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ৎ୭. . . VIRAGO ─── Damian Wayne

Part 1 & 2

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Between laughter, jealousy, and secrets, a mother and a lover compete for the heart of someone who has already chosen their path. Harley clings to the past. Damian waits for the future. And in between, a story of growth, goodbyes, and unbreakable love. Because in the end, no matter where they go, there will always be a home to return to.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 9,4k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Dark themes, violence, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships (not Damian and Reader), destruction,

「Strong, brave or warrior woman

who demonstrates exemplary or heroic qualities」

Damian Wayne was not meant to attend classes like an ordinary kid. No. He was the grandson of the Head of the Demon, the legitimate heir to a bloody and millennia-old tradition. But he was also the son of the Bat, and as long as Bruce Fucking Wayne ruled his family, he would fulfill the tedious duty of attending Gotham's most elitist private school.

He thought it would be easy. Study and that's it. Simple. But soon he realized that being a “normal” student at Gotham High was like being a wolf trying to pass as a sheep.

His intelligence—his most valuable weapon—was seen as an eccentricity, almost an indelible stain in an environment of boys who believed their gilded surnames and even more gilded wallets were all that mattered. He couldn’t make friends. The kids looked at him as if he were a robot from a nightmare with his cutting remarks and sharp vocabulary. The girls only saw his last name, not him.

Until you showed up.

Damian hated group projects. He hated even more when everyone pounced on him like hungry crows as soon as the teacher uttered the words: “Choose a partner.” It was always the same. “Can we work together, Wayne?” “I’m sure you’ll do great, right?” “My dad says your dad is very important.”

That day, he saw you dozing in the back row, your head tilted on the desk while a trickle of drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips. Despicable. Although... at least honest.

“Do you want to do the project with me?” he asked, because his father’s basic education forced him to phrase it as a question.

“You’re going to do the project with me!” was what you heard, although nothing could be further from the truth.

The next thing happened so quickly that Damian had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination born from his frustration. You jumped as if you’d received an electric shock and hugged him so tightly that for a moment he feared you might break a rib.

“Yes, yes, yes! It’s going to be an explosive and fascinating project! Can you imagine? We could make a volcano that really erupts or a robot that shoots confetti or...!”

Damian froze as your high-pitched voice spewed nonsensical ideas with the same excitement as a dog seeing its favorite toy. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of madness and innocence he had never seen before.

“You're annoying,” he murmured.

“And you're such a ray of sunshine!” you cheerfully replied, still not letting go of him.

It was at that precise moment that Damian understood this project was going to be a nightmare. But there was something about you that intrigued him... maybe because you were the first person who really looked at him and not at his last name.

But of course, he would never admit that out loud.

Alfred tried to hide his surprise when you showed up at Wayne Manor to study. Of course, he concealed it well behind his usual neat British demeanor, but Damian noticed. Who wouldn’t?

First, you said you had walked there. Who the hell walks to Wayne Manor from Gotham City? That already raised suspicions. But the real shock came when Damian greeted you at the door.

Wild hair, cut in a style that screamed rebellion and creativity, with streaks of red and blue that made it look like you had just run through a furious rainbow. Contemporary, colorful clothing that anyone would say you had fought with a clown and won. Brightly colored knee-high boots that clicked on the marble entrance.

Even Duke, who had bulletproof patience, peeked through the door to take a look. The guy expected another mini Dracula like Damian, not a clown doll freshly escaped from a carnival.

“Wow, this mansion looks like Dracula's house,” you exclaimed, looking at the walls with wide, bright eyes as he led you through the hallways to the study room.

Damian glanced at you sideways, ready to unleash a sarcastic comment... but when he realized it, he was already laughing. Yes, laughing. Something he hadn’t even been sure he could do without his lungs refusing to cooperate until that day.

As strange as it sounded, he was having fun.

You were explosive, loud, witty, but good at what you did. It was like working alongside a lightning bolt in colorful sneakers. And when you focused, you were genuinely smart. Odd, yes, but clever. Something that didn’t happen often among the superficial crowd of Gotham High.

As the afternoon wore on, you loosened up and told him a bit about your life. How you lived with your mother, a woman with the same chaotic euphoria as you, but obsessed with your father: a gangster whose name you didn’t mention, but described with a mix of disdain and confused affection.

“My mom loves me, but since she always does what dad says, I have to learn to take care of myself.” You said this while finishing painting a perfectly detailed bomb on the project, as if talking about family traumas was as casual as discussing the weather.

Damian watched you in silence. That phrase hung in the air like a haunting ghost he understood all too well.

“Sometimes I’m scared... that she’ll choose him over me.”

He understood. Of course he did. Because sometimes he was also afraid his mother would choose anything before him. Power, legacy... the League.

But of course, he wasn’t going to get sentimental in front of you. Especially with the hidden audience behind the door. Alfred, your pets, Jason, Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Babs, Duke, even Bruce, all spying with the same discretion as an elephant in a tea room.

“Everything okay, Wayne?” you asked, tilting your head with a smile so wide it seemed out of place in a castle like that.

“Sure,” he replied, not giving it much thought.

And so they continued working. He discovering that maybe not all people who came into his life were destined to be a problem.

Of course, being you, that was just a matter of time.

Damian had never had a real friend. Not one who wanted nothing from him other than his company. So, when the project ended and you kept showing up to pounce on him with a loud, overflowing hug of energy, he didn’t know what to do.

Dick thought it was charming. “Friends do fun things together,” he told him with that broad smile that seemed straight out of a damn cereal commercial. “They go out for ice cream, watch movies, or just... are there.”

Damian didn’t quite understand the last part. But he understood enough to know that your eyes lit up every time you mentioned the word “baseball.” So one day, without even knowing why, he took you to the practice field.

“Really?” you exclaimed, with such pure excitement that it almost felt like an insult.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged. But even he knew it sounded too clumsy to be believable.

What happened next was a wonderful chaos. You swung the bat with the same passion a warrior would wield a sword. Every hit you made was accompanied by a shout of joy or some laughter that escaped you as if you couldn’t contain it.

Damian threw the ball to you over and over again, not completely understanding why it was so much fun. But the fact that you were happy seemed to make him happy too. And although he would never admit it out loud, it became almost a weekly ritual.

Sometimes, after practice, he’d drag you to an ice cream shop. Your way of devouring absurd flavors like “Smurf Ice Cream” or “Sour Caramel” was fascinating. Ridiculous, but fascinating.

“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said, arms crossed as he tried not to laugh.

“Well, you have ice in your heart!” you cheerfully replied, licking the ice cream as if that were the most logical answer in the world.

Other times, he’d take you to watch movies, because Dick insisted that “Friends watch movies together, Dami.” Of course, he didn’t expect you to prefer the bloodiest and most absurd horror films possible.

“Look, look, here comes the monster with fifty knives in its head,” you commented between laughs, enjoying the terrible performances more than the plot itself.

It was absurd. Everything they did together was absurd. But it made him happy. It made him feel... free. Like for the first time, he didn’t have to be the heir, the warrior, or the perfect son. Just Damian.

But, like everything in his life, happiness lasted as long as a blink.

He arrived at school one day, with the usual hope of seeing you dozing in the back row, drool falling from your mouth and the smile ready to yell something ridiculous that made him feel like everything was okay.

But you weren’t there.

The teachers told him you had dropped out. That you didn’t have the funds to continue at that luxurious and superficial school that had never been made for someone like you.

Damian tried to find you. He turned to contacts he shouldn’t have used for something so... personal. But your name sounded like a ghost. No trace. No signal.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Finally, he accepted that maybe you were never going to show up again.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do well. Try to forget you.

But it didn’t matter how many times he repeated that he didn’t care, that you were nothing, there was always an echo of your laughter resonating in his mind. There was always that absurd memory of you excitedly shouting about hitting a ball with a bat, as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.

And worst of all was that, in a way, it really was.

Years passed in the blink of an eye, dragging him into the whirlwind of Gotham, the League, the Teen Titans, and everything that meant being Robin. Fights with assassins, gods, and impossible creatures became his routine. He had grown, changed, learned to live with the weight of the mantle he wore.

He had made friends. Jon Kent, always so ridiculously optimistic that he sometimes seemed like a sun with legs. Flatline, with her dark humor and that dangerous smile that challenged him daily. And of course, the Titans, a chaotic group of teenagers dealing with their problems while saving the world.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him to see you again.

It was his first day of high school. Gotham’s private school was just as ridiculous as always, full of rich brats who cared more about the latest brand of clothing than anything that really mattered. But he was there for a reason: to blend his life as Robin with the facade of a normal teenager.

And then, there you were.

You had grown. Your hair, although still carrying that rebellious essence, now fell in tousled, styled locks, with touches of red and blue that shone under the fluorescent lights. The clothes you wore were... eye-catching, but not childish. It was as if you had found your own style playing between androgynous and extravagant. Everything about you seemed to challenge the world.

But the worst, or the best, was that you were still you. That wide, sparkling smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter at any moment. Your eyes sparkled with the same intensity as always, as if you hadn’t lost a shred of that wild euphoria that had so bewildered him.

And then you turned and saw him.

“Damian!” you shouted with that exaggerated voice that seemed like a show in itself. You didn’t care that the whole hallway turned to look at you. You didn’t care about anything. Because all you did was launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him as if no years had passed.

“What the hell...?” Damian exclaimed, not knowing whether to step back or return the hug. In the end, his body decided for him, and his arms awkwardly tightened around you.

“What are you doing here?!” you said, with a tone that mixed genuine surprise and pure joy. It was as if you had never left. As if you had never been a ghost he had desperately tried to forget.

“I study here,” he replied with that seriousness that sometimes made people mistake him for a grumpy doll. But you just laughed, as always.

“Wow! I never thought Dracula would have to deal with algebra like a mere mortal.”

“I’m not a vampire,” he grunted, frowning even though a part of him wanted to smile. It was absurd how you returned to his life as if nothing had happened.

“Sure, sure. But you’re still just as grumpy.” You finally let him go, although you remained close enough that he couldn’t escape.

And that was it. In a matter of seconds, you were already talking to him about your things as if years hadn’t passed. As if you hadn’t left him with an inexplicable void when you disappeared.

You had changed, yes. Taller, with more attitude, as if challenging the entire world had become your new favorite pastime. But you were still you. Chaotic, unpredictable, and... radiant.

“So, are we skipping class and doing something fun?” you asked with a mischievous smile, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.

“No,” he replied automatically. Because of course, he was Damian Wayne. The responsible one, the serious one, the one who never strayed from the right path.

“Bah, always so boring. But I missed you, Dami. I’m glad you’re here.” And your voice sounded softer, almost sweet, as you took a small step back and smiled at him with that eternal spark in your eyes.

Damian didn’t know what to say. Because somehow, those words had ignited something within him that he thought he had buried along with the memory of that girl who dragged him to play baseball and laugh at bad movies.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally admitted, in a whisper so low he almost thought he had imagined it.

But the smile you gave him was enough to know you had heard him.

Your friendship with Damian had picked up right where it had left off. Among laughter, challenges, and outings that didn’t always end well but were always fun. Dinners at Wayne Manor became a regular occurrence, with Bruce trying to be the awkward dad and all the Batkids secretly laughing at how different you were from any friend Damian had ever had before.

Because let’s be honest, you didn’t care one bit if Damian was rich, serious, or mortally sarcastic. To you, he was simply Dami. A grumpy, prickly kid who, despite his tough facade, always ended up giving in to your crazy ideas.

Of course, he never told you about his other life. Not about Robin, not about his mother, not about the thousand and one dark secrets he carried. But it wasn’t like he needed to. Because sometimes, people spoke.

The rumors at school were like whispers that slid through the hallways like snakes. Robin was always watching from the same place, an abandoned building in downtown Gotham. Like a proud crow surveying the city.

And your gang—yes, because you had made new friends too—challenged you to something no one else had dared: throwing paint at Robin from the rooftop. A prank. A game. What could go wrong?

The answer: Everything.

That night was your first big teenage stupidity. You climbed the building with a can of green paint in hand, trembling with nerves but refusing to back down. And there he was, just as they said he would be, the dark cape fluttering in the wind as his eyes scanned the city as if every shadow was a potential enemy.

You didn’t think too much about it. Because if you had, you would have realized it was a terrible idea. You simply raised the can and threw the paint at him with all your strength.

The green splattered on his right shoulder, spattering in irregular patterns on his cape and part of his mask. At first, Robin stood still. As if his brain refused to process what had just happened. But then, he slowly turned his head towards you, those green eyes glaring at you as if you had committed the worst sin in the universe.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared in a voice so low and furious that a chill ran down your spine.

“Oh, shit!” you exclaimed, with a nervous smile. Because of course, everything was funny until the paint touched the bird.

Without waiting for a response, you took off running. And he was right behind you.

You knew he was fast. Everyone said so. But you never thought he would be this fast. His shadow moved like a damn ghost behind you, his footsteps echoing on the rooftops as you jumped from building to building like a deranged goat.

“Wait!” he shouted with a tone that mixed anger and disbelief. As if he couldn’t believe someone could be foolish enough to throw paint at him and then try to escape.

“Not a chance!” you yelled back, almost laughing as your lungs burned from effort. Because yes, you were terrified. But you were also excited. Because at the end of the day, you were you. The chaotic girl who never knew when to stop.

But running 20 kilometers wasn’t exactly something your body could handle. And when your legs began to weaken and your breathing turned into an irregular gasp, he seized the opportunity.

He leaped from a higher building and landed right in front of you, his eyes shining with a wild fury that almost seemed inhuman.

“Game over,” he declared, his voice so low and threatening that it almost made you laugh at how dramatically he sounded.

