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we are the daughters of the women you couldn’t sell to one direction

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cloudy-strawberry

Dick who rocks you while having a panic attack from the sheer amount of stress of being kidnapped.

He’d coo in your ear as he rocks you back in forth to try and soothe youre mind and body while squishing you against him.

Dick who would eventually get you to calm down as he whispers words of encouragement on how you’re so brave and such a good baby.

Dick who just sits with you until you fall asleep and carries you up towards his room to cuddle with you because god forbid he was apart from his precious baby sibling

Dick who promises to never let you go again.

lovelybrooke

YOU🫵🏾 you’re the one who got me into IWTV, and I just finished it yesterday night (September 8th😭😭). Thank you for posting about, and therefore introducing me to this wonderful, amazing show❤️‍🩹

Since I see that requests are open, may we please get more platonic yandere Armand headcannons? This man has been living in my head😭

Platonic Yandere Armand (AMC Interview the the Vampire)

I'm doing Gods work guys, no need to thank me. Seriously though, I'm glad you enjoyed the show, more people need to watch this show, so I'll write anything you want me too.

I also love Armand, even though I was a hater of him for a while.

Also if you're new here please go read my original headcanons. Please feel free to send any IWTV related asks my way, this is literally my obsession.

---

sugary-strawberry-shortcake

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 10.2

Well I am going to edit both parts now. Don’t mind any mistakes oops.

pomegranatelifethis

Fractured Wings

Part one- 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜 (𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒)

The social worker arrived with a police officer. You'd been sitting at the kitchen table trying to read a library book—one of your few escapes—when the knock came. Loud, official. Different from the usual sounds of the building.

Your mother had been passed out on the couch, same clothes she'd worn for three days, empty bottles forming a glass garden around her.

You'd opened the door, blinking up at the two strangers.

"Is your mother home?" the woman had asked. She wore a gray suit and had kind eyes that made you suspicious immediately.

You'd nodded, stepping back.

What followed was a blur. Voices rising, your mother stumbling awake, yelling, the police officer's calm but firm tone. Words like "custody" and "paternity test" and "Bruce Wayne" floated through the chaos.

That last name made your mother laugh, harsh and bitter. "Finally figured it out, did he? Took him long enough."

You didn't understand. You stood in the corner of your closet-room, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to be invisible as always.

The social worker—Ms. Chen, she'd said her name was—had knelt down to your eye level.

"Sweetheart, you're going to come with me for a little while, okay? We're going to make sure you're safe."

Safe. Another one of those words that didn't mean anything in your experience.

The next few days existed in fragments. A hospital where doctors examined you with furrowed brows and gentle hands that made you flinch. Someone taking photographs of your scars, your too-thin body, the fading bruises. Questions you didn't know how to answer because you didn't understand what they were really asking.

"Does your mother hit you?"

Sometimes. When you deserved it.

"Are you hungry often?"

Everyone got hungry.

"Who takes care of you?"

You took care of you.

Their faces had grown more concerned with each answer, but you didn't understand why.

Then came the test. A woman in scrubs had swabbed the inside of your cheek, placed the sample in a tube. "Just routine," she'd said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Ms. Chen had taken you to a foster home temporarily. The house was clean, warm, overwhelming. The foster mother, Mrs. Palmer, had shown you to a room—a real room with a bed and a dresser and a window with actual curtains.

"You can put your things here," she'd said.

You had no things. Just the clothes you'd been wearing.

Mrs. Palmer's smile had faltered. "Well, we'll get you some things tomorrow. Are you hungry? I made dinner."

Dinner. Actual dinner. Chicken and vegetables and mashed potatoes and bread. You'd stared at the plate in front of you, at the portions that seemed enormous, and eaten slowly, carefully, waiting for someone to snatch it away or tell you it wasn't really for you.

No one did.

For three weeks, you existed in this strange limbo. Mrs. Palmer was patient, gentle, but you didn't trust it. You waited for the other shoe to drop, for the real rules to be revealed, for the pain you knew had to be coming.

It never came. Which somehow made it worse. You didn't understand this place, these people, this version of life.

And then Ms. Chen had sat you down with an expression that tried to be reassuring.

"We have some news," she'd said. "The paternity test came back. Do you know who Bruce Wayne is?"

You'd shaken your head. The name was familiar from your mother's drunken rants, from whispers you hadn't understood.

