#ㅤㅤ��ㅤ 𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSHAVING CREAMㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When you sit on their lap and shave their face.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Stephanie Brown, Male Cassandra Cain, Terry McGinnis.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

“Is this necessary?” he asks, voice low, gravely.

“You haven’t shaved in two weeks. You’re starting to look like Alfred let you go feral.”

He huffs — not quite a laugh. “He made a comment.”

“I’m not surprised.”

You dip your fingers in warm water, lather the shaving cream over his jaw. Bruce doesn’t flinch. He never does. But his hands settle on your waist, grounding himself.

“You could let me do this more often,” you murmur, tilting his face.

His eyes stay on yours, soft in a way he rarely lets anyone see. “You could ask more often.”

You work in silence, every stroke of the razor slow and careful. He watches your face more than the blade. When you’re done, he grabs your wrist, pulls your hand down, and rests his forehead against yours.

"Stay here," he says quietly.

And you do.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick’s sprawled on the worn leather armchair in your apartment, stubble dusting his jaw, hair damp from the shower. He raises an eyebrow when you straddle his lap with a towel and razor in hand.

"Should I be nervous?" he teases, blue eyes sparkling.

"You should be honored," you smirk, spreading shaving cream over his jaw. "Most men would kill to have me in their lap right now."

His hands rest lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “Trust me, I know how lucky I am.”

You start with his jawline, the razor sliding smoothly. He closes his eyes, letting you tilt his face this way and that, completely at ease in your touch. The soft scrape of blade against skin is the only sound between you.

"You’re way too comfortable," you mutter as you angle his chin.

He opens one eye lazily. “You sitting on me like this. Yeah, I’m living the dream.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

"Jason," you say, standing between his knees, razor in hand. "Sit. Now."

He grunts, arms crossed, a eyebrow raised. “I’m not letting you near my face with a blade, sweetheart.”

You straddle him anyway.

He stiffens, mouth opening in protest, but your legs are already bracketing his hips and you’re smearing shaving cream onto his scowl.

“You shave like a barbarian,” you mutter.

“Takes one to—hey!”

You press a finger to his lips, then run the razor down the edge of his jaw. He goes quiet, watching you with eyes dark and unreadable. One of his hands settles on your thigh.

“…Y’know,” he murmurs after a while, voice lower, “you do that too good. Like, real good.”

You lean in, your lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “Told you to trust me.”

He swallows. “…Not sure if I’m touched or turned on.”

You smile. “Both is good.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

"This is undignified."

"Stop squirming."

Damian sits rigid in his desk chair, glaring up at you. His arms are crossed and his scowl is deep enough to rival his father. You’re settled neatly on his lap, holding his chin between two fingers while you apply the shaving cream with slow movements.

“Just because I allowed this doesn’t mean I approve,” he mutters.

You hum. “Noted.”

He doesn’t move, even when the razor glides across his jaw. His pulse jumps under your fingers.

“…You are far too close to my throat,” he mumbles, eyes flicking away.

“I’m always close to your throat. You just don’t usually sit still for it.”

There’s a pause. His cheeks color slightly, though he hides it well.

“I tolerate you more than most.”

You smile. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all week."

"...Do not tell Grayson."

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

You're straddling his lap in the middle of his kitchen, the morning sunlight casting gold through the blinds. His glasses are off, his face tilted up, the red stubble along his jaw just waiting for your touch.

"You sure you trust me with this?" you ask, fingers curled around the razor.

He chuckles. “You’ve held my heart. Think I can handle it.”

You roll your eyes but your smile betrays you. You press the shaving cream to his face, slow and deliberate, and he doesn't look away once. He watches you—like you’re the sun.

"I like this angle," he says softly. "You on top, me powerless. It's... refreshing."

"Shut up or I’ll 'accidentally' nick you."

He raises his hands in surrender but keeps that smile, the one that makes you weak in the knees.

You start shaving him, and he doesn't move a muscle. “You're scarily good at this,” he murmurs. “Should I be worried you’ve done this for someone else?”

You lean in, eyes locked on his. “Only you.”

His breath hitches. And for once, Barry Gordon is speechless.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

“Okay, but like… what if I sneeze?” Stephen blurts out, wide-eyed as you lower yourself onto his lap, shaving cream in one hand, razor in the other.

You raise a brow. “If you sneeze and I cut your face open, it’s your fault.”

He clutches your waist dramatically. “This is how I die. Death by sexy girlfriend and fucking shaving cream.”

“You’re so annoying.”

He grins like a dork. “And yet, here you are.”

You start lathering the shaving cream onto his face, and he squirms a little under you. “Why is this so intimate?” he whispers.

"Because it is," you mutter, carefully angling his chin.

“Oh my god,” he whispers again, deadly serious now. “You gonna kill me, don't ya?”

You press the razor to his jaw.

Silence.

He blinks. “Okay, I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm.”

