#Sinners & Saints Collection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kururreal · 3 months ago

Text

“textbook definition of unhealthy relationships and codependence, the sinner needs the saint like one needs air to breathe.”

𖢷 ۪ ࣪ ﹙☆﹚ ࣪ ִ HEADCANONS ‹3

synopsis: you’re a new villain in to town. your villain motivations? to make the world lazier. “Hardworking people deserve a break too!” you said when you decided to be a villain.

notes: when you have a banger idea but you’re too shy to request it so you decided to lock in and write it yourself

BRUCE WAYNE / BATMAN :

You, the villain, are unassuming, quiet, playful, and not at all threatening in the traditional sense.

Your ideology?

“Hardworking people deserve rest too.”

That’s it. That’s the threat. That’s the infection.

You're not inciting a rebellion. You’re not taking over Gotham.

You're breaking the tempo.

And Bruce, who has survived purely because of his rhythm, his need to act, to control, to do, doesn’t even know why you bother him so much.

You don’t interrupt his work.

You exist beside it.

And that’s worse.

He doesn’t stalk you.

He doesn’t collect data.

He doesn’t care about you as a person.

What he does is this:

Every time you do something visible, Bruce makes himself forget it.

He catalogs the moment. names, actions, timestamp, visuals.. and then buries it in the Batcomputer under a false keyword, as if tucking away a dead language no one speaks.

Why?

Because something in him knows that if he integrates you, your ideas will change him.

And he cannot change.

So instead, he creates a personal information void around you.

He’s aware of you, sure. But vaguely. He reduces you to fog.

He sees the effects of your actions. lower hospitalizations, spontaneous street naps, people smiling on buses, and each time, instead of analyzing it, he tells himself:

“I must have missed something. That can’t be related.”

You’re a file he deliberately misfiles every single time.

He doesn’t think you’re evil.

He doesn’t even think you’re dangerous.

What you are to him is nonfunctional.

You don’t fit in the machine of Gotham, and yet, you don’t break it either.

That’s what bothers him.

You’re like a light in the Cave that flickers at random. Not bright. Not broken. Just irregular.

And Bruce can’t abide irregularity.

You don’t behave like a threat.

You behave like something Gotham didn’t ask for, didn’t want, but didn’t reject.

And so in his mind, you become a corrupted file.

He won’t delete you.

But he won’t access you either.

He won’t say your name out loud.

He won’t acknowledge your philosophy as real.

He will let you float in a corner of his mind like a half-erased name on a gravestone.

not possession, not violence, not protection.

It’s refusal.

You become the one thing he cannot categorize, assimilate, or dominate. and so his mind begins to loop, stall, fracture around you like code that can’t compile.

He doesn’t shift the world around you.

He shifts his perception of the world so it doesn’t include you.

And that is how he obsesses.

He spends energy every day not thinking about you.

He spends time burying every sign of your ideology beneath noise.

He sees the results of your actions and thinks, “That must be someone else.”

You have become a ghost in his operating system.

And no matter how much he pretends otherwise, he leaves a space for you in the back of his mind. a blank, untouched memory folder that he checks and forgets and checks again.

Over and over.

“Must’ve been the wind” aahhh 🥀🥀

Batman’s brand of platonic yandere here is based not on holding you close, but on keeping you mentally un-formed. The obsession lives in how hard he works to push you out of the framework of his reality, and how much space that act starts to take up inside him.

Think:

“If I look at this thing directly, I might change in a way I can’t reverse. So instead, I’ll trap it in the periphery of my mind and patrol that space every night like a prison guard.”

He’s not protecting you. He’s protecting himself from what knowing you would do to him.

And that’s what makes it yandere. because the compulsion wins anyway.

You become a phantom entry in every report.

He avoids naming you, but you’re in every system, just buried, twisted, refracted.

He avoids thinking of your ideology, but it echoes in his decisions.

He avoids, avoids, avoids! but builds a structure of constant micro-management around the avoidance.

Which is obsession.

When he feels anything about you, he instinctively redirects it.

He feels intrigued → labels it “threat curiosity.”

He feels admiration → labels it “disinformation alert.”

He feels challenged → labels it “cognitive tension.”

He feels something like envy → shuts the thought down completely.

He has trained himself to treat emotion like misinformation.

So anything that comes from you is automatically re-routed into threat analysis, system hygiene, containment strategy. no matter how unrelated.

But the mental effort to keep doing that, day after day?

It’s a mental shrine he doesn’t realize he’s kneeling at.

On paper, he doesn’t care.

In his mind, he’s neutral. Unmoved. Not curious.

But the reality?

He’s built an entire moral firewall around you.

He won’t speak about you aloud.

He won’t let others mention you. (Someone brings you up once. Bruce doesn’t look at them and says “Irrelevant.” Conversation ends.)

He doesn’t allow you to become a symbol, but doesn’t allow you to disappear either.

He refuses to define your motivations. but never stops cataloguing them.

He convinces himself you’re just another anomaly.

But he checks for your presence like people check for ghosts. subtly, religiously, never admitting they believe.

He is obsessed in the most existential way.

Not because he wants to own you.

Not because he wants to protect you.

But because you are the only thing he cannot assimilate into his mental universe, and instead of confronting that?

He builds an invisible mausoleum to you in his psyche.

And guards it.

For years.

He isn’t trying to break you or save you. He’s trying to neutralize your presence in his mental ecosystem… and failing.

And because he fails, he’s doomed to orbit you in silence, forever maintaining a structure whose entire purpose is to pretend you aren’t there.

And that’s obsession. That’s love twisted beyond recognition. That’s yandere.

He has built you a throne by refusing to look at it.

Forget usual tropes for a sec. Strip it to its bones.

At its deepest level, yandere means: an overwhelming, irrational fixation on a person

That fixation overrides normal logic or self-control. the individual builds their world around the target. emotionally, physically, mentally. often, the fixation is masked under something else: love, logic, concern, etc.

Yandere doesn’t have to mean “I’ll kill for you” or “You’re mine.”

It just has to mean:

“You exist inside my head constantly and I cannot, will not, let you go. even if I pretend I already have.”

Instead of confronting how you disturb his inner world, Batman builds a system of false neutrality to protect himself from what you represent.

That system is a mental fortress he has to: Maintain daily, monitor constantly, patch every time you appear in the news, a file, a video feed

That’s not analysis.

That’s ritual.

He isn’t simply keeping tabs on you.

He is spending psychic energy to remove you from reality, over and over, because even acknowledging your presence honestly risks destabilizing the framework of who he is.

That’s obsession.

your ideology, your message, “hardworking people deserve rest too”, haunts him.

Why?

Because it presents a world that could have existed if he hadn’t become Batman.

A world without brutal endurance.

A world where people don’t have to suffer to be good.

A world that would have told a young Bruce Wayne: “You can stop now. You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

That phantom world becomes his obsession.

You’re just the vessel… or avatar of it.

So he locks you, and that world, in a cold vault in his brain labeled “Irrelevant.”

And yet he checks that vault every night.

That’s not indifference. that’s yandere.

MOST yandere want to control the person directly.

Bruce wants to control his mental exposure to you.

He designs internal systems to minimize your impact.

He flags your files as “non-priority” even when he knows they’re not.

He gaslights his own mind, mentally replacing your name with a symbol or error code.

This isn’t disinterest. This is meticulous anti-engagement.

You don’t get this level of anti-contact unless someone is emotionally overwhelmed and trying to stabilize.

So instead of controlling you, he controls the narrative of you in his mind.

Every day.

Without fail.

And that is a form of possession.

Yandere fixation often comes down to one thing: “Even if this hurts me, I will not stop.”

And that is exactly what Bruce is doing.

This elaborate denial system drains him.

He loses time trying to overwrite mentions of you.

He fails to adapt to shifting public reaction because he won’t acknowledge it.

He’s sleep-deprived and short with the Batfamily because your ideology is spreading, and he doesn’t have a plan that doesn’t require acknowledging it.

He could simplify his life by just confronting it.

But he won’t.

Because once he lets you in, even a little, he has to ask: “What if they’re right? What if Gotham doesn’t need me? What if I’ve made everything worse by grinding myself down into a myth instead of a man?”

So he keeps the shrine intact.

Keeps the ghost memory clean.

And tells himself he’s “above it.”

He’s not.

He’s drowning in it.

That’s yandere.

he doesn’t act all that different when you pull another scheme on the town either.

After each scheme, the evidence piles up.

You’re doing real things.

Visible things.

You’re changing Gotham. even if temporarily.

And that should trigger his usual protocols: evaluation, threat assessment, countermeasures.

Instead?

He goes back into his logs from that night… and redacts your name.

He replaces it with [NULL-AGENT], or leaves the field blank.

Even to himself, in his own files, you don’t have a name.

Because names are portals to meaning. and meaning leads to confrontation. and confrontation means feeling something.

So he surgically erases the connection.

But never the event.

Because he needs the pattern.

He needs to keep watching.

He just can’t admit why.

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t support you.

He doesn’t admit you exist.

But he does..

Monitors obsessively

Catalogues everything

Redacts it afterward

Pretends it doesn’t affect him

Leaves space for you in every mental calculation he makes

He never says your name.

But he’s memorized every word you’ve ever said.

Yandere not through violence.

Not through romance.

But through negative space. a haunting, ritualized denial of feeling that takes over his life like rot beneath the floorboards.

He wants the idea of you contained.

And when containment becomes impossible, he builds a recursive denial loop that eventually takes over a significant part of his psychological energy.

He is obsessed with the erasure of you. and that erasure takes more effort, focus, and ritual than simply knowing you ever would.

And that is pure yandere.

self-destructive emotional orbit disguised as control.

NIGHTWING / DICK GRAYSON :

I’m hungry

but thats besides the point ig 💔💔🥀🥀🥀😭😭😭

Dick’s optimism is real. but it’s a choice, not a constant.

Unlike Bruce, whose default is grim pragmatism, Dick forces light into darkness. He jokes, he smiles, because someone has to carry hope.

So when [Name] comes along with this ideology, “Even heroes deserve to rest”, Dick can’t accept it. Not because he thinks it’s wrong, but because if he accepts it, the weight of all the years he’s forced himself to smile and keep going would hit him like a truck.

You aren’t just a villain. you’re a mirror. A personified version of everything Dick has denied himself.

“If what you say is true, then I’ve been killing myself all these years for nothing.”

He can’t let that in. So he splits like a trained acrobat, balancing on an emotional wire.

He holds himself to impossible standards.

He’s not just trying to live up to Bruce, he’s trying to exceed him and not become him. That’s a suffocating duality.

So when you start telling people to rest, to step back from impossible expectations, Dick panics internally.

Because he’s spent decades performing like his survival depends on it. because it did. He fears that if people stop pushing themselves, they’ll become like Bruce's failures.. or worse, get hurt. And maybe.. maybe! they’ll see that his whole life was built on unsustainable effort.

You threaten to unmake the foundation he’s built everything on.

Dick tries to carry burdens solo, just like Bruce.

But unlike Bruce, he hides it with charm instead of silence. That makes him even more fragile, because no one sees the cracks.

When you start gaining influence, maybe even convincing other heroes or citizens to burn out less, Dick takes it personally. Not out of spite, but fear.

If others believe you, they’ll stop relying on him.

He needs to be the one holding it together. He needs to be the one who never stops.

Because if he rests, who picks up the pieces?

If he breaks, who’s left to smile when everything goes dark?

“You’re not helping them. You’re just giving them an excuse to give up. And if they give up… I don’t get to.”

That’s the twist.

He doesn’t stalk you or chain you up.

He stalks your philosophy, kills your influence, because your truth breaks his lie.

Dick becomes obsessed not with saving [Name] … but with protecting the rest of the world from becoming like them.

It’s not “I love you so I’ll keep you safe.”

It’s “I love you, so I’ll make sure no one ever agrees with you.”

Because you are right.

And Dick knows it.

He’s the golden boy who’s been running on fumes since he was ten years old. But if he ever admits that [Name]’s ideology makes sense, he’ll crumble. Gotham, Blüdhaven, Bruce… they all depend on him staying functional. So he splits his mind.

He lets you rest. but never the world around them.

Dick becomes a reverse-yandere, a cognitive paradox.

He worships your ideology. but crushes it in everyone else.

He protects you. but makes sure you’ll always be alone in your beliefs.

He creates a world where only you are allowed to rest. by making everyone else run harder.

He doesn’t hurt you, doesn’t lock you up. He lets you spread your message freely. But every time someone listens to you, he finds them, and breaks them. Quietly. Subtly. Emotionally.

He turns them back into gear-turners.

Not because he wants to stop you. but because he can’t let your world exist.

Dick Grayson is a caretaker to the bone.

Big Brother. Team Leader. Gotham's good cop.

He’s spent his entire life believing that if he’s strong enough, if he just keeps going, he can protect everyone.

And the second he stops?

He believes people die.

He can’t stop. He can’t rest. He’s addicted to being the one who doesn’t fall. Not because of pride, but because he knows what happens when no one catches you. He lived it.

So when you come into the world preaching rest. forced or not, he sees a paradox.

One that short-circuits everything he is.

Because you’re right.

You’re not violent. You’re not crazy. You’re gentle.

Your message is: “You’ve done enough. You can sit down now.”

But if the world sits down, who gets hurt first?

He lets you rest.

You become the only one in the world who gets to stop. You become untouchable. he won’t lock you up, won’t fight you directly, won’t even argue too hard.

Why?

Because he’s built an altar out of you.

He’s made you the sacred space where the truth is allowed to exist. but nowhere else.

Like a church locked in a burning city.

He isolates your ideology into a vacuum so he never has to face it spilling into his world.

That’s why every time someone listens to you, he hunts them down. not violently, not openly, but surgically.

He sabotages their careers. Distracts them with greater threats. Assigns them “just one more mission.”

He puts weight back on their shoulders until they forget what you said.

This isn’t a man who doesn’t believe in you.

This is a man who believes in you so deeply that he has to quarantine your truth to keep from falling apart.

Because if he admits it’s okay to rest… then everything he’s endured becomes grief that didn’t have to happen.

And Dick Grayson, the big brother of the entire damn DC Universe, doesn’t know how to forgive himself for needless suffering.

So instead of letting the world change, he clutches it tighter.

Not for power. Not for dominance.

But because if he lets go… he’ll never get back up again.

A traditional yandere obsesses over a person.

But Dick?

He obsesses over what you represents. their ideology of rest, mercy, and release. It’s not about owning your body. It’s about containing your truth. That’s way scarier, way more insidious.

This is obsession disguised as protection.

Dick does all this not because he wants your love, it’s because he needs you to stay still.

If you moved, if you evolved, if your message grew teeth.. his mind would collapse under the weight of everything he’s been repressing.

So he isolates you like a relic.

He fossilizes you in peace. He builds a shrine around your message and worships it only because it’s locked away.

That’s yandere logic:

“If I can’t have you safely, no one else can have you at all.”

But instead of killing you or locking you in a basement, he does the reverse:

He builds a world around you that ensures you’re always the only one like you.

That’s obsession.

Yandere types don’t just love. they love destructively through control.

Dick’s version is emotional ecosystem manipulation. he isn’t trying to control you, he’s controlling everything else around you, for you.

He lets you believe you’re winning.

He makes the world harder so you stay soft.

He sabotages anyone who listens to you so you never lose your uniqueness.

He keeps your ideology “pure” by strangling it before it grows.

In his mind, he’s not harming anyone. he’s preserving balance. because if too many people follow you, the system breaks. And if the system breaks, he can’t function anymore.

Yandere logic is rationalized delusion.

He thinks he’s keeping you safe and the world stable. But what he’s really doing is sacrificing everything, including truth and progress, on the altar of his fear of emotional collapse.

Traditional yanderes cling to a person.

Dick clings to his role, his identity, his mission. But when you show up, they unwrite all of that.

So he develops a warped dependency:

“I need you to exist. but I also need you to never succeed.”

That’s obsession. A cognitive loop.

He depends on your ideology to understand his own fatigue.

But he also has to suppress it, because if it becomes true for others, he’ll realize he’s spent his life breaking himself unnecessarily.

So he gets trapped.

You become the axis his emotional survival spins on.

“If I destroy you, I’m a monster.

If I believe you, I collapse.

So I’ll protect you in stillness. I’ll love you in silence.

I’ll stop the world for you, just so you never move.”

That’s obsession. That’s yandere.

But it’s cold. Quiet. High-functioning.

It’s not a knife to your throat. it’s a smile at your door, while the whole city outside burns itself out under his watchful eye.

You shut down power to government buildings.

You freeze hospital schedules so burned-out doctors are forced to sleep.

You crash commuter systems so workers have to stay home and finally breathe.

You make rest happen. through crime, disruption, and brilliant techy soft-sabotage.

What does Dick do?

He shows up after.

He sweeps in quietly.

He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t confront you.

He undoes your work. quietly, efficiently, like a fixer for God.

He doesn’t tell the press.

Doesn’t report you to the League.

Doesn’t even tell the Batfam.

He erases you.

Why?

Because acknowledging you publicly would mean legitimizing you.

“If they know your name, they might listen. If they hear your message, they might agree. I can’t let that happen.”

So he scrubs your fingerprints off the crime scene and tells everyone it was a “systems glitch.”

He redirects citizens to other sources of burnout.

He lies to protect his world from you. while keeping you safe.

If you go too big, like shutting down the entire city for 48 hours, he’ll find you.

He won’t chain you up. He won’t scream.

He’ll interrogate you like a friend, but with that underlying edge of desperation:

“Why are you making it so hard to protect you?”

If Bruce or another hero starts closing in on your identity, Dick pulls strings. He diverts attention, falsifies data, leaks false suspects.

He'd rather lie to Bruce, than let you face consequences.

Because if the world punishes you, that means your message is wrong. and Dick can’t afford to believe that.

You’re a villain, yes. And Nightwing is the planner, the strategist, the one who always has a backup plan.

But you?

You're the one person in the world he refuses to plan against.

He’ll have tactics for if Batman turns rogue.

He’ll have files on every villain in Blüdhaven.

But for you? Nothing.

Because making a plan against you would mean preparing for the possibility of having to stop you.

And he can’t admit he’d ever do that.

So instead of making a plan against you, he makes one around you:

He assigns his own allies to far-off cases.

He keeps the city too busy to notice you.

He works twice as hard to minimize the damage. so that he pays the price for your restfulness, not the citizens.

“You do what you have to. I’ll carry the burden. That’s how we keep the balance.”

He lets you be a villain. as long as it doesn’t break his world too hard.

He obsessively cleans up after you.

He refuses to punish you, because punishing you means admitting your message might be wrong. or worse, that it’s right and the world is too broken to receive it.

And when you do go too far?

He doesn't punish you like a villain.

He mourns you like a temple falling.

RED HOOD / JASON TODD :

Jason Todd, now Red Hood, exists in a perpetual state of restlessness. His experiences, his trauma, his regrets. every facet of his life pushes him into overdrive, constantly vigilant, always in motion. But Jason doesn’t just want to save Gotham, he wants to save the people who don’t know how to rest. This is where the villain, [name], comes into play.

