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echo-exco · 2 months ago

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❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.

A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same.

You avoided them. One by one.

You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you.

It’s a sort of tacit alliance.

Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

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daxisyzz · 2 months ago

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hiiii i hope you are well !!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by hydra on a mission or something, and after a while bucky and the team find her and save her but she’s so psychologically damaged that she’s scared of everyone? preferably lots and lots of protective and comforting bucky as he looks after her and he becomes the only person she’s comfortable with, all the angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending would be amazing!!! thanks 🩷

Heyyy!! Hope you're doing well too. Writing this fic made me cry so I hope it's what you expected. Sorry for answering late🙃

Only safe with you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, trauma recovery, Kidnapping, psychological torture (not graphic), PTSD, panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, mentions of touch aversion, recovery

Word count: 1.1k+

You didn’t scream when they took you.

That came later—when your voice cracked raw from begging the shadows for mercy, for death, for something other than the cold numbness pressing in around you like icewater under your skin. But in the beginning, there was only silence. The kind that hollows you out from the inside.

The kind that makes you forget your own name.

You had been captured by Hydra. A mission gone wrong. A corner turned too fast. A shot fired too late. And then it all disappeared beneath the haze of a needle and the slam of a steel door.

No one found you. Not for weeks.

And in that time, you stopped existing.

You curled in on yourself, starved and shaking, while voices you didn't recognize whispered in the dark, breaking you down with every calculated word. They told you you were abandoned. That no one was coming. That you were alone because you were unworthy of being loved.

They never needed to touch you.

They just watched you rot from the inside out.

When the team finally found you, you didn’t recognize them.

You heard the explosion first—the thunder of boots, the sharp bark of Bucky’s voice, the sound of someone screaming your name like it meant something.

But all you saw were more shadows.

You tried to crawl into the wall when they burst into your cell. Your fingernails broke against the concrete, your body instinctively folding into itself, your mouth whispering pleas in a language you didn’t know you remembered.

You didn’t know Bucky was crying until his tears hit your hands.

"Hey," he choked, dropping to his knees, blood on his knuckles and desperation in his eyes. "It’s me. It’s Bucky. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe."

But safety was a concept that no longer made sense to you.

When his hand brushed yours, you screamed.

You screamed like you were dying. Like you were on fire.

And something in Bucky broke that day.

The jet ride back was too bright. Too loud. You were swaddled in a blanket like a child, staring through people who whispered your name with eyes full of quiet sorrow. Natasha sat across from you, tense and silent, her hand clenched in her lap.

Steve paced quietly in the back, eyes heavy with guilt.

Tony said nothing, choosing instead to sit beside you in stillness.

They all felt the ache, but none knew how to hold it.

Because they saw the pieces of you, scattered and bloody, and none of them knew how to put you back together.

Except for Bucky.

He didn’t leave your side. Not once.

You wouldn’t let anyone else near you. The first time Bruce tried to assess your wounds, you had a panic attack so violent your lips turned blue.

But Bucky?

You let him stay.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t see him. But he was there. Sitting on the floor, silent and patient, like he was trying to absorb your pain with every breath.

"You don’t have to talk," he whispered once, voice so low it made your ribs ache. "I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere."

And he wasn’t.

Not when you curled into corners, sobbing so hard you threw up.

Not when you tore your own skin in your sleep.

Not when you started to disappear into yourself again.

He stayed.

And the others watched, hurting in their own quiet ways.

Natasha lingered by your door some nights, pacing like she wanted to knock but couldn’t.

Steve brought books you didn’t read.

Tony made sure the lights never flickered in your room again.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t force anything. But they were there.

And Bucky? He just was.

Weeks passed.

You started whispering again. Small things. Words like "water" or "blanket" or "stay."

Always to Bucky.

Only to him.

He was the first person you let touch you again.

A pinky finger. Brushing yours. Barely there.

You sobbed when it happened. Clutched your chest like it hurt. Like it burned to feel something again.

Bucky didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, Steve found him in the hallway outside your door, fists bruised and bloodied against the wall.

"I can’t lose her again," Bucky whispered, voice shattering. "I can’t."

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some days you smiled.

Some days you screamed.

Some nights you let Bucky hold your hand.

Some nights you clawed at your own skin, begging him to make it stop.

And he did.

Not with force.

Not with words.

Just with presence.

He’d pull you into his lap, wrap his arms around your shaking body, press his lips to your temple and whisper, "You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’ve got you."

Until you believed him.

Even if only for a moment.

One night, you whispered, "Why did you stay?"

Bucky looked at you, moonlight catching the cracks in him that matched your own.

"Because you matter. Because you didn’t give up. Because you let me find you."

You blinked, tears spilling freely. "I don’t feel like a person anymore."

His voice broke. "Then let me remind you how to be one."

They say healing is like a mosaic, broken pieces coming together to form something beautiful.

You were still cracked. Still healing. Still learning how to exist in a body that had been turned into a prison.

But Bucky loved you through all of it.

With hands that never rushed.

With words that never demanded.

With a heart that only ever whispered, You are safe here.

And for the first time in months, maybe years—You believed him.

One Year Later

The morning sun slipped in through the curtains, painting your room in pale gold. The shadows that once clung to the walls had long since faded, replaced by quiet warmth and slow, steady breaths.

You sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap, half-forgotten, as Bucky entered with two steaming mugs in hand. He paused in the doorway, watching you with that soft look he reserved only for you—a kind of awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

"You’re staring," you said, voice lighter, steadier now.

He grinned. "Can you blame me?"

You set the book aside and took the mug he offered, your fingers brushing his without flinching. That tiny act still felt like magic sometimes.

You leaned into him when he sat beside you, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in without a word.

There were no more nightmares that week.

You’d started laughing again. Dancing in the kitchen. Humming in the shower.

You still had days where the world felt fragile, like it could crack open beneath your feet—but you no longer fell alone.

You looked up at Bucky, your eyes soft. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "You saved yourself. I just got to love you through it."

And you did. Slowly, then all at once. Day by day, moment by moment, you let the light back in through him.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #hurt/comfort #tw psychological abuse #tw harassment #tw panic mention #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #marvel fanfiction #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 9 months ago

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I Can Feel It in My Bones

Synopsis: Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.

Pairing: Yandere!Sinister!Mark Grayson X Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+; Mentions and descriptions of mass murder (this is a version of Mark that joined Omni-man and the viltrumites); Mentions of kidnapping and being chained; Mentioned and implied dubcon/noncon; Implied Stockholm Syndrome; Hurt/little comfort; Mentions of threats; All characters aged up; English is my 2nd language.

Word count: 500

Requested? No.

Extra notes: I might write more about this, and other fanfics with Mark and Rex, love my babygirls

General masterlist

You have your own suite. Well, it's not exactly yours, it's Mark’s room, but he barely spends time there, since most of his time is spent destroying Earth and intimidating civilians, alongside Omni-man. Meanwhile, you're always chained to the foot of his bed, just enough freedom to go to the bathroom and wander through almost all the expanse of the room. You can't even reach the door, not that it would change anything, there’s no one around to help you, much less someone brave enough to go against Invincible’s wishes.

Omni-man and Invincible like to talk as if you aren't in the room, as if you're invisible. You know the former doesn't understand why his son keeps a pet since it's death will come before Mark can even look like a 30 year old human. You're the pet. But he shrugs it off when Mark reminds him that not everything is about work, and if he can do whatever he wants to humans, then he wants to have a pet.

Mark is cruel. He always reminds you that the only thing stopping him from harming and killing you is your pretty face. That you only get to eat because he likes your body healthy. That you only get to shower and brush your teeth because he wants to breathe in a nice smell when he’s close to you. That you're only kept in his room and not at one of the slave’s camps because he likes to fuck you.

And you know it. You know it in the way he sometimes doesn't allow you to wear clothes. In the way he doesn't treat you like a person, more like a playtoy or decoration. In the soreness left when he's done.

But sometimes, sometimes you get confused. Because he lays his head on your chest when he wants to take a nap or just feel comforted. Because he keeps you in his room when you know he could just throw you in a cell. Because once in a while he asks about your old interests, and gets excited about things you had in common. Because he gives you things to entertain yourself. Because sex with him is good even when it's not consensual. Because he has a pretty smile. Because he doesn't look like the sadistic dictator who destroyed your city and killed half the people you knew, when he takes his mask off.

You wonder if he still keeps this human side of him because he simply grew up like that and it's too ingrained in his personality, or because he misses his mom and his friends.

It doesn't matter in the end, you're doomed in and out of this room. You're only human, he's a viltrumite. He was made to be a conqueror. You're gonna die faster than he can blink. He's gonna find another pet. At least, you can have some comfort if you keep him happy.

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#yandere mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #invincible tv show #invincible animated series #invincible comic #mark grayson #invincible #omni man #tw yandere #cw yandere #tw suggestive #tw angst #tw abuse #tw kidnapping #tw threats #tw stockholm syndrome #masterlist

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pricetagged · 7 months ago

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butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

#you have a sweet little blossoming romance until tommy starts acting up and simon joins the army #but youre his first love and who knows...there may be a future for you years down the line #when old grizzled simon spots a familiar pretty face walking the streets of manchester while he's on leave #and really，him watching you and looking out for you is a relationship tradition at this point (:#idk im not confident with this and its not great but the idea was lingering and idk self indulgent #simon riley cod #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley/reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod imagine #báirseach writes #cw implied abuse #cw fatphobia

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hinge · 1 month ago

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Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

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frudoo · 2 months ago

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i'm so inlove with your elementary school au!!! i think of substitute teacher!reader coming to school for the first time looking all out of sorts and having to go to the nurse's office because "she fell" on her way to work and Simon just narrowing his eyes at that bruise :(

You and me both anon. You and me both.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/one reference to murder but nothing dramatic. A little bit of blood and mentions of labor.

