homelander | Imagine being the only person whose opinion truly matters to him.
The world worships Homelander. Crowds chant his name, cameras flash, and entire cities breathe easier just knowing he’s watching from the sky. He smiles for them, waves for them, saves them.
But none of it ever feels like enough.
Not unless you’re watching.
Imagine standing in a quiet room high above the city, the distant hum of traffic far below. He’s just returned from another flawless rescue—cape still fluttering slightly, uniform untouched, eyes searching.
Not for danger.
For you.
“Did you see it?” he asks, voice carefully controlled, almost hopeful. “I stopped the plane from crashing. Not a single casualty.”
You hesitate. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe the words don’t come quickly enough. Maybe you simply don’t react the way he expects.
And the change in him is immediate.
The air grows heavy, charged with something unspoken. His smile falters, just for a second, before slipping away entirely. The city lights flicker across his face as disappointment settles in, fragile and terrifying in equal measure.
Imagine the most powerful man in the world stepping closer, uncertainty creeping into his posture.
Then, slowly, he kneels.
Not out of humility.
Out of reverence.
His gloved hands hover near you, as if afraid to touch without permission. When he finally looks up, his expression is raw—eyes shining with unshed tears, desperation barely contained beneath the surface.
“Tell me I’m good,” he whispers, voice trembling with need. “Please.”
The plea hangs in the air, fragile and suffocating.
Because you know he doesn’t just want praise—he needs it. Your approval is the axis on which his entire world spins. Without it, the adoration of millions means nothing.
Imagine him resting his forehead lightly against your hand, seeking comfort like something lost and wounded, despite the unimaginable power he holds.
“I’ll do anything to deserve it,” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Just… don’t look at me like I’ve failed.”
And in that moment, it becomes terrifyingly clear:
what about modern daeron that is completely and utterly obsessed with you? i’m having thoughts again
cw: mdni, nsfw, obsessive/possessive daeron, making out, emotional tension
“daeron…” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. this wasn’t curiosity. it was something much sharper—an urgency in his eyes that made your chest tighten, like he needed to know you completely, or he might break. this was obsession.
“i need to know,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw, intimate rasp. he lifted a hand and traced the line of your collarbone above your dress with just the tip of his finger. you shuddered. “i need to know everything. because every moment you’re not with me feels like a theft. you are all i think about. when i dream, it’s you. when i’m trying not to dream… it’s still you.”
his words burned through the quiet, impossible to ignore. you were gullible, but you weren’t blind. something in his gaze, searching and insistent, that pulled at a part of you, you usually kept buried.he saw the surrender in your eyes before you voiced it. a dark, triumphant light flared in his gaze. he took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours with a firmness that left no room for argument, he led you back inside, through the silent, darkened hallways of the mansion, away from the party and into the heart of his private world. meant only for you.
his room is wide, dimly lit, with tall windows half covered by heavy, dark curtains.expensive furniture sits carelessly used: a large bed with rumpled sheets, clothes half fallen to the floor as if discarded mid thought rather than out of laziness. on either side, nightstands cluttered with crystal ashtrays—some still holding thin trails of smoke from forgotten cigarettes—next to scattered rings, a glass with untouched wine. the air carry’s a layered scent: sharp tobacco smoke lingering over something richer—leather, faint cologne, and the dry, almost burnt note of ash. underneath it all, a subtle chill, like stone walls that are never quite warm, no matter how long someone stays. he closed the door behind you, and the click of the lock was the loudest sound in the universe.
he turned to you, leaning back against the door, devouring you with his eyes. “come here.”
you walked to him, each step feeling momentous. when you were within reach, he didn’t grab you. he let his hands come up slowly, framing your face again, his touch reverent.
“i have wanted you,” he breathed, his lips inches from yours, “since i knew what wanting was. you, in this house, laughing with my siblings, being so fucking good and sweet and mine without even knowing it.” he kissed you then, but it wasn’t like a desperate kiss. this was slow. a claiming sip by sip.his tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft sigh, and then he was delving in, tasting you deeply. his hands began to move. down your neck, over your shoulders, sliding the thin straps of your dress down your arms. the fabric pooled at your waist. he broke the kiss to look at you, his breath catching at the sight of you in your simple lace bra. “gods,” he swore, a prayer and a curse. “you ruin me.”
haiiii saw you were doing requests for isaac knight:}
was hoping to request some stalker/yandere isaac that likes taking photos of reader behind their back if that’s okay🫶
no pressure if not tho! love ur work✨
Your My Obsession (Isaac Night x Siren! Reader)
(Summary: Where Isaac becomes obsessively in love with you to the point where guys who ask you on a date go missing and the sense of somebody watching you 24/7)
Masterlist : Request Info
Word Count: 1.4k
(A/n: I am so happy with all the requests I've gotten for him. KEEP EM COMIN!!)
(WARNINGS!: Dark themes ahead, stalking, obsessive behaviour, obsessive thoughts, yandere, Siren!Reader, reads also a bit oblivious)
~~~
It started small. When he caught you with his oblivious roommate Gomez and his girlfriend Mortica and her sister Ophelia. Isaac had felt something that he had never felt before. Something he thought he could never feel but there it was in black and white.
And from just a simple glance started Isaac Night Obsession with you. Y/n L/n the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on.
It started small with barely noticeable glances in classes you had or across the quad or when you'd visit his bedroom with Mortica. Where you had formally met.
~~
"Oh, Gomez is this your new roommate?" Y/n asked as she stared at the boy at a desk. Gomez pulled back from Mortica smiling.
"Ah! Yes. Y/n this is Isaac Night." He gestured towards the guy at the desk.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Isaac." Her soft silky voice said.
Isaac turned his head upon hearing his name. And his ticking heart stopped at the sight of her. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen with piercing eyes, flowey hair, heart shaped lips.
"Pleasure to meet you as well." He said as he moved over towards her. "What did you say your name was?"
"Y/n." She replied back with a small smile.
His lips pressed together in a slight smile as his eyes trained on you as he repeated the name in his head.
Y/n
~~~~
After that day, he learnt her routine. Following close behind her as he took pictures of her. Whether it was in the quad, the lake, in the woods, hanging out with her friends, at the galas or/and formal events or any event that Nevermore had. His obsession with her became so bad that his sister mentioned something after seeing numerous pictures of her scattered around his lab.
~~
"Isaac this isn't okay. I mean do you know her at all?" Francoise said as she looked at all the pictures from nearly a year of Y/n L/n.
The girl she stayed away from for one reason and one reason only. She was a siren. A merfolk who sirens people with their song or voice in general. She's dangerous. Not to mention she hangs out with Isaac's sleeze roomate and his lover.
"Francoise, I know everything about her. She something isn't she?" Isaac said as he looked at the photos he had taken over a course of a year.
Francoise stomach coiled in unsettledness and fear. She knew that her brother became obsessed with things especially when it came to science or helping her but seeing it form onto a person that was her or blood related made her feel uneasy. She wondered what he would do? Would he go to the same lengths as he does with science and a gnawing feeling told her it was much worse that these photos aren't even the beginning of it.
~~~~
A year. That's how long she felt the eyes of another person 24/7. At first Y/n thought it was a prank or that she was being paranoid but now. It had to be something more.
Why did it take her so long to piece it together you may ask? Well she did evidently try to mention it to her friends but they all call her paranoid or something along the lines of "your practically famous from your family's name" and it was true her family went all the way back to the original sirens that once swam the sea but it shouldn't be that big of a deal but to some it was. It made her 'royalty' at Nevermore just like Morticia because of her terrifyingly self appointed mother. A legacy was what you were. But it wasn't just that later on when you would get asked on a date and suddenly something would happen and they'd cancel.
For months you've tried to figure it out but it was no such luck. She suspected Gomezs roommate at first but it could be him. Could it? She thought before shaking the thought away. No, it couldn't be he was always so kind and would even comfort her after her dated would cancel when she'd be all ready to go waiting in the quad. He'd show up either going or coming back from his lab.
Over the course of them meeting they had grown closer. Even shared a kiss a few times during her time of comfort or need. Which made them closer but not at first.
~~~
1 month ago
~~~
"They're ineffectual morons who don't deserve someone as kind and beautiful as you." He whisper in a slightly dark but comforting tone to you under the pale moonlight that lit up the quad.
She lifted your head and turned towards him. Their eyes meeting in the moonlight glow and suddenly there was a pool whether it was the atmosphere or his words but the next thing she knew was their lips meeting in a slow soft deep kiss. The kind that you yearn for. That you see in movies with so much passion but doesn't show it. It's not intense passion but a soft one. Like a flame burning in a candle.
~~~~~
Ever since that night she's been avoiding him. Ever since he finally got a taste of her lips his obsession his urge to have her be his grew more and more. Which concerned his sister more and more but she didn't have room to talk falling for a normie.
That night she's been avoiding him at any effort he had. In class she would sit somewhere else, run into each other at the quad or when Gomez and Morticia would be at the dorm she'd leave almost immediately saying she had somewhere to be and in truth he was getting sick of it. So he decided the perfect moment to get her he just had to wait.
~~~
After the kiss that they had in the quad. She's done everything possible to avoid him. Sitting elsewhere in class or even skipping classes to avoid him, dodging him at every chance she had.
She was confused about her feelings. She never had really felt the way she did with him and it scared her. Not to mention she always had the underlying feeling that she shouldn't trust him that there was a darkness to him apart from his clock work heart.
She was buried deep in thought as she walked down the empty corridor when suddenly a hand reached out covering her mouth and grabbing her. She shrieked when she hit the wall eyes closing at the slight pain but her eyes opened to see him. The same person she'd been trying to avoid.
"Isaac? Wha-" "I'm sorry. I just need to see you." He whispered. She looked into his eyes to se something she couldn't quite put.
"Why have you been avoiding me? Is jt because of the kiss? Do you regret it?" He asked as his hands slid down her arms.
"I-I don't regret it.. it's all I can think about really." She admitted tearing her eyes away from his but as she did a dark smile appeared on the tall boys face. "The reason why I've been avoiding you is because I'm conflicted and my feelings for you scare me."
Isaac stared at her for a moment his face still upon hearing those words 'feelings for you' . She felt the same way. He lifted chin making her look at him as he planted his lips on her in a deep kiss that made her legs go weak.
"You have no worry to fear. My feelings are just the same as yours." He whispered, when he separated from the kiss. Her eyes glimmered in the rooms glow.
He trailed slow light kisses to her ear that made her shutter in what she did not know. As he whispered "be mine."
She looked at him in shock. "Isaac I-"
Before she could say anything his lips found hers again making her thoughts dissipate before nodding her head 'okay'. Sealing her fate as she became his.
You're a rising content creator. Most of your vlogs are about visiting haunted places. Your next stop will be Mount Massive Asylum, which has been requested the most by your followers. Despite the scary and dark story, you are still coming because you want to impress your viewers. Not until you meet Eddie Gluskin, who is clearly obsessed with his bride-to-be and would never let go.
