cherry valley forever
Keni
Show & Tell
Monterey Bay Aquarium
occasionally subtle
Acquired Stardust
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Andulka
Peter Solarz
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Stranger Things
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Claire Keane
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
AnasAbdin
taylor price
trying on a metaphor
Janaina Medeiros
shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
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@v-chu
YANDERE BLOG ♡ SENSITIVE BLOGS DNI
call me 𝐕, she/her, 20!
₊ 🪽｡˚ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
˓001 masterlist ˓002 about me ˓003 rules
٠ ࣪⭑𝕾𝖍𝖊'𝖘 𝖆 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗, 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝖋𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖊𝖗 .ᐟ
₊ 🪽｡˚ 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓
sleeping beauty - batboys
flowers - batboys
green flag - batboys
🗡where's your attitude at ... ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
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━━╋━ 𝙙𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚 💭 .
[...]⠀⠀┄ ⠀ you’re confined in a mental institution after a failed attempt to kill wilson fisk, surviving only because he chose to keep you alive—broken, monitored, and contained instead of erased. you live under surveillance, with limited freedom but enough access to the outside world to keep your obsession with control and revenge intact. the arrival of benjamin poindexter becomes the first real disruption in years, igniting anticipation and fixation. in your mind, he quickly shifts from a stranger to something inevitable—someone the world is positioning as yours.
❝ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter. ◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 1 of series, fem reader, reader is mentally unstable, reader have sychotic symptoms, narcissistic personality traits, obsessive compulsive personality traits, severe attachment disturbance, complex trauma, sadistic tendencies, paranoia, emotional instability / splitting. — yandere characters, toxic behaviors, masterlist, english is not my first language 𖹭⠀⠀❞⠀
He's coming today.
The sentence doesn’t stay in your head like language. It behaves more like a living thing that has found a place to nest behind your eyes. It pulses there, soft and insistent, like something warm that learned how to survive by syncing itself to your heartbeat.
You were excited. Happy even.
Those emotions don’t arrive cleanly. They arrive like something being injected too fast into the bloodstream—too much, too sharp, spreading through you in uneven waves. Your chest feels briefly overfilled, like your ribs were never meant to hold anything that blooms this quickly. It presses outward from the inside, testing the limits of your shape.
You can't wait to meet him. To actually talk to him.
The thought does something wrong to your insides. Not metaphorically—physically. Like your organs rearrange slightly to make space for anticipation. Like your stomach shifts higher, your lungs forget their rhythm, your throat tightens around words you haven’t spoken yet but already feel lodged there.
It's the best day you've had since you were imprisoned in this fucking mental institution.
The word institution doesn’t feel like a place anymore. It feels like something grafted onto you. A second anatomy layered over your own. Corridors like veins. Locked doors like scar tissue. White walls like bone that never finished forming. You don’t live inside it. You are partially made of it now.
You're not even crazy, for crying out loud.
The thought tries to stand upright in you, but it keeps collapsing at the joints. It repeats itself like a reflex misfiring in muscle memory. Like a mouth still moving after the brain has stopped authorizing speech. It doesn’t reassure you. It just echoes, hollow and repetitive, like something trapped inside a skull it can’t escape.
Jesus fucking Christ.
But that's what you get when you try to murder Fisk.
That memory doesn’t behave like a memory. It behaves like a foreign object still lodged inside you. Something jagged and metallic that your body never fully expelled. When you think about it, your system reacts as if it’s happening again—blood pressure shifting, breath tightening, vision narrowing at the edges like the world is trying to close over you.
Impact. Weight. Force. Then nothing clean after that. Just broken continuity. Just the sensation of being rearranged without consent.
At least he didn’t crush your skull like some discarded thing. He could have. Easily.
Instead, he beat you half to death and left you with enough breath to regret it properly.
You were in bed like a corpse for months. Five months, drifting in and out of pain and silence and whatever passed for care in a place like this.
Fuck, you still can feel the tingling burn in your feet. He also loosened one of your teeth; it hurts every time you try to chew.
But of course he wanted you to live. He didn't actually want to kill you.
It probably was just his mixed feelings because of your betrayal.
Can you really blame him?
Hell yeah, you can!
Who the fuck does he even think he is???
That bastard has the audacity to put you in this shithole but not the balls to put a bullet between your eyes.
Fucking cunt.
