overangel

[overangel]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐈𝐈𝐈 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐫

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.

Tᴀɢs: male yandere x fem reader, noncon, angst, PiV, slow summer sex in the hay, a man who yearns is a man who earns, 4.6k words

The wrangler kisses you awake. Your neck, your shoulder, the soft spot where your ribs taper away.

He pulls away when you tense up, when you murmur something that sounds like no. It isn't easy for him. You have no idea the strength it takes to let you go when you're already naked in bed beside him, split open like the tender flesh inside a sea shell. A weaker man would sink his teeth in and never let go.

Some days you don't say no.

Some days you let him trace kisses all the way down your waist, let him kiss up between your thighs. He smiles at you on those days. A little teasing, a little hungry.

"Rewarding me for good behaviour, is that it, beauty?"

He doesn't use his teeth then either, though you can feel his canines brushing your skin when he kisses you. A reminder, though he doesn't intend it. He's still a wolf like all the other outlaws. His domestication can wear off at any moment.

When he's done with you, when he's looking up at you with his chin propped on the mound of your cunt, looking at you so reverent that you can almost feel the soft underbelly of his love, that's when you try and tell yourself that you didn't feel the ghost of his teeth at all.

After he leaves you in the morning, it's rare to see him until early afternoon. He almost always comes home with a hunting rifle over his shoulder and fresh meat on the back of his horse.

The moment he steps through the door, the first thing he does is kiss you. One arm wrapped around your waist, his lips warm from the sun. When he pulls away, he tends to smile and touch his knuckles to your cheek.

"How have you been, beauty?"

You don't want to lie to him, so you usually say nothing at all. You just lean into his touch and think how nice it is that at least one pair of hands don't leave bruises behind.

He doesn't just like kissing you. He also does it constantly. And openly.

The others don't like it much. At first, you think it's the way he touches you without once caring who else has staked their claim. But over time, you realise that's not it at all. The others touch you just as openly, but there doesn't seem to be the same undercurrent of jealousy as when he does it.

He isn't afraid of being soft with you in front of them either. Tilting your chin towards him and wiping some dust off your cheek. Offering you food off his own plate. Pulling you into his lap when you walk past, and pressing his lips against your neck when you gasp.

You don't realise it, but he's the first one you actually smile at. One of the only ones you say thank you to.

You don't realise it, but the others most definitely do.

They see the way you relax when he kisses you. The way you lean into him, the way you almost kiss him back.

He likes having you with him in the stables during the afternoon. He usually has a lot of work to do when it comes to tending the horses; outlaws rely on their mounts as much as they do on their guns, and he’s the only one the boss trusts to keep them in shape. 

Afternoons in the stables with him are a mercy. The gunslingers are often too busy to stop by, and the boss rarely tends to his horse personally. Perks of being top dog, you suppose. So it's usually just you and the wrangler.

 Mostly, he goes about his work without much fuss. He might brush his hand down your back when he passes by, or he might reach over your head to grab something, but he doesn't linger.

 He spends the afternoons talking to you in that calm, soft voice. Getting you to open up to him a little at a time. As careful with you as he is with his horses.

 "How did you get that scar on your cheek, beauty?"

"Did you ever think of taking a lover?"

"Do you want to hear a story? My mother told it to me once, long ago."

Your answers come a little easier each time — I fell when I was a little girl, I never thought I'd have a lover, yes I'd love to hear your stories.

 You make the mistake of thinking his kindness swallows up his hunger. That maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want you for your body.

 Foolish girl, when will you learn?

It's one of those miserably hot afternoons when he finally makes his move. The air is too still and the hay dust clings to the back of your neck no matter how hard you brush it away.

It starts with a little water. The outlaws keep huge basins of well water in the stables. Not just for the horses to drink, but for mucking out and cooling off.

 He's leaning over one, soaking his bandana, when you walk past. You're untangling a coil of rope and silently cursing the idiot who tangled it. Brow furrowed, clearly too hot to bother hiding your annoyance.

 Adorable, really. Too tempting for your own good. Any man worth the iron in his blood would want to smooth that frown. When he stands and steps behind you, you don't even notice. He has the tread of a mountain lion, his boots barely whispering against the wood.

 "Come here, beauty. Let me cool you off."

You gasp when he grabs you, and then again when he sweeps you up and forces you against the wall. One hand curls around your waist and the other comes to rest above your head.

 His hands are icy cold from the water — you can feel the chill through the thin linen of your dress.

 He grins at you, his head tilted like a hawk's.

"Won't you kiss me, beauty? Feel how cool I am."

He leans down and touches the corner of your lips with his own.

 You lean into him, not fully aware you're even moving. You're blazing hot and any relief is welcome, even a kiss from an outlaw.

 He purrs, and drops his lips to your neck. His tongue is cool too and when he slips it across your collarbones, you arch against him.

"Lover," you murmur as you lock your arms around his neck.

He tenses for a second, and then keeps on kissing you. "That's right, beauty. I'm your lover. Yours."

There's something quietly fierce in the way he says it. A claim staked on you that you aren't sure you understand. He pulls away from your neck and smiles at you, hazel eyes glinting gold.

 "Kiss me back, wiwaśteka."

You do. God help you, you do.

 You're shy, mostly. Nervous as a girl at her first dance, and nevermind that he's kissed you more times than you can count. Because choosing to kiss him is different. It's vulnerable. It's like flaying yourself open and letting him root through the pieces. 