The school is larger than you expected, with multiple wings and connected buildings. It would be overwhelming if your heavily-pregnant predecessor wasn’t waiting for you outside of the lobby. You wave at her shyly and she beckons you over with a wide smile. It falters slightly when she sees you up close, a nasty scratch cutting across your cheekbone.

“Bit of a fall, love?” Mrs. Matthews asks gently.

“Just clumsy,” you shrug, quickly trying to take the focus off of yourself. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person!”

“Ah, you as well! Let me show you around before the children get here,” the woman beams, motioning for you to follow her inside.

The interior looks exactly like what you’d expect from an elementary school. There are dozens of posters displaying inspirational quotes and laminated graphics of crayons, pencils, and notebooks adorning the walls. It’s charming, playful and innocent—just the type of environment you crave surrounding yourself with. An escape from the hell you reside in every day of your life.

Despite the size of the school, it’s fairly easy to get around. Mrs. Matthews proves to be a great tour guide even though she has to take a few breaks to catch her breath between waddles through the hallways.

“That’s pretty much it, darling! The other teachers aren’t here yet, but they should be soon enough. Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” you smile politely.

“Wonderful! Principal Price’s office is right down- oh, love, you’re bleeding,” she winces, pointing at the cut on your cheek.

“I’m seriously fine-”

“Nonsense; follow me to the nurse’s office. Simon’ll get you all fixed up,” Mrs. Matthews insists, placing her hand on her lower back and shuffling intently in the other direction, stubbornly ignoring your protests.

“He’s a big man, but I promise you, he’s a sweetheart. You’ll be in good hands,” she hums, knocking on the nurse’s door. “Now, I’m pretty sure I’m in labor, so I’m gonna call my husband to come pick me up. Ah, Simon! This is the new substitute. O-oh my! Yes, okay, the baby is coming, bye-bye now!”

As quickly as she can in her state, Mrs. Matthews rushes back outside the lobby, cell phone pressed against her ear as she explains the situation to her husband. You stare back at her open-mouthed, your shocked trance only broken by the sound of the nurse chuckling with amusement from behind you.

“We thought ‘er pregnancy would slow ‘er down,” he grins, shaking his head fondly. “She was supposed t’be on bed res’ a week ago. Bird stresses ‘er poor ‘usband out.”

“I can imagine,” you giggle, turning around to face him.

Mrs. Matthews was right—this dude is enormous. You have to tilt your head up just to look him in the eyes. Fleetingly, you allow yourself to recognize that he is a very handsome man.

“Simon,” he introduces himself, shaking your hand gently.

He glances down at the ring on your finger and bites the inside of his cheek as you tell him your own name. It’s just then that he notices—or decides to address—the wound on your cheek.

“Wha’ ‘appened?” Asks Simon, ushering you into his office with a careful hand on your upper back.

“Oh, I took a little tumble on the way here,” you tilt your head in a convincing gesture, praying he doesn’t ask any more questions as you sit on his couch. “Just clumsy.”

“Righ’. Clumsy,” he repeats slowly, but as he kneels before you with an alcohol wipe and a butterfly bandage, he doesn’t bother to hide the suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “This migh’ sting a bit, lovie.”

You sit perfectly still for him, fighting back every urge you have to wince when his hands near your face. The last thing you need is for an outsider to be let in on your little situation. God knows your bastard of a husband would drag your ass to another city or, mercifully, put you six feet underground. A little pained gasp leaves you as Simon swipes the alcohol wipe over the cut, and he murmurs out an apology in response. His fingers nimbly place the bandage on your cheekbone, making sure the wound stays closed.

“All set,” he grins shortly, taking off his gloves and holding out his hand to help you up.

“Thank you, Simon,” you breathe, adjusting your cardigan with the hand he doesn’t have in his grasp—as a matter of fact, he won’t let go. “Wha-?”

“Why are ya wearin’ a sweater in the summer?” He asks bluntly.

“I-I thought it might get cold during school hours, I just wanted to be prepared-”

“Sweet’eart,” he warns in a soft tone, squeezing your hand encouragingly. “M’no’ the fool ya may think I am. Y’can tell me the truth.”

You fight back tears, refusing to make eye contact.

“Can you just guide me to Principal Price’s office?”

Simon stares down at you for a moment before letting out a slow sigh, nodding.

“Yeah, lovie. Follow me.”

#cw: abuse #ask me!#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #poly!141 x reader #school au

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noirscript · 3 months ago

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the good wife

Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader Description: You don’t remember marrying Malcolm, but he remembers every version of you—and each time you try to leave, he brings you back. To be a good wife, he says, all you need to do is stay. Warning/s: Yandere | Gaslighting | Memory Manipulation | Captivity | Non-consensual Surveillance | Emotional Abuse | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Horror Note/s: Heya! For those who have purchased Dark Roast so far, I'll be sending a better version once it's available. I can't provide the exact time, but in the future. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar | Taglist

The morning felt like any other—ordinary and mundane. You had kissed him goodbye like you always did, the scent of his cologne lingering long after the door clicked shut. His touch stayed too, warm and possessive as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye, pausing there just a moment too long.

“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.

He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”

You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.

You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.

Except… it hadn’t.

You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”

That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.

It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.

You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.

The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.

And when the drawer opened, you froze.

Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.

But the same eyes.

Your eyes.

They were all you.

Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.

Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.

Him.

Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.

A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.

And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.

Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.

The screen flickered. Static.

And when it played, you saw a familiar face.

You.

You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.

Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.

His.

“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”

The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.

“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”

He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.

“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”

The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.

Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.

You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—

Knock knock.

A soft, deliberate sound.

You froze.

Another knock. Louder. Measured.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.

“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”

He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

“You never clean in here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.

“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”

You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.

He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You always open the drawer eventually.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.

“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”

You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.

“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl

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rawme-price · 3 days ago

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tell us more about abused wolf hybrid reader please (your writing is so good!!! <3)

You got it, boss!🫡👍

So, wolf!reader isnt acclimating to the team well, in soaps opinion. Ur constantly tense, eyes darting around any room you enter. Ur ears are never pinned back, but they are so still in a neutral position on Ur head that its obviously a forced facade of calm. You just seem....scared. scared, definitely. But of what soap has no idea.

Hes cant help you, everytime he tries to you seem to withdraw further. Hes tries to do anything he can think of, barking and snuffling and play-fighting, but nothing works. The others try too. Gaz gives you treats all the time, though you never seem to eat them. Ghost gives you awkward head pats and warm praise, but it just makes ur tail tuck. Price tries to talk to you, but anytime he enters a room ur already out the other exit. You seem to dislike him the most.

It all comes to a head when you take a bad fall during training and get a nasty cut on ur back. Price tries to send u to medical, but you outright refuse. He cant just let you fucking bleed without at least getting someone to look, though. So he tells you to either go to medical or choose on of the guys to check it.

...you choose gaz. Hes about your body weight, you feel decently confident in being able to fight him off. Either way, he insists on going to ur den bc it will be the most calming place for an obviously stressed wolf. Gaz expects a small den, sure, but he doesnt expect to see the mattress intended for the den completely barren. Instead you have a small, mangy pile of fabric in the far corner of the room, sandwiched between the wall and where you pushed the dresser out.

He doesnt say anything, just let's you lead him to the empty mattress. He talks you through what he plans to do before starting, then warns you before each action. Ur tense and jumpy, ears pinned flat and tail tucked openly. You dont try to hide ur discomfort, though you nod when gaz asks if he can continue. Still, you jolt and whine when scissors press against ur back, cutting open the shirt. Gaz has to hold his breath for a moment at what he sees.

In stark, puffy and raised keloids, 'MUTT' is carved across ur shoulder blades. Right below it, hardly noticeable compared to the bold letters is another word carved into ur skin, this one seemingly alot neater. You old teams code name, clear as day.

#remenber when i said reader was only lowkey abused? yeah i lied sorry guys im a whump machine #cod #cod angst #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #captain john price x reader #johnny soap mactavish #platonic 141 x reader #platonic gaz x reader #platonic soap x reader #platonic price x reader #platonic ghost x reader #hybrid reader #cw abuse #cw ed implied

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swtheartz · 2 months ago

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katsuki’s got an attitude and a mean resting bitch face. except you’re meaner.

as lovely as you can be, katsuki swears up and down you can be crueler. he’s seen you scoff and stare at people in ways that makes him feel bad. for the first time, he’s the one apologizing for your attitude whenever you get mad at someone. (rightfully so. . . sometimes, not so much.)

you’re an absolute bitch when you want to be. and by gods, he respects that shit.

a / n : him gazing lovingly at his angry partner LMFAOOO he tickles me sm i love this dork

#ʚ — heartz : blurb #ʚ — heartz : drabble #hi it’s me again #giggling rn #everyone RUN everett’s abusing italics again #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #black reader #poc reader #gn reader

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svckmyballzfr · 19 days ago

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“I Know it’s over” Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue - “The clan” chapter 1 , chapter 2, Chapter 3 TW|Death, neglect

you grew up in a clan, the Zenin clan. You had a sister that was given with the ability to see curses, you weren’t. You promised your twin sister you wouldn’t leave her no matter what even when the clan didn’t want you. What a liar you are.

Sun was setting and the clouds floated in the sky gently as if it were the sea and the shore. “Mai!! What’s the matter with you? Let’s go! Hurry up.” Small [name] said with her cheeks puffed as she turned to her little sister that was on top of the stairs.

“I’m afraid” Mai soft shy voiced replies

“Afraid of what?” Small [name] asked confused

“it’s them…” Mai puts her hands together

“Again?” Small [name] sighed and puts her hands on her hips looking down

“Alright I’ll help you out.”

