⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀dick grayson x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀yandere dick. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀dick⠀being obsessed with you⠀ ⋮

It begins like a seed rotting in the soil.

You smiled at him once—just once—and it sprouted. Not a flower, not a gentle thing. No, what bloomed inside him was monstrous, a tumor of want that fed on every heartbeat. He felt it spread through his veins like ivy made of knives, threading itself into muscle, curling around bone. You didn’t even notice. Of course you didn’t. You were just living, just laughing, just speaking into the air like it cost you nothing.

But to him, each word from your lips was marrow, was sacrament. And he starved without it.

He studied you the way a coroner studies a cadaver—cataloguing each tiny detail, imagining what lay beneath. The slope of your shoulders whispered to him of the delicate clavicles underneath. Your smile? He wanted to split your cheeks wide with his thumbs just to see how far it could stretch before the skin gave way. Your eyes? Jewels, yes, but soft ones—organs sitting wet in their sockets. He wondered what color they’d stain his palms if he crushed them.

And yet, it was never cruelty. No. It was worship. He thought of you as cathedral. Your ribcage the vaulted arches, your lungs the stained glass, your pulse the endless hymn echoing in the nave. He wanted to break the doors open, crawl through the ruins of you, and pray until his knees shattered.

At night, he dreamt of you peeled. He saw your skin sloughing from your body like wet parchment, saw your veins rising like rivers on a map. He would follow them with his tongue. He would drink from you like a pilgrim kneeling at a holy spring. And he woke trembling, sweating, his fists clenched around nothing, desperate to be inside your gravity again.

The obsession grew teeth.

He began to imagine the in-betweens—those fragile seams in your body where life could spill. The tender hollow of your throat, the soft cave behind your knees, the slit of your belly where he could unzip you. He pictured sliding his hands inside, the heat of your organs wrapping around him like a lover’s arms. He’d wear your insides like garlands, let your intestines drape across his shoulders like scarves. He’d be beautiful in your ruin.

And every day, he smiled. Bright, boyish, unbroken. No one saw the bloodlust gnawing behind his teeth. No one saw the shrine he carved out of your absence. He collected scraps of you—gum wrappers, a strand of hair caught in your brush, a napkin blotted with your lipstick. He touched them like relics, kissed them like wounds. Sometimes he pressed them to his chest so hard they left bruises.

He didn’t need saints. He didn’t need God. He had you.

And oh, how he hated the world for touching you. The way others laughed with you, breathed the same air you did, let their voices graze your ears. Each moment was desecration. He wanted to burn their throats raw, peel their tongues from their mouths, scoop out their eyes with his bare hands and place them at your feet. An offering. See, y/n? Look at what I’ve done. Look at the meat I’ve carved from the world just to make it quiet for you.

You haunted him. You lived inside him like worms in the belly of a corpse. He couldn’t eat without tasting you, couldn’t sleep without hearing your laughter clawing at his skull. Sometimes, in the mirror, he swore he saw you behind his reflection—your hands crawling out of his skin, your teeth biting through his cheek, your eyes blinking through the soft meat of his throat.

And he smiled. Always smiled. Because no one must know.

But you will.

You’ll see it soon—the hunger, the devotion, the holy rot. He’ll show you what it means to be loved by him. He’ll open himself with his own fingers, tear his ribs apart, and let you watch him bleed your name onto the floorboards. He’ll peel the grin off his face and place it gently in your hands. He’ll carve your initials into his sternum until they shine white with bone.

And maybe you’ll scream. Maybe you’ll run. But screams are music, and running is just another kind of dance. He was born an acrobat; he’ll follow.

And when he catches you—because he will—you’ll learn. You’ll see that love is not gentle. Love is hunger. Love is dismemberment. Love is forever.

And in the dark, when he finally presses his forehead to yours, drenched in your blood, shaking with the ache of it—he’ll whisper it like a prayer:

"You’re mine. You’ve always been mine."

