living-with-ghost

[living-with-ghost]

Dillon and Kitty

Summary: You take Dick home to the farm for a breath of fresh air. It's perfect, but there's something weighing on his mind. (Dick Grayson x fem! reader)

Word Count: 3.5K

Notes: A little self indulgent, I'm homesick and got hooked listening to country again so this popped out. I loved writing country reader (but that might be the self indulgence hehe) I might make some others in the same theme. Reader wears a dress and is alluded as female, no other warnings tonight.~ Second to last post of this challenge, I didn't think I'd even get this far. Thank you for your support so far. 🥺🥺

Also for anyone wondering- the title is a reference from Gunsmoke, an old western. I got reminded of it while listening to Toby Keith and in the show Dillon and Ms. Kitty have this 'will-they-won't-they' relationship that tugged at my heart so I put a bit of that ache in there too. 🫣🫣

Enjoy Sweethearts~! xx

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You loved being out of the city. You loved being back in the sky for once, and the fact that you could walk away to a quiet spot in your house and not be bombarded with the sounds of cars and arguments on the city streets. You'd gladly trade your heels for a pair of work boots if you could, give your father another pair of hands on the farm. You could take your coffee under the big oak tree by the back porch that had seen you and your siblings break bones and scrape skin, instead of the cramped fire escape that was covered in rain more often than not.

You might have only gone back for a small holiday, but you couldn’t help the thoughts that wondered just 'what if' you did come back. You know that your mother would fuss over it happily, and your father would grumble but not protest. They had sent you away to have a better chance at life, so that you could go wherever your dream wanted to take you. You weren't sure how dream like Gotham could be, with its bleak skies, crime, and constant bustle. Your friends who still lived out by here laughed at you, but you knew that if you had never left, you never would have made your dream come true.

More accurately, you would have never met the man of your dreams, Dick Grayson.

You had both run into each other at a charity event, something you had gotten to attend through your degree in place of your professor. You felt out of place in the ballroom, filled with the rich and elite. You were no stranger to the upturned noses and lingering stares of city folk when you came in to shop with no time to change, still in your work clothes and with dust covered skin. However, being regarded like you were tracking mud across the polished floors when you were in your finest, was new. You knew these events were a big deal, everyone trying to get a ticket to the famous Bruce Wayne's extravagant gala, to taste the high life for a night.

You would be lying if you said that you hadn't been interested in the concept, the high-class events that seemed to be something out of a fairytale. No one would’ve blamed you for wanting to look inside, except the other party guests it seemed. You weren't dressed in anything racy, renting out a modest dress that matched the jewellery you had. Your roommate had done your makeup for you, and you did your hair yourself. You knew that you cleaned up nice, but it appeared that the country air clung to you still.

Socialising had become a nightmare, with people hesitant to even talk to you. The ones that did wavered in confidence when you said that you were still a student, your professors name doing little to ease their worries. You had no family name to shield you, no massive corporation at your back. You quickly realised that they weren't talking to you, because you couldn't do something for them. Even though you had no intent on working with rich assholes like them, the feeling of being useless quickly crept into the back of your mind. So much so, that you were stuck in that thought until you roughly collided with someone, and felt the barely sipped glass of champagne you cradled spill all the way down the front of your dress.

"I'm so sorry," are the first words that come out of your mouth, hands flying to the other person. You look up, hearing a soft chuckle and the blood drains from your face. Dick Grayson, the first adopted son of tonight’s host. He must recognise the panic on your face, because he laughs quietly and wraps a large palm around the crook of your elbow and pull you to the side. You expect to get scolded, but he takes you to a corner away from prying eyes and pulls out his pocket square.

"Here, use this." he says softly, smile on his lips. You take it after an apprehensive second, beginning to dry the fabric the best you can. "I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, that's completely on me." he says, eyes crinkling with worry. You shake your head in protest, swallowing hard.

"No, no, I wasn't either. Did I get your suit?"

