a box.
And gave them to Bruce.
“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.
Until one day… the girl is simply gone.
____
Bruce
He couldn’t stop shaking.
The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.
Color-coded by her own childish hand.
“2000—&—10”
“11 and a haf.”
“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”
“Fourtine”
He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.
The birthdays.
The school plays.
The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.
The “I got picked for science fair!”
The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”
The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”
He kept reading.
Letter after letter.
And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.
It was the tone.
How it changed.
At first, she always asked:
“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”
“Will you come see my painting?”
“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”
And then she started writing more like:
“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”
“I hope you’re safe tonight.”
“I watched the news. You looked brave.”
Then—
She stopped asking altogether.
Just sent updates.
“I won the English award this week.”
“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”
“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”
“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”
And still, he never wrote back.
He didn’t remember ever seeing these.
Had Alfred intercepted them?
Or had he just…
Not cared enough to notice.
His hand hovered over the last envelope.
It was dated exactly one year ago.
The handwriting was sharper now.
Grown.
Still soft. Still graceful.
But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.
Just a white envelope.
Sealed with tape.
Her name signed in ink, small and clean:
From Y/N
He opened it.
His stomach dropped.
____
Dear Dad,
I hope you are well.
I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.
I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.
I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.
I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.
I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.
But maybe you already are part of too many things.
That’s okay.
I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.
Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.
I hope the city treats you kindly.
I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.
—Y/N
⸻
He didn’t breathe.
He couldn’t.
The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.
A whole year ago.
She had already stopped.
She had already stopped.
Stopped writing.
Stopped asking.
Stopped hoping.
But Bruce—
He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.
He didn’t call.
Didn’t ask Alfred to check.
He just left.
Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.
She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.
He told himself that. Over and over.
She’ll be there.
She’ll be home.
With Damian.
Back from school.
He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.
He just needed to see her. To hold her.
To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.
The car couldn’t move fast enough.
He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.
Empty.
Silent.
She’s probably upstairs.
“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.
He was already in motion.
Then he heard the front door open behind him.
Footsteps.
Fast. Familiar.
Damian.
The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.
Bruce turned to face him.
“Where’s your sister?”
Damian blinked. Frowned.
“…She’s not back yet?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”
Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”
Bruce didn’t move.
Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”
He sounded defensive.
But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.
He was already walking.
Up the stairs.
Slow. Measured.
Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.
He sighed.
Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.
About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.
He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.
Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.
The room furthest from the rest.
The door was cracked open.
He pushed it fully open.
And stopped.
Not because the room was plain.
He’d already noticed that last week.
Not because there were no flowers.
Not because the bed was neatly made.
Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.
But because—
Her elephant plush was gone.
The one thing she never went anywhere without.
The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.
It wasn’t there.
Something in his chest—
snapped.
He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.
It was too quiet.
Behind him, footsteps slowed.
Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
He stood behind Bruce now.
Looked into the same empty space.
And his heart cracked.
Not from surprise.
But from confirmation.
He had feared this.
Felt it in his bones.
Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.
Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.
His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.
“Where the hell is my daughter?”
Alfred didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
The silence said it all.
Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.
Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.
Then he heard those words.
Froze.
Eyes narrowing.
“What…?”
His voice faltered.
“What do you mean by 'where'?”
Bruce turned, expression blank.
“She left.”
“Left where?”
No answer.
Alfred stepped into the doorway now.
Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.
His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:
“She packed.”
“She’s not coming back.”
Damian took a step back.
His throat tightened.
He thought of their fight.
Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.
And now she was gone.
She lied to him.
She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.
And then she disappeared.
Damian looked at the room again.
At the bed. The window.
And for the first time in his life—
He felt scared.
The room was still.
Frozen in time.
None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Until—
“Hey—”
Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.
Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.
A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.
The chess box.
The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.
His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.
Three of them were standing there.
Bruce. Damian. Alfred.
Silent.
Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.
Something in their posture—
Something wrong.
Tim blinked.
“…What’s going on?”
Bruce didn’t turn.
Alfred lowered his gaze.
And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.
Tim stepped closer, confused.
Then—
He caught a glimpse inside the room.
Empty bed.
No color.
No presence.
And the phone.
Her phone.
Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.
His breath caught.
“…No.”
He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.
Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.
The phone pinged.
Last location: Here.
Status: Offline.
No signal.
No trace.
Nothing.
“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.
Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”
He was already spiraling.
Then Damian moved.
Like a switch flipped in him.
He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.
Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.
“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.
He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.
And then—
His hand paused.
A soft click.
One of the planks wobbled.
He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.
A loose board lifted.
Underneath,
a box.
Not tech.
Not cash.
Not escape supplies.
Just—
A box.
Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.
Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.
And inside:
Drawings.
Letters.
Painted cards.
Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.
All of it—
For them.
“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”
“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”
That never happened.
“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”
Even ones for Bruce:
“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”
“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”
The drawings were aged.
Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.
Most were never opened.
Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.
No one spoke.
Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.
“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”
Tim stared into the box.
Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.
A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.
Then the door burst open.
“I’m home!”
Dick’s voice.
Bright.
Hopeful.
He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.
“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”
They didn’t answer.
He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.
“…What happened?”
He looked past them.
Into the room.
And saw it.
The phone.
The empty bed.
The missing elephant plush.
The blank silence.
The box in Bruce’s hands.
The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.
The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.
Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.
Dick’s voice cracked.
“…Where’s my little flower?”
_____
The window creaked.
The air shifted.
All heads turned.
Jason.
Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.
Unlocked?
He frowned.
That window was never left open.
He would have to scold her for being so careless.
The room hit him like a brick.
Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.
And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.
Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.
“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”
No one laughed.
No one even flinched.