He rehearsed it for weeks.

Every angle, every word. He built the sentence like a coffin, nails hammered in, wood smoothed down until it gleamed with false normalcy. He’d say it with that bright, easy grin—the Dick Grayson smile, the golden boy mask polished to perfection. The kind of smile that made people trust him. The kind of smile that made you lean closer.

He thought you’d hesitate. He thought you’d laugh, maybe tilt your head, maybe chew your lip while your brain weighed the invitation. He was ready for all of it. Ready to swallow rejection like glass if he had to. Ready to tear his own insides out and lay them at your feet if it meant you’d look at him longer.

But then—

"Sure."

You said it like it was nothing. Like you weren’t cracking his skull open with that single word. Like you weren’t driving a hook through his chest and yanking him forward.

So easy. So eager.

It was obscene.

Your yes echoed in his ribs, bounced around like a trapped animal, clawing at bone. He felt it in his teeth, in the soft tender meat of his stomach. His knees almost buckled with it. His grin—the one he wore like armor—nearly split wider than his skin could allow. For a moment, he swore he tasted blood, copper hot at the back of his throat.

You didn’t know what you’d done. Of course you didn’t. You thought it was simple. A date. Coffee. Maybe dinner. You didn’t know you had just pressed your thumbprint into his marrow, signed your name into his lungs.

Because now it wasn’t fantasy. Now it wasn’t dream-stitching in the dark. Now he had permission.

And permission made him dangerous.

That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, your voice replaying over and over until it warped into something monstrous. “Sure.” He heard it like a chant, like a dirge. He imagined carving the word into his arm, letter by letter, until it festered. He imagined peeling his own chest open in front of you on that date, showing you the cathedral he’d built inside himself with your face plastered on every wall. He imagined you smiling across the table, unaware of how he wanted to crawl into your mouth and stitch himself into your throat just so he could live in your voice forever.

The thought made him shake. Made him dig his nails into his palms until half-moons of blood welled up.

He couldn’t sleep. Not when your yes was still dripping through him like candle wax.

He wanted to preserve it. Bottle it. Smear it across his skin like war paint. And he wanted to make you say it again. And again. And again until your lips cracked and bled from repetition. Until your voice was nothing but his name.

Yes, yes, yes—always yes.

And when the date came, you’d walk in so casually, maybe with your hair a little out of place, maybe with your sleeve rolled up just so, exposing the tender wrist where a vein pulsed blue beneath the skin. And he’d sit there smiling, while inside, the monster rattled its cage, whispering how easy it would be to grab that wrist, sink his teeth in, drink until you were hollow.

But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Because now you belonged to him in a way you didn’t even realize. And he’d savor it.

He’d savor you.

The café smelled like burnt sugar and espresso.

A safe place. A normal place. Couples dotted the room, laughter spilling soft against the clink of ceramic cups. To everyone else, it was mundane. To him, it was a stage.

You sat across from him, chin propped in your hand, smiling like you weren’t holding a loaded weapon in your mouth every time you said his name.

“So…” you stirred your drink absently, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Do you do this a lot? Take people out for coffee?”

He tilted his head, smile sharp but sweet. “Only when I really want to.”

The words landed in his own ears like a confession. But you only laughed softly, stirring your cup faster, the spoon clinking. That sound went straight into him, metallic and holy, like church bells echoing down the hollow hall of his ribcage.

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you say yes to strangers often?”

You shrugged, lips curling. “Only when they’ve got really nice eyes.”

And there it was. A blade slipped between his ribs. His eyes. His cursed, cursed eyes that had seen too much, taken too much, bathed in blood and darkness. You thought they were nice. You said it so easily. Like you weren’t digging your nails into the meat of his soul, carving yourself into the softest part of him.

Inside, he was screaming. Inside, he was dragging his face across the asphalt, peeling his skin off, howling at the sky.

