i like sleeping

21 years old (forgot to update this and left at 18 for two years)

[acid-ixx]

MY ORDINARY LIFE — prequel: don't romance the NPC.

ft. romantic/platonic yandere batfam! x gn! isekai'd reader x yandere neglected main character (y/n) x other yandere! dc characters

read under the end for an author's note.

tw: no use of names for you (the mc), (y/n) is a character of their own, allusions to functional depression, emotional neglect, and vague implications of cheating.

there is not a story as incredibly unoriginal, uninteresting, and most importantly, so god-damned uninspiring compared to yours.

it sounds like an exaggeration, but let's be real, you're as notable as a faceless side character in a video game: a gray, unassuming block of an unrendered three-dimensional model meant to blend in with the background.

that's how your life was destined to be.

you're a burnt out college student, you have loans to pay, a side hitch at a restaurant working the front. loving, middle-class parents — which is somehow the most interesting part of your boring persona — and you're simply just the picture perfect imagery of how accurate a normal plot could get.

you have interests, yes, heaven forbid you don't because it would imply you're beyond subhuman, maybe even a blank slate, which is a far off worse fate.

but back to the point, you have your likes. you like reading anything from comics to mangas, that's what you tell your friends and other potential (and failed) dates. you like feeding strays roaming around sidewalks. you like staying up late listening to reddit stories and watching short-form content in whichever site piqued your interest that day.

you pretend that romance is beneath you (in truth, your love life as fickle as your personality), but then a secret part of you indulges in fanfiction in the middle of the night, which is only kept between you and your decades old plush toys in your apartment. you have hobbies. you sometimes sing ballads in your showers, you partook in crocheting, even knitting, failed in both. and sometimes, you do a godforsaken activity you found after doomscrolling in the archives of the internet when you've got nothing to do, give up on it too within an hour, start something new, the cycle repeats, which basically means...

congratulations! you're a human being.

that's as much of an introduction that you've needed to get along with your life and your story. you don't travel much, you don't go out to eat as often as you'd like, your life isn't built on overarching goals like finding a cure for cancer, exploring every country, or traveling to space; you only ever thought of surviving college, finding a decent job with a decent paycheck, splurge all your savings on a trip to probably one of the seven wonders of the world after two decades of slaving off. and that's really it.

you're just living and going about the flow in your life. like floating motes of dust and debris scattered in the air.

you're not entirely satisfied, but you're also not depressed.

you're not suicidal, you're not the type to hurt yourself over small inconveniences. self-deprecating jokes, yes, but not to the point of self-harm.

you sometimes wish for something better, for something interesting to happen: a jackpot at the lottery, a surprise baby, an accident; nothing ever happens, but you're not less grateful at the same time.

you convince your thoughts everyday, in the middle of brushing your teeth, in front of your mirror, in front of the mundane sight before you that, "it could be worse."

thank god it wasn't.

(you sometimes hope it was, just to excuse feeling empty despite it all).

you have your fanfiction to read every night, the bi-monthly shopping sprees if you could afford it, your parents who you could turn to when you're feeling down (even if they sometimes feel invisible and distant, even if your messages were sometimes left unread when your nightly rants became too complicated for them to handle). your have friends, both on campus and online (who all never feel enough to provide you any true laughter, who awkwardly smile at you through calls or lunch dates when they see even a single trace of frown on your face— like they didn't expect such a low maintenance person to be... anything remotely negative; when all you've provided are jokes and never honest connections).

all of them are enough for you to not complain about how nothing interesting really happens to you personally.

in the simplest terms, you're what they call... happy.

not satisfied. not fulfilled. but isn't what they call a normal life a happy life?

you're happy. not too much, not too little. just enough to keep living, and that should be enough.

(enough to ignore the hazy void in your chest. to bury the aching urge to be more. to be something. to be anything other than a faceless person in a crowd—

but those are bad thoughts, those are depressing thoughts, and sad and bad and terrible thoughts should go away and only appear when you decide it should.)

yet... at the same time.

if you were offered another chance, another lease in life, another attempt to make something out of nothing, you'd take it too.

in fact, you'd take anything.

so when you somehow find yourself opening your eyes after a night of scrolling through an archive waiting for any updates to whichever book you're reading— lying on unfamiliar bedsheets, foreign walls surrounding you, crusty eyelids snapped open and awoken by the honk of a loud car from the buzz of the streets outside; one would expect that after momentary confusion, you'd react along the lines of positivity — jumping up from the bed, yelling "huzzah! what an awesome chance to escape this prison i call my mundanity!" — or falling into despair because you're too comfortable with your previous life.

nope. instead, you facepalm, your fingers feeling the skin of your brows furrowing. you slam your body back into the cushions, and let out an exasperated sigh. a substitute for what was supposed to be a frustrated scream.

that's right.

even the fucking way you transmigrated was boring as hell.

it could've been the catalyst for a decent hook in your character introduction, but who the hell would listen to a story like yours if you told them you simply "woke" up in another world.

not thrown, not prophesized, not dropped.

realistically, for your case, you could've been hit by a garbage truck trying to save a cat with a suicide wish making a run for the streets under heavy traffic. or stabbed from right behind. or killed by your childhood nemesis, pushed from a high drop, swearing revenge in another life with a tragic monologue for how short your life has been lived.

but waking up?!

holy shit, you might as well win a reward for being more generic than those black haired anime protagonists you've watched before.

at least they got something interesting to vouch for. like transforming into a fridge, slime, gaining some magical abilities, or, literally anything other than just waking up in a normal body!

you laugh, sarcastic and bloody dry, like the air around you. it reeks of an amalgamation of black car smoke, bile taken from the mouth of a drunk, and crisp, humid mildew growing on the corners of your boxed room. almost like the equivalent of gotham air and—

wait.

you've read about this exact same description before. in the fanfiction you've read the night before this happened.

last night, before you went to bed.

you hear your socked feet thud to the floor faster than your racing mind could register. you have to confirm something.

your head turns to windows left of your bed, you take a slow, precautionary step towards it, noting the way it frosts over, periodically, like the air itself is breathing with you.

but it wasn't winter, your body feels naturally toasty, your breath doesn't exude any misty coldness like it should. looking around, you see the heater inside your room is turned off, but instead there seems to be a dehumidifier operating and buzzing, as if it could combat the toxic stench harassing your nose.

also, the slight smog misting your windows wasn't your usual colors of bleak and boring grays.

no, your eyes widen, your throat constricts.

"holy shit..."

were your first words in this totally unfamiliar world.

just from your distance alone could you see that the air wasn't colorless or like the greys from a polluted city, as it should normally be—

but it was exhibiting hues of unearthly neon greens and blazing purples.

fuck, it looked like a living, breathing, pulsing plume of danger and uncertainty; a warning to anybody who dares to even open their windows in its cancerous state.

you may be average, but you're not stupid.

as much as you wish to confirm the location you transmigrated to, you wouldn't want to take the risk of opening your windows — looking even closer, you could see it's locked with multiple complex latches meant for an apocalyptic setting; and you're once again reminded that you've read about this before — now backing off, slow and deliberate, as the back of your shaking knees hit the frame of your bed.

your throat constricts, your nose still aches trying to get accustomed to the stench of your new life. shit, you notice the smell of it somehow fills the air too. you want to laugh at the irony, but you're too afraid to even think of anything else in this moment.

if this setting was recognizable enough, then you want to cry because it's simply unreal. if you've read about this, no you don't. you wish you didn't. it's fucking impossible that out of every possible world you'll get transported, you end up in the last fanfic you've read. it's wrong. you gaslight yourself, eyes glazing over the cacophony of mixing colors outside your tightly packed room, knees hitting your chest, like a wounded animal.

yet before you could even fall into the hands of a panic attack, before you found yourself gasping for air, a voice on the other side of your door knocked you out of your thoughts. gentle—

familiar. it calls out your name.