You shave him in quiet for a few moments, and then—

“You really like my face, huh?” he says suddenly.

You smirk. “I like having it smooth when I kiss you.”

He flushes. “I am now extremely motivated to survive this.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

Cassian doesn’t say anything when you take the razor from his hand.

You just climb onto his lap and cradle his face like something sacred, and he lets you. His eyes stay on yours—those dark, storm-deep eyes that always feel like they’re seeing more than they should.

You smear the cream along his jaw in soft circles. He doesn't flinch. He’s steady beneath you, but his hands are gripping your hips tightly, like if he lets go, he might lose something.

“You don’t have to be scared,” you whisper.

“I’m not scared of you.” he signs

You tilt his chin. “Then what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You start shaving him—silent, patient—and he breathes carefully beneath your touch, like he's afraid of ruining the moment. His muscles are tense under your thighs, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

It doesn’t.

You finish, wipe the cream away gently, and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He exhales slowly.

“Thank you,” he signs, like it costs him something. And maybe it does.

But you smile. “Anytime, angel.”

And you swear—just for a second—he smiles back.

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

“I can do it myself,” Terry says, chin tilted, lips curled in that smartass smirk of his.

You just raise an eyebrow. “But then I don’t get to sit on your lap.”

He pauses.

"...Okay, you make a compelling argument."

You climb on, straddling him in his beat-up apartment chair, and he automatically grips your hips to steady you. His skin smells like aftershave, and there’s a faint bruise on his jaw—someone got a lucky hit.

You run your fingers over it gently. “You okay?”

“Been through worse.” His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension behind it.

You apply the shaving cream slowly, your touch deliberate, and he goes still under you. He’s quiet like this. It’s like he forgets how to breathe.

"Have anyone else ever done it for you?" you murmur.

He exhales through his nose, long and low. “…No.”

You shave him in silence. His hands stay on your waist, holding you like you’re something he doesn’t know what to do with—but doesn’t want to lose.

When you finish, you lean forward, pressing your lips to his newly-smooth cheek.

He closes his eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice soft now. "Next time… maybe you shave me and yell at me less for reckless flying."

You laugh. “No promises, Batman.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[notaguia]

ᅠᅠᅠᅠHey! new random pngs 🎐

[v6que]

           

         messy symbols ✧

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⃟𐔌⠀ᩴ       ˁ ᪲˒ ˙˙˓ˀ       𓍚ํֻ       ⭑๋܂⑅

       

    ᰔᩚ        ꒰͡ ི ༏  ྀ͡꒱     ִ °. •̩̩͙ ִ * ° ໋•̩̩͙ ִ 𓈒ּ ° 𓂂

     

ཾֵ𐇵𓈒ֵ۫       𓇼ᬽ̇𓈒༙⠀⠀ ⠀   𓉳𐬹° ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⿻ྀི͚

   

  ᮫͙𓐩ꦿࣳੁᩧ         ♡𓈒⁎        ✦✧͏𝅘𝅥 ׄ ᩿

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ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[haobae]

‎. ܢ ̼̻ ⠀ 🀢͟ ͟ ✧ ꫶ࣺ᭮᭰ ⠀⣬ ♥︎

ूूूੂ ⸻ morir de la pena

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣬ ♥︎⠀⠀⠀Temple ⠀Of ⠀Love

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✿‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ༚༅༚˳ ᨶᯃྀི ✿

⠀

[pun--pun]

── ★ ˙ ̟ 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ .ᐟ

╭ ★ # 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : LIYUE MEN x FEM READER

┆ # 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : WHEN YOU SMACK THEIR ASS !

┆ # 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺 : childe, zhongli, xiao 𖹭

╰ ★ # 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : english is not my first language. hope you enjoy!

— CHILDE ⋆

You didn't mean to become a menace. Really. You were just born this way. Some people had restraint. Some people didn't catcall trained killers. But you?

You were built different.

So when Childe walked past you fresh out the shower, towel slung low on his hips, humming some stupid song as steam clung to his stupidly defined back muscles—

SMACK.

You landed that palm on his ass like a damn animal.

"Daaaamn, soldier! That vision came with a dump truck license or what?"

He froze.

Literally. Time itself? May have frozen.

You watched the realization settle into his bones like "Oh my god. She touched the booty."

He turned around slowly, eyes wide, cheeks pink — not from embarrassment. Oh no. From EXCITEMENT.

“You tryna start a war, babe?” he grinned like a wolf sniffing blood. “Because that was an act of aggression.”

“Guilty as charged.”

He dropped the towel. You did not mean to look down. But you did. Out of instinct.

“Your move,” he said. And suddenly you realized: It wasn't over

You couldn't walk for a week.

— ZHONGLI ⋆

Zhongli was bent over his desk, organizing scrolls and muttering about contracts. You were trying so hard to be normal. Really. But the man wore those tight high-waisted pants.

And when he bent slightly to grab something—

You blacked out.

SMACK.

“Damn, daddy, who gave you all that ass?!”