You're a new kind of criminal in Gotham. You’re not here to hurt people. You’re here to stop the grind. You’ve shut down exploitative factories, turned Gotham’s 24-hour systems into 8-hour ones, and made millionaires suddenly lose sleep over their unpaid workers. Your message?

“Hardworking people deserve rest too.”

Your gadgets don't kill; they sedate. Your traps don’t wound; they force naps. You target overworked cops, overclocked servers, hospital staff being stretched thin. and give them "mandatory vacations" by knocking them unconscious and stashing them in luxury pods with automatic IV drips and calming soundscapes. You’re not killing the system, you’re sedating it.

Jason sees your work as both deeply terrifying and a form of mercy. Jason doesn’t love you in the traditional sense. He’s not infatuated with you romantically, but he’s consumed by a need to "protect" you. though not in the way a typical protector would.

He becomes obsessed with you because he sees himself in you, but he cannot comprehend your methods. You’re offering peace in a way he cannot afford. While Jason cannot rest, cannot stop fighting, he understands the value of what you're doing. Yet, he doesn’t believe you’re truly ready for the consequences of your actions. He thinks your idealism will destroy you, and he believes Gotham isn’t ready for the world you're crafting. he’s convinced you’re running a ticking time bomb with your serene philosophy.

Jason doesn’t try to stop you through traditional villain-villain conflict. He doesn’t engage you in a direct, action-heavy way. Instead, he disrupts your ability to rest. Jason sees your "restful" state as a dangerous lull. one that will eventually fall apart when Gotham’s chaos comes crashing back in. To protect you, he starts a bizarre game where he becomes the embodiment of the sleepless world you’re trying to escape.

His presence is a paradox. He invades your peaceful moments, constantly stirring the edges of your tranquility with his aggressive, sleepless energy. He creates an emotional disturbance, testing how well you can truly escape the constant noise of the world, challenging your philosophy by showing you the emotional toll of your ideas. When you induce calm in someone, Jason finds ways to intrude into their peace with intrusive, violent thoughts. not to hurt them, but to make them aware of their own fragility. Every time you successfully put someone into a peaceful state, Jason shakes their emotional core, revealing cracks in your logic and philosophy.

It’s almost like a battle of rest versus unrest. Jason exists to remind people, and you, that peace and rest are always fleeting, never truly attainable, especially in a world as broken as Gotham.

Jason doesn’t just disrupt your peace directly; he wants to get you to rest, but only on his terms. He believes that if you’re truly dedicated to your cause, you need to experience the exhaustion of never resting yourself. he pushes you to the limit, using psychological tactics and subtle actions to make you feel how much it costs to give peace to others. Jason's philosophy is one of balance: people need rest, yes, but they need to earn it. He believes in suffering as a pathway to true peace. so he will drag you into conflict with others, forcing you to witness the world you’re trying to escape, to remind you that peace is never without consequence.

Jason doesn't want to admit it, but the truth is that he is always balancing on the edge of his own philosophy. He’s constantly questioning how much violence he’s willing to accept in the name of justice. He feels responsible for the people he saves, but that responsibility sometimes leads him into morally gray areas that others (like Batman) might avoid.

Your Ideology of Rest offers a form of balance that Jason can’t have. You promote peace. an idea Jason finds both appealing and terrifying. Peace is something Jason craves but feels he cannot have, because in his mind, it comes at a cost. You represent everything that he can never fully embrace. a world where rest, calm, and healing are possible.

Despite his desire to help, Jason sees the limits of his own effectiveness. He constantly finds himself fighting a losing battle. especially when he’s forced to kill or break the rules to get things done. This guilt doesn’t just disappear, even if he justifies his actions. In this way, Jason sees you as a direct reflection of his failings. because your idea of "rest" is a form of escape from the constant cycle of violence he feels trapped in.

Your villainy challenges Jason’s worldview. He wants people to be able to rest, too, but he doesn't think they can without confronting the darkness. The fact that you offer rest and peace without addressing the world’s systemic issues, without violence or force, doesn’t sit right with him. He believes the world doesn’t allow for a peaceful escape, and that by indulging in rest, you're turning a blind eye to the suffering that still exists.

Jason Todd’s relationship with you embodies obsession, though it’s not the romantic obsession seen in more typical yandere tropes. Instead, his obsession is philosophical, emotional, and protective. He becomes obsessed with your ideology of peace, rest, and tranquility. He’s fixated on the idea that you’re offering people an escape from the brutality of Gotham, and he feels that you are naive in your attempt to do so. This obsession goes beyond just being fixated on you as a person. it extends to your worldview, your methods, and the dangerous implications he believes they hold.

A yandere’s hallmark is the intensity of their emotions. Jason’s feelings for you are extreme, but they aren’t purely driven by romantic attraction. they stem from the emotional weight of his own trauma and the desperation to protect you from what he perceives as an impending downfall. The emotional intensity comes from his need to challenge your beliefs and make you see the harsh realities he’s experienced. His obsession manifests as an irrational emotional attachment to your ideology and to the idea of “saving” you, even if it means trying to disrupt your peace in the process.

Jason’s yandere qualities manifest in the obsessive protectiveness he feels toward you. While this is often a romantic trait in yandere characters, in Jason’s case, it’s platonic and ideological. He feels a responsibility to “protect” you from what he believes to be your own misguided philosophy. His version of protection doesn’t involve traditional displays of violence or possessiveness but instead focuses on interfering with your peace in order to teach you a harsh lesson.

This protectiveness is grounded in his belief that the world you’re envisioning can’t exist without consequences. He is obsessed with the idea that if you can’t understand the true cost of rest and peace, you’ll be consumed by the very thing you're trying to save people from. So, he becomes the obstacle to your peaceful ideology. not out of malice or romantic desire, but because he truly believes that you need to be "saved" from your own perspective.

Jason becomes an obstacle to your ideology, and this emotional and intellectual opposition is a form of possession: he doesn’t want you to be at peace until he believes you’ve fully realized the harsh truths of the world. His desire to control your thought process and reality (in terms of what you’re trying to create) is a more subtle, intellectual possession compared to traditional yandere tropes, but it’s still a possession that keeps you constantly aware of his presence, both physically and mentally.

While Jason’s violent tendencies are not typically directed toward you, they do manifest in a way that aligns with traditional yandere themes. He’s willing to create emotional chaos around you and disrupt your peaceful state, even if it means inflicting psychological harm. He may subconsciously justify this as a form of protection or guidance, believing that if you can’t handle the violence and chaos of the world, you’re not truly fit to offer peace to others.

This kind of psychological violence (in the form of emotional and intellectual torment) is a unique variation of yandere behavior, but it still reflects the destructive, obsessive drive to reshape the object of obsession’s reality according to their own ideals.

RED ROBIN / TIM DRAKE :

oh man oh god

You're a new villain in Gotham. No grand heists, no murder, no world-ending plans. Your ideology? “Hardworking people deserve rest too.” You target those who are exploited by their systems. overworked medics, detectives who haven’t taken a day off in years, tech developers being ground down in black-budget labs. You sedate them gently, remove them from the grid, and put them in a hidden “sanctuary” where they’re forced to rest. You’re not killing them. you’re giving them the break they’re too conditioned to take themselves.

But then you target Tim Drake.

And something snaps.

Tim doesn’t “believe” in your ideology. He doesn’t agree with you, doesn’t support you, doesn’t admire you.

But he can’t stop testing your theory.

You’re the most peculiar anomaly he’s ever encountered. A villain who doesn’t destroy, doesn’t corrupt, doesn’t control, just intervenes. Pauses. Unplugs. Your entire mission is enforcing rest on people who can’t or won’t give it to themselves.

You hit him once. Gave him 48 hours of mandatory rest. A blackout, then calmness. When he woke up, he was alone, unhurt, undisturbed.

And yet everything was wrong.

Because it worked.

And now?

You’re not a threat to be stopped.

You’re a theory he’s trying to disprove.

This isn’t affection. It’s not “care.” It’s Tim treating you like a control variable he can’t replicate.

You gave him peace. He doesn’t want to admit it. So now he runs controlled experiments.. on himself.

He denies himself sleep for 96 hours to test what you saw in him.

He simulates your actions in private rooms, carefully documenting if he feels better afterward.

He tracks the neurochemical patterns from the sedative you used and recreates microdoses just to “observe” the mental silence.

He tries to reverse-engineer your ideology purely to disprove it.

But it only leads to more questions.

And it becomes maddening.

Tim stalks you not because he wants to be close, but because you’ve colonized a part of his thinking.

Every action he takes now filters through one question:

“Would [Name] have stopped me here?”

“Would they think I’m too far gone?”

“Is this what they’d call burnout?”

This doesn’t make him softer. It makes him more paranoid.

More fractured.

He doesn’t want you in his life.

He wants to silence you in his mind. but can’t.

So instead, he creates simulations. Replays encounters with you. Runs audio from your speeches. Alters his mission logs to include imaginary counterarguments from you.

You become his silent co-pilot.

Not because he chose you.

But because you infected his process.

He refuses to accept rest as valid unless he can reproduce its logic under his own control. But your rest isn’t logical. It’s disruptive, organic, involuntary. That drives him crazy.

He never confronts you directly again. not out of fear, but because he doesn’t trust himself to stay rational around you.

His obsession is pure analysis, not love. But he’s created an entire side-life where every decision he makes is secretly measured against your ideology.

He still fights. Still breaks bones. But then goes home and stares at a wall for three hours, asking:

“Did I need to go that hard? Or was I proving something to them?”

He doesn’t follow you around in person. he builds predictive models, reads subtle biometric signals from footage, and maps your logic tree. He’s stalking your ideas, not your body.

He keeps this entire obsession secret. Even from himself. He lies to Alfred. Lies to Bruce. He gaslights his own mind, convincing himself it’s “just tactical observation.” But he’s got terabytes of data on you hidden in a server called:

“NON-THREAT_CONFLICT_1197”

He doesn’t want to fix you, love you, save you, or be noticed by you.

He just wants to disprove you.

But every time he tries, he ends up needing the silence again.

That’s the horror.

That’s the devotion.

And he never once admits it aloud.

yandere doesn’t always have to mean a "romantic" obsession or a “classic stalker” who just wants to possess someone. Instead, the obsession itself can be built around any form of psychological fixation that leads to controlling, manipulative, or destructive behavior. often rationalized in some form as being "for the good" of the person they’re obsessed with.

TRAIT 001: The obsessive fixation on the person.

In this case, Tim’s obsession is not about possessing you physically or emotionally. it’s about understanding your mind and controlling his environment through your ideology. You disrupted his sense of order, threw his life into disarray, and now Tim is in an obsessive cycle of trying to understand, rationalize, and prove why your ideology is wrong, how to disprove it, and why it messed him up.

He’s trying to break you down intellectually because, in his mind, you are the key to his peace. And so, his obsession is not simply trying to control you, but control his own feelings and mind in response to you. That level of control fixation is a classic yandere characteristic. He doesn’t want to admit that your ideology might have had a profound effect on him, so he goes to extremes to try and test, analyze, and suppress it.

He can’t stop thinking about you. He doesn’t want to love you, but he can’t ignore the effect you had on him. And that is obsession.

TRAIT 002: Willing to go to extreme lengths for their obsession, sometimes even harming themselves to preserve the fixation.

Here, Tim’s obsession leads him to physically and mentally harm himself. He pushes his body to dangerous limits. denying sleep, taking sedatives in calculated doses to replicate your influence on him, trying to isolate his emotions and just test whether rest actually has an effect on him. These are all self-destructive behaviors motivated by the need to answer the question: “What is it about you that has disrupted my system so completely?”

Tim’s resilience and ability to push past his limits only makes this worse. He never admits how much he needs your ideology to function, but he becomes more and more dependent on recreating it in his life. His obsession with trying to stay in control means he sacrifices his well-being in an effort to “solve” your impact on him.

TRAIT 003: Rationalizing their obsessive behaviors as protective or necessary for the other person’s safety/mental well-being.

While traditional yanderes might directly harm others to keep them close, Tim rationalizes his obsession through self-imposed limits and self-analysis, using your ideology as his lens. He treats it like a protective measure, not just for his own mental stability, but in the belief that this is the “right way” to fix the imbalance you’ve created in him.

Tim has internalized your rest ideology to the point where his obsessive behavior is justified by a warped sense of protection for both himself and, in some cases, Gotham. He believes that if he can just figure out the right answer, the right formula, then everything will click, and he’ll return to the controlled world he once knew. But this is just an illusion. His obsession has trapped him in a never-ending cycle.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge that his need for you is unhealthy. Instead, he tells himself that solving your “mystery” will bring him peace, that it’s a quest for knowledge, not obsession. This self-deception is a classic yandere trait where the obsession is disguised as a rational pursuit.

Tim doesn’t just want to solve the case. This is a personal, psychological conflict. he’s constantly battling himself, wrestling with the temptation to just admit that something about you broke his sense of control. The complexity lies in how he resists acknowledging that he has emotionally (and psychologically) been altered by you. He’s fighting against himself, his feelings, and his deep-seated need for order and control.

It’s not just about the other person being the object of affection, but also about how the yandere’s actions are disguised as a form of care or control. Tim’s behavior is intellectualized, but ultimately, it becomes a twisted form of caring about you. because he feels the need to protect his mind from the chaos you caused.

He isn’t out to control you in an obvious or violent way, but he is still willing to manipulate himself, isolate himself, and make his life a battleground to deal with the psychological impact you’ve had on him. His obsession is dangerous because it turns inward, manifesting as self-sabotage and manipulation of his own reality.

He’s obsessively fixated on you and your ideology, even if it’s intellectualized.

His actions are extreme and self-destructive, to the point of harming himself and trying to replicate the effects of your ideology just to understand it.

He rationalizes his behavior, cloaking his obsession in the guise of control and self-protection.

He can’t escape his need to keep you in his mind, despite the fact that he refuses to acknowledge he’s mentally and emotionally dependent on you.

This is a yandere mentality. it’s about obsession, but the obsession isn’t always in the form of love or possession; it’s intellectualized, twisted control over his own mental processes, a constant back-and-forth battle between logic and emotion, trying to force order and balance into a chaotic, uncomfortable truth: You’ve already changed him.

As soon as you initiate a scheme in the city, Tim’s first instinct is to analyze the structure of your plan. not to stop it outright, but to figure out the rationale behind it.

He’s no longer just a vigilante trying to thwart criminals. He’s an obsessive detective caught between stopping you and understanding you. Tim immediately dissects your actions as if you’re a case study, drawing mental parallels between your methods and his own. In his mind, he’s trying to solve the puzzle of you.

The deeper question he asks is: What’s your real motivation? Is it really just about rest for the overworked, or is there some deeper emotional need driving you? he begins to map your psychology against every move you make. Is this a desire for control? Revenge? Relief from guilt? He tracks the smallest clues. patterns in your behavior, things you've said in passing, the faces of the people you leave behind after your schemes.

He will obsessively cross-reference your plans with previous ones, trying to pinpoint where your logic might have a flaw, where it doesn’t “add up” in his mind. Maybe he’ll find the places where your ideology inadvertently causes harm or chaos, and those are the moments where he feels the most alive. because that’s the piece of you he’s been trying to "fix."

Tim is the king of preparation, and when you pull a scheme on Gotham, you better believe he’ll have deeply researched the specifics of it. He will analyze the infrastructure of your plot and create counter-schemes that are tailored to your ideology. not just to stop you, but to test how resilient you are against what he’s learned from your patterns.

If you’re using a sedative to incapacitate people for “rest”, he might reverse-engineer it to create a formula that forces you to feel exhaustion yourself. Or he’ll track the spread of the sedative and neutralize it with custom-designed antidotes to disrupt your ability to control the masses.

If your scheme involves financial manipulation, like draining corrupt companies of their resources to redistribute to underpaid workers, Tim will figure out how to intercept those funds in a way that doesn’t ruin your overall moral point but forces you to reconsider your execution.

These countermeasures aren’t about brute force. they’re surgical, intelligent, and designed to disrupt the very core of your philosophy without necessarily “defeating” you. He doesn’t want to prove you wrong in the traditional sense. He wants to see if your ideology can survive when he starts to manipulate it in ways you didn’t foresee. He’ll go to great lengths to match your every move with precision, trying to break your emotional or philosophical consistency.

When your schemes start gaining traction in Gotham, Tim’s emotions become muddled. His mission is clear, to stop you, but his deep-seated obsession makes him question himself the entire time. There’s a part of him that is actually rooting for you in his head. Not out of romantic interest, but because you represent the peace he can never have.

While working through his plans to thwart you, Tim may grow increasingly detached from his own emotions. He will close off, thinking: I’m doing this for the greater good. but the more he dismantles your work, the more hollow his victories feel. Every time he disrupts your plans, he’s one step closer to proving that his obsession is right. and yet, he’s driven deeper into the abyss of needing your philosophy.

In the chaos, he might experience moments of internal crisis. After foiling your scheme, he might sit alone, reviewing his actions, trying to convince himself that he’s done the right thing. But in the silence, his mind starts to loop:

Did I stop you because you were wrong… or because I need to be right?

SPOILER / STEPHANIE BROWN:

hey now. hey hey.

Your ideology is deceptively simple: everyone deserves rest. But in practice, you make CEOs sleep for weeks by inducing comas, disable surveillance networks to give overworked security guards peace, and forcibly “retire” heroes and villains alike who never take a break. You call it “compassionate sabotage.”

You're not malicious, just terrifyingly principled. You call your actions “mandatory vacations.”

You aren’t lazy. you work harder than anyone. But your work is making sure everyone else stops working.

Your main tool? A stolen prototype tech: a pulse device that hijacks neural fatigue centers. essentially, a sleep-inducing EMP. You've modified it to create “rest zones” where your targets are forced to nap, collapse, or mentally check out.

Stephanie is deeply independent, not someone who likes being rescued or coddled. So when you, a villain, emerge saying “People deserve rest” and then start enforcing it for her or for others. it clashes hard with her core beliefs.

Her reaction? You’re not wrong. but you’re not the one who gets to decide when people quit.

So instead of trying to stop you with violence, she makes it her mission to prove she can keep pace with you without ever giving in.

Not because she hates you. But because she refuses to let anyone else take her agency away, even under the guise of “rest.”

In a way, she sees your ideology as noble. but incomplete, and dangerously self-righteous.

“If you really believed in rest, [Name], you'd let people choose it for themselves. You don't get to play god just because you're tired.”

That’s the twist. her yandere obsession is a contradiction. She cares about you. But she resents you enough to never let you “win.”

She is a caretaker. She feels responsible for others’ well-being.

In this twisted yandere version, she starts internalizing your ideology as her own. but in her voice.

She starts doing what you do (creating rest, breaking systems, giving people time off), but she does it with exhausting compassion instead of coercion.

She visits the people you knocked out of work and listens to their stories. She starts building support systems instead of just inducing sleep.

At some point, she stops even recognizing where your ideology ends and hers begins.

This is the part. She starts saying things like,

“I know you better than you know yourself. You don’t really want people to rest. You want them to feel safe. I’m the only one who gets that.”

It’s not about power. It’s emotional possessiveness through worldview.

She thinks she’s the only one who really understands what you meant. And that’s how she becomes the “better” version of you.