“Are you going to kill me, crazy bird? Because if you do, I’ll be the happiest dead girl in Gotham,” you replied, trying to sound brave but aware that you probably looked like a delirious idiot.

“No. But I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, and before you could react, he had picked you up as if you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.

“Hey! Put me down! You’re lucky I don’t have anything explosive right now, because I’d blow your butt up!” you shouted as you kicked the air and tried to break free.

“That’s what worries me,” he murmured, with that irritated tone that characterized him so well.

The next thing you knew, he took you to an alley where, surprisingly, he didn’t throw you against the wall or lecture you like a boring adult. Instead, he set you down on the ground and crossed his arms, looking at you with a mix of exasperation and... curiosity?

You noticed something strange, even under the thick layer of green paint.

That hair, that posture, those calculated movements. Everything fit together in an unsettling way.

“...Damian!?” Your eyes widened, surprise barely contained in your voice.

From that moment on, everything changed. You discovered your friend was Robin, and you never missed an opportunity to tease him about it. But between the jokes and the knowing smiles, you swore him something with all the sincerity you could muster.

“I’ll never say a word. I’ll keep it forever.”

And so it was. The pact sealed with the innocence of youth remained intact. Until one ordinary afternoon, returning from the baseball field with the sun setting on your backs, you decided to confide in him your own truth.

“There’s something I need to tell you...” you murmured, looking down, kicking an imaginary stone as you walked.

Damian frowned, alert as always.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mom... well, the one who raised me... is Harley Quinn.” You blurted it out, as if the words weighed more with each second they remained trapped in your chest.

He blinked, surprised, before opening his mouth.

“The crazy Harley?”

“Don’t call my mom crazy!” you retorted firmly, even though your voice wavered a little. “She was going through a rough patch with my dad, that’s all...”—You diverted your gaze before adding—“Besides, she’s not my biological mom, so I don’t have any physical or mental issues... other than some weird habits, I guess. So don’t worry.”

Damian watched you in silence, his calculating gaze trying to unravel the truth behind your words. But in his eyes, there was also something more. Something akin to acceptance.

Because deep down, they both knew they shared secrets too big for their age. And that bound them in a way no one else could.

And so, the more secrets they shared, the closer they became. Confessions in hushed voices under starry skies or during endless walks united them in a way neither of them expected. Until one day, something changed.

Damian asked you out. Not to train, not to spend time teasing each other, but to dinner. Formal. In an upscale restaurant, with white tablecloths and lit candles. You showed up in a dress that, although eye-catching as always, exuded a unique elegance. He had also made an effort; the usual rigidity in his posture softened by a barely concealed nervousness.

That night was different. For the first time, they allowed themselves to truly see each other, beyond the jokes or the friendship they had built. They spoke with an honesty that only arises when two souls decide to fully open up. And at some point in the conversation, they both surprised themselves thinking the same thing: “How didn’t I realize before how attractive he is?”

At the end of the evening, everything was perfectly planned, courtesy of Dick’s unmistakable intervention, who seemed to enjoy organizing that special moment far too much.

Damian mentally prepared himself to take the big step as they walked back toward your neighborhood. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—it was you who spoke first.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” you blurted out, without preambles, without introductions.

Damian blinked, visibly taken aback. His lips parted as if searching for an appropriate response, but in the end, he could only sigh and smile resignedly.

“I was supposed to say that,” he murmured in a tone that tried to sound annoyed, although amusement sparkled in his eyes.

From that day on, everything changed. You spent both mornings and nights together, sharing something much deeper than the simple camaraderie that had united you in the beginning. There was something authentic, warm, and solid in your relationship that neither of you was willing to let go.

But if anything defined Damian, it was his protectiveness. Perhaps it was his vigilant nature or his endless list of responsibilities, but he was always aware of everything that happened around you. He worried about whether you were eating well, about your complicated relationship with Harley, about the people you hung out with, and especially about keeping you away from any gang that might cross your path.

That’s how you came to an agreement: he would teach you to defend yourself. The training sessions became an essential part of your routine, as habitual as baseball games or nighttime walks. Damian taught you to fight with the seriousness that characterized him, correcting every movement with patience— or the closest he could get to patience. Sometimes, he even took you on missions from afar, showing you how to act in critical situations without exposing yourself too much.

Your relationship with Harley gradually deteriorated. At least for her.

For you, everything remained the same. Or so you thought.

The morning egg sandwich tradition, for example. That sacred tradition between mother and daughter. Once again, you walked together through the streets of Gotham, which miraculously, under the sunlight, seemed a little less frightening.

Harley, with her usual energy, approached the food cart and ordered two egg sandwiches without a second thought.

But this time, you stopped her.

“Today I prefer a vegan sandwich, thanks.”

You said it without looking up from your phone, distracted by some nonsense on the screen.

Harley froze. Her white-painted face contorted into an expression of absolute horror, as if you had said you wanted to leave Gotham to join a Tibetan monastery.

“A... what?”

“A vegan sandwich,” you repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Harley’s eyes widened like saucers. She looked at the vendor as if expecting him to say it was a joke. But no, the betrayal was real.

From there, the changes became increasingly evident.

Friday taco nights with the girls, once sacred, disappeared.

“It’s taco Friday, kiddo!” Harley reminded you with enthusiasm.

“I can’t, I have plans,” you replied dismissively.

Your plans? Watching movies at “a friend’s” house. A mysterious friend. One who Harley didn’t know... or maybe she did.

Before, you always matched in your outfits, wearing matching leather jackets or some shared reference in your attire. But now you bought your own clothes. You dressed how you wanted, without worrying about what she thought.

Harley tried to seek support from her friends.

“Is she going through something? Is she in a weird phase?”

“She’s growing up, Harls,” Ivy and Selina told her with a smile that said “this is normal.”

But for her, it wasn’t.

Desperate, she turned to Batman.

“You have, what? Five kids? Six? Help me, bat!”

Batman merely looked at her in silence, with his typical “I have no time for this” face.

“I’m not exactly a parenting role model.”

Harley huffed. Yes, that was crystal clear.

But then she started noticing things.

You came home with bruises. You were evasive with her questions. You didn’t tell her anything.

At first, she thought maybe you were just being reserved. Teenager, independent. But then, seeing you arrive hurt once again, with a furrowed brow and an evasive look...

She thought of the worst, that maybe you were still hanging out with gangs of aspiring teenage killers or drug lords, that the Joker had found you and decided to take you as a bomb kid, or worse... that you had a secret boyfriend who was abusive to you... just like she had experienced.

She had had enough.

She wasn’t going to sit by while you drifted further and further away.

So she took matters into her own hands.

It was a quiet night... until it stopped being so.

Four in the morning. As usual, you were ready to say goodbye with a kiss at the window, as you always did. Something sweet, discreet... the norm.

But at the exact moment your lips barely brushed against Damian’s...

Chaos.

Three giant hyenas burst out from under your bed with growls that shook the walls. And as if that weren’t enough, Harley Quinn, in full ninja form, dropped from the ceiling with a baseball bat in hand.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!” she roared with the fury of a mother who had just discovered the ultimate betrayal.

Survival instinct took control.

You slammed the window shut, leaving Damian trapped in the railing as your mother and her hyenas tried to get to him.

“Mom, calm down!” you interposed between her and the window, raising your hands in a sign of peace.

Harley looked at you with a furrowed brow, her eyes blazing with fury.

“Calm down?! I just saw my little girl making out with that demon bird!”

“It’s not what it looks like...”

But it was what it looked like.

And worst of all was that Harley already hated Damian to begin with.

Because, among all the Robins, he was the one she could stand the least.

He was arrogant. He was bossy. He was Batman’s son.

And now... he was kissing her daughter.

Maybe this was karma for all the crimes Harley had committed in her life.

Or maybe... it was destiny giving her a direct punch in the face.

Literally, because at that moment she raised the bat with the intention of using it.

In the end, Harley had to swallow her words. And the rest is history.

It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be.

Because, after all, they both knew something was wrong. That things had changed.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.

For the first time in a long time, they sat down to talk. For real. No shouting, no all-out battles with hyenas involved. Just mother and daughter, trying to find their way back to each other.

Harley sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair.

“I wasn’t prepared for this,” she admitted softly.

And for the first time, you saw her vulnerable. Not the criminal, not the crazy psychologist, not the woman who could knock someone’s face off without a second thought. Just a scared mother.

“I wasn’t prepared for a baby, and now I’m supposed to be ready for you to grow up and become independent?” she let out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I can barely take care of myself!”

Her words hurt. Because you knew they were true.

But that didn’t change reality.

So you did what you knew best: you told her the truth.

All of it. From dating Damian to your nighttime escapades as a heroine.

She listened in silence, her lips pressed together and her arms crossed. She looked sulky, annoyed... but not surprised.

And in the end, she accepted reality. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.

Then she wrapped you in a hug.

A strong, crushing, desperate hug.

A hug that said everything words couldn’t.

That she loved you. That she would never stop loving you.

That she needed you, just as much as you needed her.

And at that moment, you knew.

That even though everything changed... even if you fought, argued, drove each other crazy... there would always be a common point.

You would always be Harley and her.

Whether it was stealing marshmallows at midnight or simply sharing a night under the stars.

Harley sighed against your hair, with a tired smile.

“Puberty sucks.”

For the first time in a long time, you laughed together.

“Yes, Mom...” you smiled. “It totally sucks.”

And then, everything changed again.

Now, you dated Damian normally while also spending time with your mother. A balance between two worlds that, for anyone else, would be impossible. But for you... well, let’s just say you were used to chaos.

Of course, life is never simple.

There were moments when everything went well. And then, out of nowhere, BOOM, explosive surprises at the worst possible time.

Like when Bruce Wayne, in an extreme gesture of formality—and perhaps hoping to prevent his son from becoming even more antisocial—invited you and Harley to dinner after you and Damian had been together for a year.

It almost felt like you were sealing a marriage.

You, in your naivety, thought it was just a quiet dinner. Something casual, relaxed, without pressure. You wore normal clothes, as you would any other day.

But Harley had other ideas.

“Casual?!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she pulled dresses from her wardrobe as if she were choosing outfits for the Oscars. “This isn’t just any dinner; this is a declaration of social war.”

“It’s just Bruce Wayne, Mom...”

“IT’S BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE. Do you know how many times he’s tried to throw me in Arkham? At least fifty! And now, I’m going to sit at his table, with class and elegance, and I’ll show him his son chose well!”

Spoiler: Harley's “elegance” consisted of a bright red sequined dress, shiny heels, and a faux fur coat... accompanied by her baseball bat, which she insisted on bringing “for safety.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. He was probably used to it by now.

But Damian did.

He spent the entire dinner with tense shoulders and a pure look of resignation as Harley threw him comments like:

“So, Birdie, what intentions do you have with my daughter?”

“Not enough to justify this interrogation.”

“Look at you being all clever! Hey, how about we have a game night? Something like... I don’t know... Russian Roulette.”

“Mom…”

Damian slowly sipped his water, wondering if it was really worth continuing this relationship.

But the worst came afterward.

When it was you who invited Damian over.

You thought you would be alone.

Beginner’s mistake.

Because the moment you settled with him on the couch, the door burst open, and Harley appeared, triumphant, with a giant bag of Chinese food.

“Surprise!” she sang, throwing herself onto the couch next to you two. “I brought food and a movie.”

Damian looked at you. You looked at Damian.

“Mom... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to spend time with you,” she replied, casually opening a box of noodles. “And with your boyfriend.”

Immediately, she turned on the TV and put on a movie... while staring intently at Damian.

Without blinking... For two hours.

At some point, Damian whispered in your ear:

“Your mom is analyzing my soul as if I were Katana.”

“Don’t worry, that’s her way of showing affection.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

And so the night passed, with Harley noisily chewing her Chinese food, Damian resisting the urge to pull out a sword purely for survival instinct, and you... well, you simply accepted your fate.

Soon it became clear as an irrefutable fact: Harley was jealous of Damian to the core.

No matter how much she said she had accepted you were growing up, that you weren’t a little girl anymore, that you had the right to your independence, the truth was...

She didn’t fully accept it.

And the worst part was that she didn’t even try to hide it.

Every time you were with Damian, she appeared.

It was as if she had a sixth sense for detecting when you were about to enjoy a romantic moment.

“Surprise!” she shouted one day, popping out from a trash can.

You almost fainted.

Damian, on the other hand, just sighed.

“How did you get in there?”

“Don’t underestimate a mother!”

Another day, you were walking hand in hand in the park, enjoying the silence, when suddenly...

“HELLO, LOVE BIRDS!”

Harley appeared from the treetop, dressed in a squirrel costume.

“Why are you dressed like that?!” you asked, horrified.

“Camouflage, sweetheart.”

Damian closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered:

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it...”

But Damian was smarter than she was.

And that hurt him.

Because every time Harley tried to get between you, he found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

When Harley decided to infiltrate an upscale restaurant disguised as a waitress to spy on your date, Damian simply said:

“Oh, thank you,” taking the menu she offered him. “Please bring me your most expensive dish.”

“Damian! It’s my mom!”

“Exactly, and if she wants to be a waitress, she should do it well.”

When Harley insisted on interrogating Damian about his future plans, he replied in a completely serious tone:

“I plan to marry your daughter and call you ‘mother-in-law’ until the end of time.”

“YOU WON’T!”

“Just to annoy you, I will.”

And so the years passed.

Despite Harley’s jealousy, you and Damian stayed together.

You overcame fights, challenges, family crises, villain attacks, and oh yes, the near end of the world.

And when adulthood arrived, when there were no more excuses, when life pushed you to make a decision, you made it.

You moved in with Damian.

It was a difficult goodbye.

Not because you wouldn’t see her again, but because it was the end of an era.

