#Yandere x You

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.

you had always been a good kid.

you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—

but you were good.

and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.

she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.

you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?

she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.

you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.

because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.

you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.

"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"

"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.

because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—

because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...

a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?

even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...

so why can't you have you have what he have right now?

why, just why, are you always finishing last?

why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?

elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.

the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.

'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!

shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.

but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.

his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?

and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.

yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.

why?

why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?

your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.

no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.

why, why, why?

the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.

tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.

but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.

it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!

even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...

... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:

the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.

to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.

ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.

being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.

it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.

from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.

from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.

imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.

and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.

good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—

even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.

tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!

it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?

... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?

and how could you blame him...?

he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.

all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.

you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.

so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?

that's who you always are—

that's who you always will be.

always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.

because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.

tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.

and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.

you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.

and that's who you'll always will be.

just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—

you're good, but you'll never be good enough.

... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?

you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.

has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?

why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.

why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.

why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.

why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.

has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.

why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.

just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.

these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.

it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.

and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.

they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.

sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.

you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.

it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.

and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.

you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.

when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.

back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.

your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.

every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.

although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.

he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.

it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.

and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.

well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.

it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.

after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.

in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.

alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.

you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.

you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.

that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.

and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.

his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.

that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.

and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.

though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.

he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?

right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.

whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.

someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.

"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."

"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.

ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.

cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.

fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.

tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'

he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.

but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.

"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.

everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.

barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.

it's as if he is lost in thought.

and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.

his string of pearls, his little treasure.

"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."

when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.

dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.

blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.

it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.

the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.

they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.

they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.

they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.

they listen, and learned.

whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.

you have your own secrets. they have theirs.

except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.

tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.

now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.

because you've never once visited the batcave—

and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.

they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.

they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.

instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.

... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.

warm.

this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.

...where are you?

your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.

you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.

your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.

it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.

a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.

'this is strange.'

you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.

you don't feel like dying today.

it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...

it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.

your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.

"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.

and you...

you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.

your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.

it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.

you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.

only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.

'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.

suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.

the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.

when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.

for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.

you're in a... forest.

your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.

petrichor.

you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.

all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.

other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.

"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.

i remember one conversation i had with my mother.

it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.

huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.

i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.

i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.

she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.

thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.

if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.

i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.

now that i think about it too...

if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.

i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...

funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.

she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.

and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.

so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.

my mother.

your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.

if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.

yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.

if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.

if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.

only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.

but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?

only reality can tell.

or you can tell.

at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.

your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.

talentless, worthless, out of place.

yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.

you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.

after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.

you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.

now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.

if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.

i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?

i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.

does she regret having me?

right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.

i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.

we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."

thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.

you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.

a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...

your mother enters.

angelic, glowing, beautiful.

she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.

she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.

but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.

you've never seen her like this.

she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.

she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.

warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.

you're caught breathless.

"momma...?"

beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.

you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.

you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.

your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.

"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.

"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.

you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.

the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.

you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.

the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.

"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.

"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.

"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.

now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.

"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.

you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.

even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.

and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.

"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.

all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.

"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.

"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...

when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.

"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"

"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."

she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.

but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!

you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!

you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...

even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.

if you could even call them that wretched title.

if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.

the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.

"... momma, please, stay—!"

but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—

her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.

"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"

and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.

and this time, it is real and unwanted.

'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.

it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.

jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.

the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.

he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.

was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?

jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.

even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.

and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.

becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.

all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.

yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.

who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.

he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.

jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.

jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.

death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.

how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?

how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?

and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he

... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.

if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.

... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.

jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.

for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.

bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.

you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.

when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.

you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.

he regrets hating you.

all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.

he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.

you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.

but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.

you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.

he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.

that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.

he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.

he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.

a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.

you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...

but never this... emotionally.

what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.

wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.

you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.

yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.

he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.

and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.

he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.

but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.

and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."

whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.

even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.

all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.

under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.

he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.

jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.

and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.

you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.

you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.

but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.

why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?

why does he see himself in you?

why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?

as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—

jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—

if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—

that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.

the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.

jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.

he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.

why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.

he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.

he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.

and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.

it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.

he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.

and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.

out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.

you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—

it's not enough.

it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.

everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.

to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.

jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.

if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.

jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.

he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.

and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.

as long as he has you in his sights.

all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.

you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.

there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.

as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.

and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷

yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).

taglist: @neerathebrightstar, @ghostdoodlen, @prince-nikko, @daisy-spot, @strawberryglass, @h0neybun-was-here, @confused-they, @weirdcore-fantasy, @mystyque234, @marssthings, @notwhoy0uthink, @aliengutzstuff, @lilyalone, @luffyadolover, @punpunsonny, @lazyemmy, @questionthegrapevine, @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu, @winter-world, @zavavas-dungeon, @budijojo, @altruisticbeauty, @dopepursebasketballplaid, @the-holy-pigeon, @red-phantom-0, @em-draws14, @thypplover, @cens0r3d-blog, @yl90, @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo, @flyingpansaurus, @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog, @rogueofbullshit, @earlqurl, @dotomuses, @sheep-from-rad, @tsuniio, @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o, @radiantharu, @iwasveronica, @kdjhubby, @ashstwin, @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2, @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[rxmye]

" 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘 "

𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐂 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 — everything in the end comes down to you . . God why are you so fucking hot when you're in control?

nsfw / sixteen + content / smut / gender neutral reader / yandere content / sub!yandere / pathetic!yandere / vibrators / ruined orgasms / begging / choking (you choke him, bro is into it) / torture / dacryphilia (kink for crying) / pet names "good boy" (awakens something within him) / desperate yandere? desperate yandere. / yandere oc x reader

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: we are so back, coming back the way I started (with Yoichi)

"Fuck, please", his voice was hoarse as he begged, looking at you with those tear stained doe eyes, he let out another whine, "please, please, please", he whispered like a prayer as you turned the vibrator even lower—ruining another orgasm in it's wake.

Yoichi swore he had never felt this desperate in years, grinding into the vibrator, his hands struggled some more on the makeshift binds, his wrist already scarred with rope burn—he wouldn't complain though . . no . . why would he ever complain.

Yoichi grit his teeth, a whine leaving his throat and more tears threatening to fall, this time however it was because of frustration—he leaned his head back, his bangs shifting, covering his eyes, sweat forming on his forehead, as he let out a few heavy breathes.

A choked sob leaving his throat when you turned the vibrator back on high, broken moans leaving his hoarse throat.

Yoichi closed his eyes shut, his toes curling from the feeling, saliva escaping from the corners of his mouth as he let out a particularly loud moan—Only to be cut off with the feeling of your hand wrapping around his throat—muffled noises left his mouth, and it was honestly pathetic how fast he came, white cum spurting everywhere, it even got on your clothes.

It took a minute or two before Yoichi opened his eyes, still feeling a bit dazed. The two of your eyes locked, and he flushed with embarrassment and awareness, the events of the last half an hour catching up to him.

You looked at him, "What do you say?", you questioned, eyes narrowing into a glare—and it would be a lie to say that didn't turn him on a little bit . . at the very least.

Yoichi hesitated for a moment, before finally answering, "t-thank you"

You smiled, ruffling his hair, and Yoichi felt his blood rise to his head, "Good boy", fuck.

Yoichi's stomach dropped low, and those two words awakened something in him that he just couldn't undo.

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 1

Summary: After his death you left everything behind. You're still Bruce daughter but no longer a part of family. You had a new life and everything was fine, until the day someone left a box outside your door...

Warning: Physically violence/Choking.

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

“You sure you’re ok?” he asked as she kissed him lightly on the lips.

“I’ll be fine,” she said smiling.

He searched her face for a moment before nodding, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back late.”

As Daniel left, she closed the door behind him and exhaled, her chest tightening. She shook it off, slipping out of her shoes and heading straight for the shower. Maybe hot water would ease the tension coiled in her spine.

The steam filled the small bathroom quickly, clinging to the mirror and fogging the glass. She stepped under the stream, letting the water rush over her skin. It was almost too hot, but she relished the way it scalded, burning away the nerves she carried like an old scar.

She hummed softly, a melody that she didn’t recognize but felt familiar all the same. Her thoughts wandered as the water cascaded over her, but something pulled her back.

A sound.

She froze, water streaming down her face. She strained her ears, her breath catching in her throat.

Nothing.

It was probably nothing. The pipes, maybe. This building wasn’t new, and the plumbing always made strange noises. She shook her head, laughing softly at her paranoia, and returned to her shower.

But the feeling didn’t go away.

She felt it then—the distinct sensation of being watched. Her fingers tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She counted slowly in her head, telling herself she was imagining it, that she was safe. Safe.

The ringing of the doorbell shattered the silence.

She jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. The water continued to pour over her, but the incessant ringing pulled her focus. It didn’t stop.

“Seriously?” she muttered, cutting the water off and grabbing a towel. Wrapping it hastily around herself, she stormed out of the bathroom, her wet feet slapping against the tile floor.

The ringing continued, grating against her nerves.

“Alright, alright!” she yelled, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. She grabbed the towel, wrapped it tightly around herself, irritation bubbling to the surface. The ringing didn’t stop. Again. Again. Over and over, like whoever was behind the door had nothing better to do than torment her.

“Coming!” she yelled, stomping toward the door, her wet feet leaving angry prints on the hardwood.

No one was there.

Just a box.

She blinked, her gaze dropping to the large cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat. There was no note, no markings, nothing to indicate where it came from or who had sent it.

She sighed, irritation flickering through her. Probably Bruce, she thought, stepping forward and dragging the box inside. She left it by the coffee table, her focus already back on her shower. The towel was damp against her skin, and all she wanted was to feel clean and warm again.

By the time she was out of the shower, dressed in an old sweatshirt and leggings, she’d nearly forgotten about the box. She made a cup of tea, settling onto the couch with the remote, flipping through channels.

Everything was dull. Every show, every movie. Nothing held her attention. Her gaze drifted to the box.

It sat there, innocuous yet somehow foreboding.

She hesitated before setting her tea down and kneeling in front of it. The tape peeled away easily, the cardboard flaps opening to reveal its contents.

Her breath caught.

The first thing she saw was the Batgirl suit.

Her old suit, neatly folded, its colors dimmed by time and wear. Beneath it were other items: a small photograph, trinkets she hadn’t seen in years.

She reached for the photo first.

It was a picture of her and Jason. He was grinning, his arm slung around her shoulders, while she was caught mid-laugh. The memory hit her like a wave. She’d teased him relentlessly that day about his messy hair, and he’d retaliated by messing up hers until they were both in a fit of laughter.

"You look like you just rolled out of bed Jaybird," she said with a smirk, poking fun at him.

Jason rolled his eyes but grinned back. "Says the girl who hasn’t combed her hair in days."

She laughed, flipping her own hair over her shoulder dramatically. And just like that, they’d been caught in a moment of unguarded joy.

Jason, ruffled her hair, making it even messier than before. “There. Now you look like me!” he teased.

She gasped in mock horror, instantly reaching up to fix her hair. “What did you do?”

Her fingers trembled as she set the photo down and reached for the next item. A bracelet he’d made for her—clumsy knots of red and green string. She’d worn it for months until it fell apart.

“You like it?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Of course I do,” she’d replied, smiling softly as she accepted the bracelet. It was clumsy, but in that moment, it felt like the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given her.

Then came a note in her handwriting. She remembered writing it, a quick scribble of encouragement before a patrol.