He holds his hands up, "No, no, you're fine. Didn't get a drop on me." he smiles. "So don't worry." his eyes flit back down to the stain creeping across your front. He winces studying the wet patch. "Can I replace the dress for you?" he offers. "Get you a new one as an apology."

You shake your head violently, mind racing. He said is so casually, as if it was loose change to him.

"Oh, no. This isn't even my dress, it's a rental." you wave him off. "I'll just get it dry cleaned, and if that doesn't work, I'll just pay the fee. It's nothing for you to worry about."

His head tilts slightly to the side, strands of ebony hair tickling his forehead.

"You don't own the dress?" he asks, and your shoulders slump. You nod, expecting him to turn up his nose. The wealth in this single room made your head spin, and you watched his face. he was going to shrug you off and take his pocket square back, re-emerge into the sea of glittering people with silk lined pockets.

"It looks like it was made for you."

That makes your eyes widen and your cheeks burn with heat. He lets a pearly grin slip forward, making little lights dance in his eyes mischievously.

"Thank you." you stutter out, hands smoothing down the fabric.

"At least give me your details," he persists. "I'll pay for the dry cleaner and the fee if it comes to that. It was my fault, don't worry."

You smile hesitantly, mind wandering. Was he going to hold this over your head? Make you pay him back with favours that cost you more than you could afford?

"But I do have a favour to ask."

There it was.

He must have sensed the tension in your shoulders and the flicker of fear that ran across your face, because he raised his hands and softened his expression. "Feel free to say no of course."

You make your mouth move, tone hesitant. "What is it?"

"You wear it on our first date."

Your jaw drops open a little wider in shock, and a shit eating grin spreads across his face. You give a single, stunned nod and he beams wider. "Excellent. I'll be in touch. I'd stay longer, but Bruce will be insufferable if I disappear and make him handle all those vultures alone. I hope you can understand." he sends you a sympathetic and sheepish gaze, keeping eye contact with you as he drifts away into the crowd.

Two days later when you went to pick up the dress from the drycleaners, it was gone. You had panicked, calling the store to apologise, but oddly enough they couldn't find the dress in their system anymore. Tired from a long day of chasing, you found a tied package at your apartment door. Unwrapping the paper on your bed, you couldn't help but smile pulling out the dress you wore to the gala, freshly cleaned. Alongside it was a navy jewellery box, carrying a matching necklace. The piece of paper inside was written in a hastily scrawled handwriting, messier than you'd have expected from his pedigree.

I told you the dress was made for you. Call me to make plans.

-Dick

That had started the beginning of your relationship with the man who cheered you on relentlessly while you chased your dream. You called home so often that your mother had fallen in love with him too without even meeting him, while your father grew continually irritated with the way Dick's name became a household one without ever setting foot on the property. So, after a year of dating and having gone to meet his family multiple times (where upon meeting Bruce, you could tell where Dick had adopted many of his mannerisms) he was finally coming to see the place where you had grown up.

The second your car had rolled through the gates and hit park; your younger siblings were running towards you at full pelt. Correction, Lacey, your pocket rocket ten-year-old sister threw herself at Dick for a hug, while your quieter teen brother, Marcus watched from the porch.

"Are you Dickie?" Lacey had all but shouted at him, making him look at you. You stifled giggles behind your hand as he looked down at her, gently pulling her off before crouching. "You must be Lacey?" he asked with the soft smile he reserved for kids. She giggled and grinned at you, beaming.

"He knows my name!" she squeals, before giving you a big hug herself.

You laugh and send her back to your brother who was keeping his distance, sending a shrug to Dick as you go to unload the car. You can hear the fly screen rattle and the voices of your parents, signalling the start of a very active dinner. "Welcome, city boy." you smirk at him, leaning over to give him a peck on the lips. He pulls you close and kisses you back, hand cradling your neck before he parts.