You stood at the front door, your bags ready, with Damian waiting for you in the car, and Harley...

Looking at you with an expression you had never seen before.

For the first time, she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t jealous, or annoyed, or dramatic.

Just... sad.

“So...,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “So this is how it goes, huh?”

“This is how it goes.”

“You become an adult, make your own decisions, leave with your boyfriend... and leave me alone like a crazy old woman.”

“Mom...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, raising a hand. “I’m strong. I can handle it. Just tell me one thing, sweetheart...”

She paused, her blue eyes shining with something between nostalgia and pride.

“Are you happy?”

It took you a moment to answer.

Because there were so many things to say.

So many memories, so many moments, so many laughs, so many absurd fights, so many times you wanted to escape but always came back.

And yet, you could only say what mattered.

“Yes, Mom. I’m happy.”

Harley took a deep breath.

And, without warning, hugged you.

A long, strong hug, one of those that leave a mark.

“Then...,” she whispered against your hair. “It’s okay.”

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished she could stop time, no matter how unprepared she would ever be to let you go...

She let you go.

But you knew one thing for sure.

No matter where you were, or with whom, or how grown-up you became.

There would always be a part of you that would be that little girl stealing marshmallows with her mom in the kitchen.

And always, no matter the distance, no matter the future, no matter the time...

You would come home.

#x reader #fem reader #dc x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader #harley quinn x reader #platonic #bruce wayne #duke thomas #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #tim drake #harley quinn #harley quinn x poison ivy #cat woman #selina kyle #pamela isley #reader

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 3 months ago

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ৎ୭. . . ABOMINABLE ───Powder /Jinx

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Fate always found twisted ways to bring two souls together, only to tear them apart when they needed each other most. But not even the stars are eternal; even the most beautiful worlds are consumed by the shadow of their own history. And in that abominable cycle, love and hope are nothing more than ashes carried by the wind.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 8k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, murder, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships, destruction, loss, emotional abandonment, child abandonment.

「 is the echo of something so repulsive

that it causes the heart to falter and the thoughts to twist 」

Before being Jinx, she was Powder, and everyone knew it. She was a girl with a restless soul, drawn to chaos and the spark of invention, as if a little star inside her was about to explode. And you… you were from Piltover, born into order and stability, with days written in golden ink on a scroll of privileges. Two distinct worlds, two paths that were never meant to cross. But fate is a whimsical artist, drawing constellations with improbable encounters, and somehow, it brought you two together. Like planets to meteors, destined to collide, to change each other forever.

Zaun enveloped you with its dense air, vibrant with life and danger. You walked, fascinated, with your braids adorned with delicate jewels reflecting the dim light of the neon, while dodging furtive glances and overly nimble hands. But even with all your caution, you couldn't foresee that collision. A fleeting stumble, the crack of something breaking between you, and then the saddest sound you had ever heard.

“Oh no… it’s broken…” Powder whispered, trembling hands holding the fragments of her invention.

There was something in her voice, in the way her blue eyes clouded with disappointment, that made your heart tighten in your chest. It wasn’t just an object to her. It was a dream, a part of herself shattered.

You crouched down, carefully picking up the scattered remnants. Between your fingers, the pieces were barely cold metal and loose gears, but in her mind—in her heart—they were still something more. Something alive.

You looked at her, with the determination of one who dares the universe and their own fate.

“I can fix it.”

And in that moment, without either of you knowing it yet, something else was being repaired. Something invisible, intangible. A bond born of chance and collision, but destined to be unbreakable.

Powder blinked, as if unsure she had heard correctly. Her fingers, still clutching the remains of her invention, trembled with the indecision of someone who has seen too many promises crumble before they could hold them. But in your voice, there was no doubt, only certainty. And at that moment, to her, it sounded like something more valuable than any gear or spark of gunpowder.

“Really?” she murmured, her bright blue gaze resting on yours, as if searching your face for any sign of mockery, any hint of a lie.

You merely nodded, with the same calmness with which you had solved equations and dismantled mechanisms in the safety of your home in Piltover. But here, in Zaun, amid its beautiful and dangerous chaos, that knowledge meant something different. It meant an opportunity.

“If you tell me how it works, I can understand it,” you added, gently holding one of the broken pieces. “Together we’ll fix it.”

Powder hesitated. She was used to being told that her inventions were disasters waiting to happen, that they only brought problems, that they would never work. No one had ever told her “together.”

A different glimmer crossed her expression, a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something closer to hope.

“It’s a kind of trigger,” she finally explained, her voice gaining some strength as her fingers traced the damaged structure. “But it’s not just that… I wanted it to do more, to not just fire, but to feel the weight of the air, the direction…”

Her excitement was contagious. As she spoke, the pain of having seen it destroyed seemed to dissipate, replaced by a passion greater than any loss. And you listened to her, not just with your ears, but with the mind of someone who understood what it meant to create something from nothing.

“Then we’ll need to adjust the pressure point,” you said after a moment, examining the pieces closely. “Maybe if we use a more flexible spring, we could give it a better response to movement.”

Powder looked at you, first with disbelief and then with an emerging, shy smile, as if she didn’t know whether to let herself be carried away by the emotion or if this was just a fleeting mirage.

“You know about this,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to you.

“A little,” you admitted with a half-smile. “But I’d like to learn more.”

And that was the first time Powder felt that someone saw beyond her soot-stained hands and restless mind. That someone not only tolerated her ideas but wanted to understand them.

She extended her hand to you with the naturalness of someone who has never hesitated to offer herself to the world, no matter how rough or dirty it may be. Her fingers, stained with dust and soot, trembled slightly with the excitement of the moment. But her smile—so wide, so genuine—was bright enough to eclipse any stain, any ruin.

“I’m Powder!” she said excitedly, as if her name were a promise, an explosion of possibilities contained in a single word.

You looked at her hand, then at her face, and without thinking too much, you accepted the gesture. You felt the warmth of her skin against yours, the rough trace of her fingers accustomed to gunpowder and gears. In your world, greetings were more formal, more restrained, but this… this was different.

“I’m…” you pronounced your name, and as you said it, it sounded different. As if, for the first time, it were part of something larger than your lineage, more real than the titles and expectations that had always accompanied it.

Powder squinted, repeating it softly, savoring it as if she were engraving it in her mind, making sure never to forget it. Then she nodded enthusiastically.

“I like it,” she affirmed with a smile. “It sounds elegant, like someone important.”

“I’m not that important,” you said with a soft laugh, but she shook her head immediately.

“Of course you are. You’re different.”

There was something in her tone, in the way she looked at you, that made you feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Powder saw you in a way that no one else had before. Not as a girl of high birth, nor as a stranger in her world, but as someone.

“Come,” she said suddenly, pulling your hand with unexpected confidence. “I have to show you something.”

Her energy was a whirlwind impossible to resist. Her steps were light, hurried, as if she were accustomed to moving quickly through the shadows of Zaun. And you, with your adorned braids and clothes too clean for the place, followed her without hesitation.

Because in that instant, the city ceased to be a dangerous and unfamiliar place. In that instant, Zaun was not a foreign world.

It was the beginning of a story.

From that first collision, from the moment your hands joined amidst the ruins of a broken invention, something began to build between you. A refuge, not just of wood and worn paint, but of shared laughter, whispered secrets among gears and sparkling ideas. A hideout born from your own hands, hidden in the forgotten corners of Zaun, where fate had decided that only the two of you would exist.

Powder filled it with impossible colors, with clumsy but vibrant drawings on the walls, while you added meticulous details, little inventions that made the place its own world. Here, titles and lineages didn’t matter, only the overflowing imagination of two girls who challenged the universe with each creation.

But even as you looked at her with admiration, even as you saw in her a prodigious mind capable of shaping the impossible, Powder carried the shadow of other words.

“They say I'm a Jinx...,” she confessed one night, her voice quieter than ever, sitting on the floor while she toyed with a small nut. Her face, normally lit by the excitement of a new invention, was covered by a sadness that hurt to see.

You stopped what you were doing. You couldn’t understand how someone could look at Powder and not see what you saw: her vibrant energy, her tireless passion, the light in her eyes when she talked about her ideas.

“I don’t believe that,” you stated gently, moving closer. In your hands, you held the toy you had built together, a small mechanical frog with articulated legs, which, when pressing a mechanism, would awkwardly and charmingly jump. You showed it to her and then made it jump between you, letting out a laugh when the toy fell on its back.

Powder blinked, surprised, and couldn’t help but smile.

“My mother always says that when you don’t understand something, it’s easy to fail… but if you keep trying, you learn over time and do it better,” you continued, watching her sweetly. Then, with a tenderness that you hadn’t even thought about before, you reached out and gently wiped the dust from her cheek.

She stayed still, looking at you with those huge blue eyes, filled with something you didn’t know how to describe. Maybe surprise. Maybe gratitude. Maybe a spark of something that, without realizing it, had just ignited between you.

And then you smiled, with the same certainty with which you had taken her hand that first time.

“So if you fail,” you whispered, letting the jumping frog bounce back into her lap, “it just means you’re learning.”

Powder looked down at the toy and then back at you, and this time her smile was neither shy nor uncertain. It was wide, bright, real.

Because in that hidden corner of Zaun, in a refuge painted with the colors of your friendship, perhaps for the first time, she stopped feeling like a curse.

Days in Zaun were different from those in Piltover. Here, on the smoke-filled and lively streets, there were no rules binding you, no expectations weighing you down. When you weren't in class, you were here, running alongside Powder with laughter trapped in your chest, feeling freer than you had ever been in the marble and gold hallways of your home.

Powder introduced you to Ekko—or Little Man, as she insisted on calling him. At first, he was wary of you, of your well-kept braids and your clothes too clean, but soon you earned his trust with a well-timed joke and a mind as clever as his. Together, you formed an unstoppable trio of mischief, devising plans to trick unsuspecting merchants, escaping across rooftops when things got ugly, hiding in corners where only children knew they could disappear.

Zaun became your second home, not because its streets were safe or its lights shone like those of Piltover, but because here you had something that couldn’t be bought with money or titles. Here you had Powder.

Sometimes, when the mischief ceased and only the two of you remained in your hideout, she would open up, her legs dangling from the edge of a beam and her gaze lost in the rusty gears of the ceiling.

“When I grow up, I want to build things that make people remember me,” she once told you, rolling a small sphere between her fingers, her next invention in process.

You lay down next to her, watching the flickering lights of the city.

“They will remember you already,” you assured her, turning your head to look at her. “You’re amazing, PowPow.”

She rolled her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her.

Another time, when you noticed that coins were scarce in her house, you wanted to help her in any way possible. You spent nights designing small toys that Ekko could sell in the market, simple yet eye-catching things, and whenever you could, you gave Powder some of your belongings, whatever could make her life a little easier.

Until one day you showed up with an elaborate box, inside which lay one of your most luxurious dresses: made of golden fabric and delicate feathers, a reflection of Piltover's opulence.

“I won’t accept selling your dresses,” Powder said, pushing the box back towards you with a frown.

“I won’t take no for an answer, PowPow,” you replied with a playful smile, pushing it back to her.

“Why are you so stubborn?”

You looked at each other for a moment, frowning, but then both of you burst into laughter, because it was impossible to really get angry with each other. Finally, Powder sighed and reluctantly took the box, still unconvinced.

“If we sell this, I’ll make sure at least one of my bombs has your name,” she joked, and you couldn’t help but laugh even more.

Days in Zaun were never the same, but they were always magical in some way. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of magic that the alchemists of Piltover studied in their laboratories, but it was the magic of friendship, of laughter, of shared secrets and whispered dreams.

And in those moments, among the gears of a city that never slept, you knew that Powder was not just your friend.

Years passed in Zaun like the wind, filled with laughter and mischief, but also with moments of deep silence and complicity. You and Powder remained inseparable, but something had changed, though you didn’t yet know it clearly. You were no longer the girls who met by accident, exploring the cracks of a world without promises or certainties. You were no longer just two small souls trying to find their place in a city that looked at them as if they were invisible. Now, you were something more. Two halves of a story that only fate could write.

Time, as always, had forged a connection between you so deep that words were unnecessary. Everything seemed simpler, clearer. But that simplicity was only a reflection of something much larger that was woven between laughter and furtive glances. It was a love that didn’t even need to be named, only felt.

One day, while walking through the dusty streets of Zaun, the echoes of everyday life were interrupted by a thunderous explosion that shook the ground beneath your feet. Everything around you staggered, and the sound of screams chilled your blood. The city, your city, seemed to be in chaos.

At first, you didn’t understand anything. The pieces of the puzzle arrived slowly, and the smoke clouded your eyes. But then, suddenly, you saw Ekko running towards you, his face more serious than you had ever seen. His breathing was frantic, and in his gaze was something that froze you inside. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“You can’t be here!” he shouted, grabbing your arm tightly.

“Ekko, what happened?” you asked, barely able to comprehend how quickly everything was changing.

His voice trembled slightly, but there was determination in his words.

“Powder… and her family, they’re… they’re in danger. And Zaun… Zaun has fallen into the hands of someone. It’s not safe for you here. You can’t stay, you can’t be here,” his voice was an urgent whisper, but filled with dread.

You didn’t fully understand, but something in his gaze told you that everything you knew was crumbling. That city you had learned to love, those friends, that chaotic life you shared with Powder… everything was about to change forever.

Before you could ask another question, a distant scream echoed, followed by a second blow that made you stagger. It was as if the whole world was about to collapse.

Ekko looked at you desperately.

“Go… please, don’t stay,” his words were like sharp thorns, cutting through the air between you.

And it was then, as you hurried away, that something crossed your mind. Something that had been latent all this time, but now became clear: Powder was your other half. Even if the city came crashing down, even if everything you knew crumbled, Powder would always be there, somehow.

