REQUESTS OPEN YIPPEEEE!!! can I please ask for some dark stalker/kidnapper tim drake? maybe m! reader is a vigilante in gotham, but not like the bats - he uses methods they dont approve of, and because tim befriended him (hes also more then a little obsessed) he tries to give the reader more chances, tries to believe he'll change – but he doesnt, so tim has to kidnap him and reform reader himself. feel free to play around with this idea as much as you want, all I request is some filthy, nasty smut if thats okay <3
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── male reader who’s a gotham vigilante that kills criminals and operates outside the batfam’s moral code. tim “befriends” you and becomes increasingly obsessive, trying to convince him to change, leading to a toxic relationship that ends with tim kidnapping you.
Tim starts noticing the pattern before anyone else could.
Not the bodies that continue to line up every night. Gotham is always like that.
It’s the consistent precision that catches his attention.
Every victim is connected somehow–drug runners, traffickers, men with sealed records and missing witnesses. People who should have gone to prison years ago but walked free because somebody bought the judge, threatened a witness, or buried the evidence so deep that even Batman couldn’t reach it.
Then they’d end up dead anyway.
That’s what led him to you.
No theatrics. No creepy messages written with blood from your victims. Just proficient scenes and terrified rumors spreading through the Narrows about a vigilante who doesn’t leave unnecessary survivors behind.
The others call you reckless.
Jason even slightly admires you.
Bruce calls you dangerous and a threat.
Meanwhile, Tim calls you at three in the morning while you’re stitching a knife wound closed in your apartment bathroom.
“You killed Falcone’s accountant?”
You pause, thread hanging from your fingers. “You don’t sound very upset.”
“I should be.”
“But?”
Silence hums through the phone speaker.
You can almost picture him sitting at his computer in his bedroom, eyes shadowed by monitor light, fingers moving relentlessly against the keyboard while he tries to decide whether he’s interrogating you or checking if you’re still alive.
Finally, he sighs. “But he sold out witnesses to Blackgate inmates.”
“Mhm. Sounds like a motive, huh?”
“That sounds like murder.”
You tie the stitch off with your teeth. “You called me instead of your dad.”
Another silence.
“I just… wanted to hear your side first.”
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Tim starts covering for you before he even realizes what he’s doing.
He reroutes their usual patrol routes. Deletes camera footage before Bruce can review it. “Accidentally,” misfiles reports involving your sightings.
At first, he tells himself he’s buying time.
You’re violent, probably unstable—but not beyond saving. That’s exactly what he believes. That’s what he needs to believe.
Because when the two of you meet face-to-face, you never truly act like the monster Gotham paints you as.
You sit on rooftops beside him with your knees pulled up and your mask halfway off while rain drips from the edge of the building. You steal tea from gas stations and complain about how bitter it tastes—then give the rest to him. Sometimes you even laugh at his stupid jokes so hard you nearly fall backward off ledges.
Tim memorizes every expression you make.
The squinting of your eyes. The crinkle of your nose. The twitch of your lips. Every scar across your skin like jagged splotches of paint.
It gets bad when he starts wanting your attention all the time.
A text from you can ruin his concentration for hours.
A complement sticks in his head for days.
One night, you show up bruised and stumbling into his room through the window without warning.
Tim nearly drops the mug in his hand.
“You look awful,” he blurts.
You grin tiredly. “Missed you too.”
The city lights blur gold behind you. Blood darkens your sleeve steadily, dripping onto the ground like the rain outside.
Tim moves forward and grabs your wrist and drags you further inside.
“You need stitches.”
“Hey, no, I’ve had worse.”
‘That’s not comforting at all.”
You laugh under your breath while he shoves supplies onto the bed with more force than necessary.
“You always this bossy?”
“With you? Yeah.”
You sit still while he cleans the wound. That alone feels strange. You usually fight everyone tooth and nail whenever they try to help. But not him.
Tim’s fingers brush your ribs while wrapping the bandage, and something sharp twists low in his stomach when you don’t pull away like expected.
“You know Bruce is getting closer to finding your safehouses," he says quietly.
“Mhhh, I know.”
“You should leave Gotham for a while.”
Your eyes lift up to his. “You want me gone?”
“No—god no.”
His face heats up immediately after.
The corners of your mouth pulls upward slightly and Tim suddenly hates how easy it is for you to affect him.
“You.. kill people,” he says, harsher now, trying to regain control. “You can’t keep doing this forever.”
“Yet you keep protecting me anyway.”
His hands stop moving.
“You noticed that,” he mutters, as if it was supposed to be a secret for himself.
“It’a not hard to notice these things about you, Tim.”
That should scare someone as private as him.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Bruce eventually finds out and confronts him.
“You’re compromised.”
Tim clenches his jaw. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re emotionally involved with him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Tim snaps.
Silence for a few moments.
Then Bruce’s expression hardens and it makes him feel fifteen again.
“He’s manipulating you.”
Tim looks away first.
Because maybe Bruce is right..
Maybe he is compromised.
He knows you’re dangerous. Knows you’ve crossed lines the rest of them never would. Knows there’s constantly blood under your fingernails that will never wash out. But every time Tim tries imagining Gotham without you in it, the thought feels wrong enough to make his chest ache. So, so wrong.
He keeps making excuses to protect you. He can't stop it. Even if you should be locked up in prison.
But a few days later? You don’t give him an opportunity to even try covering it up.
Not publicly at least.
To the others, he sounds like he’s snapping back into reality when your name comes up—logical and detached.
Like before you happened.
“He’s escalating.”
“He’s unstable.”
“He doesn’t listen to reason.”
All.. technically true.
But privately, something colder settles into his chest because he finally understands that you were listening the entire time, since the beginning.
You just never cared.
So the church sat abandoned in Crime Alley for almost a decade.
Everybody knew gangs used it for meetings. Weapon trades. Drug storage. Trafficking safehouse. The kind of place cops ignored because stepping inside meant getting shot before backup arrived.
Bruce—well, as Batman—had been building a case against everyone in there for months.
Now here we are.
You burnt the entire building down with everyone still inside.
Tim arrives with the others just in time to watch fire claw through the collapsed roof and burst into even larger flames.
Smoke pours into the night sky in thick black waves.
Law enforcement scream at civilians to stay back.
Jason looks particularly grim as he grew up Catholic. This, despite being turned into a place of crime, feels like an insult to something that once guided his life.
Dick is simply horrified and Bruce doesn’t say anything.
Damian scoffs, even glances at Tim as if this was his fault.
Tim stares at the heat shimmering off the ruins and already knows it couldn’t have been anyone else but you because this is exactly the kind of message you send.
His comms crackle suddenly.
“Red Robin,” Barbara says sharply. “I found him on traffic cams three blocks east.”
“Don’t engage alone,” Bruce orders immediately.
“Understood.” Tim lies without hesitation.
—
He finds you on a rooftop overlooking the burning church.
You’re sitting on the ledge with one knee raised, watching the flames grow taller and the smoke curling like hands in the cold. Like it was simply background noise. Like corpses weren’t burning in there.
Your gloves are blackened with soot and there’s blood on your jaw that doesn’t belong to you.
“You killed all of them!”
You glance over calmly, and with no shame, “Yeah.”
For some reason, that makes the anger burn hotter in his chest. “There were fourteen people inside.”
“And?”
Tim steps closer. “There could’ve been hostages.”
“There weren’t.”
“You didn’t know that!”
“I checked.”
“You promised me! You promised that you’d stop doing this..”
“I promised to try.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You knew that when I said it.”
Your words hit harder than they should because he did know. Deep down, he always knew.
Every conversation. Every rooftop argument. Every moment you let him patch your wounds while nodding silently through his lectures about mercy and restraint.
You were just humoring him, weren’t you?
Below, part of the church roof collapses inward with a shower of sparks.
You barely glance at it.
“They trafficked children, Tim. You expect me to feel bad?”
“I expect you to act human!”
Your eyes snap toward him with a sharp glare. “And what exactly counts as human in Gotham anymore?”
You slowly stand from the ledge and Tim instinctively shifts his stance.
“That’s new,” you murmur.
“What is?”
“You’re preparing for me to attack you.”
The observation embarrasses him immediately because it’s true.
A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about standing within an arm’s reach of you. Now he’s measuring distance automatically. Watching your hands too.
Not that he thinks you’ll hurt him but because he’s finally accepting you absolutely could.
Then you laugh under your breath, almost… disappointed.
“That look doesn’t suit you, Tim.”
“You killed fourteen people.”
“And they deserved worse.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“That doesn’t make you judge, jury, or executioner!” His voice echoes across the rooftop.
And for the first time all night—or maybe, ever—you look genuinely annoyed with him.
“And what does your way accomplish, huh? They go to Arkham? Blackgate? Then they bribe someone and walk free six months later?” You step closer. “How many victims get hurt while you people wait for the system to magically start working?”
Tim hates that Gotham proves your arguments right often enough to rot beneath his skin. But there’s still a line. There has to be.
“You think this fixes things? You think burning people alive makes the city safer?”
“If it’s necessary, yes.”
The immediate certainty in your voice chills him more than if you’d shouted. No hesitation or conflict at all.
You believe in this completely.
And suddenly Tim understands something awful.
You are never going to stop.
Not for Batman, Gotham, or the police when they eventually catch you. And not for him.
The realization hollows him out completely.
You must notice something change in his expression because your irritation fades.
“Tim?”
He looks away and—
“You should go,” he says flatly.
“You’re just upset, huh?”
“No kidding.”
“You know why I do this.”
“I know you enjoy it.”
Your face hardens again, “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
You step toward him slowly. “You think I’m a monster now.”
Tim wants to say no immediately. He almost does say it, but the word reaches the back of his throat and dies there.
Your eyes search his face carefully, and whatever you find there makes your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
“You were different with me,” Tim says finally, quieter now. “I thought.. maybe there was still a line you wouldn’t cross.”
“There is.”
“Oh, really?”
“They were traffickers! What don’t you get?”
“You keep changing the rules each time.”
“No. You keep expecting me to become somebody else.”
It’s true.
Tim spent months trying to carve softer edges into someone built like a weapon. And some part of him resents you for failing at becoming the person he wanted.
You exhale slowly and glance toward the large flames consuming the fallen church one last time.
“I’m not one of you.”
The worst part is that he doesn’t want you to be. Not completely. Even now, standing here covered in smoke and blood and gasoline, there’s still something in him desperately trying to separate you from the monsters he hunts every night.
But he can’t anymore.
“You should leave before Batman gets here,” he finally manages to say.
“You plan on turning me in?”
Tim closes his eyes briefly.
God.
A month ago, that question would’ve been impossible.
Now he doesn’t even know the answer.
“...I don’t know.”
You look uncertain but end up saying, “Okay.”
You move past him toward the edge of the rooftop and he doesn’t stop you.
Right before jumping, you glance back once–rain beads against your lashes and cheeks.
“You’re still going to cover for me tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. It was certainty.
And it hurts Tim’s heart even more because he knows you’re right.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The next few weeks feel hollow.
Empty in a way Tim can’t explain without sounding insane.
You stop contacting him completely after the church rooftop.
No surprise visits bleeding onto his furniture. No sarcastic texts through burner phones at two in the morning.
Nothing.
Tim tells himself that’s a good thing, which it should be a good thing. But the problem is that Gotham starts feeling unbearably dull without you in it directly.
And Tim hates how quickly he notices the absence.
So he still tracks your activity.
It becomes routine after patrol.
Sit at the Batcomputer. Pull up police scanners. Search crime reports. Cross-reference explosions, disappearances, and gang executions with areas your informants usually frequent.
Every few nights, something pops up.
A drug house found abandoned with six dead inside.
“GCPD officers responding to anonymous tips discovered six deceased individuals inside an abandoned apartment building in The Narrows late Tuesday night. Authorities believe the location was being used as a distribution hub for illegal narcotics. Investigators have not released a cause of death, and no suspects have been identified at this time.”
An illegal weapons shipment intercepted and destroyed.
“A large shipment of illegal firearms was destroyed early Friday morning after an explosion rocked an industrial warehouse in Gotham’s East End. According to police sources, the weapons were believed to be part of a trafficking operation linked to organized crime. No arrests have been made, though authorities continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the blast.”
Two traffickers pulled from Gotham Harbor with broken necks.
“The bodies of two men were recovered from Gotham Harbor Wednesday morning after dock workers alerted authorities. Medical examiners confirmed both victims suffered fatal neck injuries prior to entering the water. Police have not publicly identified the deceased but stated both men were subjects of multiple ongoing criminal investigations.”
A Falcone safehouse burned to the ground.
“A four-story property allegedly connected to the Falcone crime organization was reduced to rubble following a late-night fire in Bristol Township. Fire crews battled the blaze for nearly three hours before bringing it under control. Officials have not determined the cause, though investigators have described the circumstances as ‘highly suspicious.’”
Tim watches security footage frame by frame whenever he can get it.
Most clips only catch shadows of you. A hood disappearing over rooftops. A blurred silhouette moving through smoke.
Once, there’s a still image clear enough to see your jawline beneath your mask for half a second.
Tim stares at it for almost ten minutes.
He doesn’t even realize Jason walked into the cave until a hand smacks the back of his chair.
“You’re doing it again.”
Tim closes the image immediately. “Doing what?”
“Getting weird.” Jason leans over the console, unimpressed. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours this week.”
“I’m working.”
“No, you’re brooding.” Jason squints at him. “Which is Bruce’s thing. You’re usually more annoying.”
Tim flips him off without heat.
Jason snorts, but the amusement fades after a second.
“Seriously, though. What’s up with you lately?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Tim ignores him and pulls another file onto the screen.
Three dead gang members with chemical burns.
“GCPD is investigating the deaths of three suspected gang affiliates discovered inside a warehouse in Burnham District early Sunday morning. According to preliminary reports, all three victims suffered severe chemical burns, though officials have not disclosed the substance involved. Authorities have yet to identify any suspects and are examining possible links to recent organized crime activity throughout the city.”
It's obviously your work. Yet his stomach twists unpleasantly anyways.
Jason notices the report.
“Oh.” Understanding flashes across his face. “It’s about him.”
He watches him carefully now, expression sharpening in a way that makes Tim instantly defensive. “You’re still hung up on that guy?”