That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.
And Dick—
Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.
Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.
“…Where is she?”
No one answered.
He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.
“What happened? What the hell happened?”
Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.
Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”
His throat tightened.
“…She made this?”
Dick didn’t speak.
Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.
Jason took it.
Read.
And everything inside him stopped.
“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”
Jason lowered the page slowly.
“…She’s gone.”
Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”
“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.
“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”
That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.
Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.
“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”
“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.
“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”
No one stopped him.
Not this time.
Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.
“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”
Jason’s breath caught.
“The elephant?”
Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.
Jason cursed.
He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.
“You’re the genius—track her.”
“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”
Dick finally stood up.
When he moved, he moved like a soldier.
Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.
“Where are you going?” Jason asked.
“Where do you think?”
Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.
“I’m going to find my little flower.”
Damian stood too.
“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”
“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”
His eyes finally lifted.
“But we’re going to learn.”
They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.
But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.
Resolve.
Not calm.
Not peace.
Something darker.
Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.
She was theirs—their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.
And now?
She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
In a city like Gotham.
That was unacceptable.
Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.
She was going to be found.
She was going to be brought back.
And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.
More dad survivor x zombie reader + an old friend :) (tw: dead animal, guns, emetophobia, threats of harm)
"Aw, sugar.." The dead bird is the farthest thing from appetizing but you look so darn happy offering it to him, how's he supposed to say no?
"You're the sweetest, daddy will eat it later, ok?" That at least seems to be satisfactory enough for now, as you drop the poor thing down onto the park table.
The playground has long been abandoned, left in disarray since the apocalypse hit, that doesnt stop Hank from finding it absolutely adorable when you try to climb up a slide. Nearly gives him a heart attack though.
"Baby, come on, you're gonna hurt yourself." He wonders if you remember being little and playing here, your memory isn't the best when it comes to some things but you sure seem to recall what it takes to give him gray hairs. "I know you think it's fun, but your old man really couldn't handle it if you got scratched up while you're messing around."
You get hurt so easily now a days, he's basically toddler proofed the house all over again and yet you still find a way to bang yourself up when he's not around, that's why he's taken to tying you up when he can't keep an eye on you.
When you do finally decide to slide back down, Hank immediately sweeps you up into his arms with a soft chuckle. "Alright, alright, I think you've had enough outside time for today, we should be headin' home."
It would've been a good day, a great one even, if he didn't catch the glittering of a silver barrel from the corner of his eye.
"Shit-" Hank has never been more greatful that he was holding you, because you lunge automatically for the stranger and likewise closer to the gun. "No, sweetheart, shhh..shh..calm down.." God, he'd love it if you listened, it's hard to pull out his own pistol while trying to wrangle you into staying put.
Other survivors aren't very common in town, most people left after the first few months.
"You gonna let that thing go so I can shoot it?" He recognizes that voice, and it makes Hank's heart sink into a pit in his stomach. "I ain't.. Hank?" A familiar face is rare, a friendly familiar face is nearly unheard of.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot, just step back for a minute, alright?" When Hank glances over, he wasn't expecting Bo to be emptying his stomach onto the cement.
"I- Fuck-" The man retches again, dryheaving. "You.. God, the kid.." An honorary uncle, Bo knew you since the day you where born, he didn't see the day that was meant to be your last.
"I know," You stopped struggling once you heard his voice, eyes wide as you simply whine to be let down. "You're gonna have to wait, be patient, hun." That never was your strong suit. "The grown ups need to talk."
"Hank.. man, you gotta let them go.." There's tears in Bo's eyes as he takes a cautious step forward. "They're dead. There aren't any ifs or buts, that's a corpse. You can't-"
"That is my child," He's been a sinner for a long time, if it comes down to it, shooting his brother will be one of his worst. "My baby, what kind of father am I to hurt them?"
"A merciful one!" There are days you wake up confused and scared, you cry for hours or at least your body tries to. "They aren't a person anymore, Hank, they aren't themselves. You're fucking lucky they haven't bitten you yet!"
"I'd welcome it if they did." He's thought about it, that first night when you went cold in his arms and many more after that. "You pull that trigger and that's it, a life without my kid isn't worth living."
"Dammit," Hank almost collapses in relief as the gun is holstered, putting his away as well. "You're still an idiot, huh? Figures.."
Bo approaches slowly, never taking his eyes off your still form. All you do is smile and try to reach out for a hug, but he cringes away with a look of disgust.
Hank's heart breaks as you tuck your teary face against his neck. He doesn't know how to explain in a way you'd still understand, all he can is press a kiss to your forehead and shush your sniffles.
Yandere platonic Geralt!! Generally very cool!! Very nice!! But if you fuck up you have to deal with (what you have dubbed) the get along cuff. Which is literally him just making you sleep next to him and tying your leg to his with a bit of leather cord. It’s thin so he can easily snap it if there’s a danger, but he’ll wake up if you move it.
Also Jaskier being completely fine and okay with this would be hilarious, I would love to see you write a scenerio!! (Idk why but I picture a modern reader, like one who got dropped in the Witcher from the modern world)
I love this ask!! I also love the trope of a modern character in a medieval setting, I think it was all the ‘Modern Girl IN Middle Earth’ fanfics I read (an actual tag on ao3) so I have a weakness for it!! Also Jaskier just going ‘eh’ is so funny to me.
Warnings: forced proximity, captivity, kidnapping, some level of being infantalized, being tied to another person as a form of being restrained, future Stockholm syndrome. Jaskier is complicit, up to you whether he is also a yandere or not. Also the fact Geralt can smell emotions
“You know this could be like, an actual danger?”