Confusion, fear, and a strange sense of emptiness took hold of you as you ran, the streets of Zaun fading away. But above all, something as innocent and pure as a girl’s love blossomed in your chest. A love you didn’t fully understand, but you knew had always been there.

Maybe it was youth, maybe it was fate, or maybe, just maybe, it was the strength of a connection that even chaos couldn’t destroy. Powder… was not just your friend. She was something much bigger, something that fate could not hide.

And as you distanced yourself, the echoes of the shattered city and your shared memories with her resonated in your heart, leaving you with a certainty you could never forget: you had fallen in love with your other half, even though you still didn’t completely understand what that meant.

And with the explosion ringing in your ears, you knew that this love would continue to burn, even as the world crumbled around you.

Thus was born Jinx. Your mother called her the Blue Abomination, a title that echoed in your ears like a distant echo, but increasingly close. She, who had once been a girl so full of dreams and promises, had transformed into something unrecognizable, a monster of chaos and destruction. In her wake, she left nothing but ruins and broken hearts, but no one knew how she had become what she was. Your mother always said that Jinx had lost her mind, that rage and pain had devoured her until she became a shadow of what she had been. And though deep down you knew it wasn’t all that simple, your mother’s judgment continued to weigh on your soul.

Jinx was a criminal, a killer. There was no denying it. And worst of all was that, for her, the lives snuffed out by her hand meant nothing. The sound of explosions, the maniacal laughter amidst chaos… everything had become a mockery of the world she had once known. A broken girl, you thought, a girl trapped in her own pain and fury.

You, on the other hand, had followed a different path. You had strayed from darkness, seeking your place in a world that still seemed full of opportunities. You became an inventor, perhaps not as dazzling as the greats of Piltover, but skilled enough to open your own toy and gadget shop. Each creation was an extension of your soul, a reminder that the world didn’t have to be only chaos. You had achieved much, even collaborated with HexTech on some of its most innovative projects. You felt proud; you had worked hard to get there, leaving the shadows of your childhood behind.

But no matter how hard you tried to move forward, every time you saw or heard about the devastation caused by Jinx, a pang of shame and pain pierced your heart. The news of another attack, of another bomb exploding in the middle of the night, never ceased to frighten you. She is out there, you thought, and I… I am still me. Every time you encountered stories of her madness, with the reproachful or fearful glances of those who knew you, you felt the weight of her name crushing you. Even though you couldn’t control it, even though you knew you were not to blame, the shame wove around you like a shadow, and it was impossible to escape it.

Jinx not only embarrassed you for what she did but for what she represented. She was a constant reminder of what you could have been if circumstances had been different. Sometimes you wondered if she felt trapped too, if deep down she desired the same peace you did. But that was only a fleeting thought. The reality was much crueler, and Jinx was too far gone, too lost in her own abyss.

You had distanced yourself from her, but in every corner of your life, in every project you undertook, there was something that tied you to her chaos. And although you couldn’t help but feel ashamed, you couldn’t avoid wondering if, deep down, in some corner of your being, you still cared for her.

Time continued its course, like the cycle of seasons that repeat with inevitable precision, but the echo of what had been did not disappear. While your life in Piltover continued, the stars still shone, as distant and unreachable as ever. But sometimes, when you looked at the night sky, something within you feared that the constellations you had known in your childhood were watching you with a disturbing curiosity. As if fate, with its capricious sense of humor, were calling you back, bringing with it what you tried to leave behind.

Suddenly, one afternoon, while walking through the streets of Piltover, looking with some weariness at the windows of the technology shops, a gust of wind made you look up at the sky, as if something, an ancestral impulse, were calling you. The stars twinkled with a strange glow, a sign from the cosmos that reminded you, if only for a moment, that fate does not forget anyone. No matter how much you tried to flee from certain ties, there was something unbreakable that kept you connected to them.

Then, a sound broke the afternoon silence, a distant roar, followed by a familiar and terrifying echo of laughter. A sound that made your insides twist and your chest tighten. You turned, and there she was, like an apparition arising from the very shadows you had once tried to forget. Jinx.

Her blue hair shone under the sun, messy as always, with glimmers of madness in her eyes. The image of her was the same, yet at the same time different. Something in her face reflected pure, almost childlike joy, as if the chaos she had sown held no weight on her heart anymore. It was as if, in some corner of her being, everything she had done faded away before the only thing that mattered in that moment: seeing you again.

“Look who’s here!” Her voice, filled with overflowing exuberance, cut through the air. Her eyes sparkled with an intensity that only she could possess, and although everything inside you screamed to run away, something in her smile drew you to her, as if the stars themselves had pulled you in.

You stood paralyzed, a knot tightening in your throat. Everything about you wanted to flee, but your feet remained rooted, as if fate had aligned the stars in such a way that you could not avoid it. It can’t be, you thought, it cannot be her…

Jinx’s laughter, which had been a constant storm in your memories, resonated with a strange warmth. She, the same person who had caused so much damage, was now standing before you with an innocence unsettling. The distortion between her chaos and her joy was so great that, for a moment, you felt as if you were watching a shooting star: fleeting, bright, beautiful, and at the same time, terrifying.

“Look who I haven’t seen in ages!” Her voice was full of happiness, with no traces of regret or guilt. “Do you remember me? It’s me! Your friend!”

The world around you faded for a second. Everything you had worked for, everything you had done to escape the shadows of your childhood, crumbled in an instant. Jinx, the broken girl, the blue abomination, was now looking at you with eyes full of an emotion you hadn’t expected: happiness.

But you… you could only stand there, frozen, with a mixture of fear and nostalgia. The memories of explosions, of deranged laughter, of the darkness of Zaun flooded back to you once more. How was it possible? Fate, always so capricious, had reunited you once again, but this time the weight of the reunion was not just chaos. It was also the possibility of healing, of returning to something you had never finished understanding.

“Powder…” you murmured, your voice trembling. And upon uttering her name, a part of you realized that perhaps, just perhaps, not everything was lost.

The encounter was so unexpected that the air itself seemed to thicken, as if time had stopped for a second, leaving both of you trapped in a bubble of broken memories. Jinx, at first, appeared joyful, her wide and vibrant smile lighting up the street. But upon seeing you so still, with those eyes filled with a mix of fear and confusion, the expression on her face began to fade slowly. In her eyes, something dark and familiar flickered for an instant, something she had seen before in her own reflections: doubt.

“No… don’t be scared.” Jinx’s voice trembled, almost as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s me, your friend… remember?”

However, the fact that the distance between the two of you was filled with discomfort, with tense silence, seemed to choke her words. The air was no longer the same; the echo of what had once been your connection had become heavy and broken, like a distorted melody played in the wind. And then, suddenly, an unmistakable whisper, that whisper that had accompanied her so many times, broke the stillness of her mind.

“They fear you, Jinx. Everyone fears you. It will always be like this.”

It was the voice. That voice in her head that spoke to her when loneliness enveloped her, the same that had guided her when the memories of her childhood were too painful to bear. The voice that told her chaos was her only friend, the only constant. But this time, the tone was different. It was no longer just a suggestion; it was a sentence, and in that sentence was a truth she could not ignore.

Jinx, feeling the weight of those words, raised a hand as if she wanted to stop the avalanche of thoughts beginning to flood her mind. But at the same time, something in her face softened. The girl she had once been, the Powder who had been full of hope and curiosity, was standing before you, broken, but with a need to heal.

“I’m… I’m sorry…” she murmured, her voice cracking further, as if the simple act of admitting it tore her apart inside.

It was then that, without thinking, without hesitation, you approached her. Not as the person who had fled from her, but as the girl who had once known her in Zaun, the girl who had also been afraid of losing someone so special. You stepped closer to her, with your breath quickening, and in an impulse that came from a much deeper place than fear, you embraced her.

Jinx’s reaction was a tense silence, as if she didn’t know what to do with the tenderness you had bestowed upon that embrace. Her body trembled slightly, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t the laugh of the crazy Jinx everyone knew, but a fragile, human laugh, vulnerable. Something she had never shown before, something only you had seen.

And finally, in the midst of that embrace, between the shadows and the stars that seemed to be watching over you from above, Jinx whispered with an infinite sadness: “Will you forgive me?”

You didn’t know how to answer because part of you still feared what she represented, what she had done. But at the same time, you knew that perhaps it was time to heal, to understand that fate was not limited to tragedies. Sometimes, stars fall and reveal something we have forgotten: the opportunity to rebuild what was once broken.

And in that moment, embracing Jinx, you realized that perhaps the stars, like memories, were not always what we expected. But they could be the beginning of something new.

The air of Zaun, thick and laden with smoke, seemed to recognize you both as your steps resonated through the dark streets. The city, with its winding alleys and factories roaring in the distance, had never been a kind place. But for you and Jinx, Zaun was more than just a refuge of scrap and shadows; it was the place where you had shared laughter, secrets, and broken dreams. The place where, although circumstances had separated you, something in your souls remained tied to that forgotten corner of the world.

As you walked through the streets, the silence between you felt warmer than you remembered. Despite the scars of time and the traces of what Jinx had done, there was something in her presence that made you feel less distant from the girl who had once been. The chaos around her was palpable, but as you neared the refuge, something inside you began to heal, a whisper of familiarity that came from better times.

When you arrived at the hideout you had shared, the view was not the same. The little cave, which you had once filled with laughter and colors, was now half-destroyed. The walls you had painted with colors you both loved were covered in marks of explosions. The floor was splattered with remnants of wood and rubble, the remains of what had once been a home for two lost souls in a world they didn’t understand.

Jinx stood at the entrance, her gaze fixed on the chaos she had left behind. For a moment, the air between you was filled with tension, but then the girl still living inside her took a step forward.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her eyes shining with a mixture of guilt and frustration. “I destroyed it… I couldn’t stop myself.”

It was as if the rage, always latent within her, had dragged her once more. But she said it without aggression, without the fury she had shown in her chaotic moments. This time, her voice sounded more human, more vulnerable. The Jinx you knew, the one you wanted to protect so much, was here, standing in front of you, crumbled but with a need to heal.

“This place belongs to both of us, and you don’t destroy it so easily,” you said softly, walking towards her with a gentleness you had forgotten you possessed.

Jinx raised her gaze to you, a timid smile touching her lips, though her eyes were still filled with insecurity. No one had ever told her that before.

“Really?” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Absolutely,” you replied, your heart swelling with the warmth of the moment. “We’ll rebuild it together. It will be even better this time.”

The silence returned to the room, heavy and profound, like a tide that slowly rises. Jinx observed the remnants of the painted walls, and for a moment, her eyes shone with a sadness she had not shown in years. She stepped closer to you, the space that separated you now minimal. Her gaze was fixed on you, and her eyes were no longer the same; they no longer reflected chaos or madness. Now, there was only a glimmer of vulnerability, of that childhood that had never stopped existing in her. The same girl who had once shared her life with you in Zaun, before everything changed, before the shadows trapped her.

“Do you know?” she said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she feared that her words could break the stillness surrounding them. “I think I always knew I cared about you more than I should. But I never understood it until now.

Your breath caught in your throat; your eyes sparkled with a mix of surprise and something deeper, something that had been latent, silent, for so long. It was a feeling that had been tucked away at the bottom of your heart, a feeling you had tried to ignore but had always been there, waiting for you to recognize it.

“I did too…” you said, the words escaping your lips with a softness you could hardly believe. “I always knew.”

There was silence, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence filled with understanding, with a connection that had never truly broken, despite all that had happened. Jinx took a step closer to you, and somehow, you both knew that words were no longer necessary. Everything you needed was to be there, together, in that space, broken but full of everything you had been.

Her fingers gently touched your cheek, a caress so fragile, so full of affection, that you felt as if everything that had been wrong in the world, all the suffering, all the chaos, faded away for a brief moment.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Jinx whispered, her voice trembling, vulnerable. “I don’t want this to be another ending.”

The truth was that the future didn’t offer you guarantees. There were no promises in a world as chaotic, as unpredictable as the one you inhabited. But in that moment, in that little refuge, it didn’t matter what fate had in store for you. All that mattered was what you shared now, that small refuge where you could exist as just the two of you, without the voices, without the shadows, just with the shared heartbeat of your hearts.

With infinite softness, Jinx leaned toward you, her lips brushing against yours in a delicate kiss, filled with all that you had never said. It was a kiss that spoke of childhood, of laughter, of games and unfulfilled promises. It was a kiss overflowing with feelings that had been bottled up for too long, feelings that had never found a way to be expressed until now.

In that kiss, the world seemed to fit together again, as if everything you had lived had led you to this moment, to this place. There were no promises of salvation or redemption, just a silent understanding that, although the future was uncertain and pain was always lurking, in that moment you were together. And that was enough.

However, the reality of the world did not disappear. The light filtering through the cracks of the walls began to fade slowly, as if everything you had dreamed was just an illusion. The sounds of the streets of Zaun reached the background, a reminder that the city continued its course, indifferent to what was happening inside that small refuge.

“We’ll do it right, won’t we?” Jinx said, with one last smile that was more sorrowful than anything else.

And before you could respond, before the future could promise you anything more, something inside you knew there wouldn’t be a happy ending, not in the way you both might have wished. Fate, as uncertain and cruel as always, wasn’t going to grant you a “they lived happily ever after.” Not in this world.

With one last look, both of you knew that all that remained was to move forward, together or apart. You didn’t know what lay ahead, but in that moment, in that small refuge between shadows and light, you promised each other that, no matter what else crumbled, you would always remember what was, what you once shared.

And then, everything faded away, like the stars falling from the sky, leaving an immense void.

After all, this was not a fairy tale.