But outside, he just chuckled, ducking his head a little, playing bashful. “You’ll make me blush.”

And God, he wanted to. He wanted to split his own skin open right there at the table, let the blood rise up in his cheeks until it painted the whole café red. He wanted to show you how deep blush could go—down to muscle, down to tendon, down to the slick shine of bone.

Instead, he sipped his coffee, hand steady even as his pulse roared like war drums in his ears.

You leaned in then, just slightly, your wrist brushing the table, the thin blue river beneath your skin glowing in his vision. His eyes caught on it like barbed wire. His tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, imagining the taste of salt, of copper, of life itself flooding his mouth.

“So,” you asked, voice lighter now, teasing, “what’s the plan, Mr. Grayson? Coffee and then you disappear into the shadows again?”

His grin sharpened. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

The words trembled in him. A vow disguised as flirting. Not if you don’t want me to. Meaning: he’d follow you anywhere. Meaning: he’d haunt you, cling to you, sew himself into the lining of your skin if you gave him half a chance.

You laughed again, and he swore it rattled through his bones like chains.

“Good answer,” you said, and sipped your drink.

He didn’t even taste his own. The coffee was ash in his mouth. The only flavor that mattered was the phantom of you—the imagined warmth of your blood, the imagined sweetness of your breath.

The café around him blurred. He could feel his mask tightening, cracking. He wanted to drop it. Wanted to grab your face and press his forehead to yours until bone bruised bone, until he could crawl into your skull and see what your thoughts tasted like.

But instead—

“Want to take a walk after this?” he asked lightly, smile lazy, as if he weren’t already starving.

Your eyes lit up. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And there it was again. That yes. That merciless yes.

His fingers curled around his cup, porcelain squealing under the pressure. He loosened them quickly before it shattered.

“Perfect,” he said.

And inside, he was already building a shrine out of your bones.

The night unfolded like a vein slit open—slow, deliberate, pouring out its dark.

You ended up in his apartment. That was how it always happens in stories like this: a walk through lamplight streets, the faint brush of your arm against his, the bloom of silence between laughs, then his voice low at your ear, asking, “Do you want to come in?” And you, eager, radiant, saying yes.

That yes again. That blasphemous yes.

His place was clean, too clean, stripped bare like a morgue drawer. The sheets tucked in sharp, the air heavy with disinfectant and soap. He watched you step across his floor like you were walking on his ribs, each step bruising him, beautiful in its cruelty.

When you smiled at him, when you reached for his hand—something ruptured.

He pulled you in and kissed you. Hard. Desperate. His lips trembled against yours, because he wasn’t kissing, no, he was devouring, pressing himself inside your mouth like he could dissolve there. You gasped, and that sound—sharp, wet, human—was more intoxicating than blood.

And when it happened—when you let him push you down onto the bed, when your body opened beneath his—it wasn’t sex, it wasn’t love, it wasn’t anything the world had language for.

It was worship.

He worshipped you like a martyr splitting himself open on the altar. His hands shook as they traced your skin, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he thought you’d vanish if he blinked. He kissed your throat with the hunger of a drowning man, tasting salt, sweat, life.

But in his head, it was never just touch. No—every brush of his lips became violence reframed as prayer. He imagined your veins glowing beneath the surface, those blue rivers he wanted to carve open and drink from like communion wine. He imagined peeling you open and crawling inside, wearing your body like a shroud just to be closer.

He whispered against your skin, words tumbling raw and broken, half-sob, half-prayer:

“You don’t know—God, you don’t know what you do to me—how you ruin me—”

You only pulled him closer, your nails digging crescents into his back. He moaned against your collarbone, and it sounded like a death rattle, like something being born and killed in the same breath.

Your body wasn’t just a body—it was cathedral stone, it was marble cracked with holy light, it was the Sistine Chapel ceiling, and he was smearing himself across it like blood-stained paint. You were a knife slipped between his ribs, you were the maggots eating at his insides, you were the grave he’d crawl into willingly.