“He’s.. a problem.”
“That’s not what I asked. But for what it’s worth, I kinda get it.”
Tim blinks once. That wasn’t the response he expected.
“People like him make sense at first.” His gaze drifts toward the cave floor. “You think they’re saying what everyone else is too afraid to admit.”
“And then?”
“And then they keep going.”
Quiet settles between them. The cave hums softly with computer noise and distant dripping water.
Tim rubs tiredly at his eyes.
Jason glances sideways at him.
“You look awful, y’know that?”
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You’re slower too.”
Tim immediately stiffens. “I’m not.”
“You missed three attacks during training yesterday.”
He knows exactly what Jason means.
Sparring with Cass.
A rare opening in her defense.
A hit Tim normally could’ve countered.
Except his mind had drifted for half a second toward a news report Barbara mentioned earlier—an entire gun operation dismantled somewhere in the East End.
Tim had wondered if it was you.
That single distraction cost him getting slammed flat onto the mat.
Jason watches realization cross his face and grimaces slightly.
“…Damn,” he mutters. “You got it bad.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re losing sleep over a homicidal vigilante.”
Tim pushes back from the computer abruptly. “I said shut up.”
Jason raises both hands immediately.
But he still looks concerned as Tim walks off.
—
Dick emotionally corners him four nights later.
“You skipped family dinner again.”
Tim keeps typing without looking up. “Busy.”
“You’ve been busy every night for two weeks.”
“I patrol Gotham, Dick. That tends to happen.”
Dick leans against the console beside him anyway.
“You miss him.”
Tim’s fingers stop over the keyboard.
Dick sighs softly at the reaction. “Tim…”
“He’s killing people.”
“Obviously.”
Tim finally looks at him then, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then why is everyone acting like I’m insane for being affected by it?”
Dick’s expression shifts slightly. Not exactly judgmental--just tired. “Because you’re grieving someone who’s still alive.”
Dick sits beside him quietly. “You wanted him to choose differently,” he says after a moment.
“I thought he would.”
“And now?”
Tim stares at the surveillance footage playing silently across the monitor. A warehouse explosion downtown. Two survivors crawling from debris.
“…Now I think I just wanted to matter enough for him to try.”
Dick goes quiet after that.
There’s nothing comforting to say.
—
The worst moments happen late at night.
Usually around three or four in the morning.
The cave empties out by then. Bruce upstairs. Alfred asleep. Gotham temporarily quieter between disasters.
Tim stays alone at the Batcomputer with cold coffee beside his elbow and police chatter murmuring through speakers.
That’s when he starts checking your old messages. Not intentionally at first, just absentmindedly. Then it's a habit.
Tiny things stick under his skin now.
A blurry photo you once sent of a stray cat.
A voice message where you laughed after he got hit in the face during patrol.
Tim rereads them enough that he nearly memorizes timestamps.
It feels pathetic.
Worse, it feels obsessive in a way he recognizes immediately because he’s spent years profiling dangerous people. He knows unhealthy attachment when he sees it.
The problem is that understanding it doesn’t make it stop.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
One night, Barbara walks into the cave quietly while he’s replaying security footage from your latest crime scene. “You’re monitoring him again.”
“He blew up a weapons convoy.”
Barbara crosses her arms. “That’s not what I meant. Even better, that's not what anyone is asking of you.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “I’m keeping track of a violent vigilante. That’s literally our job.”
“Tim. You haven’t been acting like yourself lately,” she says carefully. “You zone out during patrols. You’re exhausted all the time. Bruce said you nearly fell asleep during surveillance yesterday.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She sighed, “Did he mean that much to you?”
Tim wants to deny it but the truth sits too heavy in his chest now. So instead, after several long seconds, he just says:
“I liked who I was when he was around.”
Barbara’s expression changes immediately into something sadder because she understands exactly what he means.
Around you, everything felt more alive.
And now every night feels gray by comparison.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Tim plans it three days in advance.
That alone should probably tell him this is a terrible idea.
He tracks your movement patterns carefully, pretending it’s tactical analysis instead of fixation.
Safehouses. Informants. Patrol routes. The areas you still seem protective over despite everything else.
You’ve gotten harder to follow lately. Like you finally realized they know too much about you.
Tim wonders if that’s because of him.
The thought leaves something sour in his stomach.
—
“Red Robin, status?” Bruce’s voice crackles through the comm.
Tim crouches on a rooftop overlooking Robinson Park, eyes fixed on the distant street below where a familiar figure moves between alley shadows. You.
His chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
“Perimeter clear,” he answers.
Beside him, Dick grapples toward the next building. “We’re heading east. You coming?”
Tim’s gaze never leaves you. “Need to check something first.”
Bruce responds immediately. “Negative. Stick with—”
Static cuts through the comm suddenly.
Tim muted the channel himself.
For a second, guilt punches through him hard enough to make him hesitate. Then you glance upward briefly, hood shadowing your face, and the hesitation dies instantly.
Tim moves.
—
By the time Tim lands across from you in the alley, you’re already turning slightly, posture alert beneath your jacket.
Your eyes narrow. “Thought you were avoiding me.”
Rainwater drips from fire escapes overhead, tapping softly against concrete between you both.
There’s a healing cut crossing your mouth. Bruises along your throat. A slight stiffness in your left arm that suggests another injury you haven’t treated properly.
“You’ve been killing people.”
You shrug lightly. “Gotham’s still standing.”
The familiar frustration flickers through him, but he crushes it down quickly. Tonight can’t become another argument. You’ll leave.
And Tim can’t handle you leaving again.
He steps closer slowly. “I’m not here to fight.”
That gets your attention. Your expression shifts carefully, suspicion threading through it now. “No?”
Tim shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said you enjoy it.”
He continues before he can rethink any of this.
“That rooftop… I was angry.” His throat feels tight suddenly. “And I know I pushed you harder than I should’ve.”
You stare at him in silence.
Lower your guard. Just enough.
“I know why you do what you do,” he says quietly. “I still don’t agree with it, but…” He exhales shakily.
“I miss talking to you.”
He sees the slight change around your eyes.
God, you missed him too.
The realization nearly ruins his focus.
Your shoulders ease. “That’s probably the most honest thing you’ve said in weeks,” you murmur.
Tim steps closer again—close enough to touch. And it hurts because even after everything, you still trust him a little.
“You really scared me that night,” he admits softly.
“I know.”
Another step closer.
Your guard lowers further.
Tim sees the exact moment you decide he isn’t a threat.
And then—
One hand violently yanks your jacket forward while the other drives a taser hard against the side of your neck.
Electricity cracks sharply through the alley.
Your body jerks in shock, but you’re stronger than most people. Faster too. You react almost instantly despite the hit, grabbing his wrist hard enough to bruise.
Your eyes snap wide with betrayal.
Tim nearly falters right there.
Then you start reaching for the knife hidden beneath your jacket. Panic slams through him so he swings before thinking.
The metal handle of the taser slams hard against your temple. A sickening sound echoes against the alley walls and you stagger immediately.
Tim’s stomach drops.
Too hard.
Way too hard.
Your grip loosens from his wrist as your balance gives out completely. For one awful second, you look confused more than angry. Then your knees buckle.
Tim catches you before your head slams against the pavement.
Silence floods the alley afterward except for his breathing.
“Oh.. oh my god,” he whispers.
Blood runs slowly down the side of your face. Your body hangs limp in his arms. Tim stares at you in horror.
He didn’t mean—
No, no, that’s a lie.
He did mean to knock you out.
Just not like that.
Not hard enough to leave you unconscious this fast. Not hard enough that blood is already slipping between his fingers.
His pulse pounds violently.
You’re breathing.
Tim checks three times, even as his hands shake.
Some distant part of his brain screams that this is insane. That Bruce would lose his mind if he saw this. That Dick was right. Barbara too.
You trusted him for one second and he used it against you.
The guilt should stop him here.
Instead, Tim carefully adjusts your unconscious weight against his chest and activates the grapple line with his free hand.
Because beneath the horror, beneath the panic and shame and nausea—
There’s still overwhelming relief.
He found you again.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Consciousness returns slowly.
Your head throbs immediately. The second you start waking up, a deep, nauseating ache pulsing behind your eyes and through the entirety of your skull hard enough to make your stomach twist. For a few seconds, you stay still, breathing shallowly against the soft surface beneath you.
Dim lighting somewhere nearby.
Then memory falls back into place.
Your eyes snap open.
Pain flashes instantly through the side of your head as you jerk upright on instinct—the movement sending pain flashing across your shoulders. You stop short when something tight pulls sharply against your arms and torso.
Rope.
A lot of it.
For a second, you just stay there, disoriented, pulse pounding heavily in your ears while your vision adjusts to the room.
Safehouse.
The furniture’s too expensive not to be the bats.
You’re sitting against the corner of a large couch, arms pinned behind your back, bound tightly from wrists to upper torso in intricate patterns that press firmly across your chest and ribs before knotting down your spine. Another length winds securely around your thighs and calves, all the way to your ankles, forcing your legs together against the couch cushions.
These weren't sloppy restraints.
These were careful. Completely deliberate.
Recognition slowly settles in.
Shibari.
You flex experimentally against the restraints once and nothing budges.
The rope has enough give to avoid cutting circulation, but not enough to create leverage.
"...fuck," you rasp.
Movement comes from a nearby corner.
Tim looks up from the armchair so fast it's almost jarring. Relief morphs across his face. "You're awake."
You try pushing yourself off the couch—as if you're in any position to—only for dizziness to burn into you hard enough that you suck in a sharp breath, causing Tim to stand immediately.
"Easy.."
"Easy? You hit me with a crowbar."
"It wasn't a crowbar."
"Oh, wow. That makes it so much better."
Despite yourself, your gaze flicks around the room automatically.
Minimal furniture. Reinforced windows. Medical supplies scattered across the kitchen counter beside empty mugs and glass. Two laptops open nearby with surveillance footage frozen across the screens.
One camera points directly toward you from the corner ceiling.
Tim notices where you're looking. "It's not recording constantly."
You stare at him flatly. "That's your defense?"
His lips purse tightly.
You notice now, how awful he looks. Wrinkled, probably dirty clothes. Messy hair. Eyes bloodshot. Bruising dark beneath them like he genuinely hasn't rested since dragging you here.
"You.. were out for almost two days," he says quietly.
“You hit me that hard?”
“I didn’t mean to. You had a concussion," he swallows nervously.
"So you tied me up."
"You kept trying to move and.. well, fight me while unconscious."
"Hm."
Your skull still aches every time you move too quickly. There’s probably a nasty bruise hidden in your hair judging by the tenderness alone.
Tim seems to notice and he immediately moves towards the kitchen counter before returning with water and painkillers.
You eye him suspiciously when he kneels Infront of the couch.
"They're not drugged."
"You tased me, cracked my skull open, then kidnapped me. Forgive me if trust feels difficult right now."
He suddenly looks ashamed.
Good. He should be!
Still, after a moment, you open your mouth enough for him to give you the pills carefully.
The intimacy of it feels strange. Humiliating, almost. Especially restrained like this.
Tim's fingers brush your jaw accidentally while passing the glass, and both of you go still for half a second. Then he pulls away quickly.
Silence stretches for a long moment.
“You’re not getting out.”
You look back at him flatly. “You say that like I haven’t escaped worse.”
Tim leans forward slightly, hands resting on his knees now. “Look. You scared the hell out of me and.. I needed you somewhere I could watch easily.”
"And this somehow counts as helping?" You laugh once under your breath despite yourself.
His jaw tightens. "You're clearly not stable. You've been killing more people than usual."
"Well, the last guys were selling guns to Black Mask."
"That doesn't matter!" The sudden sharpness in his voice echoes through the room and you blink.
"You don't get it. Every time I tracked you lately, it got worse." His eyes lift towards yours again. "You stopped caring about collateral. You stopped covering your tracks. Half the crimes looked borderline suicidal."
Tim laughs under his breath, exhausted and humorless.
"You know what the worst part is?" he mutters. "I still checked if you were alive every night."
Something uncomfortable twists low in your chest so you look away.
The ropes shift softly against your skin as you settle back against the couch cushions.
“…Untie me,” you say eventually.
“No. I told you, you’re not leaving.”
You look back at him sharply. “You hit me hard enough to hospitalize someone.”
“I know.”
“You can’t keep me here forever.”
His eyes hold yours and silence is infinitely more unsettling than words would’ve been.
You shift again against the ropes, testing the give one more time even though you already know the answer. The bindings stay firm around your chest and wrists, holding you tightly against the couch cushions.
“I’m serious, Tim. Take this shit off.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the ropes before returning to your face carefully, like he’s gauging your mood.
“No.” He sighs.
You stare at him. “No?”
“We’ve already been over the fact you’re unstable.”
“That doesn’t justify you kidnapping me.”
“Neither do your excuses for killing people.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, Tim.”
“No, but it answers why you’re staying restrained.”
Frustration flashes hot through your chest instantly. “You have serious issues.”
You yank harder against the bindings without thinking. Rope tightens across your ribs sharply enough to force a hiss from between your teeth.
The couch dips beside you as he sits down carefully, close enough that warmth presses against your side.
His hand settles instinctively against your thigh before he seems fully aware he’s doing it, fingers rubbing slowly over the muscle like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.
The touch sends immediate alarm through your system. You jerk sharply against the ropes again. “Don’t touch me.”
Tim pulls his hand back instantly.
Something guilty flickers across his face, but it disappears just as quickly beneath stubbornness. “You’re shaking.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s already been disproven.”
“You need to relax.”
“Relax?” Your voice rises slightly. “You lied to me. Pretended to apologize. Then knocked me unconscious and tied me up like some psycho—”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I said untie me!”
“No!”
Tim’s exhausted, yes. Guilty too. But he genuinely believes keeping you restrained is the correct choice. It sparks something nervous and ugly beneath your ribs so you cover it immediately with anger.
“What, you think this fixes things? You think tying me up makes you different from the people we fight?”
“That’s not fair..”
“No? Then what is this?” You pull against the rope crossing your torso. “Because it sure as hell isn’t concern anymore.”
“You planned this,” you say quietly now.
He doesn’t answer.
Your pulse starts climbing harder. “You tracked me for weeks.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “You make it sound really insane when you say it like that.”