Though you're glad he still has some twisted feelings toward you. Whether he sees you as his daughter or some kind of pet he owns doesn't matter.
What's important is that you're still breathing and can move.
He was also generous enough to put some of his best men in this hell with you. Probably because he doesn't want you to escape, but it doesn't matter.
What matters is that they give you anything you ask for.
One of them is your eyes.
Without them, the world collapses into something raw and unparsed. Not darkness exactly—worse. Uninterpreted reality. Shapes without meaning. Motion without permission to become anything understandable. A sensory field with no translation layer between you and existence.
That dependency has grown roots inside you. Something feeding off you and also sustaining you at the same time.
That's what made you tolerate these years.
And today he's coming.
Have you ever felt anything like that before?
You don't exactly remember. You never thought about men that way. Never gave enough of a fuck.
Except for Matt fucking Murdock.
With his gentle voice and gentler eyes, and his perfume, and how he laughs and—and—
The motherfucking reason you're trapped in this nightmare.
He knew what he was doing. He had to know.
Nobody smiles like that unless they're trying to crawl under your skin.
He did that to make you fall in love with him. Wanted you to let your guard down. To be vulnerable with him.
Before that you were perfect... You were... per—
No! You're still perfect. A little bit messy, but you're perfect. Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course.
You just need... need...
What do you even need????
You're great! Everything's great!
But Matt...
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.
You're going to rip him open from his dick to his mouth and play with his insides and eat his heart while it's still pumping blood.
Yeah, that's what you're going to do.
To all of them.
You will give them the most painful death you can imagine.
You're going to be satisfied and safe then.
They think you're stupid. They think you don't know they were all in it together.
Fisk, Matt, and that whore Elektra.
That was their plan all along.
They wanted to trap you here, and now they have.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑦 𔘓 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑦𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽
JOKER
He doesn’t take it at first. He stares at it—at you—like it’s the funniest, cruelest joke the universe has told him.
A tiny bat offering sugar to the city’s infection.
You smile like a wound trying to heal.
He takes it between two fingers—paint flaking, glove split at the seam—and laughs until it sounds like coughing through glass.
“Sweetheart, if you’re not careful,” he rasps, “you’ll rot your teeth and your heart.”
He pops it into his mouth anyway. The crunch echoes in the alley.
When he smiles, the candy has dyed his tongue red, and for one delirious second it looks like blood.
He bows, like a ghoul pretending to be a clown, and when he leaves he smells faintly of copper and caramel.
TWO-FACE
You offer him the candy with both hands, and he hesitates.
Harvey’s side—his real side—shakes his head, gentle. “Kid… you shouldn’t be around people like me.”
But the other half, molten and glistening like something still cooking inside its own ruin, grins.
“Flip for it?” he mutters to himself.
The coin flashes silver, then black. He catches it in his ruined palm.
Tails.
He takes it.
The sugar sticks to the raw side of his mouth; it hisses, melts, steams.
You think you smell burning.
He doesn’t spit it out.
He only says, quietly, like a prayer: “Sweet things never last here.”
And you, small lovely you, nod like you already know.
PENGUIN
He laughs—wheezing, sharp, spitting laughter.
“Candy? For me? You think I’m some charity case, eh, little songbird?”
But there’s something almost fragile behind the sarcasm.
He takes it anyway.
His teeth are small and yellow, like someone buried pearls and they grew mold.
He tastes it, and for a heartbeat he looks young. Like someone who might’ve once smiled for real.
He coughs, straightens his coat, pretends it didn’t happen.
“Don’t waste that sugar heart of yours, luv,” he mutters, voice like gravel and smoke.
But when you turn away, he hides the candy wrapper in his pocket. Keeps it.
Like a relic.
RA’S AL GHUL
You find him in the gardens beneath the manor, where the flowers smell faintly like chemicals and resurrection.
You offer him the candy as if it were an offering to an ancient god.
He looks at it as though it were the strangest weapon you could’ve chosen.
“Why do you give sweetness to those who would destroy you?” he asks.
Your shoulders rise in a shy shrug.
“’Cause maybe you’ll like me then.”
For a long, awful moment, he says nothing.
Then he takes it.
When he places it on his tongue, the sugar dissolves like acid against centuries of death.
He almost smiles. Almost.
“Even decay,” he says, “can remember the taste of innocence.”
He turns away, the candy gone, his breath fogging the cold air.