"Good to be here." he smiles.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The week had flown by and he had settled in well, while your body fell back into your old routine like clockwork. Your father had been sceptical of Dick at the beginning, but Dick had proven himself rather quickly, offering to help out. He wasn't afraid to get dirty, he didn't tear up or complain when he got a scrape or a bruise. Often times it was your mother that would fuss over him when he came into the kitchen sporting a new bump or injury, and he'd look down with surprise like he hadn’t even felt it. He was good with Lacey and even quiet Marcus warmed up to him, spending his afternoons in the stables with Dick showing him how to care for the horses. The horses were the animals Marcus had loved ever since he was a child, and when Marcus let Dick saddle up one of his to take a small ride around the paddock, you knew he was part of your family now.

You couldn’t deny that he looked good in work gear, it was like a weight was off his shoulders. His eyes seemed clearer; soul less burdened. It was only when he came out to meet your family that you realised he his lips naturally curved downwards in Gotham, his eyes blue as the sky but lost in someplace further than the horizon he stared out at. He looked good in denim and with reigns in his hand, gentle with the horse as he caught your gaze and steered her over to you. He was in a spare pair of work boots your quickly growing brother no longer fit, and a sweat broken work hat on his head. You had to stop the tingle in your hand and cheeks catching sight of him like that. When he looked at you, you finally felt like his eyes were looking at you.

"Hey, handsome." you call, pushing off from the paddock fence. "I see you've made a good impression on Marcus."

He grins down at you, dismounting swiftly like he had been riding all his life. "He's a good kid." he smiles, and you kiss his cheek.

"Come on, dinner's almost ready." you say sweetly before turning to your younger brother, still on his horse. "And that goes for you too, mister!" you holler, making Marcus flip you off in the distance.

"Teens." you grumble, making Dick laugh as you head to the stables.

You help Dick unsaddle, making sure the tack is put away properly. You look over at him, frowning softly as you see the expression on his face. It's the same shadow he wears in Gotham, the weight of something invisible constantly pressing down on him. "Hey, you okay?" you call with a kind smile, making him look up quickly. You don't see the phone in his hand that he slips back into his pocket, only the tight grin he sends back to you.

"Yeah, fine."

You walk back to the house in silence, and your mother already has dinner waiting for you. Everyone proceeds as usual, but you can't help looking at Dick seated across from you, with a soft frown on your face. He seems out of it, and when he meets your eyes it's guilty. The tension is thankfully not felt by other members of your family, allowing you to follow him when he slips out.

You find him in your childhood bedroom, where you've both been sleeping. "Hey, you okay?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe. he has his back to you, fiddling with something in his pocket. What he says next steals the breath from your lungs.

"I can't do this."

It's like the rug has fallen out from beneath your feet you and you straighten yourself quickly, closing the door behind you so no one can hear your conversation. "Dick?" you ask, softly, heart racing. "What do you mean?"

He sighs and turns to you, eyes normally so bright now swirling with emotion. "I think...I think we should break up." he says, voice barely pushing the words out.

"You don’t mean that." you shake your head, hand coming to your temple. This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. "Why? what's wrong?"

"I just...I have something I need to do back in Gotham. I can't...I can't give you the life you want. I don't think we'll work out." he sends you an apologetic smile like your eyes aren't filling with tears, lip wobbling.

"What made you think that?" you ask, trying to hold it together. To not let your emotions control you and push him further away. "Was it...Was it my family? This life?"

"No, no, nothing like that." he says hurriedly. "I just think, god-" he runs a hand through his hair, sucking his teeth. "I just don't think we're compatible."

"And it took you until meeting my family for you to say that, huh?" you say, arms crossed and unable to hide the hurt tone. He winces, wringing his hands.

"I have to go." he says softly.

"Why?" you demand again, voice raising. "God damn it, Grayson, you can't just tell me you want to break up suddenly. That's not fair. Tell me. Tell me if it's something I did. You've been distracted on your phone, just tell me if it's work or another woman-" you cut yourself off when you see him grimace and your breath stops in your throat. You hadn’t been serious when you said that. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

He raises his hands in defence, making you scoff. "Please, listen." he pleads, making your blood rush to your head.

