valentine

󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠󠁽󠀮󠀮󠀠󠀠 i'm bored, let's go to therapy.

[blueiones]

"EAT MY HEART OUT." — masterlist.

YANDERE

⤷ Yandere! Popular Guy × GN Reader

⤷ Yandere! Loser × Council President Male Reader

⤷ Advantage Pt. 1 — Yandere × Popular GN Reader

more coming soon . . .

[erosiism]

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | yandere! demon x male! reader | contains NSFW

pairing: yandere demon x male reader

CONTAINS:

extreme yandere

nsfw

extremely dubious consent; stockholm syndrome

violence

self harm, mental spiral

none to be glorified and romanticised, work of fiction

SUMMARY: A demon posing to be a human prince takes a dark interest in a human. Things can only turn out one way.

Perdition: Utter destruction; loss of the soul and eternal punishment. The noble, beautiful, and perfect crown prince has been taken over by a demon. Everyone in the palace seems to be blissfully unaware of it, save for Y/n: and now he must also pretend to not see the change to ensure his survival. And yet in a morbid twist of events, the demon takes an interest in him — an interest that soon spirals into an all consuming, ruinous, and obsessive pursuit. Y/n is horrified, unwilling, and completely filled with terror — but it’s too late: demons take what they want, through any means.

wc: 13.5k words, long oneshot

please comment, reblog; and like this if you enjoyed it!

Secrets are burdensome, heavy little things.

There’s a secret that Y/n constantly keeps close to his heart.

It’s something he keeps locked under his fragile tongue, never to be said aloud. He’s not even sure if he should know about the secret, considering the terrible contents of it; but at the same time, he often thinks to himself that it is impossible that he’s the only one he knows about it. Y/n cannot help but wonder often if other people are blindingly oblivious, or if they’re like him and simply too scared to say anything about it.

After all, no one dares to claim that the crown prince, heir to the noble, grandiose empire, is a demon. Or a more accurate description: no one can claim that the crown prince is a madman who stalks the corridors of the palace every night murdering and killing, skulking for prey. Those words are blasphemy; they are traitorous: and yet they are right.

The Crown Prince, Rein Sterling — is blessed, beautiful, and beloved. In the same vein of those adjectives; he is malignant, malicious, and merciless. He’s a brilliant actor, Y/n thinks, in the sense that he masquerades perfectly in midday; all light, genteel smiles and graceful movements. The servants giggle over him — fawning, adoring, and his parents fuss and praise. He is a paragon of a ruler, generous and cheerful.

Y/n wonders if he’s the mad one, for being so terrified.

But how can everyone treat that like a human, like His Highness? Does no one not see the terrible, foreboding glint in his purple eyes? Do they not see the crimson matted on his golden hair; the blade he pushes through the numerous fallen bodies? How about his bloodied attire? Surely some must see it in the morning; when it is to be washed. What about the corpses?

Y/n wonders if he’s hallucinating the scenes that plague him; the scenes turned nightmares that keep his goosebumps prickling on his skin, that tighten his throat and tears the oxygen from his lungs. He remembers them. The sound, the view — the crunch of the bones, the soft laughter, the mutterings. Y/n remembers the crouched figure; the bloodstains pooling on the floor, the wrangled limbs. He remembers fleeing; his steps clumsy and on his breaks erratic and oh god, Y/n thought he wouldn’t survive.

His mornings are unpleasant, filled with sticky sweat and choked breaths, days peppered with awkward moments of ducking his head when the prince walks by. Y/n keeps his head bowed and chalks it up to respect and manners when really, he’s fucking scared.

He’s unsure when he started being so acutely aware of this. Y/n remembers mentioning to a fellow servant flippantly: of the disappearances in the palace. Unnamed servants, advisors, nobles disappearing; bodies undiscovered. He remembers the shaking of the head, the genuine confusion. He remembers thinking he’s hallucinated, before the next night rolls by and the killing is back again.

Y/n remembers the first time he’s stepped out of his room, hearing that thud outside; he remembers — him. He remembers rubbing his eyes; and then finding out that the figure bathed in blood and rubbing his cheek absentmindedly— smearing red all over his pristine skin — was the prince.

And the prince had turned around, his purple eyes glowing and oddly red. They seemed to miss Y/n completely, looking at him but not quite seeing. And Y/n had realized immediately that there was something else within the prince. Something menacing had taken his body — something that was wearing the prince’s skin but wasn’t him.

Something so awfully wrong. Something shaped in the wrong form; like it shouldn’t have been created. Like an endless, black hole had taken the place of something else. Instinctively the word grew in Y/n’s head.

Demon.

A demon had taken over the crown prince’s body.

The prince — that innocuous thing — had continued to look at him, unmoving; unbothered. He had smiled. And when Y/n had done absolutely nothing in return, just staring stupidly at the figure — the demon had let out a soft sigh, rolling his eyes. He had dropped the body and had licked the blood on his fingers, turning around. Y/n caught the back of his figure; saw the way the red stubbornly clung to his luxurious clothes.

“Pity,” the prince had murmured in that silky tone of his, “For a moment I thought he did see through me. That would’ve been nice, but it does not matter anyway… I shall let him go. My appetite is sated.”

Y/n had been spared, in a lucky turn of events. That day, the demon had been full, his hunger whetted.

And now Y/n lives, but he will not tell the tale.

**

Y/n can recall some things about the crown prince — the real one. He’s not too sure when the exact switch occurred, or why it happened. But he remembers the crown prince being almost meek; though everyone took it as a delicate, endearing trait. He’s so sensitive, they said. They took it as gentleness, though Y/n had always rather disliked it; the passiveness of the prince’s nature.

It doesn’t surprise him that much, in a way, that the weak crown prince would allow a demon to take over his body. Y/n’s read about it in storybooks; supposed legends and fables — of summoning circles supposedly making your wishes come true. Perhaps the crown prince had been sick of this perennial cycle where there was only endless coddling. Perhaps he had wished to be strong, and had gotten sucked into the insipid, insidious world of demons. It is safe to assume, probably, that the real crown prince is long gone and dead, his soul buried in a grave.

The issue is that the way the demon and the crown prince acts is light and day, but no one seems to notice. It’s not a flawless transition at all; everything about the demon screams madness and power — and yet, and yet —!

The demon must find all of this painfully amusing, watching the humans be blissfully unaware of these obvious changes. Y/n wonders if the demon chuckles and laughs about their foolishness to himself. He wonders if the smiles on the demon’s face are genuine in the sense that he’s mocking them: the humans, that is.

Y/n reads of demons with his curtains closed, candle flickering feebly. His fingers catch minuscule paper cuts where his hands palm through weathered, old pages of diaries and journals. If anyone catches him they’ll say he’s plotting, he’s mad. He gets his books from forbidden sources: the warded off places in the Imperial Library where he will be executed if anyone finds out of his activities.

Why is he researching? Why is he entertaining this foolishness, this innate curiosity that will herald his demise; that will usher in his downfall? Is it because Y/n’s life is so boring, he must tempt it with a little game of death?

He does not know what will happen. He does not know what can transpire. The nightmares do not stop. The research does not stop, either; neither will relent. Y/n thinks he is going a bit mad, a bit drunk on delirium, on the dark knowledge he breathes into his own soul, the evil that he invites into his body, that he nurtures.

Y/n knows this is sinful. Y/n knows dabbling in this will change his life. Y/n knows that he should stop, that he is lucky to have been spared that day during the killings.

But he can’t. He won’t.

**

“His Highness has a fiancée, and she’s coming to visit,” someone tells him one day, when Y/n is wondering about the origin of the new decorations along the walls, opulent and gorgeous. He’s been clueless about the things going on in the palace, far too distracted by Rein Sterling. It’s a bit embarrassing to be so wholly consumed.

Y/n almost laughs, but he stops himself in time.

“Oh…I see,” Y/n chokes out.

A demon, having a fiancée. She’ll be lucky if she survives the wedding night, if they even get married. Rein’s probably going to kill her, the demon that he is, and then wipe everyone’s memories and pretend it never happened. Y/n’s learned that demons are capable of manipulation, the altering of memories; the nasty work of changing and erasing them completely. Memories are what makes a person whole. They consisted of a patchwork of events: of people, of emotions. You rip that away, and they become hollow, inhuman.

This work of disassembling the memory is why no one ever suspects the demon. Y/n’s still a little confused on why the manipulation hasn’t worke on him.

The person he’s talking to is called Mark. Y/n sees the name on his badge; Mark’s popular, he finds out, and he likes to gossip and socialise. Y/n might have cared a little in the past, but he’s too absorbed in all of this finicky evil things to focus on anyone else right now.

Mark looks sympathetically at Y/n. “You had a thing for His Highness, didn’t you?”

Y/n’s eyes widen until they look like saucers — impossibly big, comically large.

“What?” He sputters out.

“You look at him all the time,” Mark teases him. “It’s alright; everyone’s got a little crush on His Highness. It’s one of those inevitable things you grow out of.”

“I do not have a crush on that thing,” Y/n manages to say, his words soft and horrified. He forgets his manners.

Mark looks at him reproachfully; “you’re lucky nobody heard that. Don’t be so defensive to the point you’ll use such derogatory language.”

If only everyone knew of his true identity, Y/n laments. If only they knew the truth that their beloved crown prince is a monster.

“I actively avoid his gaze.”

“You used to,” Mark says, “quite funny; you being so shy. But recently it’s like you’re fixated. Like he’s so interesting that you can’t keep your eyes off him. Smitten, hm?”

Oh. Has it looked that way, then? Rather unfortunate; rather creepy, but Y/n supposed it comes with the fiery curiosity. He hadn’t even realized it; he’s still too terrified to actively look at the prince — the demon. He still can’t sleep, not with those horrid nightmares. Not with his blankets twisting and turning around his body like they’re a noose and he’s stepping to his death. Not with the silent screams and murders happening in the corridor, with those red eyes.

“He is beautiful,” Y/n shakes his head. “But you have the wrong idea.”

Mark sighs dreamily. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“You have work to do,” Mark says, miffed, “don’t be so spaced out. You’re been…” he chews her lip, suddenly looking nervous, “I don’t know what you’re doing, actually, and… well, be careful.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

“Mark.”

Y/n’s brain is like mush; all soft and tender and strangely distant from the world. He thinks of the malevolent, vile things swirling in his head, thrumming beneath the surfaces. Pulsing, alive, unpleasant.

He feels like he might throw up. All of a sudden he shivers, and the good natured spirit leaves his body, and Y/n feels somber, quiet, dismal. Y/n rubs his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n manages, but he stumbles as he walks away, and he wonders if he will remember the conversation he just had.

**

The dark magic he’s been researching is obviously affecting him in some way. It’s an unquenchable thirst. Something he keeps in his mind now. It’s distorting the relationships he has, bit by bit, the ultimate destroyer, the ultimate weapon. The one that will kill him. Y/n must have been friends with countless of these people before, but now he does not — he does not remember their names, their faces. He does not —

(He does not even see them anymore. They are dead bodies.)

Y/n sobs at night, encumbered by bitterness and misery. He wonders why he had chosen to step out of the door at night. Y/n, for all his bravado in searching up all those demonic things— is a coward; he trembles; he cries. He’s bruised, battered, torn, hopeless.

Do they not see, is the thought that haunts him, that continues to do so. Do they not see that a demon has taken over the crown prince, do they not —

He repeats his name to himself, lest he forgets.

“I am Y/n,” he says, and the first sentence is usually understandable, legible if he would write them down, “I am Y/n.” He feels foolish, petulant, a little dumb. There’s mirth, at first.

And then afterwards; in quick successions; “I-I-” Stammering, trembling, remembering the unholy splatter of blood, the absolute gruesome macabre; the waltz with death; his own dead body —

Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. That is his name.

He moans, groans, rolls around in pain. He regrets it. He refuses. He throws up; the bile rises in his throat. Y/n agonizes. He longs, yearns, to be comforted; to have this darkness coaxed out of him, to have it tamed and leashed. I didn’t have this at first, he thinks. But associating with these demonic forces changes your mind. I knew it then, but from the moment I locked eyes with Rein, I was cursed; doomed.

Y/n wonders if the demon knows of his pain, his horror, and if he laughs at it; all teeth glinting with flesh wedged inside. Demons are not cannibals; but they are not impervious to human flesh. They will hunt, they will eat, they will seek pleasures in earthly things and toss them away. In the end, demons cannot exactly feel, they lack the capacity for that. They are non altruistic beings drunk on the capability to inflict pain on others.

“Why,” he begs, “why does this happen to me?”

The shadows slinking around his room will not answer his questions. They seem to mock him. Laughing. Scowling. Giggling. Naughty, naughty, naughty, for venturing into such territories. You knew this would happen! But you are getting claimed! You are getting taken; Y/n!

Y/n clutches his head and rocks himself into an unpleasant sleep. He wakes up with a scream — he does not know if it belongs to him.

**

Layla is her name — the prince’s fiancée. She is beautiful and too innocent to be a victim. She hooks her arm around Rein and she is oblivious to the darkness swirling in Rein’s eyes. The prince seems cheerful at the prospect of her prey — he is hardly angry. Y/n stares at Layla, seeing her beautiful black hair and glittering blue eyes. If blood gets stuck in her hair, nobody will notice. The princess catches Y/n’s gaze and her cheeks turn pink. She manages a little wave, thinking Y/n is ogling at her, but he is not. The man beside her — his presence is suffocating.

Y/n doesn’t want to turn his head. He doesn’t want to move. He will not — he will not have eye contact with the absolute monster who shouldn’t be here and who’s only pretending and how cruel and callous and completely wrong.

He sees Rein’s mouth open. Y/n must leave; he must leave now before his gaze will be forced to trickle upwards to see his full face, and Rein’s expressions will be the death of him. Rein’s tiny eyes that are not purple; gleeful and glittering as he derives joy from fooling all of these humans. From wearing this human’s skin and earning their love.

Words are forming. Rein raises his hand, fingers curling. He points.

Y/n is at the receiving end of it.

“You there,” his voice is light, and Y/n feels tears already welling up in his eyes, “it appears Layla needs some drink. Will you fetch some for us?”

Y/n cannot move. He thinks he might cry; this sudden explosion of tears that will startle Layla and will blow his cover. His lips tremble; his knees feel like they must give out —

And they’re heading into his direction now, and they’re —

“Poor thing,” Layla says, “he’s shivering all over!”

“Ah, yes,” Rein murmurs, and his lips curl into a smile, “nervous, isn’t he?”

Y/n steps back; Rein steps forward.

“Let’s not trouble him,” Layla says prettily, scratching her neck, “He looks unwell. Is he feverish?”

“You are thirsty; you say?” Rein looks at Layla then, his voice sweet. “Absolutely parched, is that so?”

Layla sighs. “Yes. The trip here wasn’t the best. Before leaving, I only had a single glass of lemonade, and I have yet to sit dow here for a cup of tea. I hear that the rose tea in this Empire is absolutely excellent —”

Rein looks bored, that empty smile still on his face. Y/n shakes all over, clutching the edges of the fabric of his clothes.

“Y-Y-Your Highness,” he finally says, “I-I can get you the drink you want; I can —”

“That won’t be necessary at all,” Rein says in an oddly fond tone, one so sickly sweet it could give Y/n decay in his teeth. “Thank you.”

