#Stalking

[bulletforprettyboy]

𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧. 𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙚𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙮. 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙩. 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡, 𝙞 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨. 𝙞 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚. 𝙞 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚. 𝙞 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩. 𝙞 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚. 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢.

𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙. 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤��𝙨𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙝. 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙, 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙣, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨, 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡��𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮. 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤. 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝.

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 1

Words: 3.3k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games...

Dr. Jonathan Crane begins his first day at Arkham Asylum, quietly observing Chief Administrator Dr. Ares Katsaros and his routines. He meets Ares’s fiancée--a woman who unsettles him with her calm composure and lack of fear. Fascinated, Crane begins planning Ares’s downfall while trying to deciding what to do with the woman attached to him.

A/N: Scarecrow nonnie, this is the first in what might be a short series. I hope I did this character justice. Have to say, it's fun being in that headspace. Very slow burn situation but when you read it you'll get why.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

They gave him a badge. Jonathan Crane turned it over between two fingers, watching the lamplight catch on the polished surface. Arkham Asylum--Staff ID-- Dr. J. Crane. Still warm from the printer with ink that hadn’t fully dried. He slid it into the breast pocket of his suit and stepped inside.

The lobby smelled like bleach and time with its faded linoleum and fingerprint-smudged windows. No one looked up from their desks as he walked by and that was good. People underestimated the gravity of silence, the way it settled into the corners of a place. It listened more than it spoke. He liked places that listened.

"Dr. Crane?" came a voice to his left. Female, mid-30s, harried but professional. “You’re with me. I’ll take you to orientation and get your locker assigned.”

He nodded once, didn't smile. They moved through the corridors, a sprawling display of yellowing paint, steel-reinforced doors, and walls that had heard every type of scream. She gave him the standard tour: intake, isolation, medical, admin offices. He nodded where expected but said little. But he took in everything. He noted the angle of the security cameras, which doors had fresh scrapes. He also paid attent to who walked with purpose and who looked over their shoulder.

The final stop was the Chief Administrator’s wing.

Dr. Ares Katsaros stood at the far end of the hallway, half in shadow, arms crossed, speaking quietly with a nurse. The man was clean-cut, confident. He carried himself like someone who believed in the work and used words like rehabilitation without irony.

Jonathan didn’t trust men like that.

"Dr. Katsaros will be with you in just a moment," his guide told him, waddling off in the direction of the administrator to quietly let him know someone was there to see him. The nurse left and his guide followed her, and Ares turned.

“Dr. Crane,” he said warmly, extending a hand. “Welcome to Arkham.”

Jonathan took it. The man had a dry grip, firm. He met Ares’s gaze. The man's eyes were pale green, not soft, but not sharp either. Ares was a man used to being liked, open and trusting. Already bleeding from the throat, and he hasn’t noticed the knife. 

“Thank you,” Jonathan said smoothly. “I’m looking forward to observing your methods.”

Ares chuckled, as if they were peers. Equals. “I hope they don’t bore you,” Ares replied. “We’re more restraint and protocol than mystery and madness these days.”

Jonathan smiled noncommittally. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sure there’s still plenty of madness to go around.”

Ares led him down the hall, into a small but clean office space. “You’ll be shadowing me for the first week,” Ares explained. “Familiarize yourself with the structure, the staff, the patient files--especially high-risk individuals. After that, we’ll talk about shifting some caseloads. Do you prefer violent or psychologically complex cases?”

There it is, Jonathan thought. The illusion of choice. As if you’re not already in the palm of my hand.

He tilted his head slightly. “Psychologically complex,” he said.

Ares nodded, satisfied. “You’ll fit right in.”

They talked for ten more minutes about all the usual subjects, protocol, scheduling, and recommended reading. Jonathan nodded in all the right places. He was already miles ahead, playing out every move in a game Ares didn’t even know he was losing. 

As Ares reached for a folder on his desk, a small knock came at the door. A soft voice. “Lunch, love.”

The door opened, and she stepped inside. Jonathan felt the temperature shift in the room. How her presence made Ares smile in a way he hadn’t before, made the space feel warmer.

She smiled at Jonathan with polite curiosity, stepping forward, lunch bag in hand. Most would call her beautiful. She had the kind of softness people romanticized--gentle voice, graceful hands, the sort of face that drew in kindness without asking for it. Small, too. She barely came to his shoulder and he was average height. Like something that should be sheltered. Protected.

But Jonathan didn’t value beauty. Not in the traditional sense. What interested him was how well she wore it. No nervous glances or self-conscious tics. She knew what people saw when they looked at her and didn’t need it to speak for her.

Pretty, he thought distantly. But that’s not what makes her dangerous.

“Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m--”

“His fiancée,” Ares said, grinning adding her name. “She brings me real food so I don’t live on vending machine burritos.”

Her laughter was light and unbothered. She extended her hand to him.

Jonathan hesitated before he shook it. Her skin was warm and her eyes met his and held.

That was when it hit him. There was no fear or weakness. A complete absence of both.

She sees me, he thought. And she’s not afraid.

He pulled his hand away first.

“You’re late,” Jonathan whispered to no one, long after she was gone.

It happened again on a Thursday. There she was with a paper bag, a soft knock. That voice. "Lunch, love.”