You try and reason your way out of your situation, like reason has ever worked on Geralt before. He ignores you, mostly, concentrating on tying the knot around your wrist in a manner that you cannot undo the knot but it also didn’t cut off your circulation. He slips a finger under the cord, testing the knot and the cords strength, and you hear him make a satisfied rumble. You were still getting used to that, to the various sounds the Witcher made to express emotion.
“No it’s not. The cord’s thin, and if I have to fight I can snap it easily. Plus this area doesn’t normally have monsters, not this time of year.”
He stands, towering over you from you spot on the ground, near the fire, and you tilt your face up. The yellow light throws his features into a harsh countenance, makes his face all angles and scars, golden eyes reflecting the light the way a predators would as he glared down at you, scowling. You tighten your fingers in the wool cloak he had given you, so long ago, the fibers catching in your nails.
He must see something in your gaze, or maybe it’s the way you know you probably reek of anxiety right now, but his stance softens, the scowl melting away into something softer, not a smile because you knew he was still very, very upset with you, but not a harsh frown that made you feel small and stupid and like all the things he thought about you were true.
He crouches, making himself smaller next to you, and you feel your shoulders start to unwind. It was strange, being around someone who was so perceptive to your emotions, but seemingly had no clue how to address or handle them, beyond his own instincts as a Witcher and his limited interpersonal skills. His very limited interpersonal skills.
Seriously. You were pretty sure the guy only had two friends.
“You’re going to try and run again. Maybe not tonight, but I clearly can’t trust you to behave without me keeping my eye on you at all times. Since I can’t do that while I’m asleep, this is the solution.”
He motions to the thin leather cord, and you scowl, face twisting into something you know is ugly but doing it anyways. He wouldn’t be intimidated, you knew, he seemed to view you as some helpless kid, even though you were a fully grown adult who had been attending college.
“You wouldn’t have to watch me if you just let me go, Geralt. You can’t… you can’t just not let someone go home, that’s not right.”
You snap, fingers burying further into the cloak to stave off the chill that was only getting colder, creeping up your arms and legs to your torso and making you shiver. It had just gotten dark, the little fire Geralt built crackling away and too small to provide much warmth but rapidly gaining strength, and you shiver, leaning toward the fire and away from the Witcher.
“We’re not having this conversation again. You can’t survive out there on your own.”
Your face flushes, angry, and you bury your face further into the cloak. He had a point, to some extent. You weren’t used to the world of the Witcher, with its monsters and it’s hardships, weren’t used to the roughness of medieval life and all of its struggles. You were used to the modern world, where distances could be travelled by car, not horse, and you didn’t have to endure biting cold in the winter and blazing heat in the summer.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t at least try, Geralt. What kinda person would I be if I didn’t at least try to get home?” You protest, and there’s the sound of rustling, a muttered curse. Looks like Jaskier was back with wood.
“Ah. Seems I walked into a horribly tense situation.”
Jaskier remarks, but his voice is light, not taking your predicament seriously, even as his eyes land on the tether around your wrist and Geralt’s as he feeds wood into the fire, which licks up the logs and sticks eagerly, hungry for fuel. You scowl, face buried in the cloak to hide your sour mood as much as possible. Geralt didn’t care if you were pisses off or not, he cared when you were afraid not when you were mad, but Jaskier would do everything in his power to pull you out of your bad mood. From telling stories to playing little tavern songs, he would be relentless in making sure you cracked a smile at least once, and you didn’t feel like having to endure the bards attempts to cheer you up right now.
“Is tying them to you really necessary though, Geralt? They look like a kicked pup, can’t you be a bit more lenient?”
Jaskier wheedles, and wow, he might actually be your favorite person right now. You peek up from the fold of the cloak, and he’s got a hand on a hip, shifting his weight with a concerned frown. He looks entirely disapproving of the whole thing, which makes your heart soar. Maybe he would actually be able to get Geralt to listen to him.
“They’re lucky I don’t tie them on Roach all day.” Geralt grumbles, setting up the bed rolls. You could feel every small movement he made, the motion tugging gently on the thin tether.
“Oh you grump. Stop being so rude.” Jaskier huffs, sitting next to you, and you quietly despair how easily he gave in, how quickly he yielded to what Geralt wanted to do. You tuck your face back into the cloak, dejected.
“Hey now, it isn’t all bad. There are worse places to sleep. I can recall a few of them myself.”
Jaskier’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you glare, annoyed. You didn’t want company, or comfort, or any of it. You wanted one thing, and it was something that the both of them were denying you.
Jaskier, because he was Jaskier, seemingly didn’t notice. Which wasn’t the greatest.
“Yeah, sure, I guess. Never slept tied to somebody, though.” You say pointedly, and the annoyed rumble Geralt gives is almost worth it. Sharp gold eyes narrow at you slightly, before Geralt huffs, turning back to his task.
“I have! Well, it was more I had been knocked unconscious, but it still applies, I think! And those ropes were rather coarse, my wrists were aching for days!” Jaskier recalls. “Geralt had to rescue me, it was quite the adventure. I wrote a song about it, at some point, although I never published it. I really should rework that song, actually, come to think of it.”
He rambles, his voice filling the tense silence between you and Geralt, and you feel your shoulders start to relax. He was good at that, chattering to fill the silence that would drag on for hours between the two of you if it wasn’t for him. You sigh quietly, leaning into the warm hand clasped on your shoulders as the fire grows in strength, the bedrolls almost fully prepared.
“Alright. Jaskier, you take first watch, and I’ll take over in an hour or so.” There must not be many monsters around, you think, for Geralt to be so comfortable letting Jaskier take watch. Jaskier nods, slipping away your side as Geralt approaches.