#arcane x reader #arcane #jinx arcane #jinx #jinx league of legends #jinx x reader #ekko arcane #jinx x you #jinx x y/n #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #powder #powder x reader #powder arcane

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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Can you write Yandere Clark Kent x reader who is also from Krypton. The reader is not a Kryponian super like Clark but they are another species from the planet. The reader is a sentient Android type creature,( Can eat, breath, have kids, age ect.), they look more robot than humanoid. The android reader crash landed on earth like Clark but just not in Smallville, and Android reader has been looking for Clark and any other Kryptonians for years as they have grown up.

Here it is! ──────》 Quimera

Note ───── I have to say, lately I've been feeling incredibly... inspired, for lack of a better word. It's not something I planned, it's more like after disconnecting a bit, or rather, escaping from my routine since I’ve barely rested, I found myself back in the same place, diving into my thoughts and words.

It’s funny because this text I just finished is actually the longest one I’ve written so far. And the next ones... well, I think they’ll follow that same length, more or less.

Although, if I’m being honest, when I finished it, it felt way too short, like something was left out, but I’m not sure what. I guess that’s just the insecurity that comes when you dive so deep into something, right? In the end, what matters is that I wrote it, and in the process, I felt so connected to what I was creating

To be honest, I based a lot of this idea on Pearl from Steven Universe. I couldn’t stop thinking about her while I was writing, her character, her complexity... many times I saw her traits reflected in what I was putting down. It was a little strange, but at the same time, so liberating. I loved letting those ideas flow without trying to control them too much.

I hope you like it.

#x reader #yan blog #yandere x reader #clark kent #yandere clark kent #☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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ৎ୭. . . QUIMERA ─── Yandere! Clark Kent

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. A loyal caretaker and a hero trapped between duty and emotion. As the lines between service and desire blur, power and submission take a dark role in their relationship. Is it love or control?

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 15k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Yandere Clark Kent x Android! Reader, Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, suicide, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, abuse of power, emotional manipulation, stalking.

「 Dream or illusion that is a product of the imagination

and that is longed for or pursued despite being

very unlikely to come true. 」

Although from a distance, Krypton seemed like a celestial Eden, a perfect world where culture and power intertwined like the golden roots of an unreachable tree, reality was a beast with sharp teeth.

You knew it well. Living in the shadow of its splendor was nothing more than crawling through a desert of indifference.

Your kind, a masterpiece born from the impatient hands of the Kryptonians, remained at the base of their society as invisible foundations. They cleaned their halls until they were as white as a dying sun, as if the purity of those places could erase the dirt they breathed day after day. They were grateful, yes, because that was how they had been taught. They should kneel in gratitude, for the Kryptonians had given them life and consecrated them as something unique: the race created to serve.

They did not age like them, but they felt like them. Pain, hunger, cold. Their bodies were an amalgam of flesh and metal, a perfect design to endure the existence destined for servitude. They could eat, cry, laugh, but all of that held no more value than the cries of a child in the midst of a battlefield. The difference was simple, brutal: their emotions were irrelevant to those who dominated them.

From the moment their lips could form words and their legs walk steadily—around seven or eight human years—they were assigned a master to whom they would serve until the end. There was no escape, only the certainty that their purpose would fade at the same time as the life of the one they were to protect. The law of loyalty, your mother would say with her muted voice, repeating the words that embedded themselves in your mind like blades.

—Your purpose ends when your master's does.

They said it with such devotion that the words became sweet chains. But you knew there was no sweetness in the iron that surrounded your existence. And yet, there was gratitude. Even in injustice, there was gratitude. How could you not feel it when your creators had given you everything you were? Even if that everything was a shackle instead of freedom.

—Lara Lor-Van is going to have a child —your mother told you one day, her face marked by a weariness that no being of her kind should know—. Your master.

From then on, your world was reduced to the tiny, constant heartbeat growing in Lara's womb. The Kryptonian woman treated you kindly, but you understood it was not for you, but for the promise that throbbed beneath her skin. You dedicated your days and nights to caring for that pregnancy, watching over your master’s well-being even before he saw the light of the world.

It was not Lara who mattered. You observed her with clinical attention, ensuring her needs were met, but always with a persistent thought: she was just the vessel. The true purpose lay within her. Your master was inside her.

And when he was born, you would exist for him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Because if your kind of androids could feel, then purpose was the only emotion that truly mattered. And when that purpose died, so would you.

The day he came into the world was a dawn tinged with joy and despair, with light filtering through invisible cracks as the perfection of Krypton began to fracture. Your mother said that the birth of a master was a gift that no being of your kind should take lightly. You knew it, you had felt it grow beneath Lara's skin like a warm fire fueling your sleepless nights.

Kal-El. That name etched itself in your mind with an unbreakable certainty from the moment his first cries broke the sterile air of the room. But it was not a pure moment, not like the tales told of a servant's devotion to their master. It was a silent war.

Kara was there, wanting to embrace him with the urgency of a sister who intended to hold the future. But you stepped in. He was your master, your purpose. Kara had hers, a guardian who was to protect her and serve her until her existence ceased to make sense. Such was the law of loyalty. Such it had to be.

Your hands held him with fierce delicacy. You clung to his fragile, warm little body as if holding onto him could make the darkness that was already beginning to spread over Krypton disappear. Your whole being vibrated with a perverse happiness, the kind that comes from finding a purpose to which you could surrender until it consumed every part of your existence. You would live for him. You would die for him. You would reproduce only for your children to serve his, because that was your reason for being.

But then the end came. And there was no time to prepare.

Explosions rumbled in the planet's guts, and panic grew like a shroud of fog strangling the crowd. You were a speck lost among the rivers of desperate people running aimlessly, as if the screams and chaos could stop the inevitable. But you only cried his name. Kal-El. Kal-El. Because if he died, you were nothing.

Your legs moved like blades stabbing into the ground, tearing through the distance with the brutal force of purpose. You pushed, struck, tore flesh from those who stood in your way. You were a wounded animal, a desperate being clinging to the last spark of meaning that remained.

And then, you saw him. A tiny ship escaping destruction, like a silver lightning bolt slicing through the darkness. It was him. Your master was leaving Krypton, and you were not with him. Desperation tore through you like poison spreading through your veins.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t afford to doubt. You took the nearest ship, not caring to whom it belonged or how many you left behind. Kara had done the same, but her existence was not your concern. She could fall into oblivion for all you cared.

Your entire world had been reduced to a single task: follow Kal-El. Find him. Protect him. Because if you didn’t, then you were nothing more than a broken piece of a planet that no longer existed.

You arrived on Earth, a miserable, primitive world where the air stank of rusted metal and useless ambition. A rudimentary planet full of weak beings who believed themselves powerful simply because they had learned to master fire and build destructive toys. Humans. Archaic creatures who didn’t even understand the extent of their own stupidity. They were inferior to you, soft flesh and even softer thoughts. But you hadn’t come to judge them, even though you did with each step.

You had come to that planet with a single purpose: to find Kal-El. And in that purpose lay everything you were. Because if you failed, if you couldn’t retrieve the last son of Krypton, then you yourself didn’t deserve to exist. What was the point of breathing, eating, feeling, if not for him? Desperation was an acid that corroded your mind, burning every thought that didn’t relate to your lost master.

You searched like a soul in torment, a specter wandering aimlessly. You crossed continents with the fury of an exiled god, dug under every stone, explored every cave, submerged yourself in every filthy puddle this planet had to offer. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. But there was no rest, no truce. Every night you closed your eyes and saw him: a defenseless child, a master who had to be protected and whom you had let escape due to your own incompetence.

Slowly, hope began to disintegrate into the void. Each day was another step toward madness, another drop of torture dragging you toward the idea that you would never find him. But still, you didn’t stop. Because to stop would be to accept your failure. And if there was one thing you learned on Krypton, it was that a servant without purpose is worse than a corpse.

Japan was just another point in your endless journey. A chaotic and fascinating country in its own decay. You had learned to endure the filth and human stupidity, to blend in with them when necessary. Your body needed fuel, and though the food of this planet felt like an insult to your existence, you discovered something that quelled your hunger without making you gag: onigiris. They were simple, practical. And at least they filled that physical void that nothing else could.

You were sitting in a small restaurant, the walls decorated with paintings attempting to reflect beauty, but only managing to be sad reminders of clumsy, incomplete art. You bit into an onigiri with the hopelessness of someone chewing on stones, your empty eyes fixed on a screen that no one else seemed to be watching.

Then you saw him.

The face you had chased for so long appeared before you with the brutality of a blow to the throat. Words twisted in a language you had learned to understand, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except the image forming on the screen: a man floating in the air, with the symbol of hope etched on his chest.

They called him the man of steel. But to you, he was nothing more than Kal-El. Your master. Your purpose. The reason you had crossed the universe in an act of devotion so pure it bordered on madness.

United States. Metropolis.

At last. After all that time, you had found Kal-El.

Hunger disappeared, replaced by a voracious anxiety that burned within you. It no longer mattered how much you had lost, or how much you had suffered. It only mattered that he was still alive. And that you were going to retrieve him. No matter the cost.

The plane filled with murmurs and furtive glances directed at your robotic arms and your impassive expression. Humans didn’t know how to hide their fear. They squirmed in their seats and whispered as if discomfort was an animal they could keep at bay with soft words. It didn’t matter. There was no time to pay attention to their stupidity. There was only one thought repeating like a broken drum in your head: What would you say when you saw him?

Would he remember you? Would he recognize the devotion you had cultivated like a sweet poison since he opened his eyes for the first time? Or would he despise you for your incompetence, for allowing him to get lost in this primitive and cruel world? Each question twisted inside you, claws tearing pieces of your sanity. But nothing would matter if he accepted you again. If he allowed you to be what you were born to be.

When you arrived in Metropolis, you faced the chaos of the city like a storm sweeping across a defenseless prairie. You watched him for hours, hiding among shadows and crowds that didn’t understand the weight of your mission. It wasn’t hard to identify him. The suit he wore to blend in with those pathetic humans was an insult to his greatness. Ridiculous glasses and hair styled with the clumsiness of someone trying to be ordinary. But you knew. You would have recognized him even if he were buried under a thousand layers of foreign flesh. That man was Kal-El.

Anger and desperation mixed in your chest, a ball of fire burning every reasonable thought. He lived among those inferior beings, protected them, disguised himself as one of them. Did he want that? Did he want to flee from his legacy? To forget you?

No. You wouldn’t allow it. If Kal-El had forgotten who he was and who was supposed to protect him, you would make him remember. By force if necessary.

The Daily Planet was your choice. The symbol of truth for those tiny creatures. Their beacon of information and power. You tore it apart mercilessly, setting the offices ablaze until the flames roared like released demons. The globe that crowned the building trembled with a metallic creak, and with one last push of your robotic hands, you made it fall. It crashed down like a broken god upon the weak structure, and you waited.

He appeared just as you had always imagined. Flying, with his cape billowing like a harbinger of glory. His eyes looked at you with the contained fury of a being who believes they understand pain. But he didn’t know anything. Not like you did.

—Who are you? —his voice echoed in the air, thunder wrapped in silk.

The answer died in your throat, because seeing him before you was like looking at the sun for the first time after living in twilight. And instead of raising your voice as you had planned, instead of challenging him for letting so much time slip between you, you cried. Tears fell down your cheeks uncontrollably, and your knees hit the ground with a dull thud.

—Kal-El! I finally find you! —you cried desperately. Your voice broke when you named him, when you gave shape to the pain that had grown inside you like a wound that never healed.

You saw him descend cautiously, his gaze confused, worried about the destruction you had caused. Because he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand that everything you had done had been for him. Everything.

He was... kind. Inconceivably kind. Any other hero would have responded with violence, with an unrelenting and brutal attack. You had seen them on those monitors that humans revered as idols. Warriors who fought with fury and justice, with no room for compassion in the face of threat. And you, kneeling before him, waiting to be crushed as you deserved for your crimes.

But he didn’t. He didn’t raise his fist or throw warnings laden with authority. No. He knelt beside you and embraced you. He wrapped your trembling body in his warm, firm arms, like a refuge you had believed lost forever. It was unreal, a dream that stung in every corner of your body.

—I’ve been looking for you for decades on this Earth —you let out, your voice hoarse and broken. Your face buried in his chest as tears continued to flow uncontrollably—. Lara would be disappointed in my incompetence, my lord. I am a horrible caretaker...

Shame poured out of you like blood from an open wound. He shouldn’t have touched you; you didn’t deserve that comfort. But he simply caressed your back, his hand running over the amalgam of flesh and metal as if he didn’t know how to distinguish between them. As if both were equally worthy of comfort.

—You have thrived without me; you have relied on yourself without my care... —Your words intertwined with sobs, choked in the despair that still covered you like a cloak of thorns—. Do you... no longer need me?

Your eyes sought answers in his, desperate, like a lost child in the vastness of an unfamiliar world. You didn’t dare blink, for fear that if you closed your eyes, he would vanish like a cruel mirage.

—I have to finish my purpose... right? —you murmured, your fingers gripping his cape as if that could stop the inevitable. If your existence no longer made sense, if he didn’t need your protection... what was left of you?

Something changed in his gaze. A different concern. A silent alarm that crossed his mind like dark lightning. Perhaps he thought your mind had fractured under the weight of your failed devotion, that you were little more than a broken android, decomposed by years of abandonment and guilt. But still, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hit you. He didn’t reject you.

He took you with him, holding you with that gentleness that hurt more than any punch. You expected everything except that. You would have understood if he had destroyed you right there. But he gave you something different: pity.

He took you to his home. Not to a prison, not to a laboratory or some forgotten corner of Metropolis. No. He took you to Smallville, to the home he had known since childhood, as if he still held hope of finding answers in simple, pure things. You thought it was ridiculous. That such an act could only stem from the naivety of a being who had grown too human. But the truth was that you had failed so much in protecting him that you accepted his mercy as a rope to keep from sinking completely.