You aren’t really sure why you do it. He’s fucked you plenty since they stole you away — his head buried in the curve of your neck when he comes, his voice infinitely soft — but not once did you agree to it. Not once did you say yes. 

Maybe he’s softened you up, or maybe you just like the promise of cool skin against yours. Or maybe giving in to him and the others was inevitable. You’re only human. How much of their love and their touch were you supposed to take before some traitorous part of you felt it wasn’t so bad?

Your kiss takes him by surprise and he tenses up for a second. He doesn’t kiss you back right away, but when he does it's almost desperate. He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and pushes himself up against you.

“That’s it, just kiss me. I’ll make you feel good, I promise. Just keep kissing me.”

You don’t much know how to kiss. When the outlaws kiss you, you’re always just trying to survive it more than anything else. And so you copy what you’ve learnt as best you can. You bring a hand up to his cheek and carefully pull his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like peppermint — he has a tendency to pull the leaves off the plant by the back door and chew them — and just a little like whiskey.

He hums against your lips and lets his hand drift down your waist until he’s got a fistful of your ass. He uses his hold to pull you closer against him, and when he shifts forward a little you feel the bulge of his jeans rubbing against you.

Did you really get him worked up that fast? 

You pull away from the kiss, breathing hard. But he’s in no mood to let you go so easily. He follows you and kisses you again, something like a growl rumbling in his throat. 

Being active in the kiss is different somehow. Your heart is still in your throat, but there’s a bit of excitement mixed in with your nervousness. Would he like it if you bit his lip? If you ran your tongue across his teeth? 

You slip your lips off his and drag them down his jaw, feeling the cool smoothness of his skin. The outlaws like to kiss and suck on your neck. It always makes you feel tender and high strung. Would kissing his neck do the same thing?

You kiss right under his ear and then a little lower, until you can feel his pulse racing. You catch the scent of his hair and when you suck his skin it’s just a little salty. Hmm, not a bad taste at all. 

He moans softly, squeezing your ass. You can’t help but giggle.

“Why so sensitive, handsome?” you tease, “Never been kissed here before?”

“Never by you,” he mutters. He pulls in a sharp breath when you nip at his neck.

“Lots of places I haven’t kissed you. Awful shame, isn’t it?”

“...You’re cruel, beauty.”

“Nah. I’m only giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

Speaking of…

You suck at his neck a little harder, until you’re sure you’ve left a mark. When you pull away, there’s a rosy red bruise forming against his copper skin. What did the gunslingers call it? A lovebite? Not really sure if love is the right name, but it’s a pretty look on him nonetheless.

“There. Now we’re matching.” You push at his chest a little and then duck out from under his arms. “Thanks for cooling me off, cowboy. Appreciate it.”

You get about five steps before he pulls you back.

“Oh no you don’t. Where do you think you’re going? Can’t just leave a man high and dry like that, beauty.”

His voice is syrup sweet, but there’s a desperation under it that makes you squirm.

“You’ve got work,” you remind him. You try to pry his arm off without any luck. “Don’t want to get caught slacking, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You ought to finish what you started.”

“I was just teasing. C’mon, let me go.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

He tosses you onto the hay. One moment you’re on your own two feet and the next you’re on your back with all the wind knocked out of you. The hay bales are big squares of tight packed grass about as high as your hip, and you find yourself looking up at him. His smile is teasing but his eyes are sharp.

“C’mon, beauty. Give me the rest of my medicine.” 

You don’t have time to answer. He leans over you with his hand next to your head and one knee brushing your hip. He kisses your cheek — soft and lingering.

“I’m only a man. You can’t kiss me and expect me to let you go.”

There’s more to his words, an implication you aren’t sure you like.

I’ve been gentle. I’ve been kind. Even when I fuck you, I force myself to be nice. But I’m still a man. I want to sharpen my teeth on you and lick up the blood.

And you — girl that you are, far out and far from home — how are you supposed to stop him? Stop any of them? 

He drags one hand up your thigh, gathering your dress. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he swipes his thumb down the slit of your cunt. You’re burning hot and slick from the summer. He whistles softly.

“Really do need to cool you off, huh?”

He brings his thumb to his mouth and licks your taste off his finger, his eyes on yours all the while. You knot your fingers in his shirt — not pushing him off you, not quite, but enough pressure in your hands to keep him from getting closer.

When he reaches down and undoes his belt you look away from him. Your cheeks feel warm, and it’s only when he touches your face that you realise you’re crying.

“Shhh, beauty. Those tears have no place here. I’ve never hurt you. And I never will.”

It’s not about the pain. He’s a smart man, he must realise that. He can hurt you plenty without ever raising a hand to you.

The head of his cock brushes through your folds and then he’s grabbing your wrists and pinning them down on each side of your head. 

“Brought this on yourself. Pretty girl, lovely thing.” He kisses your cheek and then kisses your lips. You can taste the salt of your tears on his tongue. “Shouldn’t have been so kind, shouldn't have been so sweet. Shouldn’t have caught our eye in the first place.”

“Not my fault,” you mumble. Oh, but it’s too late for that isn’t it? You’re all caught now — in their arms and in their sheets.

He pushes inside you with a groan. His cock is just as cool as the rest of him. Or maybe you’re just burning too hot for your own good. 