“Not a problem! I was feeling wired tonight anyways, a few more hours though and I should be able to sleep well enough.” Jaskier agrees amicably. “Although I am a bit surprised, you normally insist on first watch.”
“Wanna get (Y/N) down.” Geralt huffs, and Jaskier nods.
“Fair enough, I suppose. They are criminally lacking in the sleep department, they’re beginning to get bags, poor thing.”
You scowl at Jaskier, annoyed.
“I’ve had these since middle school, first of all, not my fault I have insomnia.” You scowl, and jerk when Geralt all but drags you to the bed roll, barely waiting for you to finish talking.
“Hey!” You protests, annoyed, but he’s too busy ‘getting you settled’ as he liked to call it. Fussing over the blankets and the best roll, making sure your body was protected from the harsh winds that even the fire couldn’t stave off.
“Jaskier, stop keeping them up.” Geralt grumbles, sounding more tired than annoyed. He drags you closer, and it must be a Witcher thing to radiate heat like a furnace, because he was chasing off the cold without even trying, the same arm that you were tied to securing you against his chest.
“Pretty sure I can sleep on my own.”
You snark, and Geralt rolls his eyes.
“Not for the next week you aren’t, if that. Now go to bed.”
You scowl, glaring up at him. With the blanket over you, the fire, and the heat radiating off his body, you were tired, sure. But not tired enough not to say something, not when you were being treated like an idiot who couldn’t do anything for themselves.
“You can’t just- Geralt this isn’t right, and you know it. You can’t just- keep me here!”
You protest. Arguing with Geralt was much like arguing with a wall, honestly. Stubborn and just as likely to listen to you as the bricks that made up the walls of your old college.
But walls could come down. You just had to get through to him, make him realize that what was doing wasn’t going to work. You weren’t strong enough or fast enough to escape him, not without some clever plan or tricks up your sleeve, and you were pretty sure that an Olympic level athlete would still have issues trying to outpace him. So your only hope was getting him to listen.
It was a fragile hope, but it was the only hope you had.
“We’re not talking about this right now. Go to sleep.”
Geralt grumbles, and you open your mouth again. The warning rumble in his chest cuts you off, and you swallow.
The sound was exactly that. A warning. Geralt had never hurt you before, not really, but whenever he got mad things were miserable. Jaskier would be irritated with you for ‘putting Geralt in a mood’ as he put it, and you would be without the bard’s chattering to fill the heavy silent between you and Geralt. Not to mention the awkwardness of being forced to ride atop Roach with Geralt, the silence thick with tension between the two of you, or the way you would hope desperately for the day to end so you could go to sleep.
No, it was better to keep the Witcher happy. For all parties.
“Alright. Good night.” You finally mutter, and he sighs, the tension leaving his body. You feel his torso loosen, relaxing behind you, and you feel your hand shaking, just slightly. Or a little more than slightly. Your stomach twists, and Geralt sighs.
“I know you don’t understand. But you’ll realize this is what’s best for you.” He says it like it’s supposed to be an assurance, smoothing a hand over your hair like you’re a particularly fussy child, and you consider, for a second, twisting and biting that hand. Driving your teeth deep enough to draw blood and make him listen to you, for once.
You don’t, mainly because you know he would just move it fast enough your teeth would just snap at empty air.
You close your eyes. With the almost stifling heat behind you, and the too-heavy weight of the cord on your wrist that logically shouldn’t feel as heavy as it did, sleep does not come easy. Eventually, though, you feel your consciousness slip away into oblivion.
Can we get some thing for a platonic miles, Gwen, Hobie, pavitr and reader just having fun? Like since they're all around the same age, maybe headcanons of what they liek to do with reader. How would they react to someone messing with reader?
Hanging out with you (Yandere Spiderverse x reader).
Depending on whether or not they're hanging out with you individually or all together as a group the dynamic is different. Most of the time, they're hanging out with you together, since it's much easier to just go to HQ than sneak you into their dimension.
It's very common for at least one of them to be with you at all times. Most of the time that's Gwen, since she spends a lot of her time in HQ. Out of all of them, Miguel prefers you hang out with Gwen. She's responsible and he knows you aren't going to get hurt when she's with you. Gwen likes teaching you how to dance or how to play the drums. Honestly, she wants to be a mentor towards you, it gives her a sense of belonging that she desperately craves. The days where she brings Miles with her, she feels most at peace, since she's able to be with two of her favorite people.
Pavitr is also pretty responsible, mostly because he couldn't live with himself if you got hurt on his watch. Unlike Gwen, he isn't afraid to bring you into his dimension, preferring to hang out with you their because he thinks HQ is so boring. Pavitr loves seeing you happy, so he really doesn't care what you want to do as long as you're happy doing it. Also, like Gwen, he tends to hang out with you and Hobie. When he's with Hobie, he gets a little more mischievous and will get you to play pranks on the other spiders.
Miles doesn't come to HQ often, since he's busy with school and his own dimension. He really only comes around when he wants to hang with Gwen. However, that doesn't mean he doesn't want to see you. In fact, he's tried many, many times to get you to enroll in his school to spend more time with him. He really doesn't see a problem with it, since you're around his age and shouldn't be spending all your time at HQ. But he's super intimidated by Miguel, so he doesn't really bring it up. When he's with you, he really just wants to relax, since he doesn't get to do that with being Spiderman and all. He prefers to just listen to music with you and draw, as it helps with his anxiety.