"You've actually been talking to another woman? Are you kidding-"

"It's just Babs, I swear-"

"Barbara Gordon?" your voice shrilly rings at the mentions of his ex. "Oh yes, because texting your ex-girlfriend makes me feel so much better." you spit, holding your hand out. "Be honest for once. S how me." You seethe, and after a hesitant moment he unlocks his phone and places it in your hand with a defeated sigh. You swipe to his messages, heart shattering as you read her contact’s name still with an orange heart beside it.

"There's something I need help with. You need to come home."

You hate reading how readily he replied, running back to his ex the second that she says she needed him. the way she called him home, like he hadn't been with you so naturally you even had the audacity to think that maybe he could find a life here too. A home. Somewhere peaceful, away from the hustle and bustle and having to constantly be on his guard. To be able to steal kisses under the shine of the stars instead of the invasive flash of the paparazzi.

He takes the phone from you, unable to meet your eyes. Dick doesn't feel like he deserves to.

His heart breaks as he walks past you, shoving his things back into the bag he packed. He can feel the hurt radiating off you, making his own heart break. He wants to tell you that he hasn't been talking to Barbara, not that way at least. That he did love you, with every part of him. He loved your family. He loved the gruffness of your dad and the way he'd check in on Dick periodically, grumbling about him being a city kid but still making sure he didn't get too banged up. He loved your mothers cooking and let Lacey play with his hair. He loved Marcus and his passion for his animals. He loved you.

He loved you in finery he bought you and he loved you with dust in your hair and callouses on your hands. He loved you in jewellery and he loved you in chaps, loved you in heels and the dirt caked work boots. That's what he told himself, but if he was breaking your heart this way, he wasn't sure if he was ever truly able to love you.

 If he loved you as much as he fooled himself, he wouldn't be leaving with no explanation, wouldn't be breaking your heart at your parents’ house, your safe place. If he loved you, he would tell you that he was Nightwing, and he would never be able to come out to the countryside with you. That he had a duty in Gotham that had him risking his life every night.

He wished he could tell you who he was, and he yearned to. When he looked into those heartbroken eyes of yours, he wanted to take you into his arms and spill his heart out and kiss you stupid. He wanted to tell you everything, about him, his family, about Bruce. But he couldn't, his own lips freezing in fear. His throat bobs as he swallows harshly, looking down in guilt. "Alfred is bringing the car. He'll be here soon." he says softly.

The words he really wants to say is:

Please love me. Please don’t hate me. Please forgive me.

He grabs the last of his things and pushes past you before the burning to comfort you overtakes his logical mind. He knows he has to go back. Indulging himself in you and your sunlight was something that he couldn't afford. He couldn't afford you to get hurt, to get wrapped up in his world. It was a first for him dating a civilian, and he was terrified. That fear built up over in his mind, and he knew it. He knew he should give you a chance, but it was the safer option, the lesser of two evils. He could suffer the pain of losing you, or he could suffer the pain of you finding out who he was and hating him.

His heart shatters as he hears the sob of you, beginning to break down as he leaves.

He passes the faces of your family, curious but silent. He feels their eyes follow him, a brand of shame tracing him and his path out. The cold is biting, nipping at his skin but he doesn't feel it. All he can see in his mind's eye is you undoubtably being comforted by the worried hands of your mother, crying out in heartbreak and not even getting to know why.

By the time that Alfred arrives, he can see the silhouette of your family on the porch, Marcus and your father. He can hear your father yell at him as he gets into the car, but he can't make out the words as he shuts the door and Alfred begins to roll away. He slouches against the door, head in his hands. Alfred looks back, studying him.

"Did you tell her, sir?" Alfred asks softly, the older man's fingers tightening on the steering wheel. Dick had promised that he'd tell you, let you make your own decision before continuing to be involved with him. Alfred liked you and had reassured Dick countlessly that you would likely be nothing but accepting is he did reveal his secret identity. yet as he stares at the slumped man in the rearview mirror, a pang of disappointment shoots through his heart as he pieces together what's happened. Dick tries his best to stop the tears, but they prickly to the forefront anyway.

