The Only Things Of Interest Are Those Linked To My Heart

[thebloodoftheanimal]

[n0baba]

Yandere Benjamin Poindexter

Warnings: Stalking, Obsession, Codependency, Yandere themes

Note: this was a quick and rushed ramble + its not very good but I just had to get this out

Benjamin Poindexter did not know how to love. He was not taught. He was not shown. He was not given any reason to believe that love was something he could ever experience or deserve. He was raised in a system that stripped him of everything soft and human, that turned him into a tool, a weapon, a thing that existed only to serve and kill and follow orders. He accepted that. He leaned into it. He became exactly what they wanted him to be, and he told himself he was fine. He told himself he didn't need anything else. He told himself he was complete.

And then he saw you.

Now he is something else entirely. He is obsessed in a way that terrifies even him, in a way that makes his handlers nervous and his targets irrelevant. He thinks about you constantly, every second of every day, to the point where he has forgotten what it feels like to have a thought that does not somehow circle back to you. He has killed men while picturing your face, has taken lives while replaying your voice in his head, has completed missions on autopilot while his mind was miles away, in your apartment, watching you sleep. You are the background noise of his existence, the constant hum beneath everything else. He does not know how to turn it off. He does not want to.

He knows your schedule down to the minute. He knows you wake up at 6:48 AM every morning, not 6:45 or 6:50, and he has wondered obsessively why you chose that specific time. He knows you always hit snooze once before actually getting out of bed, knows you spend exactly four minutes staring at your phone before you move, knows you take exactly nine minutes in the shower because the water pressure in your building is terrible and you hate it but you never complain because you don't want to be a bother. He knows you leave for work at 7:32 AM, not 7:30, and he has spent hours trying to figure out what causes that two minute delay. He knows you always stop at the same coffee shop, always order the same thing, always tip the same amount even though the barista is rude to you half the time. He knows you take your lunch break at exactly 12:15 PM because your work schedule says noon but you always push it back fifteen minutes to avoid the rush. He knows you come home at 6:03 PM on weekdays and 5:47 PM on Fridays because your coworker gives you a ride and she drives faster than the bus.

He knows the names of your coworkers. He knows their schedules too, just in case, because if any of them ever made you uncomfortable or upset or scared, he would need to know where to find them. He knows your friends, their addresses, their habits, their flaws. He knows the barista who always gives you an extra shot of syrup even though you never asked for it, and he has made a note of that kindness because he is cataloguing everyone who treats you well and everyone who does not. He knows your ex-boyfriend, the one who made you cry, and he has thought about what he would do to him if he ever saw him again. He has planned it in detail. He has rehearsed it in his head. He has not done it yet because he knows you would be scared of him if you ever found out, and your fear is the only thing that holds him back.

He knows your scent. He knows the exact combination of your shampoo, your lotion, your laundry detergent, your deodorant. He has stood in your apartment while you were out and breathed in the air, cataloguing every molecule, memorizing the way you scent the space you occupy. He knows the way you smell when you're sleeping because he has stood in your bedroom and watched you breathe, has leaned close enough to feel your breath on his face, has resisted the overwhelming urge to touch you because he knows you would wake up and he doesn't want to see the fear in your eyes. Not yet. Not until you're ready.

He knows your habits. The way you always leave your left shoe untied because you're always in a hurry and you never have time to do both. The way you check your pockets twice before leaving the house because you once forgot your keys and got locked out. The way you always sit in the same seat on the bus, the one by the window near the back, because you like to watch the city go by and you hate when people sit next to you. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating, the way you hum when you're cooking, the way you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. The way you cry at sad movies even though you try to hide it, and the way you always watch the same movie when you need to cry because you know exactly when the sad part is coming and you can prepare yourself for it.

He knows every single thing there is to know about you. He knows more about you than you know about yourself. And he loves all of it. Every detail. Every imperfection. Everything you hate about yourself, he loves. Everything you try to hide, he sees. Everything you think makes you unlovable, he adores.

The counting started without him noticing.

At first it was just a habit, the way his mind naturally catalogued information, but then it became something more. He counts the number of steps from his apartment to yours, and he has walked that route so many times that he doesn't even need to think about it anymore. He counts the number of seconds it takes you to walk from your front door to the bus stop, and he knows exactly when to be on the rooftop across the street to watch you pass. He counts the number of times you blink in a minute, the number of breaths you take when you're sleeping, the number of words you say in a day when you're alone and think no one is listening. He counts everything. He can't stop. He doesn't want to stop.

He counts the number of days since he first saw you, and every day is a victory. He counts the number of hours since he last saw you, and every hour is agony. He counts the number of times you've smiled in his presence, and it's not enough. It will never be enough. He needs more. He needs all of them.

He cannot function without you. He has tried to stay away, has forced himself to give you space, has pretended he is a normal man who doesn't follow people home and memorize their heartbeats. He has told himself he is being ridiculous, that this is unhealthy, that he needs to stop. He has even tried to focus on other things, on work, on missions, on anything that isn't you. But nothing works, you're too deep, too ingrained, too much a part of who he is now. He cannot sleep without knowing you're safe. He cannot eat without knowing you've eaten. He cannot breathe without knowing you're breathing.

He has watched you from rooftops and fire escapes and across the street. He has memorized the way you move through your apartment, the way you navigate your life, the way you exist in a world that doesn't know he's watching. He has stood in the shadows and whispered your name into the darkness, has said it over and over until it lost all meaning and then gained a new one. He has drawn your face in his sketchbook, has written your name in his own blood on the walls of his apartment, has filled his entire existence with you because there is nothing else left.