“You’ve got this, Jaybird. Show them what you’re made of.”

“You okay?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft, a rare crack in his usual persona.

She hadn’t answered right away. Instead, she had sat beside him in silence. The hurt from the night before clung to her like a second skin. She hadn’t expected him to do anything—she didn’t need pity. But then, he did something she would never forget.

Without a word, Jason had wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. It wasn’t some grand gesture, nothing theatrical. Just a simple, genuine hug. His cheek had rested against her hair, and for the briefest moment, she let herself feel weak. She let the tears threaten to spill.

“I’m here,” he had whispered, and his voice had been steady, warm. “We’ll get through it. Together.”

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She clutched the note tightly, her chest heaving with silent sobs. The weight of everything she’d buried, everything she’d run from, came crashing down.

She remembered the good moments, the times Jason had made her laugh until her stomach hurt. The way he’d always looked at her, like she was the only person who mattered. The trust in his eyes when she’d told him they could make Bruce proud together.

She wiped her cheeks, but the tears kept coming.

Her gaze drifted back to the box. Something else was in there. Something heavier. She hesitated, her hands trembling as she reached for it.

It was a crowbar.

Bloodstained.

Her breath hitched, and the air seemed to leave the room. She dropped it, scrambling backward, her heart racing.

The shadows in the room seemed to shift, and for the first time, she felt utterly alone.

The phone was cool against her ear as she sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at the opened box on the floor. Bruce answered on the second ring, his voice as steady and deep as she remembered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bruce," she said softly. Her voice cracked despite her best effort to sound normal.

"Y/N." Relief washed over his tone, and she could almost see him leaning back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "I didn’t think you’d call back so soon."

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "I’ve been meaning to. Just... been busy."

There was a pause, the kind that stretched uncomfortably long. Bruce, for all his control, didn’t handle emotional conversations well.

"How’s the family?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Bruce seemed to relax at the shift in focus. "They’re doing well. Dick had taken over Blüdhaven. Tim’s been working on a new case—too much, if you ask me. And Barbara’s focused on her tech projects."

"And Alfred?"

"Still the same. Still trying to make me take a day off. But he missed you. Everyone does." There was a faint smile in his voice now. "How about you? How’s university?"

"It’s good," she replied, twirling a strand of her damp hair. "They say I'm good, if I continue like that I will be a certified doctor."

"I’m proud of you," Bruce said quietly.

Her throat tightened at the sincerity in his words. "Thanks," she murmured. "And Daniel’s great. He’s... he’s good to me."

Bruce didn’t respond immediately, and she could hear the faint hum of the Batcave in the background.

"You’ve built a good life for yourself," he said finally. "But Gotham will always be your home, Y/N. You’ll always have a place here. You’ll always be my daughter."

Her smile faded, and she bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. "I can’t come back, Bruce," she said, her voice trembling. "Not after what I did."

"Y/N..." His voice softened in a way that was rare for him. "It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you both."

She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. "I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself. Jason—" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard.

"Jason wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt," Bruce said firmly. "Neither do I. You didn’t fail him, Y/N. I did."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. She looked at the box on the floor again, her gaze locking onto the crowbar.

"Bruce," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "That box you sent—"

"What box?"

Her stomach dropped. "The one with my Batgirl suit. And... other things." She hesitated, her voice growing unsteady. "There was a crowbar in it, Bruce. It was bloodstained."

"I didn’t send you anything," Bruce said, his tone sharp now. "Y/N, what are you talking about?"

Her heart began to race. "You’re telling me you didn’t send it? You don’t know about the box?"

"No. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The sound of glass shattering made her jump, and her head snapped toward the kitchen.

"Y/N?" Bruce’s voice was urgent, but she barely heard him.

"Something broke," she said, her voice distant. "I’ll call you back."

"Wait—"

She ended the call, her hand trembling as she set the phone down. Her gaze flicked to the crowbar lying on her desk.

Swallowing her fear, she grabbed it, the cold metal heavy in her hand. Slowly, she moved toward the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the floor.

The house was eerily quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards under her weight. She tightened her grip on the crowbar, her pulse hammering in her ears.

When she reached the kitchen, she hesitated, her breath hitching as she peeked around the corner.

The window was open, a chilly breeze fluttering the curtains.

Her eyes darted to the broken mug on the floor and the small, furry figure perched on the counter.

A cat jumped down from the counter, its fur bristling as it hissed at her before darting out the open window.

She exhaled shakily, her knees threatening to give out. She lowered the crowbar, leaning against the counter as her heartbeat gradually slowed.

“Just a cat,” she muttered to herself. “Just a stupid cat.”

But the feeling didn’t leave her.

The sensation of being watched lingered, a prickling at the back of her neck. She glanced around the room again, her grip on the crowbar tightening.

“Stop it,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You’re just imagining things.”

She turned back to the box in the living room. Her mind raced with possibilities. If Bruce hadn’t sent it, then who had?

Joker?

No. It had been years. He had no reason to come after her now. But the thought nagged at her, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

She glanced at the crowbar again, her stomach twisting. She needed to talk to Bruce.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

She felt it before she saw it. The impact of something heavy hitting her, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her vision was distorted, the world around her a wash of blurry shapes and smears. Everything was red—vivid, suffocating red that stained her mind and her skin, pressing down on her like an iron weight.

She was screaming, but the sound wasn’t hers.

She couldn’t breathe. The air was thick, suffocating, and she gasped for it, but it was as if her lungs couldn’t fill. Something—someone—was there, near her. She could hear him, his voice rising above.

His voice.

It was faint at first, but then it became clearer, cutting through the disarray.

“Don’t… don’t… please!”

Jason...

His voice, strained and desperate, barely reaching her through the fog in her mind.

“Please, please don’t... Don’t do this!”

She tried to focus, to clear the haze in her head. But it was so hard. What’s happening? Everything felt so wrong. Was he crying? Was he... begging?

Wait.

Why was he begging? Why was he crying?

His voice broke, and it stabbed her like a knife. Don’t cry, she thought, almost absently. Don’t cry, Jason. It’s not your fault.

He didn’t want her to be hurt.

Her chest tightened at the thought, and her vision flared with red-hot pain.

Why are you crying, Jason?

His voice broke through again, desperate, louder this time.

“Y/N!”

Her pulse stuttered at the sound of her name, raw with agony. She wanted to reach out, but her hands wouldn’t move. The world spun faster, and she couldn’t stop it. The walls around her were closing in.

She tried to focus on him—on his voice—but everything was blurring again. Why was he crying? Why was he… Why was he yelling?

It’s my fault, she thought desperately. I’m the one who did this. I ruined everything.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, everything went still.

She gasped for breath, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her chest constricted, and she tried to scream again, but the world around her was just too far away. The red haze thickened.

And then, everything went black.

She awoke with a start, gasping as though she had been submerged underwater. Her body trembled violently, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving for air.

Her heart pounded in her ears.

What was that?

She sat up in bed, her eyes wide as she tried to steady her breath. She hadn’t had a nightmare like that in so long. She thought she was done with them. But that voice… Jason’s voice, still echoing in her ears. The sound of his crying. The desperation. The guilt.

A soft ringing broke through her daze. The doorbell.

It was raining outside, the soft patter of the storm barely reaching her through the walls.

She stood slowly, wiping the sweat from her brow as she grabbed the crowbar from beside her bed. There was something about the ringing that set her nerves on edge. Something... wrong.

She moved cautiously down the stairs, every step creaking beneath her. Her hand gripped the crowbar tightly, knuckles white. She stopped at the door, staring at the peephole, but saw nothing—just the darkness of the storm.

She swallowed hard and turned the handle, swinging the door open.

Empty.

Her breath escaped in a shaky laugh as she shook her head. She was being paranoid.

Just a mistake. Just the wind. Or maybe a neighbor…

She laughed at herself again, weakly. How stupid could she be?

She started to close the door, her hand gripping the handle, when a sudden force slammed into her.

Her breath was crushed out of her as a hand gripped her throat, yanking her backward with brutal force. The crowbar fell from her hand, clattering uselessly to the floor as she was slammed against the door with such force that the wood shook.

She couldn’t breathe. Her hands flew to her neck, scratching, clawing at the hand that was squeezing the life out of her.

Everything was a blur, her vision fading in and out. But there were two eyes—two wild, unhinged eyes—staring at her through a mask of red. A twisted, maniacal grin was visible beneath the blood-streaked fabric. She gasped, her lungs screaming for air, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break free. She was weightless now, her feet no longer touching the floor as the pressure on her throat intensified.

She kicked out, her feet uselessly struggling to find purchase. Her vision began to dim, a ringing in her ears drowning out the world. Everything was spinning. The edges of her vision were dissolving into darkness.

Is this how it ends?

Her throat tightened, her eyes burning with the effort of holding onto consciousness.

Is this it?

Her thoughts flickered. The coldness of the hand around her neck, the darkness closing in, everything felt too heavy, too wrong. She had no strength left. Her muscles screamed in protest, but they didn’t obey.

Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her sight. Her lungs burned with every desperate, ragged breath.

And then, the grip released.

She crumpled to the floor, gasping for air as her vision swam and her chest heaved.

Through the haze, she looked up, but everything was dark, save for the faint outline of a figure standing above her. She could barely make out the shape of a face, the contours of a body, but there was one thing she saw clearly.

Two eyes.

Green.

Tears filled those eyes, glistening in the dim light, staring at her with an intensity she couldn’t understand.

They were familiar.

But she couldn’t place them.

She blinked, but everything was slipping away.

Her mind was going blank, her body growing colder by the second. The last thing she saw was the figure, the two green eyes... and then, everything went dark again.

Part 2.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[eva105]

I hope... No one minds if I add a vampire hunter D... Okay..?

Me with you guys simping over hot men

[ghoularaki]

tw: fucking machines, yandere, noncon/dubcon, mindbreak, anal, somno, faceless yandere. MDNI.

waking up in a room never in before completely naked didn't scare you as much as you thought it would.

coming to, you were strapped to a leather bench, your ass almost hanging off the end. your ankles were bound to each leg, properly spreading you. wrists tied the same way with no give. laying chest down, your tits were squished against the cold, sleek material. around your waist, a leather strap had you completely immobilized.

you tried to call out but a gag had been shoved into your mouth prior. the room was completely silent and from your limited view, you were alone. lights dimmed down, nothing gave away where you were or why.

under your hips was a thin pillow the same material as the bench, propping them up. squirming around made you realized a tiny vibrator had been strapped to your clit.

"I wouldn't move around too much," A deep, rich voice called from somewhere you couldn't see.

Audible steps ricocheted of the tiled floor. Warm fingers brushed against the skin of your bum. You flinched and whimpered in response.

A bottle uncapping echoed behind you and cold liquid dripped down and hit the cleft of your ass. Your whimpers and wriggling only got more intense.

Those same fingers dipped down and pressed against the ring of muscles of your ass. Swirling the lube around to completely coat you, two fingers breached inside with surprising ease. You don't ever remind your ass ever being this loose and ready as his fingers slipped inside to the furthest knuckle.

He must of prepped you while you were knocked out. you could only assume as you have no clue how you got here. One moment you were walking to your car after a long shift and then woke up here.

Hooking his fingers inside, you groaned as he lifted your hips up higher.

"As I said, I wouldn't move around too much, and keep those hips up unless you want your ass properly broken into."

His words scared you. Your eyebrows tented as you attempted to look over your shoulder to see what he meant. You couldn't move an inch. Satisfied with his warning, his long appendages left you with a squelch.