You’ve gotten better at taking their cocks, at accommodating the stretch. But it still makes the breath catch in your throat. His grip tightens around your wrists.

“Look at me, beauty.”

His hair has come loose from its plait and it hangs down past his face in a dark curtain. His eyes are bright, as gold as an eagle’s. 

“Tell me you want this,” he says. His jaw is tight. “Say you want to do this with me.”

You don’t. You don’t want him inside you. But you kissed him, didn’t you? What did you think would happen? You played with fire and now you were getting burnt. Why try and fight it? When has that ever done any good? 

“I want this,” you say, “I want you.”

He kisses you right before he starts thrusting. He goes slow — you can feel every inch slotting itself inside you. His strokes are as languid as a summer afternoon. Careful, relaxed, like he’s savouring the heat and squeeze of you. He’s chatty too — maybe the taste of you loosens his tongue.

“You’re lovely, so lovely. My little fox with her pretty tongue.” He bottoms out with a satisfied sigh.

“Can’t help the way you make me feel, beauty. Can’t help myself around you at all.” 

Your cunt is slippery slick and his cock feels velvet smooth inside you. You whine without meaning to, high and needy. He chuckles, brushing his teeth down your jaw. 

“Listen to you, beauty. Like the feel of me, don’t you? Want me deep inside?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just rocks his hips forward and splits you open all over again.

“I would have taken you either way, y’know,” he continues, “My stolen treasure. My hoard.”

You want him to keep talking. Want him to keep calling you lovely and pretty and sweet. Some stupid — oh so stupid and cockdrunk and needy — part of you likes how possessive he sounds. Likes the rough edge to his usual sweetness.

“I shouldn’t keep you, but darling girl, oh I can’t let you go.”

He sighs and moves his hands up your wrists until his fingers are tangled with yours. He grunts when you shift under him, his strokes getting just a little faster. You don't want to think too hard about any of it. You just want to feel his lips at your neck and the strength of his body above you. Guilt and shame can wait until it's over, until it's the dark of the night and you have to admit to yourself that some part of you likes the way the outlaws handle you.

Taking you was a hanging offence. Why risk it? Why go through all the trouble for you? They're terrible — every single one of them — but they're almost devoted to you. Stupid. It's stupid and arrogant of you to care about any of it. 

“Where's your mind gone, beauty?” He pulls back a little to look at you. “Stay with me, stay and feel me inside you.”

“I'm right here,” you say.

And here you'll stay. 

He's getting close. His thrusts are still slow and gentle, but he squeezes your hands just a little tighter. You're so hot, and your thighs are a sticky mess of sweat and slick. The cock that ruts itself inside you feels like it's covered in warm honey. 

His eyes flicker across your face like he's drinking in every half expression and simper. 

“Niye mitawa.”

You don't understand him, but maybe you don't need to. The way he looks at you says enough. 

He kisses you when he comes. A slow, deep kiss that makes you tilt your head back against the hay. 

When he pulls away he keeps his cock deep inside you. He makes you look into his eyes — killer gold, coyote gold — before he slowly drags his dick out of you. 

“Micante iyacu.”

When he pulls you to your feet, he does so carefully. You don't flinch when he straightens your skirt, but you can't make yourself look at him either. 

“All cooled off, beauty?”

You nod and swipe a palm across your cheeks. Why are you still crying? Why won’t the tears stop? 

He sighs and pulls you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, sure and strong.

“The heart cannot choose, beauty.” And the unspoken part; If it could, I would let you go.

It's a late summer evening when he tells you that he loves you. 

Most of the gang is away and he's the lucky one left behind to keep an eye on you. A thunderstorm is blowing in — one of those huge, roaring ones that only seem to show up on the plains — and he takes you out onto the porch to watch the sunset. The wind is picking up and it blows your dress against your body until you shiver. 

“Do you see the lightning starting all the way in the west, beauty?”

He wraps his arm around your waist from behind and props his chin on your shoulder.

“Yes. What about it?”

“It means you're supposed to give me a kiss for good luck, or else the storm will keep going for days.”

“You're lying.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You know all my traditions and beliefs then?”

“No…”

“So give me a kiss, beauty. You don't want the thunder to bring the sky down on us, do you?”

He turns you around to face him, his hands on your hips. “Well? I'm waiting.”

You frown at him and then at the sky. You hate storms. You've hated them since you were a girl and lightning set your father's north field on fire. You could smell the smoke for days. 

You aren't superstitious, but what's the harm in a little luck? You stand on your toes and kiss his cheek. He's clean shaven, and his skin is pleasantly smooth. 

“There. You happy now?” you ask. 

He touches the spot you kissed. “You ought to do it again. Just to be sure.”

“Oh, now you're just playing with me. Bet ‘lightning in the west’ isn't a real tradition or belief at all.”

He can't hide his smile. “No, it isn't. But maybe it ought to be, because I definitely feel lucky.”

“You're terrible.”

“The worst,” he agrees. “You should keep kissing me, beauty. That will really show me the error of my ways.”

His long hair stirs in the breeze and when he smiles, his hazel eyes catch the light of the setting sun. He's beautiful. If he were anyone else, you wouldn't have minded kissing him at all. 

Thunders cracks overhead, terribly close. You jump, your fingers knotting in his shirt without realising. He pulls you closer to him on instinct and sighs when he feels your heart.

“Did that scare you, beauty?”

You nod against his chest. 