The curse on top of the street light began to speak gibberish scaring the other sister.

[name] walks up the stairs and stops in front of her little sister “come one just close your eyes” [name] grabs her sister hand and runs with her down the steps and they continue to run on the brick street floors.

“If you can’t see them then it’s like they’re not even there.” [name] says as her sister makes a small noise while keeping her eyes shut letting her older sister guided her.

“Big sister don’t let go

“I won’t let go”

”you never will?”

“Jeez, give it a rest”

“You’ll never leave me behind?”

“Of course I won’t! After all we’re sisters.”

What a liar.

“Momma?” Small [name] shakes her mother’s body as Mai’s cries were cancelled out in her head in the background.

“Momma wake up.” some years later the small sisters were now in the care of the Zenin clan.

The Zenin Clan embodies the problematic values that arose from the noble status granted to them as a major clan. The Zenin clan values powerful cursed techniques above all else and rejects their own family members if they don't deem their power acceptable.

[name] was forced to work harder than her sister in order the please the clan with sadly didn’t work. No matter how much her small body worked for the clan she was always rejected and seen as a mistake.

One day [name] was called by the higher ups with of course her little sister following suit.

“[Name] Zenin?” “Yes.”

“Age?”

“11 years old”

“Well you are now no longer a Zenin anymore. You’ll be leaving soon to go to America.”

“Excuse me?”

[name] was soon sent out the room with Mai.

“Big sis y-you aren’t leaving me are you?”

“of course not Mai. I won’t leave you. No matter what these old farts say.”

Mai looks down and fidgets with her fingers.

“A-are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure Mai.”

[name] walks and her geta’s clicked on the wooden floor and Mai follows suite.

[name] was now on a plane and she looks out the window with a frown.

“NO DON’T LEAVE ME [name] YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T LEAVE ME! YOU’RE SUCH A LIAR!”

[name] only looks back at her sister as some members from the clan held her back as tears runs down her face.

“I’m sorry.”

[name] only sighed as she laid her head back in her seat.

When [name] arrived to the airport at Gotham City and there was a detective waiting for her.

“[name] right?” The man with the grey beard asked and [name] only stared at him.

“Not much of a talker huh?”

….

“Well I’m detective Gordon. You’ll be uh at my police station for a little while some people will check your blood…Uh do you know what I’m saying or..”

[name] knew what he was saying since she had learned some English in Japan but she chose to be quiet since she was kind of shy.

“Ok…” [name] said looking down.

“Good. Let’s go.”

She was then driven to the police station to stay for a little and her blood got tested and She was related to Bruce Wayne???

[name] had heard of him back in Japan but she never really paid that much attention to him but she knew her mother and him had a relationship.

“Mai and [name] look! That’s someone important to you two” Their mother said while cutting the twins hair.

The Tv played a broadcast of a gala in America. Gotham.

There he was. The billionaire Bruce Wayne.

[name] attention was soon distracted when Mai had begun to wipe her snot on her.

“Eh!” [name] hit her with her chubby baby hand and Mai soon cried.

“[Name] what did I tell you about hitting your sister.”

[Name] smiled a bit to know that the man known for adopting children and loving them as his own was her father. She was both relieved and delighted but still sad that Mai wasn’t here with her.

‘This is so cool Mai..our dad is Bruce Wayne…don’t worry I’ll see you again.”

Child services had picked her up and dropped her in front of the manor.

‘I’m so nervous…I wish Mai was here so I can be more brave.’

But when she went inside her hopefully expression was soon dropped when she was met with a hidden annoyed expression by the famous man himself. Bruce Wayne.

The face that the members of the clan would give her when she would see them pass.

The expression that made her wish she died instead of her mother.

#yandere x reader #yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere tim drake #yandere duke thomas #neglected reader #emotional abuse #fem reader #batfamily x reader #batfamily x neglected reader #maki zenin #jjk #yandere jason todd #yandere cassandra cain #yandere stephanie brown

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echo-exco · 16 days ago

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❝DID YOU GET ENOUGH LOVE, MY LITTLE DOVE, WHY DO YOU CRY?❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

or… in which some decisions end in an unfortunate tragedy for some.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

What’s so important about your power?

The question returns, as it always does, in the quiet moments. When no one is watching. When there’s no blood, no patients, no bodies to heal.

When there’s no excuse to exist.

Why do you do it? Why can’t you just stop?

It was never just about healing. It’s never been only that.

It’s… the only thing that gives you meaning.

You didn’t like hurting yourself, though you do. You didn’t enjoy the pain of others, though you feel it. You never wanted to die stitching together lives that weren’t your own, though you know that’s exactly what will happen if no one stops you.

It’s just that you don’t know how to live without it.

Every time someone bleeds and you can’t intervene, something curls inside you. Like you’re a broken doll, incomplete, incapable of fulfilling the one thing you were made to do.

Every time someone breaks and you don’t stitch them back together, a piece of you splinters too.

Your power became something greater than a skill.

It’s your compass. Your purpose, your voice.

When Masashi told you that you were special, that no one else could do what you could, you believed him.

How could you not? He let you heal. He let you treat patient after patient. He let you use your power. He looked at you with a warm smile when you were exhausted, bleeding, shaking… and told you that you’d done well.

He’s proud of you. He never asked if you were okay. Only if the patient had survived.

And over time, you learned to ignore yourself too.

When a bone breaks, you fix it. When an organ fails, you rebuild it. Even if it shatters you inside.

You know you can endure it.

You have to.

Bruce wouldn’t understand.

Your father would never accept it.

Would he be the first to stand against the only reason you have to live?

What’s the worth of a power if you can’t use it?

You never asked the question aloud. You didn’t have to, you already knew the answer. You’d felt it in your fingers, numbed by thread. In your nails, bloodied from stitching too hard. In the needle that no longer hurt when you drove it into your own arm just to practice, just so you wouldn’t forget what it felt like.

Just so you wouldn’t grow rusty.

Just so you could still be useful.

This power is yours. You had accepted it as such. It wasn’t a gift, and it wasn’t a curse. This power is a responsibility.

If you had it, then you had to use it. If you used it, then you could save. And if you could save lives… then maybe you weren’t a bad person.

That’s what you thought.

You weren’t a good person.

You’re not like them. You’ll never be like the heroes. They shine. They reach people’s hearts. Heroes lift buildings with a smile, capes fluttering in the wind, saying things that make people feel safe.

But you couldn’t do that.

You know perfectly well you don’t speak kindly to your patients. You sound irritated, frustrated, because you are. Why would you be happy treating injured people? You hated seeing the pain on their faces, but you loved the joy when you saved them.

You didn’t know how to comfort people. You only knew how to stitch torn flesh, mend shattered bones, repair punctured organs. You only knew how to drive a needle deep into their bodies and keep threading until their bodies stopped begging to die.

It was that… or nothing.

And now you were in Gotham.

The city that either rejects or embraces everything rotten in the world. Everything that could ever be like you.

Mutants, metas, people with abnormalities. Gotham didn’t want them. It didn’t need that kind of trouble. Ironically, though, the city also seemed to be a magnet for exactly those kinds of people.

Your father, Bruce, is the symbol of that, at least his alter ego is. Batman was the unspoken law. The silent rule that dictated: if you were born different, you were a potential threat to the city. To his city. Even if you wanted to help, even if you had never hurt anyone.

Because people born like you always ended up being a problem for the city and for the innocent. Everyone had to be investigated before being treated like a person.

You aren’t trusted.

Thankfully, Bruce hasn’t figured it out yet. No one in your family has.

You feel proud of having successfully fooled an entire family of heroes and detectives.

Then again, Masashi likely intervened in every document related to your existence, carefully crafting your life before Gotham to avoid suspicion.

That was… a rather helpful gesture on his part. You’re not surprised Masashi was so meticulous with your whereabouts. What genuinely does surprise you is that he didn’t warn you in advance about everything that was going to happen.

His silence is suspicious. Masashi has never left you alone for this long. He was always too clingy, too eager to spend every second by your side.

But then again, considering the kind of people your family is made of, it wouldn’t be surprising if Masashi took overly cautious, even surgical steps before finding a way into Gotham.

You can’t blame him. You’re scared of your own family too.

Every time Bruce walks past you… Every time one of your brothers talks about missions, villains, or justice… You shrink a little more inside. Like your very existence is a betrayal waiting to be exposed.

Because you know that once they find out what you really are, they won’t look at you the same way anymore. They won’t look at you like you’re something normal, like you’re something human.

You haven’t used your power.

You can’t use it.

You’re scared.

You’re terrified of all of them.

Is this really the right thing to do? Doubt fills you. You’re afraid… What do you want right now? There are no injured people in this mansion. No patients to treat.

Only you.

Running away like a coward, too afraid to face the consequences of your actions. With the truth of your existence pressing down on your shoulders.

Why did you want Bruce to look at you with the same approval Masashi always gave you?

You were alone again. The only company you had was the trembling in your fingers as you wondered how quickly you'd forget everything you’d learned.

What was the point of being alive if you couldn’t save anyone?

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t dare say anything at all.

Because in the end, the only thing separating you from being a burden, the only thing that helped you believe you weren’t useless, the only thing that let you think you weren’t a bad person, that maybe, just maybe, you could really save someone’s life—

…was your power.

You loved your power. You adored it like nothing else in the world. Your power went far beyond any feeling of ego or control—over others or even yourself.

You loved your power because you knew that saving someone was the right thing to do.

The right thing, even if it hurt.

The right thing, even if you bled.

The right thing, even if it tore you apart.