The sound of something heavy being dragged closer filled the space he was before. You then felt something bulbous tap against your cunt. From this angle, whatever it was was a little bit too high for your hole. Curling your hips up more, the head slipped to right outside your pussy. You were have to keep your hips curved up and presented.

"That's a girl good, you're getting it now," The voice beamed. "Let's get this started."

The vibrator buzzed to life, unrelentingly rubbing your clit. You cried out at the immediate high setting. It borderlined between tickling and hurting. Thrashing, you begged, "Too much, too much," through your gag, but it was extremely muffled.

"Too much?"

You rapidly nodded, tears already blurring your vision. Sagging your head against the bench in relief, he turned down the settings two notches. The vibrations more pleasurable and not as intense.

Whining, your hips wiggled at the sensations. As you moved, you remembered what was put behind you. He must have too.

A loud, mechanical whirling of machine being turned on buzzed in your eardrums. Slowly what was attached to said machine sunk its way into your pussy.

The head was fat and round, on the edge of too big. It popped inside of you with some resistance causing you to gasp. The machine had no regard as it forced itself further in, stretching you to the point you were sure you were going to be torn in two. It stopped at what you thought was to the hilt. The dildo pulled away so only head sat inside. Thrusting back in with such force the air left you, it pushed more in than before.

You winced when the head hit your cervix, but it still had more to give. Crying out, the machine lunged until you felt a pair of silicone balls clap against the vibrator. The still buzzing bullet sat snug against your clit as the dildo was shoved as far as it could go and sat there.

Filled to the brim as your poor clit was continuously abused, your mind blanked, unable to think. You moaned as the cock pulled back half way and then slowly thrust back. As if sensing you were prepped enough, the machine was kicked up several notches. The slow prodding turned to rapid pounding, fuck you fast and hard.

The cock was so large there was no way for it not to hit the spot inside you repeatedly in quick succession. Your toes curled when the vibrator sped up. In an embarrassing amount of time you were forced of the edge. Your whorish moans were muffled by the gag.

Though the machine did not stop. Even past your orgasm, it kept fucking into you at the same pace. Nothing slowed down no matter how much you begged into the ball gag shoved in your mouth. Sloppy, wet sounds filled the room from your overused cunny.

How you wanted to rest your aching hips but you kept them perched high in fear of the cock ramming deep in your sloppy cunt would breach your ass. You don't think you could handle it. Your pussy barely could as is.

Tumbling over the edge once more, your hips wiggled and thrashed so much the pillow under you started to shift. Fear gripped you as it slipped further away causing your hips to sink. Tilting your hips forward in an attempt to keep the pillow up, only caused the silicone to punch your cervix at uncomfortable angle. Squirming away from the pain, the pillow fell from under you.

In desperation, you lifted your hips as much as you could, but the vibrator kicking up against your clit had you slump down. The cock bent, your pussy clinging onto it.

The thrusts slowed down once more. It leisurely drew out of your clenching walls until the head departed with a pop! Your cunt quickly missed being filled and you whined at being empty.

No longer propped up, the head pushed into your other hole. As if struck by lightning you bolted up to keep it away from your ass, but it was too late. Wiggling into your ring of muscles, the head snapped into your ill prepped hole. You screamed as it forced further inside until it was half way.

Your eyes rolled back as you couldn't handle the juxtaposition of the pain of being stretched and the pleasure of bullet against your clit.

"Aww you poor thing," The voice cooed, "I did warn you. Since you were doing so well, I will be lenient."

And by lenient he meant pouring more cool lube into your burning hole. Honestly, it did help. It slid inside you a lot more easily and didn't hiccup and drag against your dry walls.

Just as you got used to the lazy thrusts, the tempo was upped once more. You screeched as it punched deep your ass, surely breaking something deep in you. If you weren't broken in before, you surely were now.

Unable to do nothing more than take it, all the tension is you lulled out. You accepted as you tumbled into coming again. You clamped around the cock as your pussy fluttered at the emptiness.

Time became nonexistent as you were fucked into coming again and again until the edges around your vision blurred. Sucking on the gag, you could only meekly whine when you came for the umpteenth time.

Closing your eyes, you hung loose as the thrusts slowed back down to a slow pace as the buzzing of the vibe slugglishly tickled your clit until it was barely there.

Wetness coated your thighs and the bench under you. You were laid in a puddle of your shame. Nothing stopped as the voice approached.

"Rest, darling, you need it. I want to see if I can hear those pretty sounds while you sleep."

[limyted]

" OH THE THINGS YOU DO TO ME. "

Yandere Best-friend x GN! Reader

Tw: obsessive yandere, isolating the reader, nsfw/suggestive, noncon, THE CHARACTERS ARE IN THEIR LAST YEAR OF HIGHSCHOOL MAKING THEM 18+ PLEASE.

Yandere Best-friend! Who you met in middle school when your teacher had made assigned seats and eventually he started talking to you, at first you were hesitant,, but the more you talked and slowly you didn't realise you guys become more than "class friends."

Yandere Best-friend! Who had made your other friends cut you off, threatening them to leave HIS best-friend alone because why do you need more than just him. He is more than enough for you. By Highschool it was just you and him<3.

Yandere Best-friend! Who shows up to every single of your events, whether it's sports, a club meeting whatever it is he was there.

Yandere Best-Friend!,, In highschool they had been a tension in your friendship, that EVERYONE had noticed but you guys or maybe just you.

Yandere Best-friend! Who started to guess you were touch starved, whenever you let him play with you hair, you'd whimper softly. (He abused your soft spot for him)

!!NSFW//SUGGESTIVE!!

You guys were cuddling how you guys had gotten to this point one moment you guys were studying and then your break had turned to having your legs intertwined his hand around your waist and your back against his chest and you sleeping.

Even though you guys do this quite often he still couldn't help getting so hard at your form he knew you were a heavy sleeper so he used that to his advantage. His hand on your waist, as he lightly presses himself against you, he'd imagined you so many times, the way you would moan his name, what sound you would make when he buried himself so deep into you, he bucked his hips into yours, lightly kissing your neck and back, as he took in your scent his thrust got rougher and more desperate.

His quiet moans turning into loud and breathy moans, whispering your name as if a prayer. His mind wandering how you would feel around all his girth. His hand around your waist tightening as a wet spot forming on his pants and his moans filled the room.

"Oh the things you do to me."

[fangdokja]

🔞When he says you're his treasure, he means it—he’ll spill blood, even yours, to keep it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped aboard a ruthless Spanish pirate's ship, your defiance ignites his sadistic obsession, turning every moment into a battle of submission and survival. He’s your captor, your tormentor, and dangerously close to becoming the only one who truly owns you.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Spanish Pirate Captain x Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - El Capitán's Tesoro

♡ Word Count. 8,115

♡ TW. non-con, rape, blood play, gun play, degradation, humiliation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, bondage, groping, overstimulation, gagging, forced oral, psychological torment, fingering, public nudity, public humiliation, objectification, forced handjob, mature language, fingering, choking / breath play, biting, slut shaming, bodily injury, physical assault and violence

You find yourself bound to the mast of a pirate ship, the salty sea breeze caressing your bruised and trembling form as you struggle futilely against the rough ropes that dig into your wrists.

His dark eyes, filled with a possessive hunger that sends a shiver down your spine, bore into yours as he approaches you with a swagger that screams of power and confidence. "Mi querida," he purrs in a thick Spanish accent, his calloused hand caressing your cheek, "you're mine now, aren't you?"

You spit defiance at his booted feet, the taste of his earlier punishment still bitter in your mouth.

The crew's leers and sneers are a stark reminder of your new reality. The pirate, a man whose very presence seems to command the sea itself, chuckles darkly. "Ah, so the little bird has fight left in her. That will make this all the more… entertaining."

His grip tightens, a silent promise of the horrors to come. "Now, let's see how much you're worth," he murmurs, a sadistic glint in his gaze as he lifts your chin to expose your neck to his hungry mouth.

The world around you blurs as his teeth graze your skin, and you realize with a sickening jolt that there is no escape from the dark, twisted desires of this scoundrel pirate with a penchant for pain and a thirst for your submission.

The pirate's rough fingers trace the line of your jaw, his hot breath fanning against your ear as he whispers, "You will learn to beg for mercy, to crave the very touch that brings you torment."

His words, spoken with a disturbing affection, make your stomach churn.

You've heard tales of men like him, those who find pleasure in the suffering of others, and now you're face-to-face with one. You clench your teeth and glare at him, your eyes filled with the fire of a thousand suns.

He smirks, amused by your spirit, and steps away, leaving you to the merciless gaze of his crew. The sea stretches out endlessly, a cruel and indifferent witness to your plight.

He barks an order to his men, and the ship's deck comes alive with activity. Rough hands grab at your bound body, stripping you of your stolen armor and clothing, leaving you exposed to the lewd stares and catcalls.

The pirate watches with a smoldering intensity, his eyes never leaving yours.

Each piece of clothing that falls away feels like a piece of your dignity being torn from you, but you refuse to let them see you break. Instead, you glare coldly in the face of the nearest pirate, the act earning you a vicious slap that sends a burst of stars across your vision.

The pirate captain laughs, his deep chuckles resonating through the air as he says, "Ah, she's a feisty one. I like it."

The crew drags you before him, your body trembling with a mix of fear and rage. He circles you like a shark, his eyes devouring every inch of your exposed flesh. His hand snakes out, caressing your bare shoulder before sliding down to your chest, his thumb flicking your nipple.

You bite back a scream, your body betraying you by responding despite your desire to remain stoic. He leans in, his breath hot and moist against your skin, "You will call me 'Capitán'," he whispers, "and you will learn to obey, or suffer the consequences."

His hand trails lower, down your torso, and you feel his fingertips dance dangerously close to your most intimate places.

"No," you snarl through clenched teeth, your body a live wire of defiance.

He smirks, the gesture sending a chill down your spine. "We'll see about that." He steps back, his eyes never leaving yours as he gestures to his crew.

Two burly pirates step forward, each grabbing an ankle and wrenching your legs apart. The ropes bite into your skin as you're spread wide, your vulnerability on full display. "Take her below deck," he orders, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "and make sure she's… prepared for me."

The pirates hoist you up, their grip painfully tight as they carry you to the bowels of the ship.

As you're hauled away, you catch one last glimpse of the pirate captain, his eyes darkening with anticipation, tongue flicking put to lick his lips hungrily. He's not a man to be trifled with, that much is clear.

In the cramped, dimly lit quarters below, the pirates throw you onto a filthy cot, the stench of unwashed men and stale ale assaulting your senses. They tie your ankles to the wooden frame, stretching you out until you're taut and exposed.

You struggle, but your efforts are met with cruel laughter and painful slaps that bruise your skin.

One of them leers down at you, a gap-toothed grin splitting his face. "The Capitán will have you begging for his cock," he sneers, his voice thick with lust.

You grit your teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cower.

Your eyes dart around the room, searching for any means of escape or a weapon to defend yourself with, but all you find is a stale, dank mattress and a few discarded articles of clothing.

The pirates don't seem to care about your resistance, seeing it only as a challenge to be met with increased force.

They leave you there, alone with your thoughts and fears, the muffled sounds of the ship's activities above serving as a grim reminder of your new reality.

Minutes feel like hours as you lay there, the wood beneath you digging into your back with each roll of the ship. Your breaths come in short, sharp gasps, your heart hammering against your ribs like a caged bird desperate to flee.