“Come inside then. These storms pass quick. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

It isn't long after you're inside that the storm starts in earnest. With a huge boom of thunder, the clouds burst and rain lashes against the windows. You wrap your arms around yourself — the rain brings a terrible chill with it. 

The gas lights burn low and you yelp when lightning lights up the whole parlour. The wrangler fiddles with the gramophone for a second or two before soft music starts to play. A waltz, if you can trust your country girl knowledge. 

“Take it easy, beauty.” The wrangler takes your hand in his and pulls you closer to him. His shirt is soft cotton, and he smells like soap and pine. “You're safe with me, no matter what.”

Are you really? He stole you away. He's just as guilty as the others. No matter how tender he is, he's still an outlaw. 

You don't know much dancing, but your ma wanted you to be raised a proper lady. Moving through a simple box step waltz with the wrangler makes you think of those late Sunday lessons of hers. She'd make you and your pa dance together, the old man grumbling all the while.

“Do you ever miss home?” you ask the wrangler.

“All the time.”

Thunder rumbles again, and he pulls you a little closer, until your head is on his shoulder and you're breathing in the scent of his skin. 

“I miss home too,” you say, “I wish I knew if my family is holding out fine.”

He's quiet for a long time. He moves through the steps with a dangerous sort of grace, his arm loose around your waist. The rain hammers at the glass but the music goes on playing.

“They're still looking for you,” he says at last. “That sheriff is like a mad dog with a bone.”

You jerk to a standstill, your eyes wide. This is the first news you've had since they took you. 

“They're looking for me?”

“Of course they are. Who wouldn't want you back?”

He drums his fingers against your back until you start dancing again. If they’re still looking for you, then it means your pa is alive and well. Only the old man could get the sheriff so worked up about something. 

“There's a deputy who seems to care a whole lot about you, too. Who is he?”

It takes a second to register who the wrangler is asking about.

“The neighbour's son,” you say, “We used to be friends when we were young.”

“He loves you.”

“You think so? We haven't spoken in years.”

The wrangler scoffs, an oddly mocking sound from someone usually so calm. 

“I loved you before I even met you. That boy is probably head over heels.” He spins you around. “He's headed for an early grave if he doesn't stop looking for you soon.”

That chills you straight to the bone. “You'll kill him? He's harmless!”

“Trying to find you and take you away is more than enough reason. I don't want to, beauty. Trust me, I don't like the thought much either.” He comes to a standstill and presses his palm flat against your lower back. “The boss doesn't want us telling you anything. And he's right. You shouldn't care what happens in the outside world. Your old life is dead and buried, gone the day we took you.”

You don't like looking in his eyes. Maybe it's the dark and the storm, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you. But his usual kindness is long gone. 

“You belong here, beauty. With us. With me. There's nothing and no one else for you, you get that?”

You shake your head slowly. The music is winding down and you can hear the thunder coming closer. 

“Why? Why can't you just let me go?”

“Because I love you, beauty. You would tempt even a saint.”

He tilts your chin up towards him, one arm still around your waist. 

“I love you, beautiful girl. Sinner that I am, how was I supposed to resist you?”

You want to cry. How can love be so heartless? How can he love you and still keep you trapped here? And worst of all — why does a small part of you feel soft and tender when it comes to him?

He drops his head until his lips are hovering above yours. You're in the heart of the storm, now. No running from it, no hiding. 

“Say it back,” he whispers. “Say you love me too.”

“I…”

How can you love him? Love any of them? They're monsters. Killers. Thieves. Outlaws. 

“Say it, wiwaśteka.”

“I can't. I won't.”

He stays hunched over you, his breathing soft and even. You wouldn't dare have refused if it was the boss or the gunslingers. But lying to them comes easy. Not so with the Lakota. 

“I can't,” you say again. “What kind of woman would I be if I loved any of you?”

“I see.” He presses his lips to yours for a second, his touch soft and slow. “Best get yourself along to bed, beauty. The weather is no good for you.”

When he pulls away, you can't read his face. You feel cold when he lets go of you.

“I'm sorry,” you murmur. You can't say the rest; that you would have loved him easy, if he wasn't such a difficult man to love. If he hadn't split you open on his cock and then kissed the blood away. 

“Don't be.” There's a sardonic tilt to his smile. “I don't know what I was expecting.”

When you turn to leave, he doesn't follow you. 

You curl up in bed and listen to the rain. You're drifting off when you hear his boots on the steps. The door to your room opens quietly and he stands there for a while, watching you.

When he finally crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed, you pretend to still be asleep. He takes his boots off slowly. You can smell the tang of whiskey on him, and since he doesn't drink that often you aren't sure what to expect. 

He doesn't do anything terrible. He just climbs under the sheets and curls an arm around your belly. His breath is cool against the back of your neck. 

“It hurts that you'll never love me, beauty,” he murmurs, “It does. But I have you. I have you for the rest of my life, and that's all that really matters.”

[overangel]

October drawing/writing challenges!

I decided to do my own prompts for some extra inspiration. A yandere one, and a monster one. You may of course use them as you wish, there are no rules. Pick some, pick none, in any or no order. Go wild! You can use these prompts for either drawing, writing, or any other creative activity.

If you do end up going for some of these ideas, feel free to let me know/tag me. I'm just very curious, since I never did something like this before and I'd love to see how it works out. 😭

*For local folklore, I thought it’d be nice if people introduced us to some of their own monsters and creatures, since those are less known. Call it a monstrous cultural exchange if you want, heh.