Time stopped.

Zhongli slowly turned, face unreadable, expression blank.

But his ears?

Bright red.

“...Pardon?” he said, voice smooth as ever, as if you hadn’t just sexually harassed him.

You cleared your throat. “I said, uh… Geo be thick tho?”

He blinked. Then, to your horror — he smiled.

The type of smile that said: You have messed up. You have no idea how much.

“Contracts must be upheld,” he murmured, stepping closer. “You have initiated a binding agreement. I believe the clause was... ‘smacketh thy posterior.’”

“Zhongli, please.”

“I shall honor it. As should you. Every day. At sunset. In accordance with tradition.”

“Zhongli, that’s NOT a real—”

“It is now.”

You created a monster.

A hot, golden-eyed monster.

And you had only yourself to blame.

— XIAO ⋆

It was peaceful. Serene. The birds were chirping. Xiao, gorgeous as always, had just finished cleansing some evil or whatever. His back was turned. His arms crossed.

You stared.

His pants?

Tight.

Like insultingly tight.

It was your dream.

So obviously—

SMACK.

“THAT'S WHAT I CALL A DIVINE BLESSING, WHEW—!”

It happened so fast.

One moment you were alive, full of energy, the next—

You were pinned against the railing, Xiao’s glowing eyes burning into your soul.

His face was red. Not pink. Not flushed.

Red. Like he wanted to bury himself in shame and/or your neck.

“You… touched me. There. Why would you—do that?” he hissed, voice cracking.

You blinked. “Because it was right there. And it was thick.”

His eyes twitched. His grip on your arms tightened like he was trying not to commit murder. “Mortal urges are… incomprehensible.”

And yet, he didn’t let go.

“...You may do it again. But only if you announce yourself first. And swear it is out of… reverence.”

You saluted. “Respectfully, your honor, I will smacketh thy celestial cheeks.”

He vanished.

You giggled.

From the rooftops, he whispered: “I HEARD THAT.”

— © pun--pun. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[ojiito]

             

                    𓂂  ケ̥ ׅ֯ー 𐇽۫キ   ♡͙ႉ

         

[luvpixx]

── .✦ YANDERE BALLERINA WHO'S YOUR PRECIOUS DOLL 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

cw. male yandere, fem reader, stalking, obsessive thoughts, emotional dependency, unhealthy attachment, delusion, self-harm, body horror, unhealthy romance, manipulation, dissociation, identity loss, hallucinations, mental instability, implied violence, emotional degradation, trauma bonding, toxic codependency, unhealthy power dynamics, implied eating disorder.

Yandere ballerina who didn’t even notice you at first.

He was all angles and elegance, carved in pale porcelain and lit by the stage lights like something half-alive, half-divine. A beautiful boy moving like a dream, distant, cold, the type you don’t fall in love with—you worship. You were messy. Loud shoes. Hair too wild. Always five minutes late, always sitting on the studio floor like you owned the dust. He found you annoying. You made the quiet ache in his bones louder somehow.

But you kept coming. Not for him, not really. You were just drawn to the ballet like he was, like something feral finding something holy. You said too much. Laughed too loudly. Looked at him like you saw something real.

Yandere ballerina who started to watch you when you weren’t looking.

He didn’t mean to. The curve of your neck when you tied your shoes. The wrinkle of your nose when you laughed. The way your fingers danced even when your feet didn’t. You didn’t move like a ballerina. You moved like a storm. Ugly. Beautiful. Free.

He hated you for it.

He hated how you left notes for everyone—crumpled things, sugar-sweet, stupid little encouragements—and one day, you left one for him. It just said, You’re not alone. Even if you want to be. He read it until the paper was soft with fingerprints. Then he folded it into a tiny square and tucked it inside his slipper like a secret under his skin.

Yandere ballerina who started to change for you.

You liked the color blue. So he wore blue ribbons in his hair. You liked cinnamon. So he bought cinnamon tea, even though it made his stomach twist. You said you liked how “boys with long hair look soft,” so he never cut it again, even when it tangled at the nape of his neck and pulled when he danced.

He started performing for you—always knowing where you sat, always tilting his face so you could see the expression, the emotion, the raw bleeding beauty he’d never let anyone else witness. You clapped for him like it meant something, and it did. It started to mean everything.

He told himself you were just being nice. He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

But his smile cracked every time you laughed at someone else’s joke.

Yandere ballerina who prays for you.

Not to God. But to you.

He kneels before mirrors, blistered knees on wood, whispering your name like a mantra, a hymn, a curse. He hurts himself in small, soft ways just to remember you love broken things. Cuts his calluses raw. Starves a little. Bleeds into shoes. Dances on torn feet.

He looks for you in the audience, even when he knows you're not there.

He dreams of you coming backstage, holding his face with your messy hands, saying “You were beautiful. You were mine.” You never say that. But one day, you will.

You will.