Jonathan didn’t look up from his desk. He knew the sound of her footsteps, always measured, polite, with the faintest trace of a limp when she moved too fast. He could smell her perfume before she rounded the corner. It was faint, but not floral. It smelled like clean linens and memories.

She laughed at something Ares said. The door shut. Fifteen minutes. That was the average length of her visits. Twelve if Ares had meetings. Twenty if he didn’t. 

Jonathan wasn’t watching or tracking. He just knew.

It started with idle observation. Purely clinical. The way she navigated Arkham without tension in her shoulders, the way she greeted staff by name. She smiled like she actually meant it. It was curious to him that her fiance allowed her daily visits. She was too warm for this place, too soft for its walls.

But she kept coming. Always in the middle of the day and with something in hand. 

Once, she caught him in the hallway. “Dr. Crane,” she said with a nod.

He returned it. “Miss.”

She paused. “Not ‘Mrs.?’” she teased gently.

Jonathan’s lips curved. Just barely. “Not yet,” he replied. 

He walked away before she could say anthing else. But her voice echoed behind his eyes longer than it should have. He tried ignoring it and let it sit in the background like static like something ordinary, inconsequential. But it refused to be background.

She wore red on Wednesdays and black flats, not heels. Always parked in the second row from the gate. Didn’t lock her car until she was halfway to the door. So careless. Someone could follow her.

The thought lodged.

It came to a head one afternoon when she passed his office, head turned to wave goodbye to someone across the hall. Her eyes didn’t even flick toward his door. Still, he watched her reflection in the glass as she walked past. And when she was gone, truly gone, and the hallway was still, Jonathan whispered it again.

“You’re late.”

You didn’t dislike him at first.

Dr. Crane was… strange, sure. He was quiet but always polite to a fault. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his voice was even and soft, like he was always trying not to wake something sleeping in the next room.

There was nothing wrong with him. But today, he unnerved you and you were still trying to decide if it was real or just in your head.

You weren’t usually late. But a new artist had dropped off unscheduled pieces at your art gallery, and you'd ended up repatching wall space all morning. One sculpture, a twisted bronze thing shaped like a spinal column, nearly tipped while you were adjusting the lighting. You'd caught it, not without knocking over green paint you'd been using to repair a scuff on the wall. The adrenaline still hadn't worn off by the time you pulled into Arkham's lot. 

Art is controlled chaos, you often said. You don’t hang a piece. You negotiate with it.

You’d wiped metal dust off your hands with a silk scarf, thankfully you hadn't got paint on yourself. You fastened your coat, and dashed inside with the lunch bag still warm in your hand.

You were almost too late. The cafeteria was closing, and your usual lunch visit had turned into handing your fiance a wrapped sandwich and a quick kiss on the cheek. 

Ares was having a busy day too. He was apologetic and buried in paperwork. “I'll make it up to you tonight,” he promised. “I’ll even cook.”

That had you laughing. “You don’t cook.”

“Which is how you’ll know it’s love.” Ares winked at you.

You grinned, turned to leave--and nearly ran into Crane in the hallway. He appeared out of nowhere without a sound, like he’d always been standing there. You flinched. “Oh, Dr. Crane. I didn’t see you.”

“Apologies,” he said smoothly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

His eyes flicked briefly to the bag in your hand. Still warm. “Late visit today,” he added.

You paused. Smiled, but slower this time.

“Yeah,” she said. “Busy morning. A new exhibit launched today at the gallery. One of the pieces fell mid-install, glass everywhere, full-on panic mode.” Your free hand lifted to the thin gold chain of your necklace, your fingers twisted in it. God only knew what you looked like after your day so far. “Fixed it, though. Ran out the door covered in gold dust and packing foam. Real professional.”

Crane’s expression didn’t change. You released a slow exhale. You couldn't even have a normal conversation with this man. 

“An art gallery,” he said, not a question.

You nodded. “Curator and co-owner. Technically. Ares says it’s chaos, but I say it’s curated chaos.” You meant it as a joke, trying to keep things light, normal. 

But Crane just studied you, slow and thoughtful. “Interesting,” he said quietly. There was a pause. “That explains the green paint on your sleeve. Not part of the outfit, I assume.”

Your heart ticked just a little faster. Glancing down, there, near the cuff of your blouse was a small, green smear you hadn’t noticed. Not obvious unless someone was looking closely. Very closely.

“I guess not,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

The man didn’t smile. Just gave a small tilt of his head, like he was logging the data. “Still,” he said, “it suits you.”

And with that, he walked away.

There was nothing inherently threatening about the way he said it and it wasn't overtly invasive. But your stomach tightened anyway. You stood there for a long second, trying to decide what just happened in your first conversation with Dr. Crane.

You'd brought it up over dinner that night because you were staying at his. Just a passing thing, dressed up like small talk, spooned into the space between glasses of wine and the smell of takeout stir fry. The two of you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, plates balanced in your laps, the TV low in the background.

"Hey," you said, stabbing at a piece of chicken. "What do you think of Dr. Crane?"

Ares didn’t look up right away. Just reached for his wine and took a slow sip. “Crane?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Ares considered your question for a moment. Shrugged. “Quiet. He's actually brilliant. A little intense, maybe. But his paperwork’s immaculate. He’s been helping streamline the incident reporting system.”

“Helping?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, setting his glass down. “Suggested a new classification method. Cut my file review time in half.”

You did your best to keep your expression neutral. Ate another bite. Helping.