WARNINGS
🔞, MDNI, NSFW, DARK THEME, DUB-CON, HEAVY SMUT, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, explicit content, mature language, yandere behavior, possessive behavior, psychotic behavior, obsession, power dynamics, mutual pining, threats, mentioned of killings, murder, gore, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, male domination, voyeurism, controlling, rough, dirty talk, degradation, oral (male & female receiving), PiV, unprotected, breeding kink, petname, markings, overstimulation, breast-fucking, face-fucking, deflowering
You step into the crumbling maw of Mount Massive Asylum, your camera clutched tightly in one hand, its red recording light blinking like a frantic heartbeat in the oppressive gloom. The air hangs heavy with the stench of decay in a mold, rust, and something sharper, like old blood soaked into the walls.
You've built your empire on this: solo explorations of the world's most haunted hellholes, facing down ghosts and ghouls for the thrill of millions of views. TikTok, YouTube, Instagram and your face is everywhere, grinning through jump scares and spectral whispers.
But this place? It's different. Whispers from locals paint it as a black hole of madness, where the clinically insane were experimented on, tortured, and left to rot. Dozens died here in hundreds, maybe, and their restless spirits supposedly guard the halls.
Even cops and urban explorers have tried breaching its depths, only to flee screaming or vanish entirely, their bodies found mangled by "entities" that defy explanation. You're alone, of course. No crew, no backup.
If something goes wrong, no one's coming. But hey, that's the hook: real danger for real content. Views will skyrocket.
You flick on your camera's night vision, the grainy green glow illuminating peeling wallpaper and shattered windows as you narrate in your signature husky whisper.
" Alright, fam, we're inside Mount Massive. This bad boy's been abandoned since the '70s, but the stories? Insane. Literal insane asylum vibes and patients driven mad, experiments gone wrong, ghosts that don't just haunt, they hunt. I'm feeling that chill already. Let's see what horrors await."
Your voice echoes unnaturally down the corridor, bouncing off rusted gurneys and overturned file cabinets. You hear it then a faint shuffle, like bare feet dragging on concrete. Or maybe it's just the wind whistling through cracks.
You ignore it, pushing deeper, your sneakers crunching over broken glass. Tension coils in your gut, but you play it cool for the lens.
" Hear that? Probably nothing. Or everything. Stick around, this is gonna be epic."
The first door you push open creaks like a dying scream, and a blast of icy wind rushes out, brushing your skin like skeletal fingers. Every hair on your arms stands at attention, a primal warning screaming in your brain.
The air feels thicker here, charged with a dark aura that seeps into your bones, making you shiver uncontrollably. Goosebumps ripple across your flesh, but you shrug it off, forcing a laugh for the camera.
" Whoa, drafty here. Feels like the ghosts are giving me a welcome hug. Not creepy at all."
Deep down, you know better that this place is alive with malice. But the thought of the upload, the comments flooding in, the subscriber count exploding...it drives you forward. Fame's a drug, and you're hooked.
Deeper in, the hallway opens into a vast chamber, shadows swallowing the edges. Your flashlight beam sweeps across rows of mannequins, frozen in grotesque poses in arms outstretched, heads lolling at unnatural angles.
They're dressed in tattered patient gowns, some with fake bloodstains blooming like roses on their plastic chests.
" Okay, viewers, we've hit the mannequin graveyard. These things are straight out of a nightmare. Who sets this up? Ghosts with a flair for interior design?" You chuckle, but it's forced, laced with unease.
No weapons on you, just the camera and your wits. If something lunges, you're screwed. You pan the lens slowly, describing the eerie silence, the way the mannequins seem to watch you with empty eyes.
Then, the scene shifts. At the far end, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight piercing a cracked skylight, is what looks like a twisted wedding venue.
Altars of splintered wood, draped in frayed lace that hangs like spiderwebs. Wires dangle from the ceiling like nooses, swaying gently as if stirred by invisible breaths. In the center stands a mannequin bride, her gown yellowed and torn, veil obscuring a featureless face.
" Holy...this is next-level creepy. Looks like someone planned a wedding from hell. Wires everywhere—electrocution chic?"
You tilt your head, zooming in, and spot it. A rusted key dangling from her neck like a pendant, glinting faintly. Curiosity overrides caution.
" What's this? A key? Maybe it opens some secret door. Or a trap. Only one way to find out." You snatch it, the cold metal biting into your palm, and pocket it quickly.
Could be your ticket to deeper secrets or out of here if things go south.
That's when you feel it. Eyes on your back. You spin the camera, and in the viewfinder, a massive silhouette looms—tall, broad, inhumanly proportioned. Before you can react, a guttural scream shatters the silence.
" DARLING!" The voice is manic, laced with psychotic glee.
Eddie Gluskin, though you don't know his name yet, steps into the light, his form a nightmare of mutilated flesh and ragged suit.
" After so many years, my wife returns! I won't let you slip away again, my precious bride!" His words drip with delusion, a twisted romance that sends ice through your veins.
Panic surges. You bolt, feet pounding the floor as his shadow lurches after you.
" You filthy whore! Come back to your husband!" He bellows, degrading slurs echoing like thunder.
Great, a psycho proposing mid-chase. But terror drowns it. You duck into a side room, slamming the door and wedging a chair under the knob. Heart hammering, you huddle in a corner behind overturned beds, camera still rolling on your lap.
Shivers rack your body, teeth chattering as you whisper to the lens, " This...this is real. Not a ghost. A maniac. If you're watching, send help."
Outside, his voice booms, mocking. " Hiding, darling? How quaint. But I'll find you. Every corner of this hell is mine. We'll marry, start a family—oh, the children we'll make!"
The words twist like knives, heavy with implication, that sexual undercurrent making your skin crawl. You cover your mouth to stifle a sob, breaths shallow and ragged. Footsteps thunder closer in heavy, deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt.
" I can smell your fear, sweet thing. Your perfume...intoxicating." His laugh is a wet, rattling thing.
" If I were you, I'd come out now. Unless you want me rough. I'll drag you out, pin you down, make you mine the hard way."
You swallow hard, praying to whatever gods listen in this forsaken place. Sweat beads on your forehead, mixing with the chill.
The door rattles in once, twice. Silence.
Then, a massive hand shoots from the shadows, grabbing your collar and yanking you up like a ragdoll. You scream, eyes widening at his face: half-decayed, wounds festering with pus, skin stretched taut over bones. Blue eyes gleam with feral hunger, devouring you whole.
" Found you, darling." He cackles maniacally.
" Told you I would."
" Please, let me go." You beg, voice breaking.
He just laughs, mocking your pleas as his gloved hand brushes your cheek in intimate, possessive, sending revulsion and unwanted sparks of tension through you. You jerk away, but he grabs your chin hard, fingers digging in like vices.
" Struggle all you want. We're getting married. I'll fill that untouched womb of yours with my seed, make you swell with my heir. You'll be perfect, darling. Mine forever."
Begging turns to thrashing, but he's too strong. A cloth clamps over your nose—chloroform, the acrid scent burning your lungs.
You shove at it, clawing his arm, but weakness floods your limbs. Dizziness spins the room, vision blurring as his face looms closer, triumphant.
" Sleep now, my love. When you wake, it'll be our wedding night."
Your world fades to black, body going limp. Eddie catches you effortlessly, slinging your unconscious form over his shoulder like a trophy, your limbs dangling.
Something blinks on the floor—your camera. He stomps it flat, the crunch of plastic and glass music to his ears. Laughter bubbles from his throat as he strides away, deeper into the asylum's bowels.
What he'll do to you in the dark, you can only hope you'll wake at all, still breathing, still whole.
But in this place, hope is just another ghost.
…
You jolt awake with a gasp, your head throbbing like it's been split open with a rusty axe. The room swims into focus in an unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a flickering bulb swinging from a chain overhead, casting grotesque shadows that dance like mocking demons.
The stench hits you next: a nauseating cocktail of rotting flesh, coppery blood, and stale piss that makes your stomach churn. You grunt, fighting the urge to vomit, as your eyes adjust to the horror sprawled across the floor.
Dead bodies are dozens of them, mangled and decayed, limbs twisted at impossible angles, faces frozen in eternal screams. Blood paints the walls in abstract splatters, pooling in sticky puddles that reflect the weak light like black mirrors. Some corpses look fresh, others skeletal, as if this chamber has been a slaughterhouse for years.
Well, at least you're not one of them...yet. But the thought sours as panic sets in.
You try to move, to scramble away from this nightmare, but your wrists and ankles are bound tight with thick leather straps, bolted to the cold metal frame of what feels like an old operating table.
The restraints bite into your skin as you wiggle desperately, muscles straining, but it's no use and you're immobilized, spread-eagled like a sacrificial offering. Horror spikes through you as you realize the full extent: you're completely naked, clothes stripped away while you were out cold.
Your legs are splayed wide, thighs parted obscenely, exposing your most intimate parts to the chill air. A flush of humiliation burns your cheeks—if anyone walks in, they'll see everything, your folds on full display like some twisted exhibit.
You scream for help, raw and desperate, " Somebody! Please, get me out of here!"
But the words echo back mockingly in the empty asylum, swallowed by the thick walls. You know it's futile—no one's coming. This cursed place devours screams like appetizers.
Your breath hitches, catching in your throat like a barbed hook, when the door creaks open. Heavy footsteps thud closer, and there he is, the same hulking monster who chased you through the halls.
Eddie Gluskin towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the light, his half-decayed face twisted into a grin that's equal parts madness and lust. Those piercing blue eyes rake over your bound form, drinking you in like a starving man at a feast.
His gloved hand, rough leather stained with god-knows-what brushes against your inner thigh, sending an unwanted jolt through your body.
You jerk away instinctively, but the straps hold you fast, turning the movement into a pathetic twitch. He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the room like thunder.
" Oh, darling, you're awake. Good. You can't escape now and no more running from your devoted husband. I won't let my bride ghost me again, not after I've waited so long." His voice is a psychotic purr, laced with that dark, delusional romance that makes your skin crawl.
He kneels between your spread legs, his face inches from your exposed core, and you see his eyes widen in manic delight. " Wait...you're really a woman? Oh, fate is kind today."
His fingers, those damned gloved digits slide playfully along your slit, teasing the sensitive folds without mercy. A shiver of revulsion and unwilling heat races up your spine.
" Stop! Please, don't touch me!" You beg, voice cracking, hips bucking futilely against the restraints.
Eddie just laughs louder, hovering over you now, his broad chest pressing close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his mutilated body.
" A blessing, that's what you are. Sent straight from the heavens…or hell, doesn't matter. Your body's perfect, ripe and ready for me to plant my seed. You'll swell with my children, darling. Be the mother I've always dreamed of."
His words drip with filthy promise, sexual tension thickening the air like smoke, making it hard to breathe.
You snap back, defiance flaring despite the fear. " I'm not your fucking wife, you crazy bastard! Let me go!"
His expression darkens in an instant, that manic joy twisting into fury. His hand shoots out, gripping your neck with bruising force, fingers digging into your windpipe.
" How dare you speak to your husband like that? Disrespect me? After all I've done to find you?"
You choke, gasping for air, stars exploding behind your eyes as you beg hoarsely, " Please...let go...I can't breathe..."
He doesn't release, but his index finger traces your trembling lips, pressing gently. " Shh, darling. Quiet now. You should be grateful I found you and saved you from this wretched world. You'll be mine, cherished, filled."
