Decaffeinatedfreakturtlelan-blog - Hanging By A Thread

summary : the forgotten wayne child realizes why she's so forgotten.

Dark trees lined the horizon , their luscious leaves obscure the sight of the steady rising sun in the distance . You stand by yourself alone , eyes drooping ever so slightly as you your hands steadily move across the canvas before you.

You feel so lost - maybe because you are - lost and scared as your hands slightly trembled - the grip on your paint brush loosening. The paintbrush looks dull at first - just a sleek white wood, but the bristles were of the finest quality, of course - any gift from Damian Wayne would be .

You vividly recall the morning he had shoved a small rectangular box in your hands - face holds a small scowl . You recall opening it and was met with the paintbrush.

"Damian, you didn't have to," you murmur slightly as your hands glided across the smooth wood with utter care. Damian looks at you impassivly, " I made it , carved the wood and thined out the brush myself - I just happened to think of you that's all " he says before turning around and disappeared behind the halls.

You held your tongue - Damian was never expressive, but he tried - tried more than anyone else had in your life to care for you . That morning, you sat the box on your desk and swore to use it on a good painting.

It's been a couple of years since that swore, and now , you find yourself finally using it. You sat up straight in your wooden stool , one hand glides across the French canvas before you , it stands proudly upon the Korean easle- the wood was sourced from the finest wood the could offer.

Your left hand props up the Japanese paints in a wooden palette , around the rim sits the purest shade of white , a molten golden yellow, little dabs of sea blue , rosey pink and earthy browns .

Your hands seize as you stop , you gently rest the paint brush onto the rim of the easle as you look at your painting. It looks beautiful to the eye- how could it not?

The woman before her has beautiful golden hair - hear that shines so brightly it could rival the sun - her face , ethereally so smooth its as if God personally carved her out the finest poreclin.

Her stunning blue eyes state right back at her- captivating - so dazzling, in fact that a mere glance at it can overthrow any captain off course.

You stare back at her but can't help but find fault in it - in the faintest corner of her collar bone, you mark a single lone bristle that stuck on with the paint . Your jaw tightens, but it doesn't match the way you clutch onto the paintbrush in fury as your eyes peek the faint outline of the littlest pink escaping the outline of her beautiful dress.

Anger boils in you, and suddenly, the girl stating back at you suddenly looks imperfect - she looks uglier now that you've seen her flaws, and suddenly, this is deeper than just some stupid painting.

You glance at the canvas once more - it's your reflection stating right back and suddenly you feel your lungs constrict on itself - denying your body of any more oxygen.

Your reflection looks so hideous- why must there be so many acne scars ? Why must your nose look so distorted ? Why is it that one eye slightly looks bigger than the other? Why is it that you aren't perfect ?

You felt tears stream down your face - body still as it a war enrages within you . You fight the urge to reach out to your reflection and tear apart your body - to rearrange it , to mold it into something better , something perfect.

Why can't you be perfect ? Why must you look like this ? Is this a cruel mockery bestowed upon you ? Your mind traces back through all your memories - memories of watching Cassandra , Stephanie, and Barbra putting in makeup one night for some gala - your sister look so happy with one another as they carefully smack their lipsticks together - their reflection looked unreal- too beautiful for the eye to comprehend.

Bruce had invited them - not you but them and a few other of your brothers . You feel bile rising in your throat as the memory replays before you - why hadn't Father asked you ? Does he know how much you wish to go to a gala?

To live every girl's dream of dressing up and dancing under the prettiest lights with a handsome boy ? What a naive thought- a truly naive thought as your memory flashes to you running back into your own room .

Your sobs echo through the room as you desperately slap makeup onto yourself - a pathetic attempt to look beautiful. You memory zooms in on your past self finally looking into your old mirror - the reflection is utter repulsive - a literal pig stands before you , makeup smeared.

You choked as you blinked away , staring back at the canvas - again, the beautiful woman's portrait morphs into one of a pig with makeup smeared on . You let out a scream - shoving the portrait back, causing it to collide with the wet grass , mud trickles onto it , covering the portraits beautiful face.

You covered your face with your hands desperately as you began sobbing hard- is this what it's come to ? You being so ugly , so imperfect that it's the reason why no one in this God forsaken family loves you ?

Why you're so utterly replaceable because your surrounded by beautiful and talented people . Why Bruce always introduces Cassandra so proudly as his daughter because she's so utterly beautiful and graceful unlike you.

Why Dick and Tim snares at you whenever you're in the same vicinity . Why Alfred always shoots you a pitiful look whenever Jason and yourself quarrel - always saying "he's younger than you and had a hard life you have to foguve him" .