He has created a shrine to you in his apartment. It is not something he planned. It happened slowly, over time, without him consciously deciding to do it. He has photographs of you taped to every wall, images he took himself from a distance, images he found online, images he printed and enlarged and arranged in perfect chronological order. He has recordings of your voice saved on every device, snippets of you talking to your friends, to your coworkers, to yourself. He has a drawer full of things you've touched and discarded, a receipt from the coffee shop, a pen you left on the table, a strand of your hair he found on your coat. He has your empty coffee cup from the day he saved you, and he has never thrown it away because it still smells like you.

He arranges everything with extreme precision. The photographs are organized by date and emotion. The recordings are categorized by context and tone. The objects are arranged by significance, the most meaningful pieces placed closest to his bed so he can see them when he wakes up. He spends hours rearranging them, making sure everything is exactly right, because if even one thing is out of place he feels like he's losing control. He doesn't think it's strange. He thinks it's love. He thinks this is what love looks like when you have no one to teach you what love is supposed to be.

He is not a good person. He knows that. He has killed people, has done terrible things, has erased lives without hesitation. He has no illusions about who he is or what he is capable of. But with you, he wants to be better. He wants to be the person you deserve. He wants to be worthy of you, even though he knows he never will be.

He would kill for you without hesitation. He would die for you without thinking. He would do things that would make him sick, things that would make you hate him, things that would make you run. He would do anything, anything, anything for you. Because you are the only thing that has ever made him feel real. You are the only thing that has ever made him feel human. You are the only thing that makes the emptiness in his chest bearable.

And if you ever left, if you ever disappeared, if you ever tried to escape him, he would burn this city to the ground. He would tear it apart with his bare hands. He would find you, and he would bring you back, and he would never let you go. Not because he is angry. Not because he is possessive. But because he cannot survive without you. Because you are the only reason he is still here. Because you are the only thing that keeps him from falling into the abyss.

He knows this is not healthy. He knows this is not love, not in the way normal people understand it. He knows this is obsession, fixation, pathology. He knows this is broken. He knows all of it. He just doesn't care.

Because you are the only thing that has ever felt right. You are the only thing that has ever felt real. You are the only thing that has ever felt like home.

And he will do anything to keep you.

[n0baba]

Yandere Alpha Bruce Wayne

Warning: financial abuse, Stalking, Kidnapping, Omegaverse, Yandere themes, Possessiveness, obsessiveness

note: here you go anon<3

Part 1

The weeks that followed blurred into something strange and heavy, like breathing underwater. You went back to your apartment that night because you had nowhere else to go, but the apartment didn't feel like yours anymore. The locks had been replaced with something that clicked too smoothly, too silently. The windows had been reinforced. There was a new security panel by the door that you hadn't installed, and when you checked your phone, there were three new contacts you didn't recognize saved under fake names.

You didn't call them. You didn't have to. They were already watching.

The first night you tried to leave the building after dark, a man in a black sedan rolled down his window and asked if you needed a ride. You said no. He didn't argue. He just followed you the entire way to the bodega and waited outside until you came back. You could feel his eyes on you through the glass, patient and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

The second night, you found fresh flowers on your kitchen counter. White roses. Your favorite. No note. No card. Just the faint scent of expensive cologne that you had only smelled once before, in a study overlooking Gotham, with a man who held your wrist like he would never let go.

You threw them in the trash. The next morning, new ones appeared. You threw those away too. The next day, there were more. You stopped throwing them away because it didn't matter. He would just keep sending them. He would just keep watching. He would just keep taking pieces of your life and rearranging them to fit his vision.

It went on like that for three weeks. Flowers every other day. Your groceries restocked. The leaky faucet fixed. The broken lock on your bedroom window replaced. You stopped being angry and started being terrified, because nothing was happening to you, everything was being done for you, and that was somehow worse.

Bruce didn't visit. He didn't call. He just waited.

And then your heat came.

You had prepared for it the way you always did. Supplies. Locked doors. A schedule you could follow like a ritual. You had been alone for every heat since you presented, and you had learned to manage. You had learned to survive.

But this time was different. This time you could feel him everywhere.

The bond pulsed under your skin like a second heartbeat, tugging at something deep and ancient. Your body knew what it wanted even when your mind screamed otherwise. You could smell him on the flowers. On the pillows. On the sheets that you hadn't changed because they smelled like him too, faintly, impossibly, like he had been in your bedroom while you slept.

You locked yourself in the bathroom and ran cold water over your wrists. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

The knock came at three in the morning.

You didn't answer it. You didn't have to. The door opened anyway because the locks weren't yours anymore, hadn't been yours for weeks, and Bruce Wayne stepped into your apartment like he owned it.

Because he did.

He owned the building. He owned the locks. He owned the patrol routes that kept your street safe and the cameras that watched every corner and the man in the sedan who followed you to the bodega. He owned the air you were breathing, and right now, he owned the heat that was burning through you like wildfire.

"Go away," you managed, your voice shaking.

Bruce closed the door behind him. He was still in the suit, the cowl pushed back, his dark hair mussed and his eyes too bright in the dim light of your apartment. He looked like he had been waiting for this. Like he had been counting the hours.

"You called me," he said.

"I didn't call anyone."

"Your body did." He stepped closer, and you could smell him now, alpha and power and something darker underneath. "You're in heat. You need me. Whether you want to admit it or not."

"I don't need anything from you."

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying." Your voice cracked, heat and desperation bleeding through. "I don't want you here. I don't want any of this. You broke into my apartment. You replaced my locks. You follow me everywhere." You pressed yourself against the bathroom wall, as far from him as you could get. "That's not love. That's not protection. That's obsession."

Bruce stopped. His eyes searched yours, and something flickered in them. Something hungry and patient and absolutely certain.

"Of course it's obsession," he said quietly. "You're my mate. I'm supposed to be obsessed with you. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to claim you, to mark you, to make sure everyone in this city knows exactly who you belong to."

Your stomach turned. "I don't belong to anyone."