And he—he was a swarm of flies. He was a wound that wouldn’t heal. He was the rot that made flowers bloom brighter against the decay.

When he finally broke apart inside you, it felt less like release and more like annihilation. He clung to you, shaking, face pressed into your neck, breathing you in like a dog sniffing at carrion.

And when it was over, when your chest rose and fell soft and slow beside him, he didn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t. He watched you. He mapped every inch of you with his gaze, memorized you like scripture. He thought about how easy it would be to bite through the skin of your wrist, to mark you with something permanent, something bleeding.

“Mine.”

Barely a sound. Barely a breath.

A promise. A threat. A prayer.

You moved in.

Not in the neat way people move in with their boyfriends—cardboard boxes and cheerful arguments about where to put the couch. No. It was subtler, more insidious. One toothbrush left behind, then a sweater, then a drawer filling with things he touched when you weren’t looking. He smelled them, pressed them to his face like relics, like holy cloth that had soaked up your sweat, your skin.

And then one night—you didn’t go home. You stayed. And then another. Until your absence from your old apartment was just a shadow, a ghost with no teeth. Until the lease didn’t matter. Until every sound, every smell, every breath of you belonged in his apartment.

He couldn’t believe it. He almost laughed sometimes, sharp and ugly in the back of his throat, because you were here, you were here. Breathing in his bed, sitting at his table, leaving your fingerprints on his glassware. Like you’d crawled inside his ribcage and made a home of the wet red there.

And God, the way it changed him.

He’d wake in the night, heart thrashing like a rat in a trap, and there you were, curled beside him. Sleeping. Innocent. He would stare at your closed eyelids and imagine peeling them back, seeing the meat beneath, just to make sure you were real. He’d lay his palm on your chest, not for warmth, but to feel the rise and fall of your lungs. Sometimes he pressed too hard, left faint bruises like fingerprints burned into parchment. Just so he’d know you’d been there.

The apartment itself began to change. He started keeping it colder—so you’d need him, so you’d curl into his body for warmth. He stocked the fridge with the foods you liked but touched every package first, every fruit, every box, so they bore his fingerprints, so everything you consumed had already passed through him in some way.

And when you weren’t home, when you slipped out for groceries or air, he would walk through the rooms and touch everything you had touched. Your hairbrush. Your mug. The indentation in the couch cushion where you’d sat. He’d press his cheek to it and close his eyes, inhaling. He’d imagine you sitting there still, warm, laughing, alive. Sometimes he’d cry—ugly, heaving sobs—because the ghost of you in the furniture was almost more than he could bear.

At night, when you lay tangled with him, he whispered things into your hair. Not declarations of love. No—confessions, compulsions. Things no sane man should ever say.

“You’re not leaving. Ever. I’ll cut off your legs if I have to. God, I’ll feed you from my hands like a bird. I’ll sew us together if it keeps you from running.”

You only stirred in your sleep, maybe smiled faintly at the sound of his voice. And he shook against you, trembling with the miracle of it—how you didn’t hear the threat, only the lullaby.

Sometimes he dreamed of you rotting. Of waking up to find your skin sloughing off, your eyes milky, your smile bloated and split. He dreamed of you dead in his bed, mouth full of soil, hair crawling with worms. And instead of horror, it filled him with a strange, exquisite relief. Because even like that—even as carrion—you’d be his. Forever.

And in the daylight, he would kiss your shoulder, make you coffee, laugh with you like he was the boy everyone thought he was. But inside, inside he was a pit of teeth and rot and prayer.

Because now you lived with him. Now you were woven into the walls, the sheets, the very air. You were his ghost, his marrow, his parasite, his god.

And he knew he’d never let you leave.

Not alive.

SYNOPSIS. When they act like a pick me.

PAIRINGS. Yandere!batboys x Fem!reader

FEATURING. Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

NOTE. English is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistake.