"No. But there's nothing left to tell her." Dick mumbles defeatedly, staring out the window with dull eyes.

but there was, three little points he never got out of his mouth.

I'm Nightwing.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

[living-with-ghost]

Enraptured Hearts: A College Tale

Autor here :) *as an European college student and a hopeless romantic I wrote some time ago a short story on wattpad but now I giving here a second chance here with a Jason Tood as a new male lead so please be patient on my first baby and if you don't like just leave it, thank you*

Chapter 1: First Glance

In the heart of a bustling college campus, amidst the flurry of students rushing to their classes, there stood a boy named Jason. He was your average college student—quiet, unassuming, with an air of mystery about him. But behind his calm exterior lay a tumultuous sea of emotions, all of which were directed towards one person: Y/N.

Y/N was the epitome of grace and beauty, her presence captivating everyone around her. With her radiant smile and infectious laughter, she lit up the darkest corners of the campus. For Alex, she was like a beacon of light in his otherwise mundane existence.

Their paths first crossed in the crowded halls of the university library. Jason was instantly mesmerized by Y/N's elegance as she delicately flipped through the pages of a book, completely absorbed in her own world. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her, his heart pounding with an intensity he had never felt before.

From that moment on, Jason found himself drawn to Y/N like a moth to a flame. He would purposely schedule his study sessions at the library, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He would linger in the same aisles, pretending to peruse the shelves while stealing glances at her from afar.

[living-with-ghost]

*Miss Wayne shopping around Gotham.

Platonic yandere Bruce as Batman making sure that his little sis is safe.

Platonic yandere batchildren stalking their lovely aunty.*

Damian: tt... Who let somebody as noble as aunty to dirty her heels walking around streets like that?

Dick: Dami stop. Aunty wanted to get to know her birth city.

Jason: I agree with the brat. We shouldn't let her do something so dangerous. She is not ready to meet the streets.

*Meanwhile Miss Wayne incapacitating to the ground a guy who wanted to grab her bag*

Miss Wayne: Art. 279. § 1. Whoever steals from burglary shall be subject to the penalty of deprivation of liberty for a term of between 1 and 10 years

Batfam: 😶🫥

Tim: It seems that the Gotham is not ready for her.

[living-with-ghost]

Batfam while meeting Miss Wayne.

Dick: You are Bruce's sister?

Miss Wayne: Yes

Duke: And you are Rich?

Miss Wayne: Yes

Steph: And you won Miss Universe?

Miss Wayne: Yes

Tim: And you are called Miss Justice because you help poor people fight in corts as their Lawyer?

Miss Wayne: Yes

Jason: How the f*** are you related?

Bruce/Alfred: 🥹

[living-with-ghost]

Would anybody like a Bruce Wayne long lost/forgotten younger rich sister x platonic batfam?

[living-with-ghost]

Hi! May I get a yandere bertol axios x nonchalant willing reader? Where y/n is not bothered if he's too possessive and instead love him back?

dug this out the very bottom of my askbox,,,, here it is nonnie! a whole year or something later 🫶🏻

RED MEANS I LOVE YOU. || axion vergette

( / fan translation : berzet )

tw : blood, murder, two psychopaths in love ( how cute <3 )

'Axion?' You call upon waking up to an empty bed, tangled within the sheets. It was a little routine between the two of you for him to wake you and kiss you a good morning before he left for his duties, and Axion wasn't one to rise early either, so...

You pad out of bed, his shirt large and comfortable and sweetly familiar with his scent, looking for him in his office, his libraries. Nothing. Then, just as you resign yourself to worry, the huge, oak front doors creak open and your husband and lover walks in and you gasp.

He's covered in blood. Down his shirt, his jaw, his hands coated in the thick, viscous red. His teeth are gritted in irritation, but his eyes are strangely cold. He sighs heavily before his gaze finds you, fixed in place with horror and worry.