Funny. Because last week Ares had mentioned missing paperwork. And yesterday, he'd spent twenty minutes looking for a patient chart that mysteriously reappeared after Crane borrowed it. But none of that came to mind for him now.

He smiled and added, “I think he just comes off a little cold. He’s not unfriendly, just clinical I suppose. Like he’s always analyzing things.”

You don’t say. You forced a light laugh.

“That tracks,” you said. “He noticed I’m here around noon most days.”

Ares grinned. “I mean, so does everyone. You're a highlight around there.”

But it still didn't feel right. Everyone else noticing was different. Crane had fucking memorized it.

You toyed with your wineglass, watching the way the light caught in the red. “You ever get the feeling he’s… watching you?”

Ares chuckled. “Babe, everyone at Arkham’s watching everyone else. It’s kind of the job.” He leaned over and kissed your cheek, then turned back to the screen.

You smiled. And you didn't want to add anything to his already long list of responsibilities so you dropped it. 

But later, when he was asleep beside you, you couldn't sleep. You just laid there awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. And somewhere in your mind, you saw a man standing in a hallway, watching you walk away, and whispering something you didn’t quite hear.

The opportunity came on a Wednesday. Ares stepped away from his office for a restroom break, maybe a phone call. Jonathan didn’t check. He’d already been watching.

It was easy enough for him to slip inside Ares' office, familiar now with the door’s specific give, the way the lock clicked back just slightly off-center. On Ares’s desk was a patient file that was open but not copied yet. A real-time task. 

Jonathan had already read it. Two days before the swap, he'd stayed late. No one questioned him. New hires eager to impress often did. He let the security guard see him reviewing intake forms, muttering about reporting inconsistencies. Kept a manila folder open across his desk. Leaving visible clutter, the illusion of overwhelm.

But inside his locked drawer was the real work. He’d already made a copy of Jonas’ treatment log. Scanned it. He recreated the formatting in exact detail using a template file he pulled from the staff server. It had the same font, same margins, and the same line spacing.

The signature? It was forged but it wasn't sloppily or exaggerated. It was just familiar enough. It didn’t need to fool everyone. Only one person.

Jonathan printed the page on Arkham’s official paper stock, same weight and watermark, and slipped it into a slim, unlabeled folder marked with a colored tab he knew Ares used for active cases. Then all he had to do was wait. 

Sabotage wasn’t about speed. It was about silence. A knife slipped between the ribs, not shouted from across the room.

All he had to do in Ares' office was remove one sheet--just one--and replace it with the near-identical version he assembled. The only difference was the medication log. It was just a minor adjustment, a dosage increase. Still within reasonable bounds, but just enough to make a nurse double-check. Just enough to make someone question why. 

He closed the folder. But as he reached for the edge to straighten it, his hand paused. There, near the edge of the desk was a gold necklace.

It was delicate, clearly worn often. A fine chain, snapped near the clasp. A small, heart-shaped pendant lay beside it, worn smooth from touch.

Jonathan picked it up gently, the way someone might pick up a feather or an old photograph. She wore this. It was around her neck when they spoke. He remembered clearly how her fingers lifted to it as she talked to him, twisting it absentmindedly as she joked about chaos and packing foam. It had been a nervous gesture, subtle. He hadn't see that gesture when she talked to anyone else.

She flinched when I surprised her, he thought. It wasn't fear, but tension. A guarded moment and then… the necklace. She’d been working the chain between her fingers while she spoke to him. Not in panic, but from pressure. A focused tension, redirected.

He held the broken ends between his fingers. The link hadn’t snapped from force. It had worn thin. Been worked, slowly, until one weak connection finally gave out. Jonathan studied the break like it was a specimen. She did this, but not consciously. She broke it. Because I was there?

Sliding the necklace into his coat pocket, he made his way back to his own office. He didn't want it for safekeeping, but for study and control. For proof that even when she hides it, I can still reach her.

When Ares returned ten minutes later, he was long gone. But the necklace wasn't where he left it.  Ares would look for it. Would question whether he’d misplaced it, or worse, forgotten where he put it. It was a small thing really. 

But Jonathan had learned long ago that it didn't take much to unseat a man who thinks he’s balanced.

Later that afternoon, he passed Ares in the hallway. The man was rubbing his temple. “Have you seen the Jonas' file?” Ares asked. “I could’ve sworn I noted something different yesterday…”

Jonathan tilted his head. “Jonas?” he repeated.

“Yeah. The med schedule’s off.”

Jonathan gave him a non-answering smile. “Medication logs have been fluctuating lately,” he said. “Just some inconsistencies. I'm sure it’s nothing.”

Ares exhaled, half-relieved, half-concerned. “Yeah. Probably just me. I’m running on too much caffeine and not enough hours.”

Jonathan’s smile didn’t change. “It happens.” He walked away, pleased that the cracks were beginning to show. They were surface level now, he thought. But they’ll spread.

The autumn air was brisk with dry leaves flying in it. The scent of burned paper and chalk dust surrounded him. Thirteen-year-old Jonathan sat alone at the back of the classroom. It was lab period and as usual no one wanted to partner with him. That was fine. Preferred, even.

But today, she sat down beside him. Uninvited, but just quietly there.