The door creaks open, and you tense, expecting the pirate captain to make good on his threat.

Instead, a familiar young cabin boy, about your age, tentatively steps inside. His eyes widen as he takes in your naked, bound form, and he stammers an apology before setting a tray of food and water beside you.

"D-don't worry, miss," he whispers, his voice barely audible, "I'll come back to… to help you later." He quickly retreats, leaving you with a flicker of hope that is almost immediately extinguished by the heavy thud of the door closing behind him.

The food is barely palatable, but you force yourself to eat and drink, knowing you'll need your strength. Your thoughts race, trying to piece together a plan of escape or at least a way to resist the inevitable. The creaking of the ship's timbers and the distant laughter of the pirates above serve as a grim soundtrack to your growing despair.

Suddenly, the door swings open again, and the pirate captain strides in, his boots thudding against the floorboards with a confidence that sends a cold shiver through your body.

He's shed his outer layers, revealing a chest covered in dark, swirling tattoos that ripple with each step he takes towards you. "Ah, mi querida," he says, his voice a dark caress, "I see you've had some time to think about your new life."

You spit at him again, glaring coldly, the gesture one of pure spite and defiance. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, his smirk never faltering. "Such spirit," he murmurs, leaning down to trace your collarbone with a finger, "it's a shame it will be broken."

He reaches for the ropes holding your wrists, loosening them slightly before sliding his hand down to cup your breast. You flinch, your body arching away from his touch despite your best efforts to remain stoic.

"Don't touch me," you growl, your voice hoarse with rage. His grip tightens, his thumb brushing over your nipple, watching with sick satisfaction as it pebbles against his calloused skin. "You will learn," he says, his voice a dark promise, "to crave my touch."

He stands, his eyes never leaving yours as he strips off his shirt, revealing a body that is a testament to years of hard labor and ruthless living. His muscles are like chiseled marble, each flex and movement a silent threat of the power he holds over you.

The pirate captain, or 'Capitán' as you're now forced to think of him, moves closer, the scent of him – a mix of salt, sweat, and something darkly alluring – fills your nostrils.

You can't help but feel a flicker of fearful arousal, a treacherous response to his dominance that only fuels your hatred for him. He leans in, his lips hovering over yours, the stubble of his beard scraping against your skin.

"Call me 'mi amo'," he murmurs, the words a command and a promise of possession, "and beg for my cock."

He kisses you then, hard and brutal, forcing his tongue past your clenched teeth. You bite down, tasting the metallic tang of his blood, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, his grip on your breast tightens, his other hand tangling in your hair to hold you in place as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dueling with yours.

You struggle against the ropes, trying to push him away, but your body's response betrays you. Despite the horror of the situation, a part of you is drawn to the fire in his touch, the raw power in his embrace. He breaks the kiss, his eyes burning with a hunger that makes you feel both terrified and strangely alive. He smirks, knowing he's getting to you, and says, "You're going to be a delight to break."

He steps back, giving you a moment to breathe, to gather your thoughts and your dwindling resolve. He paces the room, his eyes never leaving you as he speaks, "You see, my sweet enemy, you are now my property. You will serve me, pleasure me, and do as I say, or you will feel the wrath of the sea in ways you can't even imagine." He pauses, stroking the leather belt at his waist.

"But first, let us get acquainted." He moves closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the harshness of his words.

You try to turn your head away, but he grips your chin firmly, forcing you to look at him. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes raking over your exposed body with a hunger that makes your stomach clench.

"And so very… delicate." His thumb presses against your bottom lip, pushing it down to expose your teeth. "But I suspect there is a feral creature beneath this pretty exterior, just waiting to be unleashed."

The pirate captain's hand trails down your body, his calloused fingertips leaving a trail of fire across your skin. You fight the urge to whimper, instead focusing on the rage burning in your chest. He reaches your bound wrists and loosens the ropes a bit more, his eyes never leaving yours. "Let's see if you can be a good girl for me," he says, his voice a seductive purr that makes you want to scream.

He takes your hand in his, bringing it to his waist, guiding your trembling fingers to the fastening of his breeches. "Undo these for me."

You hesitate for a moment, your eyes flashing with defiance. But the weight of his gaze is too much, and you know that resisting now would only bring more pain. You fumble with the fastening, your heart racing as the material falls away, revealing the heavy outline of his cock beneath his breeches. His smirk widens as he watches you, the anticipation in his eyes a stark contrast to the fear in yours.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with dark amusement. He takes your hand in his, guiding it to the bulge in his pants. "Now, stroke me."

His grip is firm, almost painful, as he forces you to explore him. You feel his length, his heat, his power, and your stomach turns. But you do as he says, your hand moving with a jerky obedience that feels like a betrayal to every fiber of your being.

His eyes never leave yours as he watches your hand move over his cock, his expression a mix of pleasure and sadistic enjoyment. The fabric of his breeches is rough against your palm, the evidence of his arousal growing more and more pronounced. You bite your lip, trying not to let the tears fall as you perform this degrading act. The cabin seems to shrink around you, the weight of his gaze and his grip on your wrist crushing you beneath their intensity.

"Faster," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver of revulsion down your spine. You try to ignore the way your own body responds, the traitorous wetness between your legs that you know he can feel.

"Show me how much you want this." You know it's a lie, but the need to survive forces your hand to obey. The strokes become quicker, your breaths shallower, as he watches with a predatory gaze that seems to see right through your soul.

But, the Capitán's patience wanes, and with a growl of frustration, he yanks you down from the cot, forcing your knees to hit the wooden planks of the cabin floor with a jarring thud.

"Too slow and tame," he snaps, the gentle facade of his earlier seduction gone, replaced by the cold, hard edge of his dominance.

His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're staring up at him with a mix of fear and anger. He reaches down, freeing his thick, swollen cock from his breeches, the tip glistening with precum. "Take it," he orders, pushing it against your parted lips.

The pirate captain's eyes narrow with irritation as you struggle to turn your head away from his advancing cock. His grip on your hair tightens, yanking your head back even further, and you feel his shaft graze your cheek, sticky with precum.

He grunts in frustration and leans over, using the weight of his body to keep you in place. One of his hands wraps around the base of his cock, aiming the tip at your mouth again, while the other grips your chin to force your mouth open. You fight against him, your teeth clenched and your body trembling, but his strength is too much.

With a snarl, he thrusts his cock into your mouth, pushing past your teeth and down your throat.

You gag, your eyes watering and your throat constricting around his intrusion, but he doesn't relent. "You will learn to take me, all of me," he grunts, his voice thick with lust as he starts to fuck your mouth.

You feel his cock hit the back of your throat, the feeling of choking panic rising as you struggle to breathe around the thick, pulsing shaft. Your hands come up instinctively, trying to push him away, but he's too strong.

His hand leaves your chin, instead gripping the back of your head to hold you in place as he starts to fuck your face with brutal, punishing strokes. You can feel the veins in his cock throbbing against your tongue, and the taste of his salt fills your mouth.

You try to resist, to keep from gagging, but it's no use. His grip is like iron, and your body is his to use as he sees fit.

"Swallow," he commands, his voice harsh and unforgiving.

You do as he says, trying to keep the bile from rising as he continues to pump into your mouth. The sounds of his pleasure, the wet, obscene noises of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth, echo in the small cabin, mixing with your muffled cries of protest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his praise a mockery as he continues to use your mouth. You feel the tension in his body, the way his cock swells even more against your tongue.

He's going to come, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Your eyes water, your throat burns, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. His grip tightens, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he nears his climax.

"Look at me," he growls, and you force your eyes to meet his, the defiance in yours unwavering despite the fear and humiliation you feel. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown with desire as he watches you, his expression one of triumph.

As he reaches his peak, he pulls out abruptly, and you gasp for air, your mouth and throat aching. He grunts, and you feel the hot spurt of his cum across your face and neck, the sticky fluid mixing with your saliva and tears.

"Swallow," he commands again, and you do, the taste of him bitter on your tongue.

He releases you, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva and his seed. You fall back onto the floor, your body trembling with the aftermath of his assault.

But, it isn’t over.

The pirate captain's grin widens as he watches your reaction to the grisly 'gift'. He knew about the cabin boy's attempt to help you, and he's made an example of what happens to those who dare to defy him.

────────────

The severed head strikes your face with a sickening thud, the weight of it heavier than you'd ever imagined. Sticky, warm blood splatters across your skin, soaking into your hair and dripping in thick, viscous rivulets down your neck. The impact forces you backward slightly, and the head bounces off your shoulder before landing on the floor with a wet squelch.

The cabin fills with the putrid stench of death—the cloying, metallic tang of freshly spilled blood mingling with the sour odor of decay. Chunks of gore and strands of sinew still cling to the ragged, torn neck, where the pirate captain’s blade had severed it with merciless precision. Bone fragments glint faintly in the dim light, jagged and exposed like a grotesque reminder of the brutality that birthed this grisly gift.

You feel the congealed blood smear across your lips, the taste coppery and nauseating as it mingles with your tears. A thick glob of something unidentifiable—a piece of flesh or fat—clings stubbornly to your cheek, while a splatter of crimson has found its way into your mouth, the taste of death an unwelcome invader.

The lifeless eyes of the boy, once filled with fear and determination, now stare up at you, glassy and unseeing. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream, blood caking his lips and teeth. A patch of his scalp, partially scalped during the beheading, hangs loosely, revealing raw, glistening flesh beneath.

Above it all, the Capitán's cruel laughter rings out, his grin widening as he takes in the horror etched across your face. "A fitting fate for a traitor, don’t you think?" he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He kneels beside you, his fingers reaching out to smear the blood across your face like some grotesque war paint. The sticky warmth clings to you, a visceral reminder of his control, his power, and his complete disregard for human life.

The distant sound of pirates outside the cabin cheer seems amplified now, their laughter a cacophony of depravity that fills your ears and fuels your anger.

"So, mi querida," the Capitán says, his voice low and menacing, "you thought you could escape me, did you?" He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to look at him.

His eyes are cold and hard, the earlier playfulness gone, replaced by a steely determination to break you. "You see what happens to those who try to help you?" His grip tightens, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood and cum that already mar your skin.

You remain silent, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and fear. The cabin boy's sacrifice won't be in vain; you'll find a way to honor his courage.

The pirate captain seems to read your thoughts, a smug look crossing his face. "Ah, still so defiant. It's what I love most about you."

He releases your hair, letting your head fall back onto the disheveled pillow. "But fear not, I have something special planned for you tonight. Something that will truly show you who's in charge here."

The pirate captain's usually well-hidden jealousy flares like a beacon in the night, and his eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of the cabin boy's lifeless head on the floor. He wipes a stray drop of blood from your cheek, his gaze lingering on your tear-stained skin. "You see," he murmurs, "you belong to me now. And I don't share."

The Capitán's words are like a knife twisting in your gut, the realization of the cabin boy's fate hitting you like a physical blow.

Yet, you remain silent, your eyes never leaving his.

His anger and jealousy are palpable, a living, breathing entity in the room that coils around you like a snake.

He grabs the head by the hair, lifting it to your face so that the dead eyes seem to stare accusingly into yours. "Look at him," he says, his voice a snarl of possession, "he thought he could take what's mine, but now he watches as I claim you." He places the severed head next to the pillow beside you.

You feel his weight shift on the bed as he moves to straddle you, his cock still hard and demanding. His hands roam your body, his touch no longer gentle but possessive and bruising.