Masashi always understood that. He was the one who helped you stop hating your power. He helped you stop questioning your existence, gave you a purpose, something to keep fighting for.

He never told you to stop.

He never scolded you for using it.

He was never horrified when you trembled with fever after healing over thirteen critically injured patients in a single night.

He just said: “Good job. You’re really… good at this, aren’t you?”

You believed him.

You were enough, for him.

Now you were here, in Gotham. A city where “goodness” was far more complicated than it pretended to be. You understand why a hero would stop you if they saw what you were doing.

You know they wouldn’t hurt you… And that was even more terrifying than being punished.

Because you understand that not hurting you would mean forbidding you. It would be the same as telling you that you can’t help anymore.

That you can’t save anyone.

That maybe… things would be better that way.

But you know that isn’t possible. If you stopped using your power, if you stopped healing, then who would you even be?

Who are you without your power?

Would you become that same dying girl with no last name again? Or would you turn into the greatest failure your father could have ever imagined?

No one.

You’d be no one.

Just a useless child, living in a massive house, waiting for something, or someone, to break, just so your existence could be justified.

At first, you thought maybe, just maybe, your father could understand. That foolish hope shattered the moment you found out Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Batman doesn’t trust what he can’t control.

You discovered his identity by accident. And with it, you discovered your sentence.

He wouldn’t allow what you do. You doubt Bruce would go as far as to believe a child is inherently evil… But you know it’s his job to stop things like you, and you don’t want to be stopped.

You can’t be stopped.

Because if you abandon everything that makes you who you are, then all that’s left is the worst version of you.

A broken child, a lie inside Wayne Manor, a horrible lie to this poor family, a metahuman hidden among orphaned children who fight crime wearing masks.

Damian already told you, and he’s right.

In this house, you’ll only ever be known as a burden.

You theorize that Bruce thinks he’s protecting you by keeping you on the sidelines. That he genuinely believes offering you a bed, food, a family close enough to see but distant enough to ignore, is enough to keep you safe.

Unfortunately for Bruce, he doesn’t know that it’s not enough. It never has been.

You can survive without all that.

What you need is something else. You need to save someone. To make your pain worth something. To see your power move. To watch the thread pass through flesh, in and out of their bodies.

You need this pain to be worth something.

If Bruce knew… he’d take it away. He’d lock you up, he’d isolate you. Maybe even hand you over, maybe because he secretly hated you for being a liar or maybe because he truly believed that separating you from your power was the healthiest thing he could do for you.

Unlike Masashi, Bruce would never accept that you needed to survive through your power.

Masashi at least knows. He knows that you’re already broken.

And still, he let you save lives.

This life is so painfully strange and complicated. You hope you’ve done the right thing, even as the doubts grow more unbearable with time.

You just hope… You’ll be able to leave this place at the right moment.

Masashi would never consider himself a ruthless man.

No, not at all.

He considers himself a just man.

Someone who does what must be done. Someone who doesn’t reject his true nature, who doesn’t waste time clinging to moral illusions about what’s right or wrong.

Masashi simply adapts. He takes advantage of every opportunity life gives him, molding the pieces as they best serve his cause.

That’s perfectly normal, for everyone. The only difference lies in whether you choose to accept it or live in ignorance while chasing vague moral ideals of what “good” means in this world.

To Masashi, you were one of those pieces.

If not the best one he’s ever obtained, ironically, even he didn’t realize that at first.

Meeting you was a blessing.

One he didn’t recognize until much later. Until the second time he saw you.

Masashi still remembers the first day he laid eyes on you.

Killing your mother was necessary.

It was even… fun.

That woman was foolish enough to think she could leave him. As if walking away would be enough to disappear without a trace. As if a traitor could ever hide from consequences.

Masashi always found a way to reclaim what he considered his.

Muchitsujo Seika.

A distinguished, highly respected woman, meticulous, brilliant in the field of medicine. She could have become a leading figure in Japan.

Seika could have been remembered for years to come, for her work, her pure effort.

But she made one critical mistake: She crossed a clear line. She dared to think her life belonged to her.

There’s no need to talk much about Seika. She was capable, talented, even brilliant.

But also naive.

She knew exactly who she was getting involved with. She knew she couldn’t leave without consequences. And yet she tried. Even knowing the risk. She actually believed she could hide a child from him.

Seika thought she could protect you from him.

The media didn’t say much.

They couldn’t. Masashi made sure of that.

Seika had been a well-known doctor in certain circles. Quiet, brilliant, with a spotless career and an unshakable reputation. Her sudden disappearance was, of course, an anomaly.

But Masashi filled in the blanks with an elegant and functional narrative: That Seika had chosen to leave medicine after an unexpected pregnancy and raise her daughter alone in a quiet place, away from the public eye. A reserved woman making a personal choice. Nothing more.

There was no body. There was no funeral.

Only an absence far too convenient.

It was the story he himself planted. The story you’d one day be told, whispered in a soft voice, with the rehearsed sorrow of someone who says, “I was too late.” A lie, carefully crafted, precisely manipulated by his own hand.

“Seika left to raise her daughter. Then… she vanished. Some say she was murdered. No one knows for certain what happened to her.”

All lies.

Masashi remembers the truth.

He remembers every second.

He remembers the blood. The spasms. The way Seika dragged herself across the freezing floor, dripping life, trying to reach the little creature she’d just brought into the world.

Just a few steps.

Never enough.

He remembers Seika on the hospital floor. The cold lights. The dull sound of her body collapsing against the tile.

It was a grotesque, desperate spectacle…

And at the same time, profoundly beautiful.

The terror in her face. The trembling in her hands. The pain in her eyes.

All of it was worth more than any apology she could’ve offered.

"You don’t have to do this… you don’t have to do this to her…” She whispered, barely a murmur, as blood poured down her coat.

“Of course I don’t.” He replied, voice gentle.

“But I want to.”

All she tried to do was reach the baby.

It was useless. Pathetic, even. The desperate effort of a mother who hadn’t yet realized she was already dead.

Masashi didn’t feel hatred. Just a flicker of irritation, like a tool breaking before it finished its task.

Still, even Masashi knew there was nothing interesting about caring for an infant.

A baby was useless. All it did was cry. The thought alone was tedious.

Who was supposed to take care of you? Him?

Ridiculous.

Then everything went quiet.

It was Charlotte who spoke next.

“The baby… are you going to get rid of her too?”

He looked at her without much interest.

“Why bother? She’s worthless. She’ll probably die with her mother. Wouldn’t that be lovely for them both?”

Charlotte lowered her gaze, calm.

“And yet… she could become useful. In time. You said the mother had potential. Maybe the daughter does too.”

Masashi didn’t answer right away.

“You’re suggesting I let her live?”

“I’m suggesting that if there’s no reason to kill her, letting her live isn’t a loss. If she dies on her own, time will have solved the matter for us. But if she survives… she might be worth something.”

He let out a soft laugh, thoroughly delighted by the idea Charlotte had offered. Masashi simply reached out and patted her head, like a master praising his dog.

“Good work. I really have taught you well.”

Masashi granted you the benefit of the doubt.

The decision was made. A decision based on logic. On a remote possibility, and the mild pleasure of watching what the future might bring.

There wasn’t much hope for you. You were just a tiny thing, so fragile, you barely counted as real.

Masashi didn’t believe you were special.

But like any other experiment, you had to be tested.

You were thrown into the nameless misery of Japan’s outskirts the moment you were born.

Brothels. Damp streets. Alleys where the sky didn’t seem to exist.

Seeing if you survived was the only curiosity in his mind.

If you did… maybe.

If not, who would mourn you?

If you couldn’t survive something that simple, then it was impossible for Masashi to imagine you'd be worth anything later.

Because it wasn’t as if someone would come for you, claim you, or protect you from the cruelties of the world at such a young age.

Years later, Masashi found you again. He hadn’t looked for you. Hadn’t even thought of you all those years. His expectations were minimal, if not nonexistent.

It was a coincidence, a twist of chance, but sometimes, fate arranges its pieces with terrifying precision.

The girl he saw wasn’t a living creature. She was an empty shell, dead eyes, the perfect mirror of her mother, without her fire. A walking corpse.

You were injured… and healing yourself.

The power surprised him. Not just the fact that it existed, but its rarity.

“Healing?” Masashi murmured, watching from a distance.

He crouched in front of you, studying the scene without intervening. Thin, almost transparent and luminous threads pierced your own flesh at inhuman speed. Needles, impossible to ignore, yet you didn’t cry. You didn’t even tremble.

You simply worked. As if that was the only thing you’d ever been taught to do.

“How interesting…” Masashi remembers how you looked at him.

Wordless. As if unsure whether you should fear him, or thank him. It no longer mattered. Because he had already decided.

That strange, broken, useful creature, would belong to him.

It wasn’t an act of love. It wasn’t vengeance. Because if he couldn’t keep Seika, then he would take what she left behind. As he should have from the beginning.

The daughter would suffice. You would be enough.

This time, Masashi would shape you from the start.

“You’re going to stay with me.” He said with a bright smile, stroking your head with something that resembled tenderness, but couldn’t possibly be called that.

“I’ll teach you not to waste what you are.”

You didn’t respond. You simply blinked, slowly.

You were empty. No mother. No father figures. No relatives to run to. No identity. No functioning emotional framework.

All that was left was that absurd need to serve, to heal, to do something useful with a body no one had asked to be born into.

Perfect.

Masashi would be more than happy to fill every corner of your being.

You didn’t have to ask for guidance.

He gave it to you.

You didn’t have to cry for your mother.

He told you he arrived too late. That there was nothing he could do. That he believed you had died along with her.

A convenient story.

He wasn’t trying to inspire pity. He simply needed to keep you calm.

Masashi found it almost moving.