“It is insane.”
“I know this is insane.” His voice lowers immediately afterward. “But I couldn’t just.. keep waiting for a phone call from you. I needed you back!”
“You don’t own me nor are we anything. So stop acting like it.”
“You disappear for weeks at a time. You nearly die constantly. Half the city wants your head.” His eyes lock onto yours intensely. “What exactly was I supposed to do?”
“Not this!”
The answer comes instantly and Tim goes quiet again after that. Neither of you do or say anything for several moments. Then Tim’s gaze drops briefly toward the ropes around your torso.
“…I tied them carefully,” he says quietly.
You blink once, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”
“They aren’t cutting circulation.” His voice stays low, oddly focused. “I checked every few hours while you were unconscious.”
“You watched me sleep tied up on a couch for two days,” you say flatly.
Tim winces slightly.
You sigh. “So, was all that missing me bullshit fake?”
His expression changes into hurt immediately. “No, no—“
“Right.”
“I meant it.”
“Sure you did.”
“You think this was easy for me?”
You stare at him incredulously.
Instead of at your face and answering like a normal man, his eyes slowly—almost hesitant—flick up and down. To the bindings. The rope crossing your chest and waist. Your wrists restrained behind your back. Your legs secured tightly enough that moving is awkward and unbalanced.
“You like this,” you accuse suddenly.
Tim freezes, letting out a bewildered squeak.
“You think tying me up fixes whatever’s wrong in your head, huh?” you continue, voice rising slightly now that nerves are fully bleeding into anger. “You couldn’t control me before, so now you’re restraining me in some fucked up safehouse—”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Yes it is. You’re obsessed with me!”
“You—you think I don’t know that!?” Tim’s hand is gone from your thigh now, but the warmth of it still lingers through the fabric of your pants in a way that’s deeply unhelpful.
You shift against the couch again, trying to sit differently, trying to relieve some of the pressure from the rope binding your hips and thighs together.
The movement drags the ropes tighter across your waist and between your legs. A sharp breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.
Tim notices instantly.
His eyes flick downward again.
You try shifting again, this time more to hide yourself than escape, but the bindings make every movement controlled and limited. Your knees stay partially bent from the rope securing your calves, leaving you frustratingly aware of every point of contact against the couch cushions.
“Don’t,” you bark immediately.
Tim’s gaze lifts back to your face and heat flashes up your neck instantly. Oh, this is humiliating.
You turn more sharply against the couch armrest, trying to angle yourself away from him. The rope circling your hips prevents most of it.
“…You’re kidding,” he says quietly.
“Shut up.”
Your answer was too quick. Too defensive.
Tim stares at you openly now, disbelief slowly mixing with something far more complicated. “You’re seriously—”
“I said shut up.”
Panic is beginning to creep underneath your ribs.
This is bad.
Very bad.
You’ve spent months chasing each other across rooftops. Fighting. Arguing. Bleeding beside each other. And now you’re tied up in shibari by the same guy who kidnapped you after fake-apologizing—
And your body decided this was somehow exciting.
Something is clearly wrong with you.
Tim runs a hand slowly over his face. “You were yelling at me thirty seconds ago.”
“I’m still mad at you.”
“Not just mad apparently.”
“Stop looking at me.”
“I’m trying to process this.”
“There’s nothing to process.” You shift instinctively against the ropes again out of sheer frustration. The bindings press irritatingly against sensitive nerves, causing you to let out a small, very accidental gasp.
Tim hears it and his eyes widen slightly.
Yours narrow in immediate warning.
"And you said I enjoyed this." His gaze drifts briefly again before he catches himself and looks toward the wall which makes everything worse because now you know he’s actively trying not to ogle.
“You tied me up like this,” you accuse immediately, desperate to redirect the situation. “What did you think was gonna happen?”
“I wasn’t thinking about—that.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wasn’t!” Tim’s face is visibly warm now, ears slightly red beneath the dark hair falling across his forehead. “This was supposed to keep you restrained. Not— not whatever this is.”
“You researched bondage!"
“I used effective knots!”
“Okay, well—joke’s over! Let me out of this bullshit!”
The second the words leave your mouth, Tim’s mouth twitches. Barely restrained amusement. “…I’m trying really hard not to laugh.”
“There is nothing funny about this.”
“You’re tied to a couch while trying not to get hard…er.”
“Timothy.”
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Then, after a beat—
“…No, I’m not actually sorry.”
You glare at him, but it lacks any real bite now. Mostly because your pulse is pounding too hard to maintain the same level of hostility.
Tim shifts closer.
“What are you doing?” you ask immediately.
Tim’s eyes flick to your mouth.
Then back up.
“Is this one of your psychoanalysis things?”
Tim studies you for another long second before lifting one hand slowly toward your face. His fingers brush lightly along your jaw near the bruise he left there.
“No, it’s not. I really am sorry,” he murmurs.
Your shoulders tense slightly when his thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re making this weird. Untie me before you do something stupid,” you mutter.
“Before I do something stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Little late for that.” Tim shifts even closer.
“Hey—”
He doesn’t answer, just pauses before finally leaning in. The kiss starts softer than you expect. Tentative. Like he’s still half-convinced you’ll run away (even if you’re in no position to).
Instead, your breath catches embarrassingly against his mouth. And that tiny reaction seems to snap the last thread of restraint in him.
Tim kisses you harder, one hand sliding against your jaw while the other braces beside your hip against the couch cushion.
Your stomach flips violently.
You make a quiet sound against his mouth—half protest, half something else entirely—and Tim exhales sharply like the noise nearly wrecked him. “You’re impossible,” he mutters softly against your lips
“And you’re a kidnapper,” you whisper back immediately.
“Still got you hard.” Tim kisses you again, more confident now, more controlling.
Your hands being restrained only makes the whole thing worse.
Or better, unfortunately.
A soft, frustrated whine slips from your throat when he tilts your head slightly to deepen the kiss, and the second the sound reaches him, Tim freezes briefly.
“No,” you mumble against his mouth, trying to turn your face away out of pure embarrassment. “Don’t say anything.”
“You’re shy right now,” he says quietly, sounding genuinely stunned.
a/n: i wanna say sorry for being very slow with updates and posting, finals are going on so i’ve been desperately focusing on those things! this is also, as you can tell, not completed as i didn’t write the smut + ending yet. i decided to post just this in the meantime so you guys aren’t left with nothing. i’ll post the continuation of this separately probably in a week🥹. but hey, you have to admit the song i linked to the title lowk fits m!reader perfectly + Catholic Jason, how i love you. you may also be wondering how you’re tied up, which if you can imagine, is these 3 combined (but obviously on a more masculine body):
some sort of immortal vampire adjacent creature, who primarily hunts human "evildoers" to feed, crosses paths with the creeps while investigating what they assume to a human serial killer for their next meal
what happens?
Probably some silly stuff!
Slender: Slender would have no trouble getting rid of a minor nuance. You choose, death or, perhaps you could survive, if you agree to serve him ;3
Offender: You wanna fuck? That would be so sexy~ don't bite him tho you'll die~
Jeff: If Jeff had a nickel for every time this happened to him, he'd have 2 nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice-
Nina: Oh she'd kick your Vampire ass no problem lol
Jane: *holds a silver blade to your throat* "Don't get in my way."
EJ: Vampire is an interesting flavor ;3
LJ: You bite him, but he's full of cotton & bugs & you probably get bit by one of his rats too-
Ben: Probably not even a target given he doesn't really kill people & isn't edible
Toby: *Pops off the blade of his hatchet to reveal a sharpened stake underneath*
Doby: You think he's afraid of breaking that bat? He uses a wooden one for a reason ;3
Tim: His ability to slenderwalk alone makes him nearly untouchable, but even if you did bite him his blood is toxic due to his bond with Slender
Brian: Would let you bite him just to watch his caustic blood eat away at your throat so he can laugh as you die in agony
A/N: hey guys I've been working on a fic that I'm actually quite enjoying so I wanted to share a snippet of it its the first fic ive wrote so pls np harsh judgement lol
Pairing: Vampire!Leon x New Vampire!Reader
Summary: Something attacks you while you're leaving work. The next morning you awake feeling strange and meeting an even stranger man who says he wants to help you and teach you. After some heavy persuasion, you cave in and let him cause what do you know about being a vampire??
The sun began to shine through the thin curtains in your room, slowly awaking you. You instantly shot out of bed, heavy breathing, running your hands over yourself checking to see if you were still sleeping. A sigh of relief left you as you realized none of that could’ve been real.
“What a weird dream,” you utter to yourself. You rub your eyes, trying to rid them of the sleepiness still plaguing your body. When you open them back up, you see a man standing in your room.
“AH! What the fuck!?” You yell, reaching over to your nightstand and grabbing the pistol you had stocked in the drawer. You raise it at the stranger.
“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” you question him.
“Woah, relax,” he raises his hands in surrender, “I’m not here to hurt you; I’m here to help.”
“Yeah, and you can start by leaving or I’ll shoot,” you threaten, moving your finger to the trigger.
“Okay, okay, just let me explain quickly,” he takes a deep breath in. “That wasn’t a dream, and before you doubt me or question why I know, feel the side on your neck.”
You scrunch your brows at him, not convinced by what he’s saying, but you give him the benefit of the doubt. Keeping the gun raised at him, you move your left hand to the side of your neck. Sure enough, there's two raised bumps on it.
“I’m gonna need you to do some very detailed explaining on what the fuck is happening before I start going insane.” you demand.
“That’s why I’m here,” he lowers his hands, yet you still keep the gun pointed in his direction. “My name’s Leon, Leon Kennedy. This is gonna sound crazy, but you were attacked by a vampire last night and-” you cut him off, laughing.
“Are you fucking serious right now?! You break into my apartment and really think that I’m just gonna believe that?” you scoff at him.
“I know like I said it sounds crazy, but trust me,” he tries to reason.
“And why should I do that?” you counter.
“Because I’m a vampire too,” you stare at him after the confession. There’s actually an insane person in my bedroom wtf, you think to yourself.
I have always really loved the concept of like a hybrid/non-human reader where the batfam hasn’t fulfilled the quota to be recognized as family by the reader’s hindbrain.
Like a vampire reader who doesn’t recognize their father as anything but prey and is disgusted and so confused by it because they’ve seen vampires, newborn ones, who don’t struggle not to eat their own human family members but unfortunately it’s because the batfam has to prove themselves in some sort of way. Like, they have to show themselves worthy of it. (I’m thinking a fight where the reader loses so their vampire bits see them as valuable and worthy of becoming family.)
But the reader doesn’t know that. And neither does the batfam.
Oh, also an avian reader (term I got from dsmp fandom that in this contexts means: bird-person) who has the biggest most comfortable nest ever, trying to make it as appealing as possible to their family members only for them to never go into it. Like. Rejection after rejection. And it’s not because they don’t want to. They think the reader doesn’t want them in there because once upon a time, they didn’t. But now, they do and they are so hurt. So sad.
Why doesn’t anyone want to be in their nest? :( Does nobody want to be a part of their flock? :( No preenings for reader? :(
Just sad bird reader who was once angry sad bird reader.
And maybe a bit of jealousy. Because maybe someone does defeat vampire reader in combat. Maybe someone does go into avian reader’s nest.
And maybe they almost become family. Maybe they do.
In short: the reader loves their family. Their family loves them. If only they were actually family that their brain recognized as family.
cover: Gambit by KeyeskeKara, edited by roxy (pinterest link) + dividers
synopsis: you offer to make dinner for the X-Men using Remy’s world-renowned gumbo recipe. after dinner, you and some of the others partake in a game of Uno. found family and all that.
content: Remy is your velcro kitty. author just wanted an excuse to reference Gambit’s gumbo recipe.
word count: 3,748
⟢
The kitchen smells faintly of bell peppers and garlic. There’s a base note of something piquant, something fried. The smell is…distinct, heavier than what her nose is used to.
She recalls it being creamy, doughy, almost. The smell that hits you as you pull fresh bread out of the oven. The familiar smell of butter and sugar wafts across the kitchen, simultaneously light as it is overwhelming.
At first, she’s concerned. She tries to stay true to his recipe, browns the meat first before making the roux. Admittedly, she’s all too new to this. Not cooking for the house, but putting a piece of her soul into the pot. He doesn’t linger to help her; evidently, he has no intention to play sous-chef. She hasn’t requested that he do so, and he knows too many cooks spoil the broth.
“So does too little…” She utters it to herself, stirring the wooden spoon around. It’s been 30 long-drawn-out minutes, and the roux is barely golden.
She looks back at her iPad on the counter; something Remy typed down for her, having all of his quirks and spelling lapses. There, above the red squiggles, it reads out: over medium heat, do as my ancestors did; stirrin’ [sic] constantly for 25 to 30 minutes til it results in a dark brown roux. Same shade as chocolate.
Wonderful. The good news is that it’s safe to assume she has not burnt the roux, nor the bottom of his favorite Dutch oven pot. The bad news is that her back is starting to hurt, and she contemplates pulling a chair out from the dining room to facilitate such.
She sets the wooden spoon back against the spoon rest and lets herself lean back onto the counter island behind her.
It’s nearly sundown, the sun rests at the highest point, hot, yet not necessarily humid. The kitchen has proper ventilation. Something she’s never had the luxury of before this moment. The three hours she’s been here feel more like one. It hasn’t been awful, if only she could convince herself to make it a little more fun, something personalized.
She turns to face the island; there’s a portable radio there, a device that looks like it’s from the future compared to the millennia-old kitchen. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the teal tile and oak cabinets; the disparity makes her smile. Everything about the mansion, her team, it just so…Them.
When Remy cooks, he lays a claim upon the kitchen. Not a literal one, not one that’s full of authority; a figurative one, signified by low Jazz & a peppery aroma.
She’s always cooked out of necessity, never desired to do so. She feels that veil starting to lift nowadays, and it’s all because of him, because he makes it personal, there’s a piece of him in the food he cooks. There’s a warmth his food carries. She wonders if she’ll be able to bring that same thing to fruition. She desperately hopes so.
Ah, but speak of Le Diable, and he shall appear.
It’s juvenile, but the moment she sees crimson scarlet locks, she straightens, pulling herself towards the stove. She picks up the spoons and stirs the contents around once more, all while praying to a god she doesn’t even care to know exists or not. Please turn brown, please don’t make me look stupid right now, please don’t ask.
