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acid-ixx · 5 months ago

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ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

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knyontop · 6 months ago

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₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊

How the Hashira would say “Language”

Kny x child/teen!reader

Ft: hashira, and our amazing, beautiful, handsome, reader.

Obanai:

“Watch your language.” Obanai said with a sharp tone.

Sanemi:

“Language you little shit.” He said smacking you in the back of the head.

Giyuu:

Giyuu didn’t say anything but gave you a look.

Mitsuri:

“Your to young for that language!” Mitsuri said thinking about how your growing up to fast.

Shinobu:

“Y/N! Watch your language dear!” Shinobu said in her regular soft motherly voice.

Rengoku:

“Young Y/N, Language!” The cheerful man said with his loud voice and signature smile.

Tengen:

“Y/N try to keep the language down!” He said with a chuckle.

Muichiro:

Doesn’t really care :P

Gyomei:

“Language young one.” <3

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊

Hope you like it! :3

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scara-writes · 8 months ago

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sweetheart

Yandere Emperor X Consort! (F)Reader X Yandere Crown Prince(platonic)

милашка-sweetheart according to google correct me if im wrong!

CW: kidnapped, reader is look down upon by the nobles, infantilize, forced pregnancy, dehumanizing, mentions of attempt suicide, false rumor, power imbalance, worshipping, delusional(?)

NOTE: Crown Prince is at the age of 16(he is your first/oldest son). Reader is around 36-38. Emperor is two year younger than the reader. Also I don't speak russian everything is google (the empire is not based on irl russian empire but a fantasy world like the manhwas/shoujou isekai we read) and english is not my first language you can clearly see when you read the story. This is purely a fiction and I do not mean to offend anyone.

I DO NOT CONDONE ANY ACTION IN THIS FICTION.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Running is not ideal for a 5 month pregnant woman like you.

When you tried to seek help from your parents for the first time, they never helped you because who would believe an illegitimate daughter who was frowned upon by nobles.

You are an illegitimate child of the duke and a humble maid who passed away shortly after giving birth, but despite this, you are a physically and mentally healthy child. You even managed to withstand the attempts of your stepmother and your half-sister to discredit you in the family, and didn't even find a help to your neglectful father who busies himself of taking home many women from brothel.

That was in the past but you were desperate when you ask for their assistance. However, you never heard from them ever since you bore your first child, Ize.

Ize your son. Your lovely crown prince son grew up to be like your husband with his teachings. You tried to persuade him to never listen to his father but he only shook his head and told you that all his teaching that he was learning from his old man was to protect you.

Afraid that it will stress you even more in this suffocating high walls to protect you during your pregnancy and well being, Ize-the crown prince would be willing to act like a little kid for you. He would occasionally brew you a cup of tea that you enjoy or give you a handmade gift, such as an embroidered handkerchief, to show you that he was thinking of you and that said skill you taught him when he was a child. Knowing the child, this kind of acts is for him appease the worries you have;he is different behind closed doors of your confined palace where your eyes and ears can't reach; your crown prince son is a different person who will be willing to shed the blood of others just for you.

And it seems that the morals that you taught him must have been thrown out of the window thanks to your husband.

So here you are after escaping from the hundreds gazes of a watchful loyal hounds around your palace you escape, it wasn't easy since you are carrying the emperor's second child. You heard on a passing by servants that the two tyrants had a meeting with the other nobles and the neighboring kingdom, this is a rare occurrence that the two left you alone. It took you an hour to escape the royal grounds before exploring around the town till you found a port that would take you to another country. This is your only chance to escape that suffocating palace that those two tyrants confined you in. Your Husband, Yuri can't leave you alone not when he found out that you are with his child-a second child at that. Even before you were pregnant with his first child, his wary gaze and infantilization to you had multiplied tenfold.

Your husband spread the rumors about you being mentally ill. But why would he do such a thing? You reflected to yourself and it devastate you to realize it was his scheme to prevent you from seeking help from his subjects to escape. Only the royal physician and your husband were aware of this bogus illness. It felt betrayal that he has to make that action so he can confide you more.

Your husband's scheme worked. Even your own son believed the spewing lies coming from his father, and the nobles never gossip about you as if it was a taboo ever since you were married to the emperor. Speaking ill about the emperor's consort was just as good as the reaper visiting you by the second you speak those words. Only praises coming from their filthy mouths were allowed.

No one bats an eye on you, even the servants who serves under you. They will bathe you, serve you food, refreshments, but none of them will engage or start a conversation with you. When someone last made an effort to assist your escape, a kind servant at that. The lowest mining pit, which is worse than death, The emperor bestowed upon them to be sent the servant's family, including the said servant. High ranked criminals labour in a pit there for 18 hours with a maximum 4 hour break the rest of the hour are for necessities like sleeping, with much less food and income. In short, a death torture for them.

You implore your husband to kill them rather than send them there, the only thing he said to you that it wasn't your fault they were sent there. Something along the lines of—"you were acting like this because of your condition. That servant was attempting to kill you." He told you that in front of other servants. Everyone compliments his action for 'protecting' you. His cunning red eyes looks at you that none of the servants and nobles noticed but you did. It was a warning for you to behave or he will do worse.

Yuri has never harmed you, physically. but he will harm others who want to separate you from him.