You—a child with no trace of anger, no ambition, no drive.

You were just waiting for someone to tell you who you were.

And he did.

He told you pain must have a purpose. That you were only valuable if you could heal. That being good meant being useful, nothing more. That you could save the innocent with the gift you’d been given.

You believed him. You accepted it, desperately.

Because you had never known anything else.

You were far too lost back then to even consider searching for something more.

You just wanted to save lives.

At least that way, you wouldn’t be a bad person.

The room was dim, lit only by the warm lamp beside the bed and the pale glow of the moon slipping through the curtains. Seika had settled onto the futon with effort, cradling her belly in her arms as if holding something fragile, precious, irreplaceable.

She couldn’t sleep.

Lately, Seika rarely managed to.

This time, it wasn’t because of the sharp aches in her back or the accumulated exhaustion from the past few weeks, with the worrying surge of patients suffering from deadly diseases and injuries.

This time, it was something softer. Sweeter.

Something inside her was begging, pleading, not to let the night pass without saying something.

So she gave in to the whim of speaking to her daughter.

“You know… I’ve been thinking about you all day.” She murmured, gently caressing the soft curve of her abdomen. “I wondered if you’ll like the rain. It calms me... but you move around a lot when it rains. Does that mean you don’t like it? Or does it excite you?”

She smiled. A slow, tired smile, but a real one.

“I don’t know what color your eyes will be. That makes me laugh a little. I’d like them to be like mine, though… if you end up looking like him, I think I’ll still love you just as much.” She chuckled at her own illogical thought.

“Silly, right? As if I could stop loving you over a few genes.”

Seika paused. She closed her eyes for a moment. The silence was thick, all-encompassing. Outside, the wind shook the branches of the tree in the yard.

“I want to give you a peaceful life. A life of school, snacks, books… a slow childhood, like the ones you don’t see much anymore. Far from harm and problems no child should ever face. But I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if the world will let us.”

Her voice dropped, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know if he will let us.”

There it was... the name she didn’t dare say out loud.

Masashi.

Her worst mistake, her crime.

But Seika wasn’t going to think about that now. Not about that man. Not tonight. She couldn’t.

“No, no. Not tonight, little one.” She sighed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Tonight, I just want to imagine you happy. Walking through a park. Laughing with your mouth wide open, without fear. Breaking things by accident. Dreaming big dreams, the kind that sound impossible when you say them out loud.”

Her voice trembled.

“I want you to know that I wanted you. I waited for you. I worried. I protected you. As much as I could, I protected you.”

She brought her hands to the center of her belly and pressed gently, as if trying to draw that invisible bond between them even closer.

“I don’t know if I’ll be there to watch you grow. And even if I am… maybe not in the way I’d like.”

She swallowed hard.

“But I want you to know this: I love you already. I love you unconditionally. Without knowing you. I love you with a part of me I never used before.”

She lay down fully, slowly, exhaling as if the weight of the world had become a little easier to bear.

“I’ll name you with care.” She whispered. “I’ll give you something beautiful, something strong. A name that protects you when I’m not there, a name that feels like home. Not a weapon, not a curse… just a real name.”

A tear slid down her cheek, quiet.

“I want to give you everything I never had. I want you to never feel alone.”

She caressed her belly one last time, as the soft movements of the baby answered her touch, as if truly listening.

“If the world ever hurts you, I want you to know your mother loved you before you were born. That she talked to you every night. That she laughed to herself thinking about your imagined quirks. That she dreamed of your tiny hands, your voice, your face full of questions.”

Then, with a gentle sigh, she closed her eyes.

“Tonight, tonight and for all my life… I just want to love you.”

“I promise I’ll be a good mother… I only wish you’ll come into this world safely and live happily… without worries…” Seika hummed a familiar melody. A lullaby, perfect for practicing, for when you finally arrive into the world, into her life.

“I’ll love you for all eternity, little one… I already love you, and I always will.”

A shame that, without knowing it, this counted as a farewell for both of them.

Her precious daughter.

taglist. ( closed ! )

@prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue @victoria1676 @ithoughtthinks @maybeethan69 @moonsunlights @ghostxmio @niamcarlin @mys0cksrwet @joseylouge @kore-of-the-underworld @lithiumval @ryuushou @jellystar-star @bbsaeko @sadeem575 @buckturd @justonerandomreader @amaryilia @shycreatorreview @galaxypurplerose @hearts4mica @lonely-entity @bronermalls @justafank @theholyharp @jjoppees @raiyuxa @bbmgirll @hattersrabbit @1abi @a-lurking-fae @cristy-101 @eli-chris @kenman00001 @aaaaailo @c4xcocoa @funtimekoda14 @shrimp38 @ghostgirl-207 @yarn-mony @expressodepressogetoffmyproperty @java-lava @on-a-sugar-rush @hwaissooo @endaculi @shadowsofapastera @deaddino3 @lalana1703 @ash1 @iloveeverythingiread @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @noone1233nobody @yuyuzi-ling @cupid73 @st4rz666 @zhentheraven @angwngss

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rikas-musings · 18 days ago

Text

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

DIRECTORY

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, mild violence and blood, angst, child endangerment, alcoholism, cops being horrible

PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ slipping through my fingers - abba listen to this for ultimate immersion

A/N : welcome to my first batfamily x reader series!! please read ALL warnings because there are a lot in the series directory. here comes the prologue!! let me know if you enjoy :3

PROLOGUE

You lived on the streets from the little life you can remember, barely conscious at the ripe age of six years old. Your mother was always in a drunkard state, but you clung onto her for dear life. You depended on it, you did. Tiny grimey hands clutching onto her dress, eyes bearing into her face, wishing for any sort of love to emit from her.

You always watched. You were quiet, but occasionally, you tried to garner attention from her. When things were right—if they ever were right—you’d vaguely remember her humming a lullaby that never quite left your memory. Her smooth hands caressing your velveteen hair, back when it wasn’t grimey and unkept. Back when you weren’t on the streets.

This was your life, this was all Mama and you had known. Days spent searching for scraps in garbage bins, watching your mama disappear for nights at a time. She’d come back with scraps of food and more bottles.

The lights flickered whenever she came back, as if an angel had come down to bless the two of you, but changed its mind halfway. In the abandoned warehouse you and your Mama stayed in for the past while, you were tired. Your small body was littered with bruises and cuts from staying in the grimiest parts of Gotham City. But you persevered. Mama always tried her best for the two of you.

It happened on a Saturday night, the night’s mama always tried to get you special treats from the bakery that had leftovers in the trash.

There were loud crashes, and the police were everywhere; you felt terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a robbery was happening at the bank beside the bakery. You shook like a leaf, scared for your life as you huddled in the alleyway between the bakery and the bank. A man as large as what you imagined a giant might look like, with blood splattered on his face, entered the alleyway. But that’s not what frightened you. He stood to the side, observing everything. Your mama was still far back, rummaging through the trash, most likely very drunk and oblivious to the situation unfolding before you.

The police had entered the alleyway, and you were terrified.

You felt the buzz of the radio before you heard it ‘The bats have the villain under control, but we got a call about a potential robber at this bakery.’ The man in uniform sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand before replying.

“Tell me why I got stuck dealing with the fucking homeless scum in the area.” He groaned, and your body stiffened. He made eye contact with you before you could attempt to run, even if you could, you could never leave Mama behind.

Not long after, he caught sight of your mom and the other shadow lurking in the dark. His eyes widened, and he sneered before trying to call for backup.

The lights flickered violently as you desperately put your hands up in defence, staring at the police officer, he was gonna arrest Mama. Hurt Mama.

I don't want him to hurt Mama.

You screamed and wailed, rendering your voice raw. When suddenly the radio crackled and sparked, the line cut and the police officer fell back off balance. You sighed in relief at the faulty hardware and his loss of balance.

Daniel was a weapon, made to be at least. Today’s mission was to stage a bank robbery. The place wasn’t big in itself, but the doctor had been hired to create new weapons and test them out by the harbour; therefore, he needed a distraction in the city to throw off the scent of any unwanted heroes.

When he’d arrived, he’d blown up quite a few people before listening to the police’s radios on his comms. They were coming, and so were the bats. He gruffed, and his partner decided to be the bait.

“I’m gonna hide out until things calm down, don’t let them find out what the doctor is doing.” He grunts to his weasly looking partner beside him and hands him a bag stuffed with cash. His partner grins and nods their head before scurrying off to deal with the situation. Daniel sneaks out of the back entrance of the bank before entering an alleyway beside it. He let a smug grin fall onto his face. The plan was going spectacularly.

In the alleyway was a woman rifling through a huge trash bin, and a little kid quivering as they clung to the brick wall. He hid among the shadows of the alleyway when a police officer showed up. He watched as the kid began to cry, but he froze when he noticed something.

The kid's eyes began to vibrate as the light flickered. While you screamed and wailed at the officer to stop, he watched as faint electricity crackled through your vibrating eyes, seemingly sending the officer stumbling back. His radio crackled with that same electricity. It was almost unnoticeable, especially to the untrained eye; it resembled any malfunction of faulty technology.

But not to Daniel. He noticed.

He watched as the officer pulled out a gun, and before he could get his finger on the trigger, he smashed him into the wall with a loud-

CRACK.

Blood dripped down the wall of the alleyway as the officer's limp body crumpled to the pavement. Your breath quickened as you covered your ears at the sudden loud noise. You felt dizzy and tired—running away with Mama was the only thing replaying in your head.

She’d finally stumbled out of the bin when you made eye contact with her, her eyes sparkled with a sense of familiarity, as she clung onto a brown paper bag with oil spots.

“Mama!” you wailed and went to dash into her arms, snot running down your face as you mustered all the strength in your body to reach her.