She hears the fridge door thrown open from behind her before it promptly shuts. She croons her neck over to the side, eyes shifting over his figure.
“You and Lo havin’ fun in the danger room?” She asks, watching him take a generous gulp of water.
He’s dressed in a black compression top. His hair looks darker than usual, more sanguine rather than scarlet. His skin is ruddy, something that indicates his exasperated state. He drawls out a hum in response, draws closer without a word. Arms drape around her waist, and she feels the dip of his chest against the divot of her back.
“Brought that fool to his knees wit’ a flick of de wrist,” His lips are against her shoulder blade, he murmurs triumphs she knows are at best, half-truths.
“But nothin’ ever dat fun wit’out you p’tite.” Then, a full truth, peppered between soft kisses that try to meet her neck.
“Okay, okay…Careful, Beau, I’m concentrating.”
He breaks away from the curve of her neck to give the air a brief sniff, and she can’t help but roll her eyes in faux-disbelief.
“Smellin’ good, t’ink you did your big one.”
She tries not to pay him much mind, pouring the vegetables she cut earlier into the roux cautiously. He’s much too charming; a bit too coy, not that she doesn’t like it, she adores it, adores being on the receiving side of it.
He’s a cuddle-bug, never been able to help it; she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. She only really noticed a lapse in his affectionate behavior when he was hard at work in the kitchen, stirring the pot or making precise adjustments to his recipe. He wouldn't outright decline her affection, but he had a way of making it known he'd return it at a later time. Their places are flipped now; she’d be lying to say she didn’t enjoy it.
The trinity blends with the roux; her fingers tap the screen of the iPad to double-check the next step.
“Since you’re here, do me a favor and get me the garlic?” She doesn’t crane her neck.
He undoes himself from her form with one last kiss to her shoulder, gives a small nod as he obeys. It’s the home stretch now, past the slower and more intricate steps. She’s onto the more foolproof stage for the most part. She watches him place the clove on the counter. It’s a slight oversight, likely a good one considering how temperamental they are once peeled. She’s about to grab her knife as well as the garlic, but she finds both missing.
She’s barely surprised to see him make quick work of her next ingredient.
“Remy,” It should sound stern, but it’s barely that at all, halfway between a whine and a scolding.
“Sleight o’ hand, sha,” he holds up a small bowl to her gaze, and she takes it with a click of her tongue.
“Darn swamp rat…” I love you. She omits the last half, yet she’s unable to fight against the smile that takes over her pursed lips. She feels the tension between her shoulder blades lift. It’s like some kind of magic, like he’s some sorta kitchen witch.
It’s unbelievable, really. He must know that he is.
She tosses the cloves in, then adds a few bay leaves for the more mature notes. Part of her expects him to pick up more of the process, or slow it down in some meaningful way, but he does neither. He’s leaning into the curve of the counter, hands resting languidly on the tile behind him; he’s watching her.
And she knows he probably isn’t, at least not like that. He’s not nitpicking, not looking for a way to discourage her- it’s softer than that, and it’s easy to make it out in those eyes of his. When he smiles, they form crescent red moons rather than something that can be read as skepticism.
He’s then not looking at her at all; she sees it in the corner of her eye. His gaze snapped onto his phone, thumb swiping occasionally. Some more time passes by, and the aroma has changed after the introduction of the chicken broth. Rich, homey.
She’s blowing on the spoon when she beckons him, “Come here,” and any previous investment he had is gone in an instant.
She places the spoon between his lips, and a low hum travels throughout it. “Now, dat…”
Her expression softens, and they stay like that for a while, not a long while. Remy dips a smaller spoon back into the pot, this time—treating himself to a sausage as well.
He points the spoon at her, “An’ you sure you ain’t ever done this?” It’s almost accusatory.
She laughs at that, genuinely laughs, because the accusation could not be further from the truth. She was a hair’s breadth away from dropping this whole meal. Her lips graze against his cheek; it’s almost as if he predicts the movement, agile. He turns his head and redirects the kiss to his lips.
She doesn’t mind.
Her thumb skims across his jaw, feels around the scruff there. He melts into the touch; neither of them would be shocked if he were to purr.
He’s her velcro kitty after all.
“Wha’ ’bout Gambit go head an’ set dat table?” She doesn’t prompt him; he brings it up anyway.
“Sounds lovely,” she’s already running tepid water over the wooden spoon. She hasn’t tasted what he has yet, but she takes his word as though it’s gospel.
While she’s cleaning up, he tends to the table with a near-impossible decorum. He’s between the kitchen and the table, she hears him hum a familiar tune.
Jubilee is the first to descend from the stairs, then Rogue. Then they have a full table.
“Again?” Logan quips. It’s a quiet murmur, loud enough for only some ears to hear. There’s amusement, masked bewilderment.
It’s also faint, superficial, melting away the moment his tongue swipes over his spoon. There’s a rowdy conversation that grows into something more light-hearted. The younger students spark most of the conversation, Bobby and Remy exchange stories that sound fictitious; gratefully exaggerated in nature if true at all.
Nothing much comes out of it; there’s a silent acknowledgment of her hospitality, some more discernible than others. Anna compliments her seasoning blend, something about Jubilee’s expression changes, and Remy’s stays the same throughout the meal.
There’s a smug look on his face, his eyes are neigh impossible to make out.
Dinner turned out to be a success, but none of them bothered with the dishes immediately; they were all too caught up with chasing fun. It’s Remy who suggests a simple game of Uno. Scott is standing in the doorway, more toward the living room rather than the hallway. Logan scoffs, yet doesn't say no.
She doesn’t quite say yes.
“Laissez le bon temps rouler,” Let the good times roll. He’s shuffling the stack of Uno cards, a simple riffle. They cascade; he makes it look effortless.
“Uno? Deal me the heck in! Me, me, me.” Jubilee chants.
Jubilee takes a seat beside Remy, and she thinks they look cute like that. She doesn’t really care to join; she carries herself over to the other side of the room. She feels eyes on her form, something expectant.
“Don’ be a stranger, sha.” He drawls. All smooth, yet jagged. All that southern flair searin’ the back of his throat like hard liquor. She makes a show of it, draping her body over the recliner. She’s curled up like a rag-doll cat, all coquettish now. Turns out making gumbo is no small feat; she’s tired.
Her eyelashes droop when she says, “If you always have me, then how you ever gon’ miss me, beau?”
Her chin is in her palm, and she watches him pass the deck over to Jubilee to cut. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick over to her; his eyes admit that she’s got him all affected before his words do.
“Mais La…You gon’ kill Remy one of these days.”
“Alors péris, mon cher.” Her accent isn’t perfect; she’s out of practice. Whenever she speaks it, her accent is a toss-up between standard and whatever attributes she’s managed to nab off of him.
Then die by my hand, my dear.
“Are we gonna play Uno anytime soon, or?” Her eyes flutter open; she can hear the sardonic matter-of-fact tone in Scott’s voice. He’s full of condescension, making the air in the room fall stale. She hates feeling like she’s suddenly gotta watch her mouth. As if. A bit of flirting won’t kill him.
He’s moved and now sits at the end of the sofa right beside her recliner. She leans so far to the left that the chair feels off-kilter with the undistributed weight. Jubilee hands each person their stack of cards, dishing them out heedlessly. Originally, she wasn’t planning to play—but she has a change of heart.
Seven cards are splayed across the arm of the chair. She picks them up and doesn’t give them back. Huh, he shuffled the fuck out of this deck. ’Course he fucking did.
“Clockwise?” She asks, speaking out to no one in particular.
Laissez le bon temps rouler. She can never say it out loud without getting tongue-tied. As Logan places down the red 8, she thinks of the phrase, lets his voice do aerials in her mind till she feels it’s run its course.
She watches as Jubilee immediately tosses a card on top of Logan’s, and she hears the click of disbelief fall from her boyfriend’s tongue.
Remy gives the stack a tentative gaze, drawing 4 cards. “Uh huh, das okay, jus’ watch.”
“I—It’s literally all I had!” With the way Jubilee’s voice wavers in fear, it’s almost as if she owes him money.
Scott is next, throwing a red 2 into the stack. When her turn comes, she tosses over a blue 2 that barely makes it into the pile.
And it’s nice, she enjoys this; she enjoys whatever this is. Scott’s immediate laser focus, Jubilee’s laughter, Remy’s occasional stolen glances. She enjoys it all. Somewhere along the way—she isn’t sure if she’s playing Uno or poker. Things get quiet because Scott and Logan usually are, and she’s just here for the chair. Maybe the company is a bit of a plus, although.
“You still playin’ for fun, or playin’ for the keeps, baby?”
Remy has this look on his face: concentration. A lone card is laid face down against his lap.
He does look up at her right then, although. “Sha, you know Remy dont kiss an’ tell.” For a moment, she wonders if he forgot to call Uno.
His thumb swipes at the single card, revealing a second behind it. “So why ya t’ink he woul’ tell you wha’ he got up his sleeve?”
She watches as he puts his card into the pile, nearly calls him out on it, but—
“Uno,” He says it in a sort of melodic lilt, mischievous. Bastard.
She can’t even be mad; no one ever is anyway. She doesn’t necessarily get the odds of Uno, but no matter the card, they bend in his hands; simultaneously, they bend to his will easily when he handles them. No one questions how his luck suddenly becomes boundless.
It’s just what he does; he has an aptitude for it.
Or maybe—he’s just eating the cards.
She wouldn’t put it past him.
Jubilee and Scott start to pull out all the full stops; all the action and wild cards they’ve either been omitting the whole game land in the pile. She can’t tell if they’ve been saving them, or if they’re ones they’ve had to begrudgingly pull from the deck.
Regardless, Jubilee ends up changing the color to red, and his last card matches accordingly. Well, surely they all know what they were getting into. It’s nice to see Scott get knocked down a few pegs, she thinks.
Eventually—They’re on their third round. Logan’s managed to secure the second round; she’s not sure why, but Remy passed her the deck. She shuffles the cards in a way that’s akin to his. Her fingers aren’t as lithe, nor as calloused—but they fall into the same positions despite it, slotting within each other as they should.
And that’s enough, because it results in someone else winning.
They let her shuffle again, and she figures they think Remy has somehow been pocketing the cards all the time. She knows he isn’t. She knows the look he has when he does; the sly cunning grin he dons when he starts treating table games much more like blackjack.
It’s just him today, just Remy.
Remy and his witted luck.
“Uno, quel dommage.” What a shame indeed.
“No way!” Jubilee quips, her brows starting to furrow inward.
She crooks a brow up as well, her eyes falling upon him with clear suspicion. You can take the man away from the poker table, but you can’t take the poker out of the man. He never loses his way with the cards.
As she’s watching him put down his last card, she can only shrug. “Huh, guess I don’t got the magic touch after all.” She offers.
Jubilee shoves her hand in his pocket; she can’t believe it. He has to have some cards hidden in there. She’ll probably check his sleeve as well just to make sure; no rock left unturned and all. She searches, even tugs at the insides of his pockets. Nothing but residual dust and a crumbled piece of blue wax paper, so her hand slides out empty.
“The games jus’ be in Gambit’s favor,” He shrugs, looking as sly as he usually does; the edges of his lips upturned into a sly sheepish grin.
“You’re cheesy,” Jubilee rolls her eyes. She makes a noise of amusement, somewhere between a huff and a noise of interest.
When she hands the rest of her cards to Scott, Scott hands them over to Jubilee, and Jubilee deals because her name doesn’t end in Lebeau.
“You guys go on ahead,” She insists.
“Aww…” Jubilee seems disappointed, her expression doesn’t falter for long; Remy just doesn’t allow her to sulk.
“Hey! No,”
She gets comfortable on the recliner, and Jubilee attempts to wrestle the deck from Gambit’s grasp.
The more exhausted she feels, the less she starts to care about the squabble unraveling in front of her. She’s never been a particularly light sleeper, and really—she’s not a heavy one either. Her legs unravel from their position nestled up against her chest, and the volume in the room drops once more. Even when she’s this tired, she can feel his eyes on her; the heat of his gaze.
She doesn’t know how to describe it.
It just feels serene. Falling asleep in front of people she knows would stop at nothing to protect each other. She feels the same about them, of course. So she allows herself to drift off, their voices drown on into low, soft mutters swimming at the back of her mind. Gradually, their voices turn into near whispers.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been out by then, how many rounds they go on for. Remy’s voice emerges from somewhere inside of her, somewhere between the clouds and the copse of trees in her dreams.
“Bébé,”
Or rather outside of her dreams.
She can hear Remy call out in a sotto tone, the hinges of the recliner squeak to welcome new weight against it.
He’s warm, of course—because when isn’t he? His fingers graze the skin of her thigh, tapping once, again. Light-work, and no reaction. He lingers there. For a moment, she’s curious if he’ll situate himself right where Scott was and just fall asleep beside her. He’s certainly the type. Always laying his head in her lap or draping his larger frame over hers until they both sort of slot together.
The chair dips again; she wasn’t expecting to feel him lift her lower half up. She also wasn’t expecting to have her legs thrown over his arms and her head gently poised against his shoulder.
She allows him to. She may be feigning being dead asleep, but it’s fair, right? The exhaustion is real, at least.
He carries her the whole way through the hall without missing a beat. Luckily, her room is downstairs. A part of her wonders if he’d go through the effort had it not been.
Yeah, he totally would.
She can tell by the way he does this whole awkward ordeal of trying to pull back her sheets to place her against the bed. Even after tucking her in, he stands there like he’s questioning if she’d rather him leave, or if he can slip right under the covers and lie his head on her satin pillows too.
She blinks her eyes straight open, looks up at him casually, like a snake that’s managed to wrangle its prey.
“You’re so creepy.”
“Couldn’ help but notice ya stopped snorin’ back there bébé.” Smooth, like snakeskin.
“Pft…Just went ahead and proved my point, huh?”
She turns on her side, beckons him over by patting the empty side of her bed. It happens…Nearly immediately. He’s on his back, so she props his head against his stomach. She curls up under the sheets ever so slightly.
Her fingers trace circles against the flat, hard surface of his chest, idly tracing every ridge and incline of his ribcage. He’s never minded, never even questioned why she’s so adamant about tracing invisible lettering and symbols into his skin.