She didn’t say much. She asked him to pass the pipette and smiled when he did. Her fingers were paint-stained. She doodled on her worksheet absentmindedly and didn't erase them when the teacher walked by. She wasn’t beautiful in a traditional sense. But there was something serene about her. Something still.

At the end of the period, she turned to him and said, “You’re smart.” Then left.

She didn’t flinch or laugh or run away, none of the things he was accustomed to. He wasn't certain how he felt about it at first, just watched her braid her hair as she walked away.

And for a moment he wondered what it would be like, just one more time, to be seen that way again.

Jonathan sat alone that evening, long after the rest of the administrative wing had gone dark. The only light came from the small desk lamp beside him, small and contained. Like everything in his world.

He flipped through the logs from the day with deliberate care. He marked three entries for future correction, small errors he’d seeded earlier in the week that no one had noticed yet. He made a note to intercept a medication form before it reached Ares’s desk. Just a minor tweak. A future question and a moment of doubt waiting to bloom.

Then, he pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him. At the top in ink, precise and deliberate, he wrote a name.

Not hers. Not the woman who'd smiled at him in the hallway and laughed about paint and gallery exhibits. But interestingly their names were similar. Hers was close to the name of the one he hadn’t seen in over a decade, the one from the back of the classroom. The girl with paint on her hands and quiet eyes.

Jonathan looked at it for a long moment. Just a name.

And yet, his chest ached with something he didn’t have language for. He folded the page once, twice. Remembering her necklace, he fished it from his pocket. He pulled out a new office mailing envelope and placed the necklace and the page in it before sliding that into the drawer with the rest of his patient notes and labeled it: Observation: Type Unknown. Then as usual, he locked the drawer.

It wasn't her name but it might as well have been.

[loveofmyeternity]

[amomentwiser]

Obsession

Hannibal knew Will was angry with him, and understandably so. He’d given Will his space. He’d kept his weekly 7:30 pm slot open, given him time to come around. He’d given Will three months to contact him — either with an outraged phone call, a threatening letter, or by sending a SWAT team at his doorstep.

And what had Will done? Run away without a backward glance. Without so much as a goodbye, or even a cursory assassination attempt. As if Hannibal were disposable. Forgettable. As if their relationship were something that he could simply opt-out of.

The least he could have done was run to Jack Crawford with his theories about the Ripper. Try to sneak into Hannibal’s Baltimore mansion in search of evidence, if Jack wouldn’t support him. Or show up unannounced at Hannibal’s office, hoping to catch him off guard, preferably with a gun. The game was far from over, and Hannibal still wanted to play, but it looked like Will had simply abandoned the chessboard.

Enough was enough. It was time to hunt.

If Will wanted to be chased, Hannibal would oblige.

■ ■ ■

Hannibal had, of course, first scoured the internet for any signs pointing to Will’s current whereabouts. But Will, former FBI that he was, had hidden his tracks too well. Social media and property records yielded no results — Will had presumably purchased his new home through an anonymous LLC. His cunning boy certainly wasn’t making this easy on him. Very well, then: let it never be said that Hannibal Lecter couldn’t take a hint.

This is how Hannibal found himself at home on a Saturday evening that he otherwise would have spent at the opera, typing away on a borrowed laptop while its owner — an FBI agent in the Cyber Division — sat bound and gagged in a chair behind him. (He could only hope Mrs. Komeda would forgive him for leaving her to endure tedious conversation and insipid sycophants alone.)

The agent hadn’t even seen Hannibal coming. Too busy piling heavy bags of groceries into the trunk of his car, he’d disregarded the only other car in the parking lot and missed the quiet footsteps until he felt the pinprick in his neck. By then it was too late, and all went black for an unknown while until he woke up in a basement, tied to a chair and face-to-face with the Chesapeake Ripper. Not that spotting Hannibal would have done him much good — the agent was in his late twenties and lanky, a genius with computers but clearly someone more used to being on the wrong side of a punch.

“Now, your fingerprints have already helped me login to your laptop, but I will require your FBI passwords to enter their database.”

“What do you need it for?”

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you. A dear friend of mine moved recently and forgot to leave a forwarding address. I’m merely trying to figure out where I can mail him a birthday present.”

》 Full fic on AO3

[omgsen]

I hope I’m somebody’s favorite profile to stalk.

[ariichive]

MALFUNCTIONᯓ ⋆°•

moving in with caleb was bound to have its ups and downs... but did he have to modify everything in his home to keep track of you? cw: fem. reader, caleb being overprotective and borderline insane, lowkey stalking, cameras, established relationship, reader can be mc or not, #ilovecaleb, mullet caleb yummy, wrote this listening to my 2020 playlist...

everything in caleb's space was so very... you. the foods in the fridge, the furniture, the tidiness of it all. there was so much of you, and it was quickly becoming a safe haven.

it seemed everything caleb owned was carefully picked out with your interests and not his.

you remember asking him about it, if he was truly okay with you taking over his space like this; especially since you never spent a dime while with him.

his answer still fresh in your mind.