" I'm not grateful, you psycho!" You rasp out, defiance laced with terror.
He chuckles darkly, grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. Leaning in so close his fetid breath fans your face, he nips at your earlobe with sharp teeth, drawing a bead of blood.
The pain mingles with an unwelcome spark of sensation, heavy tension coiling low in your belly. " Oh, but you will be. I can't wait to marry you, make it official. Call you mine forever."
His free hand dips lower, fingers circling your clit with deliberate slowness, rubbing in tight, insistent patterns that force your back to arch off the table against your will. A traitorous moan escapes your lips, muffled by his hand.
" See? Your body's already begging for it. I can't wait to touch every inch of you, taste this sweet little cunt, claim it with my cock. Pound into you until you're dripping with my cum, breeding you like the perfect wife you are."
He pulls his hand away from your slick folds, bringing the glistening fingers to his mouth. With a deep, guttural groan, he licks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
" Fuck, you taste so sweet, darling. Like honey straight from the hive. A perfect fit for me…tight, wet, and all mine."
He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.
Each touch sends conflicting waves of disgust and heat crashing through you, your body betraying your mind.
Finally, he pulls back, standing to his full height with a maniacal laugh that echoes off the bloodstained walls. His eyes roam your naked body hungrily, admiring the way your chest heaves, nipples pebbled from the cold and unwanted arousal.
" Look at you, spread out like a feast. Beg all you want, darling…it only makes me harder."
You plead again, tears stinging your eyes, " Please, just let me go...I won't tell anyone..."
But he ignores you, waving a dismissive hand. " We just need an hour, my love. Then we'll be husband and wife, bound eternally. I'll prepare everything…your dress, the altar. And after...oh, after, I'll fuck you senseless, fill that pretty womb until you're carrying my heir."
With that, he turns and strides out, slamming the door behind him with a finality that shatters your last shred of hope. Alone in the carnage, you break down, sobs wracking your bound body as tears stream down your face.
This is hopeless—a living nightmare you walked into for clicks and likes. You pray silently, bargaining with any deity that might listen: just let me survive this madness, get out alive.
You swear on everything, this is the last haunted place you'll ever set foot in. No more content, no more risks. If you make it out, you're done.
But deep down, as the minutes tick by in suffocating silence, you wonder if you'll even wake up from whatever twisted "wedding" he has planned.
…
You lie there on the cold, unforgiving metal table, the leather straps digging into your raw skin like hungry teeth, your naked body still splayed out in that humiliating pose.
The room's horrors press in. The stench of death, the glassy eyes of corpses staring blankly from the blood-slicked floor, the distant drip-drip of what might be water or something thicker echoing like a mocking countdown.
" Come on, you piece of shit." You mutter through gritted teeth.
Great, tied up in a psycho's love nest, naked as the day you were born. If you get out, this'll make one hell of a story...or a therapy bill.
But escape? How? Your mind races, scenarios flashing like bad horror flicks: scream louder (pointless), wait for rescue (ha, in this godforsaken asylum?), or somehow slip free.
You wiggle your wrists harder, the leather creaking but holding fast, chafing your skin until it burns. Tears blur your vision as frustration boils over into sobs in a hot, messy, choking cries that echo back at you.
" Fuck this place." You whisper, scanning the room through watery eyes.
That's when you spot it: a glint of metal on a nearby tray, half-hidden under a bloodstained rag. A sharp scalpel, its blade wicked and gleaming like a promise.
Hope surges, mixed with terror—what if he comes back? But screw it, better to try than rot here.
Grunting with effort, you strain against the strap on your right wrist, forcing it inch by agonizing inch over your hand. The leather bites deep, drawing blood that slicks your skin, making it slippery.
" Come on...come on..." You growl, pain lancing up your arm like fire.
With a final, gut-wrenching yank, your hand pops free, knuckles scraped raw. Adrenaline floods you as you snatch the scalpel, its handle cold and reassuring in your palm. You slash at the other wrist's binding, the blade sawing through the tough leather with satisfying snaps.
Freedom—at least for your arms. Sitting up, you hack at the ankle straps next, legs trembling as they come loose. Your body aches from the strain, muscles protesting every move. You roll off the table in a clumsy tumble, hitting the bloodied floor with a wet smack that sends crimson splatters flying.
The impact jars your bones, forcing a cough from your lungs as you inhale the metallic tang of gore. Groaning, you push up on shaky hands and knees, the cold concrete biting into your palms like ice.
" Ugh, gross." You mutter, dark humor kicking in again—rolling in dead people's blood? New low, even for you.
Limping to your feet, you stagger around the room, naked and vulnerable, goosebumps prickling your skin from the chill and exposure. You search frantically for your clothes and rifling through piles of rags, overturning trays but nothing. They're gone, probably trophies for that maniac.
" Shit, shit, shit." You hiss, heart pounding. Gotta get out, find a door, anything.
But before you can bolt, a shadow falls over you, a massive reeking of sweat and madness. Rough hands slam you back down, your bare back hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of you.
It's not your psychotic-groom-wanna-be—this one's different. A hulking variant with wild eyes and foaming mouth, shoving his grotesque face toward your neck like a vampire in heat. His breath is hot and foul, teeth grazing your skin as he growls incoherently.
" No! Get off!" You scream, fighting like hell and nails raking his arms, knees bucking up to knee him in the gut.
You push back with everything, adrenaline making you feral. He's too strong, though, pinning you down, his weight crushing as he slobbers at your throat.
Then, chaos erupts. A roar fills the room, and the attacker is yanked off you like a ragdoll.
You scramble back, shivering in horror, as Eddie, your "savior" grabs the man by the scruff, slamming his head into the floor with bone-crunching force.
Once, twice, three times. The skull cracks like an egg, blood spraying in arcs, brains mattering the concrete. The victim twitches, gurgles, then stills, another corpse added to the pile. You witness it all, frozen, breath hitching in your throat as the murder unfolds in brutal detail.
Well, at least someone's got your back...literally. But terror drowns it—Eddie just killed for you, "saved" you from one monster only to claim you for himself.
He's panting now, chest heaving like a bellows, wiping the fresh blood from his decayed face with the back of his glove, smearing it into grotesque streaks. His blue eyes—those piercing, hungry orbs are darting to you, locking on with predatory intensity.
Before you can react, he hauls you up by the arms, your feet dangling off the ground as he lifts you effortlessly to face him. He's towering, a giant of mutilated muscle and madness, his broad frame eclipsing everything else.
Up close, the sexual tension is electric, unwanted heat simmering under the fear as his gaze rakes your naked body. He grabs your chin roughly, fingers digging in, forcing your eyes to meet his.
" Stay the fuck where you are, darling." He growls, voice a low rumble laced with filthy promise.
" Don't you dare make a move to escape. You think this is bad? You haven't seen me mad yet. I'll hunt you down, drag you back, and fuck the defiance right out of that pretty little body."
Tears stream down your face as you cry out, " Please, just let me go! I don't want this!"
Begging spills from your lips, raw and desperate, but he just laughs in that maniacal, echoing cackle that sends shivers racing over your skin. With a casual shrug, he hefts you over his shoulder again, your naked form draped like a prize, ass in the air, his gloved hand clamping possessively on your thigh.
You scream, pounding his back with your fists in a weak thuds against his unyielding bulk. " Put me down, you bastard! Let me go!"
" Oh, darling, you're too stubborn for your own good." He chuckles, striding out of the room with purposeful steps, his free hand sliding up to grope your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
" Can't wait anymore. We'll skip the wedding for now and I'll claim you right here, right now. Bend you over, spread those legs, and ram my cock so deep you'll feel it in your throat.”
“ Fill that tight cunt with my seed until you're dripping, begging for more. Show you just how mad I can get...and how good it'll feel when you submit."
His dirty talk hangs heavy, stoking the sexual tension as he carries you deeper into the asylum's bowels, your struggles futile against his iron grip.
Hope flickers dimly that maybe another chance to escape but for now, you're his, trapped in this nightmare of dark desire.
…
You bounce hard on the sagging mattress as Eddie hurls you onto the bed like discarded luggage, the impact jarring your bones and sending a puff of dust into the stale air.
The room is a decrepit mockery of a bridal suite with faded wallpaper peeling like sunburnt skin, a cracked mirror reflecting your wide-eyed terror, and the faint metallic tang of old blood mingling with the musty scent of abandonment.
Your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, every shadow in the corners seeming to pulse with unseen threats.
Eddie stands at the foot of the bed, towering like a grotesque statue, his blue eyes gleaming with manic possession as he slowly unties his ragged bow tie, letting it flutter to the floor like a shed skin.
" Please, don't do this." You beg, voice cracking with desperation, curling your naked body into a fetal position on the threadbare sheets, knees drawn up to shield your vulnerability.
Great, from content creator to captive bride in one night; if you survive, this could be your most viral video yet...minus the camera.
But he snaps, his voice a whipcrack of fury. " Shut the fuck up for once, darling!"
He yanks off his sleeves with deliberate slowness, revealing a toned, muscular torso scarred and veined like a roadmap of madness, pale skin stretched taut over rippling abs and broad shoulders that speak of unnatural strength.
" I'm doing this to make you stay. You'll never escape me and I'll bind you with more than ropes, fill you so full you'll carry my mark forever."
Tears stream down your face, hot and unrelenting, as you sob into the pillow, the fabric muffling your pleas. He prowls closer, grabbing your ankle in a vise-like grip and yanking your leg straight, forcing you onto your back.
You gasp as he hovers above you, his massive frame eclipsing the dim light, the heat from his body radiating like a furnace against your chilled skin. He pins your wrists above your head with one massive hand, his gloved fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise.
" It'll be good, darling.” He promises in a low, gravelly whisper, his decayed face inches from yours, blue eyes boring into your soul.
" I'll make you scream my name, beg for more. You'll see…this is what you were made for."
He leans down, crashing his lips against yours in a brutal kiss, claiming your mouth with possessive hunger. You purse your lips tight, resisting, but he bites down on your lower lip in a sharp, drawing a bead of blood that tastes coppery on your tongue.
The pain forces a gasp from you, and he seizes the opportunity, shoving his tongue inside, clashing with yours in a heated, invasive dance.
It's messy, dominating, his saliva mixing with yours as he explores every inch, groaning into your mouth like a beast in rut. You shouldn't feel it. The spark, the unwilling heat pooling low in your belly but damn, he's a good kisser, skilled in a way that twists your revulsion into something darker, more confusing.
Your body betrays you with a shiver, nipples hardening against the rough fabric of his shirt. He breaks the kiss with a wet smack, a string of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before snapping.
From somewhere in his pocket, maybe and he produces a silk tie, stained but strong, wrapping it around your wrists in deft loops before knotting it securely to the headboard. Your arms stretch taut above you, exposing your body fully, and fresh tears well up as you tug uselessly.
" Shh, shh, darling." He coos mockingly, brushing a gloved thumb over your cheek in a parody of tenderness, wiping away a tear only to lick it from the leather.
" No need to cry. We're just getting intimate, like husband and wife should be."