Typical of him.
“‘M not cooking for the next five months,” She murmurs out absentmindedly.
“Tha’ so?”
“Yep,”
Most of it was worth it; but she still just doesn’t get how the benefits outweigh the effort. It’s nice to indulge him every once in a while, though. Learn a bit of his culture and pay meticulous detail to it. But maybe she’ll let him do that from now on and she'll help from the sidelines.
“Coul’ do it together, no? ‘N I mean me an’ you proper.”
“…Sly devil.”
Or maybe he might just deal her in, because he always manages to; no contract or jet black ink needed.
being a billionaire’s son will never stop jason from being poor
(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
i couldn't decide which version i liked the best so congrats you get all 3! broke jason in every angle trust .ᐟ.ᐟ
Absolute Diana x vampire reader who’s lowkey starving and lives with Diana because Diana always has blood to spare so she doesn’t go hungry and hurt people pretty pleaseee
🫶🏾
٠࣪⭑NEEDED CONSUMPTION٠࣪⭑
absolute wonderwoman x vampire! reader | sfw
CW! female reader, vampire typical things, lil suggestive content, hurt comfort, small bits of violence, friends to lovers, low key influenced by nosferatu bc that movie is still deep indebted in my heart and entire being, small mention of reader's skin; as in grey/pale in color due to malnourishment (if that makes sense sry pls help)
Summary! A woman of tall-stature, a goddess comes across you feral and hungry. Ever the compassionate person she is volunteers her own blood. Unsurprisingly, this act of kindness leads to something deeper, brutal and yet it's all to soft and addicting.
જ⁀➴ . . . Absolute cinema of a request. I love ur brain <3
At first Diana believed the carnage was due to a something completely evil. Gruesome bites in the chests of civilians. Blood everywhere on the persons, even smeared on the walls. Drips of crimson seeped into the wood of houses.
Thanks to a detective-dressed bat Diana could tell that the person who did such a thing was stumbling. Uncoordinated.
A vampire. Sinking their teeth into the chest of others, feasting for their benefit. Truly, creatures that asked for permission to come inside, and yet brutality wouldn't be missed.
However, Diana could never be that shallow. Even when her sights landed on you. Dressed in clean pure white, well, it could have been. Dirtied with brown and blood. Canines deep into the chest of another. Long nails clinging to the body to take in that blood.
A tiny looking thing from she was, how she stood above you. Horror and yet somberness. Taking in your complexion of being less colorful than what it should have been. You looked like you were high, as if, you, as a vampire was deprived of the thing you needed to live.
"Dear friend." She offered. Red eyes met her magnificent blue hues. Your body collided with hers before she even knew it. Feeling your hungry hands clinging to her warmth to cleanse the cold from yourself.
Pulling you down from her body with extreme force. Blood from her skin being opened from your nails. Dressed in red with a dirtied white dress. Looking more beautiful in the moonlight.
A poor little thing.
Clinging for life. The moment your bloodlust caught wind of her warmth, the sweet blood running through her veins you ran. Needing to drink to get rid of that rumbling in your stomach.
It was saddening to do, but with the butt of her sword she hit you. Your blood red eyes shimmering in the light and they disappeared alongside your closing eyelids.
She held you close, wiping away the blood on your. Thankfully, the man you'd been drinking from survived and got him medical attention.
Looks like she just walked in on you just as you began your drinking fest.
Diana wondered how long this had been going on. What had led you to this much hunger. Was is it perhaps a curse that been placed on you.
For everyone's safely the team left. It tore her to keep you down and roped, but it was needed.
Diana did her research. It was a curse. It wasn't one she could get off so easily. Even finding the person who cast it would be difficult.
Time came when you awoke. Your eyes were a darling color instead of the striking crimson. Diana remembered the things she's learned about vampires, most notably their entrancing beauty, and unfortunately she was following for it.
The way your canines peeked from below your lips was especially cute.
Your brows furrowed at her, eyes squinting, "Who are you." Tensing up when you realized you were held down.
"I apologize for having you tied up. It was for your and my own protection. I'd don't wish to harm you." Diana offered you a soft smile. "I only wish to help you."
"To help a vampire, like me? Much less a vampire who can't control their own hunger." Muscles softened at Diana's blue hues. Her avoided her eyes instead finding interest in the Greek mythology around you.
"Why is that? I've never known vampires to have such an appetite. In fact, you're the first vampire I've seen."
You gulped, "Why should I trust you?" You turned back with a glint of red in your eyes. Even with the blood and dirt still stuck to your body, you still came off so beautiful. Even if dressed in the cruelty of others.
"I believe I can help you, for I'm a witch. Diana of the Amazons, daughter of Circe, and Witch of the Wild Isle. Princess of Hell. If there is anyone better suited, I can guide you there."
Your facial expressions changed to one of awe. "If you can help...then maybe..."
Diana smiled so sweetly. Offering her hand to remove the bindings. "Do tell?"
You told her of your situation. Diana informed you of the time it would take and that you were welcome to stay so you could seek justice.
"All the time I'm hungry. It's unbearable, and only at a certain point do I leave that state until the blood I drank disappears and I become like that." You softly told her. Hugging yourself to self-soothe. For so long, you dealt with this endless hunger.
"Then I'll offer you myself."
"Huh?"
The arrangement was made. Despite your reservations, Diana assured you completely that she would be okay. Scheduled feedings throughout the day, every day, so that you would not have to deal with going in that state ever again until the curse is lifted.
It started at that moment when Diana offered her arm to you. Hesitantly, you took it; sharp canines puncturing her skin. Diana made a small noise of pain but masked it with a gentle smile. It started with small sips but then large gulps.
Satisfied with her blood in your tummy. Sweet, like fruit, with that metallic tinge. Feeling so very warm like the sun you haven't experienced in so long.
Everyone who was there got to know you and the arrangement. It surprised you so much that they were completely okay with this. So much kindness, not just blood, but the clothes, and care for your well-being.
Every morning, she would give you a taste of her blood. Diana would eat extremely well so that her blood remained in good condition. When she would go away for missions, Diana would cut her finger and put her blood into bottles for you.
Anytime she was gone, you would have her. Both in a bottle and in your tummy. Warm like sunshine.
Diana's kindness knew no bounds. It didn't help that also with the blood but also her magic. In her area of witchwork with Gia's help. At any chance to lift this curse.
However, there was part of you that feared the ending of this arrangement. It wasn't just the blood anymore. No, it was Diana as a whole. Her kindness pulled you in. Feeling like a puppy chasing their owner, both love and treats.
Would you need to leave? How would these feeding sessions change? How would you live without the feeling of her skin and blood on your tongue? That kind smile that would urge me to pounce on her, drink her blood that was so addicting.
Although it was at this point that you realized where Diana let you bite had changed. Not just her arm, but her thighs, her hand, her back, and her legs. Surely you looked at her chest, but your attention turned to her neck. A very intimate section for you to bite.
But would she let you do that?
The answer was yes.
Because right now was feeding time. Diana's hair was messy, and her skin was dirty. You were insatiable. Diana is telling you she needed to clean herself for you. Implying you shouldn't feel her skin with your tongue when covered in filth.
Her neck looked clean, though. Most of it was on her arms, not the neck. Normally, you drank from her arm.
"Your neck is clear..." Heat flushed to your cheeks, averting your eyes. Heart beating so damn hard against your chest. The venture of finally being able to bite her neck. It was wrong for you to weaponize the situation to get what you wanted, but was it so wrong to fall into desires?
After all, you were only a dirty vampire, and Diana still liked you. She wouldn't mind, right? There was no doubt in your mind that she knew the culture of vampires. You advised her of such information. You mentioned what places of the body were seen as intiamte. No doubt you mentioned the neck at one point.
Diana's laughter made you freeze. "Vami, you sweet thing."
She was sitting with that sweet smile of hers. Beckoning you to come to her. Like so many times you came to her but this felt different. Something told you she knew what you wanted. Not that you were ever clear with it, but never did you hide it.
It was known you grew affection for the Princess of Hell.
You sat on the couch.
"Come here." Guiding you to sit in her lap. Blinking with flushes of heat at every point of your body. A cold body that wasn't used to being embarrassed. "Go ahead."
Resting your hands on her shoulders and letting your canines sink into the juncture of her neck. Diana made a small noise but it didn't sway her. Hands holding on your waist as you fed.
The neck was always a sensitive area. If drank from it caused so interesting affections depending on what kind of fangs and what kind of person was the bloodbag. Diana made small noises as you drank harder. Feeling the swelling of her warm belly that always filled you so good.
"I'm sorry Diana-" You gasped. Blood dripping down your chin. Small tears in your eyes from glee. "Thank you."
Diana's eyes were layered over with itent. Her hand gripping the back of your neck leaning yourself back down to her neck.
"Drink more."
You cried in joy when her blood greeted your taste buds.
Wonder when this had became a source of enjoyment for Diana. When had the pain of being bitten and feeding a little vampire because a source of enjoyment. When had she started to look forward to these sessions. How did she feel when feeding you wasn't in the cards.
How did she feel when a black bat called for you before feeding you?
How did she feel when missions had to come first before aiding you.
Believe it or not, despite Diana's compassion, even she had desires. One being you and the sweet moments from this arrangement.
"No matter what I'll feed you in anyway I can." Diana was breathless as she spoke. Clinging to you soothingingly as you cried from glee. She held you till you were so full that you wanted to fall asleep.
The grinds of your hips against her weren't mistakened.
"Later my dear."
"You know? Not..."
"Of course not, Vami, you are the little bat that wiggled her way into my life. Introduced me to an experience I never knew. Taught me more about your kind, and about you." Diana cupped your face and wiping away the blood from your lips.
Kissing you sweetly on the cheek. Blood smeared on her face. Her own blood.
Warnings: Blood consumption, major injury (implied/mentioned), body horror (mild), family neglect, secret identity, vampirism.
English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammar or punctuation mistakes.
Part One
next part masterlist
There are thousands of ways to die in Gotham City. You could be gassed by a clown, digested by a giant plant, or simply shot because you bumped into the wrong person in the wrong alley. But my luck? I got the outdated, foul-smelling variety—a vampire who probably last took a bath during the Industrial Revolution.
To be honest, a week ago, when he lunged at me in that dark alley, I wasn't so much afraid of the pain as I was of the lecture Bruce would give me. “Why were you out this late?” “Why was your situational awareness so low?” But as his teeth sank into my throat, those thoughts evaporated. I was going to die because of some filthy man’s teeth tearing into my neck.
But I didn’t die. At least, not entirely.
When I woke up the next morning, my room in the manor was as silent as ever. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the light that usually felt warm now triggered a sickening itch on my skin. Fortunately, it hadn't touched me long enough to actually burn. No one knocked on my door to ask, “Are you okay? You came home late.” Why would they? Bruce probably thought I was still on that school field trip.
For a week now, looking in the mirror has felt like staring at a Victorian-era painting. Pale, haggard, with two purple punctures on my neck that even concealer can barely hide. Sneaking into the kitchen at midnight has become a covert operation. Making it through Alfred’s legendary professional kitchen without a sound is harder than evading Batman himself. I’d drain the blood from raw meat packages at the back of the fridge, mix it with frozen strawberries to mask the scent, and label my shaker: "Protein Blend - Do Not Touch!" It tasted like rusty metal and stale fruit, but for me, it was perfect. My stomach finally stopped growling.
When I headed downstairs, Alfred was in the kitchen as usual, polishing the silver. He set a bowl of fruit and crepes in front of me. The sweet aroma made my stomach drop into a void. Realizing I could no longer eat them was perhaps the worst part of being a vampire.
"You look a bit peaked this morning," Alfred said, eyes scanning me. "A new fitness regimen, perhaps? I don't recall seeing you prepare that... beverage in your hand."
"Yeah, Alfred. Heavy training," I said, surprised by how hollow and monotonous my voice sounded. "The body needs to adapt. You know the Wayne genes... we all go a little crazy at some point."
Alfred offered a thin smile, but he had that look—the one where he weighs everything he sees. He didn't press further, though. In this house, everyone had strange obsessions, hidden wounds, and unexplained habits. I hoped mine would just be recorded as "a bit too much pallor" and "a weird drink."
On my way out, I ran into Cass. She was the silent shadow of the manor, reading people like books without needing a single word. She stopped as I passed. She tilted her head, giving me one of those piercing looks. Cass didn’t listen for heartbeats; she saw the posture of your shoulders, your center of gravity, every micro-movement of your muscles.
She hesitated. Her expression was that of someone looking at a puzzle they couldn't quite solve. My movements, usually fluid and alive, were now stiff and mechanical, like a marionette's. The "life energy" in my body had vanished as if someone had pulled the plug. Her gaze flickered to my hands, then to my shaker. She said nothing, but I saw her shoulders tense. My "body language" was now written in a language foreign to her.
In the Batcave, Jason Todd slammed his helmet onto the desk near the main computer. He had just returned from his patrol in the East Side, soaked to the bone from the rain. Bruce was analyzing crime maps on the giant screens while Jason tore off his leather jacket and tossed it aside.
"I'm telling you, Bruce, those bodies in the docks... there's something wrong with them," Jason said, unravelling the bandages on his injured hand. "No tissue loss, no gunshot wounds. Just drained of blood. Are Gotham’s old urban legends coming back or what?"
Bruce frowned, reviewing the reports. "Vampirism claims trend in Gotham every decade, Jason. Usually, it's a cult or a new narcotic effect."
"This time is different," Jason grunted. "Some of the victims' bodies are starting to change. Like... they're turning into something else."
Finishing the conversation, Jason headed for the elevator to leave the cave. He needed a stiff cup of coffee and a shower. When the elevator stopped at the hallway near the kitchen, he saw you walking toward your room.
Jason froze. Your shoulders were slumped, and there was a strange, heavy air to your gait. What caught his attention most was the whiteness. Jason was a man who had returned from the dead; he knew the difference between a sickly pallor and "true death-white." You looked as lifeless as a scrap of paper.
Moreover, you were gripping that black shaker as if your life depended on it. As you passed, you gave him a brief, vacant look.
Jason narrowed his eyes. "You look like a ghoul."