The only time you regret your decision is when you met Yuri—he was about to meet his demise by the hands of his brothers if it weren't for you stumbling to see him in the middle of the night on an alleyway of the tsvetok village struggling to breathe from the deep pools of his own blood. So you drag his half dead body into your abandoned chamber—which is rarely visited by servants—that your father bestowed for you when you were born. Aiding his deep wounds, helping him heal up, befriending him, falling in love—

You purse your lips and gave a small wince feeling your belly is starting to ache, the kick from your unborn child thumps under your long dress.

My child please, Now is not the time! you gently brush your belly soothingly before leaning on the lamp post that dimly lit the night. You sigh in relief when you felt the baby inside of you cease on kicking. Although you were a little further from the palace when you looked behind you, you still needed to move quickly. Right now, you assume that Yuri or a servant that was suppose to serve you had definitely find out that you were gone this afternoon and notify the knights and some of high ranking mage to find you immediately, but the sun had already been sunk by the evening. They must have been having a hard time finding you. A little more 18 minute walk and you'll be able to ride on the ship that will help you travel to another empire, or any nation.

"ort---s--ing!" you turn to your left to look one of the vendors of the nights were gossiping. A woman with her husband was panting, assuming he was running to deliver a news to his family. His cloth headband on his raggedy hair is soaking. He took a deep breath before repeating what he said earlier. A dread of fear rise from your throat as he uttered his next words,

"The Emperor's Consort is missing! The Emperor's knights are blocking all way out!"

You heart felt like dropping when you saw a nearby knight were looking one by one at the women nearby, specifically women who are similarly pregnant like you. Speaking of the devil, they are already here!

Knights in horses, mages running around the busy street. Some of them stopping women who has similar hair color as you to assess if they found the right person.

"Oh my! I'm hoping the consort is doing okay! She must have acted such way due to her failing mental state. The emperor must have been worried sick, I can't imagine the devastion look of the emperor especially their son!" said the woman to her husband.

You hid your hair with your cape and quickly blend in with the busy road of the night town. Muttering, "excuse me!", "Apologize!" As you force your way around the crowd. One arm around your belly to protect child, while your hand went to sling your bag with clothes and some gold coins. as you bump so many people on the crowd. You look edges of the town, at the gate, to see all the possible exits were starting to get block by the imperials knights and mages. You bit your lips frustration as you felt the hope of getting your freedom back is slipping away from your grasp.

Your plan of getting to the port has been discarded after seeing a two mage and three knights were on their way there. Even if you did go in town's gate the gatekeepers will inspect people who are exiting and entering.

But...

You look at the old man who was riding a donkey with his carriage towards to exit of the gate, fruits were laying under the cloth. An Idea quickly pop your head but you are desperate to leave this suffocating country so you have no choice but to execute it.

Your silent foot falls went behind on a slow moving carriage before climbing up silently and quickly, in your haste and desperation movement, you didn't feel as though you had torn your cape at the wooden edge of the carriage before taking the fabric that was covering the fruits that keeps them from dust and dirt. You carried a handful of fruits before slowly sitting down beside it then covering yourself with the said fabric and the remaining fruit fast enough before the knights from the gate of this region would notice you. You wince when one of the fruit hit your belly but not enough to endanger the baby.

"Have you seen this lady?" A man in his mid 60s look at the paper, he squint his eyes as he held his old lightly crack glasses to take a better look. Your (e/c) eyes look at the gapping hole of the carriage and gulp fearfully when you saw your portrait on the paper holding by the imperial knight.

"O-oh...sa-aw her!" you held your breath when the old man spoke. The two knights look at each other before listening to the next word of what the old man would say.

He lick his dry lips before continuing, his voice's struggling due to his old age, "If I-Im..not mistake-en the lady in the p-picture look like the lady I saw by the lampost o..on the rozahk street!"

You exhaled in relief since you mistakenly believed that the elderly man had just seen you, but he actually noticed you five minutes' walk from the gate to roza street. However, this would also let them know that you are actually close by.

The imperial knights gave the elderly merchant a nod as they hastily walked around the city, alerting a nearby mage to use a spell to track you. They quickly tell their subordinates for a new command.

You felt the carriage starts to move. Hugging yourself for reassurance especially at your upcoming baby that everything will be okay.

You weren't escaping just for yourself but for your second child that will be born. You don't want your kid to become like their older brother and learn from their father. Ruthless, and doesn't have a compassion to another human. You want your kid to have a brighter future, away from the blood shed. You hope that if you got caught or killed by your husband in the future. You will tell your second child to run away and never look back, when you are gone.

You ignored how uncomfortable it was to sleep in the fruits. You close your eyes and see the farm neighborhood that the carriage passed as well as the slowly dissipating kingdom that was beginning to appear as a dot on the horizon.

The abrupt shake of your ride woken you up. You hear noises outside the carriage and glance through the hole to see that light was creeping through, signaling that it was dawn but sun has yet to come in the horizon. What is happening?. You peek above the cloth seeing that you don't have enough visual on what's happening. A dusty road lay in front of you, and woods surrounded you. You turn around to look behind you and realize that the palace is no longer in sight. A sense of relief that you were indeed far from that prison.

A bunch of voices caught your ears, you turned to look to your right.

Your whole body went pale.

Your son-the crown prince was chatting with each of the roadside merchants who had just exited from their vehicle not far from where you were. The imperial warriors and mages that were conversing with the other sellers the same task as your son was doing just behind him.

You curse yourself, how did they come here to fast?

You need to leave before they notice that you are inside this carriage. Just as you swiftly escape your imprisonment. You carefully stood up, removing the fabric that was covering you and the fruits, ignoring the woozy and aches from your muscle pain for not moving too much from the entire night.