"He's a very important man in Gotham City. Very wealthy. And..." she'd paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's your biological father."

The words meant nothing at first. Father. You knew the word, but it held no meaning for you. It was like being told you were made of stardust or descended from ancient kings—interesting perhaps, but irrelevant to the reality of your life.

"He wants to meet you," Ms. Chen had continued. "He didn't know about you before, but now that he does, he wants you to come live with him. With your family."

Family. Another meaningless word.

But you'd nodded, because nodding was safe, agreeing was safer than protesting. Adults made decisions, and you endured them. That was how the world worked.

The day you'd met Bruce Wayne, Ms. Chen had dressed you in new clothes—jeans that actually fit, a sweater that was soft and clean, shoes without holes. You'd stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the child looking back.

The car ride to Wayne Manor had been long. You'd pressed your face against the window, watching Gotham's rough neighborhoods gradually transform into suburbs, then into rolling hills and estates hidden behind gates and walls.

Wayne Manor had appeared like something from a dream—or a movie, not that you'd seen many. Massive stone walls, towers, windows that seemed to go on forever. The driveway alone was longer than your entire street had been.

Your stomach had twisted with anxiety. This was wrong. Places like this weren't for people like you.

Ms. Chen had squeezed your shoulder. "It's going to be okay. This is your home now."

Home. You'd had a home. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it.

The door had opened before you'd reached it—a tall man in a suit, older, with gray hair and a kind but formal face.

"Miss," he'd said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. I am Alfred Pennyworth."

You'd stared at him, mute.

Inside, the manor was even more overwhelming. Marble floors, a staircase that split in two directions, chandeliers, artwork, space—so much space you couldn't comprehend it. Your entire apartment could have fit in the entryway.

And then he'd appeared. Bruce Wayne. Tall, dark-haired, handsome in a way that seemed almost unreal. He'd descended the stairs with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral.

"Hello," he'd said, stopping a few feet away. "You must be..."

He'd trailed off, and you'd realized he didn't even know your name. Your mother had probably never told him. Maybe she hadn't known who to tell.

Ms. Chen had filled the silence. "This is—"

But you'd found your voice, small and rough from disuse. You'd told him your name.

Bruce had nodded slowly. "It's... nice to meet you. I'm... I'm your father."

The word sounded strange in his mouth, uncertain.

"I know this must be overwhelming," he'd continued, and you could see he was uncomfortable, searching for the right words. "But you're safe now. Things are going to be different. Better."

Better. Different. They kept using these words.

You'd wanted to believe them. Some small part of you, the part that hadn't been completely crushed by ten years of neglect and abuse, had desperately wanted to believe that yes, here, now, finally, things would be better.

Ms. Chen had gone through paperwork with Bruce in another room, voices too low to hear. Alfred had shown you around the manor, pointing out rooms and wings and facilities that seemed impossible. A library, a gym, a pool, kitchens—plural—rooms for purposes you couldn't even name.

"This will be your room," Alfred had said finally, opening a door to reveal a space larger than your entire apartment had been. A massive bed with a canopy, a desk, bookshelves, a window seat overlooking gardens that stretched beyond seeing.

"My... room?" you'd whispered.

"Yes, Miss. Your father thought you might like this one, though if you'd prefer a different room, we can certainly arrange that."

You'd stepped inside slowly, afraid to touch anything. Everything was clean, pristine, beautiful. You didn't belong here. You were dirty on the inside in ways soap couldn't reach. You'd contaminate this place.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Alfred had said gently. "Dinner will be at seven. I'll come fetch you."

And then you'd been alone in this enormous room, in this impossible house, and the reality had crashed over you.

You'd been told this would be better. They'd said things would change.

You'd tried so hard to believe it.

The first night, you'd barely slept. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the darkness too complete without the familiar sounds of the city, the neighbors, the violence that had punctuated your nights. You'd ended up curling on the floor beside the bed, the hardness more familiar, more comfortable in its discomfort.

When Alfred had knocked at 6:30 AM, you'd scrambled back onto the bed, not wanting to be caught doing something wrong.

"Good morning, Miss. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

Breakfast. Every day. The concept was foreign.

You'd found your way to the dining room—after getting lost twice in the endless hallways—to find a table that could seat twenty with only a few places set. Bruce sat at the head, reading a newspaper. A boy around your age sat to his right, dark-haired with blue eyes that were sharp, assessing. An older teenager sat across from him, talking about something called "patrol" while Bruce gave distracted responses.