Finally, there's Hobie. Hobie really just does what he wants, so he doesn't see a problem with bringing you to his dimension or hanging out with you whenever he wants. Miguel really doesn't like you hanging with Hobie since he views him as a troublemaker that will tarnish your innocent nature, but that doesn't stop Hobie from showing up at your door randomly and welcoming himself in whenever he pleases. Like I mentioned, he's with Pavitr most of the time, and the three of you will hang out together. Hobie is like an older brother to you, teasing you and playfully annoying you, but never anything that goes too far. Hobie is also the one who can read you the best, so you can't really hide anything from him.
All of them together is kinda chaotic. They work together pretty well, but they can all be pretty demanding of your attention. This can cause a lot of arguments that you mostly just dissociate from until one of them ask you to take a side. Once all the arguments are over, all they really care about it being with you. Sleepovers are very common, which does not amuse Miguel when he comes in to check on you.
If anyone was to mess with you, they wouldn't see the light of day. They really don't appreciate anyone messing with their friends, and that applies to you as well. This isn't even mentioning Miguel, who really, really, doesn't take any offense to you lightly. Either way, even if it's something minor, they are all ready to defend you like your life depended on it.
In the cold, towering shadows of Wayne Manor, you existed as a flicker of something forgotten, something unseen. To the family, you were a presence, but never a person—a thing that was always there, never quite needed, but always expected to be. It was a strange kind of loneliness, one that settled deep within your bones. It wasn’t hate, not outright. But it was neglect, a neglect that twisted and shaped itself into something far more sinister.
Bruce, with all his focus on Gotham’s endless darkness, had never known how to be a father in the way you needed. He loved you, he cared for you in his own way, but it was a cold, distant love, one born out of obligation. He made sure you had everything you needed: food, clothes, shelter. But that was all it was. There was no warmth in his touch, no kindness in his words. Every time he passed by, his gaze barely brushed over you, and you would hold your breath, hoping for just a second of acknowledgment, a second of care that never came. But you learned quickly—Bruce didn’t have time to see you. His world was bigger than you, and in his eyes, you were just a small piece of the puzzle. You weren’t a person to be loved and cherished. You were a responsibility. A duty. He never once sat down with you to hear how your day went, or how you felt. If you wanted attention, you had to earn it. If you needed comfort, you had to wait for him to decide you were worthy of it.
Dick, who was always smiling, always so eager to please, had a different kind of neglect. He wasn’t cold like Bruce, but he wasn’t present either. Dick was always somewhere else, wrapped up in his own world. He’d sweep into the room with his wide grin, maybe a pat on the head, maybe a quick word here or there. But his affection never reached past the surface. It was the kind of love that only showed up when it was convenient, when it didn’t get in the way of his own life. He would hug you, but it was quick, fleeting, as though his attention was already elsewhere. Sometimes you would stand there for minutes, waiting for him to notice you, to actually see you, but the longer you waited, the more you realized it wasn’t going to happen. Dick wasn’t truly there, not in the way you needed him to be. He never asked you how you were doing, never checked on you when you were quiet for too long. You weren’t worth his time unless it was easy, unless it was convenient. And as time passed, you learned that his love was always on his terms, and you were always left waiting for the moments that never came.
Tim, who was so intelligent and sharp, didn’t understand you at all. He looked at you like a problem to solve. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness in his voice when he spoke to you. His way of showing care was to ask you if you’d eaten, or if you were okay, but there was always a sense that he was doing it out of routine rather than genuine concern. If you showed signs of needing more than the bare minimum, he’d get frustrated, annoyed even, as if your needs were an inconvenience. You weren’t allowed to be a bother. You weren’t allowed to be human. Tim loved you, yes, but it was the love of someone who didn’t know how to love. He saw you as an extension of his world, not a person in your own right. Your silence was met with frustration, your sadness met with impatience. He didn’t have time to comfort you; he had cases to solve, problems to fix. You were a task to him, a thing to be checked off and moved on from.
Jason’s love was the most painful of all. It wasn’t outright cruel, but it was laced with a sharpness that cut deep. Jason would pull you close when you needed him the least, but when you needed him the most, he would turn away. His love came in flashes, in moments of brief connection that would burn brightly before fading into coldness. He wasn’t able to offer you the consistency you craved, the stability that your heart so desperately needed. When he did notice you, it was often in a sharp, harsh way—his anger spilling out, his guilt over his own brokenness feeding into his care for you, but it was a broken care. It was as if he wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t figure out how without making you feel like a burden. His love was suffocating, overbearing, because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But that was his problem, wasn’t it? His love was for himself, his need to fix something broken, and not for you. He loved you with the intensity of a man trying to fix his own past mistakes, but never once did he pause to think if you needed that love, or if it was too much to carry.
Damian’s neglect came in the form of indifference. You didn’t exist in his world. His eyes would slide over you like you were nothing more than a fixture in the background. He had no patience for anything that wasn’t him, no time to stop and listen to your needs. When he did interact with you, it was always with an air of superiority. He would demand your attention, but when you needed his, he was too proud to offer it. His love wasn’t love at all—it was control. He wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into his idea of what you should be. He never bothered to learn who you truly were, who you were beyond the title of "his sibling." To him, you were just an extension of his father's empire, not a person in your own right. His love came with expectations, and if you didn’t meet them, he would ignore you, push you further away. His neglect was harsh and unapologetic. It wasn’t even something he noticed, because in his eyes, he was right. And you were just supposed to be there.
Cassandra and Stephanie, who had seen pain in their own lives, understood loneliness, but they couldn’t reach you in the way you needed. Cassandra, though she understood the language of silence, was too quiet herself to break the walls you had built. She couldn’t reach into your soul the way you needed, couldn’t make you feel like you were more than just a shadow. Stephanie tried, she really did. She was always the bright one, the one who pulled you into her light, who tried to make you laugh, tried to be the friend you didn’t have. But it wasn’t enough. Her love was more like a mask, something to keep up appearances, something to show that she cared—but deep down, you knew it wasn’t the kind of love you needed. It was temporary. It was the kind of love that lasted only as long as it was convenient, and when the days became long, when the nights became cold, Stephanie’s love faded into the background like everything else.