"Just tired, Jason," you whispered. Your voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance.
As you hurried away into your room, Jason stood rooted to the spot. Coffee and a shower were the last things on his mind. His eyes drifted to the floor where you had just walked. Cass was standing further down the hall, still watching your back with a look of profound unease.
Jason noticed her distress. Cass was never wrong. If she sensed something "off" in someone, there was a reason. Jason thought of the blood-drained bodies in the city, then of your lifeless walk. For now, he just thought it was "weird." He figured you were depressed or hiding a secret illness. Vampirism? No, that was still just an urban legend. But Jason was going to keep tracking that legend until he found the truth.
next part
A/N: This has been living rent-free in my head for a while. The thought of them being so busy with Gotham that they don't even notice their own sibling literally dying and turning into a creature of the night... it hurts, right? Cass and Jason are already suspicious, but how long can you keep this "protein shake" excuse going?
PAIRING:
Hannibal Lecter x Vamp! Male Reader
SYNOPSIS:
You are a vampire. And yes, immortality can foster boredom. So when you began whatever it was with Hannibal, it was always meant to be temporary. So when you finally call it quits, he lashes out. Not only because you didn't find him that special to stay, but because you straight up told him he was replaceable. Just like every mortal you've been with.
The vampire had seen empires fall, plagues come and go, art change hands and names, yet somehow Hannibal Lecter remained. The man had aged like fine wine—polished, ruthless, refined—and the vampire found that he didn’t mind returning to him every year. It would follow the same pattern: quiet dinners, stolen kisses, long nights that bled into dawns filled with moans and silk sheets. But it was never love. Not to him.
To Hannibal, however, it became something sacred.
At first, it had been lust, a fascination with the otherworldly creature who could rival him in intellect and cruelty. But as time moved, as he studied the way the vampire existed in solitude and grace, Hannibal found himself worshiping the being that should have been untouchable. He stopped bringing lovers to his bed, opting to spend his time indulging in those hungry, ancient crimson eyes that had followed him since adolescence. Hannibal, in private, even allowed himself to imagine a world where immortality extended an invite to him.
Such a foolish, mortal daydream.
And you noticed, of course. Noticed the way Hannibal began speaking of future seasons as though they were owed to him. Felt how Hannibal's lingering touch changed from desire and hunger to utter devotion. Saw how his gaze softened, as if love were something that could be curated between them without destruction.
And you let him.
Let Hannibal believe in the illusion. Not out of malice. Not out of some secret affection, but out of something far simpler: you enjoyed him. You enjoyed the sharpness of Hannibal’s mind, the elegance of his cruelty, the calm way he carved meaning into every breath. You enjoyed the dinners, the opera, the warm hands on your hips, the way Hannibal said your name as if it were a prayer. You enjoyed being the one weakness in a man who did not break.
But enjoyment was not love.
Enjoyment did not grow roots.
Enjoyment did not stay.
The end came about on a night like any other. The fire crackled, low and warm, filling the room with the scent of oakwood. Hannibal sat in his leather armchair, pen resting lightly between his fingers, posture composed in that unshakeable way of his. You watched him from the sofa. Not with longing, not with tenderness. Just taking him in. Like one studies a painting they have grown familiar with. A masterpiece, yes, but one they could walk away from without breaking.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” Hannibal observed, voice smooth as honeyed wine. “Uncharacteristically so.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That much I assumed,” he replied with a faint smile. “But, specifically, what plagues your thoughts?"
You didn’t bother softening the answer. “Leaving.”
Hannibal didn’t move. Not even a flicker. Only the faintest tightening of his jaw betrayed him. “Leaving,” he repeated, “For how long?”
“Indefinitely.”
The silence this time was different—sharp, slicing cleanly through the room. “I see.” He set his pen down. “And when did you come to this decision?”
“Sometime ago,” Your tone held no apology. No hesitation. “I’ve simply waited for the right moment to say it.”
“You’ve been planning to leave,” Hannibal said slowly, calmly rising from his chair, “while lying in my bed. Eating at my table. Sharing my nights.”
“Yes.”
He laughed—a quiet, disbelieving exhale. “And you thought you could just tell me, like one tells a neighbor they’re relocating?”
“I thought it was polite,” you said simply. “You’ve been a constant companion of mine, Hannibal. One who deserves a farewell. Most don't get one."
He stepped closer. Not threatening. Yet. “A ‘companion,’” Hannibal echoed. “Is that all I have been to you?”
You looked up at him, eyes cold but not cruel. “Yes.” Honest.
His expression fractured. Not visibly, not dramatically—Hannibal did not break—but the foundation shifted. The room felt tighter. “So all this time,” He murmured, “you felt nothing.”
“All I felt was familiarity. Comfort. A routine." You leaned back against the sofa, shoulders relaxed, voice infuriatingly calm. “You accepted what I am. You didn't flinch from my hunger or violence. You made conversation that didn't bore me. I enjoyed you, Hannibal. Truly.”
“But you do not love me.”
You blinked at him slowly. “Hannibal, please don't make things harder than they need to be. When we first met, I told you our kind don't love. That we are solitary creatures because humans fade with time. And you accepted it."
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled in the silence, casting light against his sharp features—the perfect sculpture of control fracturing under something wild. Desperate.
“You've mistake me,” Hannibal said finally, each word like a knife pressed delicately against the skin. “I do not fade. I endure. I have endured everything this world has inflicted upon me, and yet you think I will simply let you—”
“Leave? Yes.”
He stared at you like a man staring into the sun, trying not to go blind. “You think me incapable of feeling the loss?”
“I think you’re capable of feeling too much,” you said quietly. “That’s your tragedy, Hannibal. You seek permanence in impermanent things.”
He laughed, low, disbelieving, bitter. “And what are you, if not permanent? You—who has walked through centuries, who has seen the world shift and rot and rebuild itself—what are you, if not the closest thing to eternity I will ever touch?”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him as if from a distance. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t cling to me.”
Hannibal moved fast—so fast most men wouldn’t have seen him. His hand came to rest against the arm of the couch beside you, his face inches from yours. “You cannot leave me,” he said, voice low but trembling beneath the restraint. “You cannot walk out as though I am some experiment you’ve grown tired of.”
Hannibal’s face was too close.
His voice too soft.
His need too loud.
And for the first time in a long while, something cold and ancient stirred in you. You stood abruptly. Hannibal straightened too, like a predator sensing a shift, but this time, you invaded his space.
“Do you think cornering me will change my answer? I tried to give you dignity in this, Hannibal. A clean ending. But you insist on making it ugly.”
His eyes flashed with something unhinged. “Love is not clean.”
“This isn’t love.” Your shove sent him stumbling back, breath punched from his lungs. “It’s an obsession you built in your own head until it became a religion. And now—now you want to drag me up on the altar with you.”
“You reduce the significance of what we have—”
“We had nothing,” you snapped. The venom in your voice could have curdled blood. “We had a convenient arrangement. A pleasant routine. A long, drawn out distraction. That is all.”
“You accepted me,” Hannibal whispered, stepping closer, voice trembling. “You let me see you; who you truly are.”
You laughed. Sharp, hollow, cruel. “I let you see what I wanted you to see. Don’t flatter yourself. You know ten pieces of a puzzle with ten thousand missing.”
Hannibal moved, but you moved faster. Your hand slammed around his throat, pinning him back against the wall with supernatural force. The drywall cracked behind him.
“Listen to me very carefully,” you hissed, baring a hint of fang. “I have tolerated your theatrics. I have tolerated your arrogance. I have even tolerated your little fantasy that you were something more than a beautifully dressed pet.”
Hannibal’s eyes widened with outrage and something disturbingly like desire. “But that tolerance is gone.”
You released him with a shove that rattled the picture frames on the wall. That was supposed to be the end of it. However, as your fingers brushed the doorknob, a pain detonated through your chest.
A short, sharpened stake—wood, old wood, soaked in something bitter—was struck just inches from your heart. Close enough that agony ripped through every sinew of your body. Your knees hit the floor, strength draining like water through cracked stone. You turned slowly, breath ragged.
“You bastard. What have you done!?”
“I listened,” Hannibal said, breath shuddering. “You told me what would weaken you. You told me what would keep you still.” You tried to rise. Your muscles screamed, your vision swam, darkness gnawed at the edges of your sight. Hannibal stepped closer, sinking to his knees in front of you. “You forced my hand. If I didn’t do this, you would've vanished, and I would never find you again.”
“You think this will make me stay?”
“No,” he said, almost tenderly. “But it will give me the time I need.” You tried to bare your teeth—threaten, curse him, promise ruin—but the world tilted violently and turned dark.
TIME SKIP
Your lids fluttered open slowly, heavy with the lingering effects of being staked. The ceiling above you was familiar: arched, expensive wood, lit by the soft glow of warm lamps. You didn't need to look around to know where you were.
Hannibal’s bedroom.
You pulled at your arms instinctively, fangs baring with irritation the moment the restraints bit into your wrists. Steel reinforced leather. Layered with wolfsbane, oak and iron filings. A cocktail designed with research, obsession, and far too much ingenuity. Your lips twisted.
Clever bastard.
You tested your ankles and they were also restrained. The collar around your neck was the true insult: heavy, ancient, and fitted with a locking mechanism that hummed faintly with an alloy meant to suppress supernatural entities.
He had prepared this.
He had prepared this well.
“How thoughtful,” you muttered venomously, voice still gravel-edged from unconsciousness. “You spared no expense. How romantic.”
Footsteps approached. You knew them by sound alone: elegant steps with no wasted movement. Hannibal stepped into view beside the bed, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been working. Or pacing. He looked at you the way one looks at an eclipse: reverent, terrified and spellbound.
“You’re awake.” he said too softly.
You turned your head toward him with the slow, cold precision of a predator promising violence the moment its limbs were free. "Release me and I will forgive this offense."
Hannibal’s face crumpled—subtly, beautifully—into something like heartbreak. “I cannot do that.”
“Then I rescind the offer. When I free myself from here, I will rip out your throat.”
He didn’t flinch. Rather, his expression softened even more—like you were a frightened animal snarling only because it didn't understand its cage. That tenderness made your lips curl.
“Do not look at me like that,” you snapped. “I am not some wounded creature you’ve nursed back to health. You’ve chained me and dare to wear sorrow on your face?”
Hannibal’s eyes glimmered with something painfully gentle. “I didn't mean for things to escalate this far, yet I don't regret the necessity of it."
“Necessity?” You rattled the restraints with a vicious pull. “Nothing here was necessary. You forced this because you couldn’t accept reality.”
“I acted because reality without you is unbearable.”
Your laugh was sharp and unkind. “Then suffer it. As every mortal has done when I left them.”
You smiled unkindly, viciously; a slow curl of your lip that showed fang and contempt in equal measure. The kind of smile meant to wound. The kind of smile you only wore when you intended to break someone.
“And that’s your problem, isn’t it, Hannibal?” you purred, voice dripping with mockery. “The knowledge that you can’t tie yourself to me. That I don’t orbit you, nor will I ever. That no matter what you do—feed me, fuck me, beg me—you cannot become anything more than what you are. Replaceable.”
You leaned in as far as the chains allowed, the restraints groaning in protest. “I’ve had kings kneel before me. Empires crushed in my honor just for the possibility of my touch. Priests turning away from their gods for a taste of what you thought you was yours," You let out a mocking laugh.
"You chain me because you cannot bear the idea that I might one day forget the exact shade of your eyes. That I might lose the memory of your voice among a thousand others.” Your smile was deadly. “That you’re not the first Hannibal in my memory.”
His face went still. Terrifyingly still. “…Not the first?”
“Of course not. I’ve lived centuries. Do you truly imagine you’re my first brilliant, self-worshipping mortal with a taste for death and beauty?”
The silence that followed was a shattering thing. Then Hannibal whispered, voice low and lethal: “What were their names?”
You laughed.
Full.
Cruel.
Ancient.
“I don’t remember.”
The devastation on his face was exquisite—raw, unguarded, searing. You tilted your head. “And you think I’ll remember yours?”
For a moment, Hannibal looked like a man staring over the edge of oblivion. Then, something shifted.
Something dark.
Something final.
Hannibal inhaled, and when he exhaled, all sorrow was gone. Replaced by resolve carved from bone and obsession. “If they were forgotten,” he murmured, eyes burning, “then I will become the exception.”
You scoffed. “You cannot force—”
“I can and I will.” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. “Because unlike those nameless lovers, I don't intend to vanish from your memory.” His fingers brushed your jaw: reverent, possessive, trembling with devotion and madness. “No matter what you say, I will make myself unforgettable.”
Your lips curled, your eyes blazing, your entire being coiled with fury. And Hannibal looked at you like a sinner seeing his god for the first and last time.
psppsspsps dropping another request, more!vampire!male!reader, uh but this time dick or jason?? or whoever you feel fit, anyway they are sharing an apartment with reader, though their lock breaks, so dick replaces it, so when reader tries to get back into their apartment they can’t because of dumb vampire logic, meaning they desperately try to convince dick or jason to let him inside their apartment again, but he can’t exactly tell them that he’s a vampire…. just goofy
Can You Let Me In?
Pairing: Dick Grayson x GN!Vampire!Reader
Words: 1.3k
Content Warning: None - Fluff piece
Enjoy, Reader
You never notice how much of life quietly assumes you belong until the day it stops.
No warning. No ceremony. Just the sharp click of a lock sliding home—a sound meant to reassure the people inside, not the one left standing in the hall. You freeze, grocery bag digging into your fingers, and stare at the door like it’s turned on you. Like it woke up and decided you were the problem.
The hallway hums. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Somewhere above, a dryer rattles on and on. Burned toast drifts in from next door. Everything is aggressively normal, which somehow makes it worse. The world keeps spinning like nothing’s changed, and you’re the only thing that doesn’t fit anymore.
You try the handle again.
It doesn’t move.
You blink, then frown. Frowning is older than reason—a reflex burned in long before you stopped being fully human. You jiggle the knob harder, then step back and glare, like you can bully it into working through sheer irritation.
“Very funny,” you mutter under your breath, shifting the grocery bag to your other hand as your fingers begin to ache. “Cute joke.”
The door doesn’t budge. Sarcasm and resentment just slide off.