A creak was heard in your vehicle when you tried to climb down. Snapping your eyes back at them, to witness if they heard the mistake you made. To your relief, The prince and the other guards were still busy interrogating.

They didn't hear me..

You reach down and starts to stalk away from them, your hands were trembling. Stepping back to reach the wood just a 5 meters behind you. It didn't matter if you get lost in the woods, as long as they don't catch you.

No, you would rather live in a woods, in a forest where no one can reach you.

As you step forward carefully in to the woods, you didn't notice from your cautious and anxious state that your boots crack a twig, just like the cliché you previously read. The nearest knight snaps his head at the sound. He was perplexed before realizing that the woman from the paper in his hand resembles you.

"Her majes-"

You dash toward the woods. The imperial knights sought to catch up to you, as you heard him behind. You grab a nearby rock and shot it directly to his skull, and it hits him.

You ignored the yelp as he yells your honorific causing the nearby knights hear him and went for his aid, before they realize what he was yelling and starts to chase after you.

You felt the dress that was getting stuck on some of bushes and dried branches, resulting to have your dress to be ripped.

Heartbeat were thumping agressively, adrenaline were rushing around your body. One of your hands went up to your belly protecting it from getting injured despite your legs were now full of scratches and bruises from the twigs, and sharp edges of these woods. You feel your legs ache.

"Mother!" You faintly hear a galloping horses along with your son's voice behind you.

Your mistake was to look behind you while running away. You saw how your son and his guards were starting to gain just to bring you back to that hellhole. Your son Ize was reaching up his hand to take you back, his red orbs were full of concern and anxiousness.

"Mother! It's me,Ize! Please, slow down you will hurt yourself!"he yelled."Mother! Think about my sibling! Your child! Listen to me! Don't let this illness take over you!"

Poor child, he thought all of this nonsense that you are doing was because of your bogus illness.

You were about to stop when you saw a nearby cliff but a trunk made you tripped.

You screamed feeling a misstep when you realized you are falling, instinctively cradling your pregnant belly, protecting it as you roll down from the ground. A piercing scream was heard—from your son. Your head colliding to the three and it felt like your head would split open.

Your eyes were blurry from the impact. Touching your belly if there was injury. Atleast trying to feel your lower part if there was bleeding through your thighs other than your legs.

You look up at the steep cliff to see your son was sliding down, crying out your title as his mother. You saw his red orbs were full of tears as it glides down to his cheeks. The last thing you saw before your vision was consumed by the darkness was his hands reaching up to your head.

You were awoken by the sound of the chirping birds coming from the balcony.

You coughed, feeling the dryness from your throat. You eyes were blurry for a few minutes before clearing to see that you were back to the same imprisonment.

But....

It wasn't the same room you shared with your husband. Are you...even in the palace?

You took your time to assess your surroundings only to realize that the room has similarities of the royalties room that are exiled but it looked renovated, one of your husband's brothers used to live here before taking his own life. You felt grim about the thought of it.

After his brother's passing you heard from one of the maids that he turned it into a vacation palace for royalties.

It was different from the last time you saw it. It was much more cleaner and better. It looked good after it was renovated.

Wait, the baby.

THE BABY!

You eyes quickly gaze down to your belly. Hands quickly feeling around them, you exhale in relief when you felt a small kick from your stomach. You felt your tears at the edge of your eyes. It was a miracle that the heavens hadn't take your unborn child away.

I'm sorry baby...

They would have died from the stupidity you'd done!

You laid down to your right side of the bed and cradle in your stomach muttering a soft apologies and starts fluttering your eyes to go back to sleep.

But somethings not right. You felt like a pair of eyes watching you, looking at you.

Observing you.

You opened your eyes and look up only to see your pair of red eyes staring down at you.

Your husband, the emperor sitting on a wingback couch, his face resting at his hand while the elbow is resting at the arm of the couch beside him is a kettle with a cup that rest on top of the bedside table.

You feel your body tense up, you tried to get up and turn to look at your husband.

"Y-your majesty." You called but it sounded like a whisper. You don't know what he will do to you. Sure, he never hurt you physically but this is the first time you'd gotten far away from the place he imprison you in.

You gulped, will he hurt you this time?

"I-I'm... I.." you cannot come up a word,an excuse, what if he gets sick of you? What would happen to your child?

You felt your breath shorten. Tears are starting to swell up in your cheeks.

A rough hand brush on your cheeks before cupping it. You found your partner is already beside you on the bed.

He didn't speak he just let you weep as he brush away your tears. You stammer your words wanting to apologize. The emperor handed you a cup of water and you took it quenching the thirst from your larynx.

Once you drank it all, you hiccup trying to stop your tears from coming out. You felt his hands caressing your belly. "H-husband.."you gulped.

"hush,милашка."he commanded and you held your tongue and closed your eyes when he leans on your cheeks before engulfing you with his arms around you. You felt suffocating around him like a snake coiling around your body.

You feel tensed as he starts peppering kisses on your shoulders and neck before resting his lips to your earlobes, you shudder when he kissed it.

His right hand from your waist slid up under your loose sleeve before sliding it down, your emperor leaned down giving your shoulder a hickey. You whimpered trying to push him away but he hadn't budge an inch. Once he was satisfied he let your skin go with a pop before looking at the red mark he left.

The same hand went to brush your hair, tuck it behind your ear before leaning his forehead against yours. His red eyes held adoration, affection, but most of all obsession.