DICK GRAYSON

You mention you like guys who work out once. Just once.

Suddenly Dick’s doing push ups in your vicinity like his life depends on it.

“Yeah, no big deal,” he says, voice just slightly too loud. “I did 500 this morning before patrol.”

He makes direct eye contact.

You blink. “…that’s nice, Dick.”

He grins. “You could… spot me sometime.”

“That’s not how push ups work.”

“I can make it work.”

He’s the king of humble bragging disguised as self deprecation:

“Ugh, I don’t even look that good in blue, do I? Be honest, you probably think Nightwing’s suit is too much, right?”

(He absolutely wants you to say you love it.)

He’ll show off his acrobat skills for no reason at all. You’ll be walking down the street, and he’ll suddenly somersault off a lamppost.

“Why are you like this?”

“Just keeping your life interesting, sweetheart.”

He tries so hard to be chill when you talk to someone else but you can see him deflate a little. Next thing you know, he’s sending you selfies at the gym with captions like:

“Just checking in 😅 Hope your day’s as strong as my biceps 💪✨”

JASON TODD

Jason’s the kind of guy who’ll scoff and roll his eyes when you compliment someone else—

“Oh, him? Yeah, bet he cries when his soy latte’s too hot.”

But then you compliment him, and he’s suddenly soft.

“Yeah? You think I’m… better looking than him?”

“No reason, just—yeah, that’s cool. Good taste.”

You mention liking bad boys and he gets all smug:

“Yeah, I mean, I did die once. Kinda ups my street cred.”

He’ll subtly angle for sympathy like it’s a competition.

“Nah, it’s fine, I’m used to people not liking me. You probably like the perfect, clean cut types.”

“Jason, literally no one said that.”

“Yeah, but you thought it.”

He acts like he doesn’t care but will 100% send you pictures of his bike out of nowhere.

“Just tuned her up. Thought you’d appreciate a man who knows how to handle heavy machinery.”

Translation: Tell me I look hot.

And when you do? Oh, he’s cooked. Instantly flustered, red ears, looking away.

“Yeah, whatever. I mean… I do look good.”

He says it, but his grin gives him away.

TIM DRAKE

Tim’s brand of pick me energy is subtle. Manipulative, even.

He’ll drop casual little lines like:

“I don’t sleep much. Been thinking about you—uh, the case. Thinking about the case.”

He wants you to think he’s the tragic, mysterious genius.

“You wouldn’t get it, it’s… dark, complicated.”

“Then explain it.”

He panic, “It’s classified.”

He’ll send you memes at 3 AM, just to see if you’re awake.

If you reply? Victory.

If you don’t? Expect him to mention it the next day:

“Couldn’t sleep last night. Guess I just needed someone to talk to.”

He acts all modest when you praise him:

“You’re really smart, Tim.”

“Nah, not really. Just… smarter than most people you know, probably.”

If you so much as mention another man’s intelligence, he short circuits.

“Oh, you think he’s smart? That’s cute. Does he have a working theory on multiversal ethical paradoxes?”

(“Tim, we were talking about a barista who can remember my order.”)

He tries to make you coffee one morning and it’s somehow awful, but he’s staring at you all hopeful like:

“I stayed up all night perfecting the ratio. You like it?”

“…it tastes like tears.”

“Yeah, mine.”

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian’s idea of a pick me moment is… well, warped.

He would rather die than admit he’s seeking your attention.

Yet every move he makes screams “pick me or perish.”

You compliment someone’s outfit?

“Hn. Their tailor clearly lacks taste. My shirt is superior in fabric and cut.”

You say you like art?

“I paint. Far better than anyone you know.”

He’ll randomly offer you fruit he sliced himself like a tiny medieval prince:

“Eat. It’s fresh. I chose the ripest one for you.”

He insists he doesn’t care what you think—then asks:

“Do you find me… tolerable? …Aesthetically?”

You blink. “What?”