Duke, the newest addition to the family, wanted to be the one to fix things, but he was just too late. He saw the cracks in the family, the way you were pushed aside, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight against the currents that had already shaped you into something else. His love was genuine, but it was too new, too fragile to make a difference in the sea of neglect that had already swallowed you whole. He wanted to protect you, wanted to be the person you could rely on, but he couldn’t find a way to break through the walls of hurt that had built themselves around you.
They all loved you, in their own way. But love, when it’s cold, distant, and inconsistent, becomes a weapon. Love, when it’s mixed with neglect, becomes emotional abuse. It isn’t always harsh or violent. It’s quiet, hidden in the silences, in the moments where your needs go unrecognized. It’s in the way they forget you, in the way they act as though your pain is just a passing inconvenience. It’s in the way they only notice you when it suits them, when they remember that you’re there, when it’s time to check off the box of “care.”
You weren’t hated. But you were forgotten. And in the shadows of Wayne Manor, where the world’s greatest heroes lived, that silence was the loudest thing you could ever hear.
WARNINGS: 18+ as always on my blog, though the work is safe for work. Typical yandere shenanigans. HEAVY discussion of drugging and taking away of autonomy.
Tim is a really interesting person, in general. I’m just obsessed with the idea of him drugging a darling, just keeping them all pliant and sleepy and curled up in his bed, even if he’s platonic.
He spends a lot of time just…watching you, whether that be through cameras or in real life.
You never find the cameras, even though you know they’re there. If you asked him, he wouldn’t deny it. Why would he? There’s nothing you could do about it, and he honestly doesn’t trust your opinions on your own safety. Tim views you as quite innocent and naive, and that’s part of why he spends so much time building a little cocoon in the bed for you to curl up in, your soft snuffles just barely moving the light sheet he’s laid around you.
Just. UGH. I think at first he’d drug your food.
But you start noticing, and you start avoiding food. This sets the rest of the batfam off; is TIm not taking care of you properly?!
(They sometimes talk about you like a pet. It’s weird. You’ve learned not to mention it.)
In response, you’re tied down with soft satin straps and drugged out of your mind through an IV. You’re on an all-liquid diet, practically seeing stars. Tim doesn’t need you conscious or coherent, just safe from harm, after all.
I could even see him putting you in a temporary coma, at least until the heat from your kidnapping dies down.
I can’t get over the idea of you just. Trusting him so much, so naively, and he’s just. Fucking drugging your hot chocolate to get you to the manor, he knows if he doesn’t then Jason will and Jason won’t be as gentle about it.
UGH just imagine him doing those exercises every day with you to keep your muscles from atrophying AGHHHH
You wake up afterwards, it’s dark and your mouth is dry. You try to sit up- and you can’t. You’re too weak, too tired from the still-present drugs coursing through your veins. It’s then you see a bright flash, illuminating the corner and it’s FUCKING TIM JUST STANDING THERE
He uses his best camera, just dedicates it to pictures of you, creates an album.
He shows it to everyone else, they’re all cooing and aweing and you’re just sitting there like HELLO PLEASE LET ME LEAVE 🙁
Eventually he might even give you a bit of a choice. You can eat the food, or you can get an injection. When you take the injection you lose an entire day of time, and who knows what the FUCK happened? (nothing, Tim just. Spent most of the day working, occasionally taking the time to brush a hand over your face, just gently tracing your features.)
The others start to get annoyed Tim’s hogging you, and he gets you a wheelchair. You’re too weak, too drugged to be able to move yourself around, and he somehow manages to put some sort of thing on the wheels that lock if you try to go out the door. Like the fucking Grocery Carts.
He starts wheeling you around, letting you see the garden and the birds and Batcow. You spend a lot of time in the library with Alfred the cat curled in your lap, purring as you try to follow the plot of a simple book, your eyes too blurry to see the words properly.
Jason’ll read to you, he likes the bonding time. Plus, your eyes can’t really focus on anyone’s face too long, so he doesn’t have to worry about you being scared by the scars ripped into his skin by his death.
Cass’ll roll you into her studio, prop you against the wall, and just do a stunning routine. Unfortunately you can’t see it very well, and you clap really slowly because your hands feel like they’re filled with lead. She appreciates the effort.
Dick eventually takes over your stretches, though he does sometimes have to fight Bruce for the right. Both love helping you gently stretch out your limbs, admiring the shaking that only comes from intense effort. You’re cute, like a newborn lamb.
It’s infuriating watching Dick do all these complicated moves, while you can barely lift your head, but oh well, they’re so happy you’re here!!
Damian treats you like a younger sibling, even though you’re significantly older than him. He adores having this position of power over you, and abuses it to spend most of his time with you just. Showing you his animals. Titus is practically your emotional support dog at this point, and he trains Ace to be your guard dog.
Bruce loves having you curled up in the office, snoring slightly on the couch, as he slowly wades his way through work. He’ll throw a blanket over you, even as you whimper and shy away from the food he’s hand-feeding you. You aren’t allowed to feed yourself anymore, hell you can barely lift your hand to your mouth.
You eventually get used to spending all your time just. Hanging around, sleeping and letting everyone else do everything for you.
There's just so much potential for platonic !yan Tim Drake that isn't really explored. This post may flop but I like to imagine that yan! Tim Drake is actually the worse out of all his brothers...