[overangel]

As someone who knows NOTHING about Batman but is absolutely EATING the "X neglected reader" fics because I love angst I just wanna say,

Michael in the bathroom - but it's neglected sibling MC at another one of the Waynes charity galas who escapes to the bathroom after seeing batfam take a family picture for a magazine. nATuRalLy MC has been ignored/forgoten about for ages so they aren't included in the family photo, leading them to escape and vent in a bathroom.

(Bonus if they WERE close with one of the other siblings like Jason but slowly ended up distanced from them as they grew into their 18-20s because their sibling thought 'im protecting them from myself and my work'. As per usual, communication is nonexistent with the Waynes so rip MC🥀💀)

You guys can decide if it would be better if the batfam ease dropped or not :)

[overangel]

🩵

[overangel]

If Lego Batman and Robin annoy them, Batman 1966 ver would destroy them 😂

HAHA, YOU JUST STARTED SOMETHING, NONNIE

FORGET THE WEIRD LITTLE-GROWN-MAN DICK AND BRUCE IN SOME KINDA POLY-BLEND COSTUME THAT HE MAY OR MAY NOT BE TUCKED UNDER

STARLING WOULD PUT UP WITH ALL OF THE SHENANIGANS

FOR

HER

EARTH KITT WAS BORN TO BE CATWOMAN AND I'M NOT SORRY

((michelle pfeiffer was too so they both can share first place but EARTHAAAAA, THE WOMAN THAT YOU AREEEEEEE))

Starling would have tunnel vision for her only and probably wouldn't notice anyone else was there.

SOME OF THE BEST CASTING IN HISTORY

[overangel]

I want to say that I love the careless batfamily series, it's so good, I read it in a short time and sometimes I reread it. I mean, in the last chapter it made me cry a little, so good.It's the writing that makes you emotional, I just wanted to say that.

This means so much to me, it truly does, and I wanna thank you for reaching out to let me know! 🩵

Saying I was able to make you emotional for Star/my writing is one of the highest compliments and I'm so grateful. ;u;

[overangel]

ALWAYS

if i made nsfw abcs would anyone be interested in that?

[overangel]

this is literally the prologue in one pic

[overangel]

So I've gathered that some of you are crackheads (affectionately) who like drama (making Bruce suffer which is always deserved and people leaving their partners for you).

I've found my people 🩵

[overangel]

HELL YEAAAAHHHHH!!!!! YANDERE CASSANDRA, BARBARA, AND STEPHANIE!!!!! 😭🥹😍😍😍😍👏👏👏❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

LET'S GOOOOOOOOO

[overangel]

"He gets a smile in response so lopsided that he wants to consume it, keep it in his mouth so he can memorize the texture and the taste."

BITCH?

THE POETRY

And now Abby is officially my bias, so sorry Baby

haunted | 2

abby saja x reader | nsfw | there’s something about the new neighbor that abby can’t get out of his head and he’s not about to deprive himself of the first thing he’s wanted in a long time

By the second day without a sign of the neighbor, Abby volunteers to make a snack run, one more of the strange rituals they've gotten used to, up here. None of them ask Jinu where the money comes from, they just blow it on the endless amounts of human food they haven't been able to try in centuries. Even the whole production of walking colorful aisles, picking out whatever catches their eye is entertaining most of the time, but today Jinu's nowhere to be found, Romance was too busy choosing a new drama to watch and Baby was a half puddle on the floor, trying out new designs on Mystery's nails.

So, Abby offered, and he's not gonna pretend it wasn't because he's fucking restless. Sick to the bone of keeping aware of every shift in the building, craving even a glimpse of the neighbor, or the sound of her heartbeat from her apartment.

She's simply not there, which is worse than whatever he could've expected after that night.

Gwi-ma loves to dig in the wound, too. It chatters on, loud in her absence, something or other about him being too stupid to not to overplay his hand. There's a thought Abby let's glide through his awareness without much pause, though, a dangerous notion he hides as well as he can from the demon king: that the voice is significantly quieter when she's around.

Abby focuses on the drink he's bought instead, for mental background noise, he's decided he likes the fizzy energy drinks over iced coffee. If he's gonna have to blend in, he's gonna indulge in his artificial fruit flavors; peach, this one is supposed to be, were the label to be believed. It works, as a very distracting train of thought, so much so that he doesn't really notice the familiar figure in the elevator until he's halfway in. And then, the first thing he sees is a bright drop of red on white sneakers.

Horse blood. Abby'd recognize the scent everywhere, has seen the hilarious reaction goblins have to it enough times that he chuckles involuntarily. Then he follows his line of sight from toe to thigh to face and the lift doors are closing behind him and the very human he's been thinking about.

There's something unspoken in her stance, the way she steps further in to accommodate his size, nodding at him like it's all the greeting they need. The pieces click in a second, late nights and vague injuries, paired with the heightened perception and the neighbor's laidback disposition when faced with the strangeness that surrounds all five of them.

Shaman.

He would've never guessed, shamans tend to come in packs, in his experience; most have apprentices or are apprentices themselves, operating so one always has someone else's back. It explains the bruises, he figures, if the neighbor is out there alone. The thought sits weird in his chest, heavy in the pit of his stomach, hot like rage.