They'd all looked up when you'd entered.

"There you are," Bruce had said, the cheerfulness forced. "Everyone, this is... this is my daughter."

He'd stumbled over the words again. Daughter. As if testing them out.

"This is Dick," he'd gestured to the teenager, "and Damian," the boy your age.

Dick had smiled, warm and welcoming. "Hey! It's nice to meet you. Welcome to the family."

Damian had stared at you with barely concealed disdain. "Another one. Father, this is becoming ridiculous."

"Damian," Bruce's voice had carried a warning.

"I'm merely stating facts. How many children do you intend to collect?"

You'd stood frozen in the doorway, not understanding the dynamic, only sensing the tension.

"Sit down," Bruce had said to you, gentler. "Alfred makes excellent pancakes."

You'd sat in the indicated chair, hands in your lap, staring at the empty plate in front of you. When Alfred had brought food, you'd waited, watching to see what the others did first. You'd learned long ago not to take food without permission.

"You can eat," Dick had said, noticing your hesitation. "It's okay."

You'd picked up your fork with careful fingers and taken the smallest bite possible.

That had set the pattern for the first few days. You'd moved through the manor like a ghost, trying to take up as little space as possible, speaking only when directly addressed, waiting for the rules to become clear.

But the rules never did become clear, because there seemed to be different rules for different people, and none of them applied to you.

Dick would come and go, friendly but distant, clearly more interested in his own life than a suddenly appearing sister. He'd smile when he saw you, ask how you were doing in that casual way that expected "fine" as an answer, and then he'd be gone—out with friends, on patrol (whatever that meant), busy with things that didn't include you.

Damian made his feelings clear from the start. You were an inconvenience, an intruder, someone who didn't belong. He'd make cutting remarks about your manners (you'd used the wrong fork at dinner), your ignorance (you didn't know what half the items in the house were for), your very existence.

"At least I was raised with proper training," he'd sneered one morning when you'd confused a salad fork with a dessert fork. "You eat like a street urchin."

You hadn't known how to respond. In your old life, you would have made yourself smaller, disappeared. Here, you'd just stared at your plate and continued eating, using your hands when the utensils confused you too much.

Bruce was... absent. Not physically always, but mentally, emotionally. He'd be at the table for meals, in his office working, occasionally asking how you were settling in with that same uncomfortable tone, as if checking items off a list. "Do you have everything you need? Is your room comfortable? Alfred will take you shopping for clothes."

He never asked the questions that mattered. He never noticed that you barely spoke, that you flinched at sudden movements, that you hoarded food in your room because you didn't trust that meals would keep coming.

You'd thought, in those early days, that maybe you needed to prove yourself. Maybe if you were good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough, they'd see you. They'd care.

So you'd tried.

You'd cleaned your room obsessively, made your bed with military precision, kept everything exactly in its place. You'd offered to help Alfred with chores, following him around the manor like a shadow until he'd gently told you that you didn't need to work, that you should "enjoy being a child."

You didn't know how to do that. Being a child had never been an option before.

You'd tried to engage with Damian, asking about his interests, hoping to find common ground. He'd responded with insults and dismissal. Once, you'd tried to join him in the garden where he was feeding his pets—exotic animals you'd never seen before—and he'd told you to leave before you "contaminated his space with your incompetence."

You'd tried to talk to Dick, to ask about school since you'd been enrolled in Gotham Academy and had no idea what to expect. He'd given you surface-level advice—"just be yourself, you'll be fine"—while texting on his phone, clearly eager to get back to whatever he'd been doing.

You'd even tried to connect with Bruce, waiting outside his office one evening, working up the courage to knock. When you'd finally done it, when he'd called you in and looked up from his computer with that expectant expression, you'd frozen. What did you even say? What did normal daughters talk to their fathers about?

"Did you need something?" he'd asked, not unkindly, but busy, distracted.

You'd shaken your head and left.

As weeks turned into months, the initial hope—that fragile, desperate hope that things would be better—began to crumble.

You'd learned the manor's rhythms, its patterns. Bruce worked constantly, either in his office or disappearing at night for reasons no one explained. Dick came home occasionally, staying for a few days before leaving again for something called "Titans." Damian had his routines—training, school, his animals, more training—and you were an interruption to all of it.