"— dear, are you alright there?" the voice... it's your dad's! your father, oh goodness gracious, you've never been more grateful before than now, "i heard some noise, figured you woke up to all the chaos outside. i'll go in right now, okay?"

your brain frantically tries to scramble for a reply, you attempt a "sure," but it comes out croaky, weird, and unreachable to the ears. your door opens before you can respond in full, it creaks, and in enters a familiar sight, a homely face. you could cry right now.

instead, you breathe in relief despite just how dry the air was.

your father, meanwhile, furrows his brow at you the moment his eyes reach your body, maybe because there's tears welling in your eyes, your lips are wobbling, and you look just like you've awoken from a nightmare—

or rather, you've awoken to a nightmare.

"bad night, hon?" he asks, stepping over your crumpled pile of papers, scribbled with equations, in the middle of the room. when he enters your line of vision, when the panic has slowly subsided, a closer look at him had you realizing he looked youthful, more composed, the years of stress haven't line his face yet. and hon? the last time he called you hon was when you were in your first years of college.

then that means this version of your dad is... younger.

younger, back when he was more affectionate, the same man who used to lovingly wrap his arms around his wife, your mother, from behind, who'd willingly kiss her cheeks before going to work— not without looking forced, not because it's a formed habit, but because he actually loved her. the present man before you was the same man who he hadn't yet withdrawn himself from you and your mother with the excuse of focusing more on work, on promotions and colleague drama.

he wasn't the same man who left the two of you to fend off for yourselves emotionally, who'd look more and more like a bank account than a husband as the years pass by.

and, well, your mother more or less would rather spend time with the neighbors to gossip about their neglectful husbands, hidden affairs and— that's far from what you want to think about at this moment, not when there's someone waiting for your answer right now.

you want to reply to the familiar stranger standing right in front of you, reassure him that you're fine, even if it's strange how your parents somehow were dragged into the fray of your transmigration; pretend like the normal you. but your mouth suddenly decided now was high time to stay breathless like a gaping fish caught fresh from the sea, staring up at him, at your father who's equally trying to discern your reactions.

he shakes his head, eyes still laced with genuine concern — so warm, it's as unreal as the pulsing fumes from outside — and brings his palms to ruffle your head. he sits at your bed, right beside you at a comfortable distance, both hands found its way to your clenched ones rested atop your locked knees.

his mouth opens, the words that come out are carefully chosen, but natural, as if he's said the same thing to you before.

"hon, i know it is bad, you're probably scared, i won't lie and say i'm not," his index finger points to the windows behind you, both of you look at the ethereal yet damned sight, at the still-aching air, now supersaturated with colors beyond unnatural and reasonable. then it returns to your fists again, in an attempt to ground you, he massages your shivering fingers while continuing to look at you in the eyes. he continues, "but we'll be fine. the joker does this all the time, hon, trying to poison the air with his toxins just to get a good laugh. at the end of the day, you know he'd be dealt with, that's just how the story goes—

"we're safe, as long as the city's vigilantes and the commissioner are in our prayers. so there's no need to be afraid, 'lright?" he ends his little encouraging speech with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

you only nod at him in reply, biting your lips, eyes still wide at the man, your father, before you. but at least the thumping in your heart has subsided. at least, despite the initial panic, you have someone you can actually turn to, even if there's that nagging fear that your father is secretly a skinwalker imitating the identity of your real parent— but again, happy thoughts.

your father hums, satisfied at seeing your tense shoulders relax, your diluted eyes returning to a normal size. even with your lack of words could he see you're better now. he leans in forward, you flinch but you don't move when he makes the motion of kissing your forehead. in fact, something deep inside aches like an reopened wound instead.

as much as it pains to admit it: you missed this. you missed him.

the past image of your father. you stare ahead after his lips separate from your forehead, afraid that if you look at his kind eyes again, you'll possibly tear up and fall into the hopeless delusion that he wouldn't change, an oddly dystopian setting wouldn't erase his emotional absence by the near future— you still yearn this version of him though.

he didn't mind your lack of reply, you hear your sheets shuffle as he stands, "alright, i'll get out now. your mom's making dinner, your favorite. i'll call you when it's ready—

"oh, also, before i forget, we need to have a talk about your plans for gotham-u later at the table, 'kay?"

"mm." you hum, mindless, not really looking at him as he leaves the room, confirmed by the sound of your door clicking shut.

you only stare at the walls before you, at the lined shelves, the desk and you even turn your head back (avoiding the sight of the outside) to stare at your beloved plushies; really taking in the new setting.

your walls are the same color, your favorite one, but it's a different shade. the shelves are lined with a different arrangement of trinkets. even your desktop had a different layout, with foreign but likeable decorations. your laptop still had its personality, decorated with stickers that you know the same you would apply— you're in a place that still screams you, but in a different life.

it's just that this life feels way more dangerous than it lets on. and maybe that's what's different from your mundane life from before; waking up to the news of a nuclear gas invading the neighborhood.

because yeah— if being locked inside this seemingly foreign apartment, with the image your uncharacteristically kind parents from the past, with latches and locks being the only thing protecting you from the nuclear wasteland caused by the joker right outside your house... then maybe being transmigrated in this life sounds way more worth it if it meant removing yourself from the title of the most boring character the gods above have ever concocted.

wait, what?

"the... joker...?

"... gotham university?"

your fingers hastily try to clench the bedsheets in fear of falling off, vision blurring until everything you see before you become inconceivable, shapeless blobs. suddenly, like a beat dying to be heard, your mind races with thoughts, with a memory of the night before:

'(y/n) didn't understand why their so-called family were so determined to keep them locked up in the manor when all they said was that they're going out for groceries. the family all came rushing to them with stupid, dauntless claims that they're safest here, that gotham is currently in disarray because of the joker's bullshit attempt at clogging the city's sewage systems with laughing toxins once more— not like they'd care. they'd rather die than be faced with their condescending nerve to be gallant.'

'yet damian's sword blocks the main doors, ridding them of any chance of running off, a stupid frown on his face. the others are behind them, ready to pounce if they even try to escape. they roll their eyes, agitated, furious, but how are they to fight against a pack of starved vigilantes?'

'even if they have all the love and attention now, it wouldn't erase the fact that back then, when their eyes hadn't yet followed their form, when they was all but mere shadow, they could always sneak out without ever being caught. ever being seen. that was only ever the blessing of the curse bought upon their sad, little life.'

'"c'mon, dad," they say, with vehement contempt, looking back at the view of an equally frustrated but worried bruce. "if this is another one of your attempts to keep me locked up here again, then screw off and let me live in piece and buy some damn groceries!"'

'"language, (y/n).* bruce tries, with furrowed brows, to calm one of his youngest child with a cold, authoritative voice. but (y/n) refuses to back down. their arms cross, as if questioning bruce's authority, chest all puffed and angered eyes staring pointedly at bruce, their damned father.'