"trust me honey, this is all i've ever wanted." he said with a sincere smile and a pat to your head, "besides, there's still a lot of me around, you just gotta find it."

back then, you weren't sure what he meant exactly and seen it as a way of him comforting you.

now, however, as the microwave locked your frozen dinner in there you realized what he meant.

caleb always cooked for you, he knew your desired calorie intake, allergies, and all the foods you didn't like.

you never had to lift a finger in the kitchen when he was around, because he had already taken care of everything before you even had the chance to think about it.

but now, standing in the quiet hum of the microwave, the absence of his presence was deafening. he was on a rather long mission with the fleet. he did prepackage all your meals, labeled and all, but admittedly... being bored with nothing to do except eat made the meals go quicker than expected. surprisingly, there was a frozen pasta dinner shoved in the back of the freezer. it wasn't the most ideal, but it was the best you could do without your personal chef and boyfriend.

it was a little embarrassing how dependent you became on him. you knew if he were here, he'd kiss your head and tell you he'll make those nasty thoughts go away.

there were still traces of him all around you, in the way the spice rack was arranged just so, the way the couch cushions bore the slightest indent from where he always sat, and even the basket of apples on the counter.

you sighed, leaning against the counter as the microwave beeped, signaling your sad little dinner was ready.

there was a small problem though.

the microwave wasn't opening.

no matter how much strength you used, the door just wasn't opening. you felt your eyebrow twitch; did you somehow manage to break his microwave? there was no way; sure, you relied on him a bit, but you definitely remembered the basics in the kitchen.

before you could get more frustrated, your phone dinged.

caleb <3: where did u even find that lol? thought i threw those all out :,)

you stared at your phone in deadpan before glancing back at the microwave, quickly texting back.

[name]: how did you even...?

caleb <3: baby, i got eyes everywhere

you huffed, shaking your head. of course he somehow knew you were about to eat the one frozen dinner he swore he got rid of.

[name]: okay, stalker. but actually, i think ur microwave is broken??? it won’t open.

the typing bubble appeared instantly.

caleb <3: yeah, ik... had some free time, messed around with a few things :p

another message came through right after.

caleb <3: say, what happened to the meals i prepared for you?

then another...

caleb <3: did you not like them? let me know so i know for the future if your tastes changed, sorry pretty girl

you were quick to type out a response, seeing as his typing bubble didn't disappear.

[name]: no!! i loved them all, just... they're gone :(

the message was marked as read immediately as he your phone began to ring.

you sighed, but your lips curled into a small smile as you answered.

“hi, caleb.”

“hi,” he echoed, his voice warm despite the slight scolding tone. “now, tell me, honey—how are they already gone? i made sure they’d last until i got back.”

you pouted, sinking further into the couch. “i got bored… and they were really good.”

caleb chuckled, and you could just picture the way he’d be shaking his head if he were here. “i swear, you’re gonna make me start rationing your meals.”

“you wouldn’t.”

“would i?”

you frowned. “…would you?”

his laugh came through the speaker, low and sweet. “nah, i could never say no to you. but seriously, baby, if you need more food, i'll order something. don’t go eating those frozen meals, they’re so bad for you.”

“it’s just one,” you mumbled.

“still. i don’t like the thought of you eating that while i’m gone.”

you sighed, tugging at the microwave one more time. “well, maybe if you weren’t so far away…”

“aw, do you miss me, pretty girl?”

you refused to answer that; he already knew the answer.

caleb hummed. “yeah… i miss you too.”

his voice was softer now, and your chest ached at how much you just wanted him here.

“i’ll be back soon,” he promised. “then i’ll make you something actually edible, alright?”

you smiled. “alright.”

“good girl.”

you felt your cheeks heat up, and caleb laughed again, as if he knew. (which he did).

“love you, honey.”

“love you too,” you murmured, holding the phone a little tighter. "why exactly is the microwave locked?" you decided to question one more time.

caleb chuckled, "i know you, [name]. even if i wasn't watching you, you'd open it and still eat the pasta. better to take... precautionary measures for my pipsqueak. did you even check the expiration date?"

ignoring his question, you did a quick lookover of the room, looking for the camera he had somewhere as he only laughed. "maybe instead of looking for the cameras, find what else i modified in the house, it'll keep you occupied. i'll order you food in the meantime."

you groaned, flopping back against the couch. “caleb, i swear, if you messed with anything else—”

“if? honey, i definitely did.”

your eyes narrowed. “like what?”

“mmm, can’t say. that’d ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

you let out a dramatic sigh. “you are a menace.”

“and you love me for it.”

unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

you stood up, glancing around the apartment, suddenly suspicious of everything. you had no idea when he found the time to do all this, but knowing caleb, he planned ahead weeks in advance, just for moments like these.

the phone call was cut short as commotion started on his mission, leading you to sadly have to hang up.

you sighed, setting your phone down and eyeing the apartment with renewed suspicion.

as if on cue, you heard a soft click.

you turned your head slowly.

the front door.

more specifically, the new deadbolt that you definitely hadn’t installed.

your stomach dropped. oh, no.

another quick text from caleb.

caleb <3: your food is outside, i unlocked the door for you to grab it <3 be quick.

you did as he said, quickly grabbing the food delivery from outside, the door locking as soon as you got back in.

[name]: caleb. why is the door locked from the outside?

it took him a moment to reply, likely caught up with work, but when his name finally popped up on your screen, you already knew you wouldn’t like his answer.

caleb <3: oh, that? safety measures, honey. u can unlock it, but only through the app i installed on ur phone :)

you blinked. what app?

as soon as you asked, a new icon appeared on your screen—a sleek little security app with a familiar-looking otto icon.

caleb <3: just in case u ever get any funny ideas about leaving late at night alone.

your jaw dropped.