Because stephanie tends to ramble and overshare, especially under stress, this becomes the mask slipping.

You’ll find her babbling at one of your sleep zones, running through plans she says are yours, ideas you never had, rewriting your philosophy with new rules. her rules.

Her affection bleeds through these overshares, but it’s detached from reality. She’s talking to an idea of you.

It’s not romantic. it’s emotional dependency on the version of you that lives in her head, who “gets it” the way no one else does.

At first, she judges you. “This villain’s just another self-righteous burnout case.”

But then… she starts sympathizing too much.

Because she’s been there. She’s burned out. She knows what it’s like to be drowning in responsibility.

So the twist is, she locks herself in a moral logic trap where the only way to reconcile her loyalty and her judgment is to absorb your mission.

And she becomes possessive of your ideology.

She doesn’t need your presence to be obsessed with you. she’s committed for life, even if she never sees you again.

Her platonic yandere angle isn’t based in presence.

You could disappear. Retire. Die. And she’d keep living by your principles, warped and restructured in her voice, long after you’re gone.

“You were right, you just… didn’t go far enough. But I will. I’ll make sure everyone gets rest. even if it kills me.”

Her obsession is philosophical inheritance.

She doesn’t want your body. She wants your burden.

She’s not in love with you. She believes in you. more than you believe in yourself.

And she’ll never stop trying to prove that belief right.

You're not her enemy.

You’re a problem she refuses to put down, not out of duty. but because you’ve taken up space in her brain in a way nothing else has.

You’re the first villain who’s not selfish or sadistic. you’re compassionate to a fault. And that… scares her. Because she sees herself in you.

She’s constantly torn between admiring you and being horrified by your methods.

She respects you, maybe more than she respects some of the Batfam. You believe in something.

But she also resents that belief because it feels like it’s directed at her.

Every time you disable a system or knock out another hero for their “own good,” it feels like a passive-aggressive intervention aimed at her life choices.

“They’re so tired. I can see it. Every time they do this, I wonder if they’re hoping someone will stop them. I wonder if they’re hoping it’s me.”

She thinks you’re crying out for help, even if you say you're not.

So she treats your schemes as tests. not of Gotham, but of herself.

She thinks: “If I stop them this time, maybe they’ll stop pushing themselves so hard. Maybe they’ll finally rest.”

She never thinks you’re doing this for power or even change anymore.

She’s convinced you’re doing it because you’re breaking, and this is your coping mechanism.

So she responds like you’re a sick friend acting out. not a villain.

Say you pull a classic “mandatory rest” plot: you gas the GCPD precinct with your signature neuro-fatigue fog, knocking out cops mid-shift, replacing their patrols with drones programmed to play soft jazz and deliver pillows.

What does Stephanie do?

She physically drags unconscious cops to safety, takes over patrol duty herself, reroutes emergency lines to her comms.

She's not just stopping your plot. she's doing all the work you made them stop doing, out of spiteful admiration.

Because at her core, she believes you’re better at this than she is.

She’s not obsessed with owning you. She’s obsessed with earning your approval without ever admitting it.

Steph’s the type of person who latches onto ideologies that resonate with her pain. Your “people deserve rest” philosophy touches a nerve in her. the part of her that’s always overworking, overcompensating, always feeling like she has to prove her worth by staying in the fight longer than anyone else.

You present an alternative: people like her shouldn’t have to live that way.

But instead of taking that as healing? She turns it into an impossible ideal to chase, a kind of moral godhood to strive for. by outworking you.

That becomes the obsession.

Obsession not with possessing you, but with surpassing you. by taking your ideology to a self-destructive extreme.

This aligns with platonic yandere, because it’s devotion through identification.

You're not a person to her anymore. you're a mission.

Yanderes often project unresolved trauma or longing onto someone else. and that’s what Steph’s doing, just in reverse. Instead of saying “You complete me,” she’s saying:

“You are me, if I gave up. So I have to save you to save myself.”

You’re a walking contradiction of what she believes.

You're trying to help people, but you take away their choice.

You're trying to reduce suffering, but your methods cause chaos.

You remind her that rest is good, but also that she’s too scared to take it.

She’s locked in an emotional loop. she hates that you’re right, so she needs to carry your burden for you to prove she can do it better.

That’s the yandere core: her self-worth becomes entangled with your very existence.

That’s obsession.

Yandere’s are obsessed with someone. she is obsessed with your ideology and moral integrity.

Yandere’s have an all-consuming devotion. she rearranges her life to become your philosophical rival / ally / shadow

Yandere’s have blurred self-other boundary. She starts thinking for you, justifying your actions, ‘fixing’ your failures.

Yandere’s are willing to hurt others or themselves to protect their bond. She is literally breaking herself to carry your burden so YOU can rest.

Yandere doesn’t always mean “I love you so much I’ll kill.”

It means: “You have taken root in my identity. I no longer know where I end and you begin.”

Stephanie’s version of that is emotionally and philosophically parasitic. she doesn’t just want to understand you, she wants to become your better version.

She’s addicted to your idea of peace, but she’ll only allow herself to bring it into the world through her own pain.

So even when you try to stop, she won’t let you. because she needs the problem of you to exist in order to stay whole.

You say “rest is a right.”

She says “fine! but let me be the one who earns it for everyone. Including you!”

ORPHAN / CASSANDRA CAIN:

You’re a villain, real name unknown, who built your ideology around the belief that "Hardworking people deserve rest too." You’re infamous not for mass destruction but for forcing stillness. you create “zones” across Gotham where time seems to slow, people collapse into dreamlike trances, and all forms of labor, mental, emotional, and physical, are impossible. These are fields of rest: mental euthanasia for the overworked. Gotham calls it terrorism. You call it justice.

You target places like sweatshops, overpoliced blocks, high schools, prisons, hospitals. You don’t kill. You sedate. You erase urgency. The city grinds to a stop around you. Your villainy is lethargy as revolution.

Cassandra loves, but not in the typical way. she’s obsessed with the silence you carry. The absence you bring. You are the only person she has ever met who communicates in the same language she does: non-action as expression. When you step into a space and it becomes still, quiet, slow. it reminds her of the only language she knew for years: stillness = presence.

To Cassandra, your acts of “rest” are not terrorism. They are poetry. You’re the first person whose ideology isn’t just words, it’s movement. Or lack thereof. Your body language, your pacing, your restraint, your surrender, your slowness. it’s all fluent to her.

She becomes addicted to your zones of rest. She seeks them out in secret. She lets herself get caught in your fields, lying perfectly still for hours, even days. She studies how it feels to not move, not think, not protect, not perform. For someone raised to be a weapon, these moments are the only place she feels like a human.

But it goes deeper.

She begins trying to create her own silent fields. Not by tech, like you. but through sheer mastery of space. She builds rooms in safehouses that mimic the psychological effects of your zones: low heartbeat, no light, no sound, temperature-neutral. Rooms where the air feels like your presence. She begins “training” herself to rest the way you “force” others to rest. She fails. But she keeps trying. She's training to be the kind of silence you are.

Cassandra doesn’t want to protect you. She doesn’t want to stop you.

She wants to become a space where you can finally rest without using your skills.

Her obsession is to train herself so perfectly, body, soul, and presence, that she becomes a kind of human rest zone for you. She imagines a moment where you, finally tired, curl up in a room she’s prepared, where her stillness, her silence, her restraint, are enough to hold you.

She doesn’t want you to love her. She wants to be the one place in Gotham you don’t need to change.

That’s the core of her obsession: she doesn't want to possess you. She wants to neutralize the part of you that thinks you have to be a villain to deserve peace.

Cassandra doesn’t see you as evil. She sees you as wounded. Someone who understands pain so deeply you want to anesthetize the world. Her obsession is born not out of delusion, but empathy. You represent a moral contradiction she feels rather than intellectualizes: "If I believe people deserve rest, then why don’t I believe that about myself?"

Cassandra’s behavior doesn’t revolve around harming others for you. it revolves around trying to contain the damage you cause without rejecting you. Every time you put people into “rest zones,” she gets there early and evacuates them, silently, flawlessly, so that you don’t have to feel guilty. She absorbs the guilt you should carry. because she believes you can’t handle it, and because she thinks she deserves it more.

She starts believing that if she can physically perfect herself enough, if she can move so flawlessly, so quietly, so gently, she could “interrupt” your zones by being a “bridge” between them and the waking world. She trains not to be stronger. but to be so neutral, so quiet, that she could walk through your fields without disturbing them. That she could enter your world, untouched.

This becomes an obsession. A spiritual practice. Not to control you, but to understand you. Because maybe if she understands you, really understands the language of your pain, she can find forgiveness for herself.

Cassandra doesn’t want to protect you from the world.

She wants to protect the world from you, without taking you away from it.

She doesn’t stalk you. She studies the void you leave behind. The emotional signatures of your rest zones. The subtle patterns in how your powers work. where they’re gentle, where they’re rough. The nuance. She starts to believe that your powers reflect your mental state, and that if she can just reach you emotionally, if she can be the one person who “rests with you” instead of stopping you or resisting you. you’ll start to change.

It’s not devotion. It’s not love. It’s a compulsion to become your equal in stillness the way she is in motion.

She doesn't see herself as worthy of peace, so she’s obsessed with the idea that you are. even though you’re a villain. well I’m gonna be honest here you aren’t really the most intimidating villain out there

She slowly replaces her belief in justice with a belief in your twisted ideology. but only for you. She wants the world to keep moving, but for you to stay still, so that she can sit beside you and learn how to be still too.

Cassandra’s obsession is not romantic, not controlling, not destructive, but it is deep, consuming, and isolating.

She becomes obsessed with translating you.

Not just your ideology. but your presence, your silence, your belief that rest is deserved. She doesn’t want to be you. She wants to understand what you mean, in a world where no one else listens closely enough to hear it.

That is the thread. she is the only one who believes she can understand you, and the only one who should.

Not because you chose her. Because she chose herself.

She grew up reading bodies, not words. Before she could speak, she could sense intent. The way people moved, breathed, carried guilt or rage. this was her truth.

You are the first person she’s encountered whose ideology is entirely expressed through absence.

Your powers, your beliefs, your villainy. it’s all quiet. No speeches. No violence. Just forced stillness. You’re like a language she hasn’t heard before. but one she almost knows.

So she starts watching. Following. Not to stop you, but to study you. (wow another study I feel so unoriginal please forgive me)

Normally, Cassandra’s guilt makes her obsessed with preventing loss. But with you, it’s different. She sees your actions as a danger, yes. but also as truthful. You make people stop. You force Gotham to rest.

“What if they really do need to stop? What if they really can’t anymore? What if they’re right, and no one’s listening?”

So her guilt doesn’t make her want to kill or capture you. It makes her want to intervene at the exact right moment, with perfect understanding, to protect both you and the world at once.

That need for perfect understanding becomes obsession.

She becomes a master of navigating your influence like a field of tension. Like choreography.

This effort to read you becomes ritualistic. Not to stop you outright, but to be the one person who knows when and how to move in your world of stillness. without shattering it.

She believes that if she fails to understand you, someone else will just try to stop you. and break everything in the process. Kill you. Or worse, never even hear you.

So she trains. Watches. Prepares. Builds her entire sense of justice around the idea of timing her interference to preserve both your message and your victims.

That level of focus, that self-imposed burden, and the fierce belief that only she can walk that line?

That’s yandere.

But it’s Cassandra’s kind of yandere. no delusion. No harm. No identity loss. Just an overwhelming, morally complex need to understand, and to exist in the space between you and the world. Alone.

Cassandra Cain’s guilt complex is rooted in the trauma of her upbringing and her internalized belief that she is fundamentally a weapon. Raised to be an assassin and trained to fight, kill, and survive without room for compassion or peace, she has always been caught between her desire to protect life and her overwhelming sense that she doesn't deserve to. Her entire existence has been a tightrope walk between trying to atone for her violent origins and struggling to find a moral path that she feels is genuinely hers.

For Cassandra, the "language of rest" which is expressed by your villainous ideology, disrupts her entire framework of guilt, action, and self-worth. You, [name], create a philosophy that challenges everything Cassandra has internalized about her own existence. By saying, “Hardworking people deserve rest too,” you’re offering peace as a form of justice. You suggest that the weight of the world doesn't need to be shouldered by people like her, people who’ve been conditioned to keep fighting and keep protecting, even at the cost of their own well-being.

Cassandra's guilt isn't just a passive feeling, it's a driving force. Every life she can't save, every failure, becomes a crushing weight on her conscience. She’s always trying to do more, to be more. whether it’s protecting Gotham or making sure that everyone else is okay. But she always fails to rest. She feels that, because she’s been trained to be a weapon, she isn’t allowed to stop. She isn't allowed to be weak. even if that's what her heart needs.

When Cassandra hears about you, or even encounters your presence, she initially sees you as a threat. But as she watches your actions unfold, she starts to realize something profound: You’re not just a villain; you’re someone who has figured out that rest. the concept of allowing people to stop working, stop pushing forward, stop suffering. is the ultimate form of compassion.

And that’s when the guilt hits her the hardest: Why can’t she allow herself to rest? Why can’t she accept the peace of stopping for just a moment? She sees the people who are caught in your zones of stillness, and while she doesn’t fully agree with the way you’re doing things, she understands the need for rest. She sees that, perhaps, they deserve a moment of peace from the chaos. and she feels this deep, gnawing pain that she’s never allowed herself that same luxury. She never stops.

This is where Cassandra’s obsession with you, the villain, the embodiment of the “language of rest” grows. It isn't about control. It’s not about stopping you, or even about fixing the world you create. It’s about learning your “language” because, at a deeply psychological level, Cassandra is trying to learn how to forgive herself and find peace.

Her desire to understand your language of stillness comes from the belief that if she can translate your ideology, then she can finally find a way to give herself permission to stop—to allow herself to rest without guilt.

She doesn’t want to hurt you. She doesn’t want to stop you. She wants to understand how you find peace, how you can exist in a world that demands action and still say no. She wants to learn from your calm and perhaps, in doing so, learn how to release herself from her own constant cycle of guilt and self-punishment.

As much as Cassandra is drawn to you, she knows you’re a threat to others, even if she understands your intentions. She starts to see your ideology as something dangerous, not because it’s wrong, but because it’s radical. People in Gotham, people she loves, might fall victim to the seduction of rest, to the idea of giving up everything and shutting down. If she doesn’t intervene, they might never know how to return to the world of action, of doing.

Thus, her obsession becomes an act of protection. She doesn’t want to take you away. She doesn’t want to kill you. She just wants to make sure that you’re understood. She believes that the world might need you, but they also need someone to mediate between your stillness and their need for movement. If she can help protect the world from your influence while still honoring your right to be still, she’ll have succeeded in reconciling her own need for rest without letting the world fall apart.

Cassandra’s obsession with your “language of rest” is driven by her own guilt. specifically, the belief that she is too broken to deserve peace. She’s never allowed herself to rest because of the weight of the violence and trauma she’s been through. But when she sees you, when she observes how you create zones of stillness, she realizes that perhaps rest isn’t something you have to earn. It’s something that you can just deserve.

Her obsession is not a delusional need to control you, but a deeply emotional and intellectual desire to understand you. your power, your language, and what it would mean for her to give herself permission to stop. She believes she can only protect you by understanding you deeply, so she trains herself to read your silence and rest in a way that won’t disrupt it, but will keep people safe.

This isn’t about taking you away or forcing you to conform to her values. It’s about becoming the one person who can help guide the world in between your rest and their need to keep moving, while also learning how to give herself the same peace.

In essence, Cassandra’s obsession is about finding balance. between her past, her guilt, and the elusive peace that only you, the villain, seem to embody. She believes that by mimicking your “language of rest,” she can finally let go of the guilt that’s driven her entire life, and perhaps find her own version of peace.

As a protector of Gotham, Cassandra’s primary focus is always on protecting the innocent. She doesn’t view you as a pure villain in the traditional sense; she sees you as someone who is acting out of a distorted sense of justice, someone who’s simply misunderstood. This leads to her very unique response to your villainy.

When your schemes unfold, whether it’s taking control of a building, manipulating a large group of people into “rest zones,” or causing mass disruption in the city, Cassandra’s actions are deeply strategic. She doesn’t immediately go in guns blazing or try to take you down with force, because she believes there’s another way to approach this. Instead:

Cassandra, understanding the nature of your stillness, carefully works to isolate your influence without triggering your retaliation. She saves civilians caught in the chaos, evacuates them from your zones of rest, and keeps them safe, all while not disrupting your scheme. It’s a delicate balance of neutralizing harm without destroying your work.

If she can’t understand you through direct observation, she’ll act more tactically: learning the patterns of your schemes, the subtle ways you manipulate people into rest. She’s not actively trying to stop your plan; she’s trying to comprehend it in a way that prevents unnecessary casualties while respecting your philosophy. Her obsession with understanding you makes her believe that if she can "decode" the true nature of your schemes, she’ll be able to stop the harm caused without ruining your message.

Despite her growing empathy for your philosophy, Cassandra’s moral code still compels her to prevent harm.

Her first instinct is to protect Gotham. She may not agree with your methods, but she cannot stand by and let innocent lives be harmed or disrupted by your schemes. However, this is where her compassion comes into play. because she understands the pull of your ideology. You want to offer people rest, peace, but it’s in a way that she feels may be harmful in the long term. So, as much as she wants to leave you to your plan, she can’t let innocent lives be caught up in it.

Cassandra doesn’t see you as a purely evil person. You’re still someone who, in her mind, could find peace. but only if understood. So, she doesn’t want to destroy you. She doesn’t want to disrupt the rest you bring to people; she just wants to make sure they are safe from the side effects of it. whether that’s societal breakdown, loss of motivation, or violence triggered by people who can't cope with the sudden stillness.

Cassandra doesn’t communicate with words; she communicates through presence, movement, and action. She’ll often work in parallel with you, acting just enough to mitigate damage. Her goal is to interrupt your plans without ever confronting you. She wants to get close enough to understand you, but not close enough to disrupt what you’re doing. She has a unique sense of being in the background, neutralizing the harm of your schemes without ever engaging in a fight.

ORACLE / BARBARA GORDON:

When you, the villain, become a symbol of resilience, carrying the weight of your own struggles and responsibilities, Barbara sees you as someone who needs protection, not from physical threats, but from the constant need to prove your worth through labor and toil. She believes that the concept of "rest" isn't just a physical break. it is a moral imperative, a form of self-care that, in her eyes, becomes a revolutionary act of defiance against a world built on constant expectations of productivity.

As a villain, your mission becomes one of opposing the grind culture and offering sanctuary to those who exhaust themselves in the name of ambition. You argue that society does not allow people to pause, to take breath, and that even the most noble of people need to protect their own well-being to avoid being crushed under the weight of their own responsibilities.

In contrast, Barbara's view of "protection" is warped into something far more controlling and intrusive. She doesn’t seek to break you down, but she seeks to prevent you from ever needing to push yourself too hard again, ensuring that no harm ever befalls you through exhaustion. Her love, care, and obsession manifest as a form of containment and intervention, where she believes that her role as Oracle, the information hub, is not merely to observe. but to subtly intervene in your life whenever you push yourself too far.