Because he's the only one who knows how to love you quietly, like rot under roses.

And if someone else touches you—he’ll dance for them too.

He’ll perform with all the softness in his soul. And after the curtains close, he’ll leave behind red footprints, and no one will ever find them again.

Yandere ballerina who starts to erase himself just to fit inside the shape of you.

You liked passion. So he started to tremble onstage. Let tears fall when he danced. Let his ribs show. He wanted to look ruined, the way you looked at everything with soft pity, with hands that touched like forgiveness. He was too clean for you before. Now, he lets the dirt in. Under his nails. In his mind. He wears it like perfume. You once said something about loving people who feel like ghosts. He’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to haunt you. To be something you can’t stop thinking about. Like he thinks of you.

Yandere ballerina who follows you home.

Silent as dust. Breath shallow in your shadow. Not always. Just when he feels empty. Just when you laugh with someone else. Just when he needs to see that you still exist. That you’re still real. That he didn’t imagine you.

He watches you brush your teeth. Scratch your ankle. Burn your toast. You are so human it hurts. He’s not. Not anymore.

He tells himself it’s innocent. He just wants to be near you. He just wants to keep you safe. The world is dangerous. Loud. Ugly. If you knew how many people stared at you… how many people didn’t deserve your smile… You’d be grateful for him.

Sometimes, when you fall asleep with your window cracked, he whispers your name into the night just to see if your lips move in your dreams.

Yandere ballerina who starts to disappear in mirrors.

He doesn’t recognize his reflection anymore.

The boy who used to move like swans and silk and purity now stares back with hollow eyes, ribs like prison bars, and lips that bleed when he smiles too hard. He hums the melody of your voice like a lullaby, pirouetting alone in the dark rehearsal room, skin shining with sweat and desperation.

There’s a bruise shaped like your fingernail on his hip. You touched him once—by accident. He pressed your fingerprint into himself so hard it turned blue. And he loved it.

He doesn't eat unless you compliment him. He doesn't rest unless you’re watching. He breaks himself open again and again because he’s sure that if he bleeds beautifully enough, you’ll finally see him.

Yandere ballerina who knows you don’t love him yet.

Yet is the key.

He says it when he cries. When he hurts. When you leave without saying goodbye. He whispers it while slicing ribbons of red into his ankles so he can feel weightless when he leaps—so he can feel like your love, even imagined, gives him wings.

If someone else kisses you, he doesn’t panic.

He smiles.

Because he knows how to perform.

He knows how to take roles from people.

He knows how to take things.

And he is so very patient.

One day, you’ll come to him in tears. The world too loud. Your heart too heavy. He’ll hold you like a dancer holds breath—delicately, fully, with every inch of his soul. And you’ll fall in love with him slowly. The way you fell in love with ballet.

By accident.

By force.

By fate.

Yandere ballerina who no longer knows where the dance ends and where you begin.

He sees you everywhere now. In the curve of the moonlight. In the thrum of violin strings. In the dust hanging thick in the air when the studio is empty and silent, just him and the mirrors and your ghost. Your shape stretches across the walls. Your laughter plays in the echoes. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and sees you dancing with him—slow, delicate, your body pressed against his, breath against breath, heartbeat against heartbeat.

(You’ve never danced with him. Not really. But he’s done it a thousand times in his head. And every time, you love him more.)

Yandere ballerina who starts to speak to you when you aren’t there.

In the dressing room, alone, he kneels on the cold tile and whispers about his day. About how he missed you. About how that other girl touched his arm, and how wrong it felt. How he wanted to cut his skin open and start over. He calls it your name. The little hollow behind his ribs where he keeps all the versions of you that smile only for him.

Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he lays on the floor and imagines you lying beside him, fingers tangled, bones touching. He hums lullabies he never learned, lullabies he dreamed into existence because you deserve a world where you are never afraid again.

Yandere ballerina who starts keeping pieces of you like little sacred relics.

A strand of hair from your brush. A crumpled receipt from a bakery he saw you visit. A ticket stub from a film you saw two weeks ago. He keeps them in a small box wrapped in ribbon, hidden beneath his costumes. Every item is catalogued in a soft, trembling hand. Sometimes he takes them out and lines them up on the floor, arranging them like offerings to a god.

He kisses them.

He cries over them.

He tells them things he’s too afraid to tell the real you, because what if you run? What if you scream?

He doesn’t want you to be scared.

Not of him.

He’d never hurt you. He just wants to be the only thing that touches your soul.

Yandere ballerina who starts losing time.

There are nights he wakes up onstage, barefoot, trembling, mouth whispering your name like a broken record. There are days he finds blood on his hands, pink and sticky like paint, and doesn’t remember why. He stares at the mirrors and sees a stranger. A beautiful boy with cracked lips and bruised eyes who loves too much, too hard, too deep.

He wants to be your home, but he’s afraid he’s become your haunting instead.

And still—he dances.

Even as his feet bleed.

Even as his eyes sink into shadows.