Layla looks confused, opening her mouth to speak, but then —

Rein flicks his hand in a lazy, smooth motion — and for a moment nothing happens. Y/n is ready to exhale — yes, of course; nothing can happen, it’s broad daylight and it’s foolish to think that Rein could do such things when it’s not at night, he can breathe easy and still fetch the drinks and escape —

Layla chokes a little.

“Pardon me,” she starts, looking surprised, “something is in my throat.”

“I must really get you a drink,” Y/n begins, “if you would let me…”

“Y/n,” Rein says, and the weight of his name on the demon’s tongue sends complete shudders down his spine. It should not sound this sacred, it should not be so whispered, so intimate, so sensual. It should not sound —

“Look,” Rein whispers excitedly, “marvel at her.”

Layla begins scratching her throat. Then she starts to dry heave, and tears form in her eyes.

“It’s unpleasant,” she starts to murmur feverishly, “it’s uncomfortable. Ah, I’m so sorry for my lack of manners. I don’t know what has come over me. My throat feels so strange…”

“A miracle she can still talk,” Rein’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Don’t you agree, Y/n?”

(How, how, how does the wretched demon know Y/n’s name?)

And then there’s red. Swimming in her jaw. Coming from the gaps of her teeth. She gurgles like something's absolutely choking her, and she starts to cough. The red keeps pouring out non-stop, like she’s a broken faucet and it won’t turn off.

“Her thirst should be sufficiently satiated,” Rein turns to Y/n, and Y/n’s eyes cannot leave the gruesome sight. It’s either that or Rein, and so he cannot — he cannot tear his eyes from the convulsing princess, the poor delicate princess who was so polite, so needlessly innocent.

He stares. A corpse lies before him, and the other side, the grin reaper, the sinful demon.

Y/n flinches.

Rein’s fingers travel to his jaw, pressing down on it. His fingers are tender as they caress his skin.

Y/n dissociates. The fear that blooms underneath his skin cannot be quelled; it’s like a poisonous branch, with tendrils spreading deliciously through his skin, coursing through his veins. They thump and burn.

“It took me this long to find you,” Rein says, and his voice sounds so adoring, so light — jubilant, merry, “I should’ve known that night. You saw me that day, didn’t you?”

Y/n snaps his head up — he knew — and shakes his head repeatedly. “Y-Y-Your Highness,” he stammers, the tears slipping from his face now, “n-no.”

Rein sighs and shakes his head. He clicks his tongue. “You tremble,” he says, “it’s cute that you think you can lie. How could you? You liked me enough to research about me.”

How did he know? How did he find it out? Why? How? Will he torment me now, will he kill me? I don’t want this; I don’t want to die — or perhaps I do, to be released from this — ever since that day I’ve been living in hell —

“I thought I would observe you for a little while longer,” Rein continues, pleased. Ah, his arms are moving now, his voice cruelly soft. His hands are wrapping around Y/n; his palms neatly fitting around his waist. It feels like the demon can devour him whole, tear him apart with his veiny, strong hands and dig into his carcass, sink his fangs in. It feels like Y/n can break, fragile thing that he is; flesh and bones all surrendered to Rein.

“But I was afraid you would get the wrong idea…” Rein continued, “seeing me with Layla. I saw your crestfallen look as she approached you. So I decided perhaps it was time for me to finally embrace you; shower you in my affection.”

It was you who I’m terrified of, is what Y/n wants to say, but every inch of his body won’t move. He can’t speak, he can’t defend his name. His body is still being crushed into a hug, a boneless, mindless sensation. His lips are dry. He can’t see now; his vision is blocked but that image of dead Layla is still there, and the noises of he gurgling, choking —

Y/n whimpers, and it only makes Rein — it only makes this demon — kiss the top of his head, and lightly tousle his hair.

“Poor thing. Are you tearing up?” Rein giggles, “poor darling; you must have been so scared.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Y/n says, his voice hoarse. The tears fall from his eyes. “Your Highness —”

“I have not,” the tone spirals into one of utter seriousness, “you have a rather sly tongue,” Rein hums, “worry not; I could always do you a favor and cut it off. It would make your life far easier; wouldn’t it?”

“Your Highness, why —”

“Why?” Rein echoes. Another kiss, this time plastered on his forehead. The hug is bone crushing. “Do you know how tiresome it was to inhabit this rather useless body?” His hands brush against Y/n’s back, and he trembles. “He wanted to be stronger, but it was a far-fetched goal for a boy so weak — which is why I ended up being summoned. This body is handsome, beautiful; yes,” Rein says carelessly, “but demons are always beautiful, so it was not exactly a bonus. I was so bored out of my mind…”

Y/n is silent. He stills. Even his thoughts are quiet. He cannot think, he cannot…

He wants to throw up. Take his blankets and cover him. Hide.

“…but you came!” Rein says cheerfully, “you looked at me that day; all frozen and terrified. How adorable. I’m glad I didn’t kill you that day. Then seeing me wasn’t enough for your darling heart: you went on to do your own little research. You allowed the darkness to take your mind; your dreams. Your soul. An exceedingly romantic declaration,” he says dreamily, “what a brilliant proposal, Y/n. And your stares have been so noticeable.”

“I —” Y/n stops abruptly, words dying in his mouth.

Stupid, stupid him. He has pored over those books but failed to read the most important part. He neglected the most crucial part, the most interesting and intricate and intriguing.

What else but courtship? What else but vows? Demons cannot feel wholly; but they have passion; they have desires. They are twisted; utterly wrong, they are like gangrene with rot that sticks to their souls. But it is there. It is present.

And now Y/n had teased it out of Rein through his fear, through his foolish budding curiosity. He’s splayed out the demon’s soul and has imbued it with this webbed emotions. With this desire; the hot headed, feverish rush of desire.

“Ah, no take backs,” Rein frowns. Y/n feels that lips move against his hair, “are you disturbed? You must have been, by Layla. Or by Mark, even though I’ve sufficiently gotten rid of him. You must rest,” Rein cajoles softly, “come, my darling; shall I lead you to the bedroom?”

“Scared,” Y/n shakes his head and continues to hiccup, “I’m scared.”

“Of who?” Rein says, fondly exasperated. “I am right here, my sweet.”

Of you.

Y/n is not exactly pliant under Rein’s touch: he’s frozen stiff; his muscles commanded by the demon, every contour, every inch surrendered to him. Or perhaps it’s better to say that it’s been ripped from him; this merciless act of giving something to him without consent, without permission. But consent is no concept to a demon; it is a fickle social abstract invented for the comfort of humans. The demons will not care of the ramifications of stealing; to them — humans are inferior, humans are theirs from the start.

The act of ownership.

That’s the first moment that Y/n truly feels he does not belong to his own body; that his own body does not belong to him. He’s a leashed lamb, trailing after the shepherd, rope around his neck.

He feels it tugging. Y/n cannot go the other way, or his neck will snap.

Death or suffering. Not much of an option, really.

**

The room is magnificent, befitting of a prince.

That’s the bed that Layla was supposed to be ravished. Dainty, delicate, demure maiden who slinks under the covers, who waits for her equally perfect husband. They both shall be meek; peering at each other in the dark, kissing each other tentatively, with mutual, endearing inexperience. Their lips will find each other and miraculously become hungry, slick, greedy, and they will indulge in pleasure.

That is not the case tonight. The bride is dead, and Y/n looks at the expansive room, his pupils wavering. Wondering what he’s done to deserve such a crude fate.

Rein is nipping at his ear, humming a tune that Y/n doesn’t recognize. It sounds like death.

“Humans are quite weak,” Rein says, and Y/n feels his limbs weaken, nearly collapsing on the floor. He can feel, he can very vividly feel Rein’s hot breaths against his ear, voice sickly sweet. He does not know if this is considered lucky, if this horrid misunderstanding — courtship, of all things — is to be laughed at.

The demon had kissed him. Whispered tenderly to him, called him pet names. He had taken him so gently, with that firm grip of his — had led him to the bedroom, had —

“You’re quite a fragile thing, hmm,” Rein says, “beautiful. Look at the way you shake.”

“Your Highness,” the plea falls from Y/n’s lips. “Your Highness, I —”

“Shh,” Rein smiles, “I apologize,” he says flippantly, and the ironic thing is that he doesn’t sound very sorry at all, and Y/n isn’t even sure if demons can feel sorry in the first place; “did you feel neglected? Isolated? I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” Y/n stutters his answer out, and he’s being honest: of course he wouldn’t mind one bit. He won’t mind if Rein drops dead now by some miraculous action, if he himself passes out and if Rein ignores him —

“I have realized this thing the humans call fondness,” Rein looks at Y/n, “why, seeing your efforts: how could I not reciprocate?”

It is a terrible mistake, is what Y/n wants to tell him. Everything is. Everything is a lie, a hoax, messy jigsaw puzzles all now together but placed in the wrong order. This wasn’t supposed to happen, when Y/n had read those books and had studied them vigorously, convincing himself it was for education, to survive better. Studying the dark magic — looking at the spells, researching about demons is a risky move; he knows that: but oh, how could Y/n ever anticipate this morbid turn of events?

Rein leans down, and his breaths are hot against Y/n’s; coalescing, entangling, intertwining. Y/n’s heart drops when he realizes soon after that the demon has kissed him; thankfully chaste; though the hunger swimming in Rein’s eyes speak otherwise. Demons love pleasure, after all: they will bask in it. And pleasure is different from love.

The kiss is soft — not entirely unpleasant, in a sensory way — though it makes the tears in Y/n’s eyes burn; it makes him recoil and shudder, though the firm touch around his body will not allow him to do so.

Trapped, he thinks dismally, I’m trapped.

Rein seems to study him delightfully — Y/n’s reactions, horridly, seems to give him a wild, unfettered delight; and he does that again — pressing his soft and yet firm lips onto Y/n's. There’s no obscene sheen of saliva just yet, no tongue, no wet noises — but still, Y/n —

“You are inexperienced,” Rein smiles. “Wonderful; darling. I was afraid that if you had spent time with another, it would’ve been rather foolish. After all; you don’t court someone after having already tainted yourself, right?”

Y/n just stares at the ground, unable to move. Rein’s fingers press on his lips. It’s not yet bruised.

“I’m tired,” Y/n manages, and it’s not even an excuse; it’s the truth. His bones are heavy and so is his heart. He wishes for the bed to come to his coffin, for his lungs to stop working.

Rein tilts his head. “Tired,” he repeats tonelessly.

This is when Y/n feels absolute fear, the feeling climbing up his spine, his body wrenched by a sleazy, sudden burst of pure terror—

“Of course,” Rein sighs, “I did bring you here for you to sleep well. I forgot how weak humans were,” he mutters.

“W-Weak,” Y/n repeats, stammering. Please, let him sleep. Please, let his body remain his for a little while longer; his sanity is gone, his heart is breaking. Let his body remain his own.

“They die so rapidly,” Rein continues, and his eyes are bored into Y/n’s own, “so quick; like lightning. Didn’t even put up that much of a fight, when I surprised them at night. And nobody noticed the disappearing, except for you,” he clicks his tongue. “Not much of a good species —” he smiles at Y/n, “though perhaps that is subject to change. You’ve been immensely impressive, my dear.”

Y/n swallows. “T-Thank you.”

“So modest,” Rein remarks. “Well, you should dress and sleep. Do you want me to help you?”

The correct answer is yes, hanging tautly in the air between the two of them. But Y/n can’t bring himself to say those words. To begin with, it’s hard; terribly hard, Y/n finds, to reconcile the fatality of the man’s gaze along with his tender actions.

“I’m all dirty,” Y/n says at last, “please don’t — trouble yourself, Your Highness.”

“Hmm, I am disappointed,” Rein says quietly, “but —” an abrupt crescendo of his tone, “but! Since you’ve been so darling; I shall let it slide.”

Y/n breathes a shaky sigh. Thankfully, Rein doesn’t seem to notice, and instead presses one more feathery kiss on Y/n’s forehead, his tight clutches slowly loosening. He looks adoringly at Y/n.

“My little human,” Rein says silkily, “I shall join you in bed later. Fret not: if your anxious mind is worried about what others might think, they shall not know.”

Rein’s treating him like a pet to be reared. Y/n supposed that these are all humans are to him; pets. Like dogs, cats — are humans just that, too? In the way yes, as all animals are living things and they eat and breathe.

For now — Y/n — has slipped out from any immediate danger. He doesn’t know if that’s a thing to be grateful for, but the truth is; everything is simply delayed.

Rein is inevitable.

That much has been established.

**

When Y/n’s all washed, he climbs reluctantly to bed. The sheets are soft; softer than anything he’s ever experienced before (the idea of him being in the prince’s bed is laughable), to the point he feels a sharp feeling of envy — quickly replaced by dread — as he lies there, heart thumping against his chest.

He can’t help but feel he’s waiting for death. Lying there, like a sacrifice, like a piece of meat. Like a hunk of flesh ready to be devoured; like he’s waiting for his life to bleed out from every orifice. Y/n swallows, his throat filled with bile. Despite the comfortable bedding, he feels incredibly uneasy — tonight, he wishes to be left alone. He prays for nothing to happen. Oh, god please, let nothing happen.

He’s tired, Y/n knows. Bones heavy, eyelids slowly shutting. Like there are forceful, gentle hands pressing down at his eyes, willing him to fall asleep — willing him to be a willing prey, because he knows that demons do not care about the state of their prey. Or would it be better for Rein to take him when he’s already asleep, so he won’t feel the pain, the unmerciful act of having something wholly taken away from him? The act of ripping off his body, feeding it to Rein. Pushing it into his mouth, surrendering his claim over to him, handing over the reins.

Someone else, take me away, Y/n begs, body curled around the pillow, body crumpled. He’s terrified, he knows, the sense of horror permeating through his exhaustion, keeping his mind awake whilst his body cries out for rest. He does not know yet, but the dark magic is swirling, dormant, eager. Eating away at his soul with a sadistic soft glee.

Of course, his pleas go unanswered: nothing happens.

Y/n lets out a little sob, wondering where it all went wrong. Where he fell so prettily into the hands of Rein. When the demon decided to spare his life just to stake a sleazy, slow claim on him.

When his life decided to spiral downhill, from the moment it took over him.

I’ll join you in bed later, Rein had told him. Sort of a promise. Y/n tosses and turns, sleep refusing to wrap around his mind.

At last, after a stretch of torturous minutes — or hours, Y/n does not know: he hears the soft footsteps of someone coming into the room. Y/n’s eyes burn, and he readies for this inevitable act of having himself taken apart —

But a soft kiss pressed onto his forehead, his breaths hitched — arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer. A breath exhaled.

No attempt being made. Just — just holding him, like they exist in a domestic, delicate space.

Which they don’t.

Y/n notices the fingers holding his waist, colored with blood. With red. His nose stings at the smell.

“Sweet dreams, darling,” Rein whispers into his ear, and Y/n forces himself to relax against the steady thrum of the heartbeat pressed against his back.

That night, Y/n had waited in anticipation, he waited with bated breaths, thoughts scrambling for purchase, body trembling. He had felt phantom pains littered across his body; sacred parts not meant for taking, and he had felt it anyway: thighs shivering, lips shaking, eyelids burning.

