I Was Wondering How You Think Readers Life Would Be Different If They Were A Puppy Hybrid Instead Of

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So they need to nip your behaviour in the bud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link to official chapter

Like to previous cat reader

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

5628 words, 31564 characters, 328 sentences, 133 paragraphs, 22.5 pages.

Tag list: @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk

No idea how I’ve been constantly making a chapter every day and posting straight away.

Your secrets are ours, kid

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

Tim had been observing you from his seat across the table, his keen eyes taking in your focused state as you immersed yourself in whatever it was on your laptop. You had been at it all day, your gaze fixed intently on the screen, your fingers tapping away at the keys. There was a hint of determination and concentration on your face, yet there was also a tinge of anxiety mixed with it. He was curious, to say the least.

Tim had to repeatedly pull your focus away from your device. In each class you shared together, he would notice you glued to the screen, your eyes fixated intently on whatever you were working on. Despite repeated attempts to divert your attention, you kept getting pulled back into your work, your focus unwavering. It ticked him off. His deep blue orbs piercing through your form. A frown tugged at the corners of his lips, dark brows furrowed. Alfred was going to be here in ten minutes and you hadn’t averted your attention towards him once. He hadn’t joined this low class university for you to not spare him a glance.

He clears his throat, pocketing his phone and resting his chin against his palm.

Your attention diverts, finally. His frown twitches up. You send him a soft grin then look back down to your computer. His eye twitches.

Tim casually leans across the table and closes your laptop without warning, his fingers moving swiftly to shut it down. Quickly pulling back before you have a chance to swat at him. He leans back into his chair, just out of your reach, anticipating your reaction. His eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint, remaining just out of range.

You shoot Tim a glare, your annoyance evident on your face as you take a swipe at his arm. However, he's a little too quick for you, dodging your punch with ease and moving out of your reach before you can connect. He grins at your frustrated expression, clearly enjoying the reaction he's gotten out of you. Reviling in the attention.

“What.” You demand, exhausted. You flex your fingers, suddenly acutely aware of the subtle aching from constant typing.

Tim casually lies, claiming that his phone is dead and that he needs your attention. The words roll off his tongue effortlessly, as if twisting the truth had become a natural reflex for him. "My phone is dead," he says matter-of-factly. "Give me some attention."

Your sour expression whittles down to a begrudging smile. “So demanding.” You pretend to huff, opening your laptop to click save then stuffing it in your bag carelessly.

Tim smirked at your response, silently pleased with himself for successfully derailing your focus from your work to him. He watched as you pack your laptop away, his deep blue eyes tracking your every move, his gaze almost lazy.

As you finally give him your full attention, he leans further back in his chair, his pose nonchalant. "Well, you were pretty immersed in your laptop earlier. I had to do something to get your attention."

He feigned a wounded expression, a hand clutching at his chest dramatically, his words dripping with mock hurt. "I was feeling a bit neglected, to be honest."

You snort at his reaction and roll your eyes. “Oh shove off, you sod. It wasn’t that bad.”

Tim chuckled softly, his smirk remaining as he raised an eyebrow at your response. "Oh, it was definitely that bad," he teased. "You looked like you were having a more engaging conversation with your laptop than with me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "I swear, I could hear you whispering sweet nothings to the keyboard.”

You scowl at Tim's playful words, not entirely amused by his demand for attention. Your expression is tinged with irritation, but there's also a hint of fondness beneath it. You know this is just his way of getting under your skin, and although you may not want to admit it, you can't help but find it slightly endearing nonetheless. You lean over and lock your leg around his chair so he can’t get away as you pinch his side.

He yelps in exaggerated pain, immediately recoiling away from your grip. "Hey, that hurts," he protested, rubbing at the spot on his side that you had pinched.

Despite his feigned agony, a hint of a playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, betraying his true feelings. He was enjoying this back and forth between you, the way you easily fell into his teasing banter.

He quickly recovers and feigns a dramatic pout, his blue gaze meeting and holding yours. "You're being so mean to me," Tim whined, his voice dripping with fake hurt.

You roll your eyes at Tim's exaggerated overdramatic voice. His puppy dog eyes and feigned hurt expression are all too familiar to you, and you know exactly what he's trying to do. Nevertheless, you can't help but feel a pang of guilt as he accuses you of being mean. "Oh please," you scoff, your irritation momentarily overwritten by his pitiful act.

Tim senses your moment of guilt and capitalizes on it, his pout deepening as he continues to play the part of the wounded damsel. His voice is laced with mock hurt, "You don't feel bad for hurting my feelings, do you?"

He places a hand on his chest, his expression one of exaggerated despair. Inwardly, he knows he's being ridiculous, but the way you react to his antics is just too amusing for him to resist. He lets out a dramatic sigh, feigning exhaustion from your callousness.

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to laugh at Tim's over-the-top antics. His pathetic expression and exaggerated despair are absolutely ridiculous, and yet somehow, you can't help feeling a hint of guilt creeping up on you. With a resigned sigh, you roll your eyes and reply, "Oh, I feel terrible."

Your sarcasm is blatantly obvious, but there's a hint of genuine concern in your expression, a sign that you're not completely immune to his playful manipulation.

His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he senses your guilt, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He's fully aware of the effect his puppy-dog eyes and dramatic flair have on you, and he's not afraid to use them to get your attention and sympathy.

He leans even closer, resting his chin on the palm of one hand, "You should feel bad," he responds, his voice filled with mock arrogance. "I've been sitting here all day, begging for your attention, and you've been ignoring me for that stupid laptop of yours."

You let out a sigh, rubbing the side of your neck as you feel a hint of awkwardness creeping in. Although Tim's demeanor is still laced with his typical playful demeanor, you sense a touch of seriousness beneath his words, a subtle hint that his request for attention is not entirely a joke.

“Sorry. I’ve been...” You nibble at the inside of your cheek in thought, trying to find the right words without blurting out anything you’ll regret. “... stressed.”

Tim's expression softens at your words, his teasing facade dropping for a moment. He notices the way you nibble at your cheek, his observant gaze not missing a single thing. He senses that there's something more to your stress than meets the eye, but he doesn't press you for answers just yet. Instead, he puts up a facade of understanding, his concern for you genuine.

"Stressed, huh?" he repeats, his tone gentler now, but his eyes are studying you intently. "What's got you all twisted up?" He puts up a facade of nonchalance, his expression not displaying his internal worries in the slightest. Why were you stressed? Should he get Bruce to pay off some of your professors again? Were they putting too much pressure on you?

You bite your cheek, torn between being annoyed at Tim's overprotective tendencies and appreciating his genuine concern. Part of you wants to brush off his question and avoid revealing the source of your stress, but another part yearns for the comfort and support that he seems to endlessly offer.

You give in, admitting quietly, "Yeah, I'm a little stressed. It's just been a lot lately, with classes and assignments piling up... I’m starting to worry about rent too. I know that Jason can cover for me this month, but I just feel bad. Y’know?” You sigh, running a hand through your hair anxiously. It was easy to open up to Tim. You never knew why, but he just always seemed to know when something was bothering you. He’d text you right as a panic attack sprouts, or just when you wake up in the middle of the night from a heart drenching nightmare. He always seemed to know.

Tim listens intently as you speak, his eyes never leaving your form. His keen mind absorbing every word, noting every nervous gesture and anxious sigh. He feels a pang of worry in his chest as you mention your struggles with rent, and his hand clenches into a fist instinctively, but he manages to keep his outwardly calm demeanor.

He shifts closer in his seat, reaching out to gently rest his hand on top of yours, trying to provide some comfort. "Hey," he says, his voice soft and reassuring, "you know we're all here for you, right?" The words slip past his lips before he has the time to register them.

You pause, your hand falling from your hair and landing in your lap. Taking your other out of his hold. There's a moment of silence as you gather your thoughts, your eyes dropping to your fingers as you idly pick at the skin around them. You let out a soft murmur of doubt, your voice laced with uncertainty and question. “... All?”

Tim raises a brow as you withdraw your hand from his own, his eyes tracking your movements, taking note of the way your fingers nervously pick at your skin. The pause in your conversation causes a flicker of worry to flash across his features. He had inadvertently let slip the secret in his attempt to console you.

He watches as you murmur that one word, 'All?' and feels a pang of guilt in his chest. He mentally curses his slip-up.

“Yeah,” he confirms, his voice hesitant. “All.”

He shifts his chair closer, “Your roommate, me, your friends. We’re all here for you. I’m sure they are.” He attempts to poorly explain, relived when you seem to believe him, nodding.

"Yeah... all..." You respond quietly, the implications of your words heavy in the air. Doubt laced in your tone.

Tim takes the moment of silence to mentally berate himself for his careless slip-up. He hadn't meant to reveal anything that you weren't ready to know. He opens his mouth to speak, wanting to clarify something, anything, but he's interrupted by the familiar sound of Alfred's voice.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting something." Alfred's voice cuts through the tension as he approaches. His expression is unreadable, his gaze flickering between you and Tim.

You glance up from the Drake, your eyes meeting those of his butler, Alfred. A small, sad smile graces your lips, an acknowledgment of both the man's silent presence and the care he provides. Despite the circumstances, you can't help but feel a pang of loneliness, knowing that your own parents were nowhere to be found while Tim was fortunate enough to have an attentive and kind caretaker. You knew deep down that your thoughts were a bit silly. You were an adult now, independent and capable of taking care of yourself. There was no point in yearning for affection from parents who had never cared enough to show it in the first place. But the ache for acceptance and recognition remained, a constant whisper in the back of your mind, an echo of the neglected child you had been.

With a forced smile, you push yourself to your feet, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. The weight of it is heavy, both physically and emotionally, a constant reminder of the load you're carrying. "And that's my cue," you say, a tone of resignation in your voice. You're eager to escape the situation, desperate for a moment of solitude to sort through your thoughts.

Alfred's eyes flicker with a hint of concern at your forced smile, noting the resignation in your tone. His gaze scans your features, taking in every subtle shift and twitch, his astute mind already noting the burden you seemed to be carrying. He opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to offer a word of reassurance, but Tim cuts in before he can.

The young man rises from his chair, his movements smooth and controlled. He steps forward, standing between you and Alfred, his tall frame acting as a physical barrier. “Wait,” he says firmly, his blue eyes locking with yours.

You pause at Tim's firm command, your gaze locking with his intense eyes. There's something about his tone and the way he steps forward to block Alfred's view of you that makes you hesitate, a sense of unease creeping in. Despite your desire to flee, his presence and the command in his voice keep you rooted in place.