Us this why your mother unceremoniously dumped you 9n a cold winter night at the Wayne's manor , nothing to your name , just a simple rag that covered you?

You feel your body tremble manically - not even your own flesh wants you - just simply wants to reject your entire being . You feel yourself collapsed onto the muddy floor - maybe this is where you belong- a pig is always found in the mud - counting down the days till it meets the demise of a blade.

Maybe that's what's happening - your body is just waiting for you to die, so a better person can host it. You throw up bile upon yourself - you look even more pathetic- you look like a mess - an unwanted mess that everyone purposely walks pass because it's utterly too much .

You hiccuped again when you hear the mansions backdoor slide open.

"Name just what do you think you're doing ?"

thank you for reading !!

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖗𝖞

The Yandere Library is a catalogue of books, movies, anime, manga, games, and visual novels with yandere themes. It can be helpful when trying to locate a movie, book, etc. or when you want to find something new. I will include the link to the library as well as the link to submit new media to add to it.

The Library is here

The Submission Form is here

... and that's why I stick to fanfics and fanarts these days.

So I remember some of the most wildest porn videos I have seen. I'm not talking kink-wise, I'm talking just dudes with some horses. Hung by the gods themselves.

There was some German dude with a ungodly fucking weapon in between his legs, and he won't show his face he only shows the lower half of his body. And at first I'm like okay this is going to be like this dude doing a solo jerk off or something, because I don't see anybody else.

But then, this dude pulls out it's like a pocket pussy but it also has like a chest and sort of like shoulders? It's like a pocket pussy with a torso and a bit of chest.

This dude squirts on a shit ton of lube, slatters that fucking Master sword, and just Rams that mother fucker in to this poor toy. And I can see the tip literally fucking protruding in between the rib cage of that toy.

And I'm like okay so he doesn't prep the toy or maybe I'm just stupid and you don't have to, and maybe this is going to be one of those hot sensual wanks with a toy.

No dude, I feel so bad for this toy. He was tearing that shit up, and then on top of that I guess the dude has a hard time holding his load? Because the poor toy was literally squirting back out his own baby batter.

And he was getting so particularly rough with the poor toy that his cock popped through halfway at the chest.

And my dumbass was thinking oh wow that toy is so lucky, but then I realized if I were to happen to me I would fucking die.

Never in my life have I ever been so scared of seeing a big dick in a video, until that day.

And then as I'm reminiscing about it, that just reminds me of Konig from call of duty I don't know why. But I always imagine that character who has a fucking demon in between his pants ripping apart toys with it.

“he wasnt a good person !!” well he’s wide eyed and pathetic and thats all i want anyway so

I think it needs to be said more that fic writers are not there to cater to a particular reader’s interests, and they shouldn’t be expected to. If you find a fic you enjoy, it’s because in that moment your interests overlap with the writer’s, not because they specifically created it for you, and it’s a healthy boundary to keep. Readers shouldn’t get insulted if the writer posts a fic that doesn’t align with their interests or fandoms; it’s not meant as a personal slight or anything, it’s just the writer writing for themselves, the way they’ve been doing all along. 

It’s really easy to get invested in a fic or a writer and feel close to them because of it, or to have a lot of interests that align with a writer’s and make assumptions about how a fic is going to go/what they’re going to write because of it, but…not everything is for you specifically, and learning that makes things easier for everyone involved. It’s not a slight, and it’s not an insult. It’s just the Venn diagram of fandom and interests overlapping in some places but not others. 

[for the last time || в последний раз]

chapter warnings: n/a (damian just rambles a bit on how much he dislikes reader lol)

01. | 02. | » you are here | ... |

From the eyes of [ Robin ]

Roughly 20 hours before the events of 01.

The morning was dull and overcast, the pale light filtering through the manor’s tall windows with the insistence of a persistent fog. Damian descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps, his sharp gaze sweeping over the pristine foyer before turning toward the dining room.

Breakfast was always a tedious affair, but tolerable with Alfred’s efficiency. And—most days—endurable by the girl’s silent presence. She would usually be seated already, picking at her plate with the nervousness of a bird, her eyes darting between her food and whatever book she’d brought to the table.

Today, the seat across from him was empty.

“Good Morning, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted, setting down a neatly folded napkin beside his plate. “Eggs, toast, and sliced fruit as usual. Would you prefer tea or coffee this morning?”

“Tea.” Damian slid into his seat, gaze flicking to the empty chair again. “Where’s the girl?”

“The Miss has not made an appearance yet.” Alfred’s brow furrowed as he poured the tea with steady precision. “Have you seen her this morning, sir?”

“No.”

Alfred’s fingers tightened slightly around the teapot before he resumed his usual elegance. “I shall send her a message, then. It’s unlike her to miss breakfast without a word.”