But Rein had not made a move.

**

When Y/n awakes, he cannot help but wonder if it was all a cruel, crude dream.

He must have dreamt this line of events. The demon, finding out about his existence — the demon, seeing through him, mistaking his feeble attempts or survival for courtship. The demon, recognising the black tendrils of darkness spreading through Y/n, a quick disease — and loving it, adoring it.

The demon, who had held him in his sleep like he was something precious, with carmine stained fingers; a life for a life. The demon who —

The demon who could not feel, and yet claimed he did.

This cannot be real. This must be his imagination working overtime. Surely, Y/n will awake from this dreadful day, and he will be awake in his solemn servant chambers, feeling cornered again as everyone around him sings praises of the prince who is not who he truly is. But even then, feeling cornered is better than — than being cherished in this nonsensical manner by a malicious, malevolent being.

Anything is better than what went down. Anything…

Y/n stares at the luxurious ceiling.

A tear falls from his eyes. He reaches out, a fragile attempt to test his body health — and he does not feel any muscle ache, except the full throbbing of his head, so he knows he was lucky last night.

This is reality, he thinks with despair. The endless beauty of the room that surrounds him: it’s the prince’s room, after all. So this means he is still a prisoner. But —

Y/n reached out to press his fingernails against his skin. A strangled groan falls from his lips: his nails are so sharp that they leave a faint trickle of blood, and the mild pain is enough for him to realize that he’s still here, that he’s still a victim to all of these frankly ridiculous happenings, and…

Y/n sits up fully, and numbly, completely numbly, he punches the pillow. His knuckles burn, despite the softness. He does it again; and again — and when the agony becomes a murmur in the back of his brain, he slams his head against the headboard, pain whizzing through his muscle.

Y/n gasps, tearing back and clutching his head. And yet the agony is such a darling respite: he does it again; doing it until the red soaks his skin and he stares at it in horror.

His vision blurs. He feels his vision sway, and watches as the pristine bed sheet is matted with his blood, his pain, his sorrow…

Y/n wants to howl. Wants to make an animalistic, wretched sound that will tear from his lips.

But it continues to burn, everything does.

“F-Fuck,” he manages to stutter out, wheezing, “ah, fuck!”

The vulgarities bring him some sort of clarity. Evil goes to clarity for him to completely still when the doorknob shakes, and the door opens.

Fear encumbers him. Y/n starts to tremble when Rein stares at the mess — all bloodied sheets, his messy hard —

Rein starts to laugh, shaking his head.

“Is this a gift you prepared for me so early, Y/n?” Rein says calmly, walking over and brushing Y/n’s hair lightly. “I didn’t know you would even offer your own blood as a treat.”

Rein licks a stripe on Y/n’s crimson cheek, humming. “So sweet, darling,” he whispers hotly, “so sweet of you. And your bed hair is so adorable. You are so cute…”

Y/n’s breaths catch in his throat, especially when Rein releases Y/n from his grip and turns around, unbuttoning his shirt.

Y/n stares. The previous prince had been weak, but clearly, the demon has been putting in the work. Does he get vitality from the humans he kills? His muscles are evident, arms having swelled up impressively, and his torso is refined, and —

Rein catches Y/n’s stare and he tilts his head. “Is it a pleasant sight, Y/n?” He says sweetly. “I have yet to see yours; your undressed body; that is.”

Y/n immediately whips his head around.

Rein only laughs; an empty, hollow sound that sounds too much like he’s mimicking how it’s like.

“Feel free to roam,” Rein sighs softly, “within the place, of course. And of course, the imperial physician will have to attend to your injuries. Does it hurt terribly?”

In all his fear, Y/n has forgotten that he has bashed his head in. The sudden pain startles him — he groans, and Rein clicks his tongue sorrowfully.

“What a thoughtful gesture, but you are too careless,” Rein says, “but remember; your body is mine, which means that your injuries are too. Don’t be too reckless with your body, alright, Y/n?”

Y/n nods his head shakily. Rein doesn’t seem to care about him being in pain, only about the act of ownership — which is — to be expected, of course, considering how he genuinely can’t feel and empathise and the only string connecting the two of them is —

“I’ll be off, then,” Rein says, smiling lightly at Y/n. “Take care.”

Feel free to roam, he had said.

But it’s a reminder; the palace is nothing but a golden jail. A golden birdcage. And only Rein had the keys to them.

**

After the physician attends to him, leaving Y/n a bandaged mess, akin to a mummy — he stumbles out. Rein has made no effort to elevate his effort despite his claims of love, and Y/n has duties to attend to. People send him glances as he shamefully steps out of the chambers.

He has worked so hard to be invisible, yet here Rein was, undoing all of his hard work. Y/n’s mood sours, and a wave of bitterness takes over his body; he bites his lip.

“He spent the night with the prince…”

“Who knew His Highness’s tastes would extend to even the lowly folk of the palace? Does this mean that I had a chance —?”

“Don’t be daft. Perhaps —”

The mutterings are endless, ceaseless. Y/n thinks scornfully to himself that they do not notice the fact that their prince is a demon, and yet they gossip about these events so tritely. All of this anger only makes his headache even worse, and he clutches the wall to regain his balance.

“Fucking hurts,” Y/n manages to hiss out. The fear is deflating. Rein isn’t here right now. He isn’t —

Y/n managed to squirm and move slowly towards a little corner of the palace. He has a broom and a bucket next to him, if anyone stumbles upon him and accuses him of not doing his duties — but for now, those stay useless as he sinks to the floor in relief.

Finally alone, Y/n thinks, and his body relaxes. A shudder escapes from his lips, as he thinks about Rein’s touch, that hot, warm touch — the lips pressing to his body, the tongue licking —

He groans, a pitiful, guttural sound. He has a few minutes of reprieve, laying on the cold, comforting ground, before his peace is interrupted. Y/n doesn’t feel the deadly fear that encompasses his body whenever Rein draws near to him, and so he sighs in relief — before he looks at the person who has entered.

It’s the young butler. John is his name; an innocuous, plain one. He must be here to chastise Y/n for not doing his duties. He operates like a head maid — he keeps his eyes on the servants, and manages them well.

“Sorry,” Y/n says tiredly, “I was just resting.”

To his surprise, John seems — he seems hostile, like he’s ready to lash out at him.

“You mere bedwarmer,” he hisses out, “you do know that you’re a lowly servant; right?”

“I- I did not —”

“Lies,” John says, “everyone says that they saw you stumbling out from His Highness’s room. His Highness is so pure, so delicate. How have you tainted him?”

At these words, Y/n cannot help but — he cannot help but keel over and laugh, and then he huffs. An anguished scream nearly leaves him, but Y/n keeps it in.

“Pure,” Y/n repeats, the anger growing, “delicate?”

“Say it. What dastardly methods have you -”

“You’re blind!” Y/n screams; “you’re all blind and foolish. You clearly do not see that frolicking in him. He is the one who has — the one —”

Why? Why? Why? Why am I so unlucky? What have I done to deserve this, why is it that all I can do is lament my fate? Why is it that all I can choose to do is wallow in my sorrow; drown in my misery? Why?

He feels it, rather than acknowledging it. The spread of something insidious, swirling around him, threatening to burst. Y/n feels his vision black out for a moment — he sees his hands raising themselves up, even though he doesn’t think he’s in full control of them, he hears a faint whoosh, sound, descending from above; he hears a terrified shriek and the darkness is —

Do it, Y/n! Use me! Use the darkness you’ve been cultivating every night with your almighty curiosity! Use it!

Snuffed out.

Now the indomitable fear creeps into his chest; and Y/n whirls around, his vision having cleared —

“Ah, ah,” Rein says cheerfully, nuzzling his head into Y/n’s neck. “That would’ve been brilliant, but don’t waste it on people like that, hmm?”

Rein mutters something, and in a flash: John disappears. There is no blood, for once, only…

Only nothing.

Y/n tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving up and down. He tries to speak, except that — except that he doesn’t know just what happened; and he’s all out of breath; and Rein….

Rein looks extremely pleased.

“I’ve never been so proud of these urges.” Rein purrs, “of your urges. You have the darkness at your fingertips, despite being a mere human. Just like you have made me fall for you, you have seduced the darkness, too.”

But I did not ask for that, Y/n thinks desperately to himself, but you must know; that I did not ask for any of this.

**

I had been proud of those urges. What did that mean? That little comment sprinkled in the midst of his excessive praise — evidently, it had referred to that moment when Y/n could not think, and when he had completely fallen apart, giving his body to that darkness, letting it control him.

Y/n breathes out. He must be a hypocrite. He must be some sort of fool, for being so terrified of Rein, when he himself had been dabbling so freely in fake magic, and letting himself fall prey to it. When he had nearly become the murderer and Rein — the demon — had been the savior, the one to — take that sin away from his heads before its anatomy had been fully carved out.

Before Y/n had become a full sinner. But he already is one, is he not, toying with the biggest evil in the world: a demon.

The laugh he heaves out is completely despairing. He can’t escape from the dark magic which he had invited. He's in danger, Y/n knows: he feels his moral compass collapsing, and it doesn’t help when Rein praises him for that, when Rein cajoles him and tells him that he is proud.

After that, Rein has taken his mouth again, a wet, heated kiss — and Y/n had been completely consumed by it, eyes blazing over and his body burning.

And they had broken apart, and Rein had looked at him so lovingly then, and Y/n could not help but wonder which human he mimicked, with that love-stricken expression.

So, so proud of you, Y/n.

Y/n had soaked in that feeling for a while, letting the feeling fester in him, slather over her his skin.

So, so proud of you.

**

Later, Y/n finds that everyone — the people of the palace — calls him the consort. The prince’s betrothed; most beloved — a title just held by Layla, who nobody remembers. She is nothing now; only someone remembered by Y/n. He doubts Rein bothers to remember the victims. John is another name scraped onto the surface, having disappeared. At least, with Layla, there had been blood. But with John; absolutely nothing.

No evidence to show that he had ever been alive.

Y/n feels his sanity break little by little.

He weeps.

He cries.

“I d-d-don’t know,” Is what he slurs when a bottle of alcohol accompanies him, “what’s real. Am I living in a constant delusion, am I — am I even alive?”

Y/n won’t remember it when he wakes up, but Rein will pluck that bottle of alcohol from his hands, studying the cold, hard glass of it, seeing his reflection. And he’ll smile longingly at Y/n’s madness, thinking that it’s awfully cute, and he’ll shatter the bottle.

With a glass shard, he’ll prick Y/n’s hands. So blood falls out; so Rein’s doing a favor: that he’s reminding poor Y/n that he’s alive.

“You are, my sweet,” Rein coos, and he will keep smiling, because everything is so amusing and of course, only Y/n is beloved and worthy enough to provide such joy in his otherwise mundane life, “you are alive, and you are mine.”

Y/n; descending into madness. Y/n, as he scrambles for clarity in his darkness and despairing mind, trying so hard to find memories that aren’t broken and shattered.

“You are mine,” Rein repeats, tilting his head. He traces the blood on Y/n’s palm, spreading it and smudging it all over his human, brittle skin.

“Mine.”

He has not taken Y/n yet. No; he’ll let Y/n wait, so Y/n and him can fully enjoy it when it comes. After all, a prize must he earned; and oh, Y/n is so close to that.

**

In his bouts of madness that plague him at night, Y/n remembers his past. Something he hadn’t thought about ever since the demon had overtaken the prince’s body, but now he is reminded of it.

They say that everyone has demons of their own. Before Rein, there had been his family. His family who tormented him, who broke him before he morbidly repaired himself, the family who had first made the darkness in Y/n’s heart appear.

Yes, the darkness had been there, already. Rein; Y/n’s curiosity — had only drawn it out, made it all the more obvious. But it had existed; floating around aimlessly in his chest. In his soul.

Y/n remembers his family passing away, never really atoning for their cruel sins towards him. An iron pressed to his heart when he misbehaved; the heat that made him shriek, the lashes on his legs that leaked blood and grew into terrifying monsters that would haunt Y/n for the rest of his life, until Rein.

The yearning, the desperate need for warmth. The want for tenderness. The shame in wanting those things. Thinking of tenderness as pain as it was easier to see it that way.

One night Y/n grows desperate, as the nightmares that aren’t Rein make him sob.

He remembers Rein, who had held him before. Who had given him that warmth so readily.

I’ll take anything, the darkness whispers, I’ll take anything at all. I’ll take anything to fill up that hole your fault left. Replace them.

And so Y/n clutches at Rein deliriously, his brain feeling like it’s been shattered. From the time he smashed his head into the headboard — his head feels like it’s never been completely healed. He cries like a petulant child.

Like a lonely one.

“Help me,” Y/n begs, “the nightmares will not stop. Comfort me, please, caress me; love me.”

He strips away his dignity then. Offers it to Rein.

And so Rein does; he does it in a frenzy, he rushes in and captures Y/n’s lips and he pushes and pushes and he craves —

He adores this. Poor, pathetic Y/n finally comes to him for help.

“You have sacrificed plenty for me,” Rein whispers, “for your endearing little courtship. How could I not?”

Y/n’s hands loop around Rein. It’s warm. It’s—

It should not be. And yet. And yet.

The fingers that stroke his hair so slowly. The ones that sweep over the expanse of nape, making Y/n tremble. The hands offering comfort, though they should not —

Y/n sleeps, finally, a peaceful one. He exhales.

**

The next day the shame is absolute, unforgiving. Y/n remembers the way he had clinged to Rein, the way he had — had surrendered himself. And now he is in the room, seeing the food that Rein has left behind, obviously as a reward. A reward for giving my dignity and self respect away, in embracing the man I’m scared of; terrified of. Of pushing my humanity away.

And just like Y/n has abandoned his humanity, he abandons the food; he pushes the plate away abruptly, digs his fingers into his throat in revulsion. His eyes burn, disgust twisting though every fibre of his body, woven within his heart.

I had wanted it, needed it, Y/n thinks, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. I don't want it.

He rushes to the bathroom, throwing it all up. Each heave, each time he throws up — he thinks to himself, he tells himself, he assures himself, that this vomit — is his shame.

He’s throwing it all up.

**

Rein continues to be sweet. Little kisses pressed against his bare skin, and the way he smiles, brings dessert that Y/n later throws up. Y/n wonders where this patience has come from; why Rein hasn’t —

But the illusion of safety; of tenderness is broken when one day Rein saunters in, his smile still fixed onto his face but there’s blood everywhere, and Y/n can smell it, and Y/n can almost taste it; how unholy it is, how demonic it is —

Rein reaches out to Y/n and shoves his tongue down his throat, and Y/n’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He struggles, tries pushing Rein off, but the prince’s hold is completely unrelenting, not moving an inch.

Y/n can feel the prince’s arousal hastily pressed against his, he can feel the prince pushing apart his thighs and feels it wedged in between them —

He can’t speak; for his mouth is used.

And when Rein finally releases his mouth, Y/n crumbles, trying desperately to regain his breaths. Inhale, exhale —

“Mmh,” Y/n makes a moan, when Rein’s tongue expertly presses against his and when the pleasure is spurring his own body on, when he’s lost inside it like a pleasure puppet, when he’s —

“I’ve been so patient,” Rein nearly growls in Y/n’s ear, “I’ve been so patient and my patience wears thin.”