His mouth descends to your neck, hot and insistent, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before sinking in to mark you is sucking hard enough to bloom purple bruises, each one a claim staked on your flesh.
You whimper, arching involuntarily, begging, " Stop, please...it hurts..."
But he ignores you, trailing lower, his gloved hands cupping your breasts, squeezing with rough possession, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak under his touch.
His tongue follows, licking a wet path down the valley between your chests, then latching onto one breast, sucking greedily while his teeth nip at the hardened bud. Pain and pleasure blur in a haze, your back arching off the bed as a traitorous moan escapes.
You hate it. You hate him. But fuck, he's good, knowing exactly how to tease, to build that unwelcome fire in your core.
Eddie groans animalistically, the sound vibrating against your skin as he switches to the other breast, biting just hard enough to make you yelp. He pulls back slightly, leaning close to your face, his breath hot and ragged.
" Look at you, darling…squirming like a needy little slut. I can smell how wet you are already. Bet that tight cunt is dripping for me, begging to be filled with my cock. I'll stretch you wide, pound you until you're raw, breed you like the whore wife you are."
His dirty words slither into your ear, filthy and degrading, making your thighs clench together instinctively, a flush of arousal betraying your horror. He notices, of course, smirking wickedly as his eyes darken with lust.
That smirk widens as he slides down your body, licking every inch of exposed skin in your ribs, your stomach, dipping into your navel with a teasing flick. Goosebumps erupt in his wake, the sexual tension coiling tighter, heavier, until you're panting despite yourself.
When he reaches your folds, you clamp your thighs shut hard, a last-ditch barrier, but he groans in annoyance, massive hands prying them apart with ease, spreading you wide and pinning your legs to the mattress.
" Don't hide from me, darling." He mocks, voice dripping with dark amusement.
" Beg all you want…it just makes my cock harder. Now, let me taste what's mine."
He buries his face between your thighs, inhaling deeply, growling like a feral animal at your scent. " Fuck, you smell divine…sweet and ready to be ruined."
His gloved fingers slide up and down your soaked folds, teasing the slick entrance, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck.
He laughs in a low, triumphant rumble and watches your face contort in unwilling pleasure. " See? Your body's honest, even if you're not. Soaking for your husband already."
Slowly, agonizingly, he inserts a thick finger into your hole. The intrusion stretching you with a burn that morphs into something sinful. You whimper, walls clenching around him as he pumps in and out, his free hand pressing down on your belly to heighten the sensation, feeling every thrust from the inside.
" That's it, take it like a good girl." He laughs, adding a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you wider.
Then his mouth joins the assault. Tongue lapping at your clit, sucking greedily while his fingers thrust deeper, curling to hit that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes.
He's relentless, eating you out like a starving man, fingers fucking you in rhythm, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
" Taste so fucking good, darling and your pussy's gripping me like it never wants to let go. Imagine my cock in there, slamming balls-deep, flooding you with cum until you're pregnant with my brats. You'd look so pretty swollen, all mine."
His filthy words degrade you further, arousal spiking shamefully as he finds your g-spot, rubbing mercilessly until the pressure builds, coils, snaps then you come hard, gushing around his fingers, legs trembling uncontrollably as waves of unwanted ecstasy crash over you.
But he doesn't stop, lapping up every drop, fingers still thrusting through your aftershocks, overstimulating you until you're a quivering mess. " Good girl, cumming for your captor already? We're just warming up then wait till I bury my dick in you."
Well, at least the views would be insane...if anyone ever saw this.
But reality bites back as he finally pulls away, licking his lips with a satisfied grin, leaving you bound, spent, and dreading what comes next in this nightmare of twisted desire.
…
In one long, deliberate lick, Eddie drags his tongue from the depths of your cunt upward, savoring every slick fold and quiver of your overstimulated flesh, his groan vibrating against you like a predator's rumble.
He rises slowly, eyes locked on yours with that manic gleam, blue orbs burning with unhinged possession as he crawls back up your body.
Before you can catch your breath, his mouth crashes onto yours again, the kiss filthy and invasive, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue. It was salty, tangy, a humiliating reminder of your body's betrayal.
He mutters against your lips, voice a gravelly whisper laced with dark promise, " I'll never let you go, darling. You're mine now—body, soul, everything. I'll follow you to heaven, hell, or the ends of the fucking earth. No escape, no peace without me."
He pulls back, rising to his knees with a wicked grin, the tension thickening the air like fog in this decrepit room, heavy with the scent of sweat and decay.
His gloved hands fumble at his zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the silence, and he tugs down his pants just enough to free his aching shaft—thick, veined, and throbbing, the tip glistening with precum like a bead of dew on a blade.
Eddie wraps a massive hand around himself, pumping slowly at first, giving you a deliberate show, his fist sliding up and down the length as he stares at you hungrily.
" Look at you, spread out like a desperate whore, eyes on my cock like it's your salvation." He mutters, degrading words spilling from his lips in a filthy torrent.
" Bet you've been dreaming of this, huh? A real man to split you open, fill that worthless hole until you're leaking my cum. You're nothing but a breeding slut now—my personal fucktoy."
You watch, mesmerized despite the horror, as this insane man jerks himself off right there, his decayed face twisting in pleasure, blue eyes half-lidded with lust.
He spits into his palm. A thick glob that lands with a wet smack before resuming his strokes, the slick sound echoing lewdly, heightening the heavy tension as your body clenches involuntarily.
Fear drowns it as he moves closer, hovering above you again, his free hand squeezing your breast hard, kneading the soft flesh until it aches. He positions his shaft between them, pressing your tits together around his length, thrusting experimentally with a guttural moan.
" Stick out your tongue, darling." He demands, voice rough with command.
" Lick the tip like the obedient wife you are."
You shake your head frantically, lips sealed in defiance, but he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head forward with brutal force.
Before you can protest, he shoves his huge length into your mouth. The girth stretching your lips wide, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag instantly—tears springing to your eyes as you choke around him.
" That's it, take it deep, you filthy bitch." He growls, thrusting hard, hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm that leaves you breathless, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth.
You tug desperately at your bound wrists, the silk tie biting into your skin, but it's useless. He's too strong, fucking your face like it's just another hole to claim.
Satisfied after what feels like an eternity, he pulls out with a wet pop, a thick string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his glistening tip, dangling obscenely before breaking.
He doesn't stop there, resuming his assault on your breasts, sliding his shaft between them in rough, deliberate thrusts, the friction hot and slick from your spit.
" Tongue out now, or I'll make it hurt worse." He warns, and this time, fear wins and you comply, sticking it out as his tip bumps against your mouth with each pump, forcing you to taste the salty precum, the musky flavor coating your tongue.
Humiliation burns through you, mixed with that unwanted heat, as he groans above you, lost in his delirium.
Finally, he stops, chest heaving, and reaches up to unbound your wrists—the tie slipping free with a whisper of silk.
" One wrong move, darling…" He threatens, voice low and deadly.
" And I'll fuck you so hard you won't walk for days. You'll crawl back to me, begging for mercy."
You shiver at the words, rubbing your sore wrists, the threat hanging heavy like a noose. He laughs in that maniacal cackle echoing off the walls before shifting lower, his tip brushing teasingly against your slit, sending jolts of electric tension through your core.
" No, please...stop." You beg, voice breaking.
" It'll hurt too much."
He hushes you gently, almost tenderly, gloved thumb stroking your cheek. " Shh, I'll be gentle...for a while. Just relax, let your husband in."
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushes forward, the thick head breaching your entrance, stretching you inch by inch as fresh tears spill down your cheeks.
" That's it, good girl." He encourages, praising in a twisted coo.
" Taking me so well like you were made for this cock."
Pain blooms sharp and unrelenting, but he keeps going, murmuring filth the whole time. Your arms, free now, wrap around his neck instinctively, clinging as if he were anchor and executioner in one.
" Spread those legs wider, darling." He demands,
" Let me go deep and show me how much you want it."
You obey, thighs parting further, whimpering as he sinks deeper, the fullness overwhelming until he's buried to the hilt, your walls clenching around his girth.
He stays still for a minute, letting your body adjust, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers dirty promises.
" Feel that? My cock owning you, stretching that virgin cunt. You're gonna milk me dry, beg for my seed every night."
Then, with a slow rock of his hips, he starts moving—pulling out almost completely, only to laugh darkly at the sight of blood coating his shaft.
" Ha, look at that…you're pure, darling. Not like those other whores. Untouched until me. My perfect bride."
He thrusts back in, setting a normal pace at first, each slide building friction that blurs pain into something else, your whimpers filling the room as you dig your nails into the sheets, knuckles white.
Boredom flickers in his eyes, and he grabs your legs, hoisting them over his shoulders, propping himself up for leverage before thrusting again—faster now, deeper, the angle hitting spots that make your vision blur with unwilling pleasure.
" Fuck, yes…take it, you tight little slut." He growls, pace increasing until the bed creaks in protest.
Sweat slicks your bodies, the room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin. He gets restless again, flipping you over with effortless strength then face down, ass up in the air, vulnerable and exposed.
A sharp slap lands on your cheek, the sting blooming red marks as he laughs. " Perfect ass for spanking and fucking."
Grabbing your hair like reins, he shoves back inside, thrusting faster, harder, pounding you into the mattress as you moan and cry into the sheets, the line between agony and ecstasy shattering.
He's fucking your brains out, reducing you to a trembling mess, dark humor whispering: congrats, you've gone from explorer to explored.
Not done, he pulls you up into another position then lifts your body like you weigh nothing, holding you against him in a standing ovation of madness, your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts upward. You bounce in his arms, helpless, as he teases by edging—slowing just when pressure builds, drawing it out.
" Feel that build, darling? Gonna make you wait, edge you until you're sobbing for release. You're my cumdump now…gonna fill you over and over." His dirty talk fuels the fire, then he kisses you deeply, tongues battling in a heated mess.
Without breaking the kiss, he slams you back onto the bed, pinning you beneath him as he thrusts deep, relentless, groaning like a beast in heat.
" Fuck, I'm close…gonna cum inside, breed you proper."
You beg frantically, " No, please…not inside!"
But he ignores you, thrusting harder, making you whimper as he grabs your chin, forcing your gaze. " We're starting a family, you and me. You'll carry my heirs, swell with my seed."
He groans again, body tensing, then erupts—hot spurts filling you as you shatter too, cumming around him despite everything, legs trembling violently in waves of forced bliss. He collapses on top of you, still buried deep, whispering against your neck.
The weight of him pins you, the nightmare far from over, as dark thoughts swirl: escape seems impossible now, but maybe, just maybe, you'll find a way out of this hellish honeymoon.
" Gonna stay like this, make sure nothing spills. You'll be pregnant soon, darling. If not...well, I'll fuck you raw every day until you are. My eternal bride, forever."
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Yey! This is my first fanfic story that I uploaded here. Also, my first time writing a dark theme/dead dove do not eat.
The compound at night always feels different. During the day it is loud in that chaotic, comfortable way that comes with too many strong personalities sharing the same building. Someone is always sparring in the training room, someone is always arguing in the kitchen, and Tony’s lab is always humming like the walls themselves are alive. But when the night settles in, the noise disappears until the place feels cavernous and hollow, long corridors lit only by dim strips of light along the floor and the quiet ventilation system whispering through the walls.