Masterlist
Requests: always open
Look...you and i both know that Tim is canonically unhinged. But Batsis!reader doesn't.
It's so easy for you to forget that your brother Tim is so dangerous. I mean he doesn't really seem all that different from any other nerdy 19 year old. His body doesn't loom over you like the more bulky of your brothers, and his presence is rather...calming? I mean there's still a bit of uneasiness there but it's so subtle that you can brush it off
He's normal when he interacts with you. He doesn't bug you to spend time with him or uncomfortably touch you like Dick does. He is sweet and gentle...He knows how you prefer to be engaged with and respects what you don't like.
But, that's what makes him so dangerous. He knows you. Every. Last. Detail. He's gotten so good at being a nasty little fly on the wall that sometimes you forget he's even in the room. He's always around you, observing and collecting data. He's got you wrapped around his fingers and you don't realize it.
But it's not your fault. It's hard to even imagine that someone as mellow as Tim could ever share the same traits as his brothers.
Yan! Tim fully picked up just how intuitive you are and how you can spot red flags easily. He's so calculated and careful with every interaction. It's amazing how natural he makes these conversations flow. Well, they better. He's spent hours analyzing and practicing how to speak to you. His heart is pounding with anticipation, as every shred of information you give him is going right into his files on you.
Oh! The files he has on you? When Jason and Dick asked him about how many he had, he said only 4. Which is true. but those 4 files have much more information and pictures of you than they could comprehend. ...and he wasn't accounting for the hard drives and physical stacks of papers he stole. I believe Tim knows more about you than you do. When was the last time you've seen your medical records? Passports? Birth certificate? Is your ID even in your wallet? Don't worry, your brother Tim is keeping them safe for you.
Yan! Tim is a little stalker who may or may not have put a tracking/listening devices in your bag so he can keep tabs on you. <33 That's why he's always wearing headphones so he cab listen in. A small piece of missed information could cost him so much. Don't be mad, batsis! He cannot risk making you suspicious of him by asking you invasive questions so this is the only way.
I Like to think you automatically sit by him. whether it be during breakfast, watching a movie or in the car. You feel safer with him and it's a better option in your head than being with Dick who will be overbearing. Tim always acts cool, even a little annoyed by you at times but inside he's screaming. Your scent, your small smiles at him and nudge his shoulders when he makes a funny remark all send him into overdrive.
But i must say, it's exhausting for him to hold back his obsession all of the time. Sometimes he envies his siblings and how shameless they are in their obsessions. Tim Drake thinks about how great it would to be to just be hugged by you or for you to want to fall asleep on him like you do with Jason.
Sometimes, our creepy detective will slip up. He will say or do something that is odd to you
"I cannot remember the name of that song i used to listen to...what was it.."
"It's this one by that local band, sis."
"oh, yeah! wait...how did you-"
"I know you better than i know myself..."
"...what?"
*an incident happened where dick basically forced you to say i love you back. Tim was there and he was so so jealous*
"You love me the most though, right?"
You laughed, thinking it was a joke\
"Sure, Tim. You are my favorite Robin."
*Tim is very visibly becoming feral. Almost in the same way as Dick and you are slightly alarmed*
"...I'm your favorite Robin? So you do love me more than them."
"0-o"
He repeats it over and over again in his mind. If he was recording it like he does with many of your interaction, it will be on instant replay every morning as an affirmation.
That one time you were chilling in the study with Tim. His head was ducked, low into the computer. It was super late by this time and you didn't really want to bother him so you ended up leaving without saying anything, and headed to your room. Tim was beyond hurt that you were breaking his version of bonding time and you had the audacity to not even announce your exit. He's so swift that it startled you when he grabbed your wrist from behind. His grip was....strong.... to say the least..... and he questioned why you were leaving him.
speaking of his strength, Tim is so skinny that you forget he is well trained with a nice bit of muscle. Maybe not as strong as his brothers or Bruce but he can easily subdue you.
He's definitely broken a lock or two, to get into your room at the dead of night and watch you sleep. This is the only time when he can be as fucked up as he wants to. The unhinged look in his eyes while going through your things and taking what's interesting..The adrenaline that you might catch him, excites him. He can't help but to sickly smile as he makes his way over to you and observes. A gentle hand caresses the sides of your face. You're so perfect.
He whispers on and on things he wishes he could tell you while you were awake and wouldn't think it was weird....
Maybe even once he's crawled into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you. So happy to be able to finally be able to cuddle like this.
And if you happened to wake up, and realize your dear brother, Tim was there...he has a plan for that. He knows how to play mind games on you and makes you seem like the crazy one. No one would believe you anyways. The locks are all fixed by the morning.
Warnings: mentions of kidnapping/captivity, manipulation, non-consensual touching (cuddles), general yandere themes. Reader has been pretty thoroughly conditioned in this, posted non-chronologically.
There is the soft sound of cracking flames and breathing filling the room, a thick, almost heavy heat that sinks into your bones and makes it hard to think. The logs had long since almost burned themselves out, casting a low, red light over the entire room, a far cry from the cheery yellow it had been not three hours before. Everything is dim and soft, the shadows jumping and dancing when the flames sputter and lick up the logs, refusing to die out.
You hum, sleepy and tired, and turn your head. It’s late, late enough that you wonder when the grandfather clock was going to swing open and let your siblings back into the Manor. Soon, you think. You hoped. It was exhausting, waiting up for them when you didn’t operate on the same schedule they did, unused to pulling long nights without rest and the intense exhaustion that came with what they did.