The air in the room crackles with tension as Tim holds your gaze, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity that is both unexpected and unsettling. His hand moves to grip your elbow, fingers gently but firmly wrapping around your arm, as if to prevent you from escaping.

Tim’s eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you feel both uneasy and exposed. His body is taut, his broad shoulders serving as a physical barrier between you and Alfred, effectively cutting you off from the older man’s line of sight. You flinch subtly as his hand suddenly lunges out to grip your elbow, his fingers wrapping firmly around your arm in a manner that feels almost possessive.

He can't help but visibly startle when he notices your flinch, Tim’s eyes widening in surprise. He quickly bites his lip to contain himself from cooing at you, resisting the flood of gentle words and reassurances that threaten to spill out. The words almost accidentally slipping past his lips, the instinct to protect and comfort you strong within him. Seeing your fear, whether it was a direct response to him or not, causes a pang of guilt to stab at his heart. He wants to pull you close, to wrap his arms around you and whisper that everything is okay, that he'd never hurt you, that it's alright, little bat.

You exhale softly, your voice filled with a quiet apology. You don't quite understand why your body had reacted so instinctively to his touch, why you had flinched at the sight of his hand reaching for you. It was Tim, your best bud, someone who had always been there for you, he’d never hurt you. But there was something about the intensity in his eyes, a look that you couldn't quite shake off. You shake your head, pushing aside any lingering doubts and trying to forget about it.

You hesitate for a moment before slowly wrapping your arms around Tim, enveloping him in a gentle embrace. Your voice is filled with a mixture of uncertainty and affection. "I'll see you on Thursday," You murmur. That’s when you next had class with him. "Text me when you get home, yeah?"

The moment you wrap your arms around Tim, his tense muscles relax almost immediately. He relishes in the feel of you against him, basking in your warmth as it fills his senses. He returns your embrace quickly, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight against his chest. A breath he didn't even realize he was holding escaped his lips.

“Yeah," he responds softly, his voice a low murmur against your ear. He can't help but bury his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent, his body relaxing as you hold him close. "I'll text you right when I get home, I promise."

Alfred watches the exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. His gaze flits from Tim to you, simply observing quietly.

Once you return to the threshold that is your apartment, you instantly notice the pure chaos that greets you. The place was a mess, with items scattered everywhere, and your eyes widened at the sight. In the kitchen, you spot Jason pacing back and forth, his expression etched with tension.

You hiss, dropping your bag on the couch and picking up your speed to the kitchen. You give no warning before wacking the older males side.

Jason recoils at the unexpected blow to his side, spinning around to face you with a scowl. “Hey, watch it,” he grunts, rubbing his side.

He crosses his arms, his eyes darting around the living room before settling back on you. “Before you go off on me—“ he starts, but he’s cut off by the glare you give him.

“Did the place get raided while I was gone!?” You yell, eyes piercing through his form.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands of white that had fallen into his eyes.

Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes at your outrage. “It’s not that bad,” he mutters, gesturing around the living room.

In reality, it is bad. There are papers and clothes everywhere, and it looks like a tornado tore through the place. But compared to some of the messes he’s made in his life, this is nothing.

You give him a pointed look, your jaw clenching.

Jason lets out a sigh, seeing the irritation in your expression. He knows he’s in trouble. “Listen, I had a few people over and…” He trails off, his excuse dying in his throat. He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, it’s a mess. I’ll clean it up, alright?”

You cross your arms, a stubborn expression on your face. “Damn right you will,” you mutter, eyeing the chaos around you. “And I swear, if I see another used cup, I’m going to shove it down your throat.”

Jason rolls his eyes again, a smirk playing on his lips. “So violent,” he teases, taking a step closer to you. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

You let out a frustrated huff, zooming past Jason in the kitchen without sparing him another glance. You stride out onto the cramped balcony, arms crossed as you lean against the railing. Your head rests against your arms, a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion etched on your face.

You had looked forward to having some peace and quiet once you finally made it home, but your relief was quickly replaced by frustration upon seeing the state of your apartment. The sight of the mess caused a wave of annoyance to wash over you, which you tried to squash down. Letting out a soft exhale then leaning back. The air, less than fresh, stinging your skin. You close your eyes.

—

After a solid two hours, Todd knocks softly against the door frame leading onto the balcony, a sheepish smile perched on his lips.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway, holding your favourite tea out in front of him. He knows he messed up, and he knows you’re still mad at him. He can see it in the tension in your shoulders, in the firm set of your jaw.

He clears his throat, taking a small step forward. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice gruff but hesitant. “I brought you tea.”

You don’t turn around at the sound of his voice, but he can see the slight shift in your frame. He takes another step forward, approaching you slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal he’s afraid will run away.

He stops when he’s close enough to touch you, but he doesn’t. He holds out the cup of tea, the steam wafting up in front of you. “It’s your favourite,” he mutters, his voice apologetic and tentative.

Your shoulders relax slightly, and he can see the tension in your face ease a bit. You still don’t turn to face him, but you reach out to take the cup from his hand, and he considers that a victory.

He stands there silently for a moment, watching as you bring the cup to your lips and take a small sip. He wants to say something, anything, to break the silence between you. But he doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches on, and he shifts awkwardly on his feet. He’s not used to feeling this unsure around you. Around anyone, really. But you’re not just anyone. You’re you, and he cares about you more than he wants to admit.

“... Why was the place really trashed?” You question, breaking the silence for him. Your voice didn’t hold any accusations, just simply curious. You know that he hadn’t really held any gathering. He barely tolerates when the neighbours get too close to the front door, Jason was fiercely protective of his personal space, and you couldn't imagine him willingly inviting strangers into the sanctity of his home.

Jason hesitates for a moment, his mind racing for a plausible excuse. He could tell you that it was just a rowdy party, and that he’d underestimated how much damage the guests could do.

Instead, he opts for the truth. “I was... looking for something,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Bruce had gone against their deal. Planting cameras in areas other than your bedroom. He had planned to sort it out before you had arrived, but you had come home earlier than he had anticipated.

He watches as you turn to face him, your face a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. Your eyes narrow at his answer, and he knows you could see right through him. You were too damn smart for your own good.

Jason holds your gaze, his eyes silently pleading with you to accept his answer and drop the subject. But he should know by now that you were relentless, unwilling to let anything go without a thorough explanation.

You raise a brow, your serious expression cracking, a fit of giggles escaping past your lips. “No shit.” You nudge his side. “You have a girl over?” You wiggle your eyebrows in teasing question. Immediately assuming he was scrambling around for a condom.

Jason rolls his eyes at your assumption. “No,” he says firmly, a bit too firmly. “It wasn’t anything like that.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, a scowl on his face. But underneath the scowl, he’s more than a little embarrassed by your question. Of course, you would assume that the only reason he would trash the apartment was for a quick hookup.

You snort, taking a long sip of the tea and raking your eyes over his form. “Sure, Sure.”

Jason lets out a huff, his scowl deepening. “I’m serious,” he grumbles, his face heating up.

He doesn’t know why he’s so defensive, or why the thought of you thinking he had a girl over bothers him so much. He’s probably had dozens of girls - and guys - in that apartment. Before you moved in. And yet, the idea of you thinking he had a random stranger in the apartment irks him. You’re going to be his younger sibling. You shouldn’t think of him in that way.

You smirk, seeing him get all flustered and defensive. It’s cute, in a way. You’re not used to seeing him like this – he’s usually so aloof, tough, and carefree. But seeing him all red-faced and embarrassed is a rare treat.

You take another sip of your tea, savouring the flavour before speaking again. “You’re acting like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.” You snicker softly.

Jason scowls at your laugh, his face growing even redder. “I’m not!” He protests, his voice raising slightly. “I just-“

He stops himself, realizing he’s only making it worse. He lets out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his hair again. He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him, like a cat toying with its prey. It bothers him more than he cares to admit.

The older boy bristles at your insistence, his hands gripping your shoulder blades as he guides you back inside. "Get your ass to bed already, kid." He mutters, his voice gruff. "You barely had three hours of sleep earlier."

You let out a small squeak of surprise as he abruptly spins you around, pushing you back into the apartment with a firm grip. He’s being oddly firm and protective, and you can’t help but feel a little rattled by his sudden change in attitude.

Before you can protest, he’s already practically shoving you down the hallway. “Go to bed,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

You open your mouth to protest, mindful of not spilling the tea in your hand. "It's barely eight!" you exclaim, your tone edged with a hint of disbelief.

Jason practically rolls his eyes at your protests. "And?” He counters, his tone unamused. “You need to rest. You’re acting like a damn zombie, kid."

He steers you towards the bedroom door, his grip firm but gentle on your shoulders. “Just go to bed. I’ll clean up the mess and then make dinner, alright?”

You scowl, about to continue your argument but Jason had effectively shut it down by pushing you onto the soft covers. He smoothly takes the cup from your hands, placing it gently on the side table. A huff of annoyance escapes your lips, but the cozy warmth of the bed strangely beckons to you, tempting you to surrender to its comfort.

"...Fine." You concede with a resigned sigh, a small pout on your lips. "But I'm only doing it because I choose to, not because you’re telling me to," you quickly add, your voice tinged with a hint of defiance.

Jason snorts, an amused expression taking over his features at your protest. He runs a hand through your hair, mussing it up playfully. “Yeah, sure,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”

He pulls back from the bed, his hand falling from your hair, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Get some rest," he orders, his tone brokering no room for argument. "I'll wake you up when dinner is ready."

You grumble a bit, pulling the blankets up to your chin and snuggling into the pillows. Despite your protests, the soft bed is too comfortable to resist, and you can already feel your eyelids growing heavy.

"You better not burn the food, or I'll kick your ass," you mutter sleepily, your voice muffled by the thick wooly blankets.

Jason chuckles, a playful smirk on his lips. "Don't worry, I'll give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money."

He lingers by the bed for a moment, his gaze lingering on your form as you snuggle into the blankets, his chest feeling strangely warm at the sight. He shakes his head at the feeling, clearing his throat before speaking again. "Get some rest," he repeats, his tone gentle. "I’ll wake you up later."

He gives you one last look before turning to leave the room. As he walks out, he flicks the lights off to the bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack. He wanted to make sure he could hear you in case you needed anything. He couldn’t risk watching through the cameras, just in case you leave while he’s mid mixing something on the stove and see it.

You respond with a faint hum, already starting to drift off to sleep, the plush bed pulling you into the realms of unconsciousness.