At the end of one of those corridors, a thin line of light slips beneath a bedroom door that should have been dark hours ago. Inside the room, Wanda sits curled slightly forward on the edge of her bed, her laptop balanced on her thighs and casting a pale glow over her face. Her hair is messy, falling around her shoulders in dark waves, and she hasn’t noticed how long she’s been sitting there. The video on the screen reflects in her eyes while she watches with a stillness that borders on unnatural focus, the kind of attention someone gives when they are afraid to blink and miss something.
On the screen, it’s you.
The footage is clearly recorded from a distance, the frame slightly shaky like the phone had been held carefully but not perfectly steady. You’re in the training room, standing in front of the heavy punching bag with your hair pulled back and your shirt damp with sweat from a long session. Every strike you throw makes the chain above the bag creak softly, and the force of your hits sends the bag swinging away before snapping back toward you again. Your breathing is heavy but controlled, shoulders tense with effort as you reset your stance and throw another punch.
Wanda doesn’t move.
Her eyes track every movement you make, every shift of your body, every small habit you probably don’t even realize you have. The way you roll your shoulders when your muscles tighten. The way you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist instead of stopping to grab a towel. The way your jaw tightens slightly when you get frustrated with yourself.
She has watched this exact video so many times she could probably recreate every frame from memory.
Still, she drags the cursor back to the beginning and presses play again.
Your first punch lands again with the same dull thud, and Wanda leans slightly closer to the screen without even noticing she’s doing it. Her fingers rest lightly against the laptop near the edge of the frame, almost close enough to touch the image of you frozen in motion when she pauses it for a moment. Her lips part just slightly while she studies your face on the screen, her eyes moving slowly across the shape of it like she’s committing it to memory again even though she already knows it better than she should.
“You look even better angry,” she murmurs quietly to herself, her voice soft and almost breathless in the empty room. The words aren’t ashamed or hesitant, just thoughtful in the way someone might admire a painting they’ve seen a hundred times but still can’t stop looking at. Her fingers tap lightly against the trackpad before the video begins moving again, and her gaze sharpens with the same intensity it always does whenever you’re on the screen.
Her laptop is full of these videos.
Not just one or two.
Dozens.
Clips she recorded without you ever noticing. Moments she caught when no one else was paying attention. Little fragments of your life inside the compound that she collected slowly over weeks until the folder filled itself without her even realizing how much she had gathered.
There’s one of you asleep on the couch in the common room during movie night, your head tipped back slightly and your arm hanging lazily over the edge while everyone else argued about what film to watch next. There’s another where you’re sitting at the kitchen island early in the morning, half-awake while you drink coffee and stare blankly at nothing like your brain hasn’t fully started working yet. There’s a clip from a mission where you’re shouting instructions over the chaos while civilians run behind you, your voice calm and steady in the middle of absolute disaster.
Wanda opens that one next.
The street in the video is loud and messy with dust and smoke curling through the air, distant sirens wailing somewhere behind the buildings. The camera angle is high up from a rooftop where she had been standing earlier that day, far enough away that no one noticed she had pulled her phone out for a moment. She watches the footage with the same quiet intensity while your figure runs into frame below, your boots splashing through a shallow puddle as you move toward the fight with your weapon in hand.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” she says softly, almost admiringly, as the video continues playing in front of her. Her thumb traces lightly along the edge of the screen while she watches you crouch behind a car and shout something toward Steve across the street. Your expression is sharp and focused, your attention completely locked on the mission like the chaos around you barely even registers.
That was the moment she started recording you more often.
Because she realized something then.
She realized she could watch you whenever she wanted.
All she had to do was keep the moments.
Her laptop shifts slightly when she moves it closer, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room while she scrolls through the folder again. Each file name is meaningless and random, but she knows exactly what each one contains without needing to check. Her memory for anything related to you is perfect in a way that almost surprises her sometimes.
She clicks another video.
The common room appears this time, warm lighting filling the space while the team relaxes after a long day. Sam is sprawled across the floor with snacks scattered around him, Clint is half-asleep in an armchair, and someone is talking loudly near the kitchen entrance about something that clearly isn’t important.
But Wanda barely notices any of them.
Because you’re sitting on the couch.
And next to you is Natasha.
Wanda’s gaze sharpens immediately, her attention locking onto the screen with an intensity that makes her shoulders tense slightly. The video had been recorded casually like the others, her phone angled from the hallway where she had been standing unnoticed while everyone relaxed inside the room.
You’re laughing at something Natasha says, leaning back against the couch cushions while you shove her shoulder lightly in playful protest. Natasha smiles in that small knowing way she has, her body turning slightly toward you as the conversation continues.
Wanda’s fingers tighten against the laptop.
She watches carefully.
Every second.
Every small shift of your posture.
Natasha leans closer to say something quieter.
And then you kiss her.
It’s quick. Soft. Casual in a way that makes it clear it wasn’t the first time.
But it’s enough.
The moment it happens, Wanda goes completely still.
Her breathing stops.
Her eyes lock onto the screen like the image might change if she stares hard enough.
The video keeps playing, but she isn’t hearing the voices anymore. The only thing she can see is the way Natasha smiles against your lips before you pull away, the two of you continuing to talk like the kiss meant nothing at all.
Wanda’s chest tightens in a sharp, sudden way that makes something inside her snap.
The laptop slams shut.
The sound echoes sharply through the room.
For a single second the silence hangs heavy in the air.
Then the room erupts.
Scarlet energy bursts from Wanda in a violent wave that rattles the walls, the desk across the room lifting into the air before smashing sideways into the wall hard enough to splinter the wood. Papers scatter everywhere as the lamp shatters against the floor, glass exploding across the carpet in glittering shards.
Her breathing becomes uneven as another pulse of power ripples through the room, sending a chair flying into the door with a
heavy metallic bang that dents the surface.
“She doesn’t get to touch you,” Wanda says under her breath, her voice low and shaking with something darker than anger. The red glow around her hands flickers violently while the mirror above her dresser cracks straight down the center, splintering outward into jagged lines.
“You don’t even look at me,” she mutters, almost like she’s thinking the words out loud rather than saying them intentionally. Her gaze drifts toward the fallen laptop on the floor across the room, her chest rising and falling sharply while the faint scarlet glow around her fingers continues pulsing with restless energy.
Another surge of power rattles the walls again before finally beginning to fade, the red light slowly dimming until the room falls back into silence. The destruction left behind is scattered everywhere, broken furniture and glass littering the floor while Wanda kneels in the middle of the wreckage with her hands resting loosely against her thighs.
Her eyes stay fixed on the laptop.
Because it still has the video on it.
The moment with you.
The moment that should have been hers.
And then—
There’s a knock on the door.
The sound freezes her instantly.
“…Wanda?” your voice calls gently from the other side, muffled through the metal but unmistakable.
Her heart slams violently against her ribs.
“I heard something crash,” you continue, concern threading through your voice as your hand touches the handle. “Are you okay in there?”
Wanda doesn’t move.
Her gaze drifts slowly toward the door.
Because you’re standing right outside it.
And suddenly the distance that had always existed between you—the safety of watching from hallways, from rooftops, from the glow of a laptop screen—is gone.
Now you’re here.
Only a door between you.
And Wanda has been watching you for far too long to pretend she doesn’t want it opened.
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
Masterlist
A/N: My favourite song rn is Hysteria, and I just thought about Emo Wanda having that obsession over something she can’t have, and I also thought that emo Wanda would love Muse in general (Her best era fr)
ꉂ (′̤ॢ∀ ू‵̤๑))ˉ̞̭♡ tw: cnc, dark themes (?), somnophilia, smut, don’t like don’t read, crying, hand held mirror held up to pussy.
eater!Suguru who will purposefully eat your pussy loudly and open mouthful your cunt and slurp it up just for you to hear because he knows it makes you even more lascivious. Tongue swirling over your bud while staring into your eyes breathing getting hotter—fanning over your mound licking all 8k nerves in your system. You try to push his head back but he smacks your hand away then locks your thighs in his strong arms. Your body gives in and collapses and trembles as your squirt shoots out your clear fluid in his throat. “Hmmh..” your pants turn into soft exhales and finally breathing slowly—coming down from the clitphoria. You look down at him and start caressing his head with his long hair flowing like a black river in between your thighs. He swipes a long lick on your pussy to your hole, all the way to your clit. Cleaning up all your cum and cream just how a good man should.
eater!Suguru who loves to eat your clit at early hours in the mornings, waking you up by kitten licking you without saying a word. You consented to it months before so now he does it whenever. He sometimes makes you miss work or on important events just because of him. You slowly wake up when you feel a gentle warm suction on your clit—you didn’t look down but you can feel his tongue slowly working on you. Feeling his tongue lazily licking making you take shallow breaths until your panting and sweating—begging him to just go faster and be firmer with his licks against your clit. And when you feel that spiraling coil in your stomach, legs shaking, body on the edge of release—that’s when he’ll speed up and deliberately put more effort into it with less soft licks and more sucking and moaning into your clit. Making you a moaning, quivering and wet mess.
eater!Suguru who loves to show your pussy worship, not only just licking, sucking or spitting and kissing your vulva but even going as far as holding a hand held mirror in front of your engorged pussy while playing with it and giving your vagina the care she needs. Pussy squirting all over the mirror and both his hands. He loves licking your juices off his hands and would ask you for more just because. He makes you look at your pussy during sex already—adding a mirror just made you even more bashful. He loves seeing your reactions, especially when you’re about to cum. Your moans are what do it for him most—he really cherishes the moans that you try to suppress when you know your close. Sometimes you surprise him by moaning with some bass in your voice. And that alone really makes him wanna lick your fluids and squirt all over his face, he’ll gladly drown in it just to ear your cries. He’ll gladly drown in your pussy if you asked.
eater!Suguru who loves whispering sweet things to your clit—massaging your thighs and watching your clit swell hard with the affection. “So cute.” “Clit so pretty.” “Cute little thing all twitchy and horny just for me?” Suguru was always honest with you. “Yeah..” you’d always look away out of embarrassment because the intimacy felt intense. “Aww honey..” “you poor sweet thing..” “so cute and begging for my attention.” “Let me take care of it.” And you let him do exactly that every time y’all have sex, not that he’s complaining. He loves hearing your mewls and cries when you’re at the peak of euphoria.
Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)
Chapter 9
A/N: IT‘S FINALLY OUT!! no real interactions between batfam and y/n in this one butttt there are some revelations and thoughts 👀 I can‘t promise when I will publish the next chapter though🩷 as I said I’m a bit busy rn!! But when I’m back I will start the work 🥰 I will write Drabble though!! Also tell me your thoughts about this chapter!! I love reading all your reactions and comments 🥹 - poppy
The apartment smelled like damp walls and mildew that never quite left, no matter how many windows she opened or how much lemon cleaner she used. The floor creaked when she moved, and the pipes rattled every time the neighbor above her flushed their toilet—but it was hers.
Hers, in the loosest, most fragile sense of the word.