'Sweetheart.' His voice is enveloping, warm, but tired. It makes your heart throb with need and want and love. 'Why are you out of bed?'

'That sounds like something I should be asking you,' you object, moving closer to gently inspect his face for injuries, careful and concerned for him. He closes his eyes with a low hum of pleasure at your touch. 'I woke up in bed and you weren't there!'

He sighs again, irritable and weary, drawing you closer, arms tight around your waist, head on your shoulder. 'I was out for important work, darling.'

'I suppose that's why you're covered in blood, then. A massive paper cut.' You never talk back to him, but it just slipped back, and you wince instantly. 'S-sorry.'

He snorts at your snide remark. 'Remember, I don't appreciate that tone, sweetheart. But as I've scared you, I'll tell you. I was not busy with work concerning papers. With work concerning people.'

You draw back, frowning in puzzlement. 'I didn't leave the manor, Axion! I promise.'

'I know you didn't,' he laughed softly. 'Oh, no use in hiding it from you, little minx. I didn't appreciate your butler's... gaze.'

'Wh-what do you mean?' You don't understand him. You don't care about any butler! You don't think you care about anyone other than Axion. If that makes you an awful person, then so be it.

'He was looking so lovingly at you, didn't you notice?' His voice is condescendingly soft. 'All those lingering touches, all those sweet words. He was getting in our way.'

How dare he? Trying to get in your way? If he did harbor his stupid feelings for you he should've cared for your happiness and in turn, known you were happiest with Axion! Ridiculous man.

You curl up to him in his arms. 'He... He's dead, then.'

Axion doesn't answer. He does that, sometimes — if he doesn't want you to know a particular thing. But right now it's useless. You know just how much Axion loves you, but also... how ruthless he could be in that regard. There's no way that man lived.

But whatever. He isn't worth thinking of.

Your husband kisses your temple and carries you upstairs after that, quiet but attentive. You wash the blood off of him, huffing over the particularly stubborn bits, before you drag him to bed. Your heart swells as he settles beside you in your bed, the room glowing with the pale blue and golden shine of dawn, curtains drawn defiantly against the sun. He wraps an arm around your waist, and you sigh blissfully and lean into him.

'I love you.' He whispers softly into the crook of your neck, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

'I love you too,' you say instantly. Because you do. Despite the locks on your door. Despite the guards positioned everywhere around the house. Despite the shackles in the corner of the room, kept 'just in case' (they were just precautions, anyways. He'd never do that to you!). Despite the little flecks of red on his knuckles that you'd missed. Despite the bloody knife lying downstairs to be cleaned.

You do love him. Why wouldn't you?

[living-with-ghost]

𝐀 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞

Sfw | boyfriend! Tom Riddle! | ✎ᝰ.📓🗒 ˎˊ˗ | | Tom Riddle Masterlist | Masterlist

Summary: Y/N helps first-years with their Potions homework, seamlessly teaching them techniques she learned from her observant boyfriend, Tom Riddle. As Tom watches her with admiration, Y/N feels his gaze and responds with a flirtatious wink.

Authors Note: inspired by a headcannon about the small things the slytherin you do that the slytherin boys love, in this case teaching others what he taught you.

In the bustling library of Hogwarts, the low murmur of students working on their homework filled the room with a comforting hum. Y/N, ever the helpful student, sat at a large wooden table surrounded by a group of first-years, her textbooks and notes spread out before her. She guided them through their Potions homework with a patient smile, her wand occasionally tapping the parchment to illustrate her points.

Tom Riddle, leaning against a nearby bookshelf, watched with a soft, admiring expression. His dark eyes followed every gesture she made, noting how her hands moved with precision and grace as she demonstrated a particularly tricky potion ingredient. A small, knowing smile crept onto his lips when he saw her teaching the same trick he’d once taught her. It was a rare sight to see someone so dedicated and warm, and it made his heart flutter with pride.