And you, little Batgirl, skip off—boots tapping, cape fluttering—
leaving the scent of sugar in a world that smells only of smoke, metal, and blood.
do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms. thank you for reading :)
Best compliment I got was "what's your skin care?"
♡ . GREEN FLAG
synopsis. what's their green flag in a relationship?
pairing : batboys x fem!reader.
featuring : dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne.
DICK GRAYSON
his green flag is emotional safety.
he reads people like a second language, and he never makes you feel small for being human.
when you fall apart, he’s there — no judgment, no fixing, just presence.
he’ll hold you through it, forehead against yours, whispering,
“hey, i’ve got you. you don’t have to smile right now.”
he remembers the little things — how you take your coffee, what song makes you relax, the exact way you say his name when you’re happy.
he makes life feel brighter. lighter.
and he’s patient, endlessly so.
he doesn’t push — he waits for you to come to him.
his love feels like a sunrise: warm, steady, and something you can always come home to.
JASON TODD
his green flag is loyalty. the kind that doesn’t fade, no matter how messy you get.
he doesn’t expect you to be perfect — he likes your sharp edges. your bad days.
he’ll always show up. no questions, no hesitation.
middle of the night? he’s already outside with the engine running.
“get in,” he says, and it’s not a demand — it’s comfort.
he listens when you talk. he remembers everything, even when you think he’s not paying attention.
and beneath all that anger, he’s gentle. ridiculously gentle.
he’ll tuck your hair behind your ear with hands that have broken bones before, and he’ll look at you like you’re something he could never hurt.
his love feels like standing in front of a storm and realizing it’s protecting you instead of destroying you.
TIM DRAKE
his green flag is understanding.
he doesn’t need you to talk for him to get it — he just knows.
he’ll make your favorite drink before you ask. fix things before you notice they’re broken.
he’s the one who believes in you harder than you do yourself.
“you’re incredible, you know that?” he’ll say, half asleep over his computer, eyes soft.
he’s thoughtful — almost painfully so.
he’ll go out of his way to make you feel seen, valued, heard.
and when you tell him you’re struggling, he doesn’t try to fix you. he just says, “okay. we’ll figure it out together.”
his love is the kind that builds quietly — patient, constant, and full of small, perfect gestures that make you feel like you belong somewhere.
DAMIAN WAYNE
his green flag is devotion.
when he chooses you, it’s absolute.
he doesn’t half love — he gives everything.
he listens, really listens, even if he doesn’t always understand.
he’ll learn your interests because he wants to know why you love them.
he’ll defend you without hesitation — even against people he respects.
his affection is subtle but real; he’ll hand you tea instead of saying “are you okay?”
he’ll brush your hand as he passes.
and when you’re upset, his tone softens in ways it never does for anyone else.
“you are safe,” he says simply, like it’s a fact.
because in his mind, you always are — under his watch, under his care.
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𝓕𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓼
☆~batboys x fem!reader : when you get them flowers.
𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍
He freezes when you hold the bouquet out to him.
Bright daisies. Yellow and white.
“...Are these for me?” he laughs, like he’s not sure you’re serious.
You nod. “Yeah. You deserve something pretty for once.”
That grin—the one that always feels like sunlight—goes a little shaky around the edges.
“Pretty, huh? Babe, that’s you.”
You shove them into his hands before he can make it corny.
He brings them to his face, smells them, and then, softer, “No one’s ever done that before.”
He finds a jar, puts them on the nightstand.
Later that night, he keeps glancing at them like they’re proof you exist.
“Every time I look at those,” he murmurs, “I remember someone thinks I’m worth something.”
And when he kisses you after, it tastes like daisies.
𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃
You show up at his place with a single red rose.
He looks at it like it’s a weapon.
“What’s that?”
“A flower, genius.”
“I can see that. You sure it’s not for someone else?”
You roll your eyes, shove it into his hand. “It’s for you. Don’t make it weird.”
He stares at it for a long moment. The petals look absurd next to his calloused fingers and gun oil.
“…Nobody’s ever given me one before.”
“Then I’m the first.”
He snorts, eyes softening. “Yeah. You always are.”
He keeps it. Presses it between a book he’ll never admit to owning.
Sometimes, when you’re gone, he opens it and stares at it—wilted, fragile—and thinks, someone saw me as gentle once.
𝐓𝐈𝐌 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐄
You walk into his office while he’s buried in work.