"I thought you'd moved out." The tone Abby chooses is casual, bordering on overly friendly. Because, in the end, he knows her quite intimately, doesn't he?

He gets a smile in response so lopsided that he wants to consume it, keep it in his mouth so he can memorize the texture and the taste.

"You've been watching," she outright grins this time, all teeth. Human, but sharp enough to catch a hold of him.

"Have I?"

It'a bluff he wants her to call him out on. But the neighbor simply glances at her shoe, at the way he doesn't flinch about it, nods like she's cataloguing this moment for later.

"Has anyone told you you have really pretty eyes?" Her question lingers for a second longer than it probably should, long enough for Abby to fish a convenience store napkin out of his pocket. He bends in the small space, crowds her against the corner, using those eyes she likes to hold her in place while he swipes off the red from her sneaker. "Gold really suits you."

Abby doesn't exactly freeze, but he does pause, looking up at her as if they're not stuck together in a moving box, on a ride that can't last more than the next few moments. It's quiet in his head, dead silent, so he does one more thing Jinu would probably bite his head off for. Patterns flicker over his skin, crawl up his neck in a flash of purple; her gaze close on their heels.

"You're a messenger—"

"It took you long enough to realize it, shaman."

It's a thing of beauty to see her face shift from surprise to confusion, to offense. Her brow furrows, not the kind of resentment of the hunters at his very existence; more like the expression Jinu makes when Abby ribs him on his lyrics.

"All of you up in the penthouse?" she sounds annoyed the way one gets at a friend, looks at him without fear. "No wonder I've done seven cleansings just this week. I have a hairline crack on a rib, you know? Someone's dead relative threw me into a tombstone."

His hand closes into a fist around the napkin as he resists the impulse to spread his palm over her side, keep it as a barrier between her heart and the world. The basest part of his nature claims her as his, now that he's had a taste of her. His to keep, his to feast. For as long as he likes, without Gwi-ma's intervention.

"At least business is booming." 

"Someone just paid me in dirt."

The shaman takes a step towards him, close enough to bump the toes of her shoes against his, so he can see the burlap sack tucked behind her and the laugh that comes out of him is mostly a rattle in his chest. His awareness narrows to the softness of her breath brushing against his throat, to the sudden point of fangs against his tongue. The elevator dings, though, like a horn in his mind, and the neighbor retreats with a sigh.

"This is me," she moves, but Abby's faster, darting his hand past her to hold on to the sack of dirt.

"I'll get this to your place, it's heavy right?"

…

The bag doesn’t weigh a thing, in fact, Abby has to resist the temptation to throw it over his shoulder, and the neighbor while he’s at it. He behaves though, walks down the hall like he’s not obsessed with draping an arm over her shoulder and pulling her back into him. He drops his shoes and the dirt just inside her door, the giant bag of snacks that still hangs from his elbow, on her kitchen table. And he stands there trying very hard not to look like a dog waiting for a cut of meat.

“You seem very relaxed about the demon thing.” Abby watches her shed layers, uncovering the sweet, vulnerable line of her neck, her arms.

“There’s usually not a lot for me to do, once one of you decides to show up. All me and my sweet rice can do is distract you.”

“We are hungry beasts.”

Another knowing smile is sent his way, as she finally stops, facing him across the expanse of five or six steps from one end of the table to the other. Behind her, a dark hallway calls to him, the concentrated energy of her beating like a drum against his chest, making his control on this non-threatening form slip by increments.

"There's nothing to do about us, even when we show up in your bed?" He edges forward, his body inching closer, like he's trying to appease a prey on the edge of bolting. But his shaman doesn't move.

Her posture is relaxed, eyes dark on his. And he doesn't see a meal —hasn't for a while, he has to admit—, he sees a wild thing recognizing another.

"I wanted you in my bed," it's a simple confession, no frills and disarming as all hell. "Still do."

The first real taste of her is not exactly as he imagined. He expected the smoke, the fruit sweetness; not the surprise of a deeper current of something grounded, woodsy. Electric like her lips moving against his, a burst of laughter against his mouth that turns him into nothing more than flesh and talons. There's no strategy in following into her bedroom, no plan beyond getting her out of her clothes; his own shirt lays abandoned at the door and he seriously considers shredding his jeans, before her smart hands make quick work of buttons and zipper.

He doesn't know when the kiss ended, but he moves to rectify it immediately, stumbling onto the bed on top of her with the razor points of his claws holding her trusting throat. Her fingers find his hips, the plane of his stomach, and the sound she makes is shameless, keening satisfaction.

"Please," begging isn't surrender for her, that's clear when it falls out of her so easily; smiling through it and sneaking her touch under the waistband of his underwear.

That he does rip off, which makes her giggle, bright and airy and unexpected. Then she's back working his cock, skin on skin now, weighing him in her palm and muttering nonsense into the silence of her room. It's a kind of contact Abby hasn't had for so long that he groans an inhuman noise. He feels drunk on her, her energy dripping off his tongue like honey when he licks her nipples into peaks. Forced to realize the kind of dangerous game he's caught himself in. The insidious thought that he will never want to give this up that dictates a melody in the back of his mind.

His tip catches on her entrance then, guided, welcomed, so he shoves with his hips until he's bottomed out and his shaman's halfway off the other end of the bed. Fuck, it's easy, even if it knocks a curse loose from her.