Rent was due in two days. She had $7 in her wallet. Her breakfast had been an expired protein bar she found in the bottom of her backpack, and dinner would probably be the rest of the rice she cooked yesterday.
But she was alive.
And most importantly—she was free.
The tiny kitchen was quiet as she knelt by the potted plants that lined the inside of her single window. They weren’t thriving, but they were trying—just like her. She sprayed their leaves with a light mist, humming softly under her breath, careful not to wake the baby next door or Gary upstairs.
Gary was the landlord. The one that gave her this place.
Old, grouchy, mostly harmless. He paid her to care for the flowers he sold in his rundown shop two blocks away. It wasn’t enough to live off of, but it was better than nothing. He didn’t ask questions either. Not about her name, age or family. Not about why she paid in cash. Not about why she always kept the hood of her coat pulled low when she ran errands.
It had been thirty-two days since she left the manor.
Thirty-two days since she’d lied to Alfred’s face.
Since she’d walked past the gates with her bag and never looked back.
Since she’d become someone else. Or at least tried to.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the tiny case on her desk.
The contact lenses were cheap, but they worked. A flat, soft brown that covered the bright, unnatural green of her mother’s legacy. She blinked slowly as she put them in, fingers steady despite how often her stomach cramped from hunger or how the floor still spun when she stood too fast.
She had to blend in.
Be no one.
Be small.
Still, some nights—especially when the sun fell too fast or the wrong person looked at her too long—the fear returned. Heavy and loud in her chest. That someone had seen her. That someone had recognised her. That he had finally found out she was gone.
She didn’t know why she kept expecting the family to knock on her door. They hadn’t cared then. Why would they care now?
The apartment was still cold when the morning light slipped through the cracked blinds.
Y/N rubbed her arms and breathed into her palms, waiting for the kettle to hum. The gas burner made a clicking noise before catching. She moved carefully, not wanting to wake the baby next door. The walls were thin—like the ones in her memories.
She glanced toward her plants lining the windowsill. They were her secret. Hydrangeas blooming out of season. Tiny wildflowers that hadn’t existed in this hemisphere in decades. The old roses that Gary had given up on now sprawled over their pot, heavy and full of color.
“I must have a green thumb,” she’d said once, and Gary had barked a laugh and said, “Kid, if that’s a thumb, I want a whole hand of yours.”
She’d smiled.
She always smiled.
Even when it was thin. Even when it was shaking.
⸻
The fake ID in her wallet said Emilia Forenzi, age 18, born in Venice. She’d forged the name, the history, the accent. She wasn’t very good at faking the accent, but people didn’t really listen to it in this part of Gotham.
They saw a pretty girl with sweet eyes and perfect manners.
Not a Wayne.
Not Poison Ivy’s daughter.
Just her.
She tried to get a job last week at a diner near the outskirts. The man behind the counter said she looked too soft for waitressing in Gotham, but she’d promised to learn quickly. He hadn’t called her back.
Still, she kept looking.
She only made just enough with Gary’s shop and the flowers in the nearby park he quietly “claimed” as his own. He was gruff, but he gave her an extra five dollars the other day when he saw her feeding a stray cat half her dinner.
“Don’t starve for that flea-ball,” he’d said.
She had smiled, then handed the cat the last bit of her rice anyway.
____
The nightmares came every other night.
She didn’t scream anymore. She learned to bite her lip in the Manor. But her pillow was often damp by morning.
They weren’t always the same—sometimes it was the manor again, the long corridors and cold dinners and the silence when she tried to speak. Sometimes it was the moment it happened. When they looked too late. When they reached too slowly. When they mourned too little.
But more recently … more often… she dreamt of her mother.
It had been so long since she’d let herself remember Pamela Isley. Ivy.
Green eyes like hers. A lullaby voice. Warm hands and flowery perfume.
She hadn’t thought about her in years—not really. Not since Bruce took her in and no one ever said her name again. Not since she learned that “Poison Ivy is a criminal, not a mother.”
But now, alone in her silence, in her little room with its stolen furniture and secondhand blankets, Y/N wondered.
Where was she?
Was she still in Arkham?
Did she know that her daughter was dead once? That she lived again?
A part of her felt guilty for not trying to reach out.
Another part of her was too afraid.
Because even her mother might not want her.
_________________
Y/N’s POV
Y/N had no working television, but the city didn’t need one to scream at her.
It screamed through the streets. Through the rising hum of sirens. Through the headlines splattered across cracked newspaper boxes she passed on her walks.
“Vigilante Brutality Increases in Crime Alley.”
“Masked Assault in the Narrows: Third Criminal Hospitalized This Week.”
“Batarangs Found at Scene.”
Some nights, she swore she recognized the marks.
A broken window too clean. A blood trail that vanished before it reached the curb. A body left in the perfect shape of Jason’s rage. A rooftop cracked in the exact angle Dick once used to land his kicks. A cigarette packet crushed under a boot with too much calculation—Tim.
And the shadow that never missed a target—Bruce.
They were out there. All of them.
Stalking the night harder than they had in years.
And she still told herself:
It’s not for me.
It couldn’t be.
Because if it was, what would that even mean?
⸻
Gary had warned her. Again and again.
That the streets weren’t safe. That something was shifting in Gotham—something darker, tighter, more personal.
“Stay in after dusk,” he’d told her tonight, setting a paper bag of groceries on the table. “These days, Gotham’s bleeding from the inside out.”
She nodded sweetly. Smiled, even.
Then locked the door the second he left.
But she wasn’t afraid of the men in alleyways.
Not the thieves. Not the dealers. Not the hungry strangers who eyed her when she passed by.
She was afraid of the people whom she used to see as brothers.
Because if she ever saw them again—if she ever looked into those familiar eyes and saw that distant, practiced guilt or the too-late affection…
She didn’t trust herself not to cry.
Not to break.
Not to forgive them too easily.
And she couldn’t.
Not after everything.
Not again.
Damian’s POV
It had been twenty-nine days and eleven hours since Damian had last seen his sister.
Not that he was counting.
Not that he had a tally scratched into the underside of his desk.
Not that he stared at the empty seat beside him in every class like it was mocking him.
But he knew.
And it infuriated him.
The others said she’d vanished.
The others said she’d slipped past them all.
But she hadn’t slipped past him.
Not really.
She’d looked him in the eye that morning—after their fight.
After he’d grabbed her. Cornered her. Called her a liar.
“It’s nothing that will matter to you soon anyway.”
He hadn’t understood it then.
He did now.
She’d meant goodbye.
At school, her name still came up.
Y/N Wayne.
The girl who suddenly “returned to Italy.”
Back to her “supermodel mother”—at least, that’s what her friends claimed. It’s what she had told them.
They all bought it.
They called it romantic. Mysterious.
Like she’d left for a glamorous life.
But Damian knew better.
The softness in her eyes before she left wasn’t joy.
It was resignation.
He had tried—quietly at first.
Digging behind the scenes. Asking questions without being obvious.
Then, after a week, subtlety died.
He skipped class.
He hacked into school servers, city cameras, bus routes.
He threatened. Intimidated. Pressured.
He found Silas. Beat him within an inch of expulsion. Again.
And when the school didn’t act fast enough, he made them.
Silas was gone the next morning.
But it didn’t satisfy him, because Y/N wasn’t anywhere.
At night, Robin bled through Gotham.
Damian stalked rooftops not for criminals—but for a slip of movement that might be her.
He shattered kneecaps for a name. Broke ribs for a whisper.
Even the villains noticed.
“Robin’s gotten… personal again,” Harley had murmured after escaping a busted safehouse.
But nothing helped.
Each time he paused, high above the city in the bitter dark, he swore he could feel her.
Somewhere below.
Somewhere lonely.
And not calling for him.
He hated her for that.
He hated himself more.
She belonged to them. To him.
To the family. To the house. To his routine. His mornings. His world.
And now she was gone.
_____
Dick’s POV
He hadn’t been back to Bludhaven in three weeks.
The people were worried.
The criminals were thrilled.
But Dick didn’t care.
He told Bruce he wasn’t capable of “handling other lives” until he found the one life that actually mattered.
And no one argued.
Not anymore.
At first, he’d tried to believe it was all temporary.
That she had just… run off to prove a point.
That she’d come back, pouty but forgiving, with that innocent little laugh and into his arms held open like a truce.
But one month later—there were no illusions left.
His little flower was gone.
And something in him had gone cold.
The smile?
Gone.
The charm?
Buried.
Even Jason said it once—gruff and to the point:
“You look more like Bruce every damn day.”
And Dick hadn’t answered.
Because Dick wasn’t Bruce.
Bruce had forgotten her.
He had abandoned her.
But Dick had known. He’d seen.
He just didn’t act.
She used to leave notes.
Little drawings tucked into his gear bag when he’d visit.
He’d find doodles of himself and her—with giant goofy smiles—under his glove cases.
He hadn’t kept a single one.
He told himself he was busy.
She was a kid.
She’d grow out of it.
But now?
Now he was in her room every other day—just sitting, just looking.
Searching every inch of that now-empty drawer like it was a crime scene.
And maybe it was.
Because something had died in that room.
He’d found the old plush once.
The elephant one.
Alfred said she took it with her—so the one he found was a decoy.
“She knew someone would check,” Tim had whispered.
“She planned this.”
And that shattered Dick in a way fists never had.
She didn’t even trust them to miss her.
He walked the alleys at night.
Not as Nightwing.
Just as someone looking for a ghost in a little green sweater.
The one she wore all the time when she was younger—the one that matched the flowers she grew.
He used to call her his little flower.
She used to love that.
She even wrote it in one of those diary entries he found—buried in the box of discarded drawings they’d all ignored:
“I wish he would call me little flower again. I think I’d feel like he loves me if he did.”
Dick never cried. Not even when his parents died.
But when he read that—he’d just sat down right on the floor and shook.
“You were the soft one,” Jason had thrown at him last week.
“Where the hell were you when she needed you?”
He didn’t answer then either.
Because the truth was brutal:
He’d been smiling for everyone else.
Just not her.
Now he didn’t smile at all.
And when he caught anyone slacking on patrol, skipping a corner, missing a lead—he snapped.
“We are finding her.”
It wasn’t just a command.
It was a vow.
A curse.
And every night, when he sat in the shadows of her room, that vow echoed again and again like a prayer to a flower-shaped ghost:
“I’m gonna find you, Y/N”
“I don’t care what it takes.”
_____
Jason was never good at guilt.
He could shoot it in the face, bury it in the ground, drink it away.
But not this.
Not when the guilt had a name.
A voice.
A laugh.
A heartbeat he couldn’t find anymore.
Y/N.
Red Hood didn’t patrol anymore. He hunted.
He tore through the underworld like a rabid dog, taking names, putting bodies in the ER, slamming faces into pavement hard enough to shatter teeth. Criminals whispered about it. That something had snapped in the Red Hood. That he’d gone fully off-leash.
They were right.
Because she was gone.
And someone had to pay for it.
He blamed Bruce, obviously. Jason always blamed Bruce. For being cold. For being blind. For never knowing what to do with someone soft. For burying himself in work while she withered upstairs. How the hell do you forget your own daughter?
But blame was easy.
What wasn’t easy was looking at himself.