Alfred was kind, but he had an entire manor to run, and he treated you with the same polite distance he treated all of Bruce's wards. He'd ensure you had meals, clean clothes, that your needs were met in the most basic sense. But he didn't see you either, not really.

The invisible patterns of neglect from your old life began to repeat in new, different ways.

At dinner, conversations would flow around you. They'd discuss patrol, cases, training, people and places you didn't know. When you'd tried to ask what they were talking about, Damian would roll his eyes. "It's not your concern," he'd say, and no one would contradict him.

You'd started skipping meals because no one noticed whether you were there or not. You'd tested it one night, staying in your room during dinner. No one had come to get you. No one had mentioned your absence the next day.

So you'd tried again. And again.

It wasn't until you'd missed three dinners in a row that Alfred had knocked on your door.

"Miss, are you feeling ill? I've noticed you haven't been down for meals."

"I'm fine," you'd said, because that was the safe answer. "Just not hungry."

He'd studied you for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes, but then he'd nodded. "Very well. But please let me know if you need anything."

And that had been that.

You'd started hoarding food again, pockets full of dinner rolls, fruit hidden in your desk drawer, anything non-perishable that you could take without being noticed. The anxiety of not knowing when your next meal would come had never left, despite the manor's abundance.

At school, you'd struggled in different ways. Gotham Academy was full of rich kids who'd known each other since kindergarten, who had inside jokes and shared histories and social rules you couldn't begin to understand. Your clothes were expensive now—Alfred had made sure of that—but you wore them wrong. Your hair was properly cut and maintained, but you still carried yourself like someone expecting a blow.

"That's Bruce Wayne's new daughter," you'd heard them whisper. "The one from Crime Alley. Can you imagine?"

You'd made no friends. At lunch, you'd sit alone, and when you'd tried to join groups, the conversations would die, awkward and stilted, until you'd leave again.

Damian attended the same school. You'd thought maybe there, away from the manor, he might be different. But he'd been worse. He'd pretend not to know you, and when other students had asked if you were his sister, he'd said, "Only by the most unfortunate technicality."

His friends—children of other wealthy families, equally sharp-tongued and cruel—had taken their cues from him. They'd mocked your manners, your speech patterns, the way you didn't understand their references or know their customs.

Once, one of them had "accidentally" knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. Food had scattered across the cafeteria floor, and laughter had erupted. You'd dropped to your knees to clean it up—automatic response, always clean up your messes—and Damian had walked past without a glance.

The teachers had been polite but distant. You were a Wayne, which meant you were both above reproach and impossible to discipline. When you'd struggled with subjects you'd never been properly taught, they'd offered tutors in that same detached way, as if checking a box. None of them had asked why a ten-year-old didn't know basic multiplication or how to write a proper essay.

Back at the manor, you'd become a ghost in truth. You'd learned which hallways the family used and avoided them. You'd learned what times they trained in the cave (you'd discovered it by accident one sleepless night, following sounds, and had been dismissed immediately by Damian: "This isn't for you. Leave."). You'd learned when Bruce would be in his office, when Dick would visit, when Alfred would be busy with household management.

You'd carved out a small existence in the spaces between their lives.

Some nights, everyone would be gone. Bruce, Dick, Damian—out doing whatever they did. Alfred would be asleep or tending to his own quarters. And you'd be alone in this massive house, hunger gnawing at your stomach because you'd missed dinner again and were too afraid to go to the kitchen at night for fear of being in the way, of taking something that wasn't meant for you, of being seen as a burden.

Those nights were the hardest. The manor would creak and settle around you, and you'd curl up in your too-soft bed in your too-large room, and you'd think about your old apartment. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it. At least the neglect had been honest.

Here, you'd been promised better. You'd been told things would change. You'd been given this beautiful room and expensive clothes and access to food and safety, but somehow you were more alone than ever.

Because before, you'd had no expectations. Now you had hope, and hope was so much more painful when it went unfulfilled.

You'd think about your mother sometimes, though you tried not to. She'd been cruel, neglectful, abusive. But she'd also been predictable. You'd known where you stood—nowhere. You'd known what to expect—nothing.

Here, you'd been told you were family. Daughter. Sister. Wayne.

But titles meant nothing when you were invisible.