You struggle against him, trying to push him away, but your bound wrists are no match for his brute strength. "You will learn your place," he says, his voice a dark promise as he reaches down to spread your legs wider. "And if it's the last thing I do, I will make you scream my name."

The pirate captain's hand slides between your thighs, his rough fingers finding your clit and pressing down hard. You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the involuntary moan that threatens to escape as he starts to rub you in slow, deliberate circles.

His thumb circles your clit, each pass sending a bolt of pleasure through your body despite the horror of the situation.

"You're so wet for me," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, "even when you're crying for that worthless damn boy." His coldblooded rage is a living thing, a beast that feeds on your fear and humiliation.

You want to spit in his face, to tell him that you're not wet for him, that you'd never want a monster like him.

But your body seems to have a mind of its own, and the slickness between your legs is undeniable proof of your traitorous arousal.

He notices your struggle and sneers, his hand moving away from your clit to grip the base of his cock.

"Open your mouth," he commands, and you know what's coming next.

You do as you're told, the taste of his cum still fresh on your tongue. He guides his cock back into your mouth, his eyes boring into yours as he starts to fuck your face again, harder and more punishing than before.

The tears fall freely now, mixing with the blood and sweat that already coat your skin. You feel his hands on your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples, the pain a stark contrast to the pleasure he's coaxing from your pussy.

He's not even trying to be gentle, his actions driven by his need to dominate and control.

And as much as you hate him for it, a part of you responds, your body arching into his touch despite your silent protests.

The Capitán's eyes gleam with dark excitement at your silent rebellion, and he takes your refusal to acknowledge his dominance as a personal challenge.

He pulls his cock from your mouth, the wet sound of it leaving your lips echoing in the tense silence of the cabin. He stands up, his erection jutting out from his breeches like a weapon of war. You can see the pulse in the thick vein that runs along the underside, a testament to his desire.

"You're going to wish you'd been more obedient, my sweet," he says, his voice low and filled with malice.

He strides to his desk and pulls open a drawer, withdrawing a pistol that gleams dully in the candlelight. He checks the chambers, ensuring it's loaded, then turns back to you with a wicked smile. "This will be your lesson in obedience," he declares, striding back to the bed.

He cocks the pistol, the metallic click echoing through the cabin. You feel a cold bead of fear trickle down your spine as he presses the cold, hard muzzle against your clit. "Suck me," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You know what he's planning, the horror of it all making bile rise in your throat. But you also know that resisting now will only make it worse.

With a resigned anger, you open your mouth and take him back in, the taste of his earlier release still coating your tongue. He groans in pleasure as he starts to fuck your mouth with renewed vigor, his hips rocking in time with the strokes of your hand. You can feel the pistol's muzzle moving against your sensitive flesh, the pressure building as he becomes more and more agitated.

"Look at me," he snarls, his hand tightening in your hair as he forces you to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild, a mix of anger and lust that makes you feel like prey caught in a predator's snare.

"You're going to swallow me whole, and then you're going to take this," he says, pausing to press the gun harder against your clit. "And you're going to beg for it."

You suck harder, trying to ignore the cold steel pressing against your sensitive flesh.

You know that if you don't give him what he wants, if you don't submit to his twisted games, the consequences will be dire.

And yet, a part of you clings to your defiance, refusing to give in to his sadistic desires.

"Look at me," he repeats, his voice a harsh demand. "Look at me when I fuck your whore mouth."

You glare up at him, the hatred in your eyes unmistakable.

But you don't look away.

You can't.

His cock fills your mouth, stretching your lips and jaw as he takes what he wants without mercy.

The pistol presses harder against your clit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat building between your legs.

He's going to do it.

He's going to fuck you with it while you suck him off, and there's nothing you can do to stop him.

With a snarl of triumph, the Capitán pulls back, the head of his cock popping free of your mouth with an obscene sound.

He lines up the pistol with your entrance, the muzzle slick with your juices from his earlier touch. "Beg," he says, his voice low and demanding. "Fucking beg for it."

You don’t. You’ve had enough of this torment!

The moment you try to fight back, thrashing and squirming like a cornered animal, the cold steel of the pistol is replaced by a searing pain in your thigh.

You scream around his cock, your body arching in agony as the bullet tears through your flesh.

The cabin boy's headless body beside your pillow seems to mock you, a silent reminder of what happens to those who dare to defy the pirate captain.

"Ah, such a spirited little whore," he chuckles, his voice thick with sadistic pleasure.

He digs his fingers into your injured flesh, making you scream in agony, the vibrations making him moan in triumph. He then slowly pulls the pistol out of you, the sound of your blood and juices mixing with a wet pop that makes your stomach churn.

He wipes the blood from the muzzle with the corner of the bed sheet, his eyes never leaving yours. "I told you I wouldn't kill you. Yet," he adds, a warning in his tone that sends a fresh wave of fear crashing over you.

He leans in, his cock still rock-hard and slick with your saliva. His free hand wraps around the shaft, stroking himself as he watches you squirm and cry out in pain.

"Now, let's try this again, shall we?" He presses the gun back against your clit, the threat of another shot clear in his eyes.

You're trembling, the pain from your leg radiating through your entire body, but you know that submitting is the only way to survive this nightmare.

"P-please," you manage to croak out, the word sticking in your throat like a shard of glass.

His smile widens, and you feel the pressure of the gun increase. "Beg for it, bitch," he whispers, his eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight.

With a shudder, you do as he commands, your voice hoarse and filled with pain. "Please, fuck me with it," you murmur, the words barely audible.

The pirate captain's chuckle is the only response before he lines the pistol up with your entrance, the cold metal pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You feel your body clench and jolt away in reflex, but his hand on the back of your head keeps you in place.

"That's better," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal as he starts to slide the pistol into you.

You bite down hard on your lip, trying to hold back the screams that threaten to tear from your throat.

The pain is unbearable, a white-hot agony that makes your vision swim as the barrel stretches you impossibly wide. His eyes never leave yours, the triumph in his gaze making it clear that he's enjoying every second of your torment.

You feel his hand move to the base of the pistol, his thumb pressing against your clit as he starts to fuck you with the gun. "Look how much you want it," he says, his voice a low purr that makes your skin crawl.

"How much you need me to fill you up, to make you scream." The pain is unreal, but so is the pressure building inside you. Your body betrays you once again, your hips moving in time with his thrusts despite the agony.

The Capitán's smile broadens into a sadistic grin as he watches you succumb to his will, your body betraying you as it responds to his depraved advances. He thrusts the pistol in and out of your pussy, the wet, obscene sounds of your forced submission filling the cabin.

His thumb continues to tease your clit, his movements becoming more insistent and rough. "You're such a good little bitch," he murmurs, his voice a caress that sends shivers down your spine despite the horror of the situation.

You bite your lip hard to keep from crying out as he continues to fuck you with the gun. Each thrust sends waves of pain and pleasure through your body, a toxic mix that you know will only serve to further ensnare you in his twisted game.

The blood from your leg soaks the bed, a stark crimson against the white sheets, but he seems unfazed by your pain.

If anything, it seems to excite him more, his strokes becoming harder and faster.

As the pirate captain continues to fuck you with the pistol, your body reaches its breaking point.

The pain in your leg is a dull throb compared to the agonizing pleasure he's wringing from your body, and you can't hold back the screams anymore.

You arch your back, pushing the gun deeper into yourself, desperate for the release that you know is coming. Your cries of pain and pleasure mingle, the sounds of your body being violated by the cold, hard metal echoing in the cabin.

The Capitán's eyes light up with victory as he sees you give in to his control.

He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a brutal kiss as he continues to use the gun on you, his tongue invading your mouth as his cock does the same.

He licks the tears from your face, his own passion mixing with your pain as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

"Mi vida, mi tesoro," he murmurs, his voice a dark symphony of lust and possession.

You moan against his mouth, unable to stop your body's reaction to the mix of pain and pleasure.

He pulls away, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watches you squirm and beg. "Look at you," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. "You're mine now, body and soul."

He continues to thrust the gun into you, the rhythm growing more erratic as he nears his own climax. "You're going to come for me," he commands, his voice low and intense. "You're going to scream my fucking name."

Your eyes squeeze shut as the pressure builds, the pain from your leg forgotten in the face of the overwhelming sensations.

You hate him, you want to fight him, but your body responds to his touch like it's been programmed to do so.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, and you know that when you fall, there will be no turning back.

With a final, desperate effort, you push against the pistol, the muzzle sliding into you one last time before you shatter, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm and screams.

The pirate captain laughs, his voice a dark, triumphant sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He pulls the gun out of you with a wet, obscene sound, his eyes never leaving yours.

"There it is," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "My beautiful little slut, coming for me like the breeding bitch you are."

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, the gesture almost tender, a stark contrast to the horror of the situation.

"Look what you've done to yourself," he murmurs, his voice a silken threat.

He pulls out the gun, your cum mixing with your blood, and wipes the barrel off with the bed sheet. "You're so eager to please me, aren't you?" He slides the pistol back into his pants, the metal still warm from your body heat.

You lie there, trembling and broken, the agony of your leg and the overwhelming sense of violation washing over you in waves.

The pirate captain leans over you, his breath hot and rank as he whispers in your ear, "Now, let's see if you can scream for me without that pesky little thing in your pussy."

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back until you're staring into his triumphant gaze. His other hand snakes down to your clit, pinching and twisting it with a cruel precision that has you crying out in pain.

"That's it," he coos, his grip tightening, "scream for me, mi vida. Let them all hear how much you love it."

His fingers continue to torment you, the pain unbearable and yet, your body's traitorous response is unmistakable. The pirate's eyes gleam with excitement as he feels you growing wetter, the slickness of your arousal making his movements easier.

You fight against the ropes binding you, the need to escape this nightmare overwhelming.

But with each painful stroke of his fingers, your body responds, your hips bucking involuntarily.

"You like it rough, don't you, slutty bitch?" He laughs, the sound echoing around the cabin, sending chills down your spine.

His hand moves to the wound in your leg, the blood sticky under his calloused touch. He squeezes, and the pain is like a knife twisting in your flesh.

You try to scream, but it's muffled by the gag he's immediately shoved into your mouth.

He's enjoying this, the sadistic glint in his eyes growing brighter as he watches you suffer.

"You're going to come again," he promises, his voice dark and seductive. "And this time, it's going to be for me, and only me."

He reaches down and unbinds your legs, tossing the ropes aside. You kick out at him, trying to connect with any part of his body, but he's too fast, too experienced in the art of subjugation.

He catches your ankle and pins it to the bed, his grip like iron. "You want to fight me, baby?" he purrs, his free hand moving to trace the bullet wound in your leg. "Let's see how much you can fucking take."

With a sadistic smirk, he presses his thumb into the fresh wound, making you gasp and buck against him. He uses the leverage to push you down into the mattress, his weight crushing the breath from your lungs.

"Beg me for more," he whispers, his hand moving to cover your mouth, muffling your screams.

You want to bite him, to make him feel the same pain he's inflicting on you, but all that comes out are muffled cries of agony.

"Say it," he growls, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes you feel like you're staring into the abyss. "Beg me for more, and I'll give it to you."

His hand moves from your mouth to your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your air, making you panic.

Your eyes widen in terror, and you feel your body respond again, the sickening mix of pain and pleasure sending you spiraling towards another climax.

You try to shake your head, but the pressure on your neck doesn't allow for much movement.

The world starts to go dark around the edges, the pain from your leg a distant memory as the need to breathe overwhelms you. "P-please," you gasp through the gag, the word barely a whisper, but it seems to be enough for him. He releases his grip just enough for you to drag in a lungful of air, his smile never leaving his lips.