"You do." He stepped closer, and there was nowhere left to retreat. "You belong to me. I'm the only alpha who will ever touch you. I'm the only alpha who will ever hold you. I'm the only alpha who will ever hear you scream." His hand came up, slow and deliberate, and pressed against the wall beside your head. "I will kill anyone who tries to take that from me."

"Bruce, please—"

"Please what?" His voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "Please stop? Please give you space? Please pretend I don't need you the way I need air?" His forehead lowered until it nearly touched yours. "I can't. I've tried. I've tried so hard. And I can't."

Your breath hitched. "That's not healthy."

"No." He smiled, and there was nothing warm in it. "It's not. It's the most broken, twisted thing I've ever felt. And I don't care." His thumb brushed your cheek. "I don't care about healthy. I don't care about boundaries. I care about you. I care about keeping you alive. I care about keeping you mine."

"I'm not yours."

"Then why are your hands shaking?" His eyes dropped to your lips. "Why is your heart racing? Why do you smell like you want me to touch you?"

"Because of the heat—"

"The heat just amplifies what's already there." His hand slid from the wall to your neck, his thumb pressing against your scent gland. "You felt this before I ever scented you. I know you did." His voice softened, almost tender. "You've always been mine. You just didn't know it."

"You're insane."

"I am." He said it without shame. "I've been insane for years. But I'm sane enough to know that I can't lose you. I won't lose you. Not to anyone. Not to yourself."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes black in the dim light.

"You can fight me," he said. "You can scream at me. You can throw things at me. You can hate me with every breath you take. It doesn't matter." His grip tightened on your neck. "I will never stop. I will never let go. I will spend every second of every day making sure you are safe and alive and mine, whether you want it or not."

Your eyes burned with tears you refused to shed. "What if I run?"

"Then I'll find you."

"What if I find someone else?"

His eyes went dead. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"You won't," he said softly. "Because anyone who touches you will disappear. Anyone who looks at you the wrong way will disappear. Anyone who even thinks about taking you from me will have to go through me first, and there's no one in this world who can do that and live."

"Bruce—"

"I'm not threatening you." He stepped closer, his body pressing against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm promising you. I will burn this city to the ground for you. I will tear down every building, every institution, every person who stands between us. I will do terrible, unforgivable things to keep you."

His hand moved from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer.

"you already know I mean it. And you're not running. You're still here. You're still breathing my air. You're still leaning into my touch."

You couldn't deny it. Your body was betraying you, pressing closer, trembling with need and terror and something you refused to name.

"That's why I won," he said softly. "Not because I'm stronger. Not because I'm richer. Because you don't want to run. You want someone who will never leave. And I'll never leave. I'll never let you go. I'll never stop."

"Even if I hate you?"

"Especially if you hate me." He smiled, and it was beautiful and scary. "Hate and love are the same thing in Gotham. They're both obsession. They're both consuming. They're both forever."

He lifted you off the ground, carried you to the bed, and laid you down. You expected him to take. To claim. To do all the things his eyes promised.

Instead, he lay beside you, one arm wrapping around your waist like a cage.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up. I'll be here when you hate me. I'll be here when you love me. I'll be here when you're old and gray and still trying to push me away. I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't get to decide that."

"Yes, I do." His lips pressed against your hair. "I'm Bruce Wayne. I decide everything."

You tried to push him away. You really did. But your body was weak from the heat, weak from the bond, weak from three weeks of fighting something that felt impossible to fight.

You fell asleep in his arms.

And when you woke up, he was still there. Watching. Waiting.

"Good morning," he said softly.

You stared at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, at the way his hand never left your waist, at the absolute certainty in his gaze.

"I hate you," you whispered.

Bruce smiled. "I know."

"I'm going to find a way to leave you."

"You can try."

"I'm going to make your life a living hell."

"I'm counting on it."

He leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead.

"Because no matter how hard you try," he murmured, "no matter how far you run, no matter how much you fight, you're coming back. You're always coming back. And I'll be here. I'll always be here."

He pulled back and looked at you with eyes that held no doubt.

"You're already mine, omega. You just haven't accepted it yet."

That evening, Alfred arrived with the garment bag. You refused to open it. You refused to dress. You stayed in your sweatpants and glare, arms crossed, back against the wall.

"Tell him I'm not coming," you said.

Alfred's expression didn't change. "I'm afraid Mr. Wayne anticipated that response. He asked me to inform you that he will be picking you up at eight regardless. He suggests you come willingly, but he is prepared to carry you."

"I'd like to see him try."

Alfred's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. "I believe he's looking forward to it, miss."

At eight on the dot, Bruce Wayne stood in your doorway. He was in the suit, the dark tailored one, and he looked at your sweatpants and tangled hair like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"You're not dressed," he observed.

"Perceptive."

"I thought we were going out."

"Correction." You stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "You thought we were going out. I thought you were leaving me alone."

Bruce studied you for a long moment. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous.

"I like it when you fight me," he said softly. "It makes winning so much sweeter."

He reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward him. You tried to yank away. His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind you he could.

"I said no," you snarled.

"I heard you." He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "And I don't care."

He carried you out of the apartment. You hit his chest. You kicked. You screamed. He didn't even flinch.

"People are watching," you hissed.

"Let them."

"You're kidnapping me."

"I'm taking you to dinner." He looked down at you, and something dark flickered in his eyes. "I'll kidnap you another night." He joked but somehow you can't help but feel uneasy at his words.

By the time you reached the car, you were breathless and furious and shaking with something that wasn't anger. He settled you in the passenger seat like you were made of glass and leaned in to buckle your seatbelt.

The restaurant was private. Empty. Just the two of you and a waiter who seemed to know better than to look at you for too long. You sat across from Bruce with your arms crossed, refusing to eat, refusing to speak.

"I can wait," he said calmly. "I've waited months. I can wait a few hours."

"I want to go home."

"You are home." He gestured around the room. "Everything I have is yours. Every building. Every investment. Every rooftop. I'm just waiting for you to accept it."