The realization creeps in, slow and sickening. It doesn’t hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, each part snapping into place with a kind of cruel logic that leaves no room for hope.
The lock is new.
The apartment has been altered.
The space has been redefined.
Your hand hovers inches from the knob, hesitation tightening your chest as you half-expect the door to recoil from your touch, or worse, to confirm what your instincts are already screaming.
You try anyway.
The metal is cold and unyielding under your palm. You pull. Nothing. No give, no welcome, none of that subtle flex that usually means you belong here.
You step back. Your heart thuds, useless.
“Oh no,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “No, no, no, no.”
You try again. Denial is a survival skill. You’ve lasted centuries on hope, stubbornness, and refusing to take no for an answer. The door doesn’t care. It might as well be welded shut.
This is bad.
This is spectacularly bad.
Because you live here.
And yet, somehow, you don’t.
The hallway feels wrong now, like it’s tilting away from you, nudging you toward the exit. The apartment beyond the door is closed off—not by metal, but by something older. Something that snaps shut and doesn’t open again once you’re on the wrong side.
Your phone buzzes sharply in your pocket, startling you so badly you nearly drop the groceries.
You fumble for it, thumb sliding too fast across the screen. Your pulse jumps, even though your heart has no reason to panic anymore.
Dick: Hey! Replaced the lock btw
Dick: The old one was basically a suggestion
Dick: Keys should still work tho, unless I grabbed the wrong set
Dick: lmk if it’s weird
You stare at the message. Then the door. Then the screen again. Your jaw tightens as the truth settles, heavy in your chest.
You type back.
You: Hey, haha, funny thing
You: Door is uh
You: Not opening
The response comes almost immediately.
Dick: …what
Dick: Like stuck-stuck?
Dick: I’m literally two blocks away
Your stomach drops.
Two blocks away means he’ll be here any second—questions, explanations, Dick’s too-sharp gaze pinning you in place. You glance at the door, your hand still useless on the knob, like you might talk it into changing its mind.
You cannot enter without an invitation.
You have not been invited.
Because the lock is new, the space is different. And vampire rules are, frankly, an absolute nightmare in the twenty-first century.
You type again, choosing your words with care.
You: It’s probably just jammed
You: Could you maybe open it from the inside
The three dots appear, vanish, then return.
Dick: Sure?
Dick: You okay?
Dick: You sound weird
You are weird, just not the way he thinks you are. Footsteps echo in the stairwell. You’re out of time to invent a better excuse.
You recognize his gait before he even rounds the corner. That easy rhythm, the lightness that moves, looks like breathing. He appears, paper bag of takeout in hand, hair mussed, jacket half-zipped, expression open and familiar.
“Hey,” he starts easily, already mid-sentence. “Sorry, traffic was...”
He stops short when he takes you in entirely, his gaze flicking from you to the door and back again.
“You’re… in the hallway,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the idea out loud.
“Yes,” you reply.
He tilts his head. “Which is usually where you are before you open the door.”
“Yes.”
“And you texted me like the door personally offended you.”
“Also yes.”
He squints at the lock, shifting the takeout to his other hand. “Okay. Humor me. Try the key.”
You dig your keys out of your pocket, hand shaking just enough to irritate you, and slide the key into the lock. It turns smoothly. The click echoes too loudly in the hush of the hallway.
Dick’s eyebrows lift. “See? It’s fine.”
You grip the handle and pull.
Nothing happens.
His smile falters. “Huh.”
You try again, harder this time, but the door refuses you with calm indifference. Dick steps closer, concern cutting through his easy demeanor.
“Okay, hang on, let me...”
“Wait,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.
He freezes, his hand hovering inches from the knob as he looks at you with open confusion. “Why?”
You gesture vaguely at the door, panic making your explanation clumsy. “It’s… sensitive.”
He blinks. “The door.”
“Yes.”
“That’s new.”
You let out a laugh that’s a little too quick, a little too sharp. “New locks can be temperamental.”
Dick studies you closely now, head tilting as concern and curiosity wrestle for control. “I opened it from the inside earlier.”
“Which is great,” you say, your voice thin. “For you.”
“And not for you.”
“Exactly.”
He exhales, sets the takeout down, and opens the door fully, stepping aside with an easy, inviting gesture. Warm air spills into the hallway, carrying the familiar scent of home: detergent, coffee, faint metal.
“Okay,” he says casually. “Come on in.”
You step forward.
And stop.
No pain. No force. No fear. Your body just refuses to cross the threshold, like you’ve hit an invisible wall made of intent instead of brick. The space pushes back; gentle, but final.
Dick watches, bewildered. “Are you… doing a bit?”
“I wish.”
You try again, still nothing.
His brow furrows. “Okay. What’s going on?”
“I can’t,” you admit quietly.
His expression softens immediately. “Hey. You’re not trapped out here, are you?”
“…kind of.”
Silence stretches between you until he finally asks, more carefully this time, “Why can’t you come in?”
You hesitate, then choose your words with surgical precision. “Technically, I don’t have permission.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Permission from who?”
“From you.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
You rub your face. “The universe takes things very literally. Painfully so.”
Dick stares at you for a long moment before breaking into a grin. “You’re messing with me.”
“I swear I’m not.”
“You’re telling me my new lock has magical veto power.”
“I would phrase it differently,” you say dryly. “But yes.”
He laughs, leaning against the doorframe. “That’s incredible.”
“I’m stranded,” you reply flatly.
“Okay, okay,” he says, sobering. “So what fixes it?”
You hesitate, mortified. “You have to invite me in.”
“I already did.”
“No. You opened the door.”
He pauses, then nods slowly. “Oh. So wording matters.”
“Yes.”
Dick straightens, clears his throat with exaggerated seriousness, and gestures toward the apartment.
“You are invited inside,” he says warmly. “Please come in. It’s your home.”
The barrier vanishes instantly.
You stumble forward as the resistance dissolves. A shuddering breath leaves you as you cross the threshold. The door shuts behind you. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
“…okay,” Dick says finally. “You’re explaining that.”
You groan, the truth clawing at your throat. It sits there, heavy and raw, until you finally let it out. "I'm a vampire," you say, the words scraping past your teeth.
He blinks once, then smiles. “Cool. That explains everything.”
You stare at him.
“Welcome home,” he adds easily, like it was never in doubt.
Imagine being a vampire living in one of the castles Claudia and Louis searched. You’re in the middle of your decades long nap, and suddenly there’s some random teenage girl throwing the lid of your coffin open and firing question after question in your language (albeit broken and heavily accented) while a man that’s visibly teetering on the edge of his sanity awkwardly stands behind her.
Vampires! Readers, refuse to drink the blood of bats because their blood tastes... weirdly bitter.
Slightly Addictive-Tendency Reader
You smelled them before the door even opened.
The scent pressed through the crack like a heavy fog, clinging to the air around you. It wasn’t warmth or adrenaline or anything human—just thick, metallic pressure that coated your tongue. By the time the handle turned, the taste of their stress was already stinging your mouth.
Dick entered first, trying to smile as if he wasn’t barely holding himself upright. His jaw was tight, his shoulders pulled so rigidly that they looked ready to snap.
“Hey… you haven’t eaten in three days,” he said softly, voice trying and failing to sound gentle. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.
Hunger clawed at you, tightening your chest until your breath trembled. Your vision burned red at the edges, but the thought of feeding made your stomach twist in protest. You shook your head, hoping the motion alone would explain everything. It didn’t.
Tim stepped forward, worry creasing his brows. “Then why didn’t you just ask us?” he asked. His tone was gentle, confused, and painfully sincere.
“Why didn’t you take the blood bags?” Dick asked again, quieter this time.
“I don’t like stored blood,” you muttered, rubbing your arms. “I’d rather drink animal blood… even though I hate that too.” The words tasted as tired as you felt.
Your body tensed at the suggestion. The memory of that awful night—when instinct overtook you and you bit one of them, shot through your mind like a knife. You could still taste the shock, the bitterness, the metallic sting that forced you back into yourself. “I can’t,” you whispered. “Your blood is… bitter.”
Silence fell instantly, thick and heavy. Jason shifted first, his voice rough like gravel scraping the floor. “Bitter? Like what—old coffee? Poison?” he asked, half-joking but mostly worried.
You closed your eyes, searching for the right words. “It tastes like burnt iron,” you said slowly. “Like your bodies are running on fumes. Like everything inside you is worn down to nothing.” Your voice sounded small, even to yourself.
Tim’s face twitched, somewhere between realization and embarrassment. “So we’re… flavor-contaminated?” he muttered. You nodded, because honestly, that was the nicest way to put it.
Tim went quiet after that, staring at the floor like he was reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment. The others looked between you and him, as if waiting for someone else to break the tension. You wished you could soften the truth, but the bitter tang of their stress still lingered on your tongue. There was no kinder way to explain it.
Dick rubbed the back of his neck, trying to smile again, though it wobbled at the edges. “Okay… so we’re stressed, and that makes us taste like garbage. Got it.” His attempt at optimism only made the room feel heavier. You hated how accurate his words sounded.
Jason tilted his head, studying you with narrowed eyes. “And this isn’t, like… a preference thing? We’re actually that bad?” The disbelief in his voice carried more hurt than he meant to show. You nodded again, slow and apologetic.
“It doesn’t mean you’re bad,” you said softly. “It means you’re tired. All of you.” The words slipped out more gently than you intended, but the truth wrapped itself around them anyway. You could feel it, each of them carrying something that darkened the taste of their blood.
Bruce exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for far too long. His eyes stayed on you—sharp, searching, but strangely vulnerable around the edges. “Then what do you need from us?” he asked, sounding like someone bracing for an answer he wouldn’t like.
You squinted at him, tapping your chin as if pondering something incredibly complicated. Part of it was dramatic flair; part of it was genuine hesitation. “Hmm… I don’t knooow,” you drawled. “Maybe if you let me pick my own target—?”
“No.” Bruce cut you off instantly, without even blinking.
You let out an exaggerated sigh and let your shoulders slump. If he wasn’t going to humor your theatrics, you needed a different approach.
You shrugged as the memory resurfaced, amused despite yourself. “Actually, this situation remind me. when the last blood I enjoyed wasn’t even planned,” you said casually. You glanced away, as if confessing to a harmless mischief. “It was from this weird guy with green hair.”
The shift in the room was instant and unmistakable. Every trace of movement froze, like your words sucked all the warmth out of the air. Jason’s boots stopped mid-pace, Dick’s breath hitched halfway out of his lungs, and Tim nearly dropped his tablet in shock. Even Damian blinked, expression flattening as if the universe had personally offended him.
Bruce didn’t react at first—not outwardly. But something in his posture sharpened, the subtle tension in his shoulders tightening like a wire pulled too far. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet in the way thunder sometimes is—low, controlled, and unsettling. “…You don’t mean Joker.”
You winced slightly, then lifted a hand in a half-hearted gesture of innocence. “I mean… yeah,” you admitted. “He wouldn’t stop talking that night, and I snapped. I bit him to shut him up.” Your tone softened, almost embarrassed. “And weirdly… he tasted pretty good.”
Jason made a strangled noise that was half-gasp, half-breakdown. Dick put a hand over his mouth like he might scream or pray—possibly both. Tim stared at you with the expression of someone witnessing a scientific impossibility, and Damian looked like he wanted to delete the entire conversation from reality.
Bruce’s jaw ticked once, a tiny motion that somehow felt louder than Jason’s meltdown. “You found his blood enjoyable,” he said slowly, as if repeating it would make it less horrifying. His gaze stayed locked on you, unreadable and far too intense.
You spread your hands helplessly. “What can I say? You all taste like stress and insomnia. He tasted like… chaos. Expensive chemicals. Bad decisions, but in a strangely refreshing way.” You paused, then added sheepishly, “Crisp, even.”
Jason threw his hands into the air, muttering something about needing therapy. Dick slid down the wall like he’d lost the will to stand. Tim whispered, “That’s impossible,” over and over as if chanting might change physics. Damian silently reevaluated his entire understanding of the world.
That was the final straw.
The room erupted.
Bruce didn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his silence settled over everything. It was the kind of stillness that made you step back without meaning to, as if instinct warned you not to push further. You suddenly became hyper-aware of the way the taste of their stress thickened around you, sharp enough to sting.
But before Bruce could speak again, Damian stepped forward—chin lifted, certainty radiating from him like heat.
And that, somehow, made everything worse.
“I don’t understand,” Damian said suddenly, breaking through the chaos with his usual sharpness. He stepped forward, crossing his arms with the posture of someone who believed he was presenting a perfectly logical solution. “If taste is influenced by stress, then the answer is simple. I am the least stressed among us.”
All movement stopped as every sibling slowly turned toward him.
But Damian ignored the protest as if he’d trained his whole life not to hear stupidity. He looked at you with an unwavering stare, chin held high. “Well? If younger blood is preferable, then I will volunteer.”
Dick blinked at him. “Buddy… what?”
Tim’s mouth fell open. “No. No, absolutely not.”
Jason pointed accusingly. “Put the demon back.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, unsure whether to sigh, laugh, or cry. The kid was so painfully serious it almost hurt. He seemed genuinely convinced he was offering the most reasonable solution in the world.
“…How old are you again?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.
“Ten,” he said without hesitation, as confident as if he were announcing a royal title.
The reaction in your body was immediate—you recoiled like someone had shoved a cold spoon into your mouth. “No. Absolutely not,” you said firmly. “I stopped drinking from children centuries ago.”
The offense on his face was instant and dramatic. Damian’s jaw dropped a fraction, eyes narrowing with royal indignation. “I am not a child.”
Jason fell into the nearest chair wheezing. Tim covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Dick made a soft dying noise into his palms.
“You’re literally ten,” you replied.
“And you sound ten.”
“And honestly, your blood probably tastes like organic vegetables and morning discipline.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, the universal sign of a man who deeply regretted his life choices. “Damian,” he said carefully, “sit down.”
“I will do no such thing,” Damian snapped, his pride still sparkling like a crushed diamond. “I am perfectly capable—”
“No,” you cut him off, waving your hand like you were dismissing a menu item. “I don’t eat kids. Even rude ones.”
“…Very well,” he muttered stiffly. “If you insist on poor decision-making, that is your burden.”
Damian froze in place as the words hit him.