The pirate captain's sadistic smile widens as he pulls the gag from your mouth, tossing it aside with a wet slap.

His eyes are dark with desire, and he leans in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that leaves no doubt about his intentions. You can taste the salt of your own tears on his lips, the bitter tang of fear and despair mixing with the sweetness of his victory.

His hand moves to your throat, his thumb stroking the spot where he'd just been choking you, a gentle caress that feels almost loving despite the cruelty of his actions.

"You're going to beg me to fuck you, my sweet little bitch," he murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot and heavy with lust. "You're going to scream for it, like the promiscuous cum dump you are."

His hand moves from your throat to your clit, his thumb pressing down with a firmness that's just shy of pain. You whimper, your body betraying you as it responds to his touch despite the horror of what's happening.

With a growl of triumph, he positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your bruised and swollen entrance.

You try to close your legs, but he's too strong, his hands pushing them apart with ease. "Look at how eager you are," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction as he pushes into you. "Fucking soaking all for me."

You whimper as he fills you, his thick cock stretching you in a way that's almost too much to bear.

He's rough, his movements punishing as he fucks you with a ferocity that matches the storm raging outside. His teeth graze your neck, nipping and sucking as he whispers degrading names into your ear.

"Mi puta," he murmurs, his voice a dark symphony of lust and possession. "You're going to come for me, aren't you?" His grip on your throat tightens, the pressure increasing with each thrust.

The Capitán's cock slams into you with a ferocity that seems fueled by his possessive rage.

Each brutal thrust sends waves of agony through your bruised body, making your injuries from the pistol's earlier assault throb in time with the pounding of your heart.

You feel your body stretch and accommodate him, despite the pain, your pussy clenching around his thick length as he fucks you with a primal hunger that's as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

The cabin seems to shake with each impact, the headboard slamming against the wall as if it's trying to break free from the depraved scene unfolding on the bed.

With each powerful thrust, you feel your body giving in to the inescapable pleasure that he's wringing from you, despite the pain and fear.

Your eyes meet his, a silent scream of defiance trapped within them, but his gaze is unyielding, a stormy sea of lust and jealousy that seems to consume everything in its path.

He grunts, his muscles bulging as he fucks you harder, his hips slapping against your bruised thighs. You can't help but whimper, your body a canvas for his depraved artistry.

The cabin's walls seem to close in around you, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and sex.

"Look at me," he snarls, his grip on your neck tightening, his eyes boring into yours. "Remember who fucking owns this tight little pussy. Me. You’re my fucking bitch. Damn mine!"

His words are like a whip cracking in the air, cutting through your thoughts. You want to hate him, to fight him, but the need for release is too strong.

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the screams that threaten to spill forth as much as you can. But he knows, he can feel it in the way your pussy clenches around his cock, in the desperate way your body arches into his touch.

The pirate captain's cock stretches you to your limits, his relentless pounding pushing into you with a ferocity that borders on savagery.

The pain is a living, pulsing thing, a beast that feeds on your fear and despair, but the dark, twisted part of you that you hate to admit craves his touch.

He grunts and growls above you, his eyes never leaving yours as he fucks you into the mattress, his massive cock driving deep into your trembling body. The cabin walls seem to pulse with the force of his thrusts, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room, painting the scene in a hellish, erotic tableau.

"You're mine," he whispers, his voice a mix of lust and possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. "Mine to use, mine to fuck. Mine to fucking destroy."

His hand slides down your body, his fingers finding your clit and beginning to rub it in quick, sharp circles that have you moaning despite the pain. "You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice a dark promise that you know he'll keep.

You feel your body responding to his touch, your pussy clenching around his cock as he fucks you deeper, harder. He's relentless, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm that steals your breath away.

You try to keep your eyes open, to maintain that semblance of defiance, but the pleasure is too intense, the pain too great. You close your eyes, your head falling back against the pillow as he fucks you through another orgasm, your body convulsing around him.

The Capitán's rough, skilled fingers continue their relentless assault on your clit, the painful pleasure pushing you to the brink of sanity.

With every cruel stroke, he whispers degrading names in your ear, his voice a dark symphony of lust and ownership. "You're just a set of holes for me to use," he murmurs, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. "A good-for-nothing cumslut who's only good for taking cock."

His words are a brand, searing themselves into your soul, making you feel filthy and used.

And yet, your body responds, your pussy clenching around his thick shaft as you're forced to endure wave after wave of involuntary orgasms.

Each one feels like a betrayal, a surrender to his will.

You feel the warmth of his cum spilling into you, filling you with his seed as he groans in victory, riding out both of your orgasms. After a while, he pulls out with a disgustingly wet squelch, leaving you feeling empty and violated, your body still trembling from the onslaught.

He wipes his cock on your stomach, smearing your own blood and combined juices across your skin with a satisfied smirk. "Look what a mess you are," he says, his voice mocking as he stands up, adjusting his pants. "A filthy little slut who can't even keep still when she's being fucked."

The pirate captain licks his lips hungrily as he grabs your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his. "You're mine now," he says, his voice low and menacing. "You're going to do everything I say, when I say it, and you're going to like it."

He lets go of your chin, the sting of his grip lingering. After putting on his clothes lazily, he turns to the door with a cocky and mocking grin. "If you're a good girl, maybe I'll let you clean up. Or maybe I'll just leave you here to marinate in your own filth."

He opens the door, the light from the hallway spilling into the cabin like a beacon of hope that's quickly extinguished as he steps out, leaving you alone with your despair.

The sound of his booted footsteps recedes, leaving you shaking and sobbing on the bed, your body a canvas of bruises and pain. The door slams shut, the finality of the sound echoing through the cabin.

You feel a warm trickle of blood seep from the wound in your leg, mixing with the sticky wetness between your thighs. The bed creaks beneath you as you try to move, the ropes still binding your wrists to the headboard. You pull against them, the leather biting into your skin, but it's no use.

You're his, to do with as he pleases.

────────────

The Capitán strides out of the cabin, his steps heavy and confident as he makes his way to the dining area of the ship. His crew members look up from their plates of roast chicken and hardtack, their eyes widening slightly at the sight of their captain's flushed face and swollen, satisfied expression.

His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his broad, sweat-slicked chest, and there's a smear of something dark on his cheek that could easily be mistaken for a smudge of ink.

The smell of sex and sweat clings to him like a second skin, a potent scent that seems to hang in the air around him.

"Capitán," one of the crew members says, his voice tentative. "You seem…different."

The pirate captain smirks, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. "Aye," he says, his Spanish accent thick and smoky. "I've had a bit of an…adventure."

He runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat from his encounter with you. His gaze lingers on the door to his cabin, the grin never leaving his face.

The crew exchanges glances, whispers of speculation passing among them. They know better than to pry into the Capitán's personal matters, but the change in his demeanor is palpable.

Usually, he's a man of few words and fewer smiles, his mood as tempestuous as the seas they sail.

But tonight, there's a lightness to him, a hint of amusement that makes the air around him crackle with a tension none of them dare to name.

[yanderenightmare-reblogs]

getting Deku from this. when desperation makes a good man go bad

Yandere Sugar Daddy

Money can't buy love, but maybe it doesn't have to.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's very nouveau riche. Who has the wealth of the elites but none of their good breeding.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's awfully young for someone so wealthy. Barely out of college when his tech startup went public and the cash started pouring in.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who is still painfully awkward around women.

Being a rich man in a big city means there's no shortage of models and influencers vying for his attention. And Yandere! Sugar Daddy never fails to get flustered when they're introduced to him.

Long legs, perfect skin, tiny ski slope noses... They're the kind of girls who wouldn't give him the time of day back in college and suddenly they're running their hands up his chest and whispering that he's just so clever, so accomplished. What guy wouldn't fall for it?

But he can never keep them around for long.

Their interest slowly dies out when he starts rambling about software development and production scale and AI integration. Money is a great motivator but all his girlfriends seem to leave for greener pastures. For millionaires with better social skills and better taste.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ran into you entirely on accident. The club was too loud, the girls too pretty, the alcohol too rich. He slipped out of VIP and into the street, pressing his forehead against the cool brick and trying not to spew on the new designer shoes his ex persuaded him to get.

And that was when you came into his life. Cool hands on his shoulder and a voice telling him to take a deep breath and drink some of your water.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks up at you through his lashes, his face flushed from too much booze and being too near you. He can't fathom it. A girl helping him not because of his cash or connections, but because they're actually a kind person.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your hand when you turn to go. Your friends are calling to you to stop messing around with random drunks and he manages to slip you his business card, begging you to call him so he can thank you properly.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wakes up with a killer hangover and your face burned into his eyelids. Who feels his heart jump when he opens his phone and sees a text from you.

Hope your night got better - y/n

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who immediately zooms in on your profile picture. A candid shot but it still makes him blush. Before the morning is over, he's already tracked down your social media.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who pores over every inch of your life. Your job, your studies, your friends...

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who retypes his message at least a dozen times before he finally responds to you. Who invites you to the most exclusive restaurant in the city as a thank you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who picks you up in the most expensive car he owns. Who smiles a little at the careful way you close the door and buckle your seat belt. You're just as uncomfortable around luxury as he was.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who doesn't expect much from the date. He's learned not to go on tangents about technology and work, but without it he feels lost.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you're more than capable of carrying a conversation. You're energetic and funny and interested in what he has to say. He feels himself opening up to you and before long, he's deep into a rant about data safety and you actually listen to him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you compliment him. Like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ends the night with a lipstick stain on his cheek and a big, goofy grin on his face.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who calls you the second he wakes up and invites you to spend the afternoon learning to horse ride.

And when you tell him you have work, he just laughs and tells you he'll triple whatever you're getting paid for the day. You nearly faint when he keeps his word and sends you a deposit worth more than your monthly cheque.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wants to call you his girlfriend more than anything. His girl. He loves the way it sounds.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who tags along when you go grocery shopping and whips out his card to pay for it all when your back is turned.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who sends you a huge bouquet every week because you once mentioned liking lillies.

And the closer you get, the more time you spend kissing him and curling up in his bed, the more he spends on you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who uses spring break to take you on a tour of the Mediterranean. Who rents out entire villas and chateaus to impress you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who has your birthday dress custom made by an actual high fashion house. Who zips you up and kisses your neck and says he's never met a more beautiful girl.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who spends shareholder meetings daydreaming about you. Who has to pinch himself to stay focused.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's helpless to stop himself falling for you. You're so real, so empty of pretence and greed.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who showers you with all the wealth he has and is blind to how uncomfortable it makes you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks at you with a vacant smile when you try and break things off. Who pulls out his phone and sends you a deposit with so many zeros you have to rub your eyes to make sure you're seeing it right. Who asks if that's enough for more of your time or if he should double it.

Do you want a new car? An apartment? He'll give you anything, anything in the world.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks like a kicked dog when you say you don't want any of it. You hate feeling indebted to him. You hate feeling like some vapid trophy wife. You hate living off his charity.

He can't understand it. You could work for decades and not afford even a quarter of what he can give you. Is he so unpleasant, so unlovable, that you're wiling to turn your back of a life of luxury?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who comes up behind you and slams the door shut when you try to leave.

You've always seen him as a nice guy, someone awkward and gentle. But the look in his eyes now makes you question all of it.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy whose voice is a low, broken rasp. He sounds on the verge of tears and on the verge of fury all at once.