You'd started talking to yourself, quiet conversations in your room to fill the silence, because days would go by where no one spoke directly to you beyond pleasantries. "Good morning." "Excuse me." "Pass the salt."

You'd sit in the library—that massive, beautiful library—and read books about families, trying to understand what yours was supposed to look like. The families in stories loved each other, protected each other, knew each other. They had traditions and inside jokes and memories built together.

Your family had none of that. You were a stranger living among strangers who happened to share blood with one of them.

And the worst part, the part that made everything so much harder to bear, was that they weren't bad people. Bruce wasn't cruel like your mother had been.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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Anya is LIVE right now

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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

thecorefrisk

more clingy dad bruce drabbles plsplspls ♥︎

Ooooo, okay!!

This one is completely platonic :>

Tw: neglected reader, angsty stuff, crying, Bruce calls us ‘sweetheart’ which I know not everybody likes (sorry if this isn’t what you were looking for, it’s just what came out 💔)

Bruce tugs you closer, smushing your cheek against his collarbone and wrapping his arms around you in an unpracticed, untried manner. You felt awkward like this, limp against him rather than melting into the heat of his body.

The fire crackled and popped before the two of you, shedding soft yellows and reds over the room. Neither of you had said a word for the past half hour.

He’s… never done this before. Not with you. Once upon a time, you would have shed happy tears over this. You would’ve stuffed your nose into the crook of his neck and clung to him until he got tired of you and peeled you off with a few inches of skin he’d have to peel off too if he wanted you to get off of him.

Now… now, it felt hollow. Empty.

You, unfortunately, still felt the warmth of it—the love. It was in the kiss he pressed against your temple and the hand that tugged the blankets over the two of you. It was in how tightly he wrapped his arms around you and how lovely it felt to be held without having to beg for it. It was in the heavy hand that laid protectively over the back of your head and in how he refused to let go.

But- but it just felt too late. It was like trying to glue porcelain back together, it just- it just didn’t work. The piece would never be the same as it was.

And it just felt useless to pretend it would be. To even try.

And-

A hand slipped over to your face, cupping your cheek and lifting your head up. Concerned blue eyes met your own. A calloused thumb brushed away something under your eyes and oh- you hadn’t even realized—

“What’s wrong?” Bruce, your dad, spoke softly, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion and his eyebrows all knotted up in the middle like he cares.

You don’t know why. You really don’t know why. But the tears come flooding out after that. You stuff your face into his chest and cry freely, shoulders shaking with your sobs. You can hear him and all his worry, but you don’t have the energy to respond, the willpower, you just want your dad to hold like he was always supposed to.

He tries to tug you away and you know it’s just so he can see your face, you know it, but panic still claws at your chest and suddenly you’re shaking your head violently and wrapping your arms around him tightly so he can’t push you away like he has all these years. (Not again, not again, not again, not again—)

“Dad-“ you sob and you can barely breathe; your heart aches.

“Shh, shh,” he attempts to soothe, obviously trying to fight his own rising panic. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay—“

“Dad-“ your nails are probably digging crescents into his back, probably digging deep enough to make him bleed, but you can’t find it in you to care. He can’t leave. Not again.

You’re inconsolable for what feels like hours, clawing at him in attempt to tug him closer, staining his shirt with your tears and snot, and filling the room with your sobs. He tries to comfort you. You don’t want to let him.

(But you do. You always do.)

He’s here but he never was before and you don’t know when he’ll leave again. When he’s going to leave you in the dust with your father-child dances and half-made birthday gifts and all the promises that you thought he might just keep this time.

But no. You can’t trust him. You can’t- you can’t— you can never-

“I’m sorry, baby, I know,” he murmurs, knowing nothing else to do but to kiss your wet cheeks and rub wide circles into your back.

You can’t- you can’t—

“I’m here. I’m here,” he says softly, gently, like it doesn’t shatter you to pieces.

He can’t do this to you- he can’t- he can’t—

Your dad kisses you again. Places a loving kiss right on your nose bridge like it’s beautiful. (Like you’re beautiful.)

There should be no more tears left in you but there always are.

“I love you. I’m here.”

But why now?

(You want him to go.)

“I love you. I love you.”

(You need him to stay.)

“You’re here. I’m here.”

But one day, he won’t be. (You don’t know how you’ll survive without him. But you’ll have to.)

(He always leaves anyway.)