“Y-Y-Your Highness —”

“I’ve been so laughably human in the sense that I’ve waited, like a dog. Like a human.”

Rein’s teeth skims against throat; thumbing over the ridge of his jaw. It’s unrelenting, pushy in the sense it continues to take and offers nothing in return. It’s needy; he’s needy and greedy and his hunger is growing, it’s spiraling out of control.

At last, Rein takes his cock out, forcibly using his fingers to open Y/n’s mouth to push it in. Y/n shivers and trembles, shaking as he feels the length and girth of it completely push him to his limits — he feels how it presses to the back of the throat and makes him choke —

Rein smiles, breaths in, satisfied.

“Look how pretty you are.”

Of course, Y/n cannot answer.

**

That instance fills Y/n with contempt. Fills him with a sense of desolate despair. His mouth is raw and hoarse, and he can’t speak; he can’t even talk before the taste of it fills his senses and he wants to sob, cry.

What does he have left, when he’s stripped of everything he has? Is it a crippling sense of darkness, nothing else? Is he that —

Rein leaves him alone after that, for a while. He’s busy, Y/n finds; and it explains his desperate, heated rush for something. But it leaves Y/n to his own devices.

I’m human, Y/n tries reminding himself, I’m still human; and I still want to be human. I will not — I will not surrender to this taunting darkness that simply wants to take everything away from me.

And so he becomes utterly selfish (ironically, the most human he can be): and he befriends someone.

It is a death sentence for the person; Y/n knows. Him becoming close to someone else means death for them, because demons are possessive, and they crave, and they crave and crave, and they never let go. They will never relent. Never repent.

It makes Y/n sober to know that this is his fate. Death might be a better option. This is his life now; the empty end before him spreading to god knows where, the endless darkness.

Y/n cannot even remember the person’s name. But the person brings him temporal comfort, in the sense that — in the sense that he finally has normal conversations about the weather; about the food they eat, about their duties.

The comfort is short lived.

If anything this attempt only proves to Y/n how far gone he is: in the way that he cannot find any interest or budding curiosity in anyone else; not the way Rein and the darkness had completely taken hold of him.

I must be growing mad, Y/n knows.

A blistering, upsetting admittance; I am growing mad.

**

This act comes with its own repercussions and consequences.

Y/n doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rein furious, but he now does.

Oh, oh, the prince’s touch is absolutely bruising as he clasps Y/n’s hands, smile now deranged and not empty in the sense that it’s oozing anger; it’s oozing madness.

“I leave you alone for a while,” he snarls, “and this is what you do. Is that right, Y/n?”

Rein stalks towards him. His hands go around his neck; Y/n wheezes — the prince is strangling him. And yet Y/n knows that Rein will not kill him — no, this demon is far too entrenched in him.

Rein brings Y/n for a kiss, and this time it’s painful, as Rein bites on his tongue with vicious desire and draws blood out. Their lips are a mess; all bleeding and bruised when they part, and Rein’s hands press against Y/n’s hips, so painful and tight that Y/n lets out a pained groan. But Rein swallows that sound greedily and aggressively pulls his hair to make Y/n look at him.

“Look,” Rein says giddily, “look, Y/n, look at his dead body. Look at his eyes that I’ve gouged out for you. Look at his tongue which I’ve cut off for talking to you. Look at his wrangled limbs. Look at this sight.”

Y/n blanches, face turning white.

“You are mine,” Rein whispers, hysterical as he’s still smiling, absolutely mad. He breathes in Y/n’s scent, bites his neck so hard that blood trickles out. Leaves hickeys all over.

“You did this to me. You took my heart; you made it yours. You courted me. You were so sweet; so darling, so beautiful.”

Y/n feels sick to his stomach, for all the wrong reasons.

He yearns for this. He craves this darkness. He sins, wondering if running away is an option —

And at last, Rein takes him, fucking him roughly, not as a reward, but as a punishment. His cock is painfully large as it pushes into Y/n’s entrance, and the sounds are obscene and wet as the thrusts grow faster, as Rein completely consumes him; pleasure riddling both their bodies and as the tears continue to fall from Y/n’s lips.

Oh, oh. How dirty this is. How ruined Y/n is. How —

“Don’t you dare ever do that again. Remember,” Rein smiles, but it is now so empty; completely mirthless. “You are mine. Do not ever do that again.”

Y/n can’t respond, and so Rein coaxes him, tone now far gentler, “you’re learned your lesson, have you?”

The heat of his mouth enraptures Y/n again; he returns it with a pleading kiss, a desperate one. Take all of me, ruin me, so I have no parts left of myself to look at, to hate. Destroy me whole, not partially. Finish your job.

**

Y/n is reminded that Rein is a demon when Rein is unable to grasp the telltale signs that he’s upset.

Rein, after that brief altercation yesterday, has resumed to be merry and happy. Demons, after all, do not understand emotions, and Rein is no exception. He praises Y/n, saying that Y/n has made up for his mistake, that he wants to take him again, that he wants to love him again — and Y/n is subdued, wondering why he’s allowed this to happen.

I’m allowing him to do this to me, Y/n thinks angrily, I’m letting him do all of these to me. And I am upset, but of course, Rein shall never understand. He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.

Rein does impart him with a warning:

If you do that again, Y/n, I’ll rip the heads off everyone in the palace and fuck you in front of them.

**

Y/n obeys for a while (how could he not)?

He’s completely claimed by the darkness. Absolute non negotiable, brooking no argument; allowing no reason. He's ensconced in it, swallowed by it.

Who was he before all of this? Does he remember? Does he want to remember?

**

“The prince is a demon.”

The sentence sends Y/n scrambling for purchase, as he stares at the owner of the voice.

He stares.

Once upon a time Y/n had yearned for this to happen.

Bathed in a benevolent light that seemingly does not fit the status of a servant having just joined, this girl in front of him is radiant, gorgeous and beautiful. She has silky silver hair, illuminating golden eyes — and it makes Y/n’s heart ache.

Finally, a person who has recognized the fact he has been living with. And yet, too late. This makes Y/n bitter. Why is this happening now?

“I can help you,” she says, her voice desperate. “I see the darkness controlling you. You must have had a hard time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/n manages, voice sore.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “I am the High Priestess. The saintess. I can sense demons — the temple has been targeting this place for a while. I’ve just been sent here to eradicate him: the man who has taken over His Highness.”

The darkness ripples in Y/n’s chest.

A while? He thinks — a while, and yet they couldn’t come to save him sooner —

“My name is Myra,” she says quietly, “Y/n, please.”

“Go away,” he says bitingly, not recognising the person who he has become, snapping away at a person who can save him — “you’re too late, don’t you think?”

“The one who has claimed the prince is the lord of the demons,” Myra says quietly, “the most powerful. That was why we could not act so soon.”

Y/n doesn’t react, and his empty state makes Myra anxious.

“I understand; you must be shocked —”

“If the prince wasn't the lord of the demons, I would’ve been even more surprised,” Y/n laughs, “no, it makes so much more sense. Only someone as cruel as that could’ve…” he trails off.

Cruel; yes he is. But that man…

“Don’t butt into this,” Y/n whispers; “don’t.”

“But —”

“Don’t try to help me,” Y/n shakes his head, distraught, “leave.”

“I am the priestess,” Myra says resolutely, “I—”

“You will be murdered,” Y/n says softly, “he is powerful beyond words. He cannot be denied. Leave, please.” A beat. “Please.”

If Myra is shaken, she does not show it.

“My duty is to eliminate demons anyway,” she swallows, “I have to do this. For the sake of everyone here, for the sake of the people, for the sake of the temple. For the sake of you.”

It’s a noble thing to say, but it only makes Y/n’s stomach churn. Why? Is it because he’s worried for her, or if he —

(Or he realizes that he doesn’t want to be saved?)

Secretly, he knows it’s the latter.

**

Y/n refuses to help Myra. It means punishment for him too, and again he’s selfish; being more human.

“You have to do this!” She raises her voice at him, “you’re just — you’re just letting this happen to you.”

“I am,” Y/n says blankly. He thinks of Rein’s hands around his throat, this time strangling him to death. Not a bad way to die. What if Rein thinks he’s colluding with the temple? He’ll be extremely angry then. Y/n doesn’t want — he doesn’t want Rein to be angry at him.

“You’re corrupted,” Myra spits out, completely beyond control. You’re evil. You’ve let the darkness corrode you.”

“Yes,” Y/n whispers, “when did I deny any of this?”

A beat. The two of them are staring at each other, and the clock is ticking. Y/n closes his eyes. Any moment, Rein will discover this and —

“I pity you,” Myra says sorrowfully, and Y/n’s eyes fly open. If there’s anything he’s expected, it wasn’t this.

“I pity that you were led to this. That your circumstances have changed you; that you’ve been forced to do this to yourself. That you’ve somehow been entangled into this relationship beyond your control, beyond your consent.”

“I did this,” Y/n’s voice is hoarse, completely ripped into shreds, “do not pity me. Curse me; hate me — but do not pity me!”

“Y/n —”

“I was not — I was not forced!” Y/n screams; and he’s in agony, his heart is twisting and turning and he’s — shit, he’s dying inside, “I used to think that,” he says breathily; his loud exhales with his chest rising up and down. “And I was wrong.”

“Y/n,” Myra’s voice is so painful, so soft, “do not say that.”

“It was right of you to call me dirty, unholy,” Y/n shakes his head, tears slipping from his face. “It was true. I am dirty. I am wretched; torn everywhere and broken in all the wrong places. But I did this. I invited him, I let the darkness crowd my mind…for goodness’s sake,” he looks shakily at Myra: “I let him bed me!”

“Oh, Y/n,” is all she can say.

Y/n continues to shake, the raw, awful admission falling from his mouth. “It’s; it’s fucking wrong. I know that. But I am wrong. I had a choice to run from it then, to never open the books,” he moans, a guttural, agonized sound: “I researched, Myra. I —”

He had kept blaming it on others. On his fate, on his luck, on — on a billion other factors. But the truth is; he had done it. Y/n had opened the walls of his soul, had taken darkness by the hand and had taken demonic spirits into it. He had cared for it. Had —

“So you mustn’t pity me,” Y/n whispers, “if you care for me, then don’t. You can continue to hate me, rebuke me. You made efforts, but as you can see, here I am. Unmoving; unwilling to budge. I will walk to my downfall with him. I will…”

“Is it too late, then?” Myra says very sadly, her eyes wet, “it is never too late.”

Oh, but it is. From the day their bodies had shared a communion; a shared bond. From the day Y/n had found warmth in the demon. From the day the fear had twisted into something more menacing…from the day Y/n realized that overtime he had accepted it; wanted it, even.

He shakes his head. “Give up, Myra; it’s futile. I never should’ve let you do this in the first place.”

Myra’s voice is broken. “Do you love him, then?”

Love. Loving a demon. Loving something so wrong everywhere, loving a monstrosity that will ruin him. Oh, but that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s the wicked, heavy, and malicious truth. It’s cruel to admit, yes; it tears something from Y/n’s chest — but still, it’s the truth.

“I do,” he admits, and it’s sinful, rotten, and terrifying, “I’m sorry.”

Her face turns ghostly white, and Y/n sees it then; that Myra has finally acknowledged it.

That he’s beyond saving.

**

Myra will die. It’s a fact written in the stars. The temple can do nothing. Holiness can do nothing. Faith will shatter.

The world will do nothing, can do nothing. Y/n knows this.

Y/n stares at the mirror of the bathroom, watching as his reflection distorts and warps. Is Myra dead yet? Is she —

He’s tried cleaning his body, his hands, to rid themselves of the impurity. But no endless scrubbing can fix the mess that he’s become.

“Murderer,” he says shakily, looking at his reflection, “you’re a murderer, Y/n.”

He had practically led Myra to die. Led so many people to die, people who he can’t even remember the names of. He had done this.

“Wretched,” he says bleakly, voice so weak that it trembles. “You’re despicable. Fuck. You’re —”

Y/n stops, as he sees Rein appear at the corner of his reflection, leaning against the door. Their eyes meet each other in the reflection and Rein smiles sweetly. There’s blood splattered all over his clothes — Rein has made no attempt to wash himself off, instead wearing the blood of the divine like a badge of honour.

Y/n watches him, completely defeated, making no attempt to leave.

Rein comes to him, claiming him. He watches Y/n’s expressions and reactions in the mirror as he takes him all over again, as he elicits sounds of pleasure from Y/n and takes delight in them. As Y/n is sprawled, naked, on the bathroom counter as he’s forced to watch himself in the mirror as Rein ruins him; fucks him with a ruthless tenacity. Still covered in blood.

As usual, Y/n lets Rein take what belongs to him.

**

“You killed her, didn’t you?” Is what Y/n tells Rein one day, “Myra. She claimed she was a priestess. She was —” Y/n says tiredly, “a good person.”

Rein starts laughing, merry and light — but then he abruptly stops, watching Y/n’s expressions carefully.

“Oh, you weren’t joking,” the smile is completely erased from Rein’s face — and now he looks — he looks terrifying, face turned dark; face completely expressionless save for that smile on his face, that constant smile that —

“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n,” Rein exhales; the three words rolling off his tongue easily, “you really make me realize that patience is a virtue.”

“So you did kill her. The blood belonged to her.”

“You seem to forget,” Rein says softly, looking at Y/n, “that I’m a demon. Simply because I cherish you.”

Of course, Y/n thinks bitterly, I must always remember that he is a demon. I must always remember that he is cruel, that he is inhuman…

“I don’t forget,” Y/n says in response, tone listless. I can’t forget.

Rein hums, pleased.

**

Love is a terrifying thing.

Y/n is slowly making peace with the fact that he loves a demon. He is human. Love is possible for him. Love can happen to him.

And yet, Rein.

Rein is a demon. Rein is inhuman. Is Rein capable of love? Obsession and desire; yes, but love — that may be an obsolete concept. It may not be possible for Rein. Mercy and pleasure do not equate to love.

“Demons and humans share something alike,” Rein tells him one day, “they share souls. Demons are heartless, but humans have hearts. But souls…they are made one and the same.”

“Souls,” Y/n repeats, “souls…”

He wonders what they look like. Is he completely dark? Is he gone? Is this even — even human?

“They come in shapes and colours,” Rein says thoughtfully, like he has not brooded over this topic in a while, “I got to have a glimpse of it, for a moment.”

Y/n is curious. Of course he is. After all, it is his curiosity that has led him down this prickly, painful path. But the final stage of grief is acceptance, and he supposes he’s there now. Empty, but existing.

“What did it look like?”

Rein smiles at this question, reaching towards Y/n and hands circling around his wrist. The action bleeds affection, but Y/n wills himself not to believe in it. Desire and love are not the same.

“Ruby,” Rein says fondly, like he’s reminiscing a pleasant moment, “it was so red; so delightful. I even remember when it was made. A date that it was conceived. February fifteenth, if we go along a human’s perception of time.”

Ruby, like blood, Y/n thinks to himself, immediately shoving that awful thought elsewhere.

“Why do you ask?”

“I was curious.”

“What an endearing trait of yours,” Rein laughs quietly, “don’t you agree, my darling human?”

