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dippindaz · 2 months ago

Note

Maybe how they confess to reader

For Vincent Sinclair , Charles lee ray and mark Hoffman ? Fluff plz

Imagine reader has the powers of instant healing kind like rapunsel from tangled

I struggled a bit with the powers part, just cause it's so out of the norm for my usual fanfic, but I had fun with the challenge! They're all written with the same sort of concept just so I include the healing powers for each character. Ngl, I don't feel like this is my best work or characterization, but I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: Mentions of blood, mentions of stab wounds, mentions of knives

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent sat in the familiar shadows of his studio, a warm amber glow from scattered candles reflecting off half-finished wax figures. Everything around him was still—too still. Except for you.

You moved carefully through the quiet, kneeling beside him without hesitation. His hand was resting on his knee, a fresh cut trailing along the side of his palm, blood streaking over old scars. You’d seen worse. He knew that. But still, he flinched when you reached for it—not from pain, but from something else. Something harder to name.

“Let me see,” you said gently, offering him your open hands.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he let you take his hand in yours.

Your fingers glowed faintly as you brushed them over the cut. Soft golden light spread from your touch, the torn skin healing instantly, the blood vanishing like it had never been there at all. He didn’t look at the wound.

He looked at you.

You glanced up with a smile. “There. Good as new.”

Vincent didn’t say anything at first. He just stared—at the now-healed skin, at the steady light in your eyes, at your hands still holding his. You were always gentle with him, always kind. And he didn’t understand why.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You… fix things.”

His gaze lowered to his palm. “You touch something broken, and it’s like it was never hurt.”

You tilted your head. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just helping.”

He slowly shook his head. “No. It’s more than that.”

There was something in his tone—wary, but quiet. Like he was tiptoeing toward something he’d never said out loud before.

“You touch people… and they don’t stay broken,” he said. “But I’m not something that can be healed.”

You frowned. “You’re not broken.”

His eyes snapped up to yours. Raw. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I am,” he said, more firmly. “I’ve been broken since I was a kid. I don’t… talk like Bo. I don’t smile like normal people. I live in the dark and make statues out of silence.”

He paused, breath unsteady.

“But when I’m around you... I start wishing I could be more than wax and scars.”

Your chest ached. You squeezed his hand softly.

“You already are.”

He swallowed hard, then reached up with his free hand and slowly pushed his mask up—not all the way, just enough to show you the barest part of his face. His lips. His jaw. The tremble in his expression that his silence could no longer hide.

“I love you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I don’t even know how to be… this. But I know that when you look at me, I don’t feel like a monster.”

You moved without thinking—reaching up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing the skin he rarely let anyone see.

“You’re not a monster, Vincent. You’re human. And... and I love you too.”

He blinked like he didn’t quite believe it. Like the words were something he’d sculpted a thousand times but never dared to feel.

But then he leaned in.

Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he let himself be held.

Not as a secret.

Not as a shadow.

But as someone finally seen.

Charles Lee Ray

“You’re such a damn idiot,” you mutter under your breath.

Charles lets out a low, amused chuckle as he watches you work, your glowing hands pressed to the gash on his ribs. It’s already closing, the torn skin knitting back together under your touch. The glow reflects faintly in his eyes—blue, sharp, but unusually soft tonight.

“Come on, babe. It was just a scratch.”

You glare at him. “You were bleeding through your shirt.”

“Yeah, well… adds character.”

He’s trying to joke, to play it off. He always does. But there’s a flicker in his expression—a hesitation. He’s watching your hands like they’re magic. Because they are. And for once, he’s quiet.

When the wound finally disappears, you sit back with a small sigh. “There. Try not to get stabbed for the next twenty-four hours, okay?”

Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The humor fades from his face, and something else slips through—uncertainty, unspoken emotion. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“You ever wonder why I let you do this?” he asks.

You blink. “Do what?”

He motions to your hands, your presence. “Fix me. Stay. Not run.”

You shrug. “Because I care about you. Even when you’re reckless.”

He scoffs, but it’s not sarcastic—it’s almost… nervous.

“I’ve scared off everybody I’ve ever been close to,” he says. “I hurt people. That’s kind of my thing, remember? The Lakeshore Strangler—ring any bells?”

You sigh softly. “You don’t scare me, Charles.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours. “Maybe you should be.”