"милашка." He muttered closing his eyes sighing, he brush his lips against yours before deepening it.

He kept calling you, held you in his arms gently. The same arms that has full of blood that slay so many heads to get to the top of this food chain.

He laid you down before kissing every finger tips of yours and then clasping it with his rough hands as he called for you.

"милашка...."

".... my милашка..."

He pressed one kiss on your collarbone. "None of this is your fault..." He told you.

"... This illness will be the death of you."

Your heart broke for him. He really delude himself that everything you did to get away from him was because of your 'illness'.

"... Everything will be fine, darling. I will take care of you." He dampened his lips one last time onto your lips before leaving you in your new confinement.

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yandere-writer-momo · 10 months ago

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The final part of Mommy! First part

Yandere Short Stories: Mommy

Delusional Yandere Single Father x Teacher Afab Reader x Platonic Yandere Son

Jesse wrapped his arms around (your name)‘s legs, the small boy hummed in contentment when she ran her fingers through his black curls. Why couldn’t she be his mom? She was so warm and gentle… so much better than the woman who gave birth to him.

“Jesse? I think your nanny is waiting to take you home.” (Your name) smiled down at Jesse who only burrowed himself further into her skirts. She sighed at how clingy the young boy was, but she was sympathetic to his feelings. Jesse didn’t have any warmth in his home so he sought it out from her.

“I don’t want to go home… can’t I stay with you?” Jesse glanced up at her with his blue puppy dog eyes, his lips in a pout. “Can’t you just adopt me, I’ll be good…”

“Jesse, I can’t adopt you.” (Your name) felt her heart clench when he started to cry. “Jesse-“

“But all the other kids have a mommy and I don’t! I want to be read stories and I want homemade lunches. I don’t want to be alone!” Jesse buried his face into (your name)’s skirts. His little hands clutched tightly onto the cotton fabric in a death grip. “I’ll be a good boy. I’ll be quiet and I won’t ask for much-“

(Your name)’s thumbs instantly brushed away the hot tears that dribbled down his soft cheeks to smooth the young boy. Her beautiful face now in a frown.

“Shh… you can come hang out with me when you’re lonely at school.” (Your name) warmly smiled at Jesse. She ran her fingers through his thick curls as he sniffled.

“R-really? You’ll let me spend time with you?” Jesse’s voice trembled as he tried to calm his tears. “Can I eat lunch with you everyday? I like when you cut the crust off my sandwiches…”

“Of course, Jesse.” (Your name) reassured Jesse, who buried his face in her skirts once more. This sweet boy… he deserved love.

Unbeknownst to (your name), Jesse had a wicked smile on his sweet face that was hidden in her skirts.

Jesse may have been the spit image of Liam, but he was still his birth mother’s son… and (your name) would be his mommy one way or another.

Jesse often hogged (your name)’s attention from the other children. He’d rush to her first whenever class would start or end to hug her, he’d raise his hand for every question so he could be praised, and he’d constantly ask for help.

Jesse was not liked by the other children but he didn’t care all that much about them.

Because Jesse wanted his mommy to only have eyes for him.

Liam felt nervous at the florist shop he was in. The various floral displays of affection made his stomach twist into a knot. He was so nervous… to buy apology flowers for his son’s teacher.

Liam ran a hand through his dark hair with a sigh. This was an incredibly frustrating experience for him since he’s never bought a gift for a woman before. Especially not one as lovely as (your name). Liam couldn’t get her angry expression out of his head… she haunted his dreams and lingered in the crannies in his mind.

She was an itch he couldn’t scratch and Liam disliked this alien feeling she brought out. Liam didn’t know why his heart pounded in his chest at the thought of her or why his cheeks heated up. It made him anxious.

“And what can I help you with today, sir?” The florist smiled warmly at Liam who nearly jumped out of his skin. Liam had been so lost in his thoughts, the florist had caught him off guard.

“I think I would like a bouquet of roses…” Liam’s forest green eyes glanced at the red roses in interest. “The reddest ones you have.”

(Your name) would look lovely in red… Liam couldn’t help the image of her in a red dress that surfaced in his mind. He didn’t quite understand his attraction toward her, but he hoped it would fade.

Liam stood before (your name) in her classroom, his cheeks rosy as he studied her expression. Her arms held the fragrant roses in confusion.

“Mister Isbert? There was no need to get me roses-“

“I’m sorry for making presumptions about your character. It was unjust of me.” Liam bowed to (your name) in apology. “Please forgive me-“

Liam gasped when she moved closer to him, which and whom snap his head up in attention. His forest green eyes wide when she gave him such a warm smile… he’s never seen a smile like that directed toward him in his entire life.

“It’s perfectly okay. I understand you may have been through some trauma but I assure you I’m not after those sorts of things with you.” (Your name) then turned her gaze toward Jesse who peaked around the corner of the classroom. It seemed the young boy was eager to enter. “I’m just concerned for Jesse is all-“

“I do not know how to be a good father…” Liam shyly admitted, his forest green eyes focused on her confused expression. “I have never been taught warmth.”

“Well I have no issue teaching you how to spend time with a child… if you’d like of course, mister Isbert.” (Your name) smiled at Liam whose cheeks went aflame.

“I’d love to…” Liam cleared his throat and gave (your name) a soft smile. “And please, call me Liam.”

The two adults smiled warmly at each other which made Jesse perk up from his spot. Maybe he’d get her to be his mommy after all…

(Your name) laughed when Liam tried to tie Jesse’s shoe laces. The businessman was clueless…

“Here, let me help.” (Your name) gently took the shoelaces from Liam and slowly tied them in front of him. “The dragon goes under the bridge, through the loop, and into the castle!”