“Answer quickly. I don’t have all day.”

When you call him cute, he glares at first—then preens.

“Tch. I suppose I am… adequate.”

(He will be smiling about it for the next week.)

If you laugh at someone else’s joke, he interrupts with the coldest:

“That wasn’t funny.”

Then tries to tell a joke himself.

It’s not funny either.

But he stares at you expectantly until you pretend to laugh.

He nods, smug. “See? I’m hilarious.”

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Seems you only have five champions. Six. Ser Lyonel is knighting Raymun Fossoway. We will fight you six against seven. I'm afraid it is not permitted.

[ masterlist ] do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

you use the magic words on dex a lot.

“i want…”

and god.

god, it works like fucking magic.

you say it soft enough, sweet enough, maybe with that tiny little pout you do when you know he’s already looking at you too hard, and suddenly?

done.

whatever it is.

“i want coffee.”

you don’t even finish the sentence before he’s already moving.

“i want that dress.”

doesn’t matter if it’s expensive.

doesn’t matter if he can’t really afford it.

doesn’t matter if he has to skip meals for a week after.

you want it.

so you get it.

because that’s dex.

poor, pathetic dex.

always standing there like a dog waiting for instructions. Head tilted. eyes too intense. too eager.

“need anything else?”

no, seriously.

he says it like he means it.

like maybe if he’s useful enough, good enough, obedient enough, you’ll finally look at him the way he looks at you.

which is embarrassing, honestly.

because wow.

he looks at you like a starving man watches someone hold bread.

like devotion carved itself into flesh and decided to ruin a perfectly unstable man.

and you?

you’re kind of awful.

a real piece of shit, actually.

because you know.

you know exactly what you’re doing.

you know he’d crawl through broken glass if you asked nicely enough.

know he’d ruin himself just because you sighed and sounded disappointed.

know all it takes is—

“i want…”

—and suddenly he’s listening harder than he’s breathing.

but hey.

you’re not forcing him.

right?

you never put a gun to his head.

never made him do anything.

you just ask.

sweetly.

casually.

like it means nothing.

and he—

god.

he acts like every request is some holy fucking mission.

you want to tie him up while you milk him dry?

you want to scratch and bite him until he bleed?

you want to take your anger out on him by beating him?

you want him to beg on his knees while he's crying?

done.

you once said, jokingly, “I want someone to stop bothering me.”

you didn’t mean anything serious.

you forgot about it in like ten minutes.

dex didn’t.

of course he didn’t.

because dex hears things differently.

you say annoying coworker.

dex hears problem.

you say i hate when people stare at me.

Dex hears threat.

you say i wish people would leave me alone.

and suddenly people start leaving you alone.

completely.

permanently.

funny how that works.

but you don’t ask questions.

you’re smart enough not to.

mostly because when you look at him after—when he’s standing there all quiet, awkward, hands twitching at his sides, waiting—

waiting for praise.

jesus christ.

it does something to you.

you can hear your heart beating in your ears.

you can feel your mouth watering.

you can feel the wetness between your legs.

because he doesn’t even want anything huge.

that’s the fucked up part.

doesn’t ask for money.

doesn’t ask for favors.

doesn’t even really ask for you.

he just—

he wants to be useful.

useful and needed.

maybe a soft “thank you.”

maybe your hand brushing his arm for a second too long.

maybe a tiny smile.

and he carries that shit for weeks.

weeks.

like a dog finally getting pet after sitting outside in the rain.

honestly, pathetic.

but pathetic in a way that makes you keep doing it.

because there’s something dangerously addicting about having someone this devoted.

someone who hears “I want” like it’s scripture.

someone who would destroy himself smiling if it meant you’d say—

“good job, dex.”

god.

you swear that man nearly melts every single time.

and maybe—maybe—you’re kinder than people give you credit for.

after all…

you do pat him on the head sometimes.

how generous of you.