Y/n swallows. “Yes.”

**

The funny thing is; the date that Rein’s soul was made draws near. A birthday, of sorts. Y/n doesn’t think anything of it, at first, but in a startling turn of events he — he considers a birthday gift.

Deranged, he knows. The mere thought of it depresses him for a while immensely, as he’s acutely aware of how much he’s fallen. Going from someone who feared the demon, who condemned him, to wholly giving himself to him. To love him. What a joke; what a mess.

Y/n finds himself making a little ring that has the shade of ruby embedded on it. The date intricately etched upon it; a little line that only Rein’s sharp eyes would catch.

A gift. A ring. It’s such a tender, beautiful thing that doesn’t even make sense. Y/n laughs bitterly at it all. When he succeeds at it he feels the pride enter his body for a brief moment, and he allows himself to feel it. Another emotion besides the shame and pain and love he carries with him everyday, knowing he’s condemned to live the rest of his life entrapped by the demon.

Isolated from the world.

Y/n picks up the ring, admiring it, placing it upon his own finger before taking it off.

He is a demon. He is inhuman. He is completely —

(He cannot be in love.)

Don’t expect him to be sincerely touched by the gift.

If only.

**

Y/n is proven to be the most unlucky person in the world when the ring gets stolen on the 15th of February.

Of course it would; he was foolish in leaving it haphazardly. The ring — he had worked at it, had spent a considerable money to bring in the ruby —

What is it that he feels? Complete defeat, humiliation; that even after all the things that he’s endured the very thing that breaks him fully now is theft? That he’s shaking now, crying as he realizes that his effort is for naught?

Is this what truly breaks him? An act of theft?

It was my first admittance that I had fallen in love with Rein, Y/n thinks, made physical. A ring. But perhaps Rein wouldn’t have wanted that, anyway, would he?

Still. The thought of that glittering ruby ring, which he had slaved away at getting stolen:

It tears something at Y/n. It makes him distraught, shaken. He’s heaving, his tears bitter and his mind reprimanding him for his childishness, at how careless he was, that it is a ring and not deaths that made him wallow like this —

“What makes you so distraught?” Rein looks amused as he sees Y/n tremble, wiping away his tears, "what a crybaby you are.”

Rein’s — Rein’s teasing him; like this means absolutely nothing to him.

(He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.)

Rein has seen Y/n crying so many times that perhaps the meaning has been diluted and dissolved in his mind. But now it makes Y/n even more upset; when he is again reminded: this man is a demon. He cannot feel. He cannot love me —

“A birthday gift,” Y/n chokes out, because Rein does not like silence. “I got you a birthday gift. A ring. It’s what humans when they give it to the people they like.”

“…”

There is brief silence, before Rein laughs, and the hope finally plummets down Y/n’s stomach.

“You joke,” Rein says smoothly, “a birthday gift? I do not even have one. But that would’ve been adorable.”

“…15th of February,” Y/n says shakily, “you —”

“Then where is it?” Rein interrupts, “I do not not see it,” he smiles, “you are lying, then. Oh, Y/n. You had no need to lie. What are you trying to do?”

Another brief silence — before Y/n completely breaks down at the sheer unfairness of Rein’s words and the fact that this love he has denied for so long is the one that makes him so humanly weak and susceptible to emotions — though at the same time he’s so disgustingly selfish and inhuman —

“Rein,” he manages between his sobs, realizing he’s crying now, upset. Why can’t you be more human? Why can’t you truly love me? “I — someone stole it,” he gasps, “I wasn’t lying; there’s no point in me lying, I just thought it would be something nice to do —”

And in the most unexpected moment — Rein stands up abruptly, and Y/n peeks at him, expecting for the demon to be utterly bored, unaffected —

And he flinches.

Rein’s smiling still, but the anger now is different from the ones he’s displayed so far.

No; this one is dark, menacing, and…

Rein kisses his tears away, gentle and soft. “Oh, Y/n,” he says, “don’t be so upset. I’ll settle it. And I’ll bring you a little gift after that to cheer you up, alright?”

Y/n stares, his sniffles dying away as he just —

He watches Rein leave, with that unfamiliar brand of anger.

Almost like he had cared.

**

That moment that Y/n cries over the birthday gift — the ring, Rein feels something within him break, a thin, precious piece of his soul dying.

His voice is deadly when he speaks to Y/n. A sense of calm washes over him, though it’s false and it’s wrong and it’s utterly disgusting.

Humanity, he finds, is worming its way to the cracks of his soul. Rein feels rage, yes, rage, as an emotion; not as something he merely displays. He feels touched, painfully touched at the gesture of the present that his Y/n had so previously prepared, anger at the ring being stolen.

At someone daring to take Y/n’s previous effort and take it for themselves, even though everything that was Y/n’s belonged to him.

Humanity. This is what his humanity is. And yet this little piece of humanity will only serve to make him even worse. More evil, as now his — ah, yes: love, continues growing.

As now he is sure that he cannot live without Y/n.

Where had it started? When he had realized that someone had seen through the tiresome facade he put up as the prince? He had been bored out of his mind. And then, yes, there was that lovely courtship by Y/n. Y/n had always been so loving, and yet so endearing; in the way he had trembled and shaken.

Rein had always understood emotions in the literal sense. He didn’t know how they felt, but he could read them well. And yet, humans seemed to be the opposite. No one seemed to be able to tell who he was, all foolish and daft…except him. Even the sex, which was an inherently pleasurable thing — had stirred emotions within Rein. Had been insatiable, had made him crave endlessly.

The hunger that could not stop.

That would never be whetted.

Rein had not fully grasped it yet, that humanity was slowly beginning to bleed into him.

Y/n had scrapped him hollow. Made him anew.

**

Of course Rein finds the culprit and brutally tortures him.

Of course he does it slowly, ripping off his limbs, spearing him inside and out until his shrieks die beautifully in his ears. Until Rein tears his soul apart again and again and puts him back together so he can experience the same agony. Until the culprit’s blood rivals the ruby ring now sitting on his finger, precious and loved.

He does it until the man is a carcass, brutally mangled, beaten, tortured, unrecognisable. Until the man’s limbs stop twitching and the process repeats over. He took what I had, Rein tells himself, drunk on his power, on his rage; on his newfound humanity that will only make him ever more uncontrolled and incorrigible.

But he knows what this is now; beyond obsession, desire, and pleasure:

There is love.

Later, when he returns to Y/n, Y/n lights up when he sees the ruby ring placed on his finger. He has learnt not to ask questions, dutiful and obedient as he is. And yet Y/n too, has those flare ups of disobedience that are endearing all the same; that fiery spirit that the darkness loves too.

The darkness that they both possess are one and same.

**

Y/n has sinned, he knows. He’s been corrupted, damned for eternity — he’s filthy inside and out.

This love; this horrible, cruel, and disgusting he harbours, that he accepts — it will ruin him eventually. He knows that. It’s something he will not turn away from.

All of the deaths on his hands. A murderer, a wicked sinner, an executioner. The sin is grave, terribly grave. And so this is his punishment too, this is his debt to repay and this is his life to live. Choking, suffocating, filled with so much timorous pleasure and darkness he cannot even begin to comprehend it. His torment is his.

This love is his perdition.

**

A/N

comment, like and reblog if u enjoyed! wow this was a pain to edit.

[shrugsinchinese]

Dude, your glasses

[that-one-idiot-11]

she must be really good at gambling

[twiggy-boy]

You know, every time I draw something stupid, I think to myself "surely I can't top this!" And then somehow I draw something even dumber

Edit: NOOO NOO WHY IS THIS GETTING NOTES??? STOP IT!! ONLY LIKE 10 PEOPLE WERE SUPPOSED TO SEE THIS AND THEN ID BURY IT UNDER MY REPOSTS NOOO

[grundoonmgnx]

Nick Barlow, Clusterfuck/Keep It Together, 2022

Oil on mountboard, 81 X 81 cm

[shopwitchvamp]

Babe, are you okay? You reblogged Nick Barlow’s Clusterfuck/Keep It Together again

[chalroe]

From Lost In Translation by @quekerahkerah (which is so fun, go read it rn!!!)

[chalroe]

From Lost In Translation by @quekerahkerah (which is so fun, go read it rn!!!)

[makimaglazertilldeath]

— chp 005

warning:

prev - next - m.list

You can't focus on the wailing of the police sirens. You try, but the flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the park trees just blur together into a meaningless, chaotic smear. You just can't process any of it.

​Not when your brother is dead.

​The shock is still sitting heavy in your chest, thick and suffocating, because everything just happened so violently fast. The world tilted on its axis in the span of a few seconds, and now your mother is kneeling on the muddy riverbank, holding you tightly, her face etched with an expression of intense, terrifying concern.

​Ah... you think, your mind floating somewhere slightly above your own body. How much time has passed?

​"Bambi. Please. Look at me."

​You blink, the world slowly coming back into a shaky, fragmented focus. "M-mummy... Der— Derrick... is."

​"Shhh," your mother hushes you immediately.

​Her thumbs brush against your cold skin, meticulously wiping away the dirty, freezing river water dripping down your temples. Her eyes bore directly into yours. There is a fierce, burning intensity in them, a desperate attempt to anchor you back to the ground, yet you can't help but notice how incredibly gentle and careful she is being with you right now.

​"Do not look over there. You look only at me," Isolde commands softly, her manicured hands framing your face to block out the sight of the paramedics and the yellow tape. "Breathe, [Name]. Just breathe."

​She pulls you against her chest, wrapping her arms around your shivering, soaked frame. And it's so warm. Your mother is warm, and right now, you love that she's warm. It is the absolute, only comfort that you currently have left in this nightmare.

​"My sweet girl," she sighs, resting her chin on the top of your wet hair. "Just what in the world happened?"

​You don't know. You honestly, truly do not know.

​You can only press your face deeper into her designer coat, focusing entirely on her warmth, desperately trying to ignore the spreading numbness deep inside your chest. The emptiness is so absolute, so heavy, that it almost physically hurts.

​How pitiful.

.....

.....

​Time has passed again. It slips away in disjointed, confusing chunks. It took exactly about two hours for the frantic chaos of the situation to calm down... albeit only a little bit.

​You are sitting in the back of an open ambulance now, wrapped in a thick thermal blanket. Your mother is sitting right beside you, rocking you slightly and holding you close against her side like a baby. All the while, she is speaking quietly but sharply to somebody important about what happened—details and logistics that you currently could not care less about.

​You're numb. Sleepy. So damned exhausted.

​You rest your heavy head against her arm and think back to everything that had happened before the tragedy struck.

​It was such a normal day. As normal as life in Gotham can be. Derrick had practically begged you to play with him in the park, tugging on your sleeve despite your busy schedule of packing your things in advance for your departure.

​And you had yielded. You granted him his wish. It was going to be his birthday, after all. Tomorrow was the day he was going to turn five.

​Five.

​How completely, devastatingly funny that he will never actually reach that age.

​He didn't deserve this. Your sweet, clumsy baby brother did not deserve such a useless and tragic end.

​By what right does this twisted reality suddenly get to snatch away a young child? What right does this... this completely messed-up, supposedly fictional universe have to hit you with something so violently real and agonizing?

​By what right? You let out a slow, trembling sigh.

​"Mummy..." you whisper. Your voice is completely flat, devoid of any inflection or life. "I want to go home... please."

​Your mother pauses mid-sentence, the sharp edge in her voice vanishing instantly as she slowly looks down at you. You had interrupted her while she was still speaking with a weary-looking detective in a trench coat—a man named... Gordon?

​Ah... your tired brain supplies. Commissioner Gordon. Barbara's dad.

​"Sweetheart... please give mommy a moment, okay?" Isolde asks carefully, a flawlessly gentle smile curving her lips, though her eyes remain unreadable. "This will be quick. I'm sorry."

​You don't look at the detective. You just nod slowly, closing your eyes and leaning your heavy, aching head back against her warmth, letting the dark behind your eyelids swallow you whole.

You wake up with a heavy, confusing blankness settling over you like a weighted blanket.

​The morning sunlight filtering through the heavy velvet drapes looks exactly the same as it always does. The expensive silk sheets feel exactly the same against your skin. For a brief, fleeting second, you feel as though it’s just another normal day in the manor, like absolutely nothing has changed.

​But you know with absolute certainty that it isn't.

​You are empty.

​Actually, no. You feel even emptier than that.

​You stare blankly up at the intricate plaster molding on the ceiling, wondering... how will you ever live your life from now on?

​Don't misunderstand the sentiment. It's not as if your entire universe needs to be centered around Derrick, right...? And it's not that you feel a crushing, melodramatic, tear-soaked sorrow. Maybe you feel a dull, nagging ache of guilt. Perhaps it's grief... but it's not like feeling it is going to magically bring him back. It's just a heavy feeling sitting at the bottom of your stomach, and not really much more than that.

why are you lying to yourself like this?

​It’s complicated enough to suddenly lose a brother, but it becomes infinitely more complex when you factor in the disconnected reality of your past life. Your adult mind and this fragile child's body are entirely out of sync. You just don't know what to feel anymore now that he's actually dead.

​Are you sad? Angry? Completely indifferent?

Stop.

You don't know. You truly do not. The freezing river took him, and it feels like the current washed away whatever fragile, complicated emotional tether you had to him, leaving behind nothing but a quiet, chilling void.

​Still, there is a lingering, nagging thought of 'What If' quietly eating away at the back of your mind.

What if you hadn't been so fiercely protective of the status quo? What if you had given Bruce Wayne a chance at the aquarium? If you had stepped aside and allowed the billionaire to interfere, to realize exactly who Derrick was instead of dragging your brother away right then and there... would everything have changed for the better? Would Bruce have taken him in? Protected him? Or would it have just accelerated the inevitable disaster and made things worse?

​What will your mother think...? What do you honestly think?

You hypocrite..

You let out a slow, quiet breath into the empty room. Not that it matters anymore.

​Derrick is dead. He's not going to be there to welcome you back home anymore. He's not going to be there bothering you and begging you to play with him on the rug.

​It... suffocating.

You frown, pulling your brows together and firmly snapping yourself back to reality. Dwelling on the past is a useless endeavor, but...

​He's mine... He's my baby brother. Something inside your chest suddenly feels incredibly tight. And as usual, you force it down.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your dry eyes. Since when did you even get home, anyway? Your memories of the river are a fragmented, muddy blur. You vaguely remember the screeching sirens, the freezing wind, and eventually falling into a heavy, exhausted sleep pressed close against your mother's warm coat. She must have brought you home... maybe when she finished talking to whoever was important at the scene.

​Whatever. It doesn't matter.

Before you can dwell on the past any longer, three sharp, polite knocks echo against the wood.

​"Miss [Name]?" a quiet, measured voice filters through the heavy mahogany door, interrupting the deafening silence of your bedroom. "Are you awake?"

You stay silent for a long moment, staring at the door. Finally, you sigh before speaking, confirming that you are awake. There's no need to stress an innocent staff member.

​"Madam... ordered me to inform you that you've been asleep for five days. Young Master Derrick's funeral is today."

​...

​You widen your eyes and immediately sit up straighter. Five days? What in the world... Was what happened at the river far too much for your body to handle, that you ended up knocked out for an entire work week?