Y/N, feeling a familiar gaze on her, glanced up from the first-years’ homework and locked eyes with Tom.

The corners of her lips curled into a knowing smile as she saw the affection in his gaze. Not one to miss a chance to tease him, she gave him a flirtatious wink, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Tom’s smile widened, a soft chuckle escaping him as he straightened up from the bookshelf. He crossed the room with a confident stride, his eyes never leaving hers. When he reached her side, he leaned in just enough to speak softly, so only she could hear. “I see you’ve been practicing the techniques I taught you.”

Y/N’s smile grew even warmer. “Well, I can’t let all that knowledge go to waste. And besides, the first-years need all the help they can get.”

Tom’s eyes sparkled with admiration. “I’m impressed. You make teaching look effortless.”

She tilted her head playfully. “Is that so? Maybe I should start charging for my services.”

Tom’s laughter was low and warm, and he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’d say you’re priceless, but I suppose you know that already.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Tom.”

As the first-years giggled and continued working, Tom and Y/N shared a quiet moment of understanding and affection, their connection deepened by the shared love of teaching and the small, tender gestures that spoke louder than words.

[living-with-ghost]

Obsession in the Shadows

This story highlights the unsettling nature of obsession, gradually escalating into something more terrifying. The criminal’s fixation on the reader spirals into a twisted perception of protection, leaving the reader trapped in his control.

You never saw him coming.

The city always had a way of swallowing people whole, and you were just another face in the crowd, doing your best to survive. Life in a sprawling urban jungle meant you were used to minding your own business. The daily routine became an armor that kept you unnoticed, safe, and tucked away in anonymity.

But someone noticed.

It started on a Wednesday evening. You were coming home from work, the dim streetlights flickering in their usual broken rhythm. The concrete was slick with rain, and the distant hum of traffic was a comforting white noise. Your apartment wasn’t far, just a few more blocks, when you felt it—a strange tingle down your spine. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Your steps faltered as you glanced over your shoulder, but no one was there. You shook it off, dismissing the feeling as paranoia. Maybe the darkened streets were just playing tricks on your mind. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been watching you.

And someone had.

His name didn’t matter. Not to you, at least. To the police, the press, and his enemies, he was known by a hundred aliases. He had slipped through their fingers more times than anyone could count, a ghost in the criminal underworld. A man who had perfected the art of disappearing.

Until you.

It was by chance that he saw you that first time���an insignificant moment at a coffee shop, your hand brushing against his as you reached for the same cup on the counter. The touch was brief, the apology even briefer, but in that instant, something in him snapped.

You were perfect.

Everything about you intrigued him: the way you moved, the soft smile you gave the barista, the distracted way you swiped through your phone as you sipped your drink. He hadn’t felt anything like this before. Normally, he was detached, emotionless, operating with cold precision. But you? You awakened something in him—something dark, something primal.

It started with following you home. He didn’t mean to. He told himself it was just curiosity, just a game. But then it became an obsession.

He learned your routine, every minute detail of your life. He knew where you worked, what time you left in the mornings, the route you took to get home. He even found out what nights you went to the grocery store, the small bakery you liked to stop by for pastries. He didn’t just watch you; he studied you. And the more he learned, the deeper his obsession grew.

You were so ordinary, so unaware. It fascinated him. How could someone so perfect live such a mundane life? He wanted to protect you, to keep you safe from the dangers of the world. And in his mind, he was the only one capable of doing that.

It wasn’t enough to just watch anymore.

He had to be closer.

The roses arrived at your door two weeks later.

You stared at the bouquet, confusion etched across your face. There was no note, no indication of who they were from. They were beautiful, deep crimson petals unfurling delicately, but something about them made your stomach churn.

"Who would send these?" you muttered to yourself, but no answer came.

You set them on your kitchen counter, eyeing them suspiciously as you continued your evening routine. It wasn’t until later that night, as you lay in bed, that the uneasy feeling returned. The sensation of being watched. You glanced toward the window, half expecting to see a silhouette, but the street outside was empty.