Jesse giggled at the rhyme, his eyes sparkled at his dad. “See! Mommy knows how to tie shoes!”

Liam blushed in embarrassment when (your name) and Jesse shared a laugh. He never knew how simple this was… how a family should be.

“Why don’t we read a book together?”

Liam glanced over at (your name) while she picked out a fairy tale. A ray of sunlight hit her at the perfect angle that made her even more angelic.

Liam never knew someone could be so beautiful…

Weeks went by of Liam’s ‘lessons’ of fatherhood. The two adults would laugh together as (your name) tried to teach him how to be more affectionate with his son, unaware that the businessman started to be affectionate with her as well… Liam came to terms that he loved her.

Liam loved the young woman who was eager to help him mend his relationship with his son and teach him how to love. To not take out his trauma onto Jesse and to be more open to change.

Liam became a better person by being around (your name) and he had no interest in going back to the way his life was before he got to know her better. The two of them were truly a power couple! She’s shown him a new side of life he never knew existed… who knew Jesse would indirectly introduce Liam to his soulmate?

Liam blushed as he sat at his desk, his head filled with thoughts of (your name). The image of her holding Liam in her arms burned in his mind.

How could someone look so perfect holding his child?

Liam dug into his desk drawer and pulled out one of the many drawing Jesse had made of (your name) and him. The three of them as a happy family.

Liam lit up a cigar and took a deep inhale of the smoke. Yes… he’d ask her to be his wife. To be Jesse’s mom.

Liam held the picture close to his chest. He needed to tell her how he felt… of how he loved her.

Liam upped security around the school as usual since he dropped by for the lessons. Liam wanted to ensure this entire ordeal remained private, he had no desire to add more stress onto poor (your name)’s life… today, they were gong to become an official family.

Liam sighed dreamily as he thought of what was about to happen today. (Your name) would be so beautiful as his wife and future mother of more children. He wondered how many siblings Jesse would like? To add onto their perfect family.

“Is there something wrong, Liam?” Liam perked up when (your name) softly called his name, she was careful not to disturb the sleeping Jesse in her arms. “You’ve been lost in space for a while now.”

“Would you be interested in dating me?” Liam’s blunt question nearly made (your name) fall over in shock. Date him? Where on earth did he get the idea that she wanted that sort of relationship with him?

“I don’t think we should.” (Your name) smiled warmly at Liam who frowned at her gentle rejection. “You’re a CEO of a big corporation and I’m just a measly kindergarten teacher.”

“I could take care of you.” Liam whispered softly. “You’d never struggle financially and you could be with Jesse every day. Don’t you want Jesse to be happy?”

(Your name) glanced down at the young boy who remained asleep. She did care about Jesse… but not enough to date his father.

“I’m sorry but I can’t do that.” (Your name) sighed softly as she handed Jesse to Liam to take. “I hope you find someone on your level to be with, Liam.”

Liam could only sit on the floor in shock when she walked to her desk to gather her belongings. She didn’t want him? Why didn’t she want him?

Liam tried to speak but he couldn’t find the words to stop her. How could he tell her he’s never felt this way before? That he wanted her? That he-

“I love you!” (Your name) froze in the doorway when Liam blurted out his declaration of love.

“W-what-“ Liam scrambled to his feet to try to stand before her. His lithe body hovered over her like a shadow.

“I love you and I’ve never felt this way before… please give me a chance.”

“I’m sorry, Liam-“

“I won’t accept no as an answer.” Liam felt his stomach twist but he needed to get her to be his… he needed her. “I’ll ruin your life if you don’t accept my love. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you.”

Jesse stirred awake in Liam’s arms, the young boy’s eyes wide at his father’s words. “Become Jesse’s mom. I’m serious about being with you.”

“I-“ (your name) was cut off by Jesse who excitedly reached for her.

“Mommy? You’ll be my mommy?!” Jesse began to cry when he hands grabbed hers. “Mommy. Mommy!”

“Yes, Jesse.” Liam smiled down at Jesse as he pulled (your name) close. “Miss (last name) is going to be your mommy.”

“No-“ (your name) gasped when Liam suddenly bent down to kiss her which made Jesse smile brightly.

“We should head home, right?” Liam turned to Jesse who smiled brightly at his dad. “Like a happy family should.”

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canihaveacalmtime · 2 months ago

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Imagine being born in a mafia family as the youngest member in the entire bloodline. Your parent didn't intend to have you because you'll soon become like your brothers, ruthless and heartless but the way you smile and giggle at your family says otherwise.

You like to hug them, latch onto any of them any moment possible, even the head butler and the maids can't escape your constant sticking. They get hurt? You would get super worried and check up on them whenever you can sneak outside of your room. They look sad? You will hug them while kissing their face.

For the first time in history, live and light actually shines through out the enormous mansion because of you and the aura you have around you. You complete them, put the last pieces they need to fulfil themselves and let them know that they need to enjoy happiness once in a while.

So it's not really a surprise if they become really obsessed and protective of you when you're growing, they will eliminate anyone who dare to hurt you by all the ruthless methods they've adapted for years.

When you're still small and young, you always like to be with them but as you grow older, you no longer really depend on them as much as you used to anymore and they noticed the change, everyone did.