​You resist the urge to groan at yourself and just sigh deeply.

​"M-miss... You need to prepare for the funeral..." the house staff outside your bedroom stammers, sounding as if saying the wrong thing could potentially get her severely punished.

​"Come... in," you say, your voice low and raspy from disuse.

​The heavy door clicks open, and a young maid steps inside, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered to the floor. Draped carefully over her arm is a garment bag.

She walks over to your wardrobe, unzipping the bag with trembling hands to reveal a tailored, high-collared mourning dress. It is perfectly pristine, entirely devoid of any childish lace, ribbons, or bright colors.

​It's... black. Pitch black. How fitting.

​"Madam Isolde had this tailored for you while you were resting," the maid whispers, refusing to make eye contact. "The car will be leaving for the cemetery in exactly two hours. Does the young miss need me to help?" she asks politely.

You stare at the dark fabric. The reality of it all is finally, truly crashing down around you. You are going to put on that dress, you are going to stand at the funeral watching a casket where your brother's body lays, and you are going to watch them lower your Derrick into the dirt.

"..."

You stayed silent for a moment, and finally opened your mouth.

​"Leave the dress on the bed..," you command quietly, your voice devoid of any emotion. "I will bathe myself. Just... prepare the bath."

​"Yes, Miss."

​The maid curtsies quickly and scurries into the adjoining bathroom to start the water. You are left sitting alone on the edge of your massive bed, staring at the black dress. The dull ache in your chest is slowly sharpening into a blade.

The day of Derrick's funeral, the sun shines brightly, with no trace of any passing gloomy clouds in sight. Not even a single drop of rain. It's cold, because it's nearing winter in Gotham, but the skies are so incredibly blue, the air is so crisp, and it's all so…

​Weird. Odd. Strange.

​… That's the right word, isn't it? It's strange, precisely because there's nothing abnormal or off-putting at all about the weather. Because this feels like another normal day when you should be working hard on your studies, making sure to keep your mother pleased.

Then, when you finally have some free time, you'd find Derrick taking a nap in your bedroom.

​And then... and then what?

​The two of you would probably play together… taking a nap side-by-side, or reading your brother a story for children.

(​"Sis! Are you finished with your study...? Can you read me this? It's a story about the frog and the scorpion." Derrick smiles nervously as he shows you the book he received on his fourth birthday.

​It's... too bad. You don't have enough time for that. Your mother made your curriculum so far advanced you honestly find yourself reminiscing about your college days from your past life. But at the same time... Derrick only received a children's book as a gift, and nothing else. No extravagant parties for him.

​Can you honestly ignore the way he looks so hopeful? Apparently not, because you soon find yourself sitting beside him on a large carpet in the manor's library, smiling softly as both of you read the story about nature and betrayal.)

Where has the time gone...?

​You... feel strange. Reminiscing on that memory, you feel a sharp pang of grief, but at the exact same time, you feel nothing. There are no tears falling from your eyes. Rather, you just stare blankly ahead at the manicured cemetery lawns.

​It's the same for your mother. She is dressed in simple yet classy clothing fit for a day like a funeral.

​Hmm... not exactly a proper mourning wear. It's just a sharp, tailored business suit topped with a dark trench coat. You nearly scoff out loud. She looks like she just stepped out of a hostile corporate takeover meeting instead of actually dressing up to bury her dead son.

Something is boiling deep inside you at the sight of your mother casual attitude to all of this. But you bit the inside of your cheek and just suck it all up.

What can a child even do? Can you even speak up at your own mother? Can you?

​...

...

...

You sighed.

​This feels like a normal day. A normal day, not one where you need to put on a somber, black dress and stand in the freezing wind.

​It should be another normal day. But it is not.

​"Big sis, are you still busy?"

"Big sis, have you eaten?"

"Sis, when will you have the time?"

"Sis, look at me."

"Sis, do you hate me?"

"Big sis, what gift do you want?"

"Big sis—!"

​You sigh again as you stare at the small, closed mahogany casket being carried toward the plot. You look around and find that there really aren't a lot of people here aside from a few guests. Probably just from your mother's inner circle of elite, untouchable vultures.

Disgusting, all of them..

Your gaze finds its way to the ground, and—

​"Isolde..."

​The voice is a deep, somber baritone. A painfully familiar one that makes the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You blink, slowly tilting your chin up to look at the intruder. Standing just a few feet away, dressed in a flawless, charcoal-black suit, is Bruce Wayne.

​He looks utterly wrecked. His mask is completely gone, replaced by a raw, heavy exhaustion that deepens the lines around his piercing blue eyes—the very same blue eyes that are currently locked inside that coffin box...

Ah... you question silently, more curious than anything else. What is he doing here?

​How did he even get past Isolde's private security? Or did she actually let him in? You glance up at your mother, watching her expression.

​She looks as calm as always. In fact, she looks like she isn't even surprised by his sudden appearance. Still, she maintains enough polite decorum to greet him.

​"Mr. Wayne...." she smiles softly, though it doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes, and her voice is deceivingly soft.

​The tall man hesitates. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides as he looks at the small casket, before forcing his agonizing gaze back to Isolde.

​"I... offer my condolences," Bruce says, his voice thick with an emotion he is clearly struggling to bury beneath the surface.

​"How gracious of you to come all this way just to offer words, Mr. Wayne," Isolde replies. Her tone is perfectly even and polite, though you can't help but notice the razor-sharp hint of mockery and sarcasm laced through the syllables. "Though I assure you, we require nothing from the Wayne estate."

​Bruce's jaw clenches visibly. Seems like he's smart enough to nit take the bait of Isolde's provocation. Instead, his heavy, grieving eyes shift downward, landing squarely on you.

You freeze.

"....?" You look at him with confusion and weariness.

The absolute devastation in his gaze is suffocating. He is looking at you in a strange and unsettling way that you can't quite comprehend. It’s a mix of profound loss and a desperate, clinging need to protect what is left.

Atleast... That's what you can observe.

You instinctively take a half-step backward, hiding slightly behind the long sweep of your mother's dark trench coat. You refuse to break your blank expression, but your heart hammers violently against your ribs.

Is there any need for him to look at you like that? Its... Weirdly unsettling.

Isolde notices the shift. She smoothly steps sideways, entirely blocking Bruce's line of sight to you, shielding you like a dragon hoarding its last piece of gold.

​"The service is for family and close associates only," Isolde states, her voice dropping into a register that leaves absolutely no room for negotiation. "You have offered your condolences. For that, I am honored that you attended this gloomy day of mine."

And now you need to leave.

It goes unsaid, but it hangs heavily in the air.

​Bruce is quiet for a moment, just looking straight into your mother's eyes, slowly frowning. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.

​"I...—"

​You grip the fabric of your mother's coat tightly in your small fist. "Mummy... It's Derrick's day," you say solemnly, cutting through the heavy air.

​You don't know what type of complex, toxic relationship they might have had in the past. But you know for sure that they absolutely cannot have this kind of tense, aggressive standoff at your brother's funeral.

​It's blatantly disrespectful and, frankly, irritating.

​You frown, shifting your body slightly to look past your mother and stare directly at Bruce Wayne, silently daring him to start a fight over a grave.

But as you look at him, it takes you a stunned moment to realize that the billionaire isn't the only one who came. Standing just a few paces behind him, to his right, is a teenage boy. He is wearing a dark suit, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He has messy black hair and bright blue eyes that look deeply uncomfortable and terribly sad.

​And standing quietly on Bruce's left side is an older gentleman with immaculate posture, holding a large black umbrella like a cane.

​Oh... Dick Grayson and Alfred Pennyworth?

After that, a suffocating silence ensues.

​Bruce stares down at you, the words dying in his throat. The sheer weight of a seven-year-old girl scolding him seems to finally break through his stubbornness. He looks at the casket one last time, a muscle feathering in his jaw, before he gives a stiff, almost imperceptible nod.

​He takes a step back, giving Isolde the space she silently demanded, though he doesn't leave the cemetery grounds entirely. He merely retreats to the shades of a large weeping willow nearby, Dick and Alfred following quietly behind him.

As the service begins. The priest's words wash over you in a dull, meaningless drone. You don't hear a single word of the sermon. You just watch the polished wood of the casket gleaming in the inappropriate, bright sunlight.

​When it is finally time, the mechanical hum of the lowering device breaks the quiet of the graveyard. Derrick goes down into the earth.

Isolde steps forward. She doesn't cry. She doesn't shake. She simply pulls a single, pristine white rose from her coat pocket and drops it into the open grave. It hits the wood with a soft thud. She turns on her heel and begins walking back toward the idling car without looking back.

You step up to the edge of the grave. You look down into the dark earth. You grip the plushie you've been holding since the beginning of the funeral.

The slightly damp, crooked-eared plush bat. Mr. Flappy. Looking at it, Isn't this toy kind of ridiculous? Its ironic.

​You let it drop from your fingers, watching it fall until it rests on top of the casket.

​"Goodbye, Der," you whisper, the wind carrying the words away.

​You turn and walk back toward the car. Out of the corner of your eye, you can feel Bruce Wayne's gaze burning into your back, watching your every step, but you don't turn to look at him.

​As the driver opens the door for you, Isolde is already sitting in the dim interior, checking a notification on her phone.

​"Get in, Bambi," she says smoothly, her voice completely devoid of the grief she should be feeling. "Your bags are already packed in the trunk. Ms. Vanaver are expecting you before nightfall, and we cannot afford to be late."

You pause with your hand on the car door, the reality of the statement freezing the blood in your veins.

​Your brother is barely in the ground, and the next chapter of your gilded cage is already beginning. You slide into the leather seat, the door shutting heavily behind you, sealing you in the dark as the car pulls away from the cemetery.

Batman is late once again. And Bruce Wayne is no better.

​He stood perfectly still under the sweeping, bare canopy of the weeping willow, the biting Gotham wind cutting right through the expensive wool of his suit jacket. He didn't blink. He just watched the sleek, red taillights of Isolde’s town car shrink into the distance, bleeding into the gray afternoon until they completely disappeared down the winding, manicured road of the cemetery.

He was always late. It was a vicious, unbreakable cycle that defined his entire existence, a curse wrapped around his neck like a garrote.

​He had been late to the alleyway when he was eight years old, his small legs simply not fast enough to run for help before the gunshots echoed off the brick. He had been a fraction of a second too late to leap across the courtroom table and stop the acid from hitting Harvey’s face. He had been five years too late to find out he had a son, and seven years too late to know he had a daughter.

​And now, standing just a few yards away from a freshly dug grave that was horribly, sickeningly small, he realized with a crushing, absolute certainty that he was too late to save Derrick.

The police report sitting on his desk in the Batcave stated it was a common accident. A tragic, terrible drowning where Batman wasn't needed, where there was no colorful rogue to punch, and where Bruce Wayne had absolutely no legal standing to intervene. But... he was sad. He was profoundly, paralyzingly miserable. The kind of misery that quietly devoured him from the inside out.

​Always has been.

​He stared blankly at the ground, the polished black tips of his oxfords dusted with loose, damp graveyard dirt.

​The silence under the willow tree was incredibly heavy, broken only by the rustling of dead leaves and the distant, mechanical hum of the groundskeepers' tractors. They were just waiting by the iron gates for the wealthy mourners to leave so they could finish their grim, everyday work of burying Gotham's dead.

​"Bruce..."

​The voice was soft, hesitant.

Bruce didn't turn his head. He felt Dick step up beside him, the teenager's shoulder brushing against his arm. Dick was shivering slightly in the cold, his hands buried deep in his pockets, staring at the patch of disturbed earth with a heartbroken expression. Behind them, Alfred stood like a silent sentinel, leaning heavily on the handle of his umbrella.

​"We should go home, Bruce," Dick murmured, his voice tight. "There's nothing else we can do here."

​Nothing else we can do.

​The words echoed in Bruce's empty chest, bouncing off the hollow walls. He was late. After everything he had sacrificed, everything he had done to try and bleed the poison out of this city, he was always, perpetually late.

He let out a hollow laugh.

It didn't make sense. None of this made any sense at all. Why was the universe like this? Why did it keep putting the people he cared about in the ground?

​His breath hitched, a sharp, physical pain flaring behind his ribs. He could feel himself losing his grip. The meticulously constructed dam holding back his sanity was cracking. He hated losing. He despised the utter powerlessness of it.

​No, no, no... The thought chanted in his head, a dark, rhythmic drumbeat. This can't keep happening.

​It absolutely could not. He refused to allow it.

​He needed to act. Yes. The realization crystallized in his mind, sharp and undeniable. He needed to take before everything was completely stolen from him.

​He needed to do something about the girl. His daughter. The one with Isolde's chillingly blank expression, but the undeniable, familiar fire of his burning right behind her eyes. He had seen the way Isolde looked at him today—like he was an insect. Like he was a threat she was preparing to neutralize. She had hidden them away for seven years, and in her care, his son had ended up dead.

He couldn't leave his daughter in that sprawling, toxic mausoleum Isolde called a home.

​Was Isolde going to get angry? Would she declare an all-out legal and social war on him?

He realized, staring at the fresh dirt, that he didn't really care anymore. He didn't give a damn what his ex-lover felt. The fact that he was that little girl's biological father was more than enough justification. He had the money, he had the lawyers, and he had the sheer, immovable will to rip a share of custody right out of Isolde's manicured hands. If the legal route failed... well, Batman had never been one to ask for permission.

​He could already picture it. The vision forced its way into his mind, an oasis in the middle of a desert of grief.

​He pictured his daughter in the Manor. He saw her running down the grand hallways, the suffocating, coldness melting away to reveal a normal, happy child. He saw her sitting in the library with Dick, arguing over homework, or baking something ridiculously sweet with Alfred in the kitchen.

​A completely normal, safe child. It was a light that the Manor, and he himself, so desperately, violently needed.

​"Bruce?" Dick asked again, glancing up at him with worried eyes.

Bruce finally tore his gaze away from the grave. His jaw locked, the grief in his eyes hardening into something entirely different. Something dangerously absolute.

​"We're going home, Dick," Bruce said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that left no room for argument. He turned his back on the cemetery, his black coat snapping in the wind. "But I'm calling the family lawyers the second we get back. Prepare a room in the East Wing."

​Dick blinked, stumbling a step to keep up with Bruce's sudden, purposeful stride. "A room? For who?"

​Bruce didn't look back. "For my daughter. She's coming home."