[name]: caleb. you remote locked me inside our home.

caleb <3: our very safe home! where nothing bad can happen to u!! :D i'll text u when i get to safety, enjoy ur food pipsqueak!

i love caleb btw

[angelyuji]

some yandere stan and ford thoughts:

tw // stalking, nonconsensual picture taking, breaking and entering, general yandere themes

18+!!!!!

saw someone say stan would take polaroid pics of you after fucking you and im gonna take that and go further with yandere creepy boss stan taking pictures of you. like remember when i said he would call you into his office to make u do stupid tasks for him? he would sooo take upskirt/ass pics of you when you’re bent over. if we’re at the stage of him manipulating you into having sex or something, when you’re not looking, he’s taking pictures of you naked or while you have his dick in your mouth. for blackmail (and to “rub one out” to later)



yandere ford, who’s trying to get used to life back in gravity falls, sees you and realizes you’re perfect to stalk watch (for science!! to see how regular people behave in society these days). he writes notes in his journal about you. these notes start off innocent like “they say good morning and smile at everyone they pass - this is behavior the average fall’s citizen exhibit” to “they waves hello to me today when i passed them at their work - my careful scheduling is working” to “the door to their home was open and i carefully catalogued every article of clothing they own- *lists your sizes in underwear, tshirts, and more*”

[nyancrimew]

Confession: When I was freshly 21, I had a meltdown after finding out a 'friend' (S) had been quietly stalking me for years and had dozens of pictures of me on their phone from before we met.

S decided this arguably reasonable reaction was a sign of me being possessed by a demon. Specifically, a shadow demon living in my spine. They convinced our superstitious and naive mutual friend D to help attempt an exorcism. And by 'exorcism', I mean dragging me in front of my house at 2 am and burning my drawings on the sidewalk while chanting in broken old Norse while making me kneel in front of it. I pretended my spine was burning hot and that it was successful so they would just leave.

But no. They collect the ashes of my drawings, shove me in D's car, drive me out to a cornfield in the middle of nowhere, and make me throw the ashes in the ditch. I am almost 27 now and I'm still sometimes freaked out by what happened.

It's been years since I've spoken to S, but they still occasionally show up at events I go to. Would it be morally wrong to pretend I am in fact STILL "possessed by a shadow demon" if I were to encounter them in public?

hoooooly shit what the fuck

[beggars-opera]

Chappell Roan calling out stan culture as she should!!

I especially loathe the norm of "that's just part of the package of being in entertainment, if you don't like it don't do music/acting/sports," sincerely, fuck anyone who says this. There is nothing inherent in the entertainment industry that should force you to sign away your right to exist in the world without being harassed. And yes, even a polite ask for a photo counts as harassment when someone has told you it makes them uncomfortable, when it happens every five minutes ad nauseam. This is an intentional cultural problem that we can change.

[hotyanderedaddies]

Blake Gives You a Valentine's Day Gift

[Yandere Bully]

[Here's a short oneshot with Blake which takes place before he claims you! And Happy Valentine's Day!]

[Yandere! Bad Boy x GN! Nerdy Reader]

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

Valentine’s Day: the day for couples to express their love to one another.

Sometimes you felt a little annoyed about the over-commercialization of a holiday that was meant to celebrate love… but a little part of you also knew deep down that you said that because you were single on Valentine’s Day.

Sighing, you tried your best to ignore the scores of lovey dovey couples walking down the hallways of the crowded school. 

All you wanted to do was get home as soon as possible so that you could spend the night just lounging around in bed— binge watching tons of crappy reality TV shows while eating a whole box of parmesan Cheez-Its.

It sounded perfect!

Your locker door slammed shut, jolting you out of your envious stupor and making you jump back.

Standing there, his large hand placed onto the front of your locker door, was Blake: the ultimate school bully, and someone who you tried your hardest to avoid at all costs.

“Here,” Blake grunted as he forcefully shoved something at you.

“Wha—?” you wondered aloud as you examined the stuffed animal that had been thrusted into your hold. It was a classic teddy bear with a cute little red bow around its neck. You looked up at the bully with confused eyes.

A pinkish hue formed on Blake’s face and he averted his gaze from yours for a brief moment. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he muttered.

Before you could say anything, Blake turned around and disappeared down the hallway, swallowed up in the crowd of other students.

You examined the teddy bear in your grasp, wondering why on earth Blake would give it to you of all people. You barely even spoke to the guy! Why would he want to give you a gift on Valentine’s Day?

You kept puzzling over it for the rest of the day, and even when you got home.

You placed the teddy bear on your desk in your bedroom, which was positioned across from your bed. You kept eying the teddy bear, still confused to no end. 

Blake was the scary school bully who never spoke to people, unless it was to tell them to fuck off. So why would he want to give you a Valentine’s Day present?

It made no sense to you at all.

But still, you couldn’t help but smile the tiniest bit that you had your very first Valentine’s Day gift from a guy… even if that guy was Blake.

Chuckling a little to yourself, you quietly muttered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Blake” to the teddy bear before returning your attention back to the TV…

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Blake,” you said, your audio being caught perfectly by the hidden camera in the teddy bear.