You no longer need the maids to change your clothes, no longer need to butler to call you for breakfast, no longer need your brothers to help you with your studies and no longer want your mother and father pampering, hell they don't even know when did you learn how to cook.

They begin to worry, worry that in the next year, you would ask to move out but you can't, you're not 18 yet, you're not even 16, you're a 13 years old.

"(y/n)... Do you plan to leave us?"

You were shocked with the question and immediately deny, you don't want to leave then yet, not until 18 when you will move out to lessen their burden with you.

Even with your answer, they still were very wary so as time went by, they get more and more controlling and protective to the point where you have to actually confront them in person and accidentally said all your plans out to them, you didn't even noticed that until when you were falling asleep that night.

What you don't know while deep asleep is your family, hovering over your small fragile figure, debating whether or not to chain you here or drug you to make you sick so that you can only depend on them, solely on them.

#calmwrites #yandere #platonic yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere scenarios #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x gn reader #gn reader #platonic

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random-twst-things · 2 months ago

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*Napping somewhere in the botanical garden*

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: Hey, I had a dream about you last night

Leona: Really?

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: Yep

Leona: What was I wearing?

Mc/Y/N/Yuu, shrugging: Nothing

Leona: I was butt ass naked in your dream? 🤨

Leona: you've never even seen my butt ass naked, how'd you- you better not be influenced by Rook

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: No, I mean like nothing special

Leona: ...

Mc/Y/N/Yuu, looking at him up and down (especially his Jesus sandals): you lack drip expeditiously my guy 😐

Leona: As if you're any better with those rags

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: Yea but here's the thing, these are school uniform hand-me-downs and I'm poor, your royalty and rich yet you still chose to look the way you do? 🤨

Leona, frowning: ...Go back to sleep

Dividers from/by: @/cafekitsune

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iamred-iamyellow · 5 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Barça Boy

♥ masterlist

♥ pairing: pablo gavi x fem!driver!sainz!reader

♥ synopsis: for as long as you can remember your older brother carlos sainz has been a loyal fan of the football team real madrid. you were an f2 driver who never took your mind off of your own sport; that was until carlos brought you to a barcelona v real madrid game and you fell for a player on the opposing team.

♥ smau - none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing and hate comments !!!

liked by landonorris, yourbestfriend, and 243,530 more

yourusername I've been kidnapped (not clickbait)

view comments

carlossainz55 I'm literally taking you to a madrid game

yourusername exactly 😔

user60 you should be greatful

user60 I'd kill to have those tickets

user71 she's always so ungrateful 🙄

user80 celebrities that don't know anything about the sport getting shit for free pisses me off

user6 @/user80 pretty sure Carlos payed for the two of their tickets but go off

user56 @/user80 not sure she even counts as a 'celebrity'

user7 NEED me some sombas

user8 im obsessed with their dynamic

user2 the sainz siblings >>>

landonorris @/carlossainz55 take me with you next time

user5 aww carlando dates

user3 gonna need a carlando football landolog asap

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Could you at least pretend like you're watching?" Carlos said, gazing at you as you scrolled through your phone.

You clicked the device off and slid it into your pocket.

"I'm sorry Carlos I'm just not really as interested in this as you are..." you paused. "I mean if I want to make it into F1 I gotta train right? I should be on the sim right now."

"C'mon," he groaned. "You're a Sainz, of course you're going to make it. Relax a little. Enjoy the game, please?"

You rubbed your eyes and sighed, "I'll try."

You crossed your arms and watched the game unfold. One of the Barcelona players scored a goal and went sprinting past you into a knee slide. He really caught your eye and you couldn't help but watch him the rest of the match.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by landonorris, fcbarcelona, and 563,649 more

carlossainz55 up for adoption: Y/n. Formula 2 driver and FC Barcelona apologist. Former Sainz.

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fcbarcelona we'll adopt you y/n

yourusername do I get a kit?

pablogavi you can have one of mine

yourusername @/pablogavi 🤭

user9 THE @ IS CRAZY

carlossainz55 😐

user7 GAVIIIII

user5 find yourself a man who will love you even when you wear sunglasses with hot sauce (possibly ketchup?) bottles on them

user8 former sainz 😭

user12 "barcelona apologist" 💀

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by pablogavi, fcbarcelona, and 430,594 more

yourusername I guess I'm a culer now. thanks for the kit @/pablogavi it fits perfectly 😘

comments are restricted

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by yourusername, yourbestfriend, and 947,483 more

pablogavi look who I found

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user6 carlos’ face 😭

user50 thought you were “too busy” for football 😐

user61 no way gavi is settling for her

user2 no bc she’s so pretty 😍

user9 they’re literally the cutest couple

user1 those family reunions are gonna be awkward tho lmao

prema_team its good to see you gavi :)

*liked by original poster*

user12 he’s my favorite wag

liked by pablogavi, olliebearman, and 539,922 more

yourusername signed a contract with ferrari next season. I’ll see you on the grid big bro @/carlossainz55

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pablogavi estoy orgulloso de ti hermosa (I'm proud of you beautiful)

yourusername gracias mi amor

user7 so cute 🥹

user8 if I knew thirsting over him on main worked I woulda tried it years ago 😔

user6 madridista v culer war ferrari edition

user10 “my girlfriend is hotter than you” true 🤷‍♀️

carlossainz55 congrats or whatever

yourusername you know you love me

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ak319 · 3 months ago

Text

Yan Socialite brother x reader

(Warnings: Strictly platonic , not incest)

Ezra Alvarez , your younger brother, has always been your number one supporter. From a young age, he was taught that tradition dictated the older sibling would inherit the business and the farms—essentially, everything. This meant all the power would eventually be in your hands. But Ezra wasn’t a moneygrubber seeking favor, he genuinely admired your intelligence, strength, and the way you cared for the family, especially him. From the moment he gained consciousness, he aimed to be your best friend and sole confidant. He longed to be the person you turned to for counsel, and slowly but surely, things were unfolding just as he wanted.