Notes: Finally finished omg...... Ts took so long to rack my brain.. 😔

tags: @wegottastayfocus @kwrtig @thatoneraeder @lilyalone @theworldscalamity @yomiyayei @k0imatoze @nobuswife @shycreatorreview @flattykawa8 @zannnzinnci @goth-rine @young-adult-summer @c4xcocoa @alephless @naf--naf @harlbork @anacarolayne23 @buddee @place-holders-things @fictionalwhor3 @kmsllii @starseekingahearts @ghostlyworld @p1nkdr3ams @tuabuelaenvinagrexd @cyberraccoon @sugar-snapp @somebodyrandom-613 @singlepringle4you @labryel @cjshimlyn @cryptidkai @panicfox347-blog @noone1233nobody @linasrosetown @red-hood132 @roviemvi @rinkydinkythinky @annicishana @abigaiili @chrimsonkitty

[sadmortician]

dapitt at da beach

[mewwon]

the vivid sensory-memory of sucking water out of a washcloth as a child

[decemberwinter]

man I hate this fuckass country so much

[decemberwinter]

reblog if you hate your country

[ourseasone]

❝ if our demons cannot dance, neither can we. ❞

in which ∘ ∘ ∘ from the moment you understood the world, you knew it wasn't built for someone like you — raised in filthy back alleys on rot and screams, forced to steal and fight just to survive, looked down on by the rich, and held together only by your mom's warmth. when she died, so did your grip on sanity. then you met gojo satoru through a humiliating defeat that gave you safety, but your overwhelming powers eat at your mind, your past haunts you nightly, and others' obsessive dependence feels like chains. your life was never meant to be peaceful — but as long as you keep fighting your own mind, maybe everything will be fine... right?

⟡ pairing various jujutsu kaisen x OP!male reader

⟡ warnings explicit sexual content, overpowered male reader, romance, boys in love, obsession, manipulation, reader has a face claim ( dazai osamu ), angst, reader is morally questionable, fluff, a lots of swearing, gojo satoru is down bad, jealousy, crack, blood & gore, deaths + more.

⟡ statut ongoing

⟡ wordcount ( 28,727 in draft )

⟡ taglist OPEN ( let me know if you wanna be added! )

book playlist!

━━━ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫.

001. and all of my devotion turns violent.

002. the alley swallowed the sun whole.

003. mercy was never part of creation.

004. who the hell is this sunglasses asshole?

005. maybe it's a curse in disguise.

006. to be added!

© fanart belongs to unknown …

[nameless-snowman]

life series in your style , but make it 3D (6/18)

[bunniebrains]

Full time party girl, part time daughter.

In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.

Chapter ten. Reasons to be Beautiful.

Fic masterlist!

cw: Reader is unconscious, breathing tubes, hospitals, medical talk, inaccurate medical information (i tried but im not a doctor), mentions of addiction, mentions of underage drinking, Reader has bad mental health - I DO NOT CONDONE OR SUPPORT ANY UNDERAGE DRINKING OR SMOKING, stay safe stay in school

The wind hits Tim as soon as he walks out of the hospital. If he had it his way, they’d all still be with you. He trails behind Bruce and Dick with his head low. If you were here you’d tease him about his shrimp posture.

It doesn’t feel real yet. This is a waking nightmare. He'll wake up and be in his own bed, and you'll be in the room across from his. You’ll be there, waiting for them. You’ll all eat breakfast together and they’ll treat you like a human being and not a piece of furniture. It’ll all be okay. He just has to wake up first. 

But it never happens. Each step back towards the car drives that point home. Every step he takes puts more distance between the two of you. No one opens the door. It’s admitting defeat. Instead, it opens from the inside. Jason sits in the driver’s seat. 

It’s not the batmobile, but instead it’s one of Bruce’s personal cars. His eyes have a quiet fury in them. That's new. Normally Jason’s rage is loud and evident. Somehow this is scarier. 

“We’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me everything. Who is she?” he wastes no time in asking. Tim hasn’t even clipped his seatbelt in yet. He sits in the back with Dick, and Bruce sits next to Jason in the front. 

Bruce’s eyes look hollow. Defeated. 

“When we get back-”

“No. Now.” Jason pushes back, starting the car and driving at a leisurely pace. “We have time. Visiting hours won’t be open for, what, another three and a half hours? Should be plenty of time.” His snark makes no effort to go undetected. “Who is she?”

Bruce clears his throat. 

“Her name is Y/N. She’s Nineteen.” He notes that Jason’s shoulders tense when he hears your real age. “Her mother was… we had a thing. Once. It wasn’t supposed to be serious. I was young and stupid. I didn’t hear anything from her after we stopped. I didn’t know she- we had a child. Thirteen years later she comes to the door.” 

Bruce has to pause. “Her mother was attacked by a stranger and thrown into oncoming traffic.”

“Jesus.” Dick mutters. He’s heard the story before but it doesn’t change how bleak it is. 

“She refused to go into the system and I… it didn’t feel right to send her away. I thought that I could do something good. She grew up living hand to mouth. The apartment was a mess. I thought she could have a better life. That's what I told myself. I thought she should have the chance to be a normal kid.” 

‘She fought to be here, Mr Wayne’

“So I kept her away. I wouldn’t let her get close. I thought about you. I wanted to give her the life you should’ve had”

Jason looks like he’s going to explode. He tries to keep it in but his face betrays him. He’s got that look in his eye. The one that always sees through Bruce.

“I thought it was for the best.”

“No you didn’t.” Jason cuts him off as he turns a corner. “You just didn’t want to look at her. I know how you think Bruce. If something reminds you that you’re a fraud, you turn it away.” His knuckles tighten on the wheel. They turn white and his nails carve little crescents into the leather steering wheel.

“I know.” Bruce’s voice is uncharacteristically empty. 

“Why didn’t I know about her? Who else knows?” 

“I’ve kept her out of the public eye-”

“Let me guess, you thought if the Gotham Gazette snapped a picture of her at the clubs you’d get it in the neck?” Jason huffs. 

The car goes silent. 

“Yes.” He admits. “And I know how the paparazzi treats women like her. Young, vulnerable women. She wouldn’t be able to cope with it. So I didn’t take her to the galas. I didn’t drive her to school. I wouldn’t let us be seen in the same room.” he takes a breath in. “I didn’t tell you about her because I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t know how to explain you. She knows that you died. How do you explain that to someone?”

“How I’d react?” Jason parrots with a scoff. 

“Cmon Jason, you know it’s not completely unreasonable.” Tim interjects. “When you came back you were hellbent on destroying everything. He didn’t put it past you to use Y/N as leverage. Or a punching bag.”

The car jerks to a halt with a violent screech. Jason whips his head around to the back of the car. “You think I’d hurt her? Look who the fuck’s talking! I haven’t set foot in her home life and she’s in a hospital bed- that’s all you!” he spits to the three. 

“Don’t act like you know how this happened.” Dick defends himself. “You weren’t there.”

“Ha.” Jason’s voice is dry. “No, you’re right I wasn’t there. And who’s fault is that?” he snaps back to Bruce. “I wasn’t there, so I wouldn’t know anything about her. I wouldn’t know that she’s a drunk. Or that she only smokes Marlboro golds. Guess I wouldn’t know that her first home was on Birch street, would I? No, I’d never know that she wanted to be a vet, but dropped out.  Bet you guys know all about that, right? Bet you know her dealer too. Ah, no, you wouldn’t. What did she say again… oh yeah, ‘my Father can’t stand me’, ‘my oldest brother hates me’, ‘they all think i’m a screw up’.”

The tension in the car grows. “You guys let this happen to her.”

That does it. Bruce slams his hand against the dashboard. “ENOUGH Jason.”

“What are you talking about?” Of course Tim knew about the drinking and the dropping out, but what was that last bit, and how did Jason of all people know? “Did you stalk her?” The accusation chills the room. 

“God no.” Jason starts driving again. The tension dissipates a little when they start moving. “I met her last year. I was patrolling around the area, round Park Row. She was just a stranger. She was absolutely wasted and alone, so I walked her back.” 

“Walked her back where?”

“She wouldn’t let me walk her the whole way. Thought she was afraid of me, she said she didn’t wanna bother me more than she already had. I walked her to the bridge on Queen’s river and she made her own way back from there. Then next week she was there again. And the week after. You get the point. She just kept talking the whole time.”

Jason narrows his eyes, “She talked about you guys a lot.” 

Dick swallows a lump in his throat. “What kinda stuff?”

“You know she thinks you all hate her right? That's all she’d talk about.”

Bruce feels like his throat is getting tighter. Something’s choking him. 

Before he continues, he bites the inside of his lip, deliberating on how to word his next statement. “One time she asked me to walk her to the train station. She said she was gonna get the first train out of Gotham and never come back. Thought she was joking, but she was dead serious. God she couldn’t walk in a straight line but she just kept saying she was gonna do it. After that I didn’t see her for a week. Assumed she made it out. Turns out, it was just having a rough comedown- according to her.”

Before they know it, the car approaches the Manor. The sun begins to crest over the horizon. Five AM. No one speaks when they get out of the car. When he opens the door, Bruce is greeted with Alfred. He looks more tired than usual.

“Master Damian told me everything. Is she…” his voice drifts off when he can’t see you. For a moment he assumes the worst. His perfect posture falters. 

“She’s alive.” Dick promises. “There was a surgery- they got the bullet out, that’s all that matters right now.” His promise does little to soothe Alfred. “We’re gonna go back as soon as visiting hours are open-”

“She’s alone?” Alfred isn’t one to interrupt. He’s too good at his job for that. But when he heard that you were on death’s door, and now that you’re all by yourself, it cracks him. 

Bruce could have Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian, but you were always Alfred’s. When you came home for the first time, you followed him around like a lost puppy. Always afraid of setting a foot wrong, so eager to make a good impression. If you weren’t at school you’d be helping wherever you could. You’d handwash the dishes, even though they had a dishwasher, or insist on giving him a hand with dinner. When you got a little more comfortable, you’d joke with him. Or ask for help with homework. He remembers the day you asked him to come to your parent teacher conference. Then there was the school play. You were so excited when you got a good part, not the lead, but you still had a good handful of lines and stage time. You reserved a seat for Bruce as well, but that was a bust. 

On that ride home you asked him why Bruce didn’t show. Alfred made up some kind of lie about a board meeting over running. Well, not a total lie, it wasn’t a board meeting, but instead it was a meeting with the justice league. How could he explain that to you without exposing everything?

So the image of you, the girl he failed, lying in an unfamiliar bed all by yourself instantly sends him into a spiral. You’ll be afraid when you wake up. He knows you hate being alone. 

“Visiting hours open at Eight.” Bruce’s voice is steady. “We’re going to rest and go back at half seven. Where’s Damian?”

“He’s asleep.” Alfred replies curtly. Bruce can tell he’s pissed. He has every right to be. 

Dick yawns. An attempt to settle the air. That's normally his forte. The peacekeeper. But nothing can calm the room. “I’m gonna get a couple hours of shut-eye too. Nothing we can do until they open.” he heads upstairs but turns his head around when he’s half way up. “Jason, you coming?”

Jason doesn’t say anything when he passes Bruce and takes to the stairs. When he gets to the right floor, he calls to Dick with a lowered voice. “I’m gonna take a guest room. See ya.” Before he can depart, Dick grabs his arm and drags him into the nearest guest room. 

“What the hell Dickhea-”

“You said she had a dealer. It’s Roy isn’t it?” Dick’s eyes are cold. They’ve lost the playful spark they normally hold and instead they’ve frosted over. 

“I don’t know wha-”

Before he can lie, Dick pulls out your phone. He has the messages open. When they were driving, he had taken the liberty of going through your phone. Some would call it an invasion of privacy. He would say it’s research. The messages go back further than he could’ve guessed. They’re consistent though. That's not even the worst part. He’s the only person who regularly texts you back. 

“Are you going to let me talk or are you going to just keep cutting me off?”

Dick says nothing. 

“Okay, yes. It’s Roy. Listen, I have nothing to do with that alright? I barely see him.”

“Barely?”

“I let him stay at my apartment. Trust me I don’t want him there, but if I know where he is at least I can keep an eye on him.”

“Thats how you knew about the acid, right? Did Roy tell you?” Dick pressed. 

Jason pokes his head around the corner of the door to check if anyone could hear. When he doesn’t see anyone, he reels back in. “I was there. Look before you blow up, listen. I thought- shit i don’t know- I thought she was grown. I didn’t know she’s nineteen, okay? I thought she was twenty something. I figured she was old enough to make her own decisions.”

“And you didn’t stop her?? You preached about us not being there for her and you let her get high right in front of you?!” his voice is ripping itself apart. It’s trying to be quiet but the weight of the words make that hard. 

“Oh yeah Dick, you’re so right. I should’ve just slapped it right out of her hands, because that's what a normal person would do. Are you stupid? If I intervened she’d know something’s up. Yeah, I was there, but so was Roy. He was keeping an eye on her.”

“Where was he when she got shot in the stomach?” Dick snaps back. 

Neither speak. The elder bat takes a moment to think. He has to plan. Dick knows he hasn’t been a good brother. But as the oldest, it’s his job to make the plans, to get everyone together. 

It’s Jason who speaks first. “I would’ve been there if you guys let me.” There's a thick layer of malice and venom but underneath the spite there’s a sliver of vulnerability.  

He leaves the room before Dick can stop him. His feet lead him to an empty guest room, the one furthest away from anyone else’s room and he crashes onto the bed. The bed swallows him whole and he sinks into a dreamless sleep, anything to pass the time. It’s going to be a long, painful day when he wakes up.

Bruce cracks his son’s door open with delicate care, not wanting to wake him. It is in vain however, because Damian hasn’t slept a wink since he got home. Instead, he finds Damian training with the dummy in the corner of his room. Each hit is precise and quick, leaving no room for error. The door creaks and gives Bruce away. Damian’s head swivels, his eyes wide with anticipation until he sees who it is. Then, his arms fall to his side. 

“Why are you still up?” Bruce lets himself into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He taps the spot next to him. Damian takes the hint but doesn’t comply. 

“Can’t sleep.” he shuffles uncomfortably. “I don’t see the point of sitting around and doing nothing.” He speaks like it's obvious. 

“Damian, are you okay?” it comes out slowly, like the words themselves could bite. 

“I’m fine.” It's too quick to be real. “Why are you asking me? I’m not the one who got shot.” his voice cracks on the last word and it tells Bruce all he needs to know. He opens one arm out, a ‘come here’ and Damian finally complies. The smallest Wayne slots next to his father and keeps his eyes forward, unable to look at him. 

“Is she okay?”

Bruce inhales. “She’s alive.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Unconsciously Damian worms a little closer to his father. “I asked if she was okay.” 

“We’ll visit her soon, you’ll see for yourself. She’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” A dark voice nags him in the back of his mind. ‘You never sat like this with her.’ Would things be different if he did? He wonders which moment set you down the path you were on now, and if he had even been there for it. Could he have steered you away if he was there? 

“You did good tonight. You stayed calm.” 

Damian bites his tongue. He wants to admit that he wasn’t calm. He was terrified. But he doesn’t want to know why. He’s seen blood before, more than anyone his age has or should. People die all the time, so why did your near death experience rattle him so much? Why can he still see the gunman when he closes his eyes? The sound of your body slamming against the ground keeps playing whenever it gets quiet, then it gets followed up by your agonised screams. 

He knows the real answer. Guilt isn’t a new feeling. Neither is shame. He’s well versed in these emotions. He can recognise them within himself and he’s got practised pushing them down enough times to make it muscle memory. But he’s drowning in it now. If luck hadn’t been on your side, for once, your last action would’ve been cursing at him and pushing him. He knows that's not you, but it could’ve been your legacy. 

Before last night, he found your insistence on leaving with a ‘love you’ annoying. The way you would pester him by knocking until he let you in. You wouldn’t let him go to school without saying it on the way out. If he wasn’t around you’d text him instead. It used to get on his nerves. But he missed it last night. It could’ve been lost forever. 