Even as your smile, the real one, fades into something wary, something distant.

(You’re pulling away. He sees it. Feels it. A tremble in the thread that binds him to you.)

But he’s not angry.

He’s grieving.

You’re still alive.

Still warm.

But he swears it feels like you’re dying without him.

Yandere ballerina who swears he'll become your favorite.

Not your boyfriend. Not your lover. Something deeper. Something eternal.

He will be the performance that leaves you breathless. The wound you touch in silence. The beauty that aches so much, you almost wish you'd never seen it. You’ll remember him in the lonely hours, in the quiet dark, and wonder where it all went wrong.

And maybe then—maybe then—you’ll love him. Even if it’s too late.

He’ll still dance for you.

Even if you’re not watching.

Even if you forget his name.

Even if he has to fall to pieces again and again, just to keep the spotlight on your memory.

Because to him, you’re not a person anymore.

You’re the reason he exists.

And he will never let you go.

Even if he has to destroy himself to hold you forever.

Yandere ballerina who forgets how to breathe unless you’re in the room.

He doesn’t even notice it at first. The stillness. The way his chest stops rising unless you say his name. The way his hands shake when you leave, like a marionette with cut strings. The way the world blurs around the edges unless your voice slices through it.

You are gravity. You are the script. He is nothing but the dancer on your stage now.

And the worst part?

You know it.

You know it when you brush your fingers under his chin, just barely—just enough to make him flinch like a kicked dog, breath caught in his throat like confession. You know it when you pull away with that lazy smirk and say, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s pathetic.”

He still does.

God, he still does.

Yandere ballerina who lives for your approval like it’s communion.

You test him sometimes.

You let him get close—brush your hip with his fingertips, rest his cheek against your knee like some ruined angel—and then you go cold. Eyes sharp, voice bored. You say things like “You don’t think I love you, do you?” with a lightness that feels like a blade.

He doesn’t know the answer.

He never knows.

But he shakes his head anyway. No. Of course not. Not yet. I haven’t earned it yet.

And you smile, petting his hair like a reward.

“Good boy.”

Yandere ballerina who can’t perform unless you’re watching.

The instructors start to notice. He collapses in rehearsals, dry-eyed and stiff-limbed. He refuses solos unless you’re in the front row. When you're gone, he’s silent. Empty. A corpse in satin slippers. But when you're there—your arms crossed, your mouth chewing gum lazily like you couldn’t care less—he blooms.

He dances like his bones are glass and you're the only one who knows how to hold him. Every spin is a plea. Every leap is a scream. His body breaks beautifully for you.

He watches for your reaction like a starving man watches a locked door.

Sometimes you clap. Sometimes you don’t.

Either way, he thanks you afterward.

Yandere ballerina who lets you ruin him because it feels like being loved.

You take things from him. Little things at first—his favorite hoodie, the key to his locker, the rosary from his bedside that belonged to his grandmother. He gives them all willingly. You never ask. You just reach, and he empties himself into your hands.

But then you start pushing.

You let him kiss you and then laugh in his face.

You make him fight someone twice his size just to prove he's "serious."

You dare him to break his toes for you—and he does, barefoot, on the cement, crying and smiling at the same time like it’s holy.

And when he collapses in your arms, broken and pink-mouthed, you whisper, “Do you love me more now?”

He nods.

You laugh.

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

Yandere ballerina who starts dreaming of the day you kill him.

Not violently. No—never messy. You’d do it sweetly. Quietly. Maybe with a kiss to his temple and a hand over his mouth. Maybe you’d tuck him into your bed and tell him a story before it happens.

Maybe you already have.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s already dead. If this is some afterlife where heaven is cruel and wears your smile. He wouldn’t mind. He’s not scared of you anymore.

He wants to belong to you completely. Wants to wear your fingerprints like tattoos, wants to be your thing, your creature, your shadow.

If you asked him to tear his heart out, he’d ask which hand.

Yandere ballerina who starts starving again when you don’t touch him.

It’s not about weight, not really. It’s about control. It’s about your hands. About the way your fingers drag across his jaw and your voice murmurs “You’re prettier when you’re fragile.”

And he believes you. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?

He wants to be porcelain for you. Wants to be thin enough to float. Wants to be your delicate little marionette boy who only eats when you spoon food into his mouth and whisper, “Good boy. Stay alive for me.”

Sometimes he pretends your voice is what keeps his heart beating. That if he stops hearing it, he’ll rot.

Part of him wants to test it.

You are not well, either. Not even close.

You don’t love him. Not in the way he thinks. But God, you need him.

Not like oxygen. Like a mirror. Like an echo. Like a secret you can shove into a body and make suffer so you don’t have to.

He clings so tightly. He folds himself into your hands so willingly. He breaks for you again and again and thanks you for the splinters.

And it makes you feel—safe. Powerful. Less wrong.

Because if someone this beautiful can worship someone as ruined as you, maybe you’re not the monster.