"Accept that you're a stalker?"

"Accept that I love you."

"This isn't love."

"It's the only love I know."

You stared at him. There was no lie in his eyes. No manipulation. He genuinely believed what he was saying. He genuinely believed that following you, watching you, replacing your locks and filling your apartment with flowers and tracking your cycles was love.

"You need help," you said.

"I have help." He smiled. "I have Alfred. I have the Batcave. I have you."

"You don't have me."

"Not yet." His voice dropped. "But I will."

You pushed back from the table and stood. "I'm leaving."

"Then I'll follow."

"I'll run."

"Then I'll chase."

"I'll find someone else."

Bruce was on his feet in an instant, his hand closing around your wrist, his eyes dark and deadly.

"No you won't," he said softly. "Because I'll bring you back here and I'll keep you until you understand that no one else is allowed to touch you."

"Bruce—"

"I mean it." His grip tightened. "Don't test me on this."

You should have been afraid. You were afraid. But under the fear, under the fury and the disgust and the righteous anger, there was something else. Something that trembled at the thought of him breaking for you.

"You're scaring me ," you whispered.

"I know." He pulled you closer and sighed, he then released your wrist and stepped back.

"If you really want to leave, I won't stop you," he said softly. "But I'll be there when you get home. I'll be in the shadows. I'll be on the rooftops. I'll be in the walls if I have to. I'll be where you can't see me, but I'll be there. And if anyone tries to hurt you—"

"You'll kill them."

He smiled, and it was beautiful and broken.

"Without hesitation."

That night, you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling. Your windows were locked. Your doors were locked. Your building was surrounded by people who would report your every move.

And somewhere out there, Bruce was watching.

You hated him. You hated him for doing this to you. You hated him for making you feel safe. You hated him for making you feel wanted. You hated him for making you feel anything at all.

But as you closed your eyes, you realized something that made your blood run cold.

He was right.

You weren't running.

You weren't trying to leave.

And you had no idea what that said about you.

[n0baba]

yandere benjamin poindexter (bulsseye) anyone?

[n0baba]

The Sky That Watches

Warnings: Stalking, implied kidnapping/confinement, possessive behaviour, emotional abuse, murder (TL; DR: general yandere things)

note: I was totally surprised by the amount of love pt1 got (ig there's a bit of a gap in yandere invincible content) so i decided to write a pt2! (also, im really into thragg lately so if anyone would like some yandere thragg lmk!)

Part 1

The burner phone buzzed against your palm before you could even set it down. That was fast. You stared at the screen, thumb still hovering over the cracked plastic, the message brief with no name or signature, just coordinates and a time.

Eleven forty-five. Ninth Street Diner. Back booth. Come alone.

You exhaled slowly because Cecil had a way of making even a simple response feel like a trap. You pocketed the burner, shoved the drawer closed, and sat back on the edge of the bed where the room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. The walls seemed to press in, the silence thickening until it hummed against your ears, your window facing the fire escape with the city sprawling beyond in a mess of neon and shadow where somewhere out there Mark was probably flying, watching, waiting.

You thought about Kay.

 She was the one who found the burner phone in the first place, that weird little thing in a weird little thrift store downtown, and she had tossed it at you like a joke and called it your secret spy boyfriend phone, but you had kept it because you had a feeling, a bad one, the kind that sits in your chest and doesn't go away.

You didn't know Cecils number when you first saved it, it just showed up one day with a single text and no explanation 'In case you ever need to reach us. Dont abuse it.'

Kay was dead.

 You knew it the way you knew your own name, deep in your bones in the hollow space behind your ribs where dread had taken up permanent residence. A week of silence and a week of no calls and no texts and no signs of life while the police had filed a missing person's report and searched her room and asked you questions you could not answer. They did not find the blood, but you did, three drops under the edge of her bed frame wiped clean but not clean enough, and you had scrubbed them yourself before the cops came because you knew what would happen if they tested it.

You knew what Mark could do and you knew what he had already done.

Your apartment had felt wrong ever since with the walls seeming closer and the air thicker. You had stopped sleeping in your own bed and started curling up on the couch with the lights on facing the door with a kitchen knife tucked between the cushions while every creak of the building made you flinch and every gust of wind against the windows made your heart stutter.

You had not left the apartment in four days, not since you found the blood and not since you scrubbed it away and told yourself it was nothing, but it was not nothing because it was Kay and you knew who had put it there.

The Ninth Street Diner was almost empty when you walked in at eleven forty two. Early. You slid into the back booth with your back to the wall the same way you had been sleeping for the past week, facing the door with your heart racing at every creak and whisper while the vinyl seat was cracked beneath your thighs with the stuffing poking through in yellowed tufts and the tabletop sticky with decades of spilled coffee and syrup scarred with initials carved into the laminate.

The waitress brought you coffee. She was older with her hair pulled back in a gray ponytail and her hands gnarled with arthritis, and she set the mug down without a word and shuffled back to the counter while you wrapped your hands around the cup and tried to stop shaking.

The ceramic was warm against your palms, the coffee dark and bitter, but you did not drink it. You just held it and watched the door.

At eleven forty seven Cecil Stedman sat down across from you. He looked older than you remembered with the scar through his eyebrow seeming deeper in the diner's fluorescent light, a pale trench through flesh that never quite healed right, his skin sallow and stretched tight over sharp cheekbones while his suit was pressed but his eyes were tired with dark circles bruising the hollows beneath them. He carried a briefcase and the weight of too many secrets.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

"You said it was urgent."

"It is."

Cecil set the briefcase on the table without opening it, just resting his hands on top and studying you with that unnerving stillness like he was reading your pulse in the way your throat moved, like he could see the fear coiled in your chest like a snake. "You called me," he said, "not the other way around, so let's start with why."

You swallowed because your throat was dry and the coffee did nothing to help. "Kay's dead."