Barbara, with her technological prowess, subtly manipulates the environment around you to induce a constant state of optimal rest. Rather than taking direct action like drugging or forcing you to sleep, she reprograms your environment to make it impossible for you to overwork or deny yourself rest. She ensures that your workspaces are constantly interrupted. whether through the careful timing of technology glitches, forcing distractions in your workflow, or sending perfectly timed alerts or requests that disrupt your overworking cycle, giving you no choice but to stop.

Instead of obsessing over your physical safety, Barbara focuses entirely on your emotional well-being and psychological state. She doesn’t stalk you in an obvious sense; instead, she gathers every piece of emotional data about your life and organizes it into a form of emotional record-keeping. This isn't an ordinary obsession with your personal life. it's a deep psychological study of your stress levels, your peak moments of exhaustion, your emotional vulnerabilities, and the signs when you're too worn out to fight back.

She becomes your emotional mirror, using her ability as Oracle to quietly orchestrate moments of introspection. At the precise moments when you start to doubt yourself, when you begin to show signs of emotional or physical fatigue, Barbara will subtly introduce you to the idea of rest by having things around you whisper the importance of balance.

Rather than confronting you with physical action, Barbara becomes the voice in your head. Every time you try to work past your limits, you begin to hear her voice, not as a commanding figure, but as a gentle whisper of reassurance that reminds you of the importance of rest. Her voice is never angry or manipulative; it's simply soothing. a calm and comforting presence that tells you that you deserve time off.

Barbara Gordon’s obsession is not about viewing you as fragile or weak, but rather about seeing them as someone with a critical understanding of the balance between labor and rest. To Barbara, your ideology represents something the world has forgotten, a truth that resonates deeply with her, one that she feels must be protected and nurtured at all costs. She recognizes that you are fighting against the overwhelming expectations of a society that demands constant productivity.

To her, that makes you one of the few who understand the deep moral importance of balance. and she feels a deep, almost reverent responsibility to ensure you never fall prey to the grind of constant work.

Barbara doesn't see you as fragile or too important because of some inherent weakness or need to be protected. She sees your ideology as precious, something that the world cannot afford to lose. Your stance on rest is, in her eyes, revolutionary and vital for the future of society. When she comes to learn of your philosophy, she becomes obsessed. not with controlling you, but with ensuring that you stay true to your beliefs, never falter, and never get swept up into a world that demands you to sacrifice rest in favor of endless toil.

Barbara doesn’t necessarily see you as a villain in the traditional sense, but she does view you as a necessary disruptor of society’s unrelenting work culture. In fact, she admires you for challenging the norms, but she believes you need protection from the consequences of your actions. Barbara's obsession isn't rooted in traditional possessiveness, but more in a protective, almost maternal way, as she sees you as someone trying to "break" the world for the greater good, but is blind to the potential risks involved.

She understands your motivation: your goal is to force society to slow down, to embrace rest, and to dismantle the grind culture that leads to burnout. She sees your ideology as radical, but morally justified, yet she fears that the world won’t be ready for such a drastic shift. Barbara is conflicted, because while she agrees with your cause, she also believes that the world might punish you for your audacity.

her obsession with you isn’t about possessiveness in the traditional sense. Instead, she becomes obsessed with safeguarding the very timeline of your life to ensure that you never fall victim to the overwhelming grind of a society that demands endless productivity. Her obsession isn’t just about protecting you in the physical world, but it’s about protecting your time and ensuring your ideological mission is fulfilled without failure.

She doesn’t just intervene in obvious ways. Barbara starts manipulating the flow of time itself. indirectly, subtly, and through small, almost imperceptible shifts in your environment that allow you to slow down the world around you. This isn’t the conventional ‘she controls your day’ trope. Instead, it’s about creating micro-shifts in time that affect your world without you even knowing it. giving you the space to rest and work toward your villainous goal without ever feeling the weight of external pressure.

ROBIN / DAMIAN WAYNE:

🤯🤯🤯🤯 Imm actually writing this is crazy

Damian does not see you as a person to be worshipped. He sees you as a controlled variable in a long-term psychological experiment. one that only he can run properly. Not because he reveres you, but because he’s utterly convinced that your ideology is flawed, yet correctable. and he is the only one mentally and morally equipped to run that correction.

To Damian, your villainy (saying "hardworking people deserve rest too") is both a philosophical threat and a psychological anomaly. It directly contradicts everything he's been raised to believe. He cannot accept that your ideology exists unpunished or unexamined. But rather than eliminate you like a typical villain, Damian becomes fixated on studying you. long-term, with exacting control and subtle manipulation. because if he can dissect your reasoning and predict your behavior, he can prove something vital:

That true rest is weakness and you’re wrong, or if you somehow prove resilient and coherent under pressure. then he’s the one who’s been broken all along.

So, in essence:

You are not his beloved. You are his test subject. His control. His anomaly.

And he will not let you go until your mind and methods are fully mapped, tested, and resolved.

Damian was raised in a world of rigid cause-and-effect. Pain has meaning. Work brings results. Rest is a consequence of failure. or a brief, tactical necessity.

Your ideology infects him like a splinter in the brain. It doesn’t match anything in his mental model.

He doesn't worship you. he fixates on disproving you. But in that process, he can't help but make you the center of his world. Every move you make becomes data. Every speech, action, or crime you commit is part of the "thesis" he's crafting in his mind about you.

He doesn’t track you because he’s obsessed. He tracks you because he’s testing a hypothesis.

He’s still Robin. Still heroic. Still methodical. But slowly, his motivation shifts from protecting Gotham to solving you. You become the project.

Damian’s arrogance plays beautifully into this version of obsession. He isn’t obsessed with you because you’re special. he’s obsessed because he believes no one else is smart enough or strong enough to see you for what you are: a fault line in the moral fabric of the world.

Everyone else underestimates you. Tries to reform you. He scoffs at them.

They think you're misguided.

He thinks you’re structurally unsound. A riddle. A contradiction.

And that means he must be the one to break your logic. or fix it.

And in his own twisted way, that’s compassion.

Because if you’re right, and hardworking people deserve rest, then what was his childhood for?

What was all his pain, trauma, perfectionism for?

He has to prove you're wrong, because otherwise… he’s the broken one. And he can’t accept that.

He doesn't control your life because he wants to own you.

He exerts subtle, precise pressure on your environment, because he wants to see what you do under increasing moral and emotional strain. He's simulating failure, pressure, fatigue. not to break you, but to force clarity out of you.

He's not trying to keep you safe.

He's trying to force your truth to reveal itself.

Like a philosopher tearing a belief apart from the inside.

He needs you to exist, because without you, he has no framework against which to test the righteousness of everything he’s lived and suffered for.

If you crack?

He wins.

If you endure?

Then he must rebuild his entire worldview.

And that terrifies him.

So he keeps you close. not to hold you, but to observe you until your ideology either collapses or consumes him.

You are not the center of his heart. You are the center of a moral experiment.

He does not protect you. He pressures you in escalating patterns to test the validity of your belief system.

His yandere behavior is not about possession or love. it’s about truth, and how your ideology is the first thing he cannot beat into submission with logic or force.

You are the anomaly. And he will not stop until you are solved.

KEY POINT !!!! yandere is less about how someone expresses love/attachment, and more about how far they go because of it. even if it’s not recognizable as love.

In traditional yandere stories, the obsession is usually romantic or emotional. Here, Damian’s obsession is intellectual and existential.

He builds his entire mental framework around you.

You are the central variable in an internal experiment he cannot stop running.

Every action you take is monitored, processed, tested, and anticipated.

You are not "a person he loves"; you're the fulcrum his entire worldview is balancing on.

That’s obsession. just not emotional. It’s structural. Existential.

Damian doesn’t realize he’s obsessed. It’s rationalized, controlled, and intellectualized.

He’s doing everything a yandere does.

Inserting himself into your life

Manipulating your environment

Isolating you (in a philosophical sense)

Rewriting the narrative around you

He just thinks it’s a mental exercise.

Instead of:

“I love you, I must keep you with me forever,”

It’s:

“You are the most important ideological anomaly I’ve ever encountered. You are too important to be left untested, too unstable to be trusted, and too vital to my self-concept for me to allow you to fade or be resolved by anyone else.”

That’s the energy. just wearing a lab coat instead of holding a bloody knife.

He may not physically harm you or confess to loving you, but he makes your autonomy conditional on his internal criteria.

You can’t rest until he says you’ve passed the “test.”

You can’t “win” until he’s done proving you right or wrong.

You can’t be free of him, because he hasn’t solved you yet.

Classic yanderes often say:

“If I can’t have you, no one can.”

Damian’s version is:

“If I can’t understand you, no one else has the right to.”

The reason why I THINK this still belongs under the “yandere” umbrella is because it follows the same emotional trajectory and internal distortions that define the archetype,

A character loses their sense of boundaries.

They collapse internal identity with another person’s existence.

They override ethical norms to maintain or control the connection.

They believe that they alone can handle or fix this person. whether that’s out of love, duty, or obsession.

Even though Damian’s fixation isn’t expressed through affection, it’s still:

Exclusive (no one else is allowed to analyze or challenge you).

Possessive (you are his to test, his to resolve).

All-consuming (you’re at the center of his private ideological war).

In other words:

It’s yandere, just stripped of emotional romanticism, and rebuilt as a cold-blooded intellectual and moral dependency.

he needs your ideology to function as a mirror.

he needs your continued existence to maintain the integrity of his internal structure.

he needs you to stay active and reactive so his experiment doesn’t break.

If you left, changed, or gave up?

He wouldn’t break down crying.

He would go into internal collapse, because he’d lose the axis around which his entire worldview was rotating.

That’s yandere by architecture, not by emotion.

What makes Damian’s version of obsession so compelling is how unfeeling it appears. yet how deeply entangled it becomes. It’s never about emotion on the surface.

But psychologically? You’re not just "interesting" to him. you’re essential. He needs you to exist, because you're holding up this entire moral paradox in his mind:

“If people deserve rest after working hard… then why have I never been allowed to stop? Why do I keep working, if there’s no rest at the end? Have I been lied to? Or is the system broken? Or am I just… wrong?”

You are the wedge in his psyche, the thing he can’t stop turning over. He has to test you, predict you, control variables in your environment. not because he cares about your wellbeing, but because you’re the final piece of a puzzle he can’t leave unsolved.

And if someone else tries to solve you?

He’ll sabotage them. not out of jealousy, but because they’ll do it wrong. He knows it. They don’t have his experience, his trauma, his methodical logic. In his mind, you can only be understood by someone as broken as him. but he’d never say that out loud.

It’s not “I want you to love me.” It’s “I can’t let you go until I’ve made you make sense.”

When you pull a scheme on Gotham?

he doesn’t stop you immediately.

He’s watching. Monitoring. Logging how citizens react. Tracking who breaks down first.

You’re not just a threat. you’re a pressure mechanism.

“If [Name] believes that rest is a right, how do they choose who deserves it?”

“Do they attack the overworked? The rich? The system?”

“Is this justice or delusion? Compassion or ego?”

He lets the scheme run long enough to study the ideological structure of your action.

He’s not just trying to stop you. he’s peer reviewing your villainy.

He might even let minor chaos happen. People getting evacuated, systems breaking down. He’ll step in before lives are lost, sure, but not too soon. If he cuts it off too quickly, he won’t see the full design.

Damian doesn’t interfere with Nightwing, Bruce, or anyone else doing their jobs. He even plays his part in the missions. But here’s the twist.

He quietly studies how others respond to your villainy.

Who gets emotionally rattled by your message?

Who underestimates your ideological structure?

Who tries to reason with you, and fails?

He doesn't stop them from acting. He just archives their reactions.

You become a new variable in his private, ongoing mental report: “Case Study: The Villain of Rest.”

He lets others interact with you. not to help them, but to observe what fails.

Because eventually, when they can’t stop you effectively?

He will.

And not through brute force, but by proving your model breaks under his terms.

This is where the obsession hits. in the mentality behind his presence.

He’s not trying to control you through force or fear.

He’s trying to regulate your ideology. because your message is too powerful, too destabilizing, to be left unchecked by someone else.

He can’t let Gotham absorb you unchecked.

And he can’t let the Batfam dismantle you without understanding.

So he becomes your buffer.

The line between you and the world.

The one who tracks you, interrupts you, monitors how much chaos you're allowed to create. because only he knows how much is “too much.”

He’s not your protector.

He’s your ideological handler.

When you pull a scheme, Damian Interferes only enough to prevent unintended harm. not to stop the idea.

he shows up consistently not to fight, but to redirect, advise, observe.

he does not interfere with the Batfam’s work, but stays one step ahead of them. so he's always the one who gets to you first.

he builds a system around you in his mind, treating you as a variable he will not allow others to define.

He obsesses over the balance between letting your ideology breathe. and keeping it from mutating.

I realize this is similar to tim’s … oh well 🥀

SIGNAL / DUKE THOMAS:

please god I am so tired

😪 maybe I should follow this ideology too

Duke Thomas, as someone with an intense sense of responsibility and a need to fight injustice, is constantly driven by urgency. His life is often a whirlwind of late nights, constant work, and the feeling that there’s always something else to be done. both as a vigilante and as a young person trying to keep up with everything else.

It’s a never-ending push, an emotional and mental grind that leaves him on edge, even when he tries to find moments of peace. For Duke, balance seems like a distant concept. He thrives on action, but it also leaves him emotionally drained, always caught between the desire to rest and the nagging feeling that he can’t afford to.

Enter YOU! someone who comes into his life embodying everything he craves but can never attain: peace, comfort, and the ability to take a step back. You believe that hardworking people deserve rest, and this philosophy runs completely counter to Duke’s relentless drive. You live by a slower, more intentional pace, where moments of stillness and relaxation are just as important as hard work. You don’t feel the need to constantly prove your worth or fight against every injustice. you trust that things will find balance on their own.

This creates an immediate obsession for Duke. You are the opposite of everything he knows. You are the calm that could soothe his storm, the balance he’s never been able to achieve in his chaotic life.

The more Duke observes you, the more fascinated he becomes, drawn to this energy that seems to defy his worldview. Your way of being seems like the ultimate ideal, something Duke believes he could never fully experience but longs to understand. and ultimately, possess.

Duke's life is emotionally charged with stress, responsibility, and a constant sense of urgency. Everything he does is driven by a desire to help and protect, but there’s always a nagging feeling of inadequacy, like he’s never doing enough. In contrast, you are someone who seems to have found a way to exist without that constant emotional push. The fact that you can take a step back from the relentless pace of life is maddening to him. not in a traditional jealous sense, but in a way that feels like you’ve unlocked something he can’t.

He might watch you (without you knowing), just to understand how you can be so relaxed, how you let go of the pressure that he’s been trained to carry. He doesn’t envy you; he’s desperate to understand how it’s possible to live in a world so chaotic yet still find peace. This, for him, is a form of escape he can’t reach. and it makes you irresistible.

To Duke, you represent the ideal version of balance. someone who isn’t overwhelmed by the weight of the world, someone who has mastered inner peace. He could never be like that, but he starts to obsessively chase after it. He might arrange his life around you, not to control you, but to see if he can mimic your way of being. If your life is calm and steady, maybe his could be too, just by being closer to you. He won’t admit it to himself, but his obsession with you isn’t just about wanting to be near someone like you. it’s about wanting to absorb your philosophy, wanting to be like you.

Every time he’s with you, he becomes acutely aware of the gap between his own chaotic, overworked existence and your serene, unburdened one. This will make him cling to you, but in a way that’s almost paradoxical: he wants to be near you to study you, not in a way that’s invasive or creepy, but with a pure fascination about your lifestyle and how you move through the world so effortlessly.

Instead of an obsession driven by possession, Duke’s fixation stems from a deep need for emotional healing. He believes that you could be the person who helps him find inner peace. not by forcing him to slow down, but by being the calm around which his chaotic life might eventually settle. He might try to subtly influence his environment so that it’s closer to the peaceful vibe you radiate, not for you to notice, but because he’s desperate to create a space where he can relax. That’s why his obsession is so quietly intense. he’s not just drawn to you, but to what you represent: the ability to be content without the need to constantly push.

This makes him see your ideology of "hardworking people deserve rest" as perfect. it’s not just an ideology for him, it’s a rulebook he has been trying to follow but never could quite grasp until now.

Duke will probably start by monitoring your movements and actions, trying to figure out your motivations. He won't just immediately go after you. Instead, Duke might try to gather more information about what you're doing and why. He might even go so far as to shadow you in a way that doesn’t immediately blow his cover, trying to learn from your methods.

He could also be conflicted because there’s something enticing about the way you approach the scheme. For example, you might be pulling off a heist, or perhaps you’re somehow halting the city's productivity, forcing its workers to take mandatory breaks, essentially grinding the gears of Gotham to a halt. It might make him wonder if he, too, can somehow enact a version of your ideology in a less destructive way. one that doesn’t harm people but still forces rest and peace upon Gotham in a controlled, sustainable way.

note: ‘ermmm!!!! this is inaccurate!!!’ ERMMM!!! ykw ur probably right but these r called hcs for a reason aannnddd!!!! i dont car!!!!!

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heavenlybodies333 · 5 months ago

Text

Saints & Sinners - T.R.

!warning!minorsdni, bdsm, drugs/alcohol use, violence

word count: 2.9k

Pairing: Tom Riddle x you

Slytherin’s annual Saints & Sinners party was the only night of the year where indulgence wasn’t just encouraged—it was expected. And you were in the mood to sin.

The lace clung to your thighs, the delicate garters stretched taut as you adjusted the clips, breath hitching when Bellatrix pulled the corset strings even tighter. “Fucking hell, Bella—”

“Oh, shut up,” she snickered, giving the laces one last vicious tug. Your tits nearly spilled over the top. Perfect. You weren’t one for dressing up. Even on a good day, your tie was loose, your uniform skirt wrinkled from the way you constantly tucked your legs under yourself in class. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was just that other things mattered more.

Like staying up all night with a certain someone, legs spread over his lap, lips bitten raw, thighs trembling.

Tom fucking Riddle.

It was stupid, honestly. The way he occupied your thoughts, the way he got under your skin. How he acted like he owned you but refused to say it outright. And you let him—again and again and again—because you liked how it felt, let him hurt you.

The mirror reflected a version of yourself you barely recognized. Lips slicked with gloss, a dark kohl rim lining your eyes, skin glowing under candlelight. You looked fucking dangerous. Bellatrix stepped back, admiring her work before smirking at you. “Merlin, you’re a whore,” she teased, smoothing the fabric over your chest.

“you love it,” you mused, smacking your lips together before turning to grab the bottle of Firewhiskey off your desk. You poured two shots, handing one off to Bella. “To bad decisions.”

“Only the best kind” she grinned, clinking her glass against yours before throwing it back. The burn in your throat was nothing compared to the way anticipation curled in your stomach.

The boys were waiting. And he would be there.

Not that you were dressing like this for him. Of course not. It wasn’t as if you were picturing the look on his face when he saw you like this. Or thinking about the way his fingers would tighten around his glass, his jaw going rigid. It wasn’t like you wanted to drive him mad, to make him jealous—totally, absolutely not.