Blake eagerly watched the video feed on his phone, staring hungrily at the image of you sprawled out on your bed. Even though you were clad in a hoodie and sweatpants, Blake was still rock hard as he imagined himself wrapped around your form, securing his arms and legs around you so that you couldn’t leave his side.

His heart raced faster when you said his name, and he grew desperate for you to say it again.

Buying that teddy bear with the hidden camera was the best idea he’s ever had, he truly felt. Now instead of having to wait all night and through the tortuous weekends to see you, Blake could get a glimpse of his darling any time he wanted.

Blake’s been madly in love with you ever since he first laid eyes on you.

He knew from that moment that you were made for him — meant to be his, and his alone.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” Blake whispered, his fingers caressing your image on the screen. “I love you so, so much. And I promise we’ll be together really soon.”

[dumblr]

And one morning, your name didn't hurt. I didn't stalk you, I didn't miss you. I was finally happy.

[iku-tihku]

Ghostface x reader idea

cw for stalking, mention of murder, for once Ghostface isn't the one doing the stalking

You have a stalker. That much is undeniable. The creepy phonecalls, detailed descriptions of what you'd done during the day, sometimes an odd sound came in from outside during the long nights left you wondering if this'd be the last night you'd sleep in your own bed, and you hoped the sock covered bat would be enough to keep you safe, should they get bold and break in.

Why this Ghostface, as the caller introduced themself as, chose you, you weren't sure, but at the same time it was pointless to wonder, people don't need a reason.

Of course your exhaustion was evident, as well as the fearful glances over your shoulder, wondering if they were somewhere in the crowd. Outside you were a target but at least you weren't alone, surely, should they act, someone would see something, someone would help.

And he? Your dear friend, the monster in disguise?

He wasn't happy with the copycat who'd stolen his look and decided it'd be wise to torment you with it.

Unacceptable, of course, all of it. But what better way to spend his time than to be a knight clad in cloak armor for you?

Slowly the phonecalls stopped. The noises were just animals rummaging through trashcans. And a gory scene in the newspapers, detailing the death of some poor soul found in the woods, brutally murdered and abandoned, though the people's opinion soon changed when it evidence of the stalking spree was uncovered. The people celabrated the death of Ghostface, thinking themself free of the terror, unaware they'd celebrated the death of a cheap knockoff.

And there was something you kept to yourself, told no one of, a letter that had appeared on your doorstep the same day the body was discovered.

"You don't have to worry your pretty little head about them anymore, dollface ;)

~The real deal"

Am I cooking or is it just the lack of sleep

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

More Platonic Bruce x Reader than Batfam, but they are mentioned and will have a bigger role in the future.

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect

Just a reminder for everyone, your bodies are perfect and beautiful! Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise.

Part 2

Part 3

Blinding lights and hundreds of eyes are enough to thwart people from the runway. It makes people stumble, trip, or even run from it. Their mind focuses on if they mess up, the world will see. Their managers, agencies, everyone will forever refer to it when they ask them to walk for them again. 

They focus on their walk, the way the clothing either hugs or drapes off their bodies, how the shoes don’t fit, the way their hair is styled, and how the makeup can burn. They try not to focus on how their stomachs ache, how the heels cut into the thin skin on their feet, and that everyone in this room that is dressed and prepped, are equally or more or less beautiful than them. 

Y/N L/N seemed to be the topic of conversation at all of these events. A newer runway model who has been eating it up. From their first runway debut to this one, they have always left people in awe and dropping to their knees for more. It is hard to believe that they are only 18. Y/N has been a photoshoot model since 15, but on their birthday when they turned 18, they finally agreed to their agency’s desire to make them take on the runway. 

It was the best choice for their career. Y/N’s manager was the daughter of their mother’s manager, back when she was alive and used to do modeling. Her manager threw her own daughter at Y/N, and stated that they were the best people to work with because they know Y/N. Whether Y/N was cursed or not –they have yet to figure that out– has nearly the same exact features as their mother and the same ‘air.’ One that demanded everyone to pay attention to them, and is a natural for posing and had a natural strut. 

They’ve been right, and Y/N doesn’t know if it is because of them that they all made it this far. They knew what looked best on Y/N and what wouldn’t work. They knew which designers would adore them and which designers wouldn’t fit. 

Those who know Y/N though understand that the ‘air’ was only on the runways and photoshoots. Y/N is actually a very demure person, while not a wallflower, they were someone who could blend in the crowd. 

Alfred once told them that every country should be grateful to not have Y/N working against them, because Y/N can just disappear. 

“Y/N, are you ready?” They smiled at their fellow models, slipping into the person of Y/N L/N, child of M/N L/N and Bruce Wayne, and nodding, “Of course. When am I not?” 

Cheryl whistled, a fellow model that has been Y/N’s mentor in some way, walking around Y/N and smiling, “Designers sure know how to dress you up. I think almost every runway walk has had your hips on display” Y/N chuckled at her, “It’s because of these hips dips. You can probably drink soup out of them.” 

“If it was ice cream I’d be down, but not soup.” Jon was another model who has been in the scene for a long time. He was a handsome man with a diamond face. 

“Models get ready.” A shuffling of feet and high heels clip clopping sounded in the backstage, and Y/N took their place in front of everyone. They will be the one opening the show today, an honor that the 18-year-old took gratefully. 