'it wasn't until tim drake cuts off the tense atmosphere with a phone and an article shown in its screen, shoved gently in front of (y/n)'s face, who's eyes scan over the title of: 'breaking news! the joker releases a new wave of experimental toxins at the city's sewage systems affecting many of the main districts!''

'after the younger sibling had done a quick read-through of the article, they roll their eyes at a cautious tim, who scratches the back of his head while saying, "my friends dorming near gotham-u told me it smells worse than shit there. like mold and amplified car smoke or something. also, the air's looks all neon over there too. it's real bad but the air can't be seen from here— why'd you think we're all suited up right now?"'

'yet at tim's very sensible statement, (y/n) could only stubbornly tsk, retorting with, "well, i would've known if you people actually allowed me to read the news instead of babying me every damn second.'

'"tsk, you know what? fine. whatever. i'll believe you for now, so go save the city so i can buy my groceries."'

'and with that, they refuse to look at the piercing of their family, turning on their heel and making their way to their bedroom, stomping the entire time. as if that alone would make family hear the melancholy engraved into every sound of (y/n)'s footsteps...'

holy shit, so you did read about this before. and you're in the exact same world in... in a neglected reader fanfic?! when the haze in your mind subsides and you regain your vision, you see your father standing right outside of the door, head peaked inside your room, hand on the knob and a worried stare in the other— how long have you been reminiscing? has time passed that quickly?

"you seem pretty caught up in your daydreams, hon," he says, yet his expression now twists to a fond smile at the silly thought of you getting lost in your thoughts, eyes glazed with affection, "— that should come later, though. dinner's ready."

'okay, calm down, you. don't make yourself obvious.'

"'kay, dad," you respond, letting go of your crumpled sheets, ignoring the slight sting in your palms. "uhm... can i ask you something?"

"yes, hon?"

'don't be too obvious. don't be too obvious. don't be too obvious.' you repeat to yourself, staring at your father who still patiently waits by your door while beads of perspiration start to drip down your otherwise cold skin, anxious.

"gotham-u's my final choice, right?" you question him, biting your lips, imagining yourself closing your eyes because you obviously couldn't brace your reactions in real time without making yourself look to suspicious.

your father, meanwhile, only tilts his head in confusion. but he recovers and hums at you, nodding.

"yes...? any problems with it?" he swings the door open, revealing himself in all his apron'ed glory, "we've talked about this before, you said gotham-u was final, hon. any last minute changes? we can talk over it in dinner."

he smiles, as if the words escaping his mouth didn't just aim for a fragile piece of your heart.

god, he's so sweet before, so sweet now that it's painful. it's nostalgic and... you didn't realize you miss this version of him so, so much.

your eyes flit downwards, to your wobbly legs and your shaking palms, scared that if you look at him once more, you'll really burst out into tears.

"no, no," your voice cracks, "i was just wondering about... something, dad. it's nothing bad, i promise. you can go, mom's probably gonna get mad if we take too long... i'll, uh, catch up after i— i fix my room in a jiffy. yeah." you wish the world would devour you whole right now, and you wished your father could just revert to the version of him — distant, clinical, cold — you knew in your present before; so you could stop mourning him right now.

but no, he only hums again. and even in your current state, refusing to catch the smallest glimpse of him and the outside world, you can sense the gentle smile returning on his face and the whispered, "alright, hon," before he ultimately leaves once again.

then you're back sulking, burying your face in your palms.

wondering to yourself if this is all a long, aching, fever dream. no matter how real everything feels.

'i really should've specified my wishes to the world, huh.'

because you didn't just wake up in a normal bed, in another normal life, in a completely normal place.

you've woken up in gotham city.

and not just the gotham city you've read about in comics. not just the gotham city with its iconic vigilantes and the deranged gallery of rogues— but a gotham city riddled with a self-insert going to the same university and you whose existence twists the narrative of every character around them; making everyone obsessed with their presence.

somehow, that fate alone seemed worse than anything.

somehow, the first idea that came into your brilliant mind after a momentary breakdown was to grab a recorder after dinner instead.

after all, what's a better way to make things more interesting if not by narrating your new life in gotham city?

— it's not like this life would pave the way for an NPC like you to actually be part of the spotlight, right?

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 4k words. it's 4am. i heavily encourage leaving comments since this is the first major update i've had in a while!!! i love comments guys and i rewrote this prologue for like a hundredth time and somehow this one was the best !! (the others were so corny i want to cry). the next chapters r gonna be funny thrust, this one is just a build up but hey !! i at least learned to put more dialogues in my stories now. uhm i have no other words to say, but just leave comments cause lack of interaction makes me inactive. anyways, that's it !! i hope y'all like the first installment of drtNPC.

TAGLIST: @mishkradetsa , @gluttonousriceflour , @thecloudsaremyhome , @kittzu , @forlacie , midniteshore, @steor-ra , @tagmepls , @xnitz , @leitor-sonolento, @nondiagram, @huyuhumu, @ramens-posts , @weepinglovelight , @prorpy , @lowkeyjarrr , @fishcrack , @eurydiceknowshesloved , @catley1011 , @unixilian1, @gameperson23100, @potterhead0928 , @yomiyayei , @oliviaewl , @sugacor3 , @cloudedthotz , @nahhhhimgood, @breivete , @antionisweird , @lettucel0ver , @fr0ggy-cake, @lilyalone , @iamapotatoe , @ishshhsj, @hyukkja, @kiku07 , @kontradiction , @irenehart02 , @ceramic-raven , @notfuntimes

[animeyanderelover]

Welcome to my world, darling. Call me A.

Masterlist+ Rules

Last updated: 09.04.2026

Hope I didn’t mess anything up😅. My spam account is @animeyanderetalker

Seguir leyendo

[defend-the-net-offical-deactiva]

OpenAI running out of money, you say?

Like to charge, Reblog to cast!!!

[thecorefrisk]

Warning: possessive behavior, platonic Batfam, invasion of privacy (?), trope from those Chinese dramas I watch, etc.

Sometimes in the Chinese dramas I watch there is this one select trope they have that turns the hated, scorned sister into the favorite: mind reading.

Specifically, mind reading in which the other members of her family/the main characters can listen in the reader’s thoughts (after they were reborn, of course).

It’s rather unrealistic in those shows—the way they portray it. The main character always narrates and says stuff like she’s reviewing for some essay. Telling a story rather than just having thoughts on a situation.

But, nonetheless, it’s an interesting trope.

Because, well, what if the batfam could hear your thoughts?

And, sure, maybe you are neglected or something of the sort. Maybe you’re more often than not pushed to the side. Maybe it’s because you’re quiet and easy to overlook or maybe it’s because they’ve never been able to connect with you.

They don’t hate you. They do care about you. But they don’t know you well enough to like you.

And you keep to yourself with the assumption that they already know it all. They’re the world’s greatest detectives aren’t they? Shouldn’t they be able to anticipate every one of your actions before you act upon them? Shouldn’t they already know about those parent-teacher meeting days and the clubs you’re in and the awards you’ve won?

Shouldn’t they already know everything about you?

And, well, no.

The thing is, with civilian reader in the batfam, the batfam would find themselves having to toe the line of ensuring your safety in Gotham and completely abusing their power.

(Because as vigilantes they do have power. It’s why they are dangerous.)

And maybe you’ve always been on the quieter side. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t start a conversation unless approached. It’s not that you don’t talk. It’s not that you don’t want to. You simply don’t think to. You are very ‘in your head’.