Slowly—very slowly—he lifted his chin higher, cheeks warming with quiet humiliation.
The family collectively exhaled, relief washing through the room like a long overdue breath. Even through the bitterness of their stress, you could feel something softer beneath it, warm concern, tangled with frustration and worry.
_______________________________________
Damian’s eyes narrowed as he examined your fangs with the intensity of someone studying a new weapon. “So… do your fangs actually drink blood?” he asked, leaning in with far too much confidence for someone who had just been rejected as a food source. His curiosity was sharp enough to cut through the leftover embarrassment.
You shook your head, amused at the misconception. “No. My fangs don’t drink anything,” you explained. “They’re more like… tools. They pierce, numb, and help me hold the person still. But the actual feeding? That happens in the mouth, not through the fangs.” You tapped one of them lightly. “These are basically nature’s anesthesia needles.”
Jason blinked slowly, trying to process that. “So the fangs are just the opening act?” he muttered. “And the main event happens after?” He looked both horrified and impressed.
Tim raised a hand, already slipping into research mode. “Wait, so when you bite someone, the numbing effect prevents significant pain? And you only use your mouth to draw the blood afterward?” He looked moments away from pulling out a notebook.
“Exactly,” you said. “The numbness keeps the person from panicking or struggling. But it also means I have to be careful—if I bite too deep or too fast, the numbing doesn’t work right.” You shrugged, used to the mechanics. “It’s less dramatic than people think.”
Stephanie, who had been listening with wide eyes, gasped loudly. “So it’s like a vampire dentist appointment? Minus the actual dentist part?” She stepped closer, pointing at your fangs. “Also those things look WAY sharper up close. How do you not cut your own tongue?”
Duke folded his arms, studying you with thoughtful interest. “So you bite to start the process, but you don’t immediately drink?” he asked. “That sounds… almost surgical.” His tone wasn’t judgmental—more like he was piecing together a puzzle.
You blinked. “Experience.”
Jason added, “And probably trauma,” earning a smack from Steph.
“Pretty much,” you agreed. “I need a clean angle and a steady flow. The fang puncture is just to open the vein without tearing the skin.” Then you lowered your voice, almost conspiratorial. “And yes, technique matters.”
Cassandra moved closer, silent as always, her gaze lingering on your mouth. She tilted her head slightly. “…Pressure point?” she asked softly. Her questions were few, but always sharp.
You nodded to her. “Yes. The bite has to land on a point where blood flow is steady but the person won’t bleed out. Too high, too low, too deep—it becomes dangerous.” Cass absorbed the information with a slow nod, as if mapping your words onto anatomy in her head.
Bruce’s brows furrowed at that, but he stayed quiet—listening, calculating, worrying in that silent way of his.
Dick rubbed his arm, suddenly more aware of his own neck. “So… where do you usually bite?” he asked, voice wavering between curiosity and dread. “Like… your go-to spot?”
Jason raised a brow. “Okay, but what’s your favorite spot?” he pressed. “Like, the one you use the most.”
Your answer didn’t come immediately. You let the question settle, thinking it through.
“It depends on the person,” you said. “Different people have different optimal spots—blood flow, muscle tension, accessibility. Some places bleed cleaner, some are safer, and some are easier to reach when someone is fighting.”
You let a slow, deliberate smile stretch across your lips—not threatening, but enough to make half the room tense anyway. “The place I bite most often,” you said, “is the one that’s easiest to reach, hardest to guard, and least likely to cause lasting damage.”
The room leaned in, every sibling unconsciously bracing themselves.
“…The shoulder,” you finished. “It’s exposed, less dangerous than the neck, and people rarely expect you to go for it first. Plus the blood flow is steady without being overwhelming.” You shrugged again. “It’s practical.”
Stephanie slapped Duke’s arm. “SEE? I told you the shoulder was suspicious!”
Duke winced. “I thought you were joking when you said vampires liked that spot!”
Cass nodded as if the information matched something she already suspected.
Tim absorbed the information with growing fascination. “So neck bites are actually inefficient?”
You nodded. “Messy. Dramatic. Risky. Only good for movies or… special situations.”
Jason made a noise that could only be described as scandalized choking.
Damian rolled his eyes, muttering something about “inefficient feeding methods.”
Dick covered his mouth with both hands, probably regretting every vampire movie he ever watched.
_______________________________________
Bruce, meanwhile, stood very still—thinking.
And somehow, that was more unnerving than the chaos around him.
Curiosity flickered across the room before anyone else dared speak. It was Duke who finally voiced the question everyone had clearly been tiptoeing around. “So… does everyone you bite turn into a vampire?” he asked, looking both cautious and fascinated.
You shook your head immediately. “No. If that were the case, the world would be overflowing with vampires by now.” A faint, humorless smile tugged at your lips. “Trust me, it’s not that simple.”
Stephanie leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Then how do vampires happen? I mean—if biting doesn’t turn someone, what does?” Her tone hovered between genuine intrigue and mild panic.
Your gaze drifted to Tim, who was already inching closer like a scientist watching a rare creature. “We can reproduce biologically,” you explained, voice steady. “But it’s rare. Most of us… don’t have the emotional capacity for that kind of attachment.” Something in your tone dimmed, so softly the room seemed to lean in.
You continued before they could interrupt. “There are humans who become vampires, but only through very specific conditions. Ancient rituals. Sacrificial rites. Curses older than civilizations.” Your eyes met Tim’s directly, holding him still. “Other than that, I can’t tell you. Some things aren’t meant to be passed around like bedtime stories.”
Tim swallowed a thousand questions he suddenly didn’t know how to ask. His mind spun, but he didn’t speak.
Cass tilted her head, studying you with the deep, intuitive awareness only she possessed. Her silence felt like a question.
But it was Damian—of course—who broke the quiet. “And you?” he demanded, arms crossed. “What are you? Born vampire, or made?”
The room went utterly still.
Your jaw clenched before your eyes flicked sharply toward him. A shadow crossed your expression, too fast to analyze, too heavy to ignore. “Damian,” Dick warned under his breath, already sensing the shift.
“go to bed, Damian,” you said quietly—not loud, not angry, just tired.
You held Damian’s stare for a long, cold heartbeat.
Then you exhaled through your nose, the sound sharp and tired.
"What!"Damian’s eyes widened just a fraction, surprised not by the words.
_______________________________________
Damian leaned forward with that sharpened curiosity only he possessed, his brows pulling together in genuine interest rather than arrogance. “If vampires don’t age,” he said, voice steady, “how old are you exactly?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes slid toward him with a tired sort of patience, the kind you’d earned long before he ever existed. “Older than your family name,” you said, tone even and calm.
Damian frowned, unsatisfied. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “And it never will.” You didn’t raise your voice, but the finality in your tone settled over the room like a closed door.
Damian huffed, crossing his arms tightly as he leaned back on his heels. “You’re avoiding the question!,” he said, voice tight with irritation.
_______________________________________
“Okay, wait—do vampires process blood like humans do food? Does it spoil? Is there an optimal temperature? Can you refrigerate it? Freeze it? Do different blood types taste different? Is there a nutritional—”
Jason didn’t even look surprised; he just leaned back on the couch like this was a frequent tragedy. “Yeah, he’s gone,” he drawled, hands laced behind his head. “You’re about five seconds away from becoming a case study. Or worse—he’s gonna build you a feeding chart.”
You stared at him, utterly expressionless, feeling your soul quietly step out of your body and walk away.
“…Timothy,” you said slowly, every syllable weighed down with centuries of regret. You were certain that if you blinked too fast, he’d take it as permission to ask three more questions.
“Tim,” you repeated, with the tone of someone who had seen multiple historical collapses and ranked this conversation among them. “Stop.”
Tim did not deny it.
In fact, he lifted his tablet like a swordsman presenting his blade. “If we establish a baseline intake rate, then hypothetically—”
Tim blinked, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose like a man regrouping for a second wave. “Okay, but theoretically—”
“No theoreticals,” you cut in quickly. “Or practically. Or ever.”
For a moment, Tim looked genuinely heartbroken—as if you had just cancelled his birthday, his graduation, and his thesis defense all at once. Dick patted him sympathetically, whispering, “Next time. Maybe ask about bat anatomy first.”
Jason smirked. “Oh yeah, that’ll calm him down. Hey, Tim—ask them if fangs grow back.”
_______________________________________
Tim perked back up instantly.
You glared at Jason like you were tempted to bite him right then and there.
Tim immediately stiffened. “Damian—don’t.”
Damian tilted his head at you with the blunt curiosity only a ten-year-old could wield without hesitation.
“So… are you, like, ancient? Or just old?” he asked, genuinely puzzled, not an ounce of malice in sight.
“What?” Damian shot back, frowning. “They look fine for a corpse. I’m simply asking how vampires even… start.”
He gestured vaguely at you, like the concept of your existence personally offended him.
Instead of taking the hint, he leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity and impatience. “Well? How does one even become a vampire? Born? Made? Do you have to die first or—”
You stared at him for a moment, the room falling completely still around you.
“...Damian,” you said slowly, equal parts warning and disbelief.
You cut him off with a small exhale, the kind that carried far more weight than sound.
“…Go to bed.”
Damian jerked back as if struck. “WHY? I asked a QUESTION.”
His voice cracked with indignation, face pulling into an offended scowl that made him look even more like a child trying desperately not to be one.
Dick winced sympathetically.
Tim covered his face like he’d predicted this outcome from the start.
Jason whispered, “Bro got grounded by a vampire,” under his breath.
But you didn’t look at anyone else—only at Damian, whose pride was trembling at the edges.
“You’re not ready for that answer,” you said gently, quiet but firm. “And I’m not giving it.”
The door closed behind him with a dramatic thud.
For a second, Damian’s shoulders drew up defensively, chin lifting as if he wanted to argue.
Then his mouth pressed into a thin line, and he muttered something sharp in Arabic before stomping toward the hallway—furious, embarrassed, and very much still ten years old.
_______________________________________
Jason leaned forward with the kind of morbid curiosity only he could pull off, elbows on his knees and eyes too bright. “Be honest. Did he taste weird because he’s crazy or because he’s a clown?” His eyebrows lifted like he was bracing himself for scientific confirmation of something deeply stupid.
Jason slapped the back of the couch triumphantly. “I KNEW it!” He looked so pleased with himself you almost felt guilty for what you were about to say next.
You didn’t even hesitate.
“Both.”
But you weren’t done, and that was the problem.
Your gaze drifted away as the memory tugged at you—sharp, fizzy, strange.
Your mouth opened before your mind could stop it, the memory rising like something dragged up from deep water. “It wasn’t just good,” you murmured, voice low, almost trembling around the edges. “It was… dangerous.”
“It hit fast. Sharp. Like biting into something that fizzes the moment it touches you.” Your fingers flexed slightly, as though your body remembered the sensation better than your mind did. “Sweet, but not soft. Salty, metallic, bright. It burned in the way pleasure sometimes burns—too much, too sudden, too intense.”
Every head snapped toward you, but you didn’t look at them.
Your eyes unfocused, staring past the room entirely, as if the taste was crawling its way back onto your tongue.
The room grew quiet, heavy, almost suffocating.
Jason leaned forward just as Dick took a horrified half-step back.
“It didn’t taste like blood,” you whispered. “It tasted like temptation.”
Your throat bobbed with a swallow you couldn’t stop. “Like something I wasn’t supposed to enjoy… which made it worse. Better.”
A faint twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed how unwilling you were to admit the rest.
“And afterward?” Jason asked, voice oddly hushed.
You drew in a slow breath, fighting the honest answer, but it scraped its way out anyway.
“Afterward, it stayed with me,” you said. “The fizz. The burn. The sweetness that shouldn’t have been there. It’s like it hooked itself into my nerves and refused to let go.”
Your eyes finally lifted, but not fully focused—still half in that memory you shouldn’t be thinking about.
“Now, every time it crosses my mind…”
Your voice dipped into something quiet and unsettling.
“…I want it again.”
Silence.
Real silence.
The room froze.
And then—of course—Jason broke first.
Tim’s tablet dimmed in his frozen hands.
Dick’s jaw clenched like he was holding back a scream.
Duke blinked hard, once, like he needed to reset his entire worldview.
Stephanie covered her mouth, gagging into her sleeve.
Cass leaned back just slightly, eyes unreadable.
“…Oh my god,” he whispered, sounding delighted and horrified in equal measure. “You’re addicted. To clown juice.”
Jason tossed an arm around your shoulders immediately, already ignoring your plea. “Too late. It’s canon. You’re a sparkling-beverage vampire now.” He smirked. “You drank Joker like a carbonated drink.”
You covered your face with both hands, wishing you could melt into the floorboards.
“Please never call it that again.”
Tim’s voice finally rebooted with a shaky glitch. “What exactly do you mean by soda?”
You peeked out between your fingers. “…Carbonated. Fizzy. Like something was popping or crackling under the taste.”
That was apparently the breaking point.
Dick shot upright with a yelp, scrambling across the room like someone had stepped on his soul. He clapped both hands over Damian’s ears so fast the boy barely had time to blink. “NOPE. Absolutely not. My baby brother is not hearing about fizzy murder-clown blood—Damian, we’re leaving—”
Damian struggled immediately, swatting at Dick’s hands with indignant fury. “Unhand me! I deserve to know what idiocy I’m living alongside—!”
Dick, already dragging him back by the shoulders, hissed, “You deserve peace, Damian! Peace and ignorance!”
Meanwhile, Duke stared at you with the expression of a man quietly rewriting his entire understanding of reality. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again—no words, just a silent what the hell echoing in his eyes. Stephanie gagged dramatically into her sleeve. Cassandra tilted her head in quiet horror.
Bruce closed his eyes—very slowly, very painfully—as if this new information physically added ten years to his life expectancy. The air around him shifted, heavy and resigned, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but unarguably absolute.
“He cannot ever find out.”
You lifted both hands in surrender, wide-eyed and exasperated. “Hey, hey—I’m not planning on sending him a Yelp review.”
Jason immediately snorted. Dick groaned. Tim whispered, “Vampires shouldn’t even know what Yelp is.” Damian continued kicking at Dick’s shins in the background.
_______________________________________
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Damian: “If you bit Father, would he turn? Or become stronger? Or would he finally sleep normally? Would he become immorta—”
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