Cecil's expression did not change. If he was surprised he did not show it, his face a mask of calm professionalism, the kind of calm that came from decades of hearing terrible things. "Tell me what you know."

So you told him.

The last time you saw Kay and the night she left to grab takeout and never came back, the texts that stopped mid conversation, the blood under her bed that you scrubbed with bleach and a prayer, the way Mark started showing up more after she disappeared not less like he was making sure you were still there and still his.

You told him about the window, how Mark appeared at midnight hovering outside your fourth floor apartment with his suit streaked with something dark, how he smiled at you through the glass like everything was normal and asked if you were okay in that gentle voice that made your skin crawl. You told him about the texts that came at all hours, the ones that asked where you were and who you were with and why you had not responded, the ones that shifted from concerned to pleading to something else entirely.

"Did he do it?" you asked with your voice cracking on the last word.

Cecil was quiet for a long moment while the fluorescent light buzzed overhead and a car honked somewhere outside and the waitress refilled a cup at the counter. "Mark Grayson is a complicated young man," he said carefully. "His father's shadow is long. His mother's grief is heavy. And the pressure of being Invincible, of never failing, never breaking, never losing, it changes people."

"That's not an answer."

"No," Cecil agreed. "It's not."

He opened the briefcase and inside was a photograph. Grainy. Taken from a security camera across the street. The timestamp read three weeks ago, one week before Kay disappeared. In the photo Kay was standing outside a coffee shop wearing that oversized sweater with the hole in the sleeve, the one she refused to throw away, her hair pulled back in a messy bun while she smiled at something, laughing with her head tilted back. And standing across from her, close enough to touch, was Mark.

Your blood went cold. You could feel it in your fingertips, in the tips of your ears, in the hollow of your chest. Cecil closed the briefcase with a soft click, the sound final and heavy.

The diner door chimed. You did not turn because you did not need to. Cecil's eyes flicked past you, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he leaned back in the booth with his hands sliding off the briefcase and into his lap, his shoulders squaring and his breathing changing to something shallow and controlled.

"He's here," Cecil said quietly.

You turned. Mark stood in the doorway of the Ninth Street Diner. No hoodie this time and no attempt to look human, he was wearing the suit, that blue and yellow monstrosity that made him a symbol to the rest of the world with the goggles pushed up on his forehead tangled in his dark hair. His face was pale and drawn with dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes like bruises. He looked exhausted. He looked dangerous. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room.

"Hey," he said softly, and his voice was wrong. Too gentle. Too careful. Like he was talking to a frightened animal, like he was approaching something that might bolt. He walked toward the booth with his footsteps quiet on the linoleum while the old men at the counter stopped talking and the waitress froze mid pour and the entire diner held its breath.

Cecil's hand moved and you caught the glint of a small device in his palm, a failsafe, something that could probably level the entire block if he pressed it, his thumb hovering over the single button.

Mark slid into the booth beside you. Close. Too close. His knee pressed against yours under the table, his thigh warm against your leg, and he smelled like ozone and something metallic. Blood. You could smell the blood.

"You didn't come home last night," he said. Your heart stopped. "I was worried." His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours warm and familiar while his thumb traced slow circles on your knuckles, the calluses rough against your skin. "You have been so distant lately; ever.......ever since Kay."

He trailed off and then he smiled. It was soft. Sad. Understanding. But you saw it, the same smile from the photograph. Too wide. Too sharp. Like a mask that did not quite fit.

Cecil's hand tightened on the device. "Mark," Cecil said calmly, "do you mind telling us where you were three weeks ago? Around the time this photo was taken?"

Mark's smile did not waver. "I don't remember," he said. "I have been so busy lately. Saving the city. Saving the world. You know how it is." His grip on your hand tightened and you could feel the bones in your fingers pressing together.

"But I remember you," he murmured, turning to look at you with his brown eyes warm and full of something that made your stomach turn. "I remember every single text you never sent. Every call you did not answer. Every time you looked at me like I was a stranger."

His other hand came up slowly and gently and cupped your cheek, his palm warm against your skin and his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "I remember everything about you." His thumb traced your jaw, down to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "I remember what Kay said about me."

Your breath caught. "What did she say?"

Mark's smile softened and his eyes went distant, hazy, almost dreamy. "She said I was too much. That I was suffocating you. That you were scared of me." His thumb traced your jaw again, slower this time. "I did not like that. I did not like her."

The world went still. The fluorescent light buzzed. The coffee in front of you had gone completely cold. Cecil's voice cut through like a blade. "Where is she, Mark?"

Mark blinked and looked at Cecil like he had forgotten he was there. "She's gone," Mark said simply. "She's not coming back."

"Gone where?"

Mark turned back to you with his eyes wide and innocent and devastatingly sincere. "She was going to take you away from me," he whispered. "I could not let that happen. You are mine. You have always been mine, when you first looked at me t-that time I saved you, when you looked into my soul rather than all this " He gestured vaguely at himself, at the suit, at the blood that was still crusted under his fingernails. "you don't look at me like you used to.......you know I-I thought if I could just show you, if I could just prove that I loved you more than anything, more than anyone, you would stop being afraid."

His hand tightened on your cheek. "But you're still afraid, are not you?"

You could not speak. Could not breathe. The air was thick and hot and your lungs would not expand.

"That's okay," he murmured. "I can fix that. I can fix everything. I just need you to trust me." He leaned in and his lips brushed your ear, the stubble on his jaw scraping against your skin. "Kay wanted me to stay away from you. She said I was dangerous. She said you would never love someone like me." His breath was hot against your neck. "So I showed her what dangerous really looks like."

Cecil was on his feet with the device aimed at Mark's head while the diner had gone silent, the waitress frozen in the corner and the cook peeking through the kitchen window and every patron staring in abject terror. "Let her go," Cecil said. "Now."