With that, comes the assumption that you want to be left alone. That you’d prefer it. Because you don’t seek anybody out. Even though they wait for it.

(And you don’t seek them out because you, too, are waiting.)

But maybe that gets you killed. Maybe because the most they have on you is a tracker, a daily check in, and a very basic run-down of your schedule, you are left vulnerable.

And you are reborn two years prior to your death with haunted eyes and anger curling into your hands and a deep seated fear in your chest.

(The scars are reforming on your skin. Tattoos that chase you.)

(You are so scared all of the time.)

(And you can’t trust them to save you.)

But now, unbeknownst to you, people can see into your mind—or, rather, a select group of people can.

Your family.

And, suddenly, the quietest member of their family (because even Cass makes conversation) becomes so.. talkative. So imaginative. And they don’t even open their mouth once.

They had always wondered what went through that little head of yours and now they could see it.

They peel back your layers. They see you. They see you entirely like they can’t see anybody else.

And they see warmth. They see hands so careful as they slip into calloused ones. They see a cheek pressed against another. They see arms that tuck a person close to a warm torso. They see stifled smiles and a stare that always sees but never prods.

Always so careful. Always so considerate.

It’s hard not to like someone who treats you like you’re something precious.

It’s hard not to be worried when that someone begins to draw back in fear like something terrible is amidst.

And, unfortunately for you, when the bats like someone, it tends to be forever. And you’re family.

You’re theirs.

Why shouldn’t they get to have you?

(They want you. They want your horrible and terrible. They want your ugly and horrid. And they want your gentle and sweet.)

(They want you.)

(But something has you running.)

(And they are going to find out what.)

(Maybe it’ll take a scream in the middle of the night.)

[acid-ixx]

you say you don’t care yet it seems to affect you to the point of wanting to quit 🫩

just delete your acc atp and stop threatening to for attention

awe thanks baby girl 🩷 ik ur out there clenching ur toes waiting for my replies dw big alpha daddy ceo's here for u, glad we can flirt like this sweetheart 🤭

[lazyandannoyng]

My brother in Christ, you have no right to say anything when you're too cowardly to get of anon to talk shit

[syn4k]

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you're welcome

[mmelete]

[carby]

[voidsentprinces]

[autism-official]

[autism-official]

obligatory reblog of this after I forgot to bookmark them (again)

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 3: The End (Warning: this will be dark. Read at your own risk)

The last bell of the day rings, letting everyone know that they’re free to go. In unison, your classmates begin shoving books and papers in their designer book bags before getting up and flooding the exit all at once. People begin to pair up with their friends, talking about hanging out and staying over at one another’s house for the weekend, but as usual, you’re left by yourself; when you first enrolled in GA, many students wanted to be your friend, but you could tell they were more interested in Bruce Wayne being your father than you because they talked more about Bruce than you. When Tim became Timothy Drake-Wayne, everyone flocked to him, starstruck that he was now a member for two of Gotham’s most elite families. Since you lack Bruce’s good looks and charisma, Dick’s athletic prowess, Jason’s brute strength, Tim’s intelligence, and Damian’s pure pedigree, everyone here has deemed you unworthy of a passing glance; you’re painfully average in every aspect and in a family as prestigious and remarkable as Gotham’s beloved Wayne Family, that’s an unforgivable sin.

It didn’t matter to you, though. You didn’t care that no one in school or in your “family” acted like you didn’t exist and think you unworthy of a fraction of their attention, you had your video games. When the silence of Wayne Manor became deafening to you, you had your faithful 3DS with multiple generations of teams full of loyal and strong Pokémon that have defeated the mightiest of champions and your preowned laptop that’s allowed you to play a wide variety of games, your favorite being Fallout New Vegas as it took place in your rightful home of Nevada and started off in your beloved Goodsprings. You’ve gone through countless playthroughs because you feel close to your childhood home, no matter how many times you go through the same dialogue options and quests.

In fact, video games have been a major influence on you that you’re determined to be an indie video game developer when you finally graduate. Your laptop isn’t too old to run a visual novel maker software that came out four years ago and you spent over a year scribbling away in a notebook that held all the details that would form your first game, staying up late for three months working on the plot alone and the remaining nine months on side quests, combat, dialogue, and everything else. Despite your best efforts, you’re not an artist like Damian (and how ironic that someone so spiteful like him has the gift to create beauty) or a musician, so the only thing you’re able to work on right now is the code, but you’re not tech smart like Tim so it’s full of bugs and errors and despite you following your Guide to Making Video Games book to the letter, the code just won’t do what you want it to do. With spring break around the corner, maybe you’ll be able to make progress on it.

As you step through the front door of the school, you see Damian and Tim being dragged into a bear hug by Dick, the little shit quickly breaking free; Dick laughs and ruffles his hair before all of them getting into the older man’s car and drive off, leaving you behind. That’s nothing unusual, though, Dick’s always picked up the two of them from school and you know they always go get ice cream or go to an arcade while you get left behind to find your own way home. You’ve never been offered a ride to or from school or asked if you’d want to go hang out with them and with how they’ve treated you over the years, you’d sooner have a tea party with the Mad Hatter before you ever got in a car with any of them. Knowing them, Damian would probably try to strangle you with your seatbelt, Dick would most likely try to guilt you to spend more time with your “brother,” and Tim would just sit there, not saying anything, no matter how wrong their words were or how upset you got.

You’ve been relying on Alfred to give you rides (always a block away from the school since you didn’t want them knowing you were relying on him), but Bruce gave him the month off. He tried to turn it down, of course, insisting that he had important duties at the manor (you knew it was because he was worried about what would happen to you while he was gone), but Bruce insisted. Only after you promised to text him everyday and call him the moment something went wrong did he book a flight to Essex. After taking care of a museum the size of the Smithsonian, taking care of a family full of assholes, and dealing with your emotional baggage, the man deserved to take off and relax for a while.

Since he’s been gone, you’ve used the bus to get to where you need to go and have kept a wide berth between you and the Waynes and so far you’ve managed to stay under their radar. Though, with you not even clocking on their radars, can you really claim such an achievement. Hell, you’re positive they wouldn’t notice you even if you were right behind them. World’s greatest detectives, your ass.

That’s right, you knew about their nightly activities of wearing bird themed costumes, jumping across rooftops, and battling with the demented freaks locked up in Arkham. Not because Alfred told you (and god knows they’d never tell you shit), but because your status as the unwanted and forgotten firstborn of Bruce Wayne is like an invisibility cloak allowing you to walk in plain sight without anyone noticing you and it’s thanks to that you’ve been able to spy on conversations. You’ve come down many times in the late hours of the night to find them sitting at the dining table, eating, talking, laughing, and enjoying their lives as if you don’t even exist. Sure, it hurt you to see them so happy while you sit above them, miserable, what hurt even more was the fact that Alfred didn’t tell you. Sure, you have no intention on joining them in fist fighting Joker or solving the Riddler’s Saw-inspired puzzles (not that you could, you obviously lacked the capabilities), but you thought that after all that they’ve out you through, you were entitled to know what was going on.

But, you know that Alfred is also in on it, providing support from cave under the mansion (that you found after investigating the library while they were all out) and since he’s helped you through the bad times, hugging you tightly white you cried your eyes out, you decided to keep your discovery to yourself. Besides, if the secret ever comes out, you have plausible deniability.