As Jason leaves the room, he can faintly hear your soft, steady breathing, a small sign that you’re drifting off to sleep. He stands in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet sighs and puffs of breath that escape past your lips.

After a few moments, he finally turns and heads into the kitchen to start dinner. He mentally goes over the plan, planning to call Alfred to get him to talk Jason through the steps to make a simple noodle dish that he knows you’ll like.

He sighs, shifting through the cupboards for what he’s looking for.

Once he’s prepared, Jason stands in the dimly lit kitchen, a small bowl of ingredients and utensils laid out in front of him. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he reaches the one he was looking for: Alfred Pennyworth.

Before he can hit the call button, Jason hesitates for a moment. Asking Alfred for help wasn’t something he did often, he liked to be a self-sufficient person who could handle things on his own. But this was for you, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t mess it up.

He takes a deep breath and reluctantly hits the call button.

After an excruciatingly long phone call with Alfred, Jason manages to get the instructions he needs to follow to make a simple yet delicious pasta dish. He’d had to endure a few cheeky quips from the older man, who couldn’t help but rib him for asking for help with something as simple as cooking.

Jason places the two plates on the table, a small grimace on his face as he glances at the food. It doesn't look quite like the mouthwatering photo from the restaurant's website that Alfred had shared, but oddly enough, it still looks appetizing. If anything, it’s edible. And he can handle a quip or two from you if it really is that bad.

With a huff, Jason makes his way back to the bedroom, a hand firmly on the handle of the door as he enters. He finds you snuggled up in your bed, fast asleep, the blankets tucked up to your chin. He can’t help the affectionate smile that tugs at his lips at the sight, a small, fluttery feeling in his chest. He’s never really had anyone he’s felt this protective of, not even his other siblings. And seeing you so defenceless in bed brings out all sorts of strange feelings.

He approaches quietly, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed. His deep grey eyes study you for a moment, listening to the soft, steady breaths leaving your parted lips. You look so damn peaceful, so damn vulnerable, and it’d be so easy for him to reach over and touch you. Brush some of the hair away from your face, or trace the arch of your brow with his finger.

Jason sighed, poking your cheek softly. Your skin squishing under his calloused finger. You had always looked so fragile in your sleep. Something the family was fond of watching through the cameras, your defencelessness just fuelling their obsession. He’ll have to adjust the dosage of the drug he slipped in your tea. They just couldn’t risk you staying up all night again. You needed rest, and the thought of you accidentally running into him in his vigilante suit gave him a headache.

He had been careful not to give you too much yet, needing you at least conscious for dinner, but he had made sure to administer enough to keep you in a state of drowsiness and mild disorientation. Making sure you would stay tired enough to slip right back into bed after eating.

He pokes your cheek again, a little harder this time. "Wake up, shithead," he mutters, his voice gruff. "You've gotta eat something."

You stir slightly at his touch, a small groaning noise escaping past your lips as you slowly start to wake up. Your eyes flutter open sluggishly, still heavy with sleep and your vision slightly dazed and unfocused.

You blink a few times, trying to clear the fuzziness from your mind. You feel groggy and disoriented, your brain still in a state of haze as you try to wake yourself up enough to sit up. But it’s hard, your body feels sluggish and heavy, and the room seems to be spinning slightly.

Despite the drowsiness, you managed to muster up a weak glare and toss it at Jason, silently expressing your annoyance at being torn away from the peaceful moment of tranquility which was your sleep.

The older boy grins at your weak glare, completely unfazed by your attempted display of annoyance. "Don't give me that look, kid. You gotta eat if you wanna stay healthy."

He pokes your cheek again, his touch light but insistent. "You can go back to sleep after you eat. I made you dinner."

You grumble something unintelligible under your breath, shifting in the bed as you try to sit up. It's a struggle, your body feeling heavy and clumsy, but you manage to force yourself into a sitting position. You give Jason another half-hearted glare, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Why do I have to eat now? I'm not even hungry," you complain, your voice thick with sleep.

Jason chuckles at your protest, his tone tinged with amusement. "You're not hungry now, but you'll be starving again in a few hours. And I'm not about to deal with a grumpy, hangry kid while I'm trying to watch a movie." You pout at his words.

He reaches forward, grabbing your arm and pulling you up from the bed, practically forcing you to move. "Come on, up. You're eating, even if I have to stuff it down your throat like a little birdie."

You grimace at the thought. “Gross, dude.”

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

I tried to make the difference between what everyone calls you obvious — in Dick’s perspective you’re his baby bird, to Tim you’re his little bat, but that’s used in a more literal sense as you’re shorter than him, to finally Jason calling you kid.

All comments, asks, and reblogs are really appreciated! Please comment if you’d like to be tagged.

5070 words, 29086 characters, 239 sentences, 116 paragraphs, 20.3 pages. Tag list: @zero-s-tea @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk @small-mushroom-fae @wpdarlingpan @dhanyasri @tojislvrr @phoenixgurl030 @mel-star636 @lilyalone @lavender-moony

Your secrets are ours, kid

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

Please send me requests. I love writing but I can only do it with actual ideas to motivate me🙏

On your late-night journey home, you're cornered by one of the numerous street criminals prowling the streets of this cursed city. Getting mugged in Gotham isn't anything out of the ordinary, but even still, you can't help but feel surprised. It seemed that strangely enough, the past four years, thugs had begun to avoid you like the plague.

This was a situation you hadn't found yourself in since you were just a fifteen-year-old kid, still struggling to find your footing in the grimy underbelly of Gotham.

The street thug pinned you against the wall, holding you in place while her accomplice jabbed the cold barrel of a gun against your head.

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, fear and panic clawing their way up your spine. Your breath hitched in your throat, a cold sweat pricking at your skin as you instinctively raised your hands in surrender.

As the cold metal of the gun was pressed harshly against your temple, you fought to tamp down the tremors shaking your body. You knew that any wrong move could spell disaster, so you forced yourself to remain still, praying that the thugs would be merciful enough to let you free.

Your mind raced as thoughts of the worst-case scenarios flickered through your mind. The thug with the gun pressed against your head sneered, her grip on your shoulder growing tighter as she spat out a threat.

The sheer terror you felt in that moment was overwhelming, threatening to swallow you whole. The harsh reality of the situation settled on your shoulders like a crushing weight. You were all too aware that you had no experience in dealing with situations like this, leaving you feeling vulnerable and powerless. Your eyes squeezed closed, a lump forming in your throat.

The rough brick of the wall dug into your chest, the cool air of the night doing nothing to soothe the panicked frenzy of your heart. The thug's hand on your shoulder was a vice-like grip, their fingers digging deep into your flesh.

In times like these, you regretted ever turning down the self-defense classes that your old employer had offered. The weight of that decision settled heavily on your shoulders as you longed to have the skills to protect yourself from the imminent danger.

You silently berated yourself for your naivety and carelessness. It had been foolish to believe that just because the villains had avoided you for the past few years, you would be safe from any harm. Yet, here you were, pressed against a wall, a gun held to your head by street thugs.

As your thoughts ran wild, your mind spiraled into a whirlpool of grim possibilities. The thought of your friends' reactions to your potential death played through your mind - the pain and grief they would feel upon losing you. You wondered if Damian would be upset about his sketchbook, the most constant connection you had to him. If Jason would be filled with anger at the inconvenience of tidying up your belongings, if your... no. She’d probably find relief in your absence... You wondered if Tim would shed tears in sadness. The image of him crying, tears streaming down his face, left a bitter taste in your mouth. Then you thought of Bruce. Would he be disappointed you never got to accept his offer? Your thoughts spiralled as you got increasingly more upset. Who was going to feed your pet turtle...? Would she think you abandoned her?

The weight of those unanswered questions gnawed at your thoughts, the possible reactions of your friends, pet, and the people who had offered you a place to call home. Your mind latched onto the image of them crying, the thought of any of their tears causing a pang of anguish to settle deep within your chest. You didn't want to imagine your friends' pain upon your loss, but the what-ifs haunted your mind like a relentless ghost.

The rough bricks of the wall dug into your chest, the sharp edges of the broken and uneven surface biting into your vulnerable flesh. The cold, unforgiving metal of the gun against your skull pressed further against your skin, an imminent threat hanging in the air. You clenched your teeth together, fighting to hold back a whimper that threatened to escape from the back of your throat.

Damian's heart raced in his chest, thumping out a rapid rhythm against his ribcage. Disbelief and anger twisted his features into a fierce scowl. From his stealthy perch on a nearby rooftop, he had silently tracked your movements throughout the night, his gaze never straying far from your form. But now, as he watched intently as you were cornered by a bunch of worthless thugs, his protective instincts surged through his veins. How dare these lowly criminals think they had the right to touch you?! Especially after all the efforts he had expended to ensure your safety. You were his sibling.

The sight of you in danger ignited a fire within him, burning hot with both rage and protectiveness. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. How could he have let this happen? He had been so careful, making sure to keep watch over you from a distance, and yet here you were, at the mercy of criminals who were nothing but scum. His fingers dug into the edge of the rooftop, the urge to leap down and intervene overpowering his self-control. He didn’t have to think twice before swinging into action.

Damian swiftly made his way toward you, propelled by the rooftops with practiced ease. The cool night air kissed his face as he bounded between buildings, his agility and precision a testament to his years of training. He remained hidden from view, his black, yellow and grey costume blending into the shadows, allowing him to quietly approach the scene unnoticed.

As he drew nearer, he could hear the thug's threats, the cold barrel of the gun pressing closer to your head. His temper flared, a dangerous heat building in his chest. These worthless lowlifes were going to pay for putting you in danger.

Robin, perched high above, kept a vigilant eye on the unfolding scene. Every word from the thug's mouth only fueled his anger. He assessed the area, taking in every detail with a cold, calculated gaze. The street was eerily silent, devoid of any other souls. No potential witnesses or interruptions to hinder his intervention. This moment was perfect. A chance to make these pathetic thugs pay for their audacity. They dared to touch what was his.

Each breath Damian took was measured and steady, his heart drumming steadily in his chest. He knew he had to act swiftly and with precision. He couldn't afford any mistakes. You were his responsibility – his blood. No one was allowed to touch you. No one.

Robin’s muscles coiled, ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of danger. His eyes flickered between the thugs and their guns, mentally calculating the best course of action. His instincts were on high alert, every fibre of his being focused on the mission: protecting you.

He’ll make a mental note to have you under tighter security starting in the immediate future.