He remembered the first time she came up to him. Little thing. Barely past toddler years, wide-eyed and sticky with jam, calling him “Jayshu” in that babbling baby voice.
He didn’t say anything back.
He remembered her knocking on his door when he returned after dying — begging him to come down for cookies she made.
He told her to leave him the hell alone.
He remembered yelling. Something about Poison Ivy. Something about how she was just a seed of villainy waiting to sprout.
She cried.
And he did nothing.
She never stopped being sweet after that. She just stopped hoping.
God.
She’d always tried.
And now she was gone — not kidnapped, not taken. She left.
She left them.
Left him.
She was somewhere out there in Gotham. Cold, starving, maybe scared, and trying to make a life for herself with whatever pieces she thought she could carry.
Because they’d convinced her — all of them — that the mansion didn’t have room for her. That she was a footnote in her own damn home.
Jason swore if she was dead—
No.
She wasn’t dead.
She couldn’t be.
He refused to believe that.
He was going to find her.
If he had to burn down every alley, question every creep, put a bullet in every bastard that even looked at a girl wrong—
He was going to find his baby sister.
And this time, he wasn’t letting her go.
Not until she knew what she meant to him.
Even if he had to drag her home, kicking and crying and hating him.
Because hate was better than fear.
Hate meant she was alive.
And he could live with that.
—————— TIm’s POV
Tim hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours. His fingers trembled faintly over the keyboard, dark half-moons carved under bloodshot eyes, the whites gone dull with insomnia and stimulants. The walls of his room were drowned in screens, all reflecting her face — what little he could still find of it.
Her school file. Old pictures. Surveillance footage from Gotham Academy — months old. The last known digital remnants of Y/N Eloise Wayne.
But it wasn’t enough.
He’d run every facial match algorithm. Every public transport log. Hacked through every ID registration, health record, housing file under her legal name. And she was gone.
“She’s too smart,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. “She lied. She planned. She’s not Y/N Eloise Wayne anymore.”
The revelation haunted him. It burned, rotted somewhere behind his ribs. She had vanished under his nose, wearing a false name like a cloak — and he hadn’t seen it coming.
He had gone through every file they owned on her. Every school note, every doctor visit, every written scrawl from her elementary notebooks. He replayed her school performance clips over and over, like decoding a cipher. Her smile made his chest cave in. The applause that followed felt like mockery now.
He didn’t even know her.
He thought he did.
Now, even the way she looked at him — polite, soft, cautious — seemed like a stranger’s ghost haunting his memory.
It was always her that tried. She came to him, not the other way around. He’d been too cold. Too preoccupied. Too… utilitarian. And now she was gone.
______
Bruce
Wayne Manor was silent.
It had been a tomb since the day she left.
Bruce sat in the cave beneath it, not the man in the suit but the shell. His cowl sat on the table beside a half-finished bottle of bourbon, the second one tonight. Or maybe the third. He didn’t count anymore. What was the point?
He hadn’t shaved. Hadn’t stepped into the office in days. Lucius had called. He didn’t answer. No one in the company knew why Bruce Wayne had vanished. But Gotham still had Batman.
Only, he wasn’t Batman anymore. He was something else now. Something starving.
At night he stalked the rooftops with animal focus. Interrogated criminals with bone-breaking efficiency. Asked questions. Searched every corner of the city. Every district. Every shadow. He didn’t rest. He didn’t breathe unless it was with her name in his mind.
His daughter. His daughter.
It repeated like a pulse in his ears.
It burned behind his eyes.
She was all he had left of Ivy — that mistake, that moment — but she had been more than that. From the instant he saw her, frail and bright-eyed, he knew. She wasn’t like any of them.
She was good.
And he’d abandoned her. Buried her behind patrol logs and briefing reports and other children. The guilt made him flinch from his own reflection. He wasn’t fit to be her father.
But he would bring her back. He would. He would find her, cradle her against his chest, and keep her. Lock the doors. Watch over her like a warden, not a parent. If that’s what it took.
Because the world wasn’t safe. And neither was he.
⸻
None of them spoke about the dreams.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Bruce. Not even Damien, who barely slept at all.
But each night they saw her.
Not the girl who vanished. Not the child who used to smile at them and draw them flowers.
No, in their dreams, she was older. Just a little. Sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen — and dying.
Sometimes she was bloodied. Sometimes drowned. Sometimes strangled. Her eyes always wide, always shocked, always alone.
They woke up breathless. Sometimes screaming. Always cold. Always guilty.
None of them could explain it.
She hadn’t died. Had she?
They told themselves it was the mind, punishing them for failing her. But something deeper twisted in their stomachs, something that whispered:
You weren’t just too late.
You were never there at all.
______
Tim
Tim hadn’t slept in forty-three hours.
His coffee was cold.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His hands trembled at the keyboard.
But he wasn’t stopping.
The Batcave was silent except for the hum of outdated servers and the sharp clack of his fingers moving too fast. The screens were filled with dead ends. Burned leads. Traffic cams from the docks. Street-side black markets. Pawn shop ledgers. None of them led to her.
Y/N Wayne.
Y/N Eloise Wayne.
Y/N Eloise Isley.
All versions. Dead files.
He stared at the access logs of the encrypted folder Alfred once backed up manually. The old section of the system not even connected to the current grid. Half of it was still mirrored from the pre-reset servers Bruce had shut down after the Joker War.
Tim was about to close it.
But then his cursor hovered over something.
CASE FILE_413-A — DECEASED: WAYNE, Y/N E.
He froze.
Click.
His breath caught.
The screen flickered to life with a full-color dossier.
A Bat-file.
Compiled. Stamped. Finalized.
Tim’s pupils dilated as the first image loaded.
It was a crime scene photo.
A girl — slender frame, (Y/S) skin, long tangled hair matted in blood — lay crumpled in a side alley.
Her body was twisted. There were vines curled around her hands like she had tried, in the end, to summon something. The file dated her death at age eighteen. The location: Gotham Lower East.
Another picture followed.
A toe tag. Her name.
Y/N Eloise Wayne.
Tim recoiled in the chair, the metal frame screeching against the floor.
He clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The blood in his veins ran ice cold.
“No…”
The file was real.
Old. Buried.
Made by them.
There was Bruce’s signature. His own encrypted seal. A medical report from Leslie. Postmortem autopsy. She’d been stabbed. Multiple times. Lungs collapsed. Defensive wounds.
Motive listed: “Targeted for her parentage. Daughter of Poison Ivy. Daughter of Bruce Wayne.”
She died alone.
Tim’s stomach turned. Images blurred behind his lashes as his heart pounded in his throat. Then — faint, like an echo —
a memory.
her voice.
“It’s okay, Tim… I know you’re busy. Maybe next time…”
His hand clenched.
It made sense now. Her withdrawn smile. Her evasiveness. The way she flinched when someone used her name too sweetly. The edge of fear under her fake smiles. The lies about school. About friends.
She remembered.
“She knew,” he whispered. “Oh my god… she knew.”
Tim’s eyes scanned through the final page of the report.
A line written in someone’s hand. His own, maybe.
“We were too late.”
“She died thinking she wasn’t loved.”
“We never made it in time.”
He stood up fast, the chair clattering behind him.
No one else had seen this yet.
They didn’t know.
They couldn’t know.
But they would.
Tonight.
“They have to know,” Tim said, eyes still locked on the glowing screen. “We all failed her once. We don’t get to fail her again.”
____
The group chat pinged three times.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
❝ Everyone get to the Cave. Now. ❞
❝ I found something. ❞
❝ It’s about her. ❞
No one responded at first.
Damian left him on “Read.”
Dick ignored it.
Jason sent back a single skull emoji.
He should have expected these reactions since he has been sending the same sentence every day for the past few days.
So Tim lied.
❝ I know where she is. ❞
Within minutes, the Cave roared to life with engines and boots slamming against concrete.
Jason was the first to storm in, eyes bloodshot and helmet still on.
Damian followed, jaw clenched, already starting to bark—
“Where is she, Drake?! Where is my sister—”
Tim stood near the console, arms crossed.
“I lied.”
Jason lunged.
Fist in Tim’s collar. Slam. Back against the wall.
“You what—?!”
“I lied,” Tim repeated, voice low. “Because I had to get you all here. Because I found something.”
Bruce’s silhouette broke through the Cave entrance — suit half-on, stubble dark along his jaw, shadows under his eyes like bruises.
Perpetrator: Unidentified rogue faction. Targeted for her parentage.
The room went still.
“What the hell is this,” Dick asked, already stepping closer.
Bruce’s breath hitched. Damian’s eyes narrowed. Jason froze.
“A fake?” Dick suggested.
Tim shook his head.
“Timestamped. Five years from now. This is from before. A different timeline.”
Damian scoffed. “You’re saying she died in the future?”
“She did die,” Tim said. “We all just forgot.”
They stared.
He opened the rest of the file. Images, recordings. Surveillance. Her body. Blood pooled in the alley. The report showed Bruce petitioned Zatanna and Constantine. There was a time ritual. Risky. Forbidden.
“You risked time to bring her back?” Jason muttered.
Bruce didn’t answer.
Tim’s voice cut in. Cold.
“We failed her once. She died alone. We didn’t protect her. Not any of us.”
Jason turned toward the screen. The photo flickered —
her eyes still open.
blood across her temple.
dirt under her nails like she fought to crawl away.
Damian took a step back. “No…”
“She knew,” Tim said. “That’s why she looked at us like that. Why she avoided us. She came back. And she remembered.”
No one moved.
The room was silent, suffocating beneath the cold glare of the screen where Y/N’s death flickered like an echo. The air clung to their lungs like ash — thick, bitter, and impossible to swallow. Damian had dropped to the floor, arms wrapped tight around himself, his head bowed low as if sheer will could reverse time. His lips moved soundlessly, whispering her name over and over, as if it was a prayer. As if saying it enough times would call her back.
Jason stood with his jaw clenched so tight it cracked. His eyes — wild and bloodshot — stayed locked on the image of her body. He didn’t look away, not even once. The blood. The dirt. The way she had died like a stranger in the street. He saw it every night in his head now, but nothing compared to seeing it in full color. The walls around his heart — already thin when it came to her — collapsed completely.
Dick had turned away. Not from shame, but from grief so raw it left his hands shaking. He dug his nails into his palms to stop the trembling. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the Cave apart and rebuild it out of something softer, something warmer — something that had room for little girls with flowers in their hands and letters in their drawers that he never read.
Tim stood with arms crossed, but his composure was an illusion. His voice was hollow. His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of knowing. He had chased every digital ghost in Gotham trying to find her — but this file was not just a clue. It was a memory clawing its way back. A record of a crime they all committed through silence, through neglect, through absence.
And Bruce… he hadn’t spoken since the image loaded. His breath had gone still. He looked at his daughter’s face on the screen — the girl he had summoned back into this world with rituals and desperation — and he saw her dying again. Just like before. All over again. She had called him “Daddy” in her last breath. He heard it in his sleep now.
They didn’t speak. Not for a long time. Each of them lost in the torment of the realization that this wasn’t just about a runaway child. It was about the daughter they failed — a second time. About the signs they missed. The eyes that begged them to remember.