Your phone rings and when you pull it out to check the caller ID, you see a picture of Alfred and you on the screen.

“Hey, Alfred,” you answer.

“Good afternoon, Master Y/N. Did you have a pleasant day at school?”

“I did. Since spring break is next week, the teachers toned down on the lessons.”

“And how did you fare on your algebra test?”

“Fine, I guess,” you mutter. “I’m sure I got more right than wrong.”

Math’s always been your worst enemy (at least until you met Damian) and getting an A on an anything math related was always once in a blue moon. A B was always your goal back in Goodsprings Elementary, but with Gotham Academy being a prestigious institution, their math classes were as difficult as a speed run in Dark Souls. Sure, all your classes are hard, but math has always been your Achilles’ heel.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you prepare for it. Maybe I should come home—“

“No,” you quickly say, cutting him off. “It’s fine. I studied my notes and found some practice problems online. I’m sure I passed.”

There was a brief pause before the man said, “Very well, Master Y/N. If you’re sure. How have you been faring? I trust you’re eating three meals a day and sleeping enough?”

“Of course,” you say. You’re lying, of course. You skip breakfast and dinner since they’re all downstairs at the same time in the mornings and at night use before going out on patrol and only eat lunch at school, where lunch is prepared by five star chefs because their elite students will accept nothing less. As for sleep, you’ve been cramming for this test and trying to work on your game, where as soon as you fix one bug, three more come to take its place.

“Of course,” he says, obviously not convinced, but chooses not to call you out. Not over the phone, anyway. Had he been here in person, it would be a different story. “And how have the others treated you?”

“Like I don’t exist. So, things are status quo.”

“I know their behavior has been nothing less than unacceptable, but have you tried talking to your father? Maybe he’ll be more receptive to you if you approached him while he was alone.”

“We both know that’s not gonna happen, Alfred. Bruce can’t stand the sight of me because I’m his greatest mistake.”

“Master Y/N!”

“It’s true and you know it! Both he and Momma were young and stupid, one thing led to another, and I was their reminder why condoms were invented. He got stuck with me and he’ll never forgive me for that. You know it and I know it.”

His silence tells you he knows you’re right. You hate to say how you really feel since you know that Alfred raised the man after his parents were murdered and telling him things like this makes him feel like he failed as a father figure, but after being treated like shit for most of your life, you’ve really run out of fucks to give. Hell, when you turned eighteen last month, you had your bags packed and were ready to buy a ticket on the first bus to Las Vegas, but Alfred begged you to stay long enough so you could graduate and since it would be a pain in the ass to transfer this close to schools letting out for summer, you agreed. Plus, it’d look good on a resume that you graduated from Gotham Academy. .

“Maybe I could talk to him for you? I just don’t want you to leave hating your father so much.”

“Look, Alfred, I really don’t wanna talk about this. I gotta go, I’ll be late for work.”

“Very well, Master Y/N. Please be safe. You know I hate you being out at night all alone.”

“Don’t worry, I will. Talk to you later, Alfred.”

And with that, you hang up and head to the nearest bus stop to take you to Chinatown. When you turned sixteen, you decided that it wasn’t fair taking Alfred’s money (in your defense, you helped out in cleaning the mansion, but you were still taking his hard earned paycheck), so you went out and found a job working at Gotham Games, a small store in one of the few nicer parts of Gotham that specialized in video, trading card, and tabletop games. Your boss, Mr. Chen, is a sweet old man who loves to talk games with you, especially Pokémon; in fact, he always gives you a free booster pack when he hands you your paycheck, saying that it’s a bonus for doing a good job. You love your job and aside from Alfred always willing to lend an ear to listen to your troubles, it’s made living in this hellhole of a city actually bearable.

After arriving at the bus stop in Chinatown, you walks a few blocks to find Mr. Chen closing the door and locking it.

“Mr. Chen,” you say when you near him, making him turn around to face you.

“You’re always on time, Y/N,” he says with a chuckle, but you can see he’s sad about something.

“Is the store closing for today?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m closing the store for good.”

Your heart stops and you feel yourself losing balance a little and you quickly steady yourself. You quickly think for any reason why the store would be closing for good.

Poor sales? No, you helped Mr. Chen with the spreadsheet for last month and sales had gone up by 11% thanks to the Pokémon TCG tournament you hosted.

Too much theft? No, you keep a close eye on all the customers and last time you checked, all inventory was accounted for.

Threats? Please, Mr. Chen’s been here for twenty-five years and is a pillar of the community. If anyone ever had the dumbass idea to threaten him, all shop owners in the street would rush to his aid, yourself included.

So, why?

As if he read your mind, he says, “My daughter said she was worried about me when the Penguin broke out of Arkham the other day and his car chase with Batman ended when he crashed a block away from here. She said that she and her husband had already set up a room for me at their house and now they’re here to take me with them to Florida.

You remember hearing about that. Bruce devotes all his time to fighting Gotham’s crime problem and one would think all the time he doesn’t spend with you could go to keeping things like car chases with Arkham’s inmates far away from innocent people and their businesses, but guess that’s what you get for having expectations when it comes to Bruce.

“What will happen to the store?”

“Mark’s already taken care of it. He called up some company that owns plenty of stores that’s just like mine and they agreed to buy my entire stock. They’ll have some people here tomorrow to get it all.”

For the second time in your life, it feels like your entire world’s been turned inside out. Working here and being around Mr. Chen was the best thing that’s happened to you since you over to Gotham and with Alfred gone and the loss of your job and boss, you’re extremely tempted to get on the nearest bus and ride it out of Gotham right now.

“I also wanted to wait for you so I could give you this.” He hands you a neatly wrapped box that you just now realize he’d been holding this entire time. “To thank you for keeping an old man company.”

You take the box and with shaky hands, you unwrap it and open the lid to see a pristine aqua blue Game Boy Advance surrounded by several cartridges. When you take a closer look, you see that they’re all Pokémon games, ranging from the original Red and Blue to Red Rescue Team.

“You appreciate the classics and it seemed a shame to let that Game Boy and those games just sit around, collecting dust. Plus, it’s my way of saying thank you for taking care of an old man.”

At this point, you realize you’re crying and can’t help but hug your boss. “Thank you, Mr. Chen.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N. When you move back to Nevada and win big in Vegas, don’t forget to give me a call so we can celebrate.”

You laugh at that and it makes you feel better, but only a little bit. When he promises to call you when he’s set up in Florida and you promise to call him when you’re back in Nevada, you two separate and watch as he gets in his daughter’s car and drive off, waving at him until he’s out of sight.

As you neatly tuck the box into your backpack, you realize that your schedule’s totally fucked up now. Normally, Alfred comes and gets you when you get done working at 7, but with him gone, you’d been using the bus that comes at that time to take you to the closest stop to Bristol and walk the rest of the way to Wayne Manor, but that bus won’t be here for hours. And you’d sooner chew your own arm off before calling any of them for help.

You mull it over for a minute or two before deciding to walk to the nearest stop, hop on the bus, and ride it to as close to Bristol as possible. With the store closed (and your beloved job lost) you can use the time to get ahead on your spring break plans and work on your game, ironing out bugs and working on your art. You pull out your map of Gotham’s bus stops and see the closest station is over in the East End, a place no one with a half working brain cell goes. Still, it’s the closest bus stop and you’ll only be there for a few minutes. You’ve survived Wayne Manor for thirteen years, surely you can deal with Gotham’s trash can for a little bit.