He barely glances up. “Hey, babe, gimme five—”
You drop a bouquet on his keyboard.
He blinks. “Uh. What’s this?”
“Break.”
He looks at the flowers, then at you, confusion melting into a small, tired smile.
“Did you… just bring me flowers?”
You nod. “You forget what outside looks like. Figured I’d bring it to you.”
He laughs under his breath, rubs his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
But he sets them right next to his monitor, adjusts them carefully until they’re perfect.
And when you turn to leave, he says quietly, “Hey… thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
That night, when you check on him, the flowers are still there.
Fresh water. Perfect angle.
And you swear, he works softer now.
𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
You bring him a single white lily.
He looks at it like it’s a puzzle.
“Why?” he asks immediately.
“Because you looked like you needed something beautiful today.”
He blinks once, twice. “You believe I need beauty?”
You smile. “Everyone does, Damian.”
He takes it delicately, like it might crumble if he breathes wrong.
You can see the war inside him — wanting to scoff, wanting to hide it, wanting to understand.
Finally, he says, “This species represents purity. Devotion.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s kind of the point.”
Later, you find the lily in a vase on his desk beside his sketches.
And every time he looks at it, his expression softens — just a fraction.
He never says it aloud, but it stays there until the petals fall.
He presses one between the pages of his sketchbook.
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★ ︵ SLEEPING BEAUTY
batboys x fem!reader : kissing them while they're sleep...
DICK GRAYSON
He’s sprawled across your bed like he fell straight out of a mission and into a dream. One arm slung over his eyes, hair messy, chest rising slow under the blanket.
You lean in, just to brush your lips against his — a whisper of a kiss.
He stirs immediately. Of course he does. The man’s trained to wake at a pin drop, but this time… he doesn’t open his eyes.
A smile curls on his mouth instead, lazy and full of warmth.
“Mm,” he hums, voice rough with sleep, “was that real or am I dreamin’?”
You freeze, whisper something about him going back to sleep.
He hums again, turns toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.
“Then keep dreamin’ with me,” he mumbles, already slipping under again, lips brushing your hair like muscle memory.
JASON TODD
He sleeps heavy — the kind of exhausted that only comes from carrying too much.
There’s a gun on the nightstand, a scar by his mouth, and a softness in his face that only shows when the world’s finally quiet.
You lean down, heart pounding, and press a kiss to his lips — gentle, almost scared.
He tenses. For a second, his hand twitches toward the weapon, but when his eyes flutter open and he sees it’s you, everything melts.
“...What was that for?” he asks, voice gravel low, still half-asleep.
You shrug, whisper, “You looked peaceful.”
He chuckles, quiet and broken around the edges. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?”
He drags you down into his chest, rough fingers sliding through your hair.
Next breath, he’s out again — heartbeat steady under your cheek, hand still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
TIM DRAKE
He’s asleep at his desk. Again. Head resting on folded arms, surrounded by cold coffee cups and open files.
You sigh, move closer, brushing hair from his forehead. His lashes flutter, his lips parted just slightly. He looks so young like this — unguarded, human.
You lean down, kiss him softly. Just one small press of lips — fleeting, tender.
He stirs. Blinks once, confused.
“...Wh—?”
“Go back to sleep,” you whisper.
He blinks again, eyes finding yours, unfocused and hazy. A sleepy smile ghosts across his face.
“You kissed me?”
You nod.
He sighs, a quiet, drowsy laugh slipping out. “Finally,” he murmurs before his head drops back down, out cold again — like he’s been waiting for that for weeks.
DAMIAN WAYNE
He’s not a deep sleeper — raised by assassins, after all — but tonight he’s still. Titus is at his feet. His hand’s resting loosely on the hilt of a blade by the pillow.
You hesitate. He looks so peaceful it feels almost cruel to wake him.
But you can’t help it. You lean in and brush your lips against his.
He stirs instantly, his eyes flashing open.
“Who—” he starts, then stops when he sees you.
You whisper, “Sorry. You were sleeping.”
He blinks. Processing. The tension in his shoulders eases.
“…That was unwise,” he mutters, voice low, but his ears are bright red.
You smile. “You didn’t push me away.”
He huffs quietly, looking away. “You caught me off guard.”
Later, when he thinks you’re asleep, he leans closer — and presses the softest kiss to your temple.
A wordless return.
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