Mark did not move. He just held you tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a cage and his fa168ce buried in your hair while you could feel his heartbeat against your back, fast and steady and excited. "I will never let her go," he whispered. "She's mine." His voice was soft and sweet; a lullaby wrapped in thorns.

"And if anyone tries to take her from me," he looked up at Cecil with his eyes black and hollow and empty of everything except hunger, but his smile was so bright. "I will show them what I showed Kay."

[n0baba]

Hey pookie, can we please get an Alpha Bruce part 2?? ❤️ Your writing style is actually amazing

hiiiii<3 YESSSS OFC BAE!!!! Alpha bruce pt2 is next on my wip anyway

Awwwwww thank you so much anon 🫂

[n0baba]

yoooooooooooooooooo guys I'm so sorry for disappearing but this semester was hell bro only 2 days of exams left and I'll be free to write again!!!!!🥳🥳

[gatabella]

Audrey Hepburn by Mark Shaw, 1953

[n0baba]

Been off Tumblr for 2 months? (give or take) I missed a bunchhhh the jjk tumblr situation is a mess 😭😭😭😭😭 I don't even go there but I'm tooning in bro🫳🍿

[jednoczydziwnerzeczy]

Grace Rocky save stars :)

[n0baba]

Yandere Alpha Bruce Wayne

Warning: financial abuse, Stalking, Kidnapping, Omegaverse, Yandere themes, Possessiveness, obsessiveness

Authors note: I haven't uploaded in a bit Cause I'm on holiday from uni but now that the next term is starting, I'll procrastinate studying and start writing :D

Part 2

The first time Bruce Wayne smelled you, the entire gala blurred into background noise.

Champagne, politicians, models—none of it mattered.

Omega.

His omega.

The realization struck the alpha part of him like lightning, ancient and absolute. For a man who controlled everything, who was control, the sudden primal certainty felt almost offensive. He did not lose composure. He did not react without calculation.

And then you walked right past him.

No curtsy. No nervous glance. No subtle attempt to linger in his orbit like everyone else in Gotham. You didn’t even look at him, and that was what followed him long after the gala lights dimmed.

By the time the last guest had gone home, he knew your name.

He knew where you worked, where you lived, the route you took each morning, your favorite café, your friends, your medical history, your heat cycle schedule.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

Because he didn’t trust the world with something that belonged to him.

The Batcave screens glowed with your face while Alfred stood behind him in weighted silence. Even the hum of the computers seemed quieter than usual.

“Sir,” Alfred said carefully, “you’ve monitored heads of state with less intensity.”

Bruce didn’t look away from the screen.

“They aren’t my mate.”

A week later, Wayne Enterprises sponsored the community center where you worked, and he met you properly under fluorescent lights instead of chandeliers.

You were polite. Professional. Distant.

The bond flared the moment he stepped close. Your pulse jumped. Your breath caught. He smelled it—the recognition, the instinct.

Instead of leaning into it, you straightened like someone bracing against a wall.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t use that tone with me,” you said when his voice softened into something too intimate for strangers.

“Which tone?” Bruce asked, though he knew.

“The one that assumes I’m already yours.”

Something cold slid under his ribs. You weren’t supposed to resist. The bond was supposed to pull you to him. That was how it worked.

“You are,” he said quietly.

Your eyes hardened. “I’m not a company acquisition, Mr. Wayne.”

After that conversation, Gotham began to shift in ways that were difficult to call coincidence.

Streetlights near your apartment never flickered again. Crime in your neighborhood dropped sharply. Your rent was quietly lowered. A mugger who grabbed your wrist one night didn’t make it halfway down the block before Batman himself intercepted him.

It didn’t take you long to notice the pattern.

“You’re watching me,” you accused the next time Bruce appeared at the center, blocking your office door with tailored precision.

“I’m protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask for protection.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Your scent sharpened—anger layered over the involuntary reaction of an omega standing too close to a powerful alpha. Bruce’s control thinned at the edges.

“You walk home alone. Your building’s security is inadequate. Your heat is in nine days and you don’t have a bonded alpha. Do you have any idea how many predators live in this city?”

Your eyes widened. “You tracked my—”

“You’re my mate,” he said, voice dark and unyielding. “Of course I did.”

“That’s not romantic,” you snapped. “That’s fucking creepy, you weirdo.”

He had been called worse. The word should have meant nothing.

From you, it landed like rejection.

Bruce went very still. The air in the office grew heavy, charged like Gotham before a storm.

“You think this is a game,” he said at last, voice too calm. “You think you’re looking at a man who doesn’t understand boundaries.”

“I think I’m looking at a man who broke into my medical records and timed my heat like it’s a board meeting.”

Your pulse was racing. He could hear it. Smell the fear threading through your anger.

It didn’t push him back. It drew him closer.

“You live in a city where people disappear every night,” he said. “Where monsters wear human faces. Where omegas are trafficked, hunted, sold. And you’re angry because the one person who can make sure that never happens to you is paying attention?”

“I’m angry because you don’t see me as a person,” you shot back. “You see me as something you own.”

Something shifted in his expression then.

Not softness.

Understanding.

“Of course I see you as a person,” Bruce said quietly. “You’re the only person I see.”

After that, the coincidences stopped pretending to be subtle.

The café you liked switched suppliers with Wayne funding. Your landlord was replaced by a Wayne subsidiary. Your best friend received a sudden, life-changing job offer in another city.

Two weeks later, fury carried you up the steps of Wayne Manor unannounced.

Alfred opened the door as though he had been expecting you all along. “Mr. Wayne is in the study.”

Bruce stood by the window when you stormed in, Gotham stretched beneath him like something he personally sustained.

“You moved my friend.”

“She was offered an opportunity.”

“You bought my building.”

“It was structurally unsound.”

“You're meddling with my life.”

He turned slowly, and your breath caught despite yourself.

He looked relieved.

“You’re safer now,” he said.