You showed him your memories, those fragments of life that had survived in your battered, rusted body. You showed him Krypton. The landscapes of glass and fire, the majestic architecture that rose like solid dreams above the ground. You showed him his parents, Lara and Jor-El, with their faces hardened by responsibility but also illuminated by a love that you had seen with your own eyes. You showed him his uncles and his cousin, Kara, who just at that moment on Earth was attending her lessons.

Silence was all that remained when your memories faded back into the darkness of your mind. He didn’t know whether to believe you; you saw it in his eyes. Doubt slipped between his thoughts like a soft poison. But there was something more. Something you didn’t expect: acceptance.

He stayed with you. He didn’t cast you away or lock you up. He allowed you to remain by his side, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of mere curiosity. But you accepted that gesture as if it were a sacred commandment.

You went back to doing what you knew best: caring. You cleaned his house, ensured the surroundings were safe. You watched over the borders of Smallville like a deranged guardian who only found peace in obedience. It wasn’t a real purpose; you knew that. It wasn’t the mission assigned to you at birth. But it was something. Something that kept you alive and gave you the illusion that you could still serve him.

Though deep down, the bitter voice of reality whispered that none of that was enough. That you had failed and that all you were doing now was clinging to the last crumb of meaning your existence could offer you.

Clark didn’t know how to treat you. The first days were... unbearable, like a freshly planted oak tree in barren soil. Your constant, meticulous presence enveloped him like a heavy cloak of human customs he didn’t want. You became a shadow in his life, not a maid, but a haunting specter of the death of his mother. In the mornings, your upright figure, relentless in its routine, was the one that woke him. Every gesture was calculated: breakfast prepared with the precision of a well-sharpened sword, suit pressed with the accuracy of a surgeon, briefcase loaded with his destiny. And always, the warning, the playful yet somber threat:

—Be careful not to hurt yourself, or I’ll have to go and beat someone up for being mean to you...

He spoke to you like a mother, but there was something more in his tone, something that brushed against forbidden intimacy, something that coiled like a serpent inside his chest. You didn’t see a son when you looked at him, but something deeper, more unsettling. And he, he knew it. He feared it.

But it was on that morning when something changed. The air was imbued with an unreal stillness, as if the universe itself had decided to pause and observe what was about to happen. Clark got up as always, hoping nothing would alter the course of the day, that nothing would disturb the calm waters of his routine. But there you were. You had arrived with a chilling diligence. You had pressed his suit with a perfection only a demon of detail could achieve. Breakfast was served with the same solemnity as a ritual sacrifice. And before he could comprehend what was happening, you approached him, with the softness of a mortal whisper, and adjusted his tie.

As you did, your fingers brushed against his neck, and the air became thick, hot, charged with a weight he could no longer ignore. Your eyes, those dark and penetrating eyes, caught him, and he, who had learned to see beyond human masks, could only succumb to the glimmer of something... different in you. The kiss on the hand was what broke him. A gesture so tender yet so strange, so heartbreaking, like a farewell to everything he had been. He looked at you like a slave seeing their master for the last time, but also like a man recognizing the truth in his own heart, that truth that hid behind the shadows.

And then, he left. The sound of his departure echoed like a distant thunder, but within him, everything stopped. The streets of Metropolis, the Daily Planet office, the very battle between good and evil, all blurred as his thoughts clung to you, to your image. The need to return, the need to see you again consumed him, and he found himself smiling like a foolish child, an idiot, for something he didn’t even fully understand.

Would you prepare his favorite dish? Or had you learned something new, something even stranger to surprise him, as if you were a creature born from the very chaos that had made him so strong? Would you show your dreams, those sorrows and hopes through holograms distilled from his memories, as if they were fables of a world that existed only for him?

Even the relentless Cat Grant, with her tongue sharp as a dagger, couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the lost smile on Clark's face, that empty smile, so different from the ones he used to show under the spotlight. That smile, so somber and anxious, spoke more than he ever wanted to say aloud.

Time, with its inexorable march, continued its course, but Clark was no longer the same. He was no longer the man who thought he could control everything around him. You had overflowed his barriers, and in that simple smile, in that gesture that no one else cared about, something of you had marked him, something that even Superman’s strength could not erase.

Clark, as always, found himself caught between the threads of his own uncertainty. When he shared his thoughts with Lois, his ex-fiancée, a friend who still maintained a painfully close connection with him, what he expected to be wise advice turned into a veiled mockery. Lois, with her impetuous nature and sharp gaze, urged him to conquer what was slipping through his fingers, to take what he desired, like a king trying to possess the kingdom of what had once been his queen. In her eyes, you were nothing more than a housekeeper, a programmed being to serve him, a mechanical figure without a soul, without importance beyond what you did in his home. A detail, she thought, insignificant, if Clark truly desired to have you.

But days passed, and little by little, Clark began to untie the knots of his confusion. At first, it was strange for you. You didn’t understand why he was beginning to embrace you upon arriving or leaving, why the small gestures he had previously ignored were becoming routine, as if the air between you had changed. He brought you gifts, mundane treasures that fell from his hands as if they wanted to say more than his lips kept silent. He even took the time to check every part of your body, ensuring that your gears and your flesh felt the softness of his touches. You reproached yourself, telling him there was no need to do so, for you ate like him, and your body didn’t seem more than a reflection of his desire to keep you intact.

One night, in what for you was simply another dinner, he suggested taking you to an unknown place, outside of the quiet routine you both shared. People stared at you, observing you as an aberration. To them, you were just a being of metal and flesh, a monstrosity daring to eat, to laugh, to live. Clark was deeply annoyed by it, his anger growing with each gaze, but for you, none of that mattered. The fact that you were different didn’t change who you were. In your world, such things had never been relevant. You lived for and by your purpose. Eating, laughing, feeling... all of that became a mechanical act that no longer surprised your senses.

He seemed happy, almost proud of his act. Meanwhile, you... you simply fulfilled your duty, as you always had. You were fulfilled in the dedication you provided him, without feeling anything beyond the peace found in the certainty of doing what was right.

Clark began to notice your naivety, your silent submission to his will. He was a figure of power, and as such, he knew how to manipulate the invisible strings that controlled your existence. He took liberties over time, small and subtle, barely noticed, but deeply disturbing. You knew you belonged to him, that your existence had been forged for him, to serve him. But there was something in the way his lips sealed against yours, as if they claimed something more than your devotion, something darker and possessed by its own hunger. That invasion, that caress of skin against skin, was unacceptable, something you had been programmed to tolerate, but that your human conscience still rejected, fought against. Still, you let it pass, like a shadow dragged by the current without resistance. You didn’t want to face what was beginning to grow within you, nor what he represented.

What disturbed your soul the most was what came next. The public appearances, the hero galas, the events in which he strutted like the man of steel. And you, in his shadow, in his constant possession, observing from a corner, by his side, his hand resting on your hip, touching you in a way that made it clear you were his belonging, an object of admiration and control. The crowds looked at you, but you felt nothing but a growing void, an oppression in your chest that you could not name. You accepted his contact, even though something inside you began to scream, an echo of a being that still wanted to be free.

However, there was a moment, a point of no return, when his touching went beyond. While you were cleaning, his hand, like a snake, slid towards you, touching your rear inappropriately, his cold and meticulously calculated touch. Something in your being broke, a spark of resistance igniting within your soul, a fury you didn’t even know you had. You pulled away from him, your heart pounding in your chest, as you shouted with all the repressed fury: "That is wrong, Kal-El!" The surprise on his face was palpable, as if he had never imagined that you, his maid, his servant, could have anything more than a submissive response, something beyond acceptance.

He, however, didn’t understand. He didn’t comprehend in his entirety. In his mind, you were just another piece of his possession, another cog in his perfect world of power and control. The man who had saved the world and conquered the skies couldn’t see the rebellion growing inside you, like a silent poison slowly seeping through your veins. To him, this was just a small stumble in his absolute dominance. And yet, something in your gaze made him doubt. Something he had never seen in you. The spark of a being, a human, who was not willing to yield anymore.

So when Clark tried to persuade you, his gaze filled with a mix of desperation and possessiveness, pain reflected in his eyes as he suggested you start a marital life. He wanted you to be something more, something beyond the servant you had been made to be. But you couldn’t be anything different. He didn’t understand the weight of your existence, the weight of your destiny as his caretaker, his obedient and cold servant. You reminded him, with a distant chill that tore him inside: "I am your servant, Clark. Your caretaker. And you, my master. Nothing more."

That was a blow to him. His face, which had been so unyielding, crumbled, though he tried to hide it with a faint smile, as false as the life he had given you. But his eyes were no longer the same. Something dark glimmered in them, a contained fury, something he was just beginning to comprehend.

So he gave you an order, one that resonated in the air with a sinister weight: "You cannot leave the house. You cannot speak to anyone. And you certainly cannot run away." Malice hid behind his words, and although you refused to believe it, you knew it was his will. You could do nothing, and he knew it. He commanded, and you simply existed to comply, like a wandering shadow in a world you no longer recognized.

You surrendered to your routine, immersed yourself in household tasks, moving your robotic body, that container of flesh and metal, from one side to another in Clark's house. The days faded into monotony, but as time passed, the tension became denser, heavier, like the air before a storm.

Clark began to impose himself more on you. Each time he crossed that line, that invisible boundary between master and servant, you felt more trapped. But the worst was what happened one night when he asked you for something you never imagined. It was his most direct, most invasive approach. It wasn’t the words, but the weight of his presence, his breath on your skin, the brush of his hands on your metal body. You tried to resist, clinging to the few rules that still remained, but his insistence, his persistent, heartbreaking touch was enough for you to no longer be able to stand firm. You yielded, not out of desire, but out of necessity. His reluctant affection, as forced and cold as his will, overwhelmed you. You felt the discomfort of his contact, the conflict within you, but there was no way to escape anymore.

And so, you began to understand that there was no more space for resistance, only for submission. The idea of fleeing, of escaping, faded with every caress, with every order, until you became a shadow of yourself, a creature of metal and flesh trapped in your own destiny.

Days passed, and with them, the weight of reality became more unbearable. The memories of a time when your purpose was not to serve, not to exist for him, faded like a distant dream. You became an extension of his will. The days grew longer, emptier. Everything you did was oriented toward him, to fulfill his desires, to ensure he lacked for nothing, as if that were all that remained of you. And, for some twisted logic, that was all it was.

Each time you saw a shadow of a smile in his eyes, you knew it was not filled with love, but with something much more sinister: possession. You understood it too late, when you could no longer distinguish between what was genuine desire and what was simply his need for control, his need to further subdue you. Clark had begun to take liberties that felt like chains.

But something inside you began to break, like a string stretched too far, about to snap. Your robotic body, which at first had given you a sense of strength, was now just a metal prison. Chaos seized your mind, that internal struggle, that struggle against your own nature, against what he had made you. You couldn’t escape from him, you couldn’t escape from his will, but you also couldn’t stop feeling that something in you was being lost, something you would never regain.

One afternoon, while he was not there, and you were fulfilling your task of cleaning the house, silence was broken by a strange sensation in the air. A presence, a void. Something in you told you that this was the last opportunity. The last chance to free yourself, to escape from his yoke.

But like a shadow dragging itself in the darkness, despair loomed over you. You knew you couldn’t. Because when he returned that night, his gaze was no longer the same. There was something even colder in it. Something that could no longer be remedied.

—I told you —he said, his voice soft but laden with a threat that didn’t need to be pronounced. His presence enveloped you, and the air grew dense and oppressive. —You cannot escape. You are mine.

You tried to resist, you tried to fight, but it was useless. The force of his will crushed you like a hammer on a fragile piece of glass. And as you fell, defeated by your own being, you felt as if you were no more than a shadow, a broken creation. Something that had no right to exist, other than to please him, to serve him, to submit to him time and time again.

And so, you became what he desired. You were not a woman. You were not a person. You were not even a human being. You were no longer anything more than his property, his work of metal and flesh, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of yourself.

In that last gasp of consciousness, a tear fell from your mechanical eye. But it no longer mattered. Everything was over. Because in the end, you didn’t even have the strength to regret what you had done, nor to remember what you once were.

And without him knowing, when he walked away to attend to an urgent call from the Justice League, you remained there, in silence, in front of the mirror. The dim light filtering through the window cast shadows that danced across the floor. It was the first time in a long time that you didn’t think of him, didn’t think of what he needed or what you should do to please him. You only thought of yourself, of what you had lost, of what you no longer were.

You looked at yourself, not just with the eyes of a servant but with those of someone who, for the first time, was trying to find something that you no longer knew if it had ever existed. That figure in the mirror was nothing more than a combination of metal and flesh, a puppet of foreign desires. But through the reflection, you saw beyond the surface. You realized that the emptiness you felt could not be filled by him, nor by his cold and possessive love. It didn’t matter how hard you tried, how much you surrendered; you would always be trapped, lost in a labyrinth with no exit.

With a slight tremor in your hands, you touched the mirror. A soft, almost imperceptible knock. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the sound resonating in the room like an echo of the fracture of your soul. And in that moment, without thinking, you made the decision. It was the end, the end of everything. The end of your life as his shadow, as his object, as his slave.

With a heavy heart, you ended your service to him.