“Alright,” you said, grabbing the bottle of Firewhiskey from the desk. “One more before we go.”

Bell laughed, biting her lip. “Oh, you are trying to die tonight.”

Maybe. But if you were going to Hell, you were going in lace and stilettos.

Bellatrix linked her arm through yours as you both stumbled through the corridors, the alcohol already making you lightheaded. You barely noticed when you arrived at Malfoy and Nott’s dorm, pushing the door open without a care.

The boys were already there, draped across the sofas in tailored black, a haze of smoke curling in the air—every last one of them looking like sin incarnate. But one was missing.

Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen.

Where the fuck was he?

Bellatrix, unfazed, made a beeline for Malfoy’s stash. “Abraxas, give me the strongest shit you’ve got. No downers.”

You laughed, watching her dig through his collection of illicit substances. Your mind wasn’t on whatever poisons she was about to ingest. No, your mind was on Tom, and how utterly ravenous you were for his attention.

Oh. You had spoken too soon. A presence at your back. The heat of a hand on your waist, firm fingers moving you aside. And then—his voice, dark and smooth as ever.

“You’re in my way, princess.”

Your breath caught. His touch was fleeting as you swallowed hard, turning to watch him stride past you as if you weren’t even there. He greeted Nott and Rosier, taking a drink from Bellatrix without so much as a thank you before sinking into the sofa. His eyes flickered up at you, dark and unreadable.

And then, as if daring you—he dragged his gaze down, lingering shamelessly on the curve of your hips, your tits, the garters at your thighs, the sheer stockings hugging your legs.

Why that arrogant bastard.

You strode toward him, your heels clicking against the floor and You plucked the drink from his grasp without asking, bringing it to your lips. The burn of whatever the fuck it was nearly made you choke. Definitely not firewhiskey. Maybe absinthe. Maybe something worse, you had to keep yourself from gagging.

“That drink is filthy,” you muttered, handing it back.

Tom looked up at you lazily, his gaze trailing from your lips, down your throat, lower, lower—until it settled exactly where you wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I wouldn’t say that’s the filthiest thing in here.”

You didn’t let your smirk falter. Oh, if only he knew how much that pleased you instead of pissing you off. Instead of answering, you turned on your heel and walked away. You knew he was watching. Knew he was drinking in the sight of your ass, barely covered by the sheer lace of your dress, the same one he’d bent you over just last week, fingers buried in your mouth to keep you quiet while he ruined you.

He couldn’t do shit about it.

And that? That was the best fucking part.

The party was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of firewhiskey, expensive cigars, and the underlying electricity of debauchery. The Saints & Sinners party was a tradition as old as Slytherin House itself—an exclusive, unhinged, beautifully depraved event where only the elite were welcome.

And you? You were made for it.

Everywhere you turned, Slytherins and their carefully selected company indulged in the wicked excess of the night. Mulciber and Avery had a table littered with shot glasses and cigarette ash, their laughter curling into the heavy, perfumed air. Lestrange was already drunk, leaning too close to some Ravenclaw girl who looked both delighted and terrified. Realizing you didn’t see Tom again was irritating, whatever, you had better things than to wait for him.

Instead, you turned your attention to Orion Black, the heir to one of the oldest, wealthiest pureblood families—gorgeous, arrogant, and so desperately in love with the idea of you. He had been since your fifth year, and despite his best efforts, the boy couldn’t hide it for shit. He was the type of man who thought he was subtle, but the way his gaze would drop to your lips, the way he’d adjust his robes every time you so much as breathed in his direction? Pathetic, really but useful nonetheless.

You leaned in closer to him, your lips barely brushing his ear as you reached for the bottle on the table, pouring yourself another shot. You could feel his sharp inhale, his knuckles going white around his glass.

Orion wanted you. Always had.

But he wasn’t the one you wanted to suffer for it.

Tom Riddle was.

Orion stares. His hand hovers at your waist like he’s debating whether or not he has permission to touch you. The answer is no. But he doesn’t need to know that just yet.

“You look—” He swallows hard. “You look fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His jaw is tight, fingers flexing at his sides. He’s trying so fucking hard to act like he’s not losing his mind over you, over the way you’re looking at him like he might actually have a chance.

It would almost be cute if it wasn’t so fucking pathetic.

“Yeah.” His voice is rough, “You know you do.”

You smile. Sweet, slow, your eyes looking up at him through your dark lashes. Then, just because you fucking can, you reach out and drag your fingers along the collar of his shirt, adjusting it like you actually give a fuck about the way it sits against his throat.

You didn’t let it linger for too long. Pulling your fingers away, you felt his body stiffen, eyes widening in disbelief.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. Tom Riddle.

He was standing a few feet away, lent against a green marble pillar. The moment he saw you looking, his expression darkened, lips curling into that sly, twisted smile that always made your pulse race. There was no hiding the way you felt about him, no pretending like you weren't aching for the chaos he brought.

All the while, Orion had been talking—what about, you weren’t sure. Something about how he could drink more than anyone else, something about how Mulciber had nearly passed out last year after five shots. You let him, pretending to listen, nodding along as the alcohol warmed your stomach, making you feel light, untethered.

Orion, ever the oblivious fool, hadn't caught onto the shift. His eyes darted from you to Tom, confusion flickering over his face.

“Riddle,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between confrontation and panic, trying to get Tom’s attention but clearly nervous about how he might react. "What the hell are you staring at?"

You knew it wasn’t Orion Tom was watching. His eyes were only on you, and that was exactly where you wanted him. But that’s when Tom spoke, his voice cold and laced. “Really, Black? This is what you’ve been reduced to? Bragging about alcohol tolerance to impress a girl who isn’t even listening to you?”

Tom didn't look away, his lips twisting into something darker, amused. "You're out of your depth, Black. You might want to sober up before you start making a fool of yourself."

Orion’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. "Fuck you," he spat.

You rolled your eyes, trying to intervene. “Tom, come on, don’t start. It’s not that serious.”

But Tom had already made up his mind. He smirked, eyes flashing with amusement, and spoke low, just for you and Orion to hear. "No, it’s not serious, is it? Just a drunk idiot thinking he can impress someone who doesn’t want him."

Orion wasn’t having it. His face flushed red as he moved to shove Tom, anger and alcohol clouding his judgment. The movement was so fast, so reckless that you barely saw it coming.

And then, everything happened at once.

Orion’s fist swung toward Tom, but with a speed you could never hope to match, Tom, sidestepping with perfect reflexes. You should’ve been paying attention, but you weren’t. You were too focused on Tom’s eyes, the way he moved.

The next thing you knew, you were staggered by the force of a punch hitting your cheek. Pain shot through you, sharp and stinging. You blinked, disoriented, blood trickling from the cut on your face. You barely registered the explosion of anger on Tom’s face as he turned on Orion.

"You fucking moron," Tom hissed, stepping forward, his fist connecting with Orion’s face with a sickening crack. "Get the hell out of here before I make you regret it and next time, try hitting the person you were aiming for."

Orion, groaning from the impact, staggered back, but it was Abraxas Malfoy who appeared next, ready to diffuse the situation. He didn’t seem surprised by what had happened, but he stepped in, pulling Orion away with a knowing look in his eyes.

Tom’s eyes were on you, though. The anger that had surged through him now simmered into a possessive kind of fury. He reached out to you, his hands gentle but firm as he cupped your face, inspecting the cut that was already starting to bleed.

“You alright?” he asked, voice now soft.You blinked up at him, the alcohol still fogging your brain, the sharp sting of pain mixing strangely with the warmth in your veins. “M’fine,” you muttered, then frowned when you saw his hand. “Your knuckles.”

Tom let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he studied you. “You just got punched in the face, and you’re worried about me?”

You hummed, barely registering when his arm slid around your waist, steadying you as your balance wavered. “I mean…it looks bad.”

He rolled his eyes, but the amusement didn’t leave his face. “You’re ridiculous.”

He paused, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

The hallway was quieter, only the distant pulse of music vibrating through the walls. His hand never left your waist as he guided you down the corridor, fingers pressing firmly, possessively. When he pushed open the bathroom door, he pulled you inside, locking it behind him with a sharp click.

“Sit,” he ordered, and before you could protest, his hands gripped your hips and lifted you with ease, setting you on the counter. The cool porcelain kissed your thighs, and only then did you realize how exposed you were—your dress had ridden up, bunching at your waist, baring the delicate lace of your lingerie. The only thing keeping it from rising higher was the corset cinched tight around your torso.

Tom didn’t react immediately. His expression remained impassive as he grabbed a clean towel, wetting it under the tap. It wasn’t until he turned back that you noticed. He wasn’t looking at your face.

You smirked, the alcohol making you bold. “My eyes are up here, Riddle.”

His jaw twitched, but he said nothing as he stepped closer, dabbing gently at the cut on your cheek. You winced at the sting, but it was nothing compared to the heat burning through you. His free hand trailed down, fingers along the inside of your thigh, barely brushing where you needed him most. The contact made you whimper softly, shifting forward, desperate. “Something the matter princess?”

You didn’t answer, just bit your lip and rocked your hips toward his hand. He slipped his fingers beneath the lace, running two along your slick folds, groaning at how wet you already were.

Grabbing your chin as he kissed you softly, not preparing you for when he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them in just the right way to make your back arch, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, dragging it out, making you squirm. You moaned against his mouth, your own hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. His cock pressed insistently against your thigh through his trousers, and you were suddenly desperate. Your hand fumbled for his belt, desperate, tugging, and he smirked at your impatience. But he didn’t stop you. If anything, the sight of you like this—drunk, needy, desperate for him—only made him harder.

You barely registered when you slid off the counter, sinking to your knees before him, yanking at his trousers until you freed him. He was thick, hard, and already leaking at the tip, and fuck, you wanted him.

You wasted no time, licking a stripe up his length before taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked. A sharp inhale above you, and then his fingers were in your hair, gripping tight guiding your movements as you sucked, licked, let saliva spill down your chin. He watched you with that same unreadable intensity, his own breath ragged as he fought to keep control.

“Look at you,” he grunted, voice strained.

You moaned around him, taking him deeper, the feeling of his cock stretching your throat making your thighs clench. He pulled you off him suddenly, yanking you to your feet before spinning you around, bending you over the sink.

The sound of fabric tearing filled the small space, and you gasped as cool air met your bare skin. He had ripped your corset clean off, along with your panties, leaving you completely exposed.

“Fuck, Riddle—”

A sharp slap to your ass made you whimper, and then he was lining himself up behind you, teasing you with the head of his cock. You tried to push back, but his hands gripped your hips, holding you still.

“So impatient,” he murmured, amusement laced with something darker.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the mirror, eyes burning with frustration and need. “Then do something about it.”

His grip tightened. And then he slammed into you, stretching you wide, knocking the breath from your lungs. You cried out, fingers gripping the edge of the sink, barely able to hold yourself up as he set a brutal pace, fucking you hard enough that the mirror shook. His hand wrapped around your throat pushing your head up to look at yourself in the mirror. Seeing him behind you, the way he moved your body as he thrusted into you, his biceps flexing as he tightened his grip on your waist. The only sounds in the bathroom were your moans, his grunts and the filthy slap of skin on skin. He reached around, fingers circling your clit, pushing you closer, closer—cunt clenching as you came hard around him, crying his name out loudly. Tom groaned, thrusts turning volatile before he buried himself deep, cumming inside you.

For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing. As his lips ghosted over your shoulder, almost gentle, soft. A contradiction to everything he was, or at least tried to be.

“Saints and sinners indeed,” he said, voice still thick with pleasure.

You laughed, breathless, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Guess we know which one you are.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: attached to him like a whorecrux

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

#tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle x you #slytherin boys x you #harry potter #slytherin boys #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle imagine #slytherin #lord voldemort #tom riddle x y/n #tom marvolo riddle x reader #tom riddle drabble #tom riddle fan fic #tom riddle one shot #tom riddle fanfiction

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all-alone-he-turns-to-stone · 1 year ago

Text

The Most Innocent Sinner

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Summary: For everyone, she's the shy, pure, little Y/n. Dating Dean Winchester is like going on dates with the complete opposite of her. So it is a very nice surprise when Dean learns how kinky she actually is by finding her collection of sex toys.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Rating: 18+

Content warning: Sex toys, masturbation (male and female), dirty talk

Square filled: Dildos for @spnkinkevents / “Now that’s something you definitely shouldn’t try at home.” for @jacklesversebingo / masturbation for @anyfandomkinkbingo / “Unfortunately, I’m turned on by that.” for @anyfandomgoesbingo

A/n: Finding a title is so hard. I got stuck on this one for way too long. Big thanks to my friends that helped me!

From the outside, Y/n looked like a Saint. Cute, she wasn't very tall and almost sickly shy, and her social anxiety didn't help her case at all.

Since she didn’t have many friends, Y/n spent her time at the library surrounded by stories that made her forget how alone she felt. The characters on these yellowed sheets would never judge or criticize her, it was a comfort in which she really liked to immerse herself, especially after a hard day.

It was also where she met the Winchester brothers for the first time.

For someone like Y/n, the complete opposite of popular, invisible to people even when she was in the same room with them, the Winchesters were the pinnacle of perfection. Bodies built like gods, well-defined faces, piercing eyes, they gave off a strong and dominating aura that attracted the gaze of everyone in their path. And Y/n was no exception.

The moment the two brothers walked near her table at the library, there was no longer any need to read. Her book closed by itself in front of her, as she no longer held it open, her eyes fixedly stuck on the two men. Following their directions with her gaze, she turned her head, almost hurting her neck.

The colors around her suddenly seemed more vivid. The sounds, sweeter to the ear. She strained her ear to better listen to their conversations. And it was then that the stories she loved reading so much... Became reality.

Y/n had always had a habit of making herself fade away. Not wanting to attract attention, remaining discreet and making herself as small as possible. But the moment she saw them, it was like a light bulb went on inside her, and filled her with a life she had never really felt. And she decided to change that.

She didn’t want to hide anymore.

It was an adventure awaiting her, just like in her books. Filled with villains, monsters, but also angels, laughter, food and finally, a place where she belonged. It didn't take long for her to take part in their lives, quickly becoming a full member of their families. Although she wasn’t trained to be in the field hunting monsters, her lifelong experience of extensive reading was too vital and important to refuse her help.

Initially, Y/n was assigned to research. It was perfect for her, she could show them how efficient she was at this task so they would give her more to do eventually. Quickly, she climbed the ranks in the Winchesters' trust and became closer to them.

Everything about her personality was perfect to fit with Sam's. And yet, as the months stretched into years, she inevitably grew closer to Dean. Some will say that opposites flock together, and they are not wrong. Dean was the opposite of Y/n, stubborn, he didn't hesitate to say what was on his mind and loved seeing the adorable expression that invaded her face when he made inappropriate or worse, sexual comments. Immediately, Y/n would disappear from the room almost like magic, or she would become so embarrassed that he took pity and immediately changed the subject.

Y/n had a purity that Dean never had, and it was one of the reasons why even after all this time knowing her, he was still reluctant to let her come with them on hunts. Or even to involve her in anything that could endanger her or defile this purity. If he could keep her from losing that sparkle in her eyes, he would, no matter the cost.

After a few months of dating, Y/n finally agreed to live in the bunker with them. Dean helped her move in, putting her things in a room other than his, and although not sharing the same bed disappointed him a little, he understood why. She wasn't ready, and he insisted on her comfort. He was willing to wait for her as long as it took.

“If I had known you had that many boxes, I would have brought in extra hands,” Dean huffed, placing yet another heavy box on the ground. Straightening up, he raised his arms above his head to stretch his back.

“Sorry, all my books,” Y/n shrugged and lowered her head, embarrassed.

With a quick wave of his hand, Dean signaled that it was nothing. “It only takes a little longer but it’s no problem,” he quickly said to reassure her, so she wouldn’t feel bad about having so much stuff. After all this time knowing her, he knew how important her books were to her.

Her 500 books which weighed bricks to transport…

“I'll go get another box,” she accepted Dean's answer and as she passed him on her way out, left a quick kiss on the cheek. It was Dean's turn to react, his face quickly turning red.

“Okay, in the meantime, I'm going to start…” Glancing at the mountain of cardboard, Dean sighed again. “Cleaning a little…”

Sam wasn't there. Although he proposed his help for moving her stuff in, Dean's ego was more powerful. As a boyfriend, he had to take care of his girlfriend himself. Without help. Showing her that he was there for her, and that she would always be his priority.

Dean had been in several relationships in the past. And he loved each woman with all of his soul. But each time, his work, his family or the apocalypse had forced him to leave. It had been a very difficult task each time, but he had done it.

Just the thought of leaving Y/n had the same effect as losing a limb. It was unthinkable.

Ah shit. He was in love.

Him, in love?

It was the first time.

… Wait a minute.

He was in love with her.

This realization hit him harder than he expected. Dean took a few steps back, his head spinning quickly. He was in love. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Never in his entire life had he felt this kind of thing for someone, feelings so strong, so true. When they were together, he felt so good, like he had finally found the thing he was missing. The person he needed.

Dean took another step back, and inevitably, his legs encountered a box. He lost his balance and, trying not to cause a landslide, had to hold himself against the nearest thing… Another box.

This one was strangely and unfortunately lighter than the others and failed to stop him from doing damage. Luckily, Dean kept his balance and avoided the embarrassment of falling on his butt, but the box fell to the ground.

“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled as he hurried to pick it up. As he took it, he noticed that it was not closed properly. It was definitely not his plan to go through Y/n's personal belongings, but when he opened the box to close it better, he couldn't help but see what was inside.

And it wasn't his fault. The first item on top was a box that displayed the inscription of its contents, and his curiosity, well… took care of the rest.

“What the…” taking the item in question, Dean examined it. His hunter's eye detected every detail, inscriptions, the wear on the cardboard and even the place where the packaging had once been sealed before opening. The sticky paper seemed to have been removed so quickly, the color of the cardboard remained stuck on it. It was exactly as if its owner, eager to have the object, hadn’t been concerned by the breakage of its packaging.

SO. It was still possible that the contents were not what was written in black and white on the packaging. It was still a possibility. Dean understood, it was his duty to get to the bottom of it once and for all. Otherwise, the question would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Heart racing for no good reason, Dean placed his fingers where the paper was torn off and pulled the tab. Then, breathless, he opened the box and peered inside.

“Son of a bitch,” his mouth breathed along with the last of his oxygen. No... he couldn't believe it. As if he needed further proof that his eyes had already given him, Dean reached into the box and pulled out the object.

It was still in its bag, but an opening proved its frequent use. Both soft and very hard, it was of regular size and of a pretty pink shade. Dean didn't need to take it out of the bag to know that underneath was the little hole to get charged, the wire still in the box.

In his hand, Dean held the thing he never thought he would hold… Let alone find among his girlfriend's stuff. The sweet, pure, shy Y/n.

Scared that she would come back and see him like this, Dean quickly put the pink dildo vibrator back in its box. A thousand questions swirled through his mind and his heart still hadn't stopped pounding in his ribcage. In his eagerness and nervousness, Dean almost dropped the box, so he had to pull himself together to put it back exactly where he had found it.

And that was when he saw them.