"Filling me so right," her good humor holds as she scrambles to cling to his shoulders, sweaty strands of hair framing her smile.

"Taking me so well."

He shoots back, finds his rhythm. One that turns her grin into little hiccups and bullies her into an orgasm he feels before she can even warn him, tightening around him and dragging him along with her. Coming all over himself is not the same by far; here he makes the apartment lights flicker for a second, goosebumps rising almost painful on his skin and drinking in deep from what seems like endless reserves of her soul.

"Told you gold looks good on you."

The neighbor reels him back, cupping his cheeks in her hands. She doesn't flinch at the dull purple of him, just kisses him again, pulls him down onto the pillows with her 'till he loses track of time.

« tag @delusional-angel »

[overangel]

We are all monsterfuckers❤

-🦇

certified and everything

[overangel]

I love your series so much so far! What effect would it have on bruce if the reader were to start playfully flirting with him or how would the bat boys feel if reader starts ignoring them

Oh, good question! I love it because imagine you're just really bored one day and decide to mess with their emotions. Just a little psychological warfare cause you finished your video game or there's nothing good to watch.

A little smut ahead?

Sometimes it was fun just getting a rise out of them. You did what you wanted when you wanted, consequences be damned. Who was going to do something about it? Absolutely no one.

Bruce noticed the short skirts and even shorter shorts first. He had always loved watching you walk, his eyes following your every move until you were out of sight but never out of mind.

You pranced around the manor like you owned it and you might as well because he already left it to you in his will. You splayed out against couches and rested your legs in his lap when you graced him with a movie night. He let his hands rest on your calves and kneed them gently and you let him.

You took sips from his cups and asked him to feed you when you thought something he had looked good. You'd meet his eye as you let your tongue caress his finger before slowly pulling back.

You started visiting his office with tea and biscuits, citing that he needed much needed breaks, and when he was too distracted? You pulled his office chair from his desk and straddled his lap in a skirt that rode up completely in your new position.

A thin layer of fabric protected your pussy from his clothed bulge but if he closed his eyes (which he wouldn't dare because he was too mesmerized by you) he could practically feel your warmth enveloping him completely.

You rested your full weight against him and rocked against stiff cock straining against his pants and aching for your touch and his breath caught in his throat.

His entire being trembled beneath you and he harshly gripped your thighs and held you down against him. His breathing was going ragged and you were wearing at the last strands of composure he had left. Don't push him anymore than this or you wouldn't have the right to complain with what he did next.

Leaning forward, you whispered into his ear in a low, sensual voice. "Do I have your attention now, Mr. Wayne?" And slowly licked the shell.

You had given him a crumb of attention—you'd given him hope—and now he was planning your future together. A little flirtation was practically a marriage vow to him and he intended on this being til death do you part.

There would be vacations to private islands where no one knew your name where you both could act like a real loving couple and he could touch you as much as he wanted in public in ways that'd get him cancelled at home.

There'd be international shopping trips and getaways and he'd leave Gotham to Damian and be more willing to pass on the cowl sooner. To the world, Bruce Wayne was a lifelong bachelor who refused to settle down. But in reality? He was your eternal slave and it took one little coy smile to have him locked down for life.

You have too much control and you don't even know it.

You had helped Dick learn to live for himself and not the version of him that people had created. He didn't need validation to prove he existed. Well, actually he did need someone's validation, and maybe he felt like he'd be better off dead if a special someone never spoke to him again.

And maybe that someone was you.

He was doing better! You'd let him in, and you can't just take that away from him. You couldn't be this cruel.

An insidious part of him wants to make you look at him even if that means playing dirty, but he can't bring himself to sleep around no matter how cold he feels without you.

He tried to chat up someone at a club and almost threw up on their shoes, too nauseated by the thought of "cheating" on you and disappointing you.

He's spiraling emotionally and he smiles event brighter to mask the pain. His cheeks hurt and the pain nearly brings tears to his eyes, but he laughs it off.

You take pity on him one day before he throws himself over the edge and you're his angel of salvation.

Just because you don't speak to him doesn't mean Tim can't speak to you. He's one of your online friends with a profile pic of one of your favorite character as you two swap fan theories.

Just because you don't see him doesn't mean he doesn't see you. He's watching you from your phone as we speak. Your laptop monitor sees all and the cameras in the corners are as small as pin points and invisible to your eye.

He masturbates your breathing and any sound of movement. As long as you're there—as long as he can perceive you—you'll never not be his.

He's noticeably more silent and reclusive. He doesn't speak to anyone unless spoken to and after a time he stops responding entirely. He stares owlishly and one can tell his mind is in another universe and thinking thoughts that would greatly disturb the average person psychologically. He's creepier. He's demented. You're the only one to make him "normal" again.

You extend an olive branch, saying you'd been busy and suddenly he's back to his usual self in that instant.

Now, he can be human again.

Jason falls into a deep depression. He sleeps for days when he's not beating down anyone within an inch of their lives whether they deserve it or not. He fights until his fists fracture and then keeps going. It doesn't matter if someone's a rogue or he simply caught them loitering in a restricted area.

Just give him a reason.

He doesn't eat, and when he's not fighting he barely moves. He's gone days without a sense of time and you're all he can think of. If he can't have you, what point is there?

He's polishing his gun to a blinding gleam, weighing whether he should just put the barrel in his mouth or not when you call. You apologize for pulling away while you figured out some personal matters and you hear his voice crack on the other end as he begs you to never do that again.