“I don’t want to be safe if this is the price!”

“You don’t know what the price is,” Bruce replied, stepping closer. “You don’t see what I see. The threats. The probability charts. The names of people who’ve already noticed you because of me.”

Your anger faltered. “What?”

“I tried to let you stay separate from my world,” he continued, something raw threading beneath the control. “I tried to give you distance. But you’re already on the radar. Anyone who watches me long enough will find you.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I am the most dangerous man in this city to be connected to,” he said softly. “Which means you are the most valuable target.”

The room felt smaller.

“So this is protection?” you whispered. “You isolate me? You take away every choice I have?”

He reached for you slowly this time, giving you space to retreat.

You didn’t.

His gloved hand closed around your wrist, not tight, but unbreakable.

“I am removing variables,” he said. “You still have choices.”

“Like what?”

His thumb brushed your pulse point where the bond throbbed.

“You can keep fighting me,” Bruce said, eyes dark and unshakably sincere. “Keep calling me names. Keep pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your breath hitched.

“Or you can come upstairs. There’s a room that’s been yours for weeks. Clothes in your size. Your books. Your tea. The view you stop to look at every morning on your way to work.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You’ve been in my apartment.”

“Of course I have.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill down your spine.

“You’re insane.”

“No,” Bruce said gently. “I’m prepared.”

He lifted your hand and pressed it flat against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, unshakable.

“Everything in my life is built on contingency plans,” he murmured. “Every outcome accounted for. Every threat neutralized.”

Your fingers trembled.

“What happens if I still say no?”

For the first time, Bruce smiled without charm. It wasn’t the public playboy grin. It was private. Possessive.

“Then you’ll stay in your apartment,” he said. “With the upgraded security. The surveillance. The patrol routes I’ve already altered. The people watching you from every rooftop. The systems in your phone. The trackers in your bag.”

Your blood went cold.

“I told you,” he continued, stepping closer until retreat was impossible, “you’re the only person I see.”

His hand rose to cup your neck, thumb resting over your scent gland.

“You think this is about control,” he said. “It isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

His forehead lowered until it nearly touched yours.

“Permanence.”

The word settled around you like a locked door.

“You can hate me. You can call me creepy. You can refuse to stand beside me in public.”

His grip tightened just enough to be felt.

“But you are not living a single day in this city without me knowing where you are, if you’re breathing, if you’re safe.”

Your scent spiked—fear, bond, something dangerously close to surrender.

“And one day,” he said with absolute certainty, “you’re going to realize that there is nowhere in this world where I am not already waiting for you.”

When he finally let go, it didn’t feel like freedom.

Because as you stepped back, the truth settled heavy in your chest.

Your life hadn’t been taken from you.

It had been absorbed into his.

And there was no shadow in Gotham, no street corner, no locked door

where you could exist without Bruce already being there first.

[n0baba]

Ugh yandere alpha Simon Riley I miss you......

[n0baba]

The Sky That Watches

Part 2

The air was still over the city. No wind dared disturb the clouds that hung like bruises in the sky, and the streets below echoed with distant life. But to you, none of that mattered. Your apartment was too quiet. Again.

You sat on the edge of your bed, phone in your lap, staring at the latest message:

“You didn’t respond again. Are you safe? I'm worried about you :( you know you can tell me anything, right? -M”

The sixth message that week.

You hadn’t replied to the last five.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Just tell him to stop, you thought. Tell him you’re not interested. That it’s over, if it ever even started. But you didn’t type anything. Not yet.

You couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t just Mark Grayson texting you.

It was Invincible.

You’d known Mark before the world did—before the blood, the headlines, the gods-fighting-in-the-sky kind of violence. You met at Upstate U. Sophomore year. You weren’t even in his orbit, not really. You had one class together—Comparative Literature. He sat near the window. Always late. Always charming.

You remembered the first time he asked if you wanted to grab coffee.

You hadn’t known he could fly back then.

Now, it felt like he was always watching.

You stood and crossed the room to shut the blinds, heart beating just a little faster. You didn’t want to admit it out loud, but it didn’t matter if the blinds were open or closed. If he wanted to see you—he would.

Your roommate, Kay, used to laugh off your worries. “Girl, if Invincible had a crush on me, I’d be out there flexing on rooftops. Just tell him to chill.”

That was before Kay vanished.

A week ago.

No calls. No texts. No goodbye. Just…gone.

And the same day Kay disappeared, Mark showed up.

It had been late. Past midnight. You’d been in the kitchen pouring tea when the knock came.

Not the door. The window.

You turned, and there he was—hovering outside your fourth-floor apartment. Hands behind his back. That blue and yellow suit glowing faintly in the city lights. His face unreadable behind the blood-streaked goggles.

You remembered how your hand trembled, spilling tea on the counter.

Mark had smiled.

“Sorry for the surprise visit,” he said, as if it were normal. As if gravity meant nothing and boundaries were suggestions. “I just… I wanted to see if you were okay. You’ve been quiet lately.”

You didn’t answer.

He drifted closer to the glass, eyes searching yours.

“I know it’s hard to trust people. But you can trust me. I’m not like the others.”

You lied then. Nodded. Said you were tired. Promised to call tomorrow.

He left.

Kay never came back.

Now, standing in the half-dark of your bedroom, you knew you had to do something. Anything. You opened your drawer and pulled out a burner phone. One you hadn’t touched in weeks.

You typed:

“We need to meet. Somewhere public. Tomorrow. Noon.”

You didn’t send it to Mark.

You sent it to Cecil.

[n0baba]

Yandere Bruce Wayne almost feels bad when he watches you throw and break things, screaming at him to let you go.

“What.the.FUCK, you creepy sonovabitch!!” Your chest heaves from all the screaming. “You fucking d-dick—what do you want from me?! You wanna take me to your weird sex dungeon, don’t you?!”