With a final, calculated assessment, Robin silently prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation. He would protect you at all costs. The thought of you getting hurt, because of his carelessness, was unacceptable. He would eliminate these fools before they could even think to touch you again.

The woman holding you, pinned your arms behind your back in a rough and painful grip. Their hold was unyielding, causing your arms to bend in an unnatural and uncomfortable position. You couldn't help but let out a small, pained whimper, the sharpness of the maneuver making you wince.

Your eyes pinched shut, and you forced yourself to take deep, measured breaths. It was your attempt to steady yourself, to hold back the wave of panic and fear that was overtaking you.

Your chest heaved with the force of each breath, trying to regulate your racing heart. A small shiver ran through your body, the fear and helplessness of the situation gnawing at the edges of your mind. The pressure of the woman's grip on your arms made you want to squirm and struggle, but you steeled yourself against the natural inclination.

Robin, like a silent wraith, leaped into action. His katanas moved in a blur, swiping the gun away from the goons' grasps before they could even register the movement. His presence was both dangerous and deadly, every muscle tensed and coiled like a predator ready to pounce. His sharp, grey eyes fixated on the thugs, a silent warning in their depths.

A sharp gasp slipped past your lips as the cold metal of the gun abruptly lifted away from your head. The sound of it banging loudly against the gritty, dirtied concrete ground echoed through the air, the sudden absence releasing a tiny bit of the tension that had been coiling painfully in your chest.

You stayed still, barely breathing, your body locked in the woman's tight and cruel grasp. Her hold on you was unrelenting, an indication that any wrong move would result in snapped bones. You couldn't turn your head to see what was happening, fear and pain keeping you rooted in place.

The woman's grip on your arms tightened, a painful reminder of the danger of any movement. You were trapped, unable to see what was happening behind you. Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to struggle and get away, but the fear of severe injury made you hold yourself perfectly still. The only thing you could do was remain in this terrifying, vulnerable position.

Robin's mouth curled into a snarl, his anger flaring as he saw you trapped in the woman's grasp. Your small gasp of relief at the gun being removed from your face only fueled his rage. How dare these pathetic humans touch you, his sibling, his family, without any regard for your safety and wellbeing. The thought alone filled him with anger he had trouble controlling. He had failed you.

As Robin stood before the thugs, his katanas held at the ready, he locked his gaze with the woman holding you in her iron grip. His eyes darkened with a fierce intensity, a silent challenge in their depths.

Robin's gaze, burning with righteous anger, fixated on the woman who held you captive. The air around him crackled with a dangerous aura, his muscles coiled tensely as he held himself back from pouncing on the pitiful excuse for a human being in front of him.

The woman holding you in an iron grip was clearly an amateur, her sloppy and harsh moves betraying her lack of experience. She seemed to rely on brute strength, rather than skill, to overpower her victims.

Her careless and overly aggressive approach was a stark contrast to Robin's years of training and discipline. He took in every detail, every movement and expression, noting the flaws in her techniques. She was like a novice facing a seasoned warrior. It was downright pitiful.

To Robin, the woman's every move stank of amateurishness. Her clumsy and brute force tactics were as subtle as a bull in a china shop. It was clear that she had never received any formal combat training; relying solely on the ability to intimidate and overpower her victims. In comparison, Robin was a paragon of discipline, control, and skill. The difference in their approaches could not be more stark. She was insulting you for even thinking someone like her could ever be in your presence.

The woman's lack of finesse and skill made Robin's blood boil. She was like a pathetic child playing at being a thug, an insult to the name of criminals everywhere. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck taut with restrained anger. He could see her flaws from a mile away, her amateur tactics screaming for correction. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation, his mind racing with possible ways to take her down without harming you further.

Robin's intense gaze continued to pierce through the woman holding you. He was like a coiled spring, his muscles tense and taut, ready to pounce at the very next moment. He couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion as he observed her sloppy moves. This is the type of amateur who would get themselves killed in Gotham in the blink of an eye. His anger flared further as he saw how carelessly she was handling you, her fingers digging into your flesh in a painfully tight grip.

For a brief moment, he considered just knocking the woman unconscious and freeing you from her grip. But then, with a cruel and calculated grin, a different thought occurred to him. He wanted to teach her a lesson. Maybe if she was truly frightened, she might actually learn something.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, Robin tossed one of his throwing stars at the ground, the sharp and sudden movement drawing the woman's attention. Startled by the sound, she turned her head to look at the star, her grip on you loosening just a fraction.

Robin seized the opportunity, and in the blink of an eye, he moved behind her, his footsteps so silent that they made no sound.

The woman's eyes widened as she realized Robin's presence behind her, but before she could turn to face him, he had her by the throat, his hand encircling her airway in a firm grip.

As Robin observed your trembling form, your eyes still squeezed tightly closed, his heart clenched in his chest. He could see the fear and helplessness your body was radiating and it infuriated him. You looked like a terrified animal caught in a trap, desperately trying to hide from your captor. The thought of how scared you must be only served to fuel his obsession. You needed their protection.

Robin's grip on the woman's throat tightened as he drew her closer to him, his face inches from her ear. His voice was low and filled with a dangerous edge as he snarled, "You dare lay a hand on MY family and think you'll get away with it? You're a pathetic excuse for a thug."

The ringing in your ears and the shortness of your breath is all you can focus on, having not heard the boy’s words. Luckily for him.

Seeing that you were still too scared to open your eyes or listen, Robin tightened his grip even further on the woman, his eyes narrowing as he leaned his head closer to her ear. "You thought you could get away with this? Pathetic."

As the woman began to struggle in his grip, her eyes widened as she realized the severity of the situation. Fear and panic filled her gaze, and her chest began to heave with labored breaths. Robin took a sadistic pleasure in seeing her fearful reaction. He smirked, his grip unwavering.

He was enjoying this. Teaching this low-life a lesson was like music to his ears. He wanted her to be terrified, to feel the same fear she had inflicted on you. You were his family. His.

As the woman gasped for air, her attempts to break free growing more frantic, Robin leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching her ear. The smirk on his face only grew wider. "Not so strong now, are you?" he whispered, his voice dripping with mockery.

As the woman's grip on you suddenly loosened in panic, it caused you to lose your balance and fall unceremoniously onto your knees with a thump. The sudden movement startled you, freezing you in fright. Your limbs locked up in response to the sudden movement, leaving you vulnerable and exposed as you knelt on the dirtied ground.

Robin's heart stopped as he saw you fall to the ground with a thump. His eyes widened briefly, his grip on the woman loosening slightly in shock. He watched as you knelt on the ground, frozen in fear and vulnerability.

His protective instincts flared up, and he had to suppress the urge to immediately rush to your side. Instead, he forced himself to remain focused, keeping the woman pinned in his grip.

Robin's sharp gaze snapped from the woman to you as he heard the thud of you falling to your knees. Concern immediately replaced his previous satisfaction. He could see the terror freezing up your body, rendering you frozen and vulnerable.

He gritted his teeth, feeling a mixture of anger and worry. He needed to get you out of this situation, preferably without causing you further stress or harm. His grip on the woman tightened again, cutting off her panicked gasps as he held her at bay.

With a quick, sharp jerk, he slammed her against the wall, the force knocking the breath out of her lungs. "Stay still," he commanded, his voice harsh and authoritative.

He then turned his attention to you, quickly crossing the distance between you. He crouched down in front of you, his eyes flicking over your form, assessing for any signs of injury.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, his voice a stark contrast to the harshness of moments ago. He reached out a hand, gently touching your shoulder as he tried to coax you out of your frozen state.

You looked up, your eyes wide with surprise and wonder, as you took in the sight of the young vigilante towering above you. Your throat closed up for a brief moment, your mind struggling to fully believe that it was indeed Robin, the Robin, standing before you.

You managed to force out a meek whisper, the word barely audible. "Robin...?"

In your current frightened and bewildered state, there are a million questions and thoughts running through your mind. In a normally clear state of mind, you would have jumped at the chance to ask the Boy Wonder for an interview. In this moment, however, the only thing you manage to let out is a hesitant whisper, his name. Your mind trying to piece together the reality of the situation.

Robin knelt down in front of you, watching as realisation flooded your eyes. He could almost see the thoughts spinning through your mind like a whirlwind. For a brief moment, he was thankful for your stunned silence. It gave him a chance to assess the situation without being bombarded by a thousand questions.

He watched you take in his presence, your gaze wide and filled with wonder and disbelief. The word 'Robin' escapes your lips in a barely audible whisper.

He nods slowly, acknowledging your tentative recognition, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

He could see the questions brimming behind your lips, but to his surprise, you remain silent. It seemed your fear had rendered you speechless, and for a moment, he found himself relieved. It gave him a few precious seconds to focus on the task at hand: getting you out of danger safely. He gave your shoulder a firm, gentle squeeze, his voice remaining hushed as to not startle you further.

"I'm here, you're safe." He tried to keep his tone calm.

Robin swiftly scooped you up, pulling you against his chest in an easy movement. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to pause, relishing the feeling of having you so close to him. His heart beat fast and loud in his chest, an undercurrent of fierce protectiveness and possessiveness rushing through him. The thugs already forgotten, as he now focused solely on getting you to safety.

As he quickly leaped from one roof to the next, never slowing his pace, he spoke, his voice low and even. "Where do you live?" He’s already running in the direction.

He kept a firm but gentle grip on you, making sure that you were held safe and secure in his arms as he ran. The wind whipped around you, cool and exhilarating, as Robin navigated the Gotham rooftops with practiced ease. He repeated his question, his tone now slightly more demanding, as he continued traversing through the city.

You tried your best to gather yourself, blinking against the cool night air buffeting your face as Robin held you against his chest. Your voice was soft and slightly shaky as you spoke, the wind attempting to carry your words away.

"Just... just around the corner.."

Robin nodded, accepting the information without question. His strides didn't slow as he continued moving, the muscles in his legs propelling him forward with trained speed.

The city lights flashed by as Robin swiftly carried you through the maze-like labyrinth of Gotham's rooftops. His strides were long and purposeful, his movements fluid and precise. His arms held you firmly, one hand tucked under your legs and the other looped around your back.

Despite the circumstances and the speed at which you were moving, he took great care not to jostle you any more than necessary. It was clear that you were in pain and scared, and he wanted to minimize any further distress.

“... thank you.”