He was a pull of a trigger away, and you'd saved him from himself.

Please never do that again. There's no him without you.

Damian acts out. He throws aside his pride and takes massive beatings in your presence to make you step in and his heart pounds at your care. See! No matter what you can never ignore him. You'll always be his big sister, his kindred, and you can never fight that fate.

He intentionally ignores proper planning and throws himself into avoidable danger. He aims to put himself into as much danger as possible and you always intervene despite yourself. You fear for his safety and no matter what he does in this life, you don't want him to die. You don't think you could take it if there was another dead Robin.

You frown at him with tired eyes knowing that if you truly pulled away and disappeared he'd go to the ends of the Earth and the next to find you. He'd make himself impossible to ignore and as long as you still saw that inherent goodness in him that kept you from completely hating him, you'd never be able to break free.

He would make it so that you wouldn't know where he ended and you began.

[overangel]

I just finished reading act 4 and I am obsessed omg 😩 you did amazing as always, ty! I can't wait for the next chapters 🥰

-🦇

Thanks so much, darling 🥹 It's so fun writing and thanks sm for sticking with me 🩵

[overangel]

TW: Yandere themes

How could I ever forget about absolute daddy Miguel O’Hara? That brooding, towering frame, the red glow of his eyes catching you mid-escape - again - and the way he laughs, low and humorless, dragging you kicking and screaming back through the dimensional rift you barely clawed your way.

Oh, don't forget the Spanish. It's not sweet like it once was. It's condescending, cruel in its softness. “Otra vez, mi vida? You really thought you could run from me?” he murmurs real close against your ear, voice dipped in venom as his claws dig into your arms just enough to sting and leave a blemishing scratch. It's all a game of chase at this point. And you're certainly not winning.

You flee. He finds you. Every time, he whispers, “Estás hecha para mí,” as if you were never supposed to have a choice. Like him ripping you out from your dimension was all apart of what life set out for you.

Don't worry he's real sweet once you get to know him :) especially when you give him a happy ending that he desires. You’re fine with kids right?

[overangel]

https://www.tumblr.com/overangel/788031546720452608/hi-hi-its-been-awhile-since-i-sent-asks-and-that?source=share

Bestie you could never scare me off when ur literally one of my top favorite fanfic writes🥺 I always check your blog almost everyday and read my favorite posts over and over again almost every week hehe

I hope work isn't too stressful anymore and I hope the new meds aren't negatively effecting you anymore 🥺 sending you all the love and hugs because you deserve them💕

(Btw u always match my freak so don't u ever worry about that( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )

-🦇

Hi, bb! 🥹 Thanks for all the love and I hope you're still enjoying it 🩵

I'm doing better! I'm setting personal goals and am trying to be more positive. Hugs and love right back to you, sweetheart! You always know how to warm my heart!

[overangel]

Would the fam stalk darlings social media and TikTok reposts…

Thanks for the ask🩵

When they find out you have socials they're definitely stalking in their own ways.

You have some private ones that you use to talk to extended family and old friends and Bruce and Tim are the type to reach out to extended family members and introduce themselves. Bruce is the benevolent billionaire father who's putting distant cousins through school and paying for medical care and home repairs.

He ingratiates himself easily and everyone in your extended family (as long as they don't know the bad things about Bruce/batfam) have a positive opinion of him as "not like the other elites." Before you know it, your extended relatives are very fond of Bruce and Tim and you're sick of hearing their praises.

Tim stalks your old friends and classmates, and wiggles his way into any fan groups or anything you're in with throwaway accounts. He's studied all of your interests and can connect with you anonymously as an online friend and you'd be none the wiser until you start to feel creepy vibes. Block him and he'll just come back as a new person with a totally different personality. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Everyone stalks your socials and especially scrutinize tiktok. Who are you interacting with? Dick calls you at 3am to ask why you liked that one guys post on Insta. Does he need to be worried?

Damian looks through every account you follow across all platforms because he's got time and judges them all accordingly. He's not above flagging other's accounts, or sending bots to downvote them or send hate. Damian has personally sent some nasty dms and anonymously doxxed others. He knows that social media was a mistake.

Damian learned how to dox from Tim who does it every other weekend because he feels like it. If he thinks someone's trying to get too cozy with you online, liking too many of your posts, you're liking or responding to them more than a couple of times, Tim's digging for any dirt searching hard drives and exposing it all. The internet is forever.

They all search your socials to get a feel of what and who you like. Why'd you like that woman's pic? Cass is staring at the picture and frowning. Why did you like this artist? What speaks to you in that piece and how can Damian do the same? What kind of guy do you like because you never ever like Dick's photos but like a ton of different types from others.

They all have throwaway/sockpuppet accounts and check for updates like your socials are their news which it kinda is. The only ones you knowingly and willingly share and talk to are Jason, Alfred, Duke, and literally everyone else and Dick, Tim, Bruce, Steph, and Damian are openly hostile to them about it. Bruce has had several sites temporarily shut down and secretly bought a few/bought majority stock just to keep an eye on what you were up to.

They save your tiktoks and posts across multiple accounts so it doesn't get suspicious and share ways to get through when you set your account to private and how to appear like different people. They swap selfies like trading cards and you have no idea how much tension a few accounts you use to keep up with hobbies and people would cause.

You've severely underestimated how sick everyone is.