Let's start from the beginning. Ezra and you were quite different in many ways, largely due to the contrasting upbringings you had. For example, while you cherished solitude and indulged in expensive hobbies like horseback riding, archery, and swordsmanship within the privacy of your estate, not to mention almost always busy learning and handling the business with your father. On the other hand, Ezra thrived in social settings. As a fashion designer, it was his job to attend lavish parties and stay connected with the latest trends. However, his socializing had a deeper purpose, to monitor the people in high circles and gauge their intentions toward his family, especially you.

Ezra was always vigilant, keeping tabs on potential rivals and meticulously recording this information. He made sure you were aware of everything you needed to know, and thanks to his discreet tactics, you were advancing. The way he giggled looking up at you when you patted his head in praise was endearing, if he were a puppy, his tail would surely have been wagging.

Ezra would do anything for his older sister because you're the best sister in the world! Despite being used to receiving expensive trinkets, he always gets teary-eyed when you gift him something special. Given your usually stoic and aloof demeanor, he can't help but cry tears of joy when you show him affection and smile at him. He ceaselessly rambles on about his latest projects and clothing line while you sit there, reading a book and nodding along, often clueless about what he’s saying. Yet, he still cherishes these moments because it’s only HIS sister who takes time out of her busy schedule for HIM. How could he not be grateful? That would be a crime. No other sister would ever do this for their brother! Anyway, back to designing some jockey apparels for you. You really need new ones.

As much as he dislikes your boisterous hobbies, he uses them as an excuse to spend time with you. He eagerly asks you to teach him, no matter how dirty his nails or clothes get, or how much he might risk getting sunburned. Every bit of it is worth it when someone like you is his mentor.

Your parents reprimended you for spoiling your baby brother but you always shrugged it off saying "How can I not spoil my only baby brother?." That's right sister, I am and will be always your only brother. He always makes sure to pass a victorious smirk to his parents who could only sigh in defeat at both of you.

Whenever it rains, he remembers how you love the rain while he hates it because it's all muddy but on the other hand memories of him as a kid getting scared of the thunder and you holding him in your bed in your protective embrace always warms his heart. Maybe this is where the habit of cuddling you has developed. Even now when something in his life goes wrong or he is having a tantrum , only your the one who can calm him or otherwise he is crying screaming and complaining for days and yes this is a true incident , the whole estate was close to becoming deaf if you hadn't come back from your academy bringing some new jewels and his favourite pastries for him.

Speaking of the academy, Ezra had to swallow the urge to throw another tantrum or cling to your feet when the time came for you to leave for further studies. He knew you had to do this for your own sake and the future of your family business. So, instead, he became like a second mother to you, sending letters to make sure you weren’t skipping classes—even though he knew you weren’t that kind of a person. He frequently asked about your meals and sports activities, but the part he hated most was even thinking about you having a potential lover. God, he couldn’t help but crumple up the third letter when he wrote about it, but he had to know. The thought of being secondary in your life, in everything, terrified him. What if you brought home a gold digger?! That’s how he saw anyone who came close to you. They didn’t care about your personality or charm, they were after that KA-CHING! And him being one of your top prized assets, he wasn’t about to let that happen.

His heart however calmed down when you replied with a simple 'No' about the question. Yay! Whenever you came back from academy , he was even more excited than your parents, who always found his enthusiasm adorable. How he ran back and forth scolding the servants for not cleaning your room properly , not having your favourite dish up to notch like DO YOUR FUCKING JOBS PROPERLY! He wouldn't stop yapping when you sat for tea after dinner but no matter how much you were exhausted from your journey , you still listened to him.

As cunning, witty, and sophisticated he was, Ezra made mistakes too, and in his mind, the worst mistake was failing at a task you assigned him. He would cower under your anger, fully aware that he had messed up. He was still learning the ins and outs of the tedious household budget—something he would have to manage for you one day—but it was boring, okay? Numbers just weren’t his thing. Even if you scolded him, he always waited for your apology, which you offered in your own way—like taking him out to his favorite café or silently sharing a cup of tea in his room. Moments later, he’d be hugging you, petulantly whining about you getting angry at him. He hated how you chuckled at his childish attitude, but deep down, he loved it too.

Life was going well until, one day he received a letter that you were unable to attend father's funeral due to work back in the academy. He knew it was a lie , you WOULD NEVER abandon your family like this , even your mother was skeptical. But since there was no sign of you coming back, he handled his grieving mother and the arrangements himself as much as he was dying inside due to your absence. Where were you? They needed you. You were their head now. He was worried sick.

After the guests left , it was only his uncles and aunts who sat in the living room while he came down after putting his mother to sleep.

"Ezra, dear boy. You must be tired, but there is something we need to discuss with you." The words made his blood boil, and he fought the urge to slap the indifferent looks off his father’s brothers and sisters. He knew exactly why they were still here—they were nothing but vile, disgusting pieces of filth, circling like vultures after the family’s money. He had always seen the malicious intent in their eyes when they interacted with you, and it broke his heart how you treated them as family while they plotted to push you out of the way. But he kept up the façade of a nice, obedient nephew, knowing that it would be handy for a moment like this. Where were they when he was struggling to handle everything? They only arrived at the last minute for their sibling's funeral. His poor father had died surrounded by snakes. But he swore he would never let the same happen to you. He would never betray you, his blood, like these filthy excuses for humans.