Your heart aches. Your heart throbs.

(The thought of losing him again is like a heart attack, but you’re not sure you ever had him in the first place.)

sugary-strawberry-shortcake

“Midnight Ride” (Platonic Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader)

A/N: Needed to do a drabble for my love jason 🤭 I also feel like my drabbles are always way fluffier while the real chapters are just pure angst 😓😭

sugary-strawberry-shortcake

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

docdudo

MASTERLIST

Here's a list to better organize the drafts i have written:

Hybrid 141 As Parents - Foster Human Child!Reader

Parts In Order:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Asks:

People Sizes

House Sizes

Nesting For Humans

Werewolves' Hands

Can They Reach Door Handles?

Human Babies - 1

Human Babies - 2

Reader Getting Sick

Life Expectancy

Home Alone

Who They Prefer?

Sharing Food

Their Kids

Hybrid Games

Playing On The Snow

Running Away

Hate Touch

Spicy Food

Service Hybrids

Oral Fixation

Broken Ankle

Ghost's mask

Flying with Gaz

Abusive House Hold

Their Kids - 2

Plushies and Preening

Periods

Mimicking Their Sounds

Familiar 141 - Young Witch!Reader

Parts In Order:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Asks:

Familiar Sizes

Taunts

A Witch's Birth

Relationship Between Familiars And Witches

Do They Know How To Take Care Of Children?

Species

Death and Bonds

What Are Familiars?

What's Their Relationship Like?

Vampire 141 - Fledgling!Reader

Parts In Order:

Part 1

Asks:

Shock

Feeding

Venom

Fic Arts?

Foster child!reader with dad wraith!Ghost

Foster child!reader with dad wraith!Ghost (Black ver.)

Art On The Banner: @bluegiragi

Profile Picture: Me (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

cha0s-junkie

Trying my hand at a design for arkuma :3

ARE YOU KIDDINGGGGG OMFGG ARKUMA LOOKS INSANEEEE

he is so fluffy omg… AND HE LOOKS SO CUTE EXCITED?? IM EATING YOUR ARTTT

TYSM THIS IS AMAZING!!

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality

Anya is LIVE right now

FREE

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

impish-baby

More dad survivor x zombie reader + an old friend :) (tw: dead animal, guns, emetophobia, threats of harm)

"Aw, sugar.." The dead bird is the farthest thing from appetizing but you look so darn happy offering it to him, how's he supposed to say no?

"You're the sweetest, daddy will eat it later, ok?" That at least seems to be satisfactory enough for now, as you drop the poor thing down onto the park table.

The playground has long been abandoned, left in disarray since the apocalypse hit, that doesnt stop Hank from finding it absolutely adorable when you try to climb up a slide. Nearly gives him a heart attack though.

"Baby, come on, you're gonna hurt yourself." He wonders if you remember being little and playing here, your memory isn't the best when it comes to some things but you sure seem to recall what it takes to give him gray hairs. "I know you think it's fun, but your old man really couldn't handle it if you got scratched up while you're messing around."

You get hurt so easily now a days, he's basically toddler proofed the house all over again and yet you still find a way to bang yourself up when he's not around, that's why he's taken to tying you up when he can't keep an eye on you.

When you do finally decide to slide back down, Hank immediately sweeps you up into his arms with a soft chuckle. "Alright, alright, I think you've had enough outside time for today, we should be headin' home."

ametrictonofaudacity

Okay so consider!!!

Yandere platonic Geralt!! Generally very cool!! Very nice!! But if you fuck up you have to deal with (what you have dubbed) the get along cuff. Which is literally him just making you sleep next to him and tying your leg to his with a bit of leather cord. It’s thin so he can easily snap it if there’s a danger, but he’ll wake up if you move it.

Also Jaskier being completely fine and okay with this would be hilarious, I would love to see you write a scenerio!! (Idk why but I picture a modern reader, like one who got dropped in the Witcher from the modern world)

I love this ask!! I also love the trope of a modern character in a medieval setting, I think it was all the ‘Modern Girl IN Middle Earth’ fanfics I read (an actual tag on ao3) so I have a weakness for it!! Also Jaskier just going ‘eh’ is so funny to me.

