⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Barely a sound. Barely a breath.
A promise. A threat. A prayer.
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.
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