He says it like he means it. Like he’s trying to push you away with words, the way he usually does with a knife.

But you don’t move. You don’t flinch.

And that’s when he finally breaks.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “You make it hard to be the heartless bastard I’m supposed to be.”

You watch him, head tilting slightly.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says, motioning vaguely between you both. “But I know that every time I get cut open, it’s not just the skin you’re patching up. It’s like you’re sewing together the pieces I thought were too far gone.”

He leans forward again, slower this time. His hand hovers near your knee—hesitant, uncharacteristic for someone usually so bold.

“I’ve done a hell of a lot of damage in my life. But when you touch me, when you look at me like that… I start thinking maybe I could stop running. Or at least slow down, if it means I get to see you at the end of it.”

You gently reach out, resting your hand on top of his. Your fingers are still warm from the healing light.

“Charles…”

He cuts you off—quick, before he can second-guess it.

“I love you.”

The room goes quiet.

Not because of fear, or tension—but because he’s never said those words and meant them.

“I don’t love easy,” he continues. “And I sure as hell don’t know how to be good. But I look at you, and I want to try. I want to be better… not perfect, not soft. Just better. For you.”

You squeeze his hand. “I don’t want perfect. I just want real. And that’s what you’ve given me.”

He leans in, brushing his forehead against yours. No games, no smirk. Just Charles. Raw and real.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer this time. “Not just because you heal me. Because you see me. And you’re not afraid.”

Outside, thunder rolls across the sky.

But in here, it’s quiet.

And for once, Charles doesn’t want to leave.

He just wants to stay. With you.

Mark Hoffman

The silence in the room is thick.

The faint hum of the city beyond the safehouse windows is miles away, like background noise in a life that didn’t belong to either of you. All that matters here is the dim light, the blood on Mark’s skin, and your glowing hands pressed firmly to his side.

He’s watching you—quiet, as always. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t grunt in pain, doesn’t even breathe heavier when the wound starts to close beneath your touch. But you can feel the tension humming under his skin. Coiled tight.

“You really have to stop getting stabbed,” you say gently, not looking up.

A low breath escapes him—half a laugh, half a sigh. “You say that like I wanted it.”

“You kind of throw yourself at knives like it’s a hobby.”

He smirks, but the expression fades quickly. He looks down at his side, then at your hands—still resting against his skin, now healed. His voice is low when he speaks again.

“You always do that.”

You look up at him, confused. “Do what?”

“Touch the broken parts like they don’t scare you.”

You blink. “Because they don’t.”

His gaze sharpens, searching your face. Not for lies. Just trying to understand how someone like you exists. You’re calm, warm. The opposite of the world he knows.

“You heal everything like it’s nothing,” he murmurs. “Wounds, bones, pain... like it never happened.”

“That’s what I do,” you say softly. “But you don’t let me help with the rest.”

He pauses, the silence between you stretching too long.

“Because I don’t know how to give you that,” he admits.

That stops you.

He looks away then—down at his hands, still streaked with dried blood. “I’ve lived in shadows for so long, I don’t even remember what it’s like to not hide everything. Every choice I’ve made, every lie I’ve told—it’s all built into who I am now.”

You stay silent. Listening.

“I’m not good,” he continues. “I’m calculated. Cold. Everything I do is for a reason. But you…” His voice lowers, like it’s dangerous just to say it. “You make me feel like I could stop being a machine.”

He looks at you now, really looks.

“You make me feel like a man again.”

You feel your chest tighten, warmth flooding through your ribs.

“You are a man, Mark,” you say, gently. “One who’s been through hell and back. But you’re still here. Still trying.”

His jaw clenches. He tries to speak, then stops, as if the words catch in his throat. Finally, he mutters—

“I didn’t want to feel anything when I met you.”

You stay quiet.

“But now I look at you,” he continues, “and I feel everything. And it scares the hell out of me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with honesty. He reaches out, then hesitates—his hand hovering just above yours. He waits. Always in control, always measuring.

You take his hand in yours.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “Not the version of me I pretend to be. Not the mask. Just me.”

Your heart swells.

You move closer, resting your forehead gently against his. He exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He leans into the moment—like he’s afraid it’ll disappear, but wants to believe it’s real anyway. His arms slide around you, pulling you close—not in desperation, but in relief.

For the first time in a long time, Mark Hoffman isn’t calculating his next move.

He’s just here.

With you.

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