As you murmured your thanks, Robin's heart clenched in his chest. The pure gratitude in your voice was a stark contrast to the vulnerability and fear he could feel in your trembling form. He wanted so badly to respond, to tell you how much you meant to him, how much he was willing to do to protect you, but he remained quiet. He had to stick to their plan. Right now, he was solely focused on getting you home, where you would be safe from harm. His arms wrap tighter around you. He gives a simple nod in response.

You lifted your hand slightly, carefully pointing in the direction of your apartment balcony. The gesture was small, but it was enough for Robin to understand your meaning.

Without a word, he altered his course, angling his body to head towards the balcony you had indicated. Each leap and bound over the city skyline brought him closer to your apartment, the destination in sight.

Despite his casual demeanor, Robin was fully aware of the path they were taking. Years of patrol and countless hours of study had etched the city's layout into his memory, a map constantly present in the recesses of his mind.

He could flawlessly navigate the maze of Gotham's buildings, his muscles and movements guided solely by pure instinct. Every twist and turn was memorized, a testament to his extensive knowledge and dedication.

As they approached your apartment, he adjusted his hold on you, preparing to make the final leap onto the balcony.

With a final powerful bound, Robin lands on the balcony gently, steadying you against his chest. He carefully lowers you to the ground, his hands lingering on your body for a moment longer than necessary, as if ensuring you were truly safe and sound.

He takes a moment to glance around the vicinity, his eyes scanning the area for any potential threats. The Gotham night is relatively quiet, the sounds of the city reduced to a hushed hum in the background.

Once satisfied that the area is clear, he turns his attention back to you. He takes a step back, giving you a moment of space. His eyes watch you closely, searching for any signs of distress or injury.

He lifts a hand, reaching out to gently touch your cheek. His touch is gentle, but his voice is firm. Emerald eyes searching your form. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

Despite his mask concealing his face, the concern in his voice is palpable. He takes a step closer to you, his hands moving to your shoulders as he steadies you against him. His gaze remains fixed on you.

You gently shook your head, a small, reassuring grin playing at your lips. Despite your earlier fear, you were clearly feeling somewhat better. Perhaps it was the adrenaline rushing through you, or the simple fact that you were safe now.

Robin noticed the shift in your expression, a slight furrow forming between his eyebrows as he looked down at you. He could feel the tension slowly draining out of your body.

Robin observed the small smile on your face, his eyes studying you closely. The brief moment of relief he felt at your reassurance was quickly replaced by a sense of caution. He could see the adrenaline still coursing through you, but he knew from experience that it was a temporary high. The fear would return sooner or later.

He nodded, accepting your answer but still feeling a small pang of unease. "Are you sure you’re okay?" he repeated, his hands still on your shoulders.

Your brows raise in slight disheveled amusement. This was the infamous arrogant vigilante? You call bull.

“Yeah, I’m alright now. Thank you.”

Robin's eyes narrow slightly at the amusement in your tone. Despite your gratitude, he can sense your slightly disbelieving and slightly amused. For a moment, he wonders if you are treating him like a kid playing dress-up.

He straightens up, his grip on your shoulders tightening ever so slightly. He cocks his head to the side, his voice a mix of annoyance and determination.

"What's so funny?" he asks, the slightest hint of defensiveness in his tone.

Despite the irritation in his voice, there's a hint of vulnerability. He's not used to being questioned, especially not by someone he feels responsible for. He wants to be taken seriously, to be seen as more than just a young boy playing at being a hero.

He takes a step closer to you, his gaze never leaving your face. "I'm serious. You could’ve been seriously hurt," he says, his voice stern. He's not used to expressing his emotions openly, but the thought of you in danger is making his typically controlled facade start to crumble.

You bite your tongue, holding back the sarcastic remarks and jokes that usually come so easily to you. You were well aware of how close you had come to serious danger, and the severity of the situation.

Robin can see the restrained smirk, the flicker of a joke on your lips, and it irks him more than the actual sarcasm. He's used to dealing with sarcastic criminals and sarcastic bats, but the thought of you making light of your own safety is frustrating. He clenches his jaw, trying to keep his annoyance under control.

"This is no joke," he finally says, his voice firm. "What you did was stupid. Walking alone in Gotham at night."

Robin's eyes held a mixture of emotions, anger and frustration and worry and protectiveness. But beneath it all, he was most angry and frustrated with himself. He should have been there sooner, he should have been able to stop those thugs before they even got close to you. This event was only proving to him what he already knew - you were not safe in the city, not without someone to protect you. They needed to speed up with their plan before he goes insane.

He withdrew his hand from your cheek, the loss of his touch leaving a cold emptiness in its wake. He fidgeted with his utility belt, a nervous habit.

"I have to go." He murmured, his voice low and laced with a hint of reluctance. His eyes scanned over you one more time, mentally committing your features to memory. It was as if he were trying to memorize every detail, every curve and contour of your face.

"Be sure not to walk alone at night. Or ever." The last words came out as more of a command than a warning, a hint of desperation laced in his tone.

Before you could even think of a response or express your gratitude, Robin had already vanished into the night, leaving you standing alone on your balcony.

Despite the circumstances, a soft, almost wistful grin crept across your lips as you replayed the events of the night in your mind. Despite the danger and the near brush with violence, you couldn't shake the thrill of meeting the young vigilante, the Batman’s associate himself.

Even though you didn't get to ask all the questions you wanted, the encounter was still something exciting.

You silently crept into your room, taking care to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Jason who was probably asleep in his room down the hall. You shrugged off your bag and jacket, discarding them to the side before crawling into the safety and warmth of your bed. You bring your hand out to tap softly against the glass of your turtles enclosure as a silent good night, cuddling further under the blankets.

Feeling the comfortable weight of the sheets surrounding you, you let out a soft sigh, already feeling the exhaustion starting to pull at your eyelids. Unaware of the chaos that was brewing at Wayne Manor, nor the many sets of watchful eyes observing you through the carefully placed cameras that dotted the room.

The cameras strategically placed throughout your room recorded every subtle movement as you got yourself settled into bed. Every blink and every shift was captured in sharp, high-definition video, the images streaming directly to the computer screens at Wayne Manor.

In the depths of the batcave, the video feeds played on several large screens, each one displaying a different angle of your room.

Multiple figures looking over the room full of monitors, displaying your every breath, every toss and turn as you drifted off to sleep. Watching each and every twitch, each flutter of your eyelashes.

The silence in the batcave was heavy, only disrupted by the soft hum of the computer equipment and the occasional murmur between the group of figures huddled in front of the bank of monitors.

Each screen showed a different angle of your room, the camera feeds streaming smoothly, giving an intimate view of your every movement. Every breath, every twitch, was recorded, observed and analyzed by the watchful eyes monitoring you. Every inch of your room was on display, the cameras capturing even the tiniest detail.

Even in your sleep, you were still being watched.

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

Does anyone have any ideas for the name of your pet turtle?

Your secrets are ours, kid

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

5528 words, 31958 characters, 321 sentences, 115 paragraphs, 22.1 pages.

Dick silently observed your sleeping form through meticulously concealed cameras around the room, a secret the family have kept even from Jason's knowledge.

He couldn't help but smile softly at the sight of you, cozily wrapped up in the soft woolen blankets he had masterfully orchestrated to be displayed on pop up ads all over your computer. Using Tim's hacking skills to flood your screen with countless ads for the snug blankets. He had spent months immersed in countless YouTube tutorials and enduring more pricks of his fingers from the knitting kits than he cared to admit. All in an effort to perfect the soft wool necessary to create the cozy blankets he observed you always instinctively seeking out when shopping, seeking to replicate that soothing comfort the same way your favourite sweaters did.

Dick waited quietly for over twenty minutes behind the front door, his phone held in his hand, with a soft grin playing on his lips. He knew the subtle creak of the wood would rouse you from your sleep, and he prepared himself to be the first thing you saw upon waking up.

Grayson couldn't help but coo softly as he observed you, looking around in confusion. You were so adorably clueless without your siblings to guide you, like a lost little bird.

He softly taps his knuckles against the door, but flinches backward as the wood creaks loudly, creating a resounding echo. He quickly checks his phone to see you flinching, and hisses under his breath, "Damn it."

He quickly flicks the app and pockets his phone, fiddling with his clothes to look perfect for your little outing.

After another five minutes of patient waiting, Dick drops his smile and knocks again, this time in a more rushed manner. He can't help but feel just a tad bit impatient, his fingers itching to see you.

He hears a soft thump and a low hiss followed by a curse, and Dick has to stifle a soft, amused chuckle. You must have toppled off of the couch, quite ungracefully, if the muffled cursing is any indication.

He glances down at his watch, noting the time - 01:24 PM. He muses mentally that there's still a good hour remaining before the reservation, plenty of time to coax you out of your cosy apartment and into some suitable clothes.

Dick hums a soft tune to himself as he waits, his fingers unconsciously fidgeting with the anxiety ring Tim had gifted him for Christmas. The fond smile on his lips widens as his deep ocean eyes crinkle with the gesture.

He straightens up, smoothing his hand delicately down his shirt as his gaze zeroes in on the door handle, listening intently to the distinct click as the lock disengages. A soft, sincere smile graces Dick's face as the door swings open to reveal you, disheveled and bleary-eyed. He can't help but find your drowsy appearance endearing.

Grayson’s voice comes out gruff and deeper than intended as he utters a soft, "Hey..." in greeting, the sound catching in his throat for the briefest of moments. He quickly gathers his composure, clearing his throat as he takes in your sleep-rumpled appearance. You looked even better in person.

The fond smile on your face was causing his heart to race. His baby bird. So grown up...

“What are you doing here so early, Grayson?” Hearing you speak jars Dick out of his thoughts, and he quickly runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to smooth it back into place. He can't help but imagine you calling him "big bro," the thought causing his heart to skip a beat, and he mentally berates himself for it.

"I wanted to see how my favourite little bird is doing," he responds with a crooked smile, trying to play it cool. Or rather, that’s how he wanted to reply. Unfortunately, his attempt to play it cool is thwarted. He aims to reply with a casual nonchalance, but instead, his words come out as a spluttering mess. "It's already past one," he manages to utter, his voice cracking halfway through the words. Dick inwardly cringes at the voice crack, mentally cursing himself for faltering so visibly. “It's not that early.”

"I came to see how you're doing," Dick swiftly recovers, leaning casually against the doorframe as he explains his unexpected arrival. "Jason gave me the address," he quickly responds, noticing the confusion etched across your face. He mentally chides himself for appearing so flustered, knowing he needs to come up with a plausible explanation for his sudden visit.