You think you can just leave after everything you've been through together? After the fortune he spent trying to make you happy?

No way baby.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your wrist and yanks you up against him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who laughs when you threaten to scream. Luxury penthouse, remember? Totally sound proofed. Totally private. No one gets in or out without his permission.

It's just you and him, like it should have been from the beginning.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who squeezes your wrist hard enough to hurt. Who kisses you so rough you cut your lips on your teeth.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who yanks at the pretty dress that he bought you. You want to be an ungrateful bitch? You want to throw his kindness back in his face? Oh, he's going to teach you a lesson.

You fucking owe him.

And he's going to use your body until that debt is paid.

[yandere-daydreams]

I have a Yandere idea for you, if you want of course!❤️ How about a yandere who is rejecting his love for the reader or in denial, and as a form of escapism creates a doll identical to the reader, maybe it started small, like him creating beautiful dresses to the reader doll, or sleeping together, eating together, maybe even giving the reader doll a kiss while his shadow critically analyzes the situation... Meanwhile he keeps bothering the reader, or teasing or trying to do all sorts of things, like flirtations that he may have practiced with his doll with the reader, giving sweets that he prepared..

tw - stalking, obsession, and disturbing themes.

wait that's so scaramouche coded actually,,, nonetheless we persist.

it's just such a show of pure, uncensored, incurable desperation. they want you, but they can't have you, so they have to settle for an imitation - cold and lifeless, sure, but as close to the real thing as they can get (well, before they're finished renovating your future bedroom/holding cell, at least). they took good care of little you, too - changing your clothes twice a day, cuddling you at night, kissing your forehead when the real you's done something that makes them want to throw doll you across the room. it's funny, how similar the list of things that can break porcelain is to the list of things that can break bone. it's good practice. they lasting they'd ever want to do is hurt their darling love, no matter which form you might come in.

the doll's good for practicing other things, too. they'd never know how to talk to someone like you in-person, so they practice on the doll, doing their best to stringing along a conversation and trying not to care that the only response they get is a glassy-eyed stare. they'd like to have a little experience under their belt by the time they actually bring you home, so they practice going over the list of rules they've drawn up with little you, walking through your daily schedule, trying miniature versions of the, uh, ""accessories""" they've bought ahead of your arrival to make sure they're all as cute as they imagined. admittedly, sometimes their activities veer into less-than-wholesome territory, but they try to catch themself before they can fall into the subsequent shame-spiral, to remind themself that this is a form of practice, too. they want to be able to take care of you - in every way you might need to be taken care of.

it is really so bad to vent a little frustration out on your temporary replacement, in the meantime?

[acid-ixx]

guys i am going insane at writing the parallels between jason todd and the reader. i hope u all notice it too once i release the chapter because IT'S JUST SO CONVENIENT FOR THE PLOT!!!

love your mother too much, to the point you become all sacrificial for their image, even if in the end it's what destroys you? check.

feeling replaced by tim drake? you feeling your role as the actual third child, and jason with robin? check.

you, being a 'good kid,' and jason as a 'good soldier' but never good enough? check.

rage that isn't easily boiled down by grief but rather the years feeling unattended and cared for by a father figure who fails to placate the need for paternal love, now leads to avoiding the manor like the plague? check.

and so many more shit that i'm sorry if i'm not writing prompts right now or answering asks because i'm also too invested in expanding further on how the family was always obsessed with you, just never directly acknowledged.

you've always had that alluring effect that you've gotten from your mother, it just sucks that it's always too late of a time that it was when you've learned to give up on loving them that's the same moment they want you back in their arms again. and the doubt that cloaks your thoughts that this is all temporary, arghhsh.

so if anybody is interested in more, here's a reminder to join the taglist hehe.

[rxmye]

" 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐉𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 "

— " 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐉𝐎𝐑 " , A collection of yandere oc's, who're from the same world !! They're all apart of the same friend group . .

return to previous | requesting rules | advent . .

𝐘𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈 , Insomniac yandere . . Nsfw!Character information | Introduction . .

♡. nsfw/submissive!yandere [ gn reader ] the goodiest boy <3

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 , jock yandere . . Nsfw!Character Information | Introduction . .

♡. nsfw/submissive!yandere [gn reader] Lucas gets a little carried away in the locker rooms . . .

♡. suggestive [gn reader] all things hickies !!

𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄 , bully victim yandere . . Nsfw!Character Information | Introduction . .

♡. nsfw/submissive!yandere [gn reader] reader carves their name into his skin . . .

♡. nsfw/submissive!yandere [gn reader] overstimulating him <3

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[yanderenightmare-reblogs]

if this isn't touya. not dabi. but touya

I've been writing the yandere farmboy oneshot, and my head is full of delicious thoughts about him.

Tw. Yandere, nsfw themes, Fem.Pov

Yandere Farmboy who is the only one who cares about you in this tiny town. He's from a better off family and just knows he can take care of your properly if you'd let him.

Yandere Farmboy who loves having his hands all over you. His favorite is on the small of your back, guiding you gently to wherever he feels best. He likes manhandling you, too. There's something so satisfying about how his thick, strong fingers clamp down on your arm and drag you around with ease.

Yandere Farmboy who's liked you for years, but has been too afraid to act on it. You're not the kind of girl he'd really want to be seen with. You're poor, not well educated, come from a bad family. You're everything his community hates. You're supposed to be trash, but he loves you anyways.

Yandere Farmboy who acts way too familiar with you. He speaks like you're old friends with each other, or like he knows everything about you. When you do something he doesn't like or doesn't approve of, he comes from an angle of just caring about your wellbeing. It doesn't matter if he's trying to pressure you into doing things you don't want. He knows what's best. Why wouldn't you trust the town's golden boy when he's telling you that you should kiss him or let him take you out?

Yandere Farmboy who is in everyone's good graces. He makes you feel crazy for feeling scared or reluctant around him. Come on? You're really worried about him of all people darling? He treats you like some dumb, doe eyed animal that is in need of a guiding hand rather than an actual person who maybe just doesn't want to be with him.

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 2

Summary: He didn't expect to see someone like you. It was annoying at first, you were annoying. But he don't know when it start to change. Maybe this feeling was there since the day you smiled at him for the first time...

Warning: Teenagers in love ig?

Notes: This part is Jason's memories. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Wayne Manor was too much. Too big, too clean, too quiet. Jason hated it. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself as he followed Bruce through the front doors.

It wasn’t just the size of the place that bothered him. It was everything. The warmth that lingered in the air, like someone actually lived here instead of just passing through. The way the walls didn’t feel like they were pressing in on him, like they used to in the cramped, crumbling apartment he used to call home.

Jason’s fists clenched inside his jacket pockets as he stepped further inside, his boots scuffing against the polished floor. He didn’t belong here.

He kept his head down, unwilling to meet Bruce’s eyes. This was temporary. A rich guy playing charity case with some kid from Crime Alley—nothing more. Jason wasn’t about to let himself get comfortable.

Then he saw her.

She was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, her elbows resting on her knees, like she’d been waiting. Her head tilted slightly when she noticed him, and then she smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile Jason was used to. Not the fake ones people forced because they had to. This one was different. It was warm, reaching her eyes in a way that made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

“This is Jason,” Bruce said, his voice calm and steady as he rested a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “He’ll be staying with us.”

Jason stiffened under Bruce’s touch, his eyes flicking back to her. She stood, her movements light and unhurried, and walked toward him. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to make him feel like she wasn’t trying to crowd him.

When she stopped, she was close enough for Jason to see the brightness in her eyes. She looked at him like she actually saw him—not the kid from the streets, not the screw-up. Just… him.

“Hi, Jason,” she said, her voice soft and easy. “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

Jason stared at her outstretched hand. He didn’t move.

Why was she looking at him like that? Like she meant it? No one ever did that. No one ever meant it.

He almost turned away, almost muttered something rude just to get her to stop looking at him like that. Sweet, kind people like her—they never stuck around. They never meant it.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull her hand away. She just stood there, waiting, her head tilting slightly as if she were trying to figure him out.

Jason’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like her. Or maybe he didn’t like the way she made him feel, like she’d cracked open a part of him he’d long since buried.

But he didn’t want to seem rude either—not when she was just standing there, smiling at him like he was worth something. So, reluctantly, he reached out and shook her hand.

Her hand was soft. Warm. It felt strange against his, like it didn’t belong to the same world he came from.

“You’re going to love it here,” she said, her voice sure and steady.

Jason wanted to scoff, to tell her she didn’t know anything about him or what he’d been through. But when he looked at her, at the way her eyes shone like she truly believed what she was saying, the words caught in his throat.

“Yeah. Sure,” he muttered, pulling his hand back quickly.

She didn’t seem bothered by his tone. If anything, her smile grew wider. It was disarming in a way Jason hated—because it made him want to believe her.

“I’ll show him around!” she said, glancing back at Bruce before looking at Jason again.

Jason almost protested. He didn’t need a tour, and he definitely didn’t need her looking at him like that—like he wasn’t just another lost cause. But when she turned back to him, her eyes still warm, still full of something Jason didn’t recognize, he found himself hesitating.

“Come on,” she said, motioning for him to follow her.

Jason trailed behind her, his hands shoved back into his jacket pockets. He didn’t trust her, not yet. But there was something about the way she walked, the way she turned back to glance at him like she actually cared, that made him want to trust her.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason didn’t feel like he was completely alone.

Jason didn’t laugh. Not really. Not anymore.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had—not since before his mom died, maybe even before that. Laughter felt like something from another life, a luxury reserved for people who didn’t have to scrape by every day just to survive.

But somehow, she managed to change that.

They were sitting in the den. Bruce had called it a “common area,” but Jason couldn’t help thinking of it as some kind of museum with its pristine furniture and towering shelves of books. He didn’t belong here, and he felt it with every fiber of his being.

She didn’t seem to notice, though. She’d plopped down on the carpet next to him with a grin, cross-legged like they were at some middle school hangout and not in a billionaire’s mansion. She’d been talking, her words bubbling out as she shared some ridiculous story about a squirrel that had stolen Alfred’s tea biscuits earlier that day.

At first, Jason barely listened. He was used to tuning people out, especially when they were as chipper as she was. But her voice had a way of pulling him in, light and warm.

“And then Alfred’s standing there with the broom,” she was saying, her eyes wide with faux dramatics, “like he’s about to duel the squirrel. I swear, it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She mimicked Alfred’s stiff posture and the way he’d apparently shouted, “Out, you fiend!” at the tiny intruder. Her voice cracked at the end, and she doubled over laughing, her shoulders shaking with pure joy.

Jason couldn’t help it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little at first, almost unnoticeable, but then her laugh hit him—a bright, contagious sound that echoed in the big, quiet room. Before he knew it, he let out a soft chuckle.

He tried to stop himself, but she noticed. Her head snapped up, and she gasped like she’d just discovered buried treasure.

“Was that a laugh?” she asked, pointing at him. “Did Jason Todd just laugh?”

Her mock-serious tone and exaggerated expression did something to him. The chuckle turned into a quiet laugh, and then it built—small and hesitant, like it wasn’t used to being there. She gasped again, clutching her chest like she was witnessing a miracle, and that was it.

Jason lost it.

He laughed harder than he had in years, his head tipping back as his chest heaved. It wasn’t a controlled laugh, either—it was wild, raw, and unfiltered. Tears pricked his eyes, and he tried to wipe them away, but every time he looked at her, still wide-eyed and grinning, it started all over again.