So you have to be okay. You must. That can’t be the last time he saw you. 

The hours drag on until Seven AM finally arrives. Bruce is awake. He didn’t sleep. That's nothing new. Instead, he spent the remaining hours in your room. After getting Damian into bed, he went to your room. It certainly looks lived in. The bed is made, Alfred’s doing, and the walls are littered with posters and knick knacks. Photos of you with people he doesn’t recognise, movie posters- he didn’t know you liked that genre, bands he’s never heard of. There’s a shelf lined with books and trinkets. 

Bruce came in with the intention of packing a care bag. To pack up a few things that might bring you some comfort or pass the time, but when he looks around he feels utterly defeated. He doesn’t know which books you’ve already read, or which pyjama shirt you’d prefer. 

“She likes that one.” Tim’s voice brings him out of his trance. He stood in the doorway, with a backpack in hand. Guilty minds think alike. “She’s halfway done.” he’s pointing to a book on your nightstand. Bruce picks it up and feels the weight of it. It’s not thick, but instead it's thin. Should be a quick read. It makes him wonder when you started it. There’s no bookmark, but instead the top corner of the page has been dog-earred. 

“Did you get any sleep?”

Tim doesn’t need to say anything. The answer is obvious. “I was busy. I saw the pamphlet in your pocket when you sat down earlier. I wanted to do some research.”

“So. What do you think?”

Tim fiddles with his fingers while trying to find the words. A quirk he’s always had. He didn’t notice himself doing it until you pointed it out once. “I think she needs help,” he started, “but I don’t think sending her away is a good idea. Last time she left she got worse, remember?”

When Bruce doesn’t reply, Tim assumes he forgot. Of course he did. “College. Remember now? When she dropped out and came back she just… I don’t know, deflated I guess. It was like all her energy just disappeared. Took her a month to get out of that slump. Do you really think sending her away again is gonna make her any better?”

“We’ll look at our options.” Bruce sighs non comitally. Another reminder of how he failed you.

“Bruce, you know I respect you. But if I have to fight you in this I will. We nearly lost her last night, do you really want to lose her again?” his words cut deeper than Bruce thought they could. He was glad for it. 

The drive to the hospital was rough. The road itself was smooth, but the atmosphere inside the car was rocky. Damian was weirdly quiet, Dick was fidgeting in his seat-unable to keep still, Jason was a timebomb waiting to explode, Tim was tapping his feet against the floor, Alfred kept his eyes on the road as he drove and Bruce was… well the brooding wasn’t new. That was comfortably familiar. 

Gotham wakes slowly. Men and women walking to work, cars honking and gulls squawking. Tim watches them all moving. He likes people watching, but it’s only fun when you’re there. You had this game, you’d both pick a person and make up a story for them. It’s not fun alone. It just makes him realise that the game itself isn’t fun, you’re the one who makes it playable. 

Inside it's clean and for once the ER room is quiet. The sounds of rubber soles squeaking against the tiled floor and the gentle hum of the overhead lights all float around the room. Bruce checks them all in, filling out the guest log with a sea of names. 

Your room is a couple floors above the ER. Severe trauma. Instead of sharing a room, like most patients would, you’d been given your own small space. Given the severity of the injury. Bruce knows that it isn’t so you could have peace and quiet. It was so if you got worse, they could close off the room and not disturb anyone else. 

The man in charge of the floor isn’t the same person he saw yesterday. It isn’t the surgeon who warned him about your liver damage. He leads the group to your room, tucked away at the end of the corridor. The floor smells of antiseptic cleaner and bleach. A good sign. 

He's about to leave the group when they get to the door. “You can go in when you feel ready. She’s not awake yet but she’s in better shape than she was when you last saw her.” He consults his charts and grimaces. “Although we did have to intubate-”

“You said you’d call if something happened.” Bruce’s voice is sharp and accusatory, weathered by his exhaustion. 

“It was an hour ago.” He states bluntly. “We didn’t have any other choice. She stopped breathing for two minutes. Her lungs just needed a kick start. Once she’s breathing on her own, we’ll take it out. She’s uh… Mr Wayne, a word.” 

He peels Bruce away from the rest and he motions for them to wait. It’s the second time he’s been pulled aside by a surgeon and he knows it’s going to be bad news. 

“Were you aware that your daughter is a smoker, Mr Wayne?” His voice doesn’t hold any fear, even against the billionaire. He almost respects it. “Her lungs couldn’t keep up with her body. When we intubated it was because the tissue on her lungs was thinner than it should be. If she hadn’t been brought in, we wouldn’t have known. We checked her records, she hasn’t had a medical checkup in three years. This could’ve been caught earlier. It's not cancerous, thank god, but a nineteen year old shouldn’t have that kind of damage. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“How long will she need the tube?”

He hears the surgeon mutter ‘unbelievable’ under his breath before saying “It’s only temporary. Just till she’s awake enough to breathe by herself. Then we’re going to start her on Nintedanib. It’s risky but the alternative is off the table.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Pirfenidone, normally. It’s more effective but there’s a risk it could cause liver damage. And given the current state of her liver- it’s not compatible.” He looks disgusted. Not at you, but at the man who let you get to this point. “Mr Wayne, your daughter is going to be very sick for a long time. The recovery is going to be hell. Are you prepared for this, or are we going to be seeing her back here again? She’s going to be in a lot of pain. Don’t make it any worse.” The surgeon takes his leave. 

Bruce can’t find the words. He drifts back to his group. When his hand reaches the door handle, he can’t open it. If he does, he’ll have to look at you again, and he’s not sure he can handle the sight. Dick’s hand is on top of his without a word, and he pushes the door open. They filter in one by one and try not to cringe at the sight of you.

You’re definitely looking better. The colour has returned to your cheeks, your blood is pumping like normal. But the tube in your mouth takes away from that small victory. The IV drip attached to your arm and the heart monitor’s steady rhythm draws all their attention. 

At first no one knows what to do. They hadn’t really thought this far.

Tim does what he always does when he’s afraid. He tries to problem solve. The chart at the end of your bed is supposed to be for the doctor's eyes only but he can’t help himself. It hasn’t changed much from last night, but there's a new note about the intubation. It details what happened an hour ago. 

From what he can read, you were fine throughout the night- or rather early morning- but there was a brief spasm, and then you stopped breathing. They caught it quickly and managed to prevent anything worse from happening, but Tim can’t find a reason. That's all he needs, he needs something to show that this makes sense. Randomness is his worst enemy. It makes him powerless. 

Dick pokes around the room. There’s a TV in the corner, cushy, an empty flower pot and the window looks over the west side of Gotham. He opens the window and the sound of the city floods in. It drowns out the beeping monitor. There’s a chair in the corner and he makes himself comfy on it. 

Alfred stands at the foot of the bed, reading over Tim’s shoulder. After giving the file a quick glance, he gets to work. He does what he can to make the room feel more comfortable, like Dick did last time.

Damian picks up the TV remote and tries to summon life from the screen. When nothing happens he tries the old reliable- taking out the batteries, swapping them round, and then putting them back in. Still nothing. Misplaced anger bubbles up inside him. He leaves the room without telling anyone where he’s going. 

Bruce and Jason stand together by the door, their voices hushed. They’re trying to work out how to break the news that your ‘brother’ was actually alive the whole time. They go back and forth for a few minutes before they realise Damian left. Jason sighs gruffly. “I’ll get him.”

He finds him at the desk on the other side of the floor. Damian is on his tip-toes, his head just a little over the desk. He’s still a kid afterall. He’s battling the woman behind the desk, tapping his finger against the wooden desk over and over again. When Jason gets closer, he listens in. 

“You gave her a faulty room on purpose! Out of every room in this building you gave her the one room with no TV.”

“I’ve already told you, I can’t control the room assignment kid. It’s just bad luck. I can get someone to look at it-”

“That's not good enough! Do you know who we are? We could buy and sell this hospital! If you do not get my sister a bigger room with a working TV, I will make you wish you were never-”

Jason grabs him by the scruff of the beck- the back of his shirt- and hauls him away, throwing an apologetic hand to the worker behind the desk. Damian squirms and kicks but it’s futile. When they round the corner Jason drops him. 

“What’s gotten into you? You think you can just bully your way into what you want?”

“It’s not bullying.” Damian huffs. “And it’s not what I want, it’s what she needs. You saw the size of the room. How dare they cram her into a tiny square and expect her to get better?! It’s asinine!”

“The room’s fine. The machines just make it look small.”

Being reminded of the machines hooked up to your body seems to make Damian uncomfortable. 

“Stop being a nuisance and go wait in the room.” 

Damian’s brow furrows but he relents and storms back to the room, muttering out a string of curses as he goes. As soon as he’s gone, Jason goes back to the desk. 

“So, about that TV…”

Something’s wrong. It all feels off. Your senses come back slowly, all but one. Sight. Your eyes remain shut. It’s like you aren’t strong enough to lift them, emotionally and physically. First you hear people around you shuffling. Who are they? You can’t make out every word, it’s like they’re behind a waterfall. You know they are talking, you just can’t put what they’re saying together. Then your touch comes back. There’s something in you. In your throat. The surprise chokes you. 

Tim snaps his head up when he hears noise. You're choking on the intubator. He runs to the side of the bed and presses the call button over and over again. He doesn’t know what to do. If he does nothing, you’ll- no, he doesn’t want to think of that, but if he tries to remove it himself he knows he’d mess it up and hurt you more. Dick’s already racing down the hallway- but there’s no need. 

Two nurses are already half way down the corridor. They enter the room and move to your bed, muscling everyone else out of the way. They work together to get the bed into the upright position, then they unhook the ventilator. The first nurse removes the tube like it’s a deadly snake, holding it with a gentle but firm hand. It slithers out of your throat and Tim feels like he’s the one struggling to breathe. 

“She’s breathing by herself. That's a good sign.” The second one promises the family. “Means she’ll wake up soon.” She offers them a smile but everyone is too perturbed by what they’ve just seen to return it. They didn’t think the tube would be that deep. “We’re going to give her an oxygen mask. Think of it like a helping hand. Her lungs are stable now, but they just need something to lean on.” She talks gently, like they’re kids. 

The first nurse leaves and comes back quickly. The mask in her hand slides over your face smoothly and she hooks the elastic up behind your ears. It’s a lot less invasive than the tube. 

Once you’ve been sorted, they leave but promise they’ll be close if you need them.

That's better, but now there’s something on your face that feels like a face-hugger. That alien monster from the movie Tim made you watch once. Your consciousness starts to come back like the tide of the sea. It pulls in and out, but each time it pulls in you feel a little stronger than the last. 

You can taste something on your tongue. It’s bitter and dry. Like morning breath without the dampness. Despite the taste in your mouth, everything smells clean. 

Where are you? You know this isn’t your bed. It’s too small. 

Shit. The woman with the coat. The gun. The party. Batman. 

It all comes back with a bang. The images flash one at a time in rapid succession. 

Damian. The tabs. The music. 

Shit. Are you dead?

Damian comes back into the room and notices the change. “What happened?”

“They said it's a good sign.” Dick’s looking out the window, watching the traffic below. Trying to distract himself from the reality in front of him. 

“Where’s Jason?” Bruce looks toward the door like he’s about to walk in at any moment. 

“Bathroom I suppose.” Damian glides towards Dick and shoos him out of the chair. He takes the blue seat and moves it toward the other side of your bed. It scrapes against the ground while he makes himself comfy. “Did they say when she’s going to wake?”

No, you aren’t dead. You’re alive. So what is this feeling? Wait. Are you… disappointed?

Finally, you muster the strength to open your eyes. Everything is white. It’s painfully bright when you do, but when you move to shield your eyes with your right hand you feel something tugging at your wrist. 

“She’s waking up!” Tim sounds like he’s in delighted shock. Hysterical relief hits him like ice water. 

Once your eyes take a moment to adjust, you take in the sight. Oh. The hospital. Shit, it must’ve been bad. You want to move, but when you try there’s a sharp, stabbing pain in your lower chest. Like boiling thunder. You can’t help but gasp and grit your teeth. 

Without warning there’s a pair of hands on you. In terror you whip your head around to see who it is. You take in his face like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him. Bruce is here. He softly pushes your body back to where it was. It must’ve been really bad. 

“What’re you…” the words die on your tongue when you take in the scene around you. Everyone is here. Everyone. All eyes are on you. 

“It’s okay.” Bruce rubs small circles onto your shoulder. It’s supposed to relax you but it does the opposite. This doesn’t happen. You’re never seen. So why are they all staring at you? What did you do?

“There was an accident,” his voice is strangely soft. He’s never talked to you like this before. Not that you can remember. “You got hurt. There was a gun, but it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” you can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you or himself. 

“I got shot?!” it rips out of your throat and it scratches from the inside. Your voice is slightly muffled by the oxygen mask. You want to rip it off and throw it out the window. You instantly look down and see that you’re wearing a hospital gown- when you look down the neck of the gown to your bare skin, you see a line of stitches across your stomach. It’s fresh and tender. 

“Don’t freak out.” Tim is about to elaborate but Damian cuts him off. 

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one in the bed.” 

This is a first. Damian’s defending you- or rather he thinks he is. 

Bruce silences both of them with a look. “You had surgery. We came as soon as we could-”

“How?” your voice is groggy and dry. 

“We got a call from the hospital.” Dick is quick to lie. “They said you wanted your dad, so we all came by.”

“Oh.” The pieces start to click together. You know you have to take this to the grave. When you were begging Batman to call your dad, you didn’t mean Bruce. You wanted Alfred. You’re relieved to see him there but the guilt is enormous. “You actually came?”

“Of course we did.” Damian cuts in.

You don’t know how to feel. Is this what it took to get their attention? Did you have to bleed to get them to see you? Before the thought can marinate, the door opens. It’s the guy from Roy’s apartment. 

Jason walks in, pushing the door with his back. He has a new TV in his hands and a smug grin. His back is to the room when he enters, so he is blind to everyone’s dread. “See Damian, if you ask nicely, you get things.” 

When he puts the new TV down and faces the room, the grin drops. You meet his eye. Your eyes go from his, to Damian’s, and then the rest of the room. “Wait… Damian, how do you know Jason?”

Bruce feels like the world around him is collapsing. There’s no way you just said that. His grip on your arm subconsciously gets tighter. 

“Is Roy here?” there’s a hint of dread in your question. 

Jason runs his hand through his hair with a long face. He grits his teeth and sucks a mouthful of air through the cage in his mouth. “Alright, sit down. It’s a long story.”

Chapter 10 bb!!!!

This is the longest chapter to date and god does it feel like it. 

This is the end of part one! Part one is the downfall, and part two is the recovery. I decided I didn’t want the story to just be doom and gloom, I didn’t just want it to be about a main character who does nothing but suffer. So, we’re going to be on the road to recovery. There will be ups and downs but it’s going to be a story.

Taglist:

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[originalartblog]

yeah yeah Asagiri said Chuuya probably thought Dazai was dead after he left the PM and before they learned he was working at the ADA, but I'm more interested in Asagiri confirming that Dazai didn't know Chuuya was faking being a vampire in Meursault, it wasn't planned, he just never believed Chuuya could have been defeated and turned into one. And then he was right.

transcript of the question and answer under the cut

[esmiara]