But you didn’t reach her, not before the man did.

He grabbed her neck, the skin taught against his grip, then looked down at you.

“Hello, little one.” You looked up at him as your mama dropped the bag of baked goods, her hands going limp. You hesitantly reach out a hand.

“W-what’re you doing with Mama?” you spoke with furrowed brows, you were too dizzy and too tired as you watched the giant man, his orange eyes looked down at you with curiosity.

“I’m thinking you two can come home with us tonight. The doctor would love to meet you.” He offers a faux grin. You feel sick to your stomach, but all you could do was hesitantly nod at him.

He threw your now passed out Mama on his shoulder before picking you up and holding you with one arm. He smelled like smoke and gunpowder. You inhaled the weird smell before relaxing in his arms.

Maybe he wanted to help you and Mama.

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla @cupid73 @swag13r @ninabinna

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quarterlifekitty · 3 months ago

Text

based on this post about WesternActor!Price

Price loved being a western star, really. But he knew when his time as a leading man was up. He didn't wanna stick around to get roles on prestige, parts he was too old for, things written for men in the prime of their lives. So, he retired early, enough money made and a rather modest lifestyle meant he was set.

He comes out of retirement as a favor to Nikolai-- a producer whose career grew alongside his. And the offer is interesting. He'd be playing the part of a heel, a villain, the kind with his own outlaw posse and everything, complete with an eyepatch, black hat, and a grizzled scar on his cheek.

The plot itself is rather boilerplate, but that's how he likes it. Don't mess with a good thing, he thinks. Which is where you come in.

You're young. Playing the sheriff's daughter, the same one he's taken hostage. This is your first real picture role with spoken lines and everything, and you were cast because you look real pretty when you're scared (John can testify to this-- saw you in some no-budget exploitation horror flick that was on in the background of a house party once).

It's a little scary how easy he finds sliding into the role. It was a little stiff for him at first-- he's used to valor and courage above all else-- but once he had you trembling in his lap? Made him feel a lot greedier, a lot meaner. Squeezing your hip and making you cry out. A part of him forgets that it's just acting.

But he's a bit of a big shot. Biggest name on this set, certainly. So if he wants to keep you in his lap and have the catering brought around when it comes time to break for lunch, who's gonna deny him that? When he tells you to stick with him, instead of the boy playing the lead whose clearly got puppy eyes for you, as a method acting exercise, how are you supposed to say no?

Of course the director is going to enthusiastically tell him he's welcome to improvise his lines and movements. Of course the costume designer is going to take his input on kind of skirt you should be wearing (something to accentuate your innocence).

Of course they'll say yes when he says he wants to do this scene-- the one where he forces you into a nasty, open mouthed kiss while you squirm against him-- just one more time to get the perfect take.

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #john price #john price x reader #cw manipulative #cw abuse of power #western actor!price

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chrissssssmut · 1 month ago

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abusive gf minji x reader smut

MINJI'S LOVE

Minji x Male Reader

You used to think love was soft.

Late-night texts. Shared meals. Long walks with no destination.

Minji taught you that love could feel like a chokehold instead.

She slams the door when she enters—her keys hit the floor, her bag tossed onto the table without looking at you once. You tense instinctively. Her heels echo down the hallway like gunshots.

"You didn’t clean."

Her voice slices through the silence like glass. You turn your head from the couch, half-curled up in your hoodie, the one she says makes you “look like a kicked dog.”

“I was going to,” you say quietly. “I wasn’t feeling well, I—”

Smack.

The slap doesn’t even shock you anymore. It’s not even the first today.

“Don’t fucking talk unless I ask you to.” She looks down at you like you’re nothing. “You’ve been inside all day again, haven’t you? Just festering here like the little parasite you are.”

You nod.

Because it’s easier than saying no. Because Minji’s anger doesn’t burn—it lingers. It stains your soul like blood in white cotton.

She crouches, fingers gripping your chin so tight your jaw aches.

"Did you think I wouldn’t find out you were messaging your friend again?"

Your breath catches. She had your phone again. She always does.

“I didn’t mean anything. He was just checking in, I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” she hisses. “You weren’t planning to leave me? You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them. She scoffs, disgusted.

"God, you're pathetic when you cry. It actually turns me on."

She pushes you back onto the couch. You don’t resist. You never do. Her lips press to your throat, biting the skin hard enough to leave a mark.

"You don't get to feel safe. Not after lying to me."

Her hand slips under your hoodie, fingers trailing up your chest—clawing at you like you're hers to carve into.

"Take it off."

Your hoodie comes off. Slowly. Every inch feels like peeling skin. You’re bare-chested beneath her gaze. She sees the fading bruises—her earlier gifts. She hums in satisfaction, her nails dragging over your ribs.

"I should make you beg for it," she murmurs, grinding her hips down on your lap. "But you don’t deserve the chance."

You swallow.

"Please."

Her eyes flick to yours—dark, cruel, beautiful in the way fire is beautiful right before it swallows you whole.

"Please what?"

"Please… use me."

She smiles.

"That's more like it."

Her mouth crashes onto yours. There's no tenderness—only need. She bites your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, then pulls back to lick it off you.

"Get on your knees."

You drop, hands trembling as you sink to the carpet. Her fingers thread into your hair and pull your face forward, forcing you between her thighs. She's not even out of her skirt yet. You wait. You always wait.

She watches you like a queen watching a pet perform.

"I could fuck someone better, you know," she whispers, breath ragged as she lifts her skirt slowly. No panties. She wanted this the second she walked in.

"But no one needs me the way you do."

You don't speak. You don’t need to. Your tongue runs along her folds, tentative, then deeper. She shudders. Her grip tightens in your hair.

"You’re still not doing it right. God—do I have to teach you everything?"

You try harder. She pushes your face deeper, hips rolling forward. You can’t breathe—but she doesn’t care.

When she finally cums, she moans your name like it's both a reward and a punishment.

Later, she throws you onto the bed like you're weightless. Her eyes are wild now, pupils blown out, hunger sharp as a blade.

"Take your pants off."

You do, legs shaking. Your cock is already hard, aching. It always is after she touches you—pain and pleasure tangled together.

Minji climbs on top of you, bare now, wet and glistening. She doesn’t wait. She sinks down all at once, biting her lip as she takes all of you.

You groan, trying not to move, trying not to finish too fast—but she starts to ride you like she owns you. Because she does.

Her hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just tight enough to make your vision blur.

“Look at me,” she pants. “Eyes open, baby. I want you to see what you’ll never deserve.”

You can’t hold back anymore. Your hips stutter, bucking up into her.

She slaps you across the face again.

"I said don’t move."

You whimper, apologizing. She grinds harder.

“You're going to come for me without touching yourself. Like the pathetic toy you are.”

You do. Of course you do.

Your release hits hard—too fast, too much—leaving you gasping, shaking under her. She watches you with something close to disgust.

“…Already?” she sneers. “You really are hopeless.”

But she leans in, kisses your temple, strokes your chest—mocking comfort.

“You’re still mine, though.”

You nod, numb.

Because you are.

Her hand resting softly over your heart. You stare at the ceiling again.

The Week After

There’s a version of yourself you barely remember anymore.

One that laughed without flinching, kissed without trembling. That boy’s gone now—eaten alive by the version Minji crafted for you: obedient, shattered, always hard when she wants you, always hurting when she doesn't.

The bathroom mirror stares back at you. Blank eyes. Bruised throat. A lip that’s still healing from last week.

She’s sleeping in the other room, legs tangled in your sheets like she owns the bed, the air, the breath in your lungs.

You sit on the edge of the tub, staring down at your hands.

They’re shaking.

Again.

You don’t realize how long you sit there until her voice cuts through the door.

“Are you hiding again?”

It’s soft. Sweet, even. But you know better.

You say nothing.

The door opens anyway.

Minji’s barefoot, wearing nothing but your oversized t-shirt. The one she ripped the collar off last time you said you wanted space.

“Baby,” she coos, stepping in. “You’ve been acting distant lately.”

Her voice gets quieter. Closer.

“Is it because of what I said yesterday? Or because I hit you?”

You flinch as she touches your shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—”

She crouches, lifts your chin with two fingers. Her eyes lock onto yours.

“I hate when you make me feel like you could leave.”

“…I never said I would,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to,” she murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “Your eyes say it. Your silence says it.”

You want to scream. You want to say yes, I’m falling apart, I haven’t slept properly in weeks, you’ve made me forget who I am.

But instead, you let her guide you to your knees on the cold bathroom tiles.

"Open your mouth."

You do.

She tugs your hair back, slowly sitting on the edge of the counter, legs parted. The t-shirt barely covers anything. She's not wearing underwear. She never does when she plans to "fix" you.

"You're good at this," she purrs, sliding her foot between your legs, pressing it against your half-hard cock through your sweatpants. "Even when you're broken."

You moan around her as your tongue moves where she wants, the scent of her overwhelming. She pushes down harder with her foot, grinding against your erection until it aches.

“Keep moaning like that,” she pants, voice thick with lust. “I want to hear how much you love being my ruined little toy.”

You try to focus. But your head is spinning. Her taste, her weight on your face, her words—it’s too much. Your throat clenches as you gasp for air, but she grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls tighter.

“Don’t stop,” she growls. “You don’t get to stop.”

You don’t even remember coming—only the warmth pooling in your pants, the shame curling in your gut.

Minji comes with a cry, thighs trembling, her hand still tangled in your hair. She lets go only when your knees start to give out.

You collapse forward.

She watches you for a moment. Breathing heavily. Then smirks.

“You came in your pants again, didn’t you?”

You nod.

She slaps your face—not hard. Just enough to remind you that you’re hers.