(You still are.)

But now he’s your monster too.

Yandere ballerina who starts seeing things that aren’t there.

Your face in the mirror, smiling when you’re not in the room.

Your hand reaching for his in dreams, pulling him into fevered voids where he dances alone on cracked floors soaked in blood.

The sound of your laugh during recitals, even when you didn’t come. Even when you promised you would and forgot.

He doesn’t tell you about the hallucinations.

You wouldn’t care.

You’d probably just say “Cute. You're going insane.”

And then you'd cup his face and kiss his nose, so sweet it almost hurts.

Yandere ballerina who lets you carve your name into his ankle with a broken mirror shard.

It wasn’t your idea.

It wasn’t not your idea, either.

You whispered it in his ear one night when he cried too hard to sleep:

“If you were really mine, I’d see it on you. In you. Like a scar.”

So the next night, he did it. Pale thighs curled under him, hands shaking, eyes glazed and glassy. He didn’t even cry.

He knocked on your door and held out his foot like a stray cat bringing home a dead bird.

You stared.

Then smiled.

Then said, “God, you’re beautiful when you're in pain.”

You kissed the wound.

He came apart.

You keep him on a leash. Not literally. (Yet.)

But emotionally, he doesn’t breathe unless you exhale first.

You test it.

Sometimes, you pretend to leave for good.

Disappear for two days. Turn off your phone. Watch the camera you planted in his room.

You see him unravel.

You see him begging something—God, the mirror, you—for a reason to exist.

You only come back when he’s sobbing in the bathtub with his fingernails ripped and his mouth trembling like an abandoned child.

And then you cradle him.

You whisper, “There, there. I’m here. I’m yours.”

He doesn’t even ask where you went.

Because he's too grateful you came back.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luvpixx. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[j-eongs]

ㅤ𐙚 ㅤ ׁ ㅤ˳ ㅤ ✿ㅤ ㅤ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌ㅤ ,ㅤ 𝗂 ' 𝗏𝖾ㅤ ㅤ𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽ㅤ 𝗒𝗈𝗎ㅤ 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆ㅤ ㅤ𝗍𝗁𝖾ㅤ ㅤ𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭.ㅤ ㅤ

forㅤ@gigittamicㅤ♡

[amourx]

ㅤHot & Cold ˖࣪ ༻ 💧🍵

[devoildrs]

[orkdea]

"A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism." 。。。 　 ♥︎

運命の囁き —ㅤㅤ ㅤ▌│█║▌║▌║ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ🕷

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTRAWBERRY BABYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Jason Todd x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You Just Gave Birth To Your Child, Jason's Child, The Love Of Your Life. But Everything Went Wrong When You Saw The Child...

☆⁠ NOTE : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Your life was supposed to be perfect right now. You just gave birth to your beautiful baby—a moment that should have been magical, joyous, and filled with happy tears.

Instead, you were losing your mind.

Because the baby in your arms… did not have black hair. Not even a single dark strand.

No.

Because the baby—the tiny, fresh-out-the-womb infant that you had just spent hours screaming into existence—was blonde.

Blonde.

BLONDE.

And he looked exactly like Jason.

Now, for most normal people, this wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it would be a cute, happy moment—"Oh wow, he looks just like his dad!"—but you? No. You were spiraling. Because Jason had black hair. Jet black. Dark as the night. Dark as his soul (romantically speaking).

And your baby?

Your baby had a tuft of blonde hair that made him look like a tiny cherub sent straight from heaven.

Which made no damn sense.

You hadn’t cheated. Hell, you barely even looked at other men since getting together with Jason because—let’s be honest—your man was already borderline psychotic when it came to his jealousy.

So, if you had cheated (which, again, you HADN’T), you would already be dead. There would be no hospital room. No baby. Just a Jason-shaped shadow standing over your shallow grave.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were staring at your son, this tiny, beautiful baby with blonde hair.

Which would be fine. If Jason had fucking blonde hair.

But he didn’t. He had black hair.

You were a hundred percent sure of that. You had run your fingers through that thick, inky hair so many times. You had tugged it when he pissed you off. You had yanked it when—

That didn’t matter right now.

Because either you had just given birth to the wrong child, or—OR—

“Oh my God,” you choked, your voice cracking as you looked at the baby in your arms with sheer, bone-deep horror. “Jason’s going to think I cheated on him.”

The room went silent.

A nurse looked at you with wide eyes, hesitating mid-step. Alfred, ever the picture of composure, cleared his throat, carefully folding a tiny onesie. And Dick—because of course Dick was here—froze mid-bite of his celebratory snack, a hospital pudding cup, before slowly turning to you.

“Uh… what?”

“I didn’t cheat on him,” you gasped, convulsing in hormonal sobs as you clutched the tiny baby closer to your chest. “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!”

“I mean, obviously,” Tim mumbled, looking more alarmed at your emotional breakdown than at the situation itself.