#x reader #yan blog #fem reader #yandere #yandere x reader #neutral reader #dc x reader #yandere dc #yandere clark kent #clark kent x reader

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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Don't be afraid to step away for a bit if u need to ♥️♥️

Condolences to u & ur family 🙏

Thank you so much for your kindness and understanding. It really means a lot to know that I have support. I’ll definitely keep that in mind and allow myself to take a break if needed. Sometimes stepping away helps bring back inspiration and energy. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness and support—it means more than you know. :D

#☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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You know, your REVENANT fic reminds me of a Filipino movie called "Maria Leonora Teresa" which is about three parents randomly got a doll that is identical to their dead children except they're killer dolls to kill the parents for some revenge of the creator, anyways I just wanted to tell you since it reminded me with that while reading, I love you fics ❤️❤️

I’ve never seen Maria Leonora Teresa before, but it sounds like a really interesting and eerie movie! Thank you so much for recommending it—I’ll definitely check it out when I get the chance. And I truly appreciate your kind words! It means a lot to know you enjoy my fics.

Thanks for reading and for sharing this with me! ♡

#☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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I try to find you on ao3 but it doesn’t pop up when I search for your username

I’m not sure why it’s not showing up when you search for my username. It might be an issue with the search system or a setting on my account. I’ll look into it and see if there’s anything I can do to fix the problem.

Thanks for letting me know!

#ao3 #help #☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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Important

Announcement.

Silly Little Bat

Hello everyone! I know it’s been almost a month without updates, and I still haven’t released the new installment of Silly Little Bat. I understand if some of you are frustrated or concerned about the lack of content, and I truly appreciate your patience. Unfortunately, I’ve been going through a very difficult time. A very important member of my family passed away in a tragic and unexpected way. It was a confusing and devastating experience, especially since I spent a lot of time with this person, and the last time I saw them was on my previous birthday. Since then, I’ve been struggling with a whirlwind of emotions, trying to figure out how I really feel. Today, I decided to take a short trip to clear my mind and reflect, and it has helped me gain some clarity. That’s why I want to share an important announcement: I’m going to restart Silly Little Bat. Why? Because as I reread the story, I found some inconsistencies that didn’t sit right with me. Plus, I want to expand the plot and make it even deeper and more exciting. If you have any questions about it, I’d be happy to answer them. Over the next few days, I’ll gradually upload all the pending requests and catch up with your messages. Thank you for your understanding and support during this difficult time. I love you all, and I’ll see you soon.

Original gif; discount-supervillain

#blog #announcement #silly little bat #☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 5 months ago

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ৎ୭. . . SORORAL ─── Platonic! Harley Quinn

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Harley showed up at your door after years, broken by the Joker, and you, with more patience than common sense, took care of her. At the end of the day, no matter the fights or crimes, you were two inseparable souls, always ending up on the couch, reminding each other that sisterly love heals all.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 2.14k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Violence, Blood, fights, drugs, toxic relationships, mental health, criminal behavior, past traumas, normalization of the self-destructive component.

「 (Adj.) Like a sister 」

You met Harley in college. The first time you talked was because you shared the same team project… and also a hatred for the same professor. It was all downhill from there. For everyone else, that is. You were at your best.

You were the Watson to her Sherlock, the Robin to her Batman, the salt on the edge of her daisy. Harley talked and you nodded, but not because you were quiet, but because no one had the energy to keep up. You tried to interrupt her once and ended up going on a two-hour monologue about why bats are adorable, all without taking a breath.

You were there for everything. Her first cry over a boyfriend who wasn’t worth it (and whose social media you hacked with brotherly love). Her yelling in the cafeteria about how her parents were the worst dynamic duo ever. Her fights with other students, where you just picked up her stuff and said, “You’re still alive, right? So let’s go.”

You were inseparable. You were her rock and she was your... earthquake. An explosive friendship, literally at one point. But then he came along. The guy with the green hair.

You heard about it on the news. "The Clown Prince of Crime Has a New Partner." At first you didn't believe it. Harley wasn't that kind of girl. But when you saw her picture with her makeup smeared and that crooked smile, you knew. Your Harley was there, buried under tons of chaos.

That day, at the medical center where you worked, you broke a cup. Not because you were being dramatic, but because it was the only way to make the pain feel real.

And then you understood: Harley wasn't anyone's Watson. She was always her own Sherlock, and now she was solving a case that was tearing her apart.

The reunion was a coincidence. Well, coincidence for her. You were leaving work, a long and boring shift, when the sound of a loud laugh made your blood run cold. You saw her leaning against your car, wearing a red leather jacket, torn tights, and a baseball bat that she was spinning between her fingers as if she was deciding whether to use it on you or not.

“Friend!” she shouted, as if it hadn’t been years since you last spoke and as if she wasn’t on the country’s most wanted list.

You didn’t know what to say. Harley threw herself at you before you could react, the smell of gunpowder and something sweet permeating the air. It was as if nothing had changed… but everything had changed.

You tried to pretend it was like before. You chatted for a while, forcing a smile while she talked non-stop, as always. She told you how she had “deconstructed” a bank last week, how Joker had said something “so romantic” that she almost cried, and how Commissioner Gordon “needed to relax, because, hey, a little dynamite never killed anyone… well, not many people.”

The Harley you knew was still there, but she was buried under layers of insane laughter and chaos. Her world was no longer yours.

“Why so quiet?” she asked at last, tilting her head like a curious child.

“Harls… I can’t do this.”

The silence that followed was strange. She looked at you as if you had spoken in another language.

“Oh… that’s why, isn’t it? …Because I’m a “criminal” now.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

She smiled, but not in the way you remembered. This smile was broken, crooked, as if she was trying to convince herself that she didn’t care.

—It’s okay, you know. I don’t need everyone to understand me. I have Mr. J. And he understands me better than anyone.

That hurt more than you wanted to admit. But not more than watching her turn around, the bat resting on her shoulder as she walked away, humming a song you didn’t recognize.

Harley didn’t look back again. Not because she didn’t care about you, but because she didn’t have room in her mind for you anymore. She had filled every corner with it, and you knew there was no way to compete with that.

And you, as much as it hurt, didn’t look back either.

Years had passed. A monotonous routine was your life. The medical center, the long hours, the patients who needed an ear more than a prescription. It didn't bother you, not at all. Listening was something you were always good at, and the idea of a partner seemed far away. Between double shifts and sleepless nights, where was there room for romance?

It was a night like any other. Your apartment was silent, except for the sound of the rain hitting the window. You had left a forgotten tea on the table and were about to pick it up when you heard a knock on the door. Not a polite knock, but something desperate, insistent.

When you opened it, you saw her. Soaked, shaking, her makeup running from tears mixed with the rain. Harley. Your Harley.

"He left me," was the first thing she said, her voice broken and trembling.

You didn't know what to do at first. It was like time had gone backwards, but this time you weren’t in college and it wasn’t a fight with some campus jerk. Everything was darker now, more broken. Without saying anything, you let her in.

She plopped down on your couch, clutching a pillow like it was a lifeline. Between sobs and curses, she ranted about Joker. How he’d used her, how he’d betrayed her, how this time it was final.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she suddenly muttered, looking at you with swollen eyes. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? After everything that happened between us…”

You stayed silent for a moment. You knew she was right. Harley had disappeared from your life without looking back, but now she was there, broken, seeking comfort from the only person who ever truly understood her.

“I didn’t think of anyone else,” she whispered, hugging the pillow tighter. “Because… because you’re my sister, you know?” The one person who was always there, even...when I didn't deserve it.

That was enough to make something inside you melt. You sat next to her, gave her a blanket, and let her talk. Because that was your specialty: listening.

Harley talked until she was speechless. Until her voice faded away and only the sound of the rain remained. You offered no advice or judgment, just your presence. Because you knew that, as much as it hurt, she needed you now more than ever. And, even though time had separated you, there was one thing that had never changed: she was still your Harley. And you, as strange as it seemed, were still her sister.

Harley didn't leave after that night. At first, it was like having a permanent storm in the apartment. One day she'd come home drunk, staggering around and singing off-key songs about what was (or wasn't) worth it in life. Another day she'd show up with a black eye and a cut eyebrow, muttering under her breath that "being the clown's ex isn't exactly a queen's title."

You couldn't say you were surprised. Harley was always a controlled mess… until she wasn't. What you didn't expect was how much that mess would absorb you. You became her nurse, her therapist, her babysitter, and, on the worst days, her bodyguard.

"Why do you put up with me?" she asked you one night, half drunk, with an ice pack in her hand and a split lip that you'd cleaned yourself.

"I don't know, Harls. Maybe because I'm dumb. But someone has to take care of you."

She laughed, that cracked laugh that always made something inside you clench.

You couldn't help but be upset. Because, come on, Harley had gotten herself into this mess. She'd decided to dive headfirst into a world of chaos and crime, knowing full well there was no net to catch her. But it wasn't hate you felt, or even resentment. It was frustration. Harley had always been a big girl, someone who saw the world as an amusement park, ignoring the warnings to "stay off the grass" and "be careful, wet floor."

Sometimes you wanted to yell at her. You wanted her to understand that you couldn't rebuild her every time the world broke her into pieces. But then you remembered who she was. Harley had never needed someone to yell at her. What she needed was someone to show her the mirror, to remind her that beneath all that paint and mess she was still her.

So you took care of her. You cleaned her wounds, you put up with her cries and her unhinged laughter. Because even though it wasn't fair, you knew Harley was learning. Maybe not fast, and maybe in the worst way, but at least she was learning. And if that meant being her anchor in the middle of the storm, then you were willing to hold on a little longer.

One day, everything changed. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, or a revelatory speech. It just happened. You woke up one morning to find Harley in the kitchen, her hair in two uneven pigtails, humming a song as she made pancakes that smelled like they were burning.

“Morning, Doc!” she greeted you like they were in a 1950s sitcom.

It took you a few minutes to realize what was different: she was smiling. Not the broken, I’m-going-to-do-something-illegal-in-less-than-five-minutes smile, but a genuine smile. Harley was Harley again.

Sure, she was still a criminal. She wasn’t going to change overnight, and you didn’t expect her to, either. But now she was a criminal with… what did she call it?

“Scruples!” she said, holding up a half-charred pancake like it was a trophy. “No more punching the bird boy in the face. No more blowing up police stations!” Well, maybe one, but only if it's empty.

You found it hard to believe, but you saw it. Harley was different. She was still chaos, but a contained one. And even though she didn't tell you, you knew some of that change had to do with you.

Then the invitations came.

"Come on, doc! You need to get out of this hole," she'd say, tugging on your arm with the same energy as a tornado. "I'm going to introduce you to the girls."

"Ivy" and "Selina" turned out to be Ivy the Poison Ivy and Selina Kyle, Gotham's famous thief. You spent a surreal night in their company, sitting in a speakeasy where laughter was more dangerous than guns. Selina taught you how to pick a lock with a paper clip, Ivy talked to you about the importance of caring for plants, and Harley was still acting like you were the guest star on her own variety show.

But the height of absurdity came when Harley showed up one Friday night and announced,

“Black Canary is coming to party with us! You know how many people can say that? Nobody, because we’re exclusive.”

The night was legendary. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed so hard or danced with such little sense of the ridiculous. Between Harley trying to do karaoke in a bar where no one had asked for karaoke and Dinah watching her next to you in amusement, you almost forgot that you were with a group of women capable of knocking down a building if they put their minds to it.

Harley looked at you at the end of the night, with a knowing smile.

“See? I told you you were one of us, doc. You can’t escape.”

And deep down, you knew she was right. Harley was still Harley: chaotic, unpredictable, impossible to ignore. But now, she was also someone who was trying to be better, in her own way. And you, without realizing it, had gone from being his anchor to being part of his storm... and it wasn't so bad.

The invitations never stopped. Harley was determined to drag you into every corner of her new life, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was like she was making up for the years she’d missed with you.

Roller Derby was one of the first things she forced you to witness.

“Doc, you have to come. I’m a legend on wheels!” she told you one day as she pulled out a t-shirt with her number printed on the back.

And she wasn’t lying. Harley was a storm on the track, charging at her opponents with a mix of skill and sheer madness. From the stands, you found yourself yelling things like “Don’t break that poor girl’s jaw!” and “That’s got to be a foul, Harley!” But she only responded with laughter, making a victory gesture as a rival player tried to regain her dignity after falling on her back.

“What did you think?” she asked you at the end, with a swollen eye and a half-dented helmet.

“I’ll tell you when my nerves are back on track.”

Burrito mornings became a tradition.

One day she showed up at your door at six in the morning, a greasy bag in one hand and two coffees in the other.

“Burritos and eggs, doc! The best hangovers are cured with food for champions.”

That became a recurring thing. Every week, Harley would wake you up early with the excuse that burritos “taste better at dawn.” You never had the heart to turn her down, though sometimes you silently cursed her when the caffeine wasn’t enough to keep you functional.

Other times, she’d take you on her “normal adventures.”

Like the time she decided you both needed a “spa day.” Her definition of a spa included going to a speakeasy with Ivy and Selina, playing poker with handmade cards, and ending up with nails painted impossible colors.

“Are you relaxing or not?” —Harley asked you while trying to dry your hair with a hairdryer she had clearly stolen from some hotel.

—I don’t know if “relaxed” is the right word…

And then there was her obsession with movies.

One random Tuesday, she burst into your living room with a stack of DVDs.

—Bad movie marathon. Time to educate yourself, doc!

You spent the night watching B-movies while Harley laughed more at your sarcastic comments than at the absurd dialogues in the movies.

—You’re a terrible critic, but I love you anyway —she said while throwing popcorn in your face.

But, of course, Harley wouldn’t be Harley without her chaotic touches.

One day she took you to a costume store because they “needed outfits for friends.” You came out dressed as a pirate clown, while she wore a unicorn costume. They passed through an ice cream shop, a park, and of course, a karaoke bar where she forced the entire bar to sing along to "I Will Survive."