They had dismissed her heartbreak. They had questioned her distance. They had shrugged off her quiet smiles as teenage moodiness. But now the pieces came together with devastating clarity.
She remembered. That’s why she changed. That’s why she ran. She remembered dying alone while they forgot her.
No one needed to say it out loud.
The mission had changed. This wasn’t about finding her anymore.
This was about getting her back before Gotham swallowed her whole again.
Summary: “First, you get a swimming pool full of liquor, then you dive in it” Halloween night at Tannyhill isn't what you hoped for. Inspired by "Swimming Pools" by Kendrick Lamar.
Warnings (read these): DV, NON CON, PHYSICAL ABUSE, extremely toxic & abusive relationship. physical violence, alcohol abuse & addiction, emotional abuse, drug use, if any of this triggers you or isn't your thing, scroll away. This is fiction. Dead dove, do not eat.
An: heyyy guys sorry ive been gone… pls don’t be mad… also the night is meant to be in fragments like ur super drunk. Thinking about making this a series. Lmk what u think
MINORS DNI
The first thing that registers is the ache between your legs, raw and used, like you got fucked for hours. Your head pounds, mouth dry and sour with vodka and bile. You’re sprawled across Rafe’s massive bed in nothing but the torn fishnet stockings from your Harley Quinn costume, the red-and-black corset ripped open down the front. Bruises are already setting in, fingerprints on your hips, a handprint blooming across your ass, a split inside your bottom lip.
Morning light stabs through the half-drawn curtains. Downstairs, the cleanup crew is probably already dealing with the wreckage of last night’s party.
You don’t remember half of it.
Rafe is leaning against the dresser, still half in his Joker costume, the purple coat discarded, white face paint smeared across his jaw and neck like war paint, green hair wild and sweaty. His knuckles are split open again, fresh blood crusted over old scars. He’s watching you with that flat, dangerous stare he gets when the coke and rage are still simmering.
“You look like shit, baby,” he says, voice low and rough. “Told you not to go so hard.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday
Time: 9:38 PM
You were getting ready.
He’d handed you a fresh bottle of that cheap vodka you like, the one that burns going down and makes everything soft and loud at the same time.
“Here. So you don’t have to sneak off to the Cut and let some dirty Pogue pour you drinks all night. Stay pretty for me.”
You laughed, already buzzing from the first few sips, twirling in the mirror in your Harley shorts and pigtails. The insecurity was still there, whispering that you were just the girl Rafe kept around because you let him, but the alcohol drowned it out fast. You felt like a bad bitch, hot, reckless, untouchable.
“You’re the Joker, I’m Harley. We’re supposed to be crazy tonight.”
He grinned that unhinged grin, smearing red lipstick on your mouth with his thumb.
“Damn right.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time: 12:35 PM
Tannyhill was packed. Bass thumping, Kooks in expensive costumes, a few Pogues who’d snuck in as the drinks got stronger and the door got looser. You were six shots deep and feeling invincible. The vodka made your blood hot. You climbed onto the coffee table in the living room, dancing like the music owned you, hips rolling, pigtails swinging, shorts riding up so everyone could see the curve of your ass. Some random Kook in a lame vampire costume grabbed your waist from behind, laughing, grinding back. You didn’t stop him. Why would you? You were Harley tonight. Wild. Wanted. The insecurity was gone; you were the hottest girl in the room, and everyone knew it.
Rafe’s eyes from across the room were already narrowed and dark.
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Time: 12:42 PM
He dragged you upstairs by the wrist, grip bruising. The hallway spun. You were giggling at first.
“Baby, it was just dancing, don’t be a fucking psycho,” until he slammed the bedroom door so hard the frame cracked.
“You think I’m stupid?” His voice was that low, shaky rage you knew too well. “Grinding on that piece of shit in front of everyone? In my fucking house? On Halloween? You trying to embarrass me?”
You were reckless, drunk, careless.
“Maybe I wanted attention since you’re always too busy doing lines in the bathroom to notice me.”
Wrong thing to say.
He laughed once, sharp and ugly, then backhanded you across the face. Not full force, but hard enough to split your lip and send you stumbling into the dresser. The sting was immediate. You tasted blood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time: Unknown
The room tilts. He’s on you, shoving you face-down onto the bed, yanking your shorts down with one hand while the other fists your pigtails. “You wanna act like a slut? Fine. I’ll fuck you like one.”
He didn’t prep you, just spat on his hand and pushed in raw, one brutal thrust that made you scream into the sheets. He fucked you like he was punishing the whole island, deep, mean strokes, hand around your throat from behind, squeezing until spots danced in your vision.
“You’re here for me. You hear me? Not some party whore.”
Every thrust jolted pain and pleasure together. You came hard, crying, thighs shaking, while he kept going, calling you a drunk mess, a worthless bitch who couldn’t even handle her liquor without embarrassing him.
You blacked out somewhere in the middle, flashes of him flipping you over, forcing your legs wider, coming inside you with a groan that sounded like it hurt him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today
Time: 9:17 AM
You sit up slowly, wincing. The bruises on your thighs are dark, the ones on your throat obvious even in the low light. Your lip is swollen.
Rafe pushes off the dresser and walks over, crouching so he’s eye-level.
“You don’t remember shit, do you?” He sounds almost amused, but his eyes are cold. “You were all over that guy. Had to drag your drunk ass upstairs before you let him fuck you in front of all my friends.”
You swallow, the sober clarity hitting like ice water. “No. I remember.”
His face changes, just a flicker. “Bullshit. You blacked out. Slurring, crying, begging like always. Don’t try to rewrite it now that you’re sobering up and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I remember you hitting me.” Your voice is quiet but steady. The words hang there, ugly and real. “You backhanded me….and… Split my lip…Then you threw me on the bed.”
Rafe’s jaw tightens. He stands up fast, starts pacing again, boots heavy. “You always do this shit. Get wasted, act like a whore, then wake up and play victim so I feel like the bad guy.”
“I’m not playing.” You slide off the bed, legs shaky, and stand in front of him. “I remember the sting. I remember tasting blood. I remember you saying I “earned it”.”
He stops pacing. Turns slow. His eyes are dark, dangerous. “Even if I did, you fucking deserved it. Grinding on some guy? In my house? You wanted me to snap. You always push until I do.”
The room feels smaller. Your chest tightens, the insecurity roaring back now that the vodka’s gone. “So you admit it?”
He steps closer, towering. “What do you want me to say? You always do this.”
Tears burn your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.
“You handed me the bottle. All night. You kept pouring. Then you get mad at me for drinking it?”
You ask, not understanding his logic.
He laughs, bitter.
“Oh, now it’s my fault? You’re the one who doesn't know how to stop. You’re the one who turns into a sloppy mess every time you touch that shit. I give you what you ask for, and you throw it back in my face.”
You shake your head, voice cracking.
“I remember everything this time, Rafe. You hit me. You fucked me while I was crying. And you’re standing here lying about it.”
His hand shoots out, grabs your jaw, not hard enough to bruise more, but hard enough to make you freeze.
“Watch your mouth. You don’t get to throw that in my face after you embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
You stare up at him, tears finally spilling.
“Then why do you keep getting bottles if you hate it so much?”
Rafe’s lip curls, that familiar sneer twisting his mouth.
“Because you beg for them, baby. Every single time. You whine, you cry, you say you need it to feel anything. I’m just giving you what you asked for. Don’t act like I’m forcing the shit down your throat.”
The words hit different this time, sharper, because they’re true enough to sting. You do ask. You do beg when the sober quiet gets too loud. You wrench your face out of his grip anyway, stumbling back until your ass bumps the dresser. Your voice comes out smaller than you want.
“I remember you hitting me. I remember the blood. I remember you saying I earned it.”
Rafe takes one slow step forward. His voice drops, calm in the way that makes your stomach drop.
“Even if that happened, and I’m not saying it did, you think yelling about it changes anything? You think screaming ‘he hit me’ makes you the victim here? You were grinding on some random dick in the middle of my living room, dressed like a slut, while everyone watched. You wanted a reaction. You got one.”
You shake your head, tears dripping onto your collarbone.
“You're fucking lying, you thought I blacked out.”
“I think you were fucked up. Which you were.” He shrugs, casual, cruel. “Close enough.”
The room feels too small. You glance at the door, freedom maybe, or at least air that doesn’t smell like him and last night’s sex and violence. Your legs move before your brain catches up. You take a half-step toward the hallway.
His arm shoots out, slams flat against the doorframe, blocking you. The impact rattles the whole frame.
“What are you doing?”
You freeze, heart hammering. “I just need air.”
“No.” His other hand catches your elbow, not hard enough to bruise fresh, but firm enough to remind you he can.
“You’re not leaving this room until you calm the fuck down. You go out there looking like this, bruised, crying, mascara everywhere, and what? You gonna run to Sarah? Tell her big bad Rafe hit you? Like she’ll believe you? Or maybe you’ll stumble down to the Cut, find some Pogue to cry to. They’ll fuck you once, maybe twice, then leave you passed out in a ditch when the high wears off. You think they’ll stay? You think anyone else is gonna put up with your alcoholic ass the way I do?”
Your breath hitches. The threat isn’t even veiled. It’s the one thing that always works: the fear of being cut off. Not just from him, but from the bottles he keeps stocked in the cabinet under the sink, the ones he replaces without you ever having to ask. You can’t afford your own habit. Not really. Not without selling shit, stealing shit, or worse. And the thought of waking up tomorrow with nothing, no buzz, no buffer, just the screaming quiet and the mirror showing every flaw, makes your knees weak.
“I can’t…” The words come out choked. “I can’t do sober right now.”
Rafe’s grip on your elbow loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His voice goes softer, almost coaxing, the switch he flips when he knows he’s winning.
“Then stop acting like you want to leave. You know what happens when you try to run. You end up right back here anyway. Crying. Begging. Promising you’ll be better.”
He turns you slowly, backs you up until your spine hits the door. His body cages you in, one hand braced above your head, the other sliding up to cup your jaw, gentle now, thumb brushing the split in your lip like he’s sorry.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re gonna stay right here, sober up, take a shower, and when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, you’re gonna come downstairs and act like my girl. Because that’s what you are. I'm the only one who gets to touch you, fuck you, hurt you, fix you. Nobody else wants the mess.”
Tears slip down your cheeks, hot and silent. You hate how the words settle in your chest like truth. How part of you believes them. How the alternative, empty bottles, empty bed, empty everything, feels worse than the bruises.
“I hate you sometimes,” you whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. But you love me more.”
He doesn’t move away. Just stands there, breathing you in, waiting for the fight to bleed out of you like it always does.
And it does.
Your hands come up slowly, trembling, and fist in his shirt. Not pushing this time. Holding. Clinging. Because even after the slap, the lies, the way he twists every truth until it points back at you, he’s still here.
Still feeding the addiction he pretends to hate.
Still, the only thing standing between you and nothing.
He exhales against your hair, almost a laugh. “There she is.”
You close your eyes. Let him pull you away from the door. Let him guide you back toward the bed. Let the silence swallow the rest of the fight.
Because leaving would mean facing the mirror alone.