But you weren’t listening. You were spiraling, your voice getting more frantic.

“Oh my God. What if they gave me the wrong baby?” you whispered, eyes darting wildly around the hospital room. “What if some poor woman out there has my real baby? And I have hers?”

“Miss, please,” Alfred sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Damian, perched in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, made a disgusted sound. “That’s your child, idiot. It looks just like Todd.”

“NO, HE DOESN’T!” you wailed. “JASON HAS BLACK HAIR!”

Damian just scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I—WHAT?!” you shrieked.

Dick sighed dramatically, putting his hands on his hips. “I can’t believe we have to do this right now. Jason’s gonna lose his mind.”

That set you off even worse. Jason’s gonna lose his mind?! Oh God, oh God, he was going to think you cheated. He was going to leave. He was going to storm in here, take one look at the baby, and—

You sobbed harder. Ugly cried harder.

Bruce actually looked like he was reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment.

“Uh, wow,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t cheat,” you repeated, voice breaking. “I mean—how would I even have the time?! Jason’s always around! He’d kill anyone who looked at me for too long! It doesn’t make sense!”

“Why are you trying to convince us?” Damian scoffed. “Shouldn’t you be telling Todd?”

Your stomach dropped.

Jason.

Jason wasn’t here.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck.

“I—I love him so much,” you sobbed, clutching your little (wrong?!) baby. “I—oh my God—what if he leaves me?! What if he thinks I—Oh God, he’s gonna think I cheated, and I didn’t, I swear—”

“Jason’s going to break the door down when he gets here,” Tim muttered, rubbing his temples.

“No, he won’t,” Bruce grumbled.

CRASH.

Jason absolutely broke the door down.

It slammed against the wall so hard that even your baby, who had been peacefully asleep through your meltdown, flinched.

"Fucking Gotham traffic, I swear to—"

He froze.

You were crying.

Sobbing.

Hysterical.

His brain ran a million miles per hour. Did something happen? Did you change your mind about the name? Did one of the nurses insult you? Did he leave the oven on? Did someone die?

His eyes darted to the baby in your arms.

Tiny. Swaddled. Breathing.

Okay. Not dead.

So why the fuck were you crying like this was a damn crime scene?

"Uh," Jason started. "Baby? What’s wrong?"

You let out another broken sob, clutching the baby to your chest.

Jason panicked.

You started crying so hard you couldn’t even get words out. Just absolute, gut-wrenching sobs while Jason rushed to your bedside, grabbing your face.

“Baby, baby, what’s wrong?!” he panicked, his voice an octave higher. “Did they hurt you?! Are you in pain?! Do I have to kill someone?! Is it Bruce?! I bet it’s Bruce.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, deeply unimpressed.

It's just made you cry harder.

"Oh, God—what happened?! Are you okay?! Is the baby okay—"

"Jason, I SWEAR I didn’t cheat on you!" you blurted out.

Jason blinked.

Everyone collectively flinched.

"…What?" Jason said, voice flat.

"I didn’t cheat! I would never cheat! I love you, and you were my first, and I would never, I would never, I—"

"Baby," Jason said slowly, trying to wrap his head around this absolute fever dream. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You let out another shaky breath, eyes darting around the room in pure panic. "T-the baby, Jason. Look at him."

Jason frowned, stepping closer. He looked at the baby. Looked at you. Looked at the baby again.

"…Yeah?" he said, confused.

"He has blonde hair!"

Jason blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then turned to the rest of the family like they had the answers.

Dick rubbed his temples. "Jay."

Jason turned back to you, lips parting like he was about to say something, then stopping. Then opening again. Then stopping.

“I swear I didn’t!” Your sobs renewed, your shoulders shaking as you held up the tiny, peacefully sleeping baby. “But look at him! He has blonde hair! He looks exactly like you! But you have black hair! I think I got the wrong baby, or I cheated on you in my sleep, or maybe you’re going to leave me—”

Jason stared.

Then he turned, slowly, toward the rest of the room. “…Did you guys let her spiral like this on purpose?”

“Yes,” Damian said, unbothered.

“Absolutely,” Dick grinned.

Jason inhaled deeply.

Then, to your absolute shock, he let out a long, tired sigh—before shoving a hand through his hair and grumbling, “I fucking forgot you didn’t know.”

You hiccupped again. “Wh—what?”

Jason gave you a flat look. “Babe. My hair. I’ve been dyeing it black since I was a kid.”

Your breath caught. “Huh?”

“Because of him,” Jason added, jerking his thumb toward Dick, who just wiggled his fingers in a smug little wave.

Silence.

More silence.

The world stopped.

The Earth stopped spinning.

Your breath hitched. "You…"

Jason nodded.

"You… had blonde hair?"

Jason nodded again.

You sniffled. Sniffled again. Processed this information.

Then immediately let out a loud, gut-wrenching, ugly sob and buried your face in your hands.