He wanted to throw up as they offered their insincere condolences, but he remained firm. They inquired about your absence, talking shit about your cold behavior for not being there, and this was his cue to play his cards right. Slipping into his favorite role as the bimbo younger brother, he wept, agreeing with their criticisms, and even cursed you, despite how much it made his heart ache. Eventually, they began to open up, believing in the hate and jealousy he pretended to harbor for you. While they didn’t reveal your whereabouts, they made it clear they deemed you as an unworthy heiress. He fake-laughed through his tears, gaining their trust the best that he could. They even had the audacity to suggest dividing the property among themselves, without even considering his mother as the rightful owner of anything. Oh, they were going to be obliterated.

He then promised to hand them the papers during a party he was going to arrange that too in a ferry. Acting on the information you once gave him, he contacted some gunmen for emergencies, making the necessary arrangements. Oh what a sight it was to see the ferry filled with the corpses of his treacherous relatives. One of the assassin came and informed that they had you abducted and thrown into a mental asylum on your way back to the estate for the funeral. His mouth hung agape at the revelation, his whole body seething with fury, and without wasting a moment, he set out to bring you back. But not before ordering the ferry to be blown up in the middle of the sea. He cackled maniacally from the dock as he watched the explosion, then leaped onto the back of one of the hitmen like a kid, gleeful at the destruction of those who had wronged you.

Once you were back and grieved a bit which only lasted for a few moments before you had to take care of covering up the bloodshed your baby brother did. But at the end you did it and currently Ezra was beside you on the arm of the chair while you worked on your late father's study table , now yours. "You are not mad at me, are you?" He asked softly, voice almost breaking at the end.

"You did what had to be done. I would have done the same to anyone who came after my family like this," you said, hearing him sniffle beside you. You gently caressed his arm, your gaze still fixed on the parchment. "Don’t cry, you know how much I hate seeing you cry, Ezzy." You felt him lay his head on your shoulder, his soft brunette locks brushing against your ear.

"Thank you… I couldn’t fucking stand them anymore, doing such… such a horrendous thing to you."

He suddenly burst into giggles, his feet dangling. "But it was fun! You know, before his death, Uncle Auden wore that hideous yellow sack coat. I saw it through the binoculars—God, he looked like a penguin getting on the ferr-!"

"Ezra." Your warning tone almost made him flinch. "What did I tell you about speaking ill of the dead?"

"I think they deserve a pass." His pout was defiant yet playful, and you couldn’t help but smile. His laughter was light, a contrast to the heaviness of this week.

He couldn't be more blissful than this. You looked as if you were made to sit in that chair, and he felt immensely proud to have cleared the path for you. He always would. As his heart pondered the future, a frown creased his brow. The thought of a day when you might stray, bringing a partner into the estate, unsettled him. Though that day seemed far off, he was already prepared to make their life hell. After all, the chances of you siding with a partner over him were slim. He has got his older sister wrapped around his manicured pinky.

➺Ezra x reader x hubby

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myeagleexpert · 3 months ago

Text

Reader (imprisoned) having some kind of argument with Damian and Batman having to intervene in the fight

Damian: I was just doing what was best for her, Father! How could she not understand? Batman: See? He only wanted what was best for you, Reader. Do you have anything for your dear blood brother? Reader, rummaging through her pockets: Oh, wait, I do! Just a moment….. Reader: From the bottom of my heart… to you:

Damian, rolling his eyes: Wow, that's very mature of you…

Reader, with a smirk: I urge you to shove all your 'maturity' in the middle of your suppository, brother.

Damian, internally: SHE CALLED ME BROTHER

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere dc #platonic yandere #batfam x reader #batfam x batsis #batfam x y/n #batfam x you #platonic batfam #yandere batboys #yandere batman #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd

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abbyfmc · 4 months ago

Text

Idea #2:

A rich yandere has a wife named (Y/n), whom he met during his university studies. Since he was little, he was a capricious and tantrum-laden boy who wanted to have everything, including (Y/n). He didn't accept no for an answer and pressured his beloved until she accepted him in marriage.

He treated her well, and showed her his love every day but subjected her to his constant surveillance, which wore her out and fed her up. She tried to leave him, but the rich yandere didn't accept it and got her pregnant on purpose so she wouldn't run away.

(T/n) ended up having a boy and a girl, whom she loved very much. The rich yandere believed that he already had the perfect family; however, (T/n) could not stand the control and pressure that the rich yandere exerted on her with the excuse that he loved her when he was obsessed with her any longer; she could not take it anymore and started the divorce. The rich yandere did not want to believe it and put a thousand obstacles in her way to not let her go, to the point of making the family, including her in-laws, pressure her to stay with him so as not to lose her.

Seeing that she did not give up, he gave her the divorce but paid the judges to take custody of the children away from her, telling her:

"I know that you love me, that's why I will not risk losing the children. Come back to me and love me or you will not see them again for a long time."

-The End.

What do you think?

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incorrectanything · 4 months ago

Text

Wade: Logan and I are having a baby!

Y/N: That's gre-

Wade, slamming adoption papers on the table: It's you, sign here.

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acid-ixx · 28 days ago

Text

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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