It isn't until your brows furrow and the question leaves your lips that he realises he may have inadvertently revealed his connection to Jason. His mind races for an excuse, realising he needs to tread carefully to avoid raising further suspicion. He hates having to lie to his baby birdy. You deserve to know the truth. But he also knows that Bruce is keeping the information from you for a reason.

Dick can feel his body tensing up, and he forces a soft chuckle past his lips, trying to act casual and nonchalant. His mind is racing, searching for a suitable response to diffuse the situation before you can continue questioning him. “You could... definitely say that.”

Before you can react, the older man swiftly brushes past you, stepping into the apartment and moving deeper into the living area. His sudden movement leaves you momentarily speechless. He almost chuckles at the surprise flashed all over your face.

As you part your lips to speak he quickly steps in, his gaze darting all over your face, committing every little pore and feature to memory. “We’ve got our reservation in an hour.” The man can't contain his excitement as he moves further into your flat, his gaze darting around the room with a poorly disguised smile. He's inside your home, in civilian clothes, while you're awake. This is a moment he's envisioned countless times, and he can't help the sense of giddiness that washes over him.

Your mind races as you follow Dick further into the apartment. A reservation? You weren't expecting any plans today, least of all with Dick. Questions dance on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be asked, but the time constraint and the sense of urgency in his words makes it impossible to voice them.

"Dick, what –” he promptly interrupts you with a firm glance, but instantly softens when he sees the pout on your face. His expression quickly changing to a sheepish one.

"No time for questions," he grins, casting a fond glance in your direction before reluctantly shifting his attention to the surrounding apartment in search of something suitable for you to wear.

As Dick begins walking around the living area, he swiftly and efficiently sets about collecting a variety of clothing items. He snatches up a hoodie, a pair of shoes, and a jacket before adding them to the growing pile beside him. He carefully lays out the garments as he proceeds to plan your entire outfit for the day, as if he's already made up his mind about how you should look.

He maneuvers around the apartment carefully, avoiding any of Jason's clothes like second nature. He's all too familiar with the other boy's habit of leaving his belongings scattered around recklessly. He has no intention of stepping into the minefield that is Jason's mess. Rolling his eyes affectionately at the sight before him, Dick couldn’t help but find the scene slightly endearing.

His mind flicks through the various pieces of clothing he knows are in your closet, but he quickly shakes his head in dismissal. This will have to do for now. He scoops up the collection of clothes, folding them neatly and slinging the stack of clothing over your shoulder cheekily.

He takes a brief pause, his deep ocean eyes locking onto your own for a moment. Searching for something that he seems to find in your expression. A subtle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before he turns away to begin searching the room for a bag.

You catch the clothes before they can fall to the floor, raising a quiet eyebrow as you look at Dick. "Are you asking me to change now?" you ask, your voice tinged with mild amusement. God, he loved your voice. He's mesmerized by the sweetness in your tone, the way your words seem to dance effortlessly off your tongue. He could listen to you talk all day, every day. It was like music to his ears. The sweet, hypnotising tone that seemed to always reel him in. His baby bird.

His gaze shifts to the area where he recalls seeing a bag on the surveillance footage from last week, when you had used it to buy some pet food. His eyes roam over the floor, searching intently for the bag he had spotted before. “Not particularly asking," A grin tugs at his lips as he spots the small backpack shoved underneath a chair in the corner. Triumphant, he moves over and picks it up, the familiar canvas material gripped in his hand. "It's more of a gentle suggestion."

He turns back to you, holding up the backpack with a victorious expression on his face. "Found the bag," he declares, throwing it towards you. Without missing a beat, he resumes his search, scannings the room diligently with meticulous attention to detail. His gaze doesn't miss a single spot, methodically checking every corner as if it were second nature to him.

"Why do we need a bag?" Your voice cuts through the room, causing Dick to shift his attention back towards you. He silently scolds himself, suppressing the overwhelming desire to croon at the innocent confusion in your tone. In his eyes, you're like a little lost bird, fluttering around cluelessly, desperately in need of guidance from your big brother.

He takes a moment to steady himself, his shoulders visibly relaxing slightly. He moves closer to you, bridging the small distance that separates you. Resting his weight on the back of a chair, his gaze locks onto yours. His voice is soft and tender, a gentle attempt to soothe your curiosity. "We just do," he reiterates gently, as if hoping to ease your confusion.

He leans in further, his voice taking on a more soothing tone. "Don't worry about it," he says slowly, his words meant to assure any anxiety.

His response leaves you frustrated, the vagueness doing little to satisfy your curiosity. Huffing in annoyance, you turn on your heel and stride down the corridor with purposeful steps. You march into your bedroom, closing the door behind you with an audible click, effectively shutting him out. Dick remains in the room, watching your hasty exit with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. In his eyes, your childish huffiness was nothing short of adorable.

He steps forward and leans his weight against the side of the couch, a tender smile playing on his lips. He listens intently to the soft rustling sounds coming from behind the closed door, where you are presumably changing. Though he can't see you, he is intimately aware of your every movement, each shuffle of fabric echoing in the room like a secret. The closed door serves as a deceptive veil of privacy, one that holds little power in his eyes.

He continues to listen, his sharp senses picking up every subtle sound from behind the door. The soft thud of your footsteps, the quiet sigh as you pull on a shirt, the gentle whisper of fabric against skin. He can almost picture the way your body would move, and a part of him wishes he could see each motion, commit it to memory.

The desire that wells within him is not one of a sexual nature. Instead, it is a yearning for a deeper, more intimate connection. For the kind of trust that comes from being laid completely bare, defenseless. He longs for a moment when you are vulnerable before him, stripped of all defenses and pretences. Where you place unwavering trust in him, giving him the chance to truly cherish and protect you, to cherish the trust you place in him as you reveal your true self. It’s what he yearns for.

Dick's gaze flickers up at the sound of the door handle turning, his eyes immediately fixating on your form as you step out of the bedroom. The sight of you wearing the clothes he had carefully chosen fills him with satisfaction. Each piece fits you just like he had envisioned, and he can't help but admire the way the fabric drapes over your frame.

He casually pushes himself away from the couch, his gaze trailing over your figure with open appreciation. His smile widens as he moves closer, closing the distance between you until he stands within an arm’s length away.

He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing the fabric of your shirt, as if he can't help himself. "Looks good," he murmurs, a hint of pride and possessiveness in his voice. The words spoken lower than a whisper, as if he’s talking to himself.

“See, didn’t I pick the best outfit?" he teases, his voice gentle and affectionate. He reaches out to tug lightly on the sleeve of your hoodie, a soft smile playing on his lips. The fabric is smooth and soft under his touch, and he takes a moment to simply savor the feeling of it against his fingers.

He tilts his head in a subtle move, his gaze tracing over every contour of your face. His eyes rove over your features, meticulously cataloguing them in his memory. It’s an unconscious act, a silent check to confirm that you're alright, that you're there and safe. Just within his reach.

Dick looks up, instantly recognising the irritation in your stance. It's a sight all too familiar, one reminiscent of a certain Damian. Your arms crossed defiantly, like a petulant child. He can't help but let a sheepish smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "What's that look for?" he teases, attempting to dissipate the tension. He can almost hear Tim's voice in the back of his mind, commenting on how much you resemble the youngest Wayne.

Your eyes narrow slightly, the irritation etched deep in your expression. Frustration is evident as you shift uneasily on your feet in the silence that follows. The atmosphere feels charged, weighed down by the unspoken.

Finally, you cut through the tension. Your tone is firm, demanding as you address him directly. "Dick, seriously," you say abruptly, cutting off any attempt at banter. "Why am I changing? Where are we going? You're being ridiculously vague."

Dick lets out a resigned sigh, his smile faltering slightly under the weight of your direct question. He had been hoping to delay this conversation until later, but he's aware that your persistence won’t allow for any evasion.

He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the neatly styled locks. His expression turns serious as he locks his gaze with yours. While the constant questioning can occasionally be irksome, he can’t help but find a certain charm in it, that endearing childlike curiosity that often drives you.

The answer is simple, stated as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re going out.” It’s a straightforward statement, short and lacking in any further details or context. He preens at the way your face contorts in confusion. You looked cute.

You're about to question him, craving more details about the plan, but before you can utter a word, Dick interrupts. He holds up his hand, preemptively stopping any further inquiry. "And before you ask," he starts, his voice steady, "I can't tell you where." His gaze gleams with amusement.

His voice is steady and unwavering, carrying a firmness that leaves no room for debate. But deep in his eyes, a flicker of conflicting emotions dances - a mixture of concern and determination. Dick understands that he can't divulge everything just yet. He knows the truth has to remain hidden, cloaked in secrecy. However, as he gazes at you at this very moment, his heart clenches. It's difficult to keep the truth from you, to prevent himself from simply sweeping you away right in that instant. His contemplation abruptly comes to a halt as you take a step closer to him, closing the distance between you.

You let out a soft sigh, moving closer to him. Your arms are held out, your annoyance evident in the slight pout on your face. The action sparks a tightening sensation in Dick's chest, his heart reacting instinctively to the sight of you waiting with your arms open, an unspoken plea for affection.

Your pout brings about an immediate transformation in Dick. His manner softens, a fond chuckle escaping his lips as he recognises the familiar indication of frustration. In response, he pushes himself off the couch and moves closer, promptly wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against him.

His embrace is firm and secure, an unspoken message of reassurance. His chest brushes against yours with each breath, a comforting presence. He pulls you against him, your body fitting perfectly in the space between his arms. Dick buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent.

He tightens his arms around you, drawing you closer to his chest. In another context, he would likely take the opportunity to tease you about your pout, a behaviour he always finds endearing. But in this moment, there's a sense of urgency that hangs heavy on his shoulders. A silent understanding flickers in his eyes, and he pulls you even closer, his breath warm against your skin.

He senses the tension that courses through your form, the frustration and confusion palpable in your stance. In response, he begins to gently run his hands up and down your back, trying to ease the anxiety that clings to your body. His fingers press softly into your skin, a familiar touch that he hopes brings a sense of comfort. At the thought of you being upset, he feels a wave of protective anger wash over him. After all, no one should hurt his little sibling. Ever.

Dick rests his chin on the top of your head, his eyes closing for a moment. He can feel the rise and fall of your chest against his, the rhythm of your breathing, the steady beat of your heart. He memorizes each sensation, committing them to memory.

He takes a deep breath, the scent of your shampoo filling his nose. He inhales deeply, the familiar fragrance calming his nerves. He can hear your own steadying breaths, the soft exhale against his chest.