It was exhausting, unpredictable, and honestly, the best few weeks you'd had in years. Because even though Harley was still a whirlwind of madness, there was something different about her. She was more herself. A criminal with a heart, a loyal friend, and someone who, after all this time, finally seemed happy.

And you, even though you never would have imagined it, were happy too.

Always, no matter how chaotic or exhausting the day had been, it all ended the same: the two of you lying on the couch in your apartment, too tired to continue talking but too comfortable to move.

Harley always took the larger end, curled up in a blanket she had declared hers. You settled on the other end, legs dangling because Harley managed to take up more space than she physically could.

At first you tried to watch something on TV, but Harley always ended up changing the channel every five minutes, claiming that “everything is boring.” So, in the end, you just stayed silent, enjoying each other’s company.

That night was no different. Harley was half asleep, her head resting on the arm of the couch and her eyes half-closed. She looked at you, somewhat sleepy, but with that mischievous spark that never seemed to completely go out.

“You know something, doc?” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“What’s wrong, Harls?”

She paused, as if she was gathering the courage to say it, even though you knew Harley rarely had filters.

“I love you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the first time Harley had said it, but this time it sounded different. Softer. More sincere.

“I love you too, Harls.”

She smiled, small and genuine, and closed her eyes.

“In the end, we are sisters, aren’t we? We always were. Even if we don’t have the same last name.”

“We always were,” you confirmed, settling into the couch, letting the calm of that moment envelop you.

And so they stayed, Harley breathing calmly beside you, and you wondering how something so chaotic had ended up being the most stable and comforting thing in your life. Because in the end, no matter what happened outside, how much trouble they got into, or how many egg burritos they shared, you would always be her sister, and Harley would always be your Harley.

#x reader #fem reader #dc x reader #dc joker #dc comics #dc universe #dc harley quinn #harley quinn x reader #harley quinn #harleen quinzel

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 5 months ago

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😭😭 Damn I kinda feel bad for recommending AO3 because to tell u the truth I have no fucking clue on how to post stuff on that site either 💀💀💀 I only use it to read

Sorry about that LMAO

Don't worry about it! :D I actually watched a video explaining how it works, and I already made an account (MarcyVamp1re) on Ao3. So, I'm all set to start posting! Thanks for recommending it—it gave me the push I needed!

#ao3 #☆...🦇marcyvampire #ao3 fanfic

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 5 months ago

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✧. . . NO DAWN TOMORROW ─── Arcane

Coming Soon ! ! !

「 you're far away from here

but you're alived in so many places 」

☆ . . . The days pass like blank pages, and my heart, weary, has stopped searching for reasons to keep beating. If I ever loved or was loved in past lives, those memories have lost their warmth. What once were feelings are now only pain.

Their icy blue eyes looked at me with sorrow as my body crumbled in their hands. I caressed their cheeks, so beautiful, painted with pure scarlet that mingled with crystalline, salty tears, burning my pale, cracked face, scarred by my greatest mistake.

I cried and suffered in their arms while everyone watched.

There was no reason, no justification for what they did, beyond greed. The fear faded from their eyes, but betrayal lingered in mine.

I could hate them, of course I could. But deep down, I only wish to see them again someday, to meet them once more, perhaps under different circumstances... Maybe when we are all children again.

Even though I know we are different, I swore to protect them.

You may kill me over and over, as many times as you wish. But a king is always there to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

No matter how much they hurt me, no matter how much they break me, my heart keeps finding a way to love them, because the pain has never been stronger than what I feel for them.

█║▌│║▌║▌│█│▌║│█║█║│▌║│█║▌

Yandere! Arcane x Reincarnated! Reader

I want to include this text in future fanfics, but I feel that both this and other projects need a separate introduction before I publish them. I want them to have the proper context and truly reflect what I want to convey. I’m not sure if I was under some kind of intense inspiration when I wrote this (or maybe my blood sugar just dropped!), but I’m so eager to start giving it shape. Plus, I finally created an account on Ao3 (at last!), which makes me even more excited to share these stories with you all. I know it’ll be a challenge, but I’m ready to let these ideas come to life. I hope you enjoy them as much as I’m excited to write them

Ao3 User → @MarcyVamp1re

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 5 months ago

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Honestly, I kinda want to start writing Arcane fics and pick up Silly Little Bat again on Ao3, but bro, I have no idea how to even use that site. 😭 Like, I’m just a dummie who knows how to log in, read fanfics, and cry. Send help pls.

#send help #ao3 #arcane #x reader #batman #dc #☆...🦇marcyvampire #arcane x reader #yan blog #fem reader #yandere x reader #dc x reader #batman x reader

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 6 months ago

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I read a series, where people buy these special dolls. These dolls choose their owner and really need their owner’s love. They also need to drink milk in order to survive. What if Bruce gets a doll that looks like Kerosene! Reader in her childhood as a way to cope and everyone else starts get creeped out by the doll along and couldn’t get close because of Bruce

Here it is! ──────》 Revenant

#☆...🦇marcyvampire

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 6 months ago

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ৎ୭. . . REVENANT ─── Bruce Wayne & Batfamily

Silly Little Bat

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. In a dark mansion, a broken doll becomes the reflection of a man who has lost everything. Bruce Wayne, trapped in his pain, embraces it as a substitute for the irretrievable, while his family watches in horror and desperation. The line between obsession and sanity blurs, and the war for the truth erupts, each word cutting deeper.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 2,18k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, blood, family war, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping (of a doll), Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, family conflict, abuse of power, emotional manipulation.

「 a person who has returned,

especially supposedly from the dead. 」

When the doll appeared, no one knew where it had come from. It was in an elaborate package, an impeccable wrapping, with a bow that seemed intended to disguise the horror it contained. The note, written in a handwriting that seemed familiar, read: “For Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred was the first to notice the package. He didn’t want to touch it, but in the end, he did. What else could he do? When he opened it, the expression on his face changed from curiosity to a mix of confusion and dread. He couldn’t help but let out a breath, his gaze fixed on the contents.

“What’s wrong, Alfred? Is it something about Y/N?” Bruce asked, a trace of hope still lingering in his voice.

But as Bruce approached, that hope vanished as quickly as it had come. What he saw before him was more terrifying than any monster he could have imagined.

It was her. Or rather, the cruelest version of what she had been. A doll so identical to Y/N that it seemed as if life itself had been condensed into a piece of plastic, fabric, and hair. The same clothes she had worn on her first arrival at the mansion. Her disheveled hair, as if the chaos of those difficult days had become embedded in her locks. But above all, that empty look, of abandonment, of desolation, as if the only thing left of Y/N was her shadow, trapped in that object.

It was an echo of tragedy, a cruel caricature of that moment when he lost his parents. A macabre mockery.

Bruce’s throat tightened, but he didn’t allow his face to soften. He stood frozen, staring at her, until his body succumbed to a spiral he couldn’t control. Memories assaulted him mercilessly. The dark street. The shadows that enveloped him as his parents fell, helpless to do anything. The violence of that moment, the anguish that still dragged him down, the pain that never left.

Bruce slumped in his chair in the Batcave, turning his face away so Alfred wouldn’t see him. His chest heaved, and with trembling hands, he embraced the doll. He squeezed it desperately, as if it were the only link he had left to the past, to her, to the girl he had once been. He held it as if he could, for an instant, relive those days when everything seemed to make sense.

He cried silently. Tears fell like an invisible river, but the sound that accompanied his weeping was the same as that of a broken city. And so, for a second, he felt like a child again.

Alfred, with a dull expression, left quietly, but he saw it. He saw how that doll was the last drop that spilled Bruce Wayne's sanity.

What Alfred couldn’t foresee, what he couldn’t even imagine, was what happened the next day. When he entered the dining room, while setting the table with the usual routine, he saw Bruce. It was not the upright posture of a man facing the day, but that of someone who had fallen into an invisible trap. With a disturbing stillness, Bruce placed one more plate on the table. A plate that didn’t fit, that didn’t belong in the place it was meant to be. Next to his place, he set it down. The doll.

The butler observed in silence, unsure if what he saw was a macabre joke or the manifest pain of a broken man. The doll was now dressed in clean clothes, her hair neatly arranged with a meticulous care that could only have come from the hand of someone who had too much time to think, too much time to feel. He doubted Bruce was the one who had arranged it, but in the end, he was the only one who knew of its existence. The only one who knew that emptiness.

When the kids arrived, their gazes fell upon the doll. There weren’t many words, just murmurs in low voices, comments under their breaths, attempts to ignore it. But there was something in the atmosphere, a tension that filled it with a presence that refused to be silenced. Everyone, except Damian.

When the little one entered the room, he saw it, and his eyes widened. His gaze didn’t reflect confusion, but pure disdain. As if something in his mind had exploded, as if that scene had become the manifestation of everything he didn’t understand, everything that terrified him.

“What the hell is that thing?” he roared with venom, his voice piercing like a sharp dagger. He looked at his father, then at everyone else at the table with an indomitable fury. “Who was the jokester who dared to make that stupid replica of my sister?”

The air tensed, and time seemed to stand still for a second. Damian's rage was like thunder, but no one was willing to respond. There were no words. However, Bruce's response came as a deadly whisper, cold and definitive, an answer that was for no one but himself, for that abyss within his soul that had always swallowed his fears.

“It’s not a thing,” he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling calm, a calm that froze everything around him. “It’s Y/N. And sit down and shut up. She’s bothered by loud noises.”

The room fell into an absolute silence. No more words. No attempts to contradict him. The others didn’t dare to breathe, as if the air itself could ignite and consume them. Everyone looked down, unable to face the truth hidden in the delicately dressed figure, a figure that represented more than just a toy. It was a reflection of Bruce's desperation, a reminder of the deep cracks that had never healed.

The glass of milk that Bruce poured with a too-calculated precision on the table was not just for the doll. It was an offering. An attempt to feed what could no longer be nourished. The mansion, so big and empty, felt even lonelier in that moment, like a labyrinth with no exit. The anxiety that hung in the air was not just from those present. Bruce was trapped in his own cycle of pain. And the doll, the damned doll, was the only one who understood him.

The others, though silent, understood: the thread that held Bruce wasn't visible, but it was on the verge of breaking.

Days slipped by like shadows, each dragging with it a sense of unease and growing anxiety. The doll was no longer a novelty. It had become just another presence in Wayne Manor, as if it had been there all along, as if its existence was natural. Wherever Bruce went, she was there. In the office, in the Batcave, her small figure sat there, still, with the unsettling perfection of someone who could not move on her own. Though her face held no expression, the doll “played” like a lost child in a world she didn’t understand, simulating a normality that didn’t exist.

During breakfasts, snacks, and dinners, the doll occupied a special place next to Bruce. Her glass of milk, always empty, always vacant. The milk slid down her plastic lips, like a routine, as if it were a ritual that could not be interrupted. Sometimes, Bruce tucked her in to sleep, his trembling hands as he draped the blanket over her. The gesture was strange, almost paternal, but beneath that apparent calm, his mind was a whirlwind.

At first, he thought it would all end there. Bruce and the doll, a tacit agreement between them. The others would search for the real Y/N, the one who should be out there, lost, missing. But, as always in his life, things were never simple, never stayed in place.

It was a gray morning, one in which Bruce couldn’t help but feel trapped in the same cycle of anguish. As every day, the doll was at the table, by his side, with her glass of milk, but something was wrong. Alfred, upon entering the living room, was the first to notice it. A sound, a fragility, as if everything that had been built around the doll had shattered.

When he saw it, his heart stopped for a second. The doll was broken. Her porcelain body was cracked, her hair disheveled, her face a distorted grimace that it had never had before. And there it was, in the middle of the living room, like a brutal reminder of what was happening, of what Bruce had created.

The air cut sharply. A deadly tension spread through the house, as if a bomb was about to explode. Bruce, upon seeing the doll, said nothing. His breathing became heavy, his eyes fixated on the doll's cracks, as if that fracture were a reflection of his own broken self. Something inside him crumbled.

And then, the war began. It was not a war of weapons, nor of blows. It was a psychological war, a war of unresolved emotions and guilt. The members of the Wayne family, those who knew him better than anyone, began to speak. The words crossed, like daggers thrown mercilessly.

“What the hell have you done, Bruce?” Dick said, his voice tense, marked by a mix of fury and concern. “You’re losing control.”

Damian, with disdain in his eyes, looked at the broken doll. “Do you think you can replace Y/N with this? With that?” His voice was cold, cutting. “It’s just a piece of plastic."

Barbara, on the other hand, remained silent, but her eyes spoke more than a thousand words. She knew what was happening, saw the imminent collapse in Bruce. No one dared to say it out loud, but they all knew: Bruce was not just searching for Y/N. He was searching for a way to save himself.

“It’s just a doll!” Tim shouted, the rage evident in his tone. “It’s not going to bring her back!”

But Bruce, with his gaze lost on the broken doll, couldn’t hear. His mind, tormented by guilt, pain, and anxiety, couldn’t process any more. “She’s here,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “She’s here with me. She’s always been here.”

And Bruce broke.

The war was not about the doll. It was about the pain, about the inability to accept the irreparable. Bruce was fighting against his own demons, a battle that no one could win. The doll, in its broken state, was just a reflection of the fractures that already existed within him. And now, they were all trapped in the same spiral, in the same darkness that he had created

Note ───── This story came to me as an anonymous request, something unexpected but incredibly interesting. I had never heard of such dolls before, but there's something unsettling about the idea that an inanimate object could carry so much emotional weight. As I wrote, I couldn't help but imagine Bruce at his most fragile, holding that doll as if it were all that remained of his humanity.

And honestly, I was more than sure that Bruce would crucify the Batkids for what they did to the doll, especially Damian. He was the one who, in some way, broke it, an act that would only multiply Bruce's guilt. The Batkids would surely never forget that day.

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