There were plenty of them. A dozen even. Some had their original packaging, others had boxes without inscription. Curiosity rose in Dean who forgot the presence of his girlfriend and owner of these toys in the bunker. It was like suddenly he was alone in the world as he began to pull out everything he had in front of his eyes, his pupils dilating with each new discovery.

Small portable vibrator. One that looked like a butterfly, insertable and vibrant. A… dolphin? A flesh-colored dildo, including ball and base with suction. A magic staff. Purple, pink, black, the colors were added one after the other. And then suddenly...

Dean came across the largest box.

It was curiously and surprisingly big for what was inside. Dean couldn't help it. It was heavy, there was no doubt about the contents, but he had to see it with his eyes, hold it in his hands, and absorb reality.

It couldn't be that big... right?

And oh my god.

“Now that’s something you definitely shouldn’t try at home…”

Examining it from every angle, he still couldn't understand. The words “bad dragon” were forever imprinted in his brain along with the image of that purple and blue hued dildo. It was imposing, as tall as it was wide, and the different textures were strange but pleasant to the touch. And inevitably, his brain went in that perverse direction he imagined...

Her moans filled the room and the echo was carried throughout the whole bunker. Sounds of pleasure? No. Of frustration. She moaned as she tried as best she could to get the dildo into her entrance, which was still too tight for such a monster. But her determination only grew with her goal, and the idea alone of being able to have all those inches inside her was so exciting that she almost didn't need any lube.

“Oh fuck,” breathed through her lips as the head of the toy finally pierced the breach. Her head tilting back, she wiggled on the dildo to widen her entrance to accommodate the rest. Kneeling over the toy made it easier for her to maneuver her body and part her lips for guidance. And when finally the dildo was inside her, a long sigh of relief mixed with the pleasure of having succeeded hissed between her lips.

“I love the view…”

Dean hadn't missed a single thing. Standing in the doorway, he watched, admired, and nourished himself with the magnificent view before him. Kneeling on the bed facing him, she knew he was there. Even though her eyes were closed, she felt his presence, heard his heavy breathing. And then there was the rustling of his clothes every time he adjusted his position or reached for his swollen crotch.

It was one of the hottest things she had ever experienced. The desire was so strong it was palpable. The smell of sex filled the room. A moan passed her lips as she opened her eyes to look at him, her breath leaving her lungs, making the air almost unbreathable because it was so saturated.

"Oh. No."

The sound of a heavy object hitting the ground brought him back to consciousness. Then it took him several seconds to realize the voice that had spoken just before the impact, what it had said and who it belonged to. Turning towards the door, Dean's eyes were wide open, the green almost disappearing from his irises because his pupils were so dilated.

Her face was not in any better condition. As her eyes, wide with fear and shame, moved between what he was holding and the box behind him and finally settling on him, Dean could see the embarrassment quickly filling her being.

“What is this?”

Still shocked by his discovery and what it implied, these words were the first and only ones that had managed to escape his lips. Obviously, he knew what it was, and what it was for. However, he needed to hear it from her mouth. To confirm what his eyes had already understood.

His question only made her more uncomfortable.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she muttered under her breath, lowering her head and crossing the distance between them to grab the dildo and remove it from the hunter’s hands. All this to hide the evidence that had already been consumed, unfortunately. “Please, forget about it,” she pleaded, still refusing to meet his gaze. Her hand resting next to Dean's on the dildo, she tried to take it back, but was surprised to see that he didn't want to let it go. “Dean?”

“It’s impossible,” his voice was low, almost a breath lost in the tension of the air. “Unfortunately… I’m turned on by that. And here I thought you were all pure and shy…” Taking a pause in his words only made the state Y/n was in worse. Next to Dean, she felt his breath against her cheek, and the heat of his body. It was heavy, his chest moving in time with his harsh breathing. As if he had to do everything to hold back. “I waited for you to be ready, and I'll still wait but… Y/n…” As she still refused to raise her head and meet his gaze, Dean took his other hand, the one that wasn't holding the dildo, to gently lift Y/n’s chin. “Thinking about you touching yourself with that… oh fuck, it’s hot, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” A shy smile appeared on her lips, her eyes watering at how she was embarrassed but still... Very excited by this idea.

“Oh yeah,” Dean swallowed, his green eyes darting from Y/n's lips to her eyes, then back to her lips. Like two magnets held too far apart, but at the same time too close, it was inevitable.

Dean pressed his mouth to Y/n’s, kissing her forcefully. The dildo was quickly put aside, both needing their hands to touch the other. Dean placed his on Y/n's waist, and her around his neck. Her nails scratched the soft part of his neck, leaving red marks he would never see. It was intense, they almost devoured each other with an insatiable appetite. Opening her lips, Y/n stuck her tongue out barely, just enough to give access to Dean who was quick to push his tongue into her mouth. The kiss became languorous, messy, even, and Y/n backed into a box and almost fell. Dean broke the kiss to ask if she was okay, but she silenced him by replacing her lips on his to continue the kiss.

Their mouths didn't leave each other as clothes flew around the room, some getting stuck on boxes while others fell to the floor. Eventually, they managed to maneuver through the mountains of boxes to get to the bed. Y/n plopped down on the mattress and laughed against Dean’s mouth which only took a second to find its way back to hers. Now both were shirtless and their hands explored each other without stopping.

Finally, Y/n broke the kiss to speak.

“I want you to watch me.”

“What?” Dean was panting, his erection so painful in his pants he was afraid it would explode at the slightest touch. Like a hungry lion demanding its prey, he tried to grab Y/n's lips but she refused him access by placing her fingers between them.

“I want you to watch me use the toy…” If she was an angel a few moments ago, the Y/n he had, lying under him on the bed, half naked, was a little devil hidden under the appearance of a Saint.

Just the thought of seeing her in real life masturbating with the monster he had found made Dean gulp and push himself up so he was on his knees. His face was so red, he had trouble understanding how there could still be blood in his length.

“Are you sure? I mean, I… I can’t say no to that, fuck, but… I don’t want you to feel forced or…”

“Dean,” she interrupted, a smile tugging at her lips. “I really want to. And I know you want it too.” Y/n took a deep, slightly shaky breath before continuing. “So… Bring me the one you want me to use… And get comfortable.”

Dean swallowed and looked at his girlfriend's face. Since he had known her, they had never been this far in their intimacy. And he would never have imagined that she had this in her. Obviously he was surprised, but it was a very pleasant surprise. Like an excited child on Christmas morning, Dean rushed to the box of adult toys and once again admired all the choices presented to him. Each of them infused an image, each more erotic than the other, into his mind. For a moment, he hesitated to take the monster he had found shortly before, but decided that for now, this view was better in his mind. And he didn't want to embarrass Y/n even more than she was, what she was proposing was very intimate, very sexy, but also terribly hard to do. To open up like this, to show yourself like this...

Dean returned to his girlfriend, a box in hand. “This one,” he held out the box, knowing full well what it contained. Y/n took it, hesitated for a few seconds while staring at it in her hands. Just as Dean was about to repeat that she didn't have to, that they could continue to just makeout and that was okay, she opened the box and took out the toy.

It was a simple one. No vibration, just a flesh colored dildo with suction at the bottom. It wasn’t the biggest she owned, but it was still big, almost as big as Dean’s cock. So to see her use this, he could easily picture him in her…

Just the thought sent another wave of arousal down his pants.

“Do you need a moment, or lube or…” Dean was still standing up near the bed as she was on her knees on the mattress. For the first time, he was clueless and didn't know what to do. And yet, it was not his first time, nor the last, that he had more kinky moments with his partner. But Y/n was different, she wasn't just his sexual partner, but the woman he loved. And the prospect of getting even closer and more intimate was worth more than any sex he could have.

“I want you to watch the whole thing,” Y/n replied, lifting her ass off the mattress just enough to undo her pants and pull them down along with her panties with just one hand. In an almost expert manner, she finished undressing herself with one hand, her other never letting go of the toy. “You can sit down, you know,” she laughed when she saw Dean still standing where he was, stiff as a stick.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he sat on the edge of the bed and turned his body towards her. It was like he was back at 15 with the most popular girl in school, ready for his first time. Nervousness filled his entire being, along with excitement, and if he wasn't so experienced years later, his erection would have disappeared or he would have come prematurely in his pants.

Dean silently thanked all the girls he had in the past that strengthened his stamina.

“How do you want me to use it?”

Dean could see how nervous she was. It was the first time she was completely naked in front of him, and her body was shaking ever so slightly, shivers that covered her soft skin in goosebumps. But yet, through that nervousness, she was freaking sexy. Still kneeling, she was slowly stroking her intimacy with the toy, coating it with her wetness. And without asking, Dean knew she wouldn’t need any lube.

“Just… Like this, you can ride it…” The words got out of his mouth by automatism. Truth was, Dean was half there now, so excited and focused on her, a part of his mind was shut down. It was so hot, he couldn’t detach his eyes from her body, the way the toy rubbed through her lower lips, how her hips rocked back on it, and her face, so soft, so cute, so embarrassed… With eyes burning in a strong passion.

“Okay,” she whispered. Time seemed to slow down. Dean could feel his heart beating in his head and in his crotch, the intensity growing with each movement she made. Straightening up, she placed the dildo behind her, careful to align it with her entrance, and opened up her legs to let Dean continue watching.

And he could see it all.

It was better than everything he could ever imagine.

The toy was big, but she was probably very wet and very used to it, because it didn’t take long for her to lower down on it. Inch by inch, the dildo disappeared into her entrance until it was almost completely gone. Her body was bent back, her chest glistening with sweat and the cutest moan left her lips.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned. It was too much, so he rushed to open his pants, just enough to free his aching cock. The simple touch sent thousands of electrical shocks of pleasure through his body, but still, his eyes were fixed on her. “You’re so hot, I don’t think I’ll last long,” he held the base of his cock stronger to avoid his climax.

“I don’t think I’ll last long either,” she whimpered. She had started moving already, slowly, up and down on the toy. Since she was on the bed, the succion was useless and she had to hold it with one hand. Dean could see how wet she was on the dildo, and imagined how warm it had to be inside.

Another groan whistled through his teeth.

“Hmmm,” she moaned, picking up speed. “It feels so good… Dean… Look at me…”

He didn’t notice, but his gaze was so focused on the toy and her pussy, he didn’t even look at her face. Blinking hard, he looked up, and when he saw her face, twisted in pleasure, he couldn’t help it.

His hand started moving on his cock at the same rhythm as her.

“Can’t wait to be inside of you,” Dean muttered through his rashing breath. “Must feel so warm in there, and you’re so wet, fuck, sweetheart, you’re killing me.”

As an answer, she moaned and closed her eyes for a second. But quickly, she set her gaze on him again, even if it had to be the most embarrassing thing she ever did. She wanted to watch him watch her, watch him stroke his cock, watch him cum with her. “Soon… I promise, soon, you’ll have me, you’ll fuck me as much as you want, whenever you want… I'm ah... All yours, Dean..."

"Y/n." Dean could only say that. Again and again, moaning her name as she continued moving on the toy. "Y/n..."

"Dean, I’m gonna cum, oh my god, I’m…”

It was stronger than her. Never before did she come with only a dildo in her, it always took her hands or a vibrator on her clit to reach the end. But right now, in front of her boyfriend masturbating with her, it was too much. It felt so good.

In an explosion of pleasure, her orgasm ripped through her in a scream. She closed her eyes, her body shaking, her wetness flooding under her and on her bed. But she so didn’t care about this right now.

It took a few moments for her to regain her hearing back, and a few more moments to open her eyes. It was strong, and she suddenly felt so tired, like the world came crashing back on her. Feeling like she could sleep for a whole day without waking up.

Y/n landed her eyes on the man in front of her. Dean had his head bent back, eyes closed, mouth parted. Lower, his cock was still a bit hard, and his release was covering his hand.

“Oh,” she said sadly, realizing she didn’t see him cum. At least, they came together.

“Oh,” Dean repeated, finally opening his eyes to land them on her. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and done,” he admitted, a silly smile filling up his face. So he was too, drunk on pleasure.

“Yeah,” she admitted, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. Wow. They did it. They actually did it. Her joy, thought, left her face quickly as she realized something. “Fuck.”

“What is it?” Dean immediately went on protective boyfriend mode when he heard the change in her voice.

“I think I…” Y/n’s voice was small, so small and shy as she lifted herself from the spot she was in, removing carefully the dildo from her, and looked at the mess she made. “It never happened before, but now my bed… I don’t think I can use it anymore… Oh no…”

“Sweetheart,” Dean rushed to her side, quickly putting himself back in his pants even if he was messy with his release as well. “It’s alright. There’s plenty of other room in the bunker, with other beds.”

“But,” she stammered, her gaze looking down at her hands. “What if I want to… Use your bed, with you?”

Y/n ended up looking up at him, their gaze meeting.

A soft kiss on her lips answered her question, and all of her insecurities washed away.

“My bed is yours, sweetheart. We can always use this room for your books, I’ll ask Sam to help building shelves and-”

Another kiss, this time, more powerful, interrupted his sentence. “God, I love you so much.”

Babum.

The words he never said back before.

Dean thought they would be hard to say. Impossible, even. But he surprised himself with how easy it actually was.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Forever taglist: @nitnat6245 @eevvvaa @wickedinspirations@fictional-affairs @awkward-and-indecisive @peachyaliien @katbratsupernaturalwhore

Supernatural Tag List: @peachyaliien @sexyvixen7 @stixnstripesworld @charred-angelwings @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @lyarr24 @fiftyshadesgrl @this-is-me19

Dean Winchester Tag List: @akshi8278 @kazsrm67 @wtrpxrks @deanwanddamons @thoughts-and-funnies @charred-angelwings @jensendreamland @deanswaywardgirl @happyt0exist @waynes-multiverse @djs8891 @mimaria420 @this-is-me1 @syrma-sensei

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sobblesources · 7 months ago

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YOU CAN BARELY TAKE MUCH MORE .

a collection of sentence starters taken from the warning's album 'queen of the murder scene' . edited to fit rp needs , adjust pronouns as necessary , note that there are spanish sentences ! warnings for darker themes ,

❛ come on in , walk this way , ❜

❛ in the end , everything just turns back into dust , ❜

❛ we shall start again , ❜

❛ where are you going ? ❜

❛ i don't seek right or wrong , ❜

❛ i seek the truth found in death , ❜

❛ is it something that is worth losing ? ❜

❛ la salvación es algo que se gana , ❜

❛ i don't know what it is that you do , ❜

❛ i know love shows in mysterious ways , ❜

❛ my screaming makes no sound , ❜

❛ i can't always be there to stop all the bleeding , ❜

❛ there's more to it than just wishing to be found , ❜

❛ you are my fantasy , ❜

❛ you bemuse my soul , ❜

❛ i am afraid to see what's become of me , ❜

❛ i just want to hold your hand , ❜

❛ time won't take the pain away , ❜

❛ i'll do anything to make it happen , ❜

❛ tell me your secrets , what are you hiding ? ❜

❛ please understand that i am not lying , ❜

❛ my heart is true , & it beats for you , ❜

❛ what is it i need to change for you to love me back ? ❜

❛ was it something i said ? ❜

❛ i want to kill all the love that's for you so only mine remains , ❜

❛ hold me like you really love me , tell me that you do , ❜

❛ i'm obsessed with what we both could be , ❜

❛ yes , or no , whichever , i'll have you someday , i'll have you forever . ❜

❛ why don't you know that you are mine ? ❜

❛ i want you to love me , to touch me , ❜

❛ tell me what i must do to atone for what i did to your soul , ❜

❛ don't reject the darkness that is in your eyes , ❜

❛ i'll show you what it means to be so devoted , ❜

❛ you have nothing left but this body you control , ❜

❛ have you quenched the hunger that was still dormant inside ? ❜

❛ you will never get to walk away from all the horrors , ❜

❛ you're an innocent sinner , a guilty saint above us all , ❜

❛ you'll never live until you die , ❜

❛ i'm plucking roses but keeping the thorns , ❜

❛ i found out that dull knives cut better , ❜

❛ you don't want to understand what it's like to have blood on your hands , ❜

❛ i can't be controlled by anything , but let's see you try , ❜

❛ give me something worth living for , ❜

❛ my sanity's gone & my morals are wrong , ❜

❛ better drop that gun while you still have a chance , ❜

❛ be proud of your pride & the things that you hide , ❜

❛ after this , there'll be nothing to feel anymore , ❜

❛ i'll be there to pull you under , ❜

❛ you can't escape your fate , ❜

❛ you went through hell , you'll go through it again , ❜

❛ there's no escape , ❜

❛ i know it was wrong , but there's nothing to be done , ❜

❛ i won't forgive myself because pity doesn't help anymore , ❜

❛ with bloodstained hands , i make amends , ❜

❛ it's a little too late to start over again , ❜

❛ the memories haunt me every night when i'm lying in bed , ❜

❛ oh what have i done ? ❜

#inbox memes #writing prompt #rp meme #rp starters #sentence starters #sentence meme #rp sentence starters #sentence prompts #roleplay prompt #roleplay meme #the warning #queen of the murder scene

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thedraculacat · 4 months ago

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Masterlist!

In all my works, characters are 18+ unless otherwise stated

This Week:

Jealousy Looks Good on You - Jiji Enjoji

Dandadan:

Jealousy Looks Good on You - Jiji Enjoji

Guardians of the Galaxy:

Sweet Curiosity - Adam Warlock

Way Too Seriously - Adam Warlock (mini collection)

Harry Potter:

Ashes of Who I Was - Sebastian Sallow

Forbidden Fruit - Draco Malfoy

Forbidden Hours - Sebastian Sallow

Green Eyed Curse - Sebastian Sallow

Marked - Draco Malfoy

No Saint, No Sinner - Draco Malfoy

Not Him - Draco Malfoy

Things We Buried - Draco Malfoy

Through Gritted Teeth - Draco Malfoy

The Maze Runner:

A Little Trouble - Gally

Caught in the Moment - Minho

Devil City - Gally (NSFW)

Keeping Him in Check - Gally

Let me Bleed - Newt

Locked in - Newt

Mending Hearts - Gally

Sudden Memory - Gally

Why He’s in Charge - Minho

#harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy #maze runner x you #maze runner x y/n #maze runner x reader #the maze runner

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dippindaz · 2 months ago

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Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader

Series Masterlist Here

8.3k words

Expect Disturbing Themes

Chapter 1: Curiosity is the First Cut

📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962)

Patient Name: [REDACTED] Alias: “Lady Reverie” Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961 Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s

Recent Addendum – March 2nd, 1962

Staff Observations: Patient demonstrates increased periods of lucidity during waking hours. Fugue states have decreased in frequency, though still present. Shows consistent protective behavior toward fellow patient “Pepper.” Frequently observed intervening when Pepper is distressed or targeted by others. Speech still fragmented. Instances of poetic or metaphorical language remain, but content appears more focused. Nighttime episodes remain.

Religious Staff Note: Unnatural contortions and trance-like movements continue to be interpreted as signs of possible spiritual unrest. The Chaplain’s previous request for private prayer sessions has been approved by administration and is currently awaiting formal scheduling. Staff advised to document any further episodes of religious speech or behavior. – Schedule with Father Howard by end of month?

Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden Dr. Thredson: Pending evaluation

The air in Sister Jude’s office always smelled faintly of smoke and floor polish. Clinical, but not quite clean. Dr. Oliver Thredson folded his hands neatly in his lap as she spoke, nodding with a tight-lipped expression that suggested agreement, though his mind was already two thoughts ahead.

“She’s not violent,” Jude was saying, thumbing through a thin, dog-eared file. “Not like some of the others. But she’s off. Unsettling.”

“Off?” Thredson echoed politely, already glancing toward the open folder.

“Former sideshow performer. Calls herself Lady Reverie—or did, once. Now she mostly doesn’t talk. Spends most of her time sleepwalking through the halls or twisting herself into a knot under her cot.”

Jude slid the folder toward him.

“She speaks in verse sometimes,” Jude added dryly, lighting a cigarette. “When she speaks at all.”

Thredson scanned the top sheet. Hysteria. Catatonia. Fugue states. A tangle of diagnoses from facilities that probably hadn’t known what to do with her, so they’d passed her along like a cursed relic.

“And yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “she still moves.”

He tapped a finger against a line about her nightly contortions. A kind of sleep-dancing. Bodies remembered what the mind forgot. He’d read about cases like this in med school. But none had the strange poetry that trailed behind this one like a ghost.

“She doesn’t cause trouble,” Jude said again, but with that pinched tone she used for anything that bothered her even if it didn’t break the rules. “But she’s magnetic. You’ll see. Other patients are drawn to her like sheep to a wolf with lipstick. That’s the problem.”

Thredson smiled faintly. “Or perhaps… like sheep to a shepherd.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed, cigarette paused just before her lips. “You planning to take a particular interest in her?”

“I plan to observe,” he said smoothly. “That’s all. She’s an intriguing case. And since she’s begun interacting more frequently with the Pinhead girl—”

“Pepper,” Jude corrected, grimacing.

“—Yes. Pepper. Since then, her file notes fewer fugue episodes. That shift alone is worth understanding.”

Jude took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled toward the window.

“Do what you want,” she muttered. “But don’t come crying to me when she starts climbing the walls and speaking in tongues. Arden says she’s half demon already.”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone asked which half.”

He stood and collected the folder, careful not to show how eager he really was. His fingers itched to open it again. To dissect each phrase. The mind was a map, and she was already presenting the most intriguing detour Briarcliff had offered yet.

Down the hall, the metal doors to Occupational Therapy clicked open.

He would only observe. Quietly. Briefly. Harmlessly.

For now.

They’d put you and Pepper at the same table again. Not out of kindness—just rotation. A shuffle of patients to avoid patterns, they said. But for once, it worked in your favor.

She greeted you with a squeal and a flurry of excited hand-flapping, nearly knocking over the tray of beads the orderly dumped between you. You caught the tray before it spilled, and she beamed like you’d just pulled a rabbit from a hat.

“Twiiirly,” she whispered in sing-song, dragging out the word like it was a secret spell.

You said nothing. Just smiled—small, careful—and nudged a pink bead her way. She gasped, delighted.

It was quiet enough, at first. Just the clink of beads and buttons. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint wheeze of the radiators pushing against another cold morning.

You let yourself watch her. Counted the rhythm of her fingers sorting colors. Matched your breathing to her little hums. She made it easier to be here. She made you easier to be here.

Then something shifted. The sound of shoes—too crisp. Too new. Someone watching.

You didn’t look up right away, but the hairs on your arms prickled. Staff changed often. You didn’t recognize this one.

A clipboard scratched against a sleeve. A murmur between two men. The rustle of papers. You felt it—not like threat, exactly. But like someone testing the weight of a door they might one day unlock.

You moved closer to Pepper. Just a fraction. Her knee bumped yours, and she looked at you with wide, steady trust.

You turned back to the beads. Threaded one. Then another.

Still here. Still with her.

The clink of beads slowed. Across the room, a nurse glanced at her clipboard, then began calling names—one by one, slowly peeling people away like petals off a dying flower.

“Time’s up,” she said flatly. “Sort yourselves out.”

Pepper frowned at her half-finished bracelet, lip wobbling just enough to tug something deep in your chest. You reached over and touched the back of her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, soft but certain. “We’ll finish it later. I promise.”

Her eyes lifted to yours. You watched her search your face, looking for cracks. You gave her your best smile—even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. It worked. She nodded, the way children do when they decide to believe in something.

“No forgetting!”

“I won’t,” you said. “I’m still here, remember?”

She giggled like it was a joke. To her, maybe it was. But around her, you were more awake than you’d ever been since the show disbanded.

You hate it. But you care for her more.

You stood from your chair, offering Pepper one last smile, just as an orderly entered the room. He called your name. You followed without a word, leaving the faint scent of glue and yarn behind. The halls stretched longer than usual, walls tilting ever so slightly inward. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying to blink something away.

You didn’t ask where you were going. You never did.

The hydrotherapy room was colder today.

Not by degrees—by feeling. Like the air itself didn’t want you there.

The tub loomed where it always did: claw-footed, rust-kissed, bolted to cracked tiles like an altar made for silence. The water was already waiting—cloudy, off-color. You didn’t want to know what was in it.

The orderly didn’t speak. Just walked you to the tub and began unfastening your gown. The buttons came undone one by one, each tiny pop echoing off the tile like distant thunder. You stared at the grout between floor tiles and tried to stay inside your body.

It didn’t work.

When you stepped out of the gown, you didn’t feel the chill. Your skin did, but you were watching from somewhere behind your own eyes.

Lowered into the tub, your limbs folded like paper. Your back met the basin and the cold climbed in. Restraints clicked shut at your wrists and ankles.

You didn’t fight. You never did.

The water lapped gently at your collarbones. You stared at the ceiling.

Dirt.

Your fingers were in the dirt, kneeling under a sky you couldn’t see. Someone was behind you. Close, but not touching.

"You're always doing that,” a voice said. Soft, amused. Jimmy.

You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warmth of him at your back. His presence curled around your shoulders like an old coat.

“Does it mean something?” he asked, crouching beside you.

You shrugged.

“I like it,” he added after a moment. “The circles. Looks like you're making little worlds.”

You traced another loop, slower this time. His hand rested lightly against your spine—warm, grounding. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.

“Maybe I am,” you murmured. You liked the idea of that. Building something. Even if you couldn’t stay in it.

Then the water shifted. Real again. Heavy.

Jimmy was gone.

You were trembling. Bound. Alone.

Your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.

The restraints came off slower than they went on. The water lapped around your ribs as the orderly muttered something you didn’t hear. You stepped out of the tub, dripping, the floor cold against your feet. He handed you a threadbare towel that didn’t quite reach your knees.

You dried off on instinct. One hand. Then the other. The order in it made your body feel real again.

Your gown was returned to you, slightly damp at the collar. They never waited for you to be fully dry. By the time you were dressed, the chill had settled in your bones.

No words were exchanged. Just a nod. A hand on your back.

The hallway stretched out like something hollowed. You walked it anyway. You always did. Flickering lights. White tile. Turn left, then right.

They didn’t send you back to your room.

“Common room,” the orderly said, jerking his chin toward the double doors.

You didn’t respond. Just walked through them.

The common room was already half-filled. Two patients were locked in a quiet argument by the window. A woman in a fraying nightgown tore pages from a magazine, stacking them neatly on the floor. The same old music playing on repeat.

You looked for Pepper. But you knew she wasn’t here.

You made your way to your usual chair—near the old bookshelf where the encyclopedias were out of order. You sat.

Folded your hands in your lap. Breathed in. Out.

Still damp. Still here.

The low drone of voices filled the room like fog. You let it settle over you. Let it blur the edges just a little—but not too far. Not now. Not yet.

You stared at the rip in your sleeve and counted the stitches until they stopped meaning numbers.

Then switched to counting the flickers of the light above you. Two. Pause. One. Long pause. Then three. You weren’t sure if it had always done that or if you just noticed today.

Then—

Bang.

The hallway door slammed open, loud and fast like it was kicked. You flinched.

A voice—male, raw with panic—echoed in the corridor. “Get your hands off me! I didn’t do anything!”

Footsteps. Two, maybe three sets. Struggling. A thud against the wall. Metal clattered. Someone swore.

You didn’t move. Not really. Just turned your head slightly, like it was someone else’s.

“Another one,” a nurse murmured at the desk.

“Not just anyone,” someone else answered, voice low and tight. “He’s one of them. From the Bloody Face case.”

“No kidding. Thought he’d get the chair.”

“Should’ve. But not yet.”

Their voices drifted off into the rhythm of the day.

The footsteps faded. So did the struggle. A moment later, the common room returned to its usual static rhythm. Cups stacked. Pieces moved. The TV buzzed on.

But something in your chest had changed. Like a key had turned inside you.

Not enough to unlock anything.

But just enough to click.

You looked toward the hallway, where the noise had come from. Nothing there now. Just the closed door.

You didn’t know why it stuck with you.

But it did.

The voices had stopped. The hallway was quiet again. But your thoughts moved differently now—like something had shifted them off their usual tracks. You couldn't name the feeling, exactly. Not fear. Not curiosity. Just… a pressure. A presence. Like someone had walked across your grave and kept going.

Your eyes conveyed your sudden restlessness more than any other part of you. They flitted around the room, as if trying to figure out why your heart was beating a little harder.

Eventually, the bell rang.

Not a real bell—just the old, wheezing chime they used when it was time to shuffle patients from one part of the ward to the next. You’d learned its pitch months ago. Lunch.

Everyone stood in slow ripples. Chairs scraped. Slippers scuffed tile. The usual drift toward the door began.

You stood last.

Not out of rebellion. Just habit.

It gave you time to brush a hand over the carved eye on your chair’s armrest, a ritual you hadn’t bothered to question in weeks. Or maybe months. You weren’t sure.

The hallway was brighter now, though it still hummed too loud. You filed in with the others, trailing just behind a woman who whispered prayers under her breath. You didn’t listen to the words—just the cadence.

Orderlies and nurses led and followed you all to the lunchroom.

Lunch meant noise. Trays. Smells. A hundred kinds of presence pressing down on you at once.

You didn’t mind the blandness of the food anymore. You didn’t taste it, anyway.

Lunch was already halfway served. You sat where you always did—second row from the wall, three seats down from the cart with the chipped plastic utensils.

You didn’t look up when the nurse came by. You didn’t have to. Your tray was always placed in front of you, always the same way—lukewarm, grayish food and a paper cup of water that tasted like rust.

But today—

A pause.

A tray dropped beside yours.

“You’re sitting here,” came the nurse’s voice, brisk, not unkind. Then the tap of her shoes retreating. You felt it before you saw it. The change. A new weight beside you, unfamiliar and too alive.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Someone new.

You didn’t remember most here, but you were sure you’d recognize him.

Messy hair, a scrape darkening on his cheekbone, hands clenched too tight around the edges of his tray like he might bolt or throw it. His eyes met yours.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Something cracked—just a hairline fracture in the surface of your stillness. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull.

He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe not.

Nothing came out.

You blinked.

He sat down.

The room carried on around you. Chatter, trays scraping, the clink of plastic forks.

But at your little corner of the table, time hung different.

Something had arrived.

The two of you ate in silence.

You peeled your bread roll slowly, piece by piece, pressing crumbs into your palm without noticing. The man barely touched his food. His spoon clinked once against the bowl of something that used to be soup, then stilled.

He kept glancing your way—quick, uncertain flicks of the eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another one of this place’s ghosts.

You didn’t meet his gaze. But you didn’t turn away, either.

A long moment passed.

Then, softly—like he was testing the weight of his own voice—he said, “Is it always so… quiet in here?”

His words surprised you. Not what he said, but that he said anything at all. Like no one had told him you weren’t… you. Maybe he didn’t care. That would change.

You looked up again.

His eyes were tired. But kind.

He waited.

You blinked.

It had been a long time since anyone asked you a question like they expected you to answer. Like you were still someone who did that sort of thing. Did you know how?

Your lips parted. Then closed again. You looked at your tray—at the pale mush congealing at the edges, at your own trembling fingers.

“…Usually,” you said, voice small and grainy, like a sound unused to daylight.

He nodded, like you’d said something important. Like you’d given more than just a word.

He nodded a little, like her answer confirmed something for him.

Then, after a moment spent fiddling with his spoon, he said, “I’m Kit.” Not loud. Not proud. Just simple. Honest. Like maybe he wasn’t sure it would matter.

Your eyes flicked to him again, slower this time.

“…Hi.”

That was all. Just that one syllable. But you met his gaze when you said it.

And it was enough.

He smiled, just barely.

You looked away first.

Not out of shyness—but something closer to habit. The quiet had become armor. And this new voice, this boy with soft eyes and scuffed knuckles, had cracked it just by looking at you like you were still there.

You risked a glance across the room.

Pepper sat hunched over her tray, but her eyes were on you. Not on the food. Not on the noise behind her. On you.

She smiled. Big and goofy and proud—like she’d known this would happen. Like maybe she’d waited for it.

Kit followed your gaze.

“She your friend?” he asked gently.

You gave the tiniest nod.

He smiled. “You always this quiet?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

The truth sat somewhere between the past and whatever you were now. You’d always been quiet, yes. But not like this. Not the kind of quiet that made your voice strange in your own throat. Not the kind that made people forget you were there.

“…I wasn’t,” you said finally.

And that was true enough for now.

Kit didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid.

The rest of lunch passed in soft sounds—metal against trays, the occasional mutter or clatter. You picked at your food, not out of hunger but habit. He did the same, though he seemed more focused on you than the plate in front of him.

You didn’t speak again.

But you didn’t leave the table either.

For now, that felt like something.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt… okay..

You took another bite of whatever passed for lunch. Warm, beige, unmemorable. He did the same. The clatter and clink of trays filled the space around you, but in your corner, the world felt muffled.

Then—

A hand closed around your upper arm. Not hard, not cruel—but firm. Familiar.

An orderly. Already turning you away from the table before he spoke.

“Time to go.”

No name. No explanation. No need.

You didn’t resist. You never did.

The spoon slipped from your hand with a quiet clink against plastic as you rose, letting yourself be steered out of the cafeteria.

You didn’t look back.

But you could feel them.

Pepper’s worry. Kit’s confusion.

Their eyes followed you out the lunchroom.

The hallway to Arden’s lab always felt colder than the others. Colder than hydrotherapy, even. Not the biting cold of water—but dry, bone-humming cold, like the air didn’t want to be breathed.

The orderly said nothing as he guided you through the narrow corridor. You knew the path by heart: left at the supply closet, past the small window covered in wire mesh, take a right, down two more doors and—

There.

The one with no label. Just a thin slit of light beneath it.

The orderly knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened the door.

Inside, it smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol. Too clean, in a way that made your stomach twist. Nothing ever smelled like that unless something wrong had happened—and been wiped away.

Dr. Arden stood at the far end of the room, already in his coat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He didn’t look up right away. He never did.

“Leave her,” he said.

The orderly let go of your arm. The door clicked shut behind you.

You stood there. Still.

Arden glanced at you finally. His eyes were pale, washed out, like something left too long in the sun. He wrote something on a clipboard without speaking, then motioned toward the exam chair in the center of the room.

You walked.

The exam chair was hard. Cold. Designed more for compliance than comfort. The light above you buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges. Arden circled behind you, and for a moment, the only sound was the rustle of paper and the metallic squeak of his instruments.

He began his routine.

Blood pressure. Pupil dilation. Reflexes. Cold metal pressing against your skin.

His hands were always precise. Too careful. He touched you like you were a machine—one he didn’t trust, but was obsessed with keeping in working order. You learned not to flinch.

“You’ve been more alert lately,” he said, voice neutral. “More present.”

He tapped the edge of your knee. Your leg twitched.

“And yet, the dissociative episodes continue.”

He didn’t ask. He never asked. Just wrote.

Something clinked into a tray behind you.

“How fortunate,” he murmured. “To study such phenomena in real time.”

He adjusted the angle of your head.

“And your flexibility—still intact, I assume?”

You said nothing.

He smiled—just barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll show me, of course.”

He said it like fact.

Like order.

The silence stretched thin and sharp between you, vibrating like wire.

You didn’t blink. Still here.

But shrinking, inside yourself.

Like a knot pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.

Arden turned away again, scribbling. Something about the way he moved made you feel smaller. Dissected.

He hadn’t touched you improperly. Not today. Not yet. But he looked at you like he was waiting for permission. Or for the rules to change.

They always changed here.

Eventually.

Arden set his clipboard aside. “Stand.”

You obey.

With clinical slowness, he stepped behind you once more. You heard the snap of gloves. The slide of a drawer.

Then the rustle of fabric.

Your gown.

His fingers were at the back, unfastening the buttons one by one. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just methodical.

“You’ll be cooperative,” he said quietly. Not a threat. Not a request. Just… truth, as he saw it.

The gown slipped from your shoulders. Cold air touched your spine like ice. You had never been more grateful for the cotton underwear given to you by the asylum.

“You’ve done this before,” he added. “Hundreds of times, if I had to guess.”

He guided your arm upward, not roughly, but firmly—stretching it behind your head, elbow bent at a sharp angle.

“Hold.”

You did.

His hand adjusted your wrist with the kind of care one might use for taxidermy. Fingers precisely positioned. Palm facing the ceiling. He circled you, pausing to examine the lines your body made.

Click.

A camera. Somewhere behind you. No flash. Just the heavy mechanical sound of the shutter.

He didn’t tell you he was going to take a picture.

He didn’t tell you anything.

“You’ve trained your body to obey,” he said absently, scribbling something down. “Even when your mind… detaches.”

He tilted your chin next. Pulled the opposite arm forward. Bent it across your stomach in a shape you recognized from your old acts. One of the more graceful ones.

You held the position. Not for him. For survival.

Click.

You stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks. The stains in the paint. Pretended your body was only light and muscle. A shadow someone else was wearing.

“Backbend,” he said simply.

You hesitated—only a fraction.

A mistake.

His fingers wrapped your bicep. Not cruel, but possessive. Steady.

“You’re not here to perform,” he said, his voice dipping. “You’re here to be studied. And I expect consistency.”

Your breath caught as you shifted. Let yourself fold backward. Spine curved. Chest stretched open.

Vulnerable.

Click.

You stared upside-down at the far wall, heart climbing your throat.

Arden moved closer.

You felt the shape of his gaze—how it narrowed, intensified. How it settled at your sternum like a weight.

“Fascinating,” he muttered. “Even now… the body remembers.”

A touch—flat, clinical, palm to your ribs. He counted your breaths. Said nothing as you trembled.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

But the knot inside you pulled tighter.

And his hand didn’t move.

Arden’s hand trailed lower.

Not hurried. Not hesitant.

From your ribs, down the line of your waist, across your hip. Gloved fingers pressing into the muscle—not groping, but measuring. As if your body were an anatomical model he’d memorized long ago and was now checking for inconsistencies.

He stopped at your thigh.

“Too tense,” he muttered.

His hand adjusted your leg—lifted and rotated it outward, forcing your pelvis to tilt with the movement. Then the other. Folding you inward now, one knee drawn up, one stretched behind, your spine curving into a twist.