She didn’t even know what she’d done to make him laugh, which only made it funnier. She started laughing too, a little confused but clearly enjoying it.

“Jason!” she managed to get out between giggles. “What—what’s so funny?”

“I don’t even—” he tried, but the words were swallowed by another round of laughter.

Jason’s sides hurt, his cheeks ached, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the heavy weight he always carried. He felt… light.

When they finally calmed down, she was lying back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling with a big, goofy smile on her face. Jason was sitting up, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes, his breath still uneven.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Do what?” she asked, rolling onto her side to face him.

He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t tell her what he was really thinking—that she’d made him feel human again, even if just for a moment. That her laughter had warmed something inside him he’d thought was frozen solid.

Instead, he smirked and said, “Make a complete idiot out of yourself.”

She gasped, pretending to be offended, and tossed a pillow at him. But he caught the twinkle in her eyes, the way her smile lingered even as she rolled her eyes at him.

Jason didn’t laugh often. But now, sitting there with her, he thought maybe it was okay to let himself feel something good every once in a while.

“C’mon, Jaybird,” she said, her voice low and mischievous. “We’re ditching Bruce tonight.”

Jason froze mid-step, glancing toward where Bruce had gone, his figure already disappearing into the darkness. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, tugging on his arm before leaping to the next rooftop. “Follow me!”

He didn’t know why he listened—maybe it was the way she said his name, like it was the only thing that mattered in that moment. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of ditching the Big Bad Bat himself. Or maybe it was just her.

Jason followed her, her laughter trailing behind her like music as she led him through Gotham’s skyline. They landed in a quiet corner of the city, far from the chaos, where a small ice cream cart sat under a flickering streetlight.

“Seriously?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow as she handed him a cone.

“Seriously,” she said, already taking a bite of hers. “Even vigilantes deserve ice cream.”

He rolled his eyes but took a bite anyway, the cold sweetness melting on his tongue. It was stupid, he thought, standing there in his Robin suit, eating ice cream like a kid. But when she smiled at him, all he could do was smile back.

They walked a little farther, finding a spot on a hill overlooking the city. Fireworks were bursting in the distance, painting the night sky with flashes of color. She plopped down on the grass, patting the spot beside her.

Jason sat, feeling oddly out of place in the quiet. His lips twitched into a small smile, and he glanced at her, unsure what to say. Her face was close, too close, and before he could think of something snarky to deflect, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Jason’s eyes widened. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it.

He didn’t know what to do. She was so close, and her warmth seeped through his suit, chasing away the chill of the Gotham night. It wasn’t like she was heavy—she fit perfectly there, like she belonged.

Jason swallowed hard, staring at the fireworks as they burst in bright reds and golds. His mind was racing, but for once, the chaos in his head didn’t feel so loud.

He liked this. He liked her.

“You’re blushing,” she teased softly, her voice carrying a hint of laughter.

“Am not,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

She tilted her head, looking up at him. Even in the faint glow of the fireworks, her smile was radiant. “You know, you’ve got really pretty eyes, Jaybird.”

Jason’s heart stuttered. Pretty. No one had ever called him that. He didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled, the corners of his lips quirking up despite himself.

Her voice broke through his thoughts, soft and full of affection. “You’re smiling, Jaybird.”

Jason hadn’t even realized he was. He let out a quiet chuckle. “Guess I am.”

He looked back at the sky, the fireworks reflecting in his wide green eyes. They were beautiful, he thought, but not as beautiful as the girl leaning on his shoulder.

It was beautiful. It was warm. It was lovely.

Just like her.

For the first time in forever, Jason felt like he could just exist, no walls, no armor. Just a boy sitting under the stars, sharing a moment with someone who made the world feel a little less cruel.

And for that, he was grateful.

Jason’s knuckles ached as he drove his fist into yet another thug’s face. He could hear Bruce’s gruff voice somewhere behind him, barking orders like usual, but he wasn’t paying much attention. The adrenaline was too loud in his ears.

She was right beside him, quick and agile, taking down opponents with ease. Jason always marveled at how graceful she was in a fight—like it was a dance she’d perfected long ago.

But then, suddenly, she wasn’t there.

It happened so fast Jason didn’t even notice at first. He swung at another thug, but when he turned to check on her, she was gone.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Batgirl?” he called out, scanning the chaos around him. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t care. “Where are you?”

Bruce was still fighting, his focus unbroken, but Jason couldn’t ignore the knot forming in his stomach. She wouldn’t just leave. She never left.

“Batgirl!” he shouted again, louder this time.

Nothing.

Panic surged through him as he darted between the scattered thugs, his eyes darting to every shadow, every corner. What if something had happened to her? What if she was hurt—or worse?

His chest tightened.

“Dammit, where are you?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the fight.

And then, out of nowhere, she appeared.

Jason froze, his breath catching in his throat as he looked up. She was descending from above, hanging upside down from a rope like some kind of acrobat. Her mask couldn’t hide the playful grin on her face.

“Looking for me, Jaybird?” she teased, her voice light and carefree, as if she hadn’t just given him a heart attack.

Before he could respond, she leaned down and kissed him.

Jason’s eyes widened, his brain short-circuiting as her lips pressed against his. It was quick and unexpected, and his face went red hot in an instant.

When she pulled back, she was still grinning. Jason, on the other hand, was a mess.

“What the—why—what were you thinking?” he stammered, his voice an awkward mix of anger and embarrassment. His cheeks burned, and he could feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears.

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made his heart race even faster. “Oh, calm down, Jaybird. It was just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss?!” he spluttered, glaring at her through his blush. “You—you can’t just—”

He reached up to push her away gently, still too flustered to think straight. But as soon as his hand touched her shoulder, the rope snapped.

Jason’s heart dropped.

“Y/N!” he shouted, reaching for her, but she was already falling.

She hit the ground with a thud, and Jason was beside her in an instant, his hands hovering over her like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry! Dammit, I didn’t mean to—are you hurt?” he rambled, his voice filled with worry.

She winced but gave him a crooked smile. “I’m fine, Jaybird. Just bruised my pride a little.”

Before he could argue, she leaned up and kissed him again. This time, Jason didn’t freeze.

He kissed her back.

It was clumsy and hesitant, but it was real. Her lips were warm and soft, and for a moment, the chaos of the world around them faded away.

When she pulled back, she was smirking again, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, did you like it?”

Jason groaned, his blush returning with full force. “Shut up,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her.

But even as he helped her up, his lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. Bruce could handle everything else for now. Jason was exactly where he wanted to be.

The city stretched out before them, Gotham's endless sprawl of flickering lights and distant sirens. Jason liked it up here on the rooftops, where everything below felt a little less suffocating. The air was cooler, and the stars—hidden as they were by the smog—still seemed to fight to peek through.

She sat beside him, knees hugged to her chest, her mask discarded so she could feel the breeze. Jason was talking, half-joking about how one of the Joker’s goons had slipped on a banana peel during their last fight. His voice carried a rare lightness, a softness that only came out when they were alone like this.

“You should’ve seen his face,” Jason said with a grin. “It was like he’d just realized his whole life was one big punchline. Priceless.”

He chuckled to himself, but then he noticed she wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t even looking at the city. Her gaze was fixed on him, a soft smile tugging at her lips, her eyes shining with something he couldn’t quite place.

“What?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s with that look?”

Her smile faltered just a little, but the warmth in her eyes didn’t fade. She took a deep breath, like she was bracing herself for something. “I love you.”

Jason froze.

Her words hung in the air, delicate and powerful all at once. His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. His brain stalled, caught between disbelief and a rush of emotions he couldn’t quite name.

“I—” she stammered, her cheeks flushing as she looked away. “I didn’t mean to just—forget I said anything. That was stupid, I—”

Jason reached out and grabbed her hand, his grip firm but careful, stopping her mid-sentence. She looked back at him, her eyes wide and uncertain, and he turned toward her fully.

“We’re going to get married,” he said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers.

Her mouth opened slightly, confusion flashing across her face. “W-What?”

“I said, we’re going to get married,” Jason repeated, dead serious. His jaw was set, his tone leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, she just stared at him, her lips parted in surprise. “Jason, that’s not—you can’t just say stuff like that—”

“You love me,” he interrupted, his voice softening, though his grip on her hand didn’t waver. “And I…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “I love you too. So yeah. We’re getting married.”

She blinked at him, her face caught between disbelief and something he couldn’t quite name. And then, to his surprise, she laughed.

It started as a quiet chuckle but quickly grew into something brighter, freer, filling the cool night air. Jason couldn’t help it—he laughed too, the tension breaking as the sound bubbled up from his chest.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice still tinged with laughter.

“You’re the one who said it first,” Jason shot back, his lips quirking into a smirk.

She shook her head, her smile wide and unguarded as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “You scared the hell out of me for a second.”

“Good,” Jason said, though there was no edge to his words. His grip on her hand softened, and his thumb brushed against her knuckles almost absentmindedly.

As the laughter faded, the night grew quiet again. Jason glanced at her, taking in the way the moonlight softened her features, the way her hair caught the faint glow of the city lights.

In his heart, he made a silent promise.

He’d protect her, no matter what. Not because she needed it—she could hold her own better than anyone he knew—but because she deserved it. She deserved someone who’d fight for her, who’d stand by her no matter what Gotham threw their way.

Because he loved her.

And for once, Jason let himself feel that fully, without the usual fear or doubt creeping in.

“Hey,” she said, breaking the silence. “You’re staring at me now.”

Jason smirked, leaning back on his hands as he looked back out at the city. “Yeah? What about it?”

She smiled again, and this time, Jason felt it deep in his chest—a warmth that he knew he’d carry with him for the rest of his life.

She nudged him playfully, rolling her eyes. “Okay, Mr. Future Husband. Tell me this—would you ever kill for me?”

Jason’s expression softened. He didn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.”

She looked at him, her teasing grin slipping into something more thoughtful. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, his voice quieter now. “I’d do anything for you.”

Part 1. Part 3.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[tsuutarr]

heyo its merc! hear me out! what if we put a cowbell on mason???

alternatively, would mason put a cowbell on us???

Surprisingly, Mason doesn't really like restrictive clothing! He wouldn't really like wearing a cowbell, but he'd do it once in a while if Darling wanted him to :] That said, he'd be okay with a cowbell if it was more necklace-like than collar-like!

For the second part of the ask, here's a previous one I answered! But yeah, he'd put a cowbell on Darling if Darling wanted it! Mason would only put a cowbell on Darling forcefully if he's pushed to it (e.g., Darling deciding to leave or something).

Cowbells are super fun I'm ngl. Maybe I need to make another Hucow OC that loves cowbells >:)

[yandere-romanticaa]

For the headcanon, tell us a headcanon you have for william james moriarty from moriarty the patriot please!

Ever the estute man, William would be curious to see how your mind works.

And what better way to peek into your head than for him to see just what sort of literature you read?

Ideally, he would prefer it if you show him your books or any collection you may have in person. It would establish a deeper bond between you and it would show him that you are starting to trust him. That you realize that he is not here to hurt you, that he is here to be your friend.

A selfish part of him wishes for more, but those desires must be kept at bay. It doesn't matter how bitter that makes him feel, he has no choice.

So, he compensates.

If your trust has not been secured, William is not above breaking into your home and taking a little peek. He brushes over the covers with reverence, his mind etching every single name and author deep into his memory for safe keeping and smart use in the future.

How joyous he would be if you were a romantic. That would make things so much simpler for him. Not to mention more fun.

send me a character and I'll write a random headcanon for them!