Warnings: forced proximity, captivity, kidnapping, some level of being infantalized, being tied to another person as a form of being restrained, future Stockholm syndrome. Jaskier is complicit, up to you whether he is also a yandere or not. Also the fact Geralt can smell emotions

lovelybrooke

Can we get some thing for a platonic miles, Gwen, Hobie, pavitr and reader just having fun? Like since they're all around the same age, maybe headcanons of what they liek to do with reader. How would they react to someone messing with reader?

Hanging out with you (Yandere Spiderverse x reader).

sleepingdiaryzzz

Yandere batfamily x neglected reader

In the cold, towering shadows of Wayne Manor, you existed as a flicker of something forgotten, something unseen. To the family, you were a presence, but never a person—a thing that was always there, never quite needed, but always expected to be. It was a strange kind of loneliness, one that settled deep within your bones. It wasn’t hate, not outright. But it was neglect, a neglect that twisted and shaped itself into something far more sinister.

Bruce, with all his focus on Gotham’s endless darkness, had never known how to be a father in the way you needed. He loved you, he cared for you in his own way, but it was a cold, distant love, one born out of obligation. He made sure you had everything you needed: food, clothes, shelter. But that was all it was. There was no warmth in his touch, no kindness in his words. Every time he passed by, his gaze barely brushed over you, and you would hold your breath, hoping for just a second of acknowledgment, a second of care that never came. But you learned quickly—Bruce didn’t have time to see you. His world was bigger than you, and in his eyes, you were just a small piece of the puzzle. You weren’t a person to be loved and cherished. You were a responsibility. A duty. He never once sat down with you to hear how your day went, or how you felt. If you wanted attention, you had to earn it. If you needed comfort, you had to wait for him to decide you were worthy of it.

Dick, who was always smiling, always so eager to please, had a different kind of neglect. He wasn’t cold like Bruce, but he wasn’t present either. Dick was always somewhere else, wrapped up in his own world. He’d sweep into the room with his wide grin, maybe a pat on the head, maybe a quick word here or there. But his affection never reached past the surface. It was the kind of love that only showed up when it was convenient, when it didn’t get in the way of his own life. He would hug you, but it was quick, fleeting, as though his attention was already elsewhere. Sometimes you would stand there for minutes, waiting for him to notice you, to actually see you, but the longer you waited, the more you realized it wasn’t going to happen. Dick wasn’t truly there, not in the way you needed him to be. He never asked you how you were doing, never checked on you when you were quiet for too long. You weren’t worth his time unless it was easy, unless it was convenient. And as time passed, you learned that his love was always on his terms, and you were always left waiting for the moments that never came.

Tim, who was so intelligent and sharp, didn’t understand you at all. He looked at you like a problem to solve. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness in his voice when he spoke to you. His way of showing care was to ask you if you’d eaten, or if you were okay, but there was always a sense that he was doing it out of routine rather than genuine concern. If you showed signs of needing more than the bare minimum, he’d get frustrated, annoyed even, as if your needs were an inconvenience. You weren’t allowed to be a bother. You weren’t allowed to be human. Tim loved you, yes, but it was the love of someone who didn’t know how to love. He saw you as an extension of his world, not a person in your own right. Your silence was met with frustration, your sadness met with impatience. He didn’t have time to comfort you; he had cases to solve, problems to fix. You were a task to him, a thing to be checked off and moved on from.

Jason’s love was the most painful of all. It wasn’t outright cruel, but it was laced with a sharpness that cut deep. Jason would pull you close when you needed him the least, but when you needed him the most, he would turn away. His love came in flashes, in moments of brief connection that would burn brightly before fading into coldness. He wasn’t able to offer you the consistency you craved, the stability that your heart so desperately needed. When he did notice you, it was often in a sharp, harsh way—his anger spilling out, his guilt over his own brokenness feeding into his care for you, but it was a broken care. It was as if he wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t figure out how without making you feel like a burden. His love was suffocating, overbearing, because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But that was his problem, wasn’t it? His love was for himself, his need to fix something broken, and not for you. He loved you with the intensity of a man trying to fix his own past mistakes, but never once did he pause to think if you needed that love, or if it was too much to carry.