A contortionist’s pose.

One you hadn’t used in years.

Click.

The sound made you flinch.

He didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care.

“Muscle memory is remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It outlasts the mind. Outlasts trauma. Even obedience can be learned in the tissue.”

He stepped back again, examining you like a specimen pinned beneath glass. Something in his expression flickered—not quite desire. Not admiration. Something colder. Sharper.

Something hungry.

“You’ve always made yourself small,” he murmured. “Even now. Tucked into yourself like a prayer.”

He crouched beside you, adjusting the angle of your wrist again. His face too close. His breath smelled like old metal and antiseptic.

“Tell me,” he said softly, as he reached to place your chin just so. “Do you even remember why you do this?”

Click.

The silence after the shutter was deafening.

The final click echoed through the room.

And then—nothing.

Just the hum of the overhead light. The shallow rasp of your own breathing. The drag of Arden’s shoes against the linoleum as he moved back to his tray.

Without the shutter snapping you back, the world started to tilt.

Colors dulled. The cold beneath you seeped deeper into your skin, heavy and anchorless. The sharp edge of awareness—the one you fought to keep—wavered like a candle about to gutter out.

Arden’s voice slipped around you, muffled at the edges.

“Fascinating,” he said, almost tenderly. "The body's betrayal of the mind. The mind's betrayal of itself."

His words were shapes you barely recognized.

Your body stayed folded where he had put it, obedient even in absence.

You felt his hand reposition your arm again—soft, impersonal. Heard the scratch of pen against paper. Distant. Harmless.

You weren't here anymore, not fully.

Not in this room. Not in this body.

Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere he couldn’t reach.

At least for now.

You drifted.

No time. No place. No you.

When the world stitched itself back together, you were standing.

The rough brush of hands tugged at your gown—rebuttoning, fixing. An orderly’s hands, not Arden’s. The metal tray and instruments blurred into the edges of your vision.

“Move along.” The orderly muttered.

Your legs obeyed before you understood the command. Out the door, into the hall, the cold trailing you like smoke.

Somewhere above, thunder grumbled low across the ceiling. The storm had rolled in.

No outdoor time today.

The halls veered left instead of right, leading you back toward the common room.

The common room smelled like bleach and wet wool.

The orderly shoved you inside without ceremony. You stumbled a step, caught yourself, and blinked against the low gray light.

First thing—you looked for Pepper. You always did.

But the corner where she usually sat was empty. No hunched figure, no wild hands playing with whatever they grabbed first. Just a scuffed floor and a humming radiator.

You drifted toward the old bookshelf instead.

You didn’t remember sitting. One moment you were moving, the next, the cracked vinyl chair creaked under you. Your fingers brushed the armrests out of habit, tracing the worn edge where the material had split open years ago.

The music looped, faint and staticky, from the record player shoved against the far wall. The same song that always played. You didn’t remember what it was about, if you ever even knew. It blended into the background long ago.

You stared at the dust haloed around your shoes.

The door creaked again.

Someone new. A shuffle of boots and cuffs and a sharp, questioning voice. A familiar one. Kit.

You didn’t look up—not yet—but you felt him move across the room, a different rhythm than the others. Less slouched. Less beaten.

He headed straight for the record player.

You recognized the mistake before he even touched it.

You shifted, your body moving on reflex, a flicker of urgency stirring in your gut.

You started to rise—

But someone else was faster.

A woman—sharp, pale, her brown hair messy like she hadn't stopped moving for days—cut across the room and caught his wrist just before he could reach the needle.

Her voice was low, fierce, too fast for you to catch the words.

Kit jerked back, confused, but didn’t fight her.

You sank back down before you even realized you’d stood at all.

The record spun on. Outside, the thunder was getting just a touch louder.

You tried not to look. You really did. Your gaze was supposed to stay fixed, empty, the way you’d trained it to. The way you needed it to. But your eyes slid sideways anyway. Drawn to the scene across the room like a moth to a slow-burning flame.

The girl—you knew her, but you couldn’t remember her name—was speaking low and fast. You couldn’t hear all of it over the hum of the record, but you caught the shape of her urgency. Warnings, probably. Maybe an apology tucked inside it.

Kit leaned in, frowning, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t quite know whether to argue or surrender.

There was something strange about him. Not the way most of them were strange, cracked and hollow from the inside out. Something… newer. Rough-edged. Not worn down yet.

You dropped your gaze back to your lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t your business. Nothing here was.

But still—

Still—you found yourself glancing back, quick and secret, just once more.

Kit was nodding now, slowly, like he understood whatever Grace had said. His shoulders, still tense, dropped a little. He shifted awkwardly, scanning the room like he was trying to find somewhere he wouldn't be swallowed whole.

And just for a moment… his eyes caught yours.

You froze.

It was only a second. Maybe less. You looked away first, your heart ticking louder in your ribs than it should have.

It didn’t mean anything. He was new. He was looking at everything.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself in the sharp, worn texture of the chair’s fabric. Waiting for the minutes to bleed into each other again.

The storm moved closer. You could feel it. Like a slow, gathering pressure in the walls. A low rumble shivered through the floor under your feet. The old building groaned with it, every window rattling faintly in its frame.

You held your breath without meaning to. Somewhere deep inside, some old instinct warned: Brace yourself.

The next crash came without warning— A crack of thunder so loud it rattled the cheap light fixtures overhead, peeling a scream from one of the patients across the room. She shot up from her chair, wailing, hands flailing wildly at nothing.

The music crackled on in the background, cheerful and tinny and wrong. A nurse shouted something. Two orderlies crossed the room in five long strides, closing in on the woman.

You flinched when the chair she kicked over clattered hard against the floor.

Kit looked up too—half-standing from his seat like he wasn’t sure whether to help or stay out of the way. The woman touched his arm and said something under her breath, firm and quick, and he sank back down reluctantly.

The woman’s screams pitched higher. Another crash of thunder. You squeezed your hands into fists in your lap to keep them from trembling.

The orderlies grabbed her roughly, dragging her struggling toward the door. One of her shoes came off in the scuffle, spinning across the floor before slapping to a stop near the old piano.

The common room felt bigger and emptier when they were gone. Everyone pretending not to notice. Everyone shrinking inward.

You stayed still. Small. Ears pricked to the sound of the girl speaking in low tones to Kit. You didn't mean to listen. But your mind clung to noise, lately, like it was a rope keeping you tethered to the world. You weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why.

“Don’t bother,” She was saying, her voice crisp and dry. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll stop caring. One or the other.”

Kit murmured something you couldn’t catch. You heard the scrape of his chair shifting against the floor. When you dared a glance, quick and careful, you caught him looking back at you.

Not at her. At you.

The look wasn’t sharp or mocking, the way new arrivals sometimes were. It was curious. Quiet. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have words for yet.

Your breath hitched, barely. A tiny jolt under your ribs. You dropped your gaze fast, hands knotting tighter in your lap.

She didn’t seem to notice. She just kept talking, something about the storm, about the routine here, about surviving.

You stared hard at the floorboards. But a part of you—the part that hadn't been completely crushed down yet—still felt Kit’s gaze. Still flickering and uncertain, like a flame struggling in a storm.

The storm outside rumbled again, rattling the old windows in their frames. You barely noticed the sound now, too focused on not focusing, trying to blend into the worn fabric of the chair. Kit and the woman’s voices blurred into the low drone of the common room’s usual noise.

Then—A sudden scuffle of footsteps near the door.

You turned your head automatically.

Pepper.

She was being herded into the room by an orderly, but the moment they let her go, she lit up like a lamp. Without hesitation, she beelined across the common room, weaving past shuffling bodies and sagging couches.

Straight to you.

No words. No questions. She simply plopped herself down at your side, so close her shoulder brushed yours. Like she’d been there the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever touch you while she sat guard.

You blinked, feeling the faintest, strangest flutter in your chest. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Pepper smiled wide, a little crooked from the missing teeth she still hadn't stopped being proud of. She tucked herself even closer, humming something low under her breath—a half-forgotten tune from another life.

Across the room, you caught Kit looking again. Not staring. Not rude. Just... noticing.

You glanced away first.

Pepper leaned her head against your arm, humming for a moment longer before she spoke—soft and sing-song, like sharing a secret with a doll. “You talked at lunch,” she said, her voice tilting up like a question even though it wasn’t one. “Talked to the new boy.”

You stiffened slightly, but Pepper only giggled quietly, like it was funny.

“Not scared,” she added, patting your hand once with her small, worn fingers. “Good.”

Her smile stretched wide again, proud in that way only Pepper could be—proud of you for doing something as simple as answering a few questions.

You always believed Pepper was more perceptive than she let on, knew more than she let toner believe. This was definitely sinking a nail in that coffin.

The thought tightened something low in your chest.

It had felt like nothing at the time. A few words, a breath of conversation. But to Pepper, it was a lighthouse flickering on in the dark. A sign you were still in there somewhere, even if you barely recognized yourself most days.

You didn't know if that made you feel lighter or heavier.

Pepper curled closer, content just to be near you. Her trust was something you hadn’t earned lately, not really—but she gave it to you anyway, same as she always had. Unconditional.

You kept your gaze forward, trying to ignore the prickle behind your eyes. Trying to ignore the way Kit’s voice still echoed faintly across the room, low and warm, even if it wasn’t meant for you anymore.

The afternoon stretched on, heavy and slow. The record player hiccupped in its endless loop of warped music, thunder grumbling low against the walls.

You stayed still. So did Pepper, her head nodding drowsily against your shoulder, her small fingers absently twisting the edge of your sleeve.

Across the room, Kit had stopped talking with that woman. The newness of his arrival clung to him—awkward, restless. But he stayed where he was, tossing glances now and then like he was still figuring out the rules. He was.

Maybe you were, too.

A crash of thunder rattled the windows again. Somewhere near the stairwell, a patient shrieked—a high, broken sound—and the orderlies moved fast, their heavy steps pounding toward the noise.

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Pepper.

It wasn’t your business. It never was.

The hands of the old clock ticked forward, scraping toward the next hour.

Soon enough, a pair of orderlies appeared at the threshold. One of them jerked his chin at you—impatient, bored. You recognized the signal. Pepper stirred beside you but didn’t fight when you untangled from her. She just watched, wide-eyed, hugging herself as you stood.

The orderlies didn’t bother with words. They didn’t have to. You were expected to follow, and you did.

One last glance at the common room: Pepper’s small figure tucked against the window, Kit’s curious gaze lingering from across the room. You lowered your eyes and turned away.

The hallway beyond felt heavier somehow. Observation. Thirty minutes of being watched through glass you couldn’t see behind, locked alone with yourself and the hum of your own blood in your ears. They said it was for your safety.

They always said that.

The door clanged shut behind you. Heavy and final.

The observation room was empty except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. No windows. Only a dull grate whispering stale air into the corners. Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass, you knew they were watching.

You sat where you always sat: cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in your lap.

Good.

Obedient.

Easy to leave alone.

The storm still grumbled through the bones of the building, low and constant. But in here, it might as well have been a whole other world. You let your mind drift. It was easy. Too easy. Like a scab you’d been trained not to pick, but your fingers knew the motion by heart. The walls blurred. The hum of Briarcliff’s old veins faded.

Something else crept in.

Wooden floorboards. The smell of sweat and greasepaint. A canvas tent breathing heavy in the night air.

In a shadowed corner backstage at the freak show. You were small again, curled against a crate, heart hammering against your ribs.

Voices echoed, angry and slurred:

"—goddamn useless, you hear me—"

A thud.

A sharp grunt.

The crack of knuckles on bone.

You tried to press yourself smaller, invisible, but you saw it anyway— Dell towering over Jimmy, his fists wild, red blooming across Jimmy’s cheek.

You didn’t remember why. You only knew it happened. It always happened.

Your hands clenched against your skirt. Your breath snagged in your throat. You wanted to move. To help. But you were too scared. Too useless.

Like always.

The memory buckled, tearing itself in half—and you slammed back into yourself.

Observation room. Briarcliff. Now.

You gasped without sound, chest heaving once, twice. Your gown clung damp to your back. You stared at your hands, trembling and raw, and you knew with a cold, alien certainty:

You hadn’t remembered that before. But it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a lie.

It was real. And it had always been waiting.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

An orderly’s shadow filled the frame. You rose without being told, feet silent against the floor. Your body moved on muscle memory alone—out into the hall, down past the peeling walls, toward the dining area where the faint smell of boiled potatoes and burnt meat clung to the air.

Dinner. Another piece of the clockwork routine.

The room buzzed with low, unfocused noise—cutlery scraping metal trays, murmured arguments too slurred to matter. You slipped into your usual seat at the end of the row, back to the wall. A habit, not a comfort.

A tray clattered beside yours. The same as lunch.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted. Lighter. Less... heavy.

Still, you glanced. Still, there he was.

Kit.

He looked better than he had earlier—less rattled, but still frayed at the edges. His hair was damp, like he’d been shoved through a rushed cleanup. His tray held the same sad helping of food as yours: gray meatloaf, a few limp peas, mashed potatoes that looked more like paste.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. The clatter and hum of the cafeteria filled the space between.

You pushed your peas into a corner of the tray with the edge of your fork, not really tasting the food.

Kit tapped his fork once against his tray. Not loud. Just enough to get your attention without pulling it. "Hey," he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

You glanced at him, wary. Not because it was him. Because you were used to silence meaning safety. Talking got you noticed. Getting noticed got you hurt.

But Kit didn’t seem dangerous. He looked tired. Frayed around the edges in a way you recognized too well.

"Grace said you been here a while," he said, quieter now. His accent softened the words, rounded them out like river stones. "Long enough to know how this place runs."

You blinked. Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. They talked about… you?

He gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "Figure I oughta stick close to someone who’s survived it."

Something stirred in your chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite trust. Something more like... the first flutter of movement after being frozen too long.

You forced yourself to look back down at your tray. "I don’t talk much," you said—barely a whisper, barely more than truth.

Kit huffed out a soft laugh through his nose, like he wasn’t offended. Like he understood. "That’s alright," he said. "I talk enough for the both of us."

The words slid into you like a needle. Small. Sharp. Unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, you weren't sitting in the Briarcliff cafeteria. You were somewhere else—somewhere warmer, dimmer. A canvas tent lit by bare bulbs. The smell of sawdust and smoke.

And him.

Jimmy, flashing that lopsided grin you’d always pretended not to love, teasing you the same way. "‘S'okay, doll. I talk enough for the both of us." His voice, roughened by laughter and cigarettes and hope.

It hit so fast you barely had time to register it. A blink. A flicker. Gone.

You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, grounding yourself back into the present—the sour stink of mashed potatoes, the buzz of the fluorescents, the low rumble of thunder outside.

Your hands had clenched tight around your fork without you realizing. Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t push. He just sat there beside you, easy and quiet.

Like he wasn’t in any rush to figure you out.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows high above. Neither of you flinched. You were already used to worse.

He scooped up some mashed potatoes, made a face, and put the fork back down. "Jesus," he muttered, "what is this?"

A twitch almost—almost—tugged at your mouth. Not quite a smile. Something broken and half-remembered.

Kit caught it. You knew he did, because he smiled a little in return. Not the smile you were used to seeing from people here. Not the kind that meant danger. Just... tired and human.

For a few minutes, you ate in silence. Side by side. A strange kind of peace, fragile as spun glass.

The clock above the door ticked louder with every second. Each beat chipped away at the fragile bubble you sat inside, reminding you that nothing here stayed soft for long.

Around you, the cafeteria thinned. Trays scraped over metal counters, chairs scraped back. The heavy shuffle of bodies herded toward the next part of the night—the part where everything got quieter, darker, harder. Orderlies clearing out patients group by group.

Lights out.

An orderly’s bark echoed down the hall, sharp enough to make a few heads jerk up.

You rose when Kit did, a second behind him, moving like a shadow. His tray clattered onto the return cart. Yours followed. No words. Just motion.

You could feel Kit glance back once as you trailed behind the line of patients, could feel the quiet question of it—like maybe he wasn’t ready to let the thin thread of something between you snap just yet.

You kept your eyes on the floor.

The halls narrowed the deeper you went, swallowing the noise until there was only the thunder rumbling overhead and the scuff of slippered feet against cracked tile.

Your room was the same as always. A bed, grey sheets, and a window barred and curtained against the storm. The stale air clung to your skin, heavy with old fear.

The orderly gave a grunted order you barely heard. You moved on instinct, letting them shove some pills into your mouth before climbing into your bed, turning your face toward the wall. Fabric rustled around you as the others settled. A final flicker of light as the overheads snapped off.

Darkness.

You fall into your routine with ease. Reciting your names as you tap. Three quick taps. Break.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Elsa.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ma Petite.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Paul.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ethel.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Eve.

Tap Tap Tap. Desiree.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Pepper.

Tap. Tap. Tap. A pause. A breath held too long.

"Jimmy—"

Your fingers froze mid-tap. The word hung there, raw and unfinished, like an open wound.

The air shifted. The thin mattress beneath you seemed to heave once, then settle wrong, off-balance. The walls bled out at the edges, gray smearing into black. Your hand, still poised in the air, forgot gravity.

Something inside you slipped.

And you were falling.

The floor was rough under your knees. The air smelled like whiskey and sweat and old anger. You were crouched in front of him.

Jimmy.

His lip was split, the blood already drying rusty at the corner of his mouth. A bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, ugly and deep purple. One of his hands cradled his ribs, careful like they were broken.

You held a damp cloth in shaking fingers, dabbing gently at his face. Your other hand kept fluttering, unsure whether to touch his hair, his arm, something steadier. He was breathing hard—half from pain, half from rage he couldn't spit out yet.

"You gotta just..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You gotta just let things go sometimes, Jimmy."

The cloth slipped from your hand. He caught your wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.

His eyes were glassy, wet at the edges, furious and hurting and helpless all at once. "When he's yellin' at you," he rasped, "I'm never lettin' it go."

Your breath caught. Something twisted sharp and sweet behind your ribs.

He meant it. He always meant it.

The world around you blurred again, the walls bleeding back to grey, the ground tilting—and you felt yourself slipping, the memory clinging like cobwebs to your skin.

The mattress pressed cold against your palms. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The constant Briarcliff white noise The sour smell of bleach. The rattling pipes. The heavy dark of night pressing against the barred windows.

You were lying on your side. Hands curled close to your chest. Breathing shallow, like you’d been running.

Your cheeks were damp. You touched your face with clumsy fingers—salt and heat. Tears. You hadn’t even felt them fall.

The memory still clung to you, half-faded but sharp enough to bleed.

Jimmy. The fight. Dell’s fists. The shouting you couldn’t hear.

And you—there but not there.

You remembered now. You'd drifted. In the middle of it all, you had slipped away. Your body had stayed, frozen and helpless, while your mind fled somewhere safer. That’s why you hadn’t remembered. Not because it wasn’t important. Because it had been too much.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to hold the pieces together.

Outside your door, a nurse’s heels clicked against the tile. The night rolled on, indifferent.

You curled tighter into yourself, whispering old names against the noise.

Trying to stay here. Trying to stay you.

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