Jason Todd. Your husband. Your big, scary, six-foot-four, muscle-bound, leather-wearing husband. The man who used to be the meanest street kid in Crime Alley. The man who could disassemble a gun with his eyes closed and had murdered actual people.

Had spent his entire life dyeing his hair because he wanted to look like Dick Grayson.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Jason groaned, rubbing his face. “Babe—”

“Oh my God.”

“Listen, it’s not—”

“You mean to tell me I’ve been married to you this whole time thinking you had black hair, but you’re actually some kind of undercover blonde?!”

“Strawberry blonde,” Tim corrected.

Jason shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

You gasped, gripping his jacket like you might collapse. “You mean to tell me this baby is actually yours?”

Jason exhaled. Then he stepped forward, resting a warm, solid hand against your cheek before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Yes, babe,” he muttered, lips brushing your skin. “He’s mine.”

"Oh my God," you wailed. "I’m so stupid."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" Jason sat on the bed, grabbing you. "You’re not stupid. You just had a baby. And hormones. And clearly, no one ever showed you my baby pictures."

"This whole time," you hiccupped, voice muffled, "I thought they swapped our baby, and I stole some random kid. I thought you were gonna leave me!"

Jason sighed, rubbing your back. "Sweetheart, I would never leave you. Especially not over our perfectly fine, baby."

Damian scoffed. "Tt. As if anyone else would willingly have a child with Todd."

Jason shot him a glare. "Not the time, demon."

Dick sighed, stepping forward and ruffling Jason’s hair. "Guess we should’ve mentioned that whole blonde thing earlier, huh?"

Jason glared. "You think?"

Stephanie shook her head. "I thought everyone knew. It's, like, a family fun fact at this point."

"I DIDN’T KNOW!" you shouted.

Jason pulled you into his arms, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. "It’s okay, babe. It’s okay. I promise."

You sniffled, eyes red and puffy. "So… he’s really yours?"

Jason pressed a kiss to your forehead. "He’s really mine."

You let out a weak whimper. "I wanna see your baby pictures."

Jason chuckled. "Alright, sweetheart. When we get home, I’ll show you all of them."

Tim crossed his arms. "I have them saved on my phone."

Jason turned his head. "Why the fuck do you have baby pictures of me on your phone?"

Tim shrugged. "For emergencies."

Jason squinted. "…What kind of emergencies?"

Tim smirked. "Like this one."

Jason pulled back, finally looking down at the baby in your arms.

And—oh.

The storm in his eyes vanished.

Replaced by something warm. Something deep. Something soft.

The big, scary Red Hood, suddenly looked—small.

Awe-struck.

Because there, curled in your arms, was a tiny, sleeping baby with blonde hair and soft little features that looked just like his.

Jason swallowed.

Then, hesitantly, he reached out, brushing his fingers over the baby’s little fist.

“…Holy shit,” he murmured.

Dick grinned. “You made a clone.”

Jason turned to you, eyes softening.

Then he kissed you—long, deep, and full of love.

“I love you,” he muttered, lips still against yours.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[notaguia]

bios + pngs + symbols ❤️

ᅠ͟͟𝚝͟͟𝚞́͟͟ 🌳 𝚟𝚘𝚣 ✿ ͏ᣟ݂ ࿔⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ⋆

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟𝙷͟͟͟͟͟͟𝚎͟͟͟𝚊͟͟͟𝚛͟͟͟𝚝͟͟͟ 🌸 𝚋͟͟𝚎͟͟𝚊͟͟͟𝚝͟͟͟

𝙳𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚎 ㅤㅤᨶᯃ✿͙⃜｡･ㅤ𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘́𝚗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou,　✝️ㅤ𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 ✧✦ 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍

𓆡𓆡*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡あなたは私がかつて知っていた人とは違う

𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺ㅤㅤ一我們愛 🌸♩ ㅤ ♩⡈꫶᳝᳜ᰯ✿͏ ❀꫶᳜᳝ᰭ ❤︎

𓋵࣬‧͙ ̩̩͙*˚ ʕ̢·͡˔·⑅ɂ̡̣♥︎ ຼᬉ ˁっ˕ ྀིˀ   🤍⬬᳝᳜࡙ @ notaguia

海のカタツムリ, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊_𝚌𝚘𝚕 🍀 💌.

[v6que]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ribbon and lace dividers ♡ ྀི

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤㅤedited by me

ㅤㅤㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[haobae]

məni ⠀bu⠀ qədər⠀ sevdin, ⠀mən ⠀heç⠀ vaxt⠀ bu sahibsiz⠀ olmamışam. ⠀Eu ⠀não ⠀sei⠀ como⠀ parar.

you're⠀ killing ⠀me⠀ softly,⠀ I ⠀don't⠀ wanna⠀ lose you. ⠀məhəbbətim ⠀həmişə⠀ həqiqət⠀ olub.

[lnvierno]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⿻ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀ Let's dance 𓆃  ⡴