Damian’s neglect came in the form of indifference. You didn’t exist in his world. His eyes would slide over you like you were nothing more than a fixture in the background. He had no patience for anything that wasn’t him, no time to stop and listen to your needs. When he did interact with you, it was always with an air of superiority. He would demand your attention, but when you needed his, he was too proud to offer it. His love wasn’t love at all—it was control. He wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into his idea of what you should be. He never bothered to learn who you truly were, who you were beyond the title of "his sibling." To him, you were just an extension of his father's empire, not a person in your own right. His love came with expectations, and if you didn’t meet them, he would ignore you, push you further away. His neglect was harsh and unapologetic. It wasn’t even something he noticed, because in his eyes, he was right. And you were just supposed to be there.

Cassandra and Stephanie, who had seen pain in their own lives, understood loneliness, but they couldn’t reach you in the way you needed. Cassandra, though she understood the language of silence, was too quiet herself to break the walls you had built. She couldn’t reach into your soul the way you needed, couldn’t make you feel like you were more than just a shadow. Stephanie tried, she really did. She was always the bright one, the one who pulled you into her light, who tried to make you laugh, tried to be the friend you didn’t have. But it wasn’t enough. Her love was more like a mask, something to keep up appearances, something to show that she cared—but deep down, you knew it wasn’t the kind of love you needed. It was temporary. It was the kind of love that lasted only as long as it was convenient, and when the days became long, when the nights became cold, Stephanie’s love faded into the background like everything else.

Duke, the newest addition to the family, wanted to be the one to fix things, but he was just too late. He saw the cracks in the family, the way you were pushed aside, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight against the currents that had already shaped you into something else. His love was genuine, but it was too new, too fragile to make a difference in the sea of neglect that had already swallowed you whole. He wanted to protect you, wanted to be the person you could rely on, but he couldn’t find a way to break through the walls of hurt that had built themselves around you.

They all loved you, in their own way. But love, when it’s cold, distant, and inconsistent, becomes a weapon. Love, when it’s mixed with neglect, becomes emotional abuse. It isn’t always harsh or violent. It’s quiet, hidden in the silences, in the moments where your needs go unrecognized. It’s in the way they forget you, in the way they act as though your pain is just a passing inconvenience. It’s in the way they only notice you when it suits them, when they remember that you’re there, when it’s time to check off the box of “care.”

You weren’t hated. But you were forgotten. And in the shadows of Wayne Manor, where the world’s greatest heroes lived, that silence was the loudest thing you could ever hear.

leth-writes

Some thoughts about Tim and the Batfam

SUMMARY: just thinking about Tim and the batfam

WARNINGS: 18+ as always on my blog, though the work is safe for work. Typical yandere shenanigans. HEAVY discussion of drugging and taking away of autonomy.

MASTERLIST: https://www.tumblr.com/leth-writes/757800060720496640/requests-open?source=share

Requests are open!

•18+ Adults Only

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dontbesoweirdkira

There's just so much potential for platonic !yan Tim Drake that isn't really explored. This post may flop but I like to imagine that yan! Tim Drake is actually the worse out of all his brothers...

Masterlist

Requests: always open

Look...you and i both know that Tim is canonically unhinged. But Batsis!reader doesn't. It's so easy for you to forget that your brother Tim is so dangerous. I mean he doesn't really seem all that different from any other nerdy 19 year old. His body doesn't loom over you like the more bulky of your brothers, and his presence is rather...calming? I mean there's still a bit of uneasiness there but it's so subtle that you can brush it off

He's normal when he interacts with you. He doesn't bug you to spend time with him or uncomfortably touch you like Dick does. He is sweet and gentle...He knows how you prefer to be engaged with and respects what you don't like.

But, that's what makes him so dangerous. He knows you. Every. Last. Detail. He's gotten so good at being a nasty little fly on the wall that sometimes you forget he's even in the room. He's always around you, observing and collecting data. He's got you wrapped around his fingers and you don't realize it.

But it's not your fault. It's hard to even imagine that someone as mellow as Tim could ever share the same traits as his brothers.

Yan! Tim fully picked up just how intuitive you are and how you can spot red flags easily. He's so calculated and careful with every interaction. It's amazing how natural he makes these conversations flow. Well, they better. He's spent hours analyzing and practicing how to speak to you. His heart is pounding with anticipation, as every shred of information you give him is going right into his files on you.

ametrictonofaudacity

Bonds 2

Yandere Platonic Batfam x Trans!Masc Reader

Warnings: mentions of kidnapping/captivity, manipulation, non-consensual touching (cuddles), general yandere themes. Reader has been pretty thoroughly conditioned in this, posted non-chronologically.

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