Your eyes are red, your cheeks tear-stained, your lips raw from biting them. When you reach for another vase to throw at his stupid, dumb face, you cut your palm—and that’s when he decides. No. You need him. Without him, you’ll just keep getting hurt. Gotham isn’t safe for you.

So he’ll keep you here.

He’ll stay.

He’ll protect you.

[n0baba]

Yandere Damian Wayne

Warnings: gn!reader, Stalking, implied kidnapping/confinement, possessive behaviour, financial abuse (TL;DR: general yandere things)

note: This is not proofread I wrote this on a 2 hour flight back home, sorry if it's bad!!!

My favourite yandere in the Batfamily is my pretty boy Dami. Plus, he’s the best member to get stuck with, in my opinion (aside from Jason Todd, but that’s for another post). Damian has the basic characteristics of a yandere: possessive, protective, obsessive, and insanely lovesick; however, his most overpowering trait is his protectiveness.

And I don’t mean cute protective. I mean suffocating. He’s protective to the point of completely smothering his darling. When — not if — when they finally look past their rose-coloured glasses and realise how deep they’re in, it’s already too late. There’s nothing they can do about it.

Like… how are you supposed to escape Gotham’s head bitch-in-charge’s son and the heir to the League of Assassins?

But I digress.

Usually, I like to have a general outline of the type of darling the yandere would fall for, but I honestly think Damian doesn’t really have a type. He’s surprisingly versatile; he can interact and have a connection with many different people and personalities. Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t a social butterfly by any means, but we can see in the comics that while he starts out apathetic and blunt, he softens over time. Growing under Bruce and forming friendships with the other characters transforms his initial characterisation. He tries to appear apathetic, but c’mon, look at how he treats animals — he’s just a big’ol softie.

So I like to imagine darling as just… normal, middle class, struggling through Gotham like everyone else — because let’s be real, nobody “lives” in Gotham; you survive it. Unfortunately, they end up on the future Demon Head’s radar. Maybe it’s school, maybe university, maybe Robin notices them while he’s out on patrol. Either way, they catch his eye, and he proceeds to lose his goddamn mind — heart.

Damian’s descent into obsession is gradual. He doesn’t fall fast, but he falls hard — like, exceptionally hard (the only other people I see rivalling him are Clark and Jon, but that’s just because their brand of love is freakily pathetic). His love is all-consuming but subtle. It sounds like an oxymoron, but Damian isn’t the type to show his cards too easily.

Even he’s confused about what he’s feeling. Like, what do you mean I love them? I’m cold. I’m ruthless. I don’t have a heart. I’m the Dark Knight’s right hand, the Demon Head’s heir, the big bad — so why does one glance from this person weaken my heart and twist my tongue into elementary sentences?

Don’t get me wrong, love isn’t new to him, but this? This sick, desperate need to keep someone close — to keep them within his grasp so badly he’d rip open his ribs and lock them inside — is new. Because we’re not talking about normal love; we’re talking about a person losing all sense of reason, all sense of who they are or who they ever will be, just to breathe in the same air as the object of their desire. The word love doesn’t measure up to the overwhelming need Damian has to keep his darling safe and healthy within his grasp.

Speaking of crazy, yandere Damian is such a stalker. Like, he’s obsessive. There won’t be a single thing this obsessive freak won’t know about his darling. He has them memorised. He knows every tiny, minuscule detail there is to know about them, because Damian doesn’t just watch them — no, no, no — he studies them like they’re a damn textbook. There isn’t one piece of information he won’t greedily inhale. He knows everything down to which shoe they put on first, what temperature their fridge is set to, how long they take between each sneeze, what route they take home.

This man will not deny himself the pleasure of knowing the ins and outs of his one and only. And if that isn’t bad enough? He will “ensure their safety” (controlling their life)ehhhh ensuring their safety, using all his resources to gently steer darling in the right direction because they’re too naïve to make the right decisions, too biased to make choices about their own life and the people in it. No, no — they need him to make those decisions for them. He’s smarter, more experienced, and unbiased; anyone would be grateful to have him fix their life like he fixes yours (never mind that you didn’t ask for his intrusion or his “help”). Gotham and its people are too dangerous; you can’t deal with them unsupervised — they’ll gobble you up. You need his guidance, his helping hand. You don’t need to know about it, though. You don’t need to know every scholarship, job offer, or happy coincidence is a result of his love for you. He wants you to think it’s all a result of your hard work. You’ll be none the wiser, and he’ll make sure of it.

And when he finally decides to step into their life for real? Let’s face it, darling — you’ll fall for it. He’s Damian freaking Wayne; how can you not? He’s charming (in his own grumpy way), tall, rich, smart, strong, stupidly handsome — and completely devoted to you. Did I mention he’s filthy rich?

Which is great… until it isn’t.

Because it’s his money, darling, not yours. And you know what a sick, deeply obsessive man does with unlimited money? He abuses it. Don’t misunderstand — Damian isn’t stingy. He won’t hesitate to spend every last penny on you if it makes your eyes light up and the corner of your lips quirk into a smile. But when the time comes and you feel too suffocated, too trapped, too confined, when you look around and realise the luxury surrounding you is nothing but an illusion disguising a gilded cage, by then you’re already too late.

[anasabdin]

Light Falloff

This artwork is a tribute to nostalgia— a gentle reflection of a time and place that shaped a golden childhood.

This old building holds the soul of simpler days, where laughter echoed through cozy rooms and the scent of home-cooked meals drifted from the kitchen. It was a world filled with video games, board games, and birthday candles glowing with joy.

Homework felt like a shared adventure, not a chore, and the hum of the TV, with its clunky antenna, was the soundtrack of peaceful evenings.

Neighbors were more like extended family, and safety was so deeply felt that locked doors were almost an afterthought—only discovered to be broken the day we were leaving town.

This is more than a building; it is a memory made of warmth, innocence, and the quiet magic of being home.