With your mind made up, you make your way to the East End. As you cross into the district, you’re greeted by a group of kids playing Cops and Robber, but instead of cops, one of them plays the role as Red Hood, complete with two stick guns and a red plastic pail on his head. That’s right, East End is Jason’s territory and is well loved by many of the children. The thought of the brute gives you even more incentive to leave the area as fast as possible because you’ve heard Jason yelling at the others for entering the East End because it’s his to protect and he doesn’t want any of them unless it’s a really big emergency and even then, they need his permission. Knowing him, he’ll accuse you of invading and try to fill you full of lead, despite the fact that you’re not a vigilante and he ever pulled his head out of his ass, he’d know that, but you guess that being in a family full of distrust and paranoia has polluted his higher reasoning skills.

The further into the district you get, the closer you hold onto the straps of your book bag. With every step you take, you hear glass shattering, people screaming, and even a gun shot or two, making you regret ever coming here. You should’ve found another bus stop or just found something to kill time until your regular bus showed up. Still, you’ve already come this far and turning around would probably be more dangerous than continuing forward, so you keep your head up high and try to change your stride to be more confident, hoping that appearing more confident would keep people away from you.

You see the bus stop and pick up speed to get there quickly, but just as you get close enough to see the map and schedule, you feel something grab your book bag and you’re quickly yanked backwards. You turn to look behind you to see three men staring down at you and by the way they’re grinning down at you, you can tell this won’t end well for you.

“Well, what’s a little GA snob doin’ here,” one of them sneers.

“Surprised you’re actually walking,” the other jeers. “Thought all you little shits were carried around by your butlers and maids. Too good to use your own legs.”

That little joke actually pissed you off because you’re not like the rest of your classmates who have their private drivers open their car doors when they go to the airport to spend Christmas on their private islands. You aren’t using Bruce’s money to pay for every little thing you see (not that he’d give you any because he’s forgotten you exist), you actually have a job and work hard for your money, damn it!

“Bet there’s someone who’d pay a pretty penny for you,” the man, obviously the leader of the other two, says. “Looks like we’ve hit pay dirt, boys.”

You struggle to break free of their grasp, but the three of them are too strong for you. The leader pulls out a rusty pipe from his back pocket and the last thing you see is said pipe rushing towards your head before everything goes black.

“Wake up, you little bitch,” a gruff voice says as you’re overcome with feelings of sheer cold and wetness.

You open your eyes to find that you’re sitting on n extremely dirty floor. You look up to see a man looking down at you, a sadistic look on his face and a dirty metal bucket in hand. Your mind finally boots back up and you remember being stopped by three dirtbags and being knocked out be a pipe to the head. As if on cue, the memory triggers immense feelings of pain in your head and while you’re no doctor, you’re pretty sure that you have a mild concussion. When the rest of your senses come to, you realize that you’re tied to chair with thick ropes you have no chance of getting out, at least without a knife. Through blurry eyes, you’re able to look around to see you’ve been dragged to some dirty shack and based on what you see through the busted windows nearest to the door, you know two things: that you’ve been dragged to Gotham Woods and you’ve been knocked out for a while.

“Alright, now that you’ve had your beauty sleep, it’s time to get to business.” The leader squats down to your level, an old flip phone in hand. “You’re gonna give us a number we can call to ransom you off. Try any funny business and…” he trails off as he brings out a gun and points it at you. “You won’t live long enough to regret it.”

You hears the words, but all you can focus on is the gun aimed at you. You’ve known Gotham is a dangerous place and going to certain parts of the city at night is practically committing suicide, but you never thought you’d be in this position, where the slightest action or inaction was the difference in sleeping in your bed or being put to rest in a pine box when everything was said and done. Ever since you’d turned eighteen, you’ve kept a tally of how many days you have until you graduate and put this city of the damned behind you and now there’s a good chance you’ll die here, in a city you’ve hated since you were forced to move here.

“Hey,” he says, breaking you out of your stupor. “Number. Now.” He emphasizes his point by waving his gun.

At first, you’re tempted to give him Alfred’s number, knowing the butler would probably come to your rescue and kill these thugs John Wick Style, but you know that they wouldn’t appreciate talking to someone on the other side of the world and right now, you couldn’t take the chance on pissing them off; you need someone here in Gotham and as much as every fiber in your body wants to throw up at once just for even thinking it, you know Bruce is your only hope of making out of this in one piece. Even if he doesn’t care about you, he’ll be able to swoop in and bash in the heads of a bunch of kidnappers, so that should be enough of a reason to bring him here.

“Alright, you can call my father,” you say, the word “father” leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, but right now, you can’t afford to let your hatred for the man get the better of you; not when your life hangs in the balance. You give him the manor’s home phone number, which he dials and puts it on speaker.

You wait with bated break as the phone rings. After the third time, you can feel yourself breaking into a cold sweat and when you look up at one of your captors, you can tell he’s getting angry by the second; with every ring, his scowl gets more and more intimidating and the gun starts to shake in rage.

Finally, after an eternity, you hear someone pick up.

“Hello,” Bruce’s voice comes through, and based on the tone, he sounds pissed. Knowing the time, he was probably getting ready to go out on patrol. Still, you can’t help but feel just a little to relived to hear his voice. You just might make it through the night. “Bruce Wayne speaking.”

“Holy shit, man, we’re about to be rich,” one of the other men whispers to his cohort, who nods in agreement.

“We have your son, Wayne,” the man says with an air of confidence. “Do as we say and you—“

“No, you don’t,” Bruce says, cutting off the man.

“What,” the leader says, the wind obviously taken out of his sails.

“No, you don’t,” Bruce repeats.

“Fuck you mean,’ he shouts. “I’m looking at him right now! Don’t you know you’re missing a brat right now?”

“All my kids are right here with me and I’m none of them are missing,” Bruce says in a matter-of-fact tone that makes your heart stop.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice if someone was missing” Dick chimes in.

“Man, you’re fuckin’ stupid,” Jason mocks.

“You’re not the first to fake holding a Wayne for ransom,” Tim explains. “It hasn’t worked before and it won’t work now.”

“If you lowlifes put as much effort into finding a job as you did trying to steal money, you’d be rich,” Damian taunts.

“Wow, you’re a loser,” Cass laughs. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your life? Why don’t you get out of your mom’s basement and go outside to touch grass and maybe talk to a girl.”

They all laugh at that and you can feel your heart just collapse in on itself. Right now, you have a better chance of sprouting wings and flying out of here than this man letting you go after being insulted by every member of the Wayne Family. And based on the fact that his face is as red as a beat, this definitely won’t be for you.

“As you can see, all my children are home, where they should be. I don’t know how much you hoped to get out of this, but you aren’t seeing a dime.”

And with that, the call ends and so does your chances of leaving here in one piece. You always thought that your existence was a complete unknown to them, but to actually see something that proves it? You can’t help but begin to cry, both at how the call went and for the world of hurt you’re no doubt about to experience with your captors.

“Bet you thought that was funny,” the man says as he slowly flips the phone shut, indicating that he’s pissed off beyond words.

You decide that Alfred is the one you should’ve had him call, but before you correct your mistake, you’re filled with pain as he strikes you on the head with the pipe. He hits you again and the force sends the chair tumbling to the floor, but that doesn’t matter to the man; he’s pissed and all he cares for now is hurting you. He’s spouting off insults and threats, but all you can focus on is the immense pain you’re in. He never hits in the same place twice, spreading the pain to your head, arms, torso, and legs. You feel your skin tear, bones break, and blood shed and the pleas you’d been shouting since he began his assault finally die, opting for crying and sounds of pain.