❝      friendship was supposed to make things easier. that's what dex keeps telling himself. you're his friend now. he gets to see you, talk to you, walk beside you after work, sit across from you while you laugh and ramble and force him to try drinks he never would've ordered himself. but somewhere along the way, something starts changing.⠀⠀❞⠀ 

◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 5 of series. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4. fem reader. obsessive dex. jealousy. dex is fucked in the head. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.

After that, seeing you becomes part of his routine.

Not a habit.

Something worse.

Habits can be broken.

This settles itself deeper than that.

The first morning he walks into the café after you agreed to be his friend, the bell above the door jingles softly.

And before he even sees you—

he hears you.

Laughing.

Somewhere behind the counter.

The sound reaches him first.

Then your head lifts.

Your eyes find him immediately.

And your entire face changes.

It happens so fast he almost thinks he imagined it.

One second you're talking to a coworker.

The next—

you light up.

Actually light up.

Your smile stretches across your face so suddenly it almost startles him.

"Dex!"

His stomach does something strange.

Something painful.

Something warm.

You sound happy.

Happy.

Because he walked through a door.

Nobody has ever sounded happy because he arrived somewhere before.

Not like that.

And then you're already moving around the counter.

Walking toward him.

Fast.

Like you were waiting.

His brain immediately starts trying to find another explanation.

You're just friendly.

You're like this with everyone.

Don't be stupid.

But then you grab his wrist.

Just casually.

Naturally.

Like you've been doing it forever.

And before he can even make it to his usual booth, you're pulling him away from it.

"Nope."

"What?"

"You can't sit over there."

His eyes flick toward the dark corner automatically.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

You tug his hand again.

"Come on."

And suddenly he's sitting at a table much closer to the counter.

Close enough that he can actually see you working.

Close enough that you can see him.

Close enough that every time he lifts his head—

there you are.

The realization makes something flutter unpleasantly inside his chest.

You return to work afterward.

Customers keep coming.

Orders keep coming.

People keep talking.

The world keeps moving.

But every few minutes your eyes find him again.

And every single time—

you smile.

A real smile.

The one that reaches your eyes.

The one that makes your cheeks lift.

The one that somehow feels directed entirely at him.

And every single time his chest tightens.

Because he doesn't know what to do with that.

He doesn't know where to put that feeling.

People aren't supposed to smile at him like that.

People smile because they're being polite.

Because they're professional.

Not because they're genuinely happy to see him.

But you do.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A week passes.

Then two.

Then three.

And before long, everybody at the café knows him.

Not well.

But enough.

Enough that nobody asks if he's waiting for someone anymore.

Enough that your coworkers glance between the two of you and smile knowingly.

Enough that his usual table is unofficially his.

Enough that you stop asking what he wants.

"Banana milkshake?"

"I was gonna order coffee."

"Too bad."

"What?"

"You need to try this."

And suddenly you're already making something else.

Dex watches you move around the different machines.

You always do this.

You decide he's trying something new.

And then you stand there waiting afterward.

Watching him.

Expectantly.

Like a parent waiting for a child to eat vegetables.

"Well?"

He takes a sip.

You stare.

His stomach twists.

You stare harder.

"Weeell?"

"It's great."

Immediately your face brightens.

"There."

Like you've personally accomplished something.

Every time.

Every single time.

You care.

You actually care.

The realization never gets easier.

At first you wouldn't let him pay either.

That lasted approximately four days.

"No."

"I'm paying."

"Dex."

"I'm paying."

"Dex!"

"I'm paying."

And then somehow he ends up paying while you're glaring at him.

You never actually stop him.

You just complain about it every time.

Outside the café things begin happening naturally.

At least naturally for you.

Nothing about this feels natural to Dex.

You walk together after work.

Sometimes just for a few blocks.

Sometimes for an hour.

Sometimes until neither of you notice how late it's gotten.

You introduce him to food trucks.

Street vendors.

Tiny restaurants squeezed between larger buildings.