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic.”

Later, she drags you back to bed. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, brain empty.

Minji climbs on top of you again, straddling your hips.

"You always look prettiest when you're like this," she whispers. "Blank. Wrecked."

She grinds against your cock through the mess of your sweatpants. No warning. No break.

"Should I ride you like this? Covered in your own cum, too ruined to fight back?"

You open your mouth to speak.

She presses two fingers to your lips.

“No thoughts. Just let me use you.”

And you do.

She slips your sweatpants down enough to free you, hard again despite yourself. She strokes you lazily with one hand, her folds already soaked as she lifts herself over you.

She doesn’t ease down.

She slams herself onto you with a guttural moan, and you gasp, the sudden wet heat knocking the breath from your lungs.

You try to grip her waist. She slaps your hand away.

“No touching,” she hisses. “You don’t hold me. I ride you.”

She moves fast—hips snapping forward, back arched. Your body screams for release, overstimulated and overstretched, but Minji doesn’t care.

“You like this,” she pants. “Being nothing but my cumdump. My punching bag. My little cockpuppet.”

You moan loud—uncontrolled—broken.

She leans in close, forehead against yours, sweat dripping down her temple.

“Tell me you love me.”

“…I love you.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I love you, Minji,” you cry, breath hitching. “I love you, please don’t stop—”

Her nails rake down your chest. Her lips find your throat.

“Then never leave.”

“I won’t. I can’t. I—”

You come hard inside her, shaking beneath her body as she fucks every last drop out of you.

She kisses you after—gently.

Like you’re hers.

Because you are.

You fall asleep after. Shaking. Hollow.

She holds you like she didn’t just break you.

And in the morning, when she makes you coffee with that sweet little hum she does after sex—you drink it.

Because even when you hate her, even when you hate yourself—you’re still hers.

And she’s not done with you yet.

You don’t know what day it is.

The light doesn’t change much in her apartment anymore. The curtains stay drawn. Your phone’s gone. Your calendar—deleted. Time exists only in the rhythm of her moods.

And lately, Minji’s been... sweeter.

Too sweet.

She brings you breakfast on a tray.

Smiles like you didn’t cry yourself to sleep last night.

“I made your favorite,” she hums, brushing your hair back. “You need to eat more. You’re losing weight.”

You force a nod, but your stomach turns. The toast is perfect. The eggs are seasoned the way you like. And yet—

“Are you ignoring me again?” she whispers.

You flinch.

She tilts her head. Her voice is syrupy.

“Say ‘thank you,’ baby.”

“…Thank you.”

“There you go.” She kisses your temple, smile widening. “Good boys use their words.”

She sits beside you on the bed, folding her legs under herself, watching you chew like it’s the only thing that matters. Like watching you is a performance, and she’s the director.

You pause with the fork halfway to your mouth.

“Can I go outside today?”

Her smile tightens.

“There’s nothing out there for you.”

You try again. “I just—I need air, Minji. Please.”

She doesn’t yell.

She just laughs.

And something in you snaps.

You shout.

“You’re suffocating me! I can’t breathe in here, Minji—I’m not your f**king pet—!”

The tray crashes to the floor as she stands.

Her voice is deadly calm.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

You back away instinctively. She walks forward.

“I gave you everything. I let you stay. I cleaned up your mess, your breakdowns, your silence—and this is how you thank me?”

You can barely meet her eyes.

“Minji, please, I’m—I’m not okay…”

She cups your face.

Soft.

Gentle.

Cruel.

“I know you’re not okay,” she whispers. “That’s why I’m here. Because without me, you’d fall apart completely.”

You feel her breath on your lips.

“No one else will love you like I do. No one else will tolerate you like I do. You’re broken, baby. And I’m the only one who sees beauty in it.”

She kisses you.

You don’t kiss back.

But she doesn’t notice.

That night, she holds you tighter than ever. Like you’ll disappear if she lets go. You lie still, heart hollow, eyes open in the dark.

“Say you love me,” she murmurs.

You say it.

Because you have to.

MINJI’S POV:

You watch him sleep—though you know he’s not really sleeping.

Not deeply.

Not peacefully.

Not anymore.

Good.

That means he’s learned.

You smile as you run a finger down his spine.

He used to pull away when you touched him like this.

Now he doesn’t move.

You told him once, early on, that you noticed him before he noticed you. That you chose him. Out of everyone.

And it’s true.

He was so lonely. So soft. Always smiling like it was an accident. Like he didn’t know how to exist in the world.

You thought, What a waste.

No one saw him the way you did.

So you took him.

Loved him harder than anyone ever would. Broke him open so you could live inside his cracks. Rearranged him piece by piece until he fit perfectly into your hands.

You stroke his hair and hum.

“You’re mine,” you whisper. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to run.”

You kiss his shoulder.

“Because you can’t.”

He shifts slightly. Breath catches.

You smile wider.

“Sleep well, baby.”

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 10 months ago

Note

Yandere batfam or justice league with a reader who’s afraid of strong people/men due to a past abusive relationship? She never wants to feel that powerless and weak again so she actively avoids interacting with anyone stronger, bigger, taller any more than necessary. She doesn’t hold it against other ppl she just has a lot of trauma that she’d rather not work through and feel safe in her little bubble

Hit me Hard and Soft

Synopsis: You get saved by Robin, but not everything is as it seems.

Pairing: Yandere!Poly!Romantic!Batboys X Gn!Reader

Tw: All characters aged up, of course; Mentions and descriptions of violence, including physical, psychological, sexual and financial abuse, and Damian fighting criminals (I'm particularly proud of the action scene I wrote); Drugging and being unconscious; Mentions of death of minor characters and suicide; Mentions of past grooming (Reader's ex) and age gap (Reader’s ex, Reader X Bruce, and the batboys age is not mentioned); Implied stalking; Mentions of kidnapping; Reader's very traumatized and weary of everyone; Reader doesn't trust the police; Mention of a panic attack and descriptions of actual panic; Guns and knifes; Mention of cigarettes; Implied needles; English isn't my 1st language.

Requested? Yes.

Extra notes: Wish I had more interactions between Reader and the batboys here, but I'm more than willing to make a part 2 with the right idea.

General masterlist | Hit me Hard and Soft - Series masterlist

He's back again. You wish you could say you didn't know why he always came back, but you did. The food wasn't that great and it wasn't that close to where he told you he worked or lived. It also didn't help that he always made sure to be served by you. And that he flirted with you.

— Evening, (N/N)! Is there something as sweet as you on today’s menu? — You gave a small and polite laugh.

— Strawberry pie… As always…

It was kinda sad, but mostly scary. If it wasn't for your ex, you would be thrilled to have gotten the attention of Dick fucking Grayson. The whole city knew he was handsome, rich, talented and charismatic. Gotham's sweetheart, Gotham's golden boy. And from your daily interactions, he lived up to the expectations. He was polite even when flirting with you and asking you out. Yet, something held you back.

— Nice! Since you get out in a few, why don't you bring in two slices? One for me and one for you, it's on me, of course. — You shook your head quickly, with an empty heart, just wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

You were with your ex since you were 17 to 26. Almost 10 years wasted on a dirtbag. He convinced you to leave your friends, to leave your family, to leave your job. As soon as you started living together, you were completely dependent on him. Sometimes you blamed him, sometimes yourself, sometimes the people you had around you, but back then, where you came from, people weren't questioning the imbalance of powers between a 17 year old highschooler with no job and a 23 year old man with a steady job and living alone.

He convinced you that going to college and ending your relationship was the worst decision you could take. Then, that you didn't need your family, he could take care of you. One day, he decided you couldn't have friends.

He often locked you inside the house, cursed your skills and appearance, neglected your overall health, intimidated you, screamed at you, broke your things that he did and didn't pay for. He hurt you physically, even sexually. You knew both dating him and leaving him was hard, you just expected living with the scars was going to be easier.

And it was! You decided to run away from him and to Gotham when you received the news that your mom died and he didn't even want to let you go to the funeral. The grieving made you reflexive and you realized how shitty your situation was. For years you just thought that it would eventually get better, that you just needed to be strong, that he showed he loved you when he wasn't being an asshole, that you couldn't get anything better, that he made you feel special.

You couldn't even go to the police, he was a cop, you knew the chances that in any scenario you would lose. So you ran.

You knew it was dangerous, but you had nothing to lose. If he didn't kill you, you would do it yourself. You made a plan, drugged him, took some of his money, used his house keys, left everything behind for the second time in your life. You didn't waste time asking for help from the people you knew. You took the bus and went as far away as you could.

Your paranoia was so bad that for almost a year, you would settle in a city, work to save up enough, and leave again, rinse and repeat. Eventually, Gotham seemed big and far enough to go by unnoticed.

Or that's what you thought, until Dick Grayson stopped by the diner you worked to have breakfast before going to work, as a cop, and decided you caught his attention.

Since then, he came back everyday. Either breakfast, lunch, dinner, or just to hang out with some family member, usually one of his brothers, his dad appeared with him sometimes too. Your boss loved the attention Bruce and Tim attracted, the two most media active ones, since they both led Wayne Enterprises.

Eventually, even them started appearing multiple times a week. You thought you were healing, until you found yourself crying for almost four hours at home in a panic attack.

You didn't want their attention. Not only was it weird, but they were just so… Superior to you.

They were all taller, more muscular, faster, smarter, richer. It was like reliving the beginning of your relationship at 17, plus 10 times worse. Five because they were five people mirroring your ex, and more five just because of your trauma, experience, negativity and lack of naiveness.

Also, why were they ALL into you??? And they were aware of it! It was weird! Why??