It took hours to fall asleep that night, the unease gnawing at you.

He loved the way you looked at the roses.

Confusion, curiosity, maybe even a hint of fear. It was thrilling to see you react, to watch you wonder who your secret admirer could be. He could almost feel the delicate thread of connection between you two tightening. You were noticing him, even if you didn’t know it yet.

But that wasn’t enough.

The next day, you found a letter slipped under your door. The handwriting was elegant, precise, the words carefully chosen.

I’ve been watching you. You’re beautiful, like a flower in a field of weeds. I want to protect you. I want to be close to you. You don’t know me yet, but you will. Soon.

Your hands shook as you read the letter. The words felt wrong, invasive, as if someone had peeled back a layer of your privacy and exposed you. You looked around your apartment, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence, the shadows stretching across the walls.

It was too much. You called the police.

They listened to your story, nodded sympathetically, but there wasn’t much they could do. "Probably just a prank," they said, assuring you that these things usually died down on their own. "Let us know if it happens again."

But you knew. Deep down, you knew this wasn’t just a prank. This was something more sinister.

He laughed when he saw the police leave your apartment. They thought they could stop him? No one could stop him. Not the cops, not your friends, not even you. He’d been careful, leaving no trace, no way to link him to you.

But he wanted you to know. He needed you to understand that this wasn’t a game. This was destiny.

The next few days, you lived in a state of constant anxiety. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against your window had your heart racing. You couldn’t focus at work, couldn’t sleep at night. The feeling of being watched was ever-present, an invisible weight pressing down on you.

And then he made his move.

It was late when you got home that night, the sky a thick blanket of darkness. The streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking from exhaustion and fear. As you pushed open your apartment door, a cold gust of air hit you, making your skin prickle with unease.

Something was wrong.

Your eyes darted across the living room, scanning for anything out of place. At first, everything seemed normal. But then you saw it.

On the coffee table, where you never left anything, was a single red rose. The petals were fresh, the stem dewy with moisture, as if it had just been placed there.

Your blood ran cold.

You dropped your bag, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Someone had been in your apartment. Someone had been here, in your space, touching your things. You backed away slowly, your mind racing with fear. How did they get in? What did they want?

And then you heard it.

The soft creak of a floorboard behind you.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as dread washed over you. Slowly, you turned around, your heart hammering in your chest. Standing in the doorway to your bedroom was a man. He was tall, his face partially hidden in the shadows, but you could see the smile playing on his lips, the glint of obsession in his eyes.

"I’ve been waiting for this moment," he said softly, his voice a chilling whisper. "For so long."

You couldn’t move. Fear rooted you in place as he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Who—who are you?" you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled wider, his eyes never leaving yours. "I’m the one who’s been watching over you. Protecting you. You’re safe with me now."

Your mind screamed at you to run, but your legs wouldn’t cooperate. He was too close, too fast. Before you could react, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Please," you gasped, your heart pounding in your chest. "Let me go."

His expression softened, as if your plea had touched something in him. "I can’t," he murmured, almost apologetic. "You don’t understand. You belong to me now. No one else will ever love you like I do. No one else can keep you safe."

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. The darkness closed in around you as his arms wrapped around your trembling form, pulling you closer.

"You don’t have to be afraid," he whispered into your ear, his voice a sickening lullaby. "I’ll take care of everything. I’ll take care of you."

And as the shadows swallowed you whole, you realized with a sickening dread that there was no escape.

He had you. And he wasn’t letting go.

The end.

[living-with-ghost]

[living-with-ghost]

I’m still on it boss

[living-with-ghost]

[living-with-ghost]

Really happy to see this at my local library

[living-with-ghost]

[living-with-ghost]

[living-with-ghost]

🕯.

🕯. 🕯

🕯 prayer circle 🕯

🕯 for a housing 🕯

🕯 market 🕯

🕯 collapse 🕯

🕯.

[living-with-ghost]

[living-with-ghost]