You huff, pushing the blanket off yourself. The heat was almost stifling, almost uncomfortable, and you lament the fact that you were allowed to open the windows. One gust of Gotham’s wind, biting and chilling and so very dangerous to those who either didn’t know to get out of it in the winter months or couldn’t, would bring relief right away, cool the room down instantly. It used to do the same to your old apartment, even if you hadn’t wanted it to. Wormed it’s way into the cracks and crevices around the windows, whistled loudly as it battered against the door.
Wayne Manor didn’t have that issue. You’re still adjusting to it.
The clock dongs, and you groan, turning your head over to look at it. Fuck, it was late. Late enough you should have gone to bed hours ago, but the silent Manor was almost eerie, the lack of your siblings or Father almost disturbing. Alfred was in the Cave, where you weren’t allowed anyways, monitoring the comms. And you, most likely, now that you thought about it.
The grandfather clock swings open.
You push yourself up, and there’s a strange mix of relief and anxiety in your chest. While you hadn’t, technically, been breaking any rules, you weren’t supposed to be up this late.
It’s Bruce who comes through the entrance first. There’s a heavy exhaustion written all over him, a tiredness that makes your chest twist with something that feels like worry and just might be. Your eyes skim him for injury, for blood, whether it was his or someone else’s.
“You’re not supposed to be up this late.” He frowns, all severe lines and frowns.
“It’s too quite. I couldn’t sleep.” You say, and that makes his shoulders soften, the sternness melting away into something softer, more sympathetic. He sighs, then pulls back his cowl.
“Right. I’m sorry we had to leave you home alone, it was all hands on deck tonight.” He apologizes, like leaving you home alone in the Manor is some great sin he had committed. It was fine. You just weren’t used to the quiet.
“It’s fine, Dad.”
You assure, and he hums. He doesn’t believe you, you know, but he doesn’t press.
The shadows in entrance to the cave shift, just slightly, and Cass melts into your view. You had never figured out how your older sister did that, melted in and out shadow like she belonged in them, but she had startled you more times than you could count doing that. Part of you thought she found it funny.
“Why don’t you let me put a movie on?” You offer, tilting your head. They were always exhausted after patrol, nearly always put on some nostalgic, gentle movie after a long night. You were pretty sure it helped them unwind after a harsh night. It would help you. It had helped you, after fights with them over things that weren’t important and nights when you hadn’t been able to think about anything other than freedom.
“Did you stay up for us? You know you have a bed time, yeah, baby bat?” Dick teases, and you hadn’t even seen him come up, too focused on Cass and Bruce.
“I do not, actually. Y’all just worry I don’t sleep enough.” You huff, batting his hand away gently. He grins, dragging you towards him. It’s not careful, there’s strength behind it, but not enough to hurt.
“That’s because you take after the old man and don’t sleep damn near enough.” Jason scoffs, coming up the stairs and into the room. Tim follows, then Steph and Damian. The only person missing was Duke, but Duke was at his uncles, out of state.
“Okay, well, do you want this stupid movie on or not?” You huff, annoyed. Dick still had you trapped against him, and you knew that wasn’t changing any time soon, so you resign yourself to another night of being forcibly cuddled until you fell asleep. If you were particularly unlucky Tim would manage to cling to you like an octopus and fall asleep, in which case you wouldn’t be able to move for the next day without fear of disclosing him, because any time Tim fell asleep he suddenly developed a death grip and a complete inability to wake up unless a bomb goes off.
“I’ll put it on! It was my turn to pick anyway, no matter what Jason says.” Steph volunteers, flicking the tv on and scrolling through the movies so quickly you barely even have time to look at the titles.
“Slow down, Blondie, fuck.” Jason grumbles, squinting at the screen in annoyance. “My concussion may be gone but that shits annoying.”
“You got a concussion?” You can’t help the barely hidden alarm in your voice. You can’t help it. It wasn’t like Jason had any brain cells he could risk losing, for one, with all the extensive head trauma he had already gotten, and for two, you were ninety percent sure he wasn’t supposed to be looking at a screen after getting one.
“Minor concussion. Practically babies first concussion. ‘Sides, Alfie already checked me out and deemed me a-okay.”
“He’s also benched for the next two days.” Bruce tells you dryly, and you snort.
“You’re as bad as Tim.” The puffed up offense is entirely warranted, and you laugh as he drags you against him, tugging you out of Dick’s grip. Dick pouts, predictably, and you snort, amused. Sometimes your older brother was just a little pathetic.
“Oh, bullshit.”
He snorts, settling into the couch. You end up curled between him and Bruce, and Dick pouts again, before he crawls across the top of the couch, splaying himself out to be in contact with all three of you. It’s borderline uncomfortable to look at, a delicate balancing act that came so naturally to him.
“We’re watching The Devil Wears Prada.” Steph announces. “Because we haven’t seen it in forever.”
“We watched it just the other night!” Jason argues, even as the movie starts to play. You settle further into Bruce’s side, who curls an arm around you lightly as he watches your siblings bicker.
“Fuck you, you don’t hear me complaining everytime you want to watch Little Women!” Steph shoots back, and you laugh.
“That is a goddamn masterpiece, you shut the fuck up. It’s way better than fucking- this shit!” Jason argues, almost genuinely offended.
“Shouldn’t you be intervening?” You stage whisper to Bruce, who shoots you an almost conspiratorial look.
“They don’t listen to me anyways.” You laugh, and it’s nice. Happy.
The sound of the movie and bickering and bodies shifting around each other is calming. Familiar. At some point you drift off, and you wake up to the familiar sensation of being carried in warm arms, safe and secure.
You hum, letting them tuck you in carefully, press a kiss to your forehead. You wouldn’t have, months ago, but now it was something long familiar. Welcomed, even.
You can’t remember what changed. You think you were glad it did.
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