By the time he’s finished, you’re in so much pain, you can barely think. All you want to do is die.

“Hey, look what I found in his bag.” You look up through swollen and blood filled eyes to see one of the other men is holding up your Momma’s pen. “Looks like real gold. Might be worth something.”

After the pen incident three years ago, you’ve lived in constant fear that Damian would take you pen in an act of revenge, so you’ve kept the pen on you at all times, even keeping it under your pillow as you slept, only taking it out when you were in the safety of your room. Up until now, it’s kept your most treasured possession safe, but it looks like it’s about to cost you dearly.

“At least it’s something. Anything else?”

“Naw,” the man responds as he rummages through your bag. “Just the regular school shit, a wallet with a few bucks in it, and…” He pauses before pulling out the box Mr. Chen gave you and opens it. “Holy shit, looks like an old Game Boy! And there’s a bunch of games with it!”

“Is it worth much?”

“Might be able to get something for it. A bunch of collectors out there looking for shit like this. Couldn’t hurt to check around.”

“Haven’t seen one of those in years,” the last man chimes in. “Had one when I was a kid. Someone stole it, though. Hey, if we can’t get much of it, can I keep it?”

“Not now, Butch,” the leader growls. “Batman’s busy dealing with that clown bustin’ outta Arkham and all we got out of this is a lousy pen and a stupid video game.” He looks down at you. “Since you didn’t give us a name to ransom you off to, guess no one’ll care if you go missing.”

He picks his gun up and aims it at you. You feel your heart skip a beat at the sight of staring down the barrel of a gun aimed at you.

“No, please,” you beg, struggling to spit out the words as you’re so badly hurt, it’s a miracle you’re able to talk at all, but right now, all that matters is that you do what ever it takes to survive this.

“What’re we gonna do with the body,” one of the men asks.

“There’s the chasm near Mt. Gotham,” the one called Butch says. “That thing goes down for miles. We dump him in there and not even Batman’ll find him.”

Is this how it ends? After everything you’ve gone through, you die from being shot by three thugs in the forest and you’re thrown in a big ditch like a trash bag when you’re so close to leaving this damn city behind. You try to open your mouth to say something, anything that will at least buy you a few more minutes, but whatever you wanted to say is drowned out by the flash of a muzzle and the bang of a gunshot.

Your world goes to black.

A/N: Sorry, we were a little under for on cliffhanger quota, so we had to up production. The original plan was to split this chapter into two, with the kidnapping at the end of the first and the shooting at the end of the second, but with October upon us, I think things are going to get really crazy for me this semester, so I decide to be merciful (this time) and make one big chapter that only has one cliffhanger. Enjoy the wait for the next chapter! Also, if you asked to be added to the tag list and don’t see your name, I promise it’s not because I didn’t do it on purpose, but because when I went to tag you, Tumblr didn’t find your blog. I always check twice before uploading a new chapter to ensure everyone who asked to be tagged has been added.

Tag List: @space1crow @bat1212 @minkyungseokie @solelifauna @nosyrobin @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @l0serl0v3r @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick

[notmaplemable]

Dumb RWBY AU Ideas: Superheros

So, let's say Remnant went more the superhero route.

Jaune is from a line of what is basically Remnant's Superman in terms of being like THE hero. But it's a power passed down with a choosy magical artifact, Crocea Mors.

Jaune is like, not even in the succession plan when it comes to who get's the power next. He's not even really been trained, his oldest sister is the one who everyone assumes is going to be the heir. Then when it comes time for the sword to actually pick who will inherit the power when Jaune's dad retires, it picks Jaune.

So now Jaune has to actually learn how to be a hero and get's put on this AU's version of the Teen Titans (Can you tell that I don't actually watch/read much superhero stuff?) with the rest of RWBY and JNPR and/or whoever else you want to put in there.

Throw in a rivalry with his golden child older sister and having an older mentor super (You know I'm picking Summer) and there you go. I'd make it more threat of the week that slowly get's more serialized, but that's just me.

Also throw in a joke about everyone getting Blake's hero name wrong because they assume it has to be cat related and Blake getting progressively more pissed about that fact.

I would write this myself if I didn't have two other projects going on, and me not really knowing a lot about superhero stuff to be honest.

Yes, I came up with this idea after playing Dispatch.

[lazyandannoyng]

Jaune sister: *bragging about her accomplishments and training*

Jaune channeling all his little brother energy: yeah, but who has the sword huh?

[forthereaderinserts]

You: Hey, was there ever a moment when you guys first came up with plans that any of you said, hey this might backfire?

Naruto:

Sasuke:

Sakura:

You: No. That never occurs to you. Because you guys are jerks. And that’s why no one at school likes you guys.

[acid-ixx]

Prologue: Your Infinitesimal Holiness

DIRECTORY: (Platonic! Yandere Greek Gods x Neglected! GN Reader x Romantic + Platonic! Yandere Warriors)

Read until the end for an author's note.

"You have a face not even a mother could love..."

Intangible, wisp-like fingers interlace with the smooth strands of its baby hairs. She almost, just almost rips it off, wishes so badly that she would.

That she could.

But the little babe nestled into her shaky, cradled arms, gave her closed-eyed laugh showing off its gummy teeth, and she could only resist the temptations — to climb at the highest peak of the mountains, beg to your father, Zeus, the king almighty, that she'd do anything to take you to Olympus, just to simply throw your body down the heavens, feed you to the raging storms, or into the hands of the merciless seas, and into the arms of unruly death— yet could only sigh and look away, cold apathy, an immeasurable disgust smeared all over her pretty face.

At this mistake, at this... monstrosity.

At the product of a one-night endeavor.

The blades of grass running along her legs felt like actual knives cutting past her shiny skin, her airy feet planted against the damp soil a creeping sensation up her legs, from her soles, ankles, then all the way to her calves. Like the monstrous phalanges of the God who'd creep his palms up the fabrics of her shawls, tempted her to a night of pleasure ravaging her body.

Like Mother Earth wanted to devour her whole for her unmistakable sin.

She wishes it would— if it meant she'd be separated from this pest.

Motherhood was never her call in life.

"— You look just like your father," she sneered under her breath, biting back the venom from her words; any more insults, any more of her woes uttered from her sinful mouth, and the skies would rule it out as blasphemy.

She would be smited, eviscerated by the Lord above, but not alone.

The vermin in her arms would accompany her sooner or later into the walkway of death, and she'd rather this thing suffers in life before it could be granted the mercy of death.

Because even in the afterlife, her mistakes will shadow over her.

"Disgusting." Is all she could say, all she could do, as her ultimate curse was to bear the world this unwanted Deity of the Imperceptible.

An insignificant little thing this was. The babe in her arms, draped in tufts of hair like the clouds the Almighty Zeus sits upon.

A Demigod of the Imperceptible. Only the ruler of the inconceivable things: The ruler of the little wisps of air clinging onto a soldier's hair in a bloody battle, the whispers of the dandelion seeds sweeping around a field, the gentle warmth from the cinders of a crackling hearth— only loved by those who cling to life and live it with meaning.

Something so human. Something she is not. Something she does not want to be. Something she was demoted to be by the Goddess Hera as punishment for her bedding the Queen's husband.