Holding you close in his embrace, he murmurs into the softness of your hair, his words carrying the weight of sincere reassurance. "Trust me, okay?" he says, his voice resolute. There's no room for argument, only a plea for your unwavering trust.

He feels your response in an instant, your arms encircling him tightly and pulling him closer to you, their grip firm yet tender. As you look up at him, a small, tentative smile begins to form on your lips, the earlier irritation dissolving under the soothing presence of his proximity.

The furrow between your eyebrows softens, replaced by the hint of a smile. The stiffness in your frame begins to subside, the aggravation gradually fading away as he continues to hold you, his touch working its magic. You're blissfully unaware of the effect you have on him, each little expression making his heart swell.

A wave of warm affection washes over him as he gently pushes a strand of hair out of your face. His hand then moves to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the contour of your skin affectionately. His words, soft and soothing, break the silence. "Ready to go?" The image of you, nestled in his arms, is so vividly etched into his mind that he never wants to forget it. In that moment, you were his. His baby bird.

You roll your eyes, the gesture lighthearted and amusing. You lean your head into his touch, your features relaxing into a softer expression.

"I guess," you say, adding a touch of sarcasm. Despite the ambiguity and the unanswered questions, there's a sense of reassurance in being with him. The bond between you is deep-rooted. In that moment he knows that you trust him completely.

A wide grin spreads across Dick's face as you pull away, his arms dropping to his sides. The mixture of curiosity and subtle irritation in your eyes amuses him. He meets your gaze, his own eyes sparkling with a hint of his characteristic playfulness. "You'll find out soon enough; no need to worry." Even though the words are casual, the undertone of his voice indicates a barely concealed desperate urge to pull you back into his embrace.

He turns away, picking his jacket up from the back of a chair. He slings it over his shoulder, gesturing towards the door. “C'mon, we've got a reservation to catch.”

Dick leads you down a quieter street, away from the hustle and bustle of the main road. The ambiance of the area is distinctly more upscale, the shops and restaurants here a noticeable step above the rest of the city. A place he’s spent countless hours researching. It’s perfect for you, it’s got the food you like, it’s one of the lowest crime rates in the city, and the family has full control of the surrounding areas.

He guides you towards the charming little bistro, the soft light of the outdoor lanterns creating chiaroscuro patterns on his features. Dick can't help himself; his hand moves instinctively to tousle your untamed, bedraggled hair, a fond gesture of affection.

A satisfied smirk lights up Dick's face, his confidence evident. "Told you I've got this under control," he gestures toward the entrance. "Let's go."

Dick opens the door, gesturing for you to enter before him. The restaurant's interior exudes refinement, but he barely spares it a glance, his focus entirely on you as he allows himself to admire you.

Immediately, a sharply dressed host approaches, her spine ramrod straight and chin held high. Dick's voice is assured and unruffled. "Reservation for Grayson," he states, his manner self-assured and laid-back. The host already is aware, of course, but Dick is well aware he needs to keep you from posing any unnecessary queries.

The waitress gives a knowing nod, sharing a silent understanding with Dick. She affixes her most polite smile and phrases her question with a courteous tone, "The four-in-one show, is it?"

"That’s the one," he responds casually. The waitress nods in agreement and leads the way to the reserved area. Dick naturally gravitates toward you, his hand finding its way back to your waist, the touch both possessive and reassuring as he tenderly guides you.

The reserved area is tucked away in a remote corner of the restaurant, deliberately secluded from the main dining area. It's a cozy, intimate space adorned with soft lighting, a small circular table topped with sparkling glassware, and padded, inviting armchairs.

Dick courteously draws out your chair for you, waiting patiently until you are comfortably seated before taking his seat opposite you.

He hums, watching over you for a moment before the silence is broken. "What the hell was the waitress talking about?" you ask, leaning your cheek against your palm.

Dick gives a soft chuckle as he settles into his seat across from you, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "You’ll see," he answers in a purposely vague manner, his eyes nonchalantly roaming over the leather-bound menu. However, his attention is not fully focused on the menu. His gaze drifts towards you as he steals furtive glances, observing every move you make with a hawk-like intensity that only an older brother has.

Dick observes your struggle for a few moments, watching as you squint at the small, intricate script scrawled across the menu. He can’t help but chuckle softly, the endearing sight amusing him.

"Struggling there, birdie?" he teases with a smirk. The name slipping past his lips absently.

"How can anyone read this?" He watches you toss the menu down, slouching back in your chair in frustration. Dick grins warmly at your disgruntled expression and reassures you, a touch of humor in his voice. "You get used to it," he informs you, the hint of amusement in his tone evident. "Reading these fancy menus is all part of the experience, y’know."

He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the tabletop. He takes a moment to observe you as you continue to mutter and fuss, clearly not appreciating the fanciful script and intricate typography on the menu. Inwardly, he wanted nothing more than to gush over how adorable you looked with that disgruntled expression plastered across your face.

"Whoever made these is a sadist," Dick chuckles deeply, the sound echoing in the small, intimate space, making the air feel even more private. "You're right," he confirms, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "But don't worry," he assures you, a grin forming on his lips. "I'll step in to help you read the rest, if needed."

Your eyes narrow as you respond defensively. "I'm not a child. I don’t need help to read." the eldest brother clenches his teeth firmly, struggling to hold back a heated retort. he bites his tongue. But you are.

Dick expertly buries his inner thoughts beneath a veneer of false joviality, holding up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. His forced smirk attempts to mask his true feelings, as he replies in that charming manner of his. "Hey, I never said you did," he says smoothly, his tone still even and lighthearted.

"I was just offering my services as a personal menu translator," he teases, smirk deepening as you roll your eyes playfully, clearly enjoying your little bit of banter.

"You're cute when you're stubborn," he comments, the compliment slipping out almost effortlessly, like it's something he says every day. And when it comes to you, it really is.

Dick leans back in his chair, lifting the glass of water to his lips and taking a measured sip. A momentary silence descends upon the conversation as both of you stare down at the menu, each of you lost in your own thoughts. After a brief pause, he speaks up once again, the quiet finally broken.

Dick couldn't help but laugh again in response to your indignant hiss. Your defiant, pouty expression was just too adorable to resist, an almost complete 180 from your usual demeanor. "So," he asks casually, "finding anything interesting on there? Or is it all just gibberish to you?" You shoot a glare in his direction, muttering a frustrated "Oh, shut up."

"Hey," Dick returns with a teasing smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "It’s not my fault you can’t read fancy, tiny writing." Leaning forward, he rests his forearms on the tabletop as he continues, his tone more earnest now. "Seriously, though, have you found anything you'd like? I can order for us if you'd like," the peace offering clear in his voice.

A small smile graces your lips as you finally set the menu aside. Leaning back into the chair, you place your arms over your chest and turn to Dick, addressing him with a faux-dramatic flair. "Alright, Mr. Fancy Menu Translator," you declare. "Surprise me." Dick grins widely, thoroughly pleased at your response. He lifts an eyebrow, savoring the moment before speaking again. "Challenge accepted," he replies, his tone filled with playful confidence.

"Surprise it is then." Dick chuckles softly, his gaze flickering over the menu, though it is clear that his attention is entirely on you, rather than the list of dishes. With a smooth precision, he signals for a nearby waiter and places your orders with expert ease. Once the waiter steps away, his gaze turns back to you, a proud smirk plastered on his face.

"Alright, you're in my hands now," Dick's smirk deepens, your name rolling effortlessly off his tongue. You roll your eyes dramatically in response to his conceited attitude, though inside you can't deny the quiet thrill it sparks in you. He always knew how to keep things exciting and engaging. "In your hands, huh?" you muse, arching an eyebrow in a faux-skeptical manner. "Should I be worried?"

The warm, cerulean depths of Dick’s eyes follow your movements closely, noticing the unconscious way you shift towards him, as if seeking out his presence. A wave of protectiveness washes over him, yearning to envelop you in his embrace and keep you safe forever. But he quells the urge, choosing to bask in the moment, relishing the time he has to spend with you. "Oh, I think you should be very worried.”

Grayson leans forward, matching your position and bringing himself closer to you across the table. In a soft, almost imperceptible gesture, he subtly brushes his knee against yours beneath the tabletop, the touch gentle and affectionate.

"But don’t worry," he adds, his tone shifting into something slightly more genuine. "I’ll take good care of you."

You grimace and let out a mock gag, dramatically clutching your stomach as a playful response. Your voice drips with sarcasm as you shoot back, “What, did you steal that from a soap opera?”

Dick feigns offence, a hand dramatically flying to his chest as he gasps dramatically. "Me? Steal from a soap opera? I’m wounded," he grins, his tone equally as sarcastic as yours. Nose scrunching up in extra flair. He revels in this moment, you were acting like true siblings would. He wonders if you somehow know, if you’re somehow aware, but he squishes down the thought.

"You’re supposed to swoon, by the way. That’s usually the natural response to such declarations.”

"Sorry to disappoint," you reply dryly. "I’ll be sure to swoon next time. Maybe I’ll even swoon so hard I fall out of my seat." Dick chuckles heartily at your retort, the sound deep and genuine.

"Careful there," he teases. "I’d hate for you to give yourself a concussion. I’m still enjoying my night." He reaches out to gently pinch your cheek before pulling his hand away, his smile still firmly in place.

You scoff at the action, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your cheek. A soft glare thrown his way. "Stop it," you warn, though your tone lacks any real seriousness. "You’re such a child sometimes."

Dick grins unrepentantly, clearly unworried about your 'warning.'

"You love it," he says, his tone cocky as ever. He has the smug expression of someone who knows exactly how true his statement is.

"I do not," he holds back a giggle at your huff. You narrow your eyes. "You're infuriating, you know that?"

Dick grins wider, clearly satisfied with your response. He leans back in his seat, his arms crossing over his chest.

"Oh, I know," he replies, his tone smug. "But you love it, admit it."

“It sounds like you’re just trying to get me to tell you that.” You shoot him an unimpressed look, which Grayson shoulders almost too easily. He tilts his knee further into your own, seeking out your warmth.

"And if I am?" he responds, that cocky grin still on his face.

Dick leans forward yet again, the proximity between you decreasing with every movement. His intense stare remains unwavering, fixed intently upon your eyes. "Admit that you love it when I tease you," he murmurs, a hint of mischief in his voice, "and I’ll stop."

Dick can barely contain the storm of emotions churning inside him at the thought of you confessing your feelings first. His heart soars with elation and giddiness, his mind spinning with sheer joy. My baby bird. In his mind, he silently pleads say it. Please, just say you love me.