Bruce Wayne was disarmingly charming in his dilf way. Dick was surprisingly accessible. Jason was soft spoken despite his resting bitch face and leather jacket. Tim was cute in a nerdy way. Damian almost made you laugh with his sarcastic humor.

Either way, you never wanted to feel as little as you felt before, so you just did your job, acted polite, but ultimately kept your distance.

Freedom has its difficulties, one of them being that you need money, and for money, you need a job, which means sometimes you have to stay until closing time, at 11 PM, in Gotham.

You're not the only employee to stay so late, but you and your co-worker live in opposite directions, so walking alone it is. They're taking the bus, but you only live two blocks away, so you gulp down your anxiety and keep walking. One hand on your pocket, holding your taser firmly, and keeping your head up, turning to look at every sound.

It's cold, and the street is empty and dimly lit. Some places are so dark that you wonder why you're even paying taxes if the streetlamps won't work.

Two men turn the corner a few meters in front of you, one at least a foot taller, the other, two inches max. They're wearing hoodies and their hands are on their pockets, the light behind them creates a shadow that doesn't allow you to see their faces, nor where they're looking at, but they are coming in your direction.

There's a car, parked between you both. Some people might think at this point it's just paranoia, but you’ve heard stories of people walking next to cars, getting pulled inside by someone who was hiding in there, and getting kidnapped.

Your first instinct is flight, so you turn around, ready to run, even if you look weird in case those guys weren't planning to do anything with you, just to see other two guys emerging from the other corner, those two almost as tall as that first guy. Aside from the smaller one, they're all broad, even with their thick clothes covering them.

One of them has a cigarette on his mouth, which he throws on the ground when you turn your attention to him. Your fear might have caused you to hallucinate, but you're almost sure he's smirking.

You freeze for a second, your only escape is to run to the side, and pray their long legs don't get to you first. You think you hear one of them start hollering at you.

You only take a step to the side, when a loud crash startles you so hard that you have to look behind, while walking backwards to the street. You take a second to process the sight.

Robin is standing in the middle, just a few steps behind where you were standing a second ago. He's at least half a foot taller than all of them, and a lot broader. He's holding the tall one by his neck with his right hand, repeatedly hitting his head against the car’s window.

You're shell shocked, torn between staying put to watch this disaster, as interesting as a car crash, or running away. Gotham is so big that you never thought you would encounter one of its heroes, you weren't sure if you even wanted to.

When the guy seems to stop moving, Robin throws him against one of the other tall ones, the guy practically flies across 2 meters before hitting him, and when he does, they both fall to the ground. You remember all the times when your ex pushed you to the ground.

Your eyes are wide, horrified, watching the shortest guy take a pocket knife out of his pocket. Your throat locks, even if you want to scream for Robin to turn around, you only manage to stare and stay in place, however, the vigilant turns halfway around just in time to grab the guy by his wrist and his arm, just as he launched to stab him. He uses his body’s impulse to push the guy forward, the knife going to the fourth guy's shoulder, you hadn't even seen him get so close to him.

You look at the man from the car, he's still unconscious, the one who got tackled with him, however, is already standing and walking to the fight.

Everything’s happening too fast, you turn to the side to see the guy with the knife on his back on the ground, groaning and twitching in pain, while Robin is punching the shit out of the other guy, movements faster than you could ever dream of achieving. You remember being on the receiving end of someone's fists before.

With a final elbow to the cheek, the guy stumbles to the ground, you don't know what level of consciousness he’s in, by his posture before, you knew he was already compromised since the first hits he took.

Robin doesn't move, doesn't even turn to look at the guy who just fell, he's just looking forward, and when you notice this, you look at the remaining guy.

He's pointing a gun at him.

You don't think you can watch someone get shot in front of you, and you know if he gets rid of Robin, it's over for you. Logically, you knew these vigilantes somehow never die, still, it's counterintuitive to think he won't.

And he doesn't, in the blink of an eye, Robin's on the air, his right boot kicking the gun away, while still on the air, he wraps his legs around the guy's head, bends backwards, puts his hands on the ground, then launches his whole body to the front, the guy getting thrown over him. He falls to the ground, Robin stands on top of him with perfect balance. You don't even have time to process what just happened, the coolest and scariest thing you saw your whole life, when Robin punches him one last time. Now, he's definitely unconscious.

You’ve felt like a bystander this whole interaction, it felt like ages, but in reality all of this couldn't have taken more than 20 seconds, maybe even less than 15. You don't know what to do now. You're theoretically safe, but Robin’s still too big, too strong, too fast. He knocked out four guys without getting touched a single time. He broke a car's window. He threw around two guys who weighed at least 80kg. He's not even panting. And now he's looking at you.

A whimper gets stuck in your throat. You don't know if you should thank him, stay silent, or yell at him to stay away from you. When he takes a step in your direction, your instincts get the better of you and you turn around, running.

You hear him call your name, although your brain doesn't process it. You see headlights and look towards it. It's a car. You don't trust you’ll get help, but at least you're not alone. You run in it's direction, waving your arms and screaming bloody murder.

The car almost hits you, but you don’t process that until the last minute, but you get tackled to the ground just in time by the hero from before. You scream again, he's too close. Now, he's trying to hold you down. You keep screaming and trying to escape. You look to the side and the car just kept driving away, likely the driver wouldn't stay behind to be another victim to Robin's hands. You know you're not being rational right now, those guys are known for helping people, he just saved you, he's still trying to stop you from getting hurt, but you're scared. You've been scared since you were a teenager.

Your eyes burn, your arms and throat hurt, but adrenaline doesn't let you feel anything. Not even the invasion of a needle on your side.

— Was it really necessary? — Tim deadpans Damian, who growls.

— You would have done the same, Drake.

— No, I wouldn't. You were supposed to use the psychological first aid approach and (Y/N) would've calmed down and trust us more in the future. But of course, you never use your brain. — Damian growls, stepping towards Tim, but he is stopped by Dick’s hand resting on his chest.

— Damian, calm down, Tim’s right. You knew better than to sedate them. You knew of (Y/N)’s trauma and you knew the route we wanted to take. — Damian's brows furrowed and he crossed his arms.

— I knew your feelings toward (Y/N) would make you become impulsive again. — Tim looked at Bruce, who was silent, with hands intertwined and elbows on the table, focused on your vitals on the screen and the sight of you laid on the bed on the medbay. — Will you now consider just letting you, me and Dick keep an eye on them during patrol? — Damian and Jason scoffed.

— Why you aiming at me now? It was the demon who gave that guy brain death! — Jason protested and Tim looked at him.

— Just to be sure you won't freak out like him and kill thrice as many people, on purpose this time. — Jason glared at him.

— B, you better add more security measures around (Y/N), before Timbo tries to clone them or something. — He muttered with snark.

Dick shook his head and sighed, going to stand on Bruce's side, crossing his arms and looking at you through the camera with him.

— What's the plan now, B? They're probably waking up soon. — Bruce hummed, relaxing his stance and resting his back against his chair. The silence lingered for a few seconds, everyone just looking at you, waiting for the oldest’s opinion.

Bruce turned around, looking at them.

— … Damian, Tim's right. You were impulsive today and you killed someone, even if it was an accident. I stopped expecting that from you since you were 12, you're an adult now. You not only broke our trust, but (Y/N)’s already shattered trust. They need to know they're safe with us, and drugging them, instead of puting to use more time and effort to bring the comfort to them, is not going to do that. You weren't much different than the man who hurt them tonight. — His father's words were like a punch to Damian's stomach, leaving him speechless. Dick pursed his lips, not turning around as to make it easier to not comfort his brother just yet. Bruce turned to Tim. — Tim, I understand you want to take measures seriously. But you need to give Jason a chance. That was unasked for. — The mentioned blinked, still unacostummed with the treatment he received from his dad when he followed his rules. Tim looked away. Bruce turned to Damian again. — Damian, no patrolling around (Y/N) until you prove we can trust your temper again. — He waited for a confirmation, which came with a sneered lip.

— Yes, father.

Dick looked back a Bruce.

— What about (Y/N)? — He bit his lips. Bruce hummed, turning to look at the monitor again.

— … What do you all think?

— Well… Damian said their name, they might not remember it, but they can't just wake up at home. They’d try to flee from us. We could bring them home earlier, but our ideal plan was to make them come willingly, in the period of at least two years, in the best case. We could leave them at the hospital, and just keep our plan going. — Dick listed the possible strategies they could take. Bruce hummed.

Tim piped up.

— I already altered their phone's algorithm to send the job application as my assistant at Wayne Enterprises to them. And the Wayne Foundation’s application for the internship at Gotham Uni. — Bruce nodded.

— Damian? What do you understand about that? — It was clearly the beginning of his test.

— The more secure in their independence they feel, the easier it is to heal and open themselves up to new opportunities. — Damian exclaimed with confidence. Bruce nodded.

— Jason, are you still interested in college? — Everyone looked at Jason surprised, he was also surprised, he hadn't talked to Bruce about college since before he died.

It took a few seconds to processes what it would mean.

— Uh… I think so?! — Bruce nodded.

— What about me, father? — Damian spoke inquisitively. — I also want more opportunities to get closer to (Y/N)! — Bruce narrowed his eyes at him.

— We will think about that when you're in the clear.

— But-

— That's final. You reap what you sow. — Damian huffed and nodded begrudgingly. — … Now, since Robin was the one to save them, take the batmobile and leave them in the hospital. Then come straight back home. Understood? — Damian clenched his jaw and nodded silently, leaving to get your unconscious body.

Moments later, when you were both out, on the way to the hospital, Tim fiddled with the computer, the scream showed the batmobile’s tracker, your tracker, Damian's tracker, Damian's contact lenses’s camera and the car’s camera. They all looked at him.

— … It's just to make sure…

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