What once was a beautiful water nymph residing in the oak logs of willow trees— the glowing sheen dancing across the strands of her hair was gone, her bedazzled eyes now a dull color barely reflecting the light of the sun, and her skin, oh her skin, now barely soft and silky; imperfect, like that of a human's.

How hideous. How terrible. How this child brings misfortune upon her.

Looking down at its Godly presence emanating off of its body, as if it drained her magnificence, turned her mortal from when it was all but a fetus inside her womb.

She hates it.

She hates you.

When your chubby little fingers reach up to grip on your mother's now fragile hair, she clenches her teeth and snatches your frail limbs away, almost tithering on the temptation to crush your tiny bones, uncaring for the cries it produces, echoing across the empty, green fields.

And tears flowed down her sunken cheeks, it was the only reminiscent thing of her past: The water sloshing from inside her human body, and she sobs a little more at the remainder of her past glory.

"You..." Her voice cracked, crushing your tiny palms into her splintering ones, her dull eyes bursting into flames of hatred. "You ruined me, child. You destroyed everything I was... I hate you."

When your cries begin to permute into larger decibels, she only sneers, only stomps her bare feet into the ground, as if tempting the Earth to swallow her whole if it was merciful enough to spare you the punishment.

"Hate. You will receive nothing from me but hate...

"From now on, until my death. You hear me, my child? I will make you wish you were never born into this world."

Just like that, when the thunder stroked just barely within her perimeter, she stops her cruel tugging, stumbles in her shaky steps until her back hits the trunk of the willow tree, her old home, and stares blakly with abject coldness, on the withering patch of grass now ash and cinder, ignoring of the cries of the toddler in her slipping arms.

Her hold tightens, just barely, enough to keep your body at bay, from falling into the soil, just enough so that it wouldn't anger the King above into harming her any further. She leans her head against the bark of the wood, cradles your body mechanically, and releases an empty sigh, staring up at the heavens, cursing Him inside the caverns of her plotting mind.

Under her breath, she dully utters:

"Next time... You won't be saved the next time."

And somehow, this was the most mercy your father has given your unfortunate soul.

Somehow, this was the only mercy you'll ever receive in the years of your miserable, immortal life— as this was only the start of the sweltering pain you would soon be put through.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: very short prologue, i know. but chapter 1 is already very long and this is just the beginning of something sinister for the mc's mom as an introduction. also, unlike a&a., all my other chapters for other series' will be a tad bit shorter, but that's because that series is my main project so... yeah. this is something. don't forget to comment or send in a message in my inbox idk 😭

[kisswithatear]

[animenostalgia]

Cowboy Bebop: Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door (2001)

[cultofthewyrm]

Today’s the only day you can reblog this

[canihaveacalmtime]

You're the second child of the king's third wife who her life has been treated badly by the royal family. However, your brother's appearance just so happens to look so much like the king while yours is like your mother's mini version so you spend your childhood with your mother in the isolated tower far away from the main palace while your brother enjoy his happy life with your family inside the golden palace.

All your life, you see your family including your brother as 'enemies' because they never treated you and your mother well but you understand that if your mother's innocence hasn't confirmed, you two will never have a better life or wake up with actual relief and happiness.

So the moment your mother was prove innocent and revealed so many of her good doings behind the scene, they welcomed your mother back so warmly and happily while you realized that, your mother forgot about you back at the tower. You then packed your stuffs into a small bag and eventually, left the tower, walking to an unknown direction, hoping that your mother enjoy her deserved life in good care.

The next day came was when your brother reminds your mother about you, her actions stopped as she immediately rush the knights to the tower to get you but horrify hits her when your trace was never to be found.

For 4 years, the royal family has been actively finding you, not a single day they stopped but the further they go, the less they can get the information from. It is like to vanished into thin air like the snowflakes pouring down right now during winter season.

Your family decided to come to a village to spend their Christmas, enjoying the village's special festival and maybe hoping that they can get at least some information of your whereabouts.

You thought that this year's festival will just be like the last years, warm and lively but when you saw your family, you felt as if the life in you vanished. As your mother was rushing walking towards you, your adoptive mother come to ask if you're doing alright as she leads you away. You didn't noticed how cold your family's faces are when they know you call someone else your family.

That night, you were taken by the knights after you felt unconscious, your family needs to put you back where you belong to.

To you, waking up on a luxurious bed is like a nightmare, you know where you are and you don't take the situation good one bit. The moment your biological mother walks in, you confronted her and her doings but she just simply smile at you and embrace you with a tight hug.

Even though you have been tried to talk it out to them for months now, saying how badly you want to leave and come back to the village, to your adoptive mother, your real home but you always receive the same answers from them, "your home is here, with us, (y/n)."

[moistmailman]

Kristi Norm whined about South park and how mean they are for attacking women on how they look.

Which is funny because they aren't attacking all women but instead just her because she looks like she's wearing a poor Halloween mask

[moistmailman]

What's even funnier is that she claimed South park ONLY made fun of her looks and nothing else. She claimed they couldn't criticize her for her job which is a lie

South park made numerous jokes on how racist ICE was. They had ICE raid heaven to deport Mexicans, and she said "remember if they're brown they go down"

They deported a dora the explorer costume wearing person and sent her to Trump's Spa so she can give old men massages while she's dressed up as a character that is a minor.

And they also wrote about her shooting multiple dogs (even Krypto) because in the past she proudly boasted that she tried and failed to raise a puppy and decided to put it down instead.

[lazyandannoyng]

I don't think "put it down" is correct term to use considering she shot it on the head with a fucking rifle

She didn't put down a dog, she killed a dog

Put it down makes it sound humane

[marskipsun2]

Ringside

[footlongdingledong]

Visit Original Link

[momosweetpeach]

Too good to be true...

With a crew of 20 and a caffeine addicted captain, I imagine the Polar Tang has quite the collection of mugs from different islands. Bepo tried to find the least-crass one possible for Cora. (Stay tuned for more)

Part 3 of "Law is super high when Cora miraculously returns" :D

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 (here) | 4 | 4.5

[wu-gang-writing]

This is the kind of person who reads worm alt!power fics and then asks why Taylor doesn't go by Skitter.

[howlingday]

To be fair, when you basically change a character into another character, it does get confusing BUT when the two characters are so similar that they're pretty much the same, I can get behind that.

Also, how are they gonna say VII is the worst Final Fantasy when I can name 3 worse FFs?

[lazyandannoyng]

Yeah but to be unfair to the critic, this is an AO3 fic, so it has a title, several tags, a general summary, and a summary at the start of every chapter, that's plenty of time for him to realize "this is a crossover fic of ff7" shove his complaints up his ass and leave

Why even read the fic if he doesn't like one of the main cores of it

[wu-gang-writing]

This is the kind of person who reads worm alt!power fics and then asks why Taylor doesn't go by Skitter.

[howlingday]

To be fair, when you basically change a character into another character, it does get confusing BUT when the two characters are so similar that they're pretty much the same, I can get behind that.

Also, how are they gonna say VII is the worst Final Fantasy when I can name 3 worse FFs?

[lazyandannoyng]

Yeah but to be unfair to the critic, this is an AO3 fic, so it has a title, several tags, a general summary, and a summary at the start of every chapter, that's plenty of time for him to realize "this is a crossover fic of ff7" shove his complaints up his ass and leave

Why even read the fic if he doesn't like one of the main cores of it