Damian scoffed, already cutting into his food. “Perhaps she finally decided to skip the unnecessary pretenses.”

Alfred’s look was a measured thing, the kind of quiet reproach Damian had grown adept at ignoring. “Very well, Master Damian.”

The room lapsed into silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware against fine china. Alfred moved about with his usual efficiency, though there was a new stiffness to his movements, something Damian noted and promptly dismissed.

Minutes later, Grayson strolled in with all the gracelessness of a man who’d only just dragged himself from bed. His hair was tousled and he was already smiling, as if he expected the world to greet him with the same warmth he poured into it.

“Morning, Damian. Alfred.”

“Good morning, Master Richard,” Alfred replied, setting down another plate.

Damian didn’t bother with a greeting, his attention already straying from the room. He finished his meal quickly and rose from his seat, ignoring the curious glance Grayson shot his way.

“Going somewhere, Lil’ demon?” Dick asked around a mouthful of toast.

“My morning stroll,” Damian replied curtly, already turning toward the hallway. “Try not to do anything foolish while I’m gone.”

The hallways of Wayne Manor were vast and labyrinthine, but Damian knew them all by heart. It was a routine of sorts, to walk them every morning. Familiarity bred comfort, or perhaps it was more a matter of asserting his own existence within these elaborate, yet hollowed walls.

He passed the gallery, a corridor adorned with paintings and photographs from every era of the Wayne family. Damian rarely gave them much thought, but today his steps slowed, eyes narrowing as he studied the long line of frames.

One of the oldest photographs showed Grayson at twelve, smiling with infuriating exuberance beside his father, who looked decidedly uncomfortable with the forced cheer. Jane was there too, small and stiff at six years old, her posture awkward in a frilly dress that didn’t suit her.

Another photo showed the three of them, with Todd newly added to the lineup. Jane was probably nine, her eyes brighter with her lips curled up into something much genuine, more attuned to the cheerful energy Todd brought with him. Grayson had been fifteen then, already growing into his role as the dutiful eldest.

The progression continued down the line. Jason’s surly adolescence then absence, followed by the portraits with the appearance of Drake, Richard’ steady maturation, to then the doe-eye’s awkward transitions between childhood and whatever she was attempting to be now. And then Damian himself, glaring with unhidden suspicion in his first formal photograph, Bruce’s hand a heavy, yet not an unwelcome weight on his shoulder.

They were all there, framed and preserved like insects under glass.

But there was another photograph Damian hadn’t noticed before as it was placed far up the wall, it's dimensions small that it could easily be overlooked unless one had the stature of a person who'd gone through puberty. It was old, in black and white, the edges faded and worn with time, encased inside an intricate silver frame. It was a photograph of a woman standing alone, her hair elegantly styled, eyes alight with something Damian couldn’t quite define. Curiosity, perhaps. Or amusement.

The initials engraved in the plaque beneath the frame read.

M.W.

He frowned, tilting his head. The girl’s mother? That was unlikely. Her lineage was no secret within these walls, though it was a matter so rarely spoken of that it had taken Damian time to piece it all together. She was Bruce’s blood. His half-sister. Although he could never bring himself to call her that out loud.

Damian regarded the photograph again, his eyes narrowing as he studied the woman’s features with the meticulous scrutiny he applied to all things. The curve of her eyes felt familiar, their shape mirroring the girl’s in a way that left an uneasy knot in his chest.

But there was something wrong about them.

They were bright, yes, yet clouded—somehow. As if some unseen weight pressed upon them, shadowing the edges despite her composed smile. It was a gaze that seemed almost distracted, as though the woman were looking at something far beyond the camera’s lens.

For a moment, Damian felt something like recognition. A restlessness he couldn’t place, an unsettled thread that frayed at the seams of his thoughts. But he dismissed it as quickly as it came.

Whatever ghosts lingered in those eyes were of no consequence to him.

He scoffed, tension coiling in his shoulders. The resemblance, if it existed, was irrelevant. She was soft—fragile in a way that grated against everything he was taught to value. The others spoke of how she’d been indulged: by Grayson, occasionally by Todd before Drake took the mantle of Robin, and even by Pennyworth. Curiously, never by his father. He'd come to realize there was a void there—an absence of interest, as if the girl, his daughter, simply didn’t register.

He would not waste his thoughts on shadows.

She had never earned her place here. Not like he had.

With a huff, Damian turned away from the photograph, his brisk footsteps echoing through the empty hall. Whatever Alfred’s concerns were, they weren’t his. The girl would show herself when she decided to stop hiding away like a coward.

And if she didn’t, well—Damian couldn’t bring himself to care.

Taglist: @kneelforloki