"Yeah, alright. Whatever. So what if I do?" You respond with a reluctant shrug, leaning back against the chair, feigning nonchalance. Dick's heart skips a beat, the nonchalant dismissal causing a surge of excitement within him. It takes all his self-control to contain the overwhelming rush of emotions bubbling up inside.

Dick grins widely in response, the triumph in his voice evident as he gloats. "See? Was that so hard?" he teases. "Admitting that you love my teasing." His smirk widens even further, the cocky satisfaction of knowing he has you wrapped around his finger all too clear.

He moves his elbow onto the table, resting his chin against the palm of his hand as he stares at you intently. A smoldering, almost intense look in his eyes, the playfulness in his tone masking the deeper emotions hidden beneath. "I knew you couldn't resist my charm," he drawls, his voice dropping even lower, filled with a mixture of smugness and possessiveness. You can't help but snort at his arrogance.

“Dick.”

Your voice causes him to pout involuntarily. The way you say it makes him think you're not actually calling out his name, and a frown momentarily mars his features.

No use of y/n, no descriptive features used, no gender mentioned.

Tag list: @zero-s-tea @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk @small-mushroom-fae @wpdarlingpan @dhanyasri @tojislvrr @phoenixgurl030 @mel-star636 @lilyalone @lavender-moony @nickey-diano @sociallyakwardpanda @obsessedwithromance @thickerthanthieves @nckcn @xxrougefangxx @th0rn118 @gaozorous-rex-blog @lyl-3 @wtf-am-i-doing-with-my-life-help @snowy-violets @atsukogikoshi @eyeless-kun @soriansick

I honestly just wanted to say I live for your entire batfam series and I just binged all the chapters and I love everything!!!!!!!!! Like seriously its amazing, your amazing, everything's wonderful !!!!!*\(•♡•)/*

Anonnnnn… you’re the best, sweetest lil anon ever!!! I literally love you💚

Link to chapter one

This is what I live for🙏

Moths to a Flame

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Fire and Ice weren't always a duo on and off court. There'd been a time when they had another element they followed around: Earth. Or, as most call him, (Y/N) (L/N).

Pronouns: He/Him/His

I don't know what possessed me to write this but here we are

~~~

Patrick spotted him before Art did. Art could tell right away when Patrick's teasing eyes flickered away from him and then lit up like a firecracker, the victorious and gleeful grin that spread across his lips. Patrick clapped his shoulder, a tad roughly if Art had to admit, and hurried past him, leaving Art to chase after him as they dodged students and other people touring Stanford's campus. Art's attention drifted away from Patrick's back and locked onto that familiar side profile he'd dearly missed.

Patrick bent over the backrest of the bench (Y/N) sat on and slammed his lips against the player's cheek in a messy, playful kiss. (Y/N) immediately whined and crinkled his nose, the book in hand forgotten as he attempted to shove Patrick's face away. Art snickered as he plopped down beside the squirming player, shifting around to face him and brushing his fingertips over (Y/N)'s knee, instinctively tracing the scar he carried since a small accident with his skateboard back when he was thirteen. 

"God, Patrick, get off me," (Y/N) huffed, managing to shove his fingers between his cheek and Patrick's lips and pushing him away. Patrick laughed against his fingers, hand curling around (Y/N)'s wrist and staring at him with twinkling eyes. (Y/N) set the book aside and wiped away at his reddening cheek, his gaze following Patrick as the brunette circled the bench and sat down beside him, still holding onto his wrist. Patrick made no move to release him. (Y/N) always had to be the one to pull away, from both of them.

"Come on, don't pretend you didn't miss us." It always felt like Patrick had some control, some dominance over the friendship. And maybe he did when it was just Art and him, but (Y/N) was a different ballpark. He had no control over (Y/N), no words or actions that could amount to the way the two of them would react to (Y/N)'s touch and stare. (Y/N) knew that, too. 

"Missed the two of you running after me like little dogs? Sure." His smile bordered on smug but Art relished the way (Y/N) dropped his hand to place it over his, his fingers wrapping around Art's hand but his attention focused on Patrick, whose eyes lingered on their hands. Art pushed his finger into the scar and smiled sweetly when (Y/N) finally looked at him.

Patrick demanded attention just by existing, always soaking everything up while Art stood by, waiting to be noticed. He - embarrassingly enough - grew attached to (Y/N) because of his attention, because Patrick had to fight to be noticed, but he liked it like that. "Why are you here, puppy?" 

Art flushed at the pet name, one he hadn't heard in a year or two, and tugged at the vibrant red Stanford hoodie he sported. (Y/N)'s lips curled upward and his hand squeezed Art's. "Maybe we can dorm together." Art said with a borderline pleading undertone, a trickle of smugness invading his veins when Patrick pursed his lips. He'd chosen to tour, unlike Art. Too fucking bad. 

"Maybe." (Y/N) nodded and pulled away from both boys, the bench creaking as he stood and slipped the book into his backpack. Before he could pick it up from the floor, Patrick snatched it up and slung it over his shoulder, a lazy grin on his face as he challengingly arched his brow at him. Art rose from the bench, long fingers reaching out to adjust the back of (Y/N)'s shirt, feeling his nails graze over his skin. 

"Patty Cake." (Y/N) raised his brows at Patrick and extended his hand, wiggling his fingers but Patrick tugged the backpack further onto his back. 

"Speaking of dorms," Patrick wrapped his free arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders and tugged him closer, right into his chest and out of Art's reach. "Where's yours?"

(Y/N) led them through campus, working as their own personal guide of sorts on their way to the dorms. Patrick strolled on nonchalantly, evidently bored on their journey but he kept his mouth quiet, letting Art shoot off question after question until they reached (Y/N)'s temporary home.

The room was blatantly divided, (Y/N)'s belongings on one side and his dormmate's things on the other. The two eyed the stranger's things, gazes almost scrutinizing and nearing jealous. The two had roomed together once, something that led to Patrick's favorite story to tell about Art's inability to jack off until he met him. 

"I think," Patrick began, tossing the backpack onto the bed and flashing (Y/N) a smile when he scowled at him while his arm slithered around Art's shoulders. "We need to do (Y/N) a favor and get him a better roomie."

"Charlie's fine." (Y/N) told them, his mattress dipping under his weight as he climbed on top of it. Patrick dropped his arm from Art's shoulders and stepped forward, knees bumping against the edge of the bed and body bending over. His arms loosely wrapped around (Y/N)'s waist and he pressed his cheek to (Y/N)'s collarbone, eyes threatening to flutter shut when (Y/N)'s fingertips danced over his cheek.

"Come on, (Y/N). Art needs you, remember? Besides, each night you'll get to hear him jerk off to you-"

"Patrick." Art's voice sounded like a mix between a groan and a hiss, his skin lighting ablaze and palm pressing against Patrick's hip to shove him gently.

Patrick's adams apple bobbed when he laughed, and with no prying eyes around to watch, he pressed his lips against the side of (Y/N)'s neck. His mouth open to dig his teeth into (Y/N)'s skin, lightly at first it seemed but Patrick had never been able to restrain himself. His teeth sunk deeper and harder, and once it seemed like he'd leave a mark, (Y/N)'s fingers moved from his cheek to his hair and tugged. 

"I have a girlfriend, Pat." (Y/N) huffed, not that it proved to be much of a revelation to the two boys who spent frankly too much of their time trying to keep up with the whirlwind that was (Y/N) (L/N). Maybe they should've nicknamed him Air instead of Earth. At least then they could compare him to tornadoes or hurricanes. 

It'd been the fateful night they'd all been graced with the presence of Tashi Duncan. Gorgeous, badass, and with a killer smile, she was exactly their type. She seemed to like them, too, especially (Y/N), but he'd been the quietest of the three, simply observing while lazily pulling his cigarette back and forth between his lips, eyes trailing between her and the ocean.

Maybe it'd been his indifference to her presence or the knowledge he'd eventually become a global sensation because despite giving Patrick her number and having her suspicions about the goings between the three, she ultimately chose him. Patrick had wondered aloud once if maybe it'd been the other way around and (Y/N) had chosen Tashi. After all, his calls and messages turned rare, leaving the two high and dry. But Art dismissed that. 

(Y/N) never chose. 

He never chose between Art and Patrick after joining their little friendship. He never chose when he made them his little playthings, his little admirers eager to compete against each other for his attention. He never chose who got more attention, he simply divided it as necessary, only ever using it when one needed it more than the other.

Besides, he'd had his fair share of partners throughout their odd relationship, some who knew and others left in the dark. They never mattered to Art and Patrick. Sure, they disliked sharing him with anyone other than each other (Hell, sometimes they got jealous of each other), but the girlfriends and boyfriends never stayed for long. Art and Patrick did, though. 

"So? Tashi made out with all of us in one night, remember?" 

"I know," (Y/N) took hold of Patrick's jaw, fingers lightly digging into his flesh. Patrick finally stilled and (Y/N) touch turned gentler, his thumb stroking over the spot of red now on Patrick's skin. "But she'll kill me if anyone thinks she's getting cheated on."

"Isn't she, though?" Art questioned softly, sinking into the mattress beside him and leaning forward to hook his chin over (Y/N)'s shoulder. He liked the dynamic, the difference in how the two were treated. Patrick often acted like a brat, mischievous with feigned control, so (Y/N) treated him like one. (Y/N) treated Art more sweetly, and gently. Always tending to him with a gentle hand. The rising star tilted his head toward him, angling his head to brush his lips over Art's temple. 

"It's just a power couple thing, baby." A smile spread across Art's lips and he hummed, his thoughts on Tashi and her position in their relationship forgotten for a moment as he pressed his face into the crook of (Y/N)'s neck, breathing in his cologne until it imprinted itself back in his head.

Patrick hummed, feigning skepticism and dragging (Y/N)'s attention back to him. Patrick moved his head downward, kissing the spot between (Y/N)'s thumb and index finger before that cheeky grin appeared again. His eyes flickered toward Art who peeked up at him as he trailed his lips over the thumb until he popped the fingertip into his mouth and made his desires evidently clear. 

"(Y/N)," Art murmured, already breathless as he raised his head to look at him. (Y/N) chuckled and hooked his thumb fully in Patrick's mouth, using it to pull him closer and peck the tip of his nose. Despite the mischief behind his actions, Patrick's shoulders sagged and his eyes softened. 

"If you boys wanted a treat, you could've just asked."