Places he would've never entered on his own.

You seem to know everybody.

Or maybe everybody just likes you.

The distinction feels irrelevant.

You always talk while you eat.

Always.

About customers.

Coworkers.

Stories.

Random things.

You fill silence effortlessly.

And Dex mostly listens.

Because listening to you feels easy.

Because your voice never feels like noise.

Because somehow his brain makes room for it.

And the more you talk—

the more he learns.

You love your friends.

That becomes obvious immediately.

Painfully obvious.

"Karen stole my sweater again."

✶ SLAP AT THE FACE THAT EATS ME! pt.¹

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ aerion sits in his psychiatrist’s office holding himself together with threadbare control, every word carefully rehearsed while his body betrays him in small, restless tremors. the news that you are returning fractures something already unstable inside him—turning therapy into interrogation, silence into pressure, and memory into a living thing that won’t stop breathing against his ribs. and as questions continue to land like quiet blades, it becomes painfully clear: your coming back isn’t just an event… it’s a pressure point waiting to break him open.

including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1. horror/psychological thriller. modern au. sick obsession. twisted feelings. reader is aerion's twin sister. incest. narcissistic aerion. depressed aerion. pathetic aerion. substance misuse. dark reader. sadistic reader. reader have (aspd) aka she's a psychopath. she's aerion selfobject. aerion have grandiose delusional disorder. aerion is a loser honestly. both aerion and reader are fucked in the head. dead dove do not eat. masterlist. gifs by @.speed-s. english is not my first language. ✶

You're coming back.

Fuck.

The thought hits before he even sits down.

You're coming back.

Not a dream.

Not a rumor.

Not one of those stupid family gossip chains.

Real.

Actual.

Confirmed.

Aerion sits across from Mr. Smith and immediately regrets coming.

The office smells like coffee.

Coffee and paper.

Paper and dust.

Dust and old books.

His skin feels wrong.

Too tight.

His hands won't stay still.

His knee won't stop bouncing.

Stop moving.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

It keeps bouncing.

Mr. Smith notices.

The man notices everything.

That's his entire job.

Aerion hates him for it.

"How are you doing today, Aerion?"

Fine.

Lie.

Bad.

Lie.

High.

Lie.

Sober.

Lie.

Miserable.

...

Aerion smiles.

"I'm doing fine, doc. Don't worry about it."

The pen moves.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Writing something down already.

Amazing.

World record.

Three seconds.

Aerion stares at the notebook.

What is it today?

Agitated?

Guarded?

Hostile?

Poor insight?

The classics.

"But you seem nervous."

Nervous?

The word almost makes him laugh.

Nervous.

Like he's giving a presentation.

Like he's about to go on a first date.

Nervous.

The understatement is so ridiculous he actually lets out a short laugh.

"Nah, doc."

His voice sounds normal.

Good.

Normal is good.

Normal keeps people calm.

Normal keeps his father calm.

Normal keeps social workers calm.

Normal keeps doctors calm.

"I'm just excited. My sister's coming back after all."

The silence afterward is tiny.

Less than a second.

But Aerion catches it.

His eyes immediately lock onto Mr. Smith.

There.

There it is.

That look.

That tiny little flicker.

Concern.

Mr. Smith recovers quickly.

Too quickly.

But Aerion saw it.

"You mean Y/N?"

Who the fuck else would I mean?

The thought comes instantly.

Sharp.

Mean.

Aerion swallows it.

"Who else?"

Too aggressive.

Shit.

Too aggressive.

Mr. Smith notices.

Of course he notices.

The pen moves again.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Aerion wants to grab the notebook.

Just for a second.

Just to see.

Just to confirm.

Just to know what everybody keeps writing about him.

He wonders if his file is thick.

It has to be thick.

Years of therapy.

Years of evaluations.

Years of medication.

Years of incidents.

History.

Such a funny word.

History.

"How do you feel about her coming back?"