Opening a show was a big deal, setting the tone for the show in general and also the tempo. Y/N took a deep breath, and at the cue, their mind went blank as they began walking. Their eyes focused on the end camera, and the walk on beat to the music. Once at the end, they looked directly into the camera and struck a pose. Highlighting the slit hips and underboob design, showing off the almost sheer fabric that had the slightest hint of shimmer in them. A statement piece. 

Turning around they walked back to where they emerged from, making sure they kept their face in control for the last camera. However, a sight at the corner of their eye momentarily broke them out of their blank space. Five familiar people that should not be here. Sitting in the front row, wearing nice tuxedos, and almost making Y/N stumble. 

Almost. Controlling their features, Y/N returned their focus to the camera and disappeared in the entrance they emerged from. Smiling at all the 'congratulations’ ‘you looked great,’ ‘you look beautiful,’ they went back to their manager, Maya, and whispered, “I need you to confirm five people in the front row on the left side. They are four chairs down from the camera.”

Maya nodded, scurrying away and without a doubt checking it out. Y/N could feel the curiosity and dread build in their stomach. If they are who Y/N thinks they are, then the after party is going to be interesting. 

“What’s wrong?” Jon wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, bringing Y/N out their thoughts, “Nothing really. Just thought I saw some familiar faces.” Jon made a weird face, but dropped the issue when another model, Logan, strolled on over. 

“Did you see them?” 

“See who?” 

“The Wayne family! They are in the front row!” Y/N closed their eyes in misery and a headache began forming. They saw Maya running back, her face pale and a large frown on her face. Jon glanced at Y/N, taking in the annoyed expression and scrunched nose, “Hmm, no I didn’t. I was too focused on looking at the camera, Logan.” She rolled her eyes, “Oh, it was only a second.”

Jon and Y/N gave each other a dry look, remembering the last time Logan had said that and somehow the camera managed to snap a photo when she was oggling at someone. Y/N shook their head, “I momentarily saw them, but I didn’t think it was them. Do you think I can get the oldest son’s number?” 

‘You’re not his type.’  Y/N thought but didn’t say, shrugging and smiling in amusement, “Logan, what would your girlfriend say?” The model stuck her tongue, “She’d ask to join.” Before Logan could say anything else, Cheryl waltzed over, “Stop being inappropriate, there’s a kid present.” 

“Hey!” 

“Sorry, if you can’t drink yet you can’t have this conversation.” Y/N made a face, “That’s the stupidest sense of logic I have ever heard.” Everyone laughed at them, clapping Y/N’s shoulders and helping each other fix their wardrobes. Some stylists came over to fix their makeup and hair just in case. Everyone was getting ready for the last walkthrough, and honestly, Y/N was dreading it. 

As the front runner of it all, Y/N’s face will be seen by the now confirmed Wayne family and Y/N isn’t confident in themselves enough to not make a face. 

The show will be closing soon and then there is the afterparty that all models are expected to attend. It's a networking place, where other designers, brand ambassadors, and just people who are rich enough to get a ticket can talk to the models and try and recruit them. Its a place and time to mingle for those who have an open schedule and unfortunately, Y/N has an open fucking schedule. 

This was their last show in Paris, and then they have one destination and then it will be done. Runway season will be officially over and then it will be smaller gigs and back to the every now and then runway. 

“Models get ready!” Y/N took a deep breath and fixed their face, eyes forward and chin up. 

‘I’ll call Alfred when I get home.’ 

+++

‘I want to go home.’ Y/N nursed the drink in the flute, filled with sparkling cider instead of champagne. They stood off to the side, changed out of the clothes they wore on the runway, and instead in a deep-v top and leather pants. Still dressed to impress, but at the moment they just wanted to curl up and go away. Y/N’s hotel room has a bathtub in it and Y/N really wants to just sit down in hot water and relax. 

Y/N was constantly scanning the crowd, moving further against the wall whenever they saw black hair and blue eyes. 

Maya said one more hour, then it will be acceptable to leave. She was doing all  the talking and networking for Y/N, trusting that when it came to meet the designers Y/N will charm them enough to want to have them keep coming back. Sighing once more, Y/N took a longer sip and wished to be home. 

Something moved the hair near their ear, and Y/N almost threw their glass at whoever it was until they caught sight of blue eyes and black hair, staring at and analyzing them. 

“Tim…” 

“Hello, Y/N.” Y/N gave a practiced and polite smile, “Odd to see you here.” Tim shrugged, “Seeing that the designer is friends with Bruce, and told us of your show and that you will be leading the walk, of course we had to come.” Y/N nodded, “In Paris?” 

“Where else? You’re next one is in New York right?” Y/N gave a polite chuckle, “Since when did you pay attention to fashion week?” Tim took a sip of champagne, “Since my younger sibling decided to run off and become a model.” 

Y/N took a sip of the sparkling cider, not missing the way Tim was eyeing them with interest and curiosity. They smiled against the rim of the flute, “ ‘Run off’ huh. I don’t think those are the words I would use. I never hid it and I didn’t pack my bags in the middle of the night and sneak through a window.” Y/N set the empty flute down, still smiling politely at Tim who was still watching them, “I simply walked out the front door and no one stopped me.” 

“Y/N–” 

“Y/N! There you are!” A tall woman, hair dyed a shade-off from white gray and wearing the crispest red suit, strolled over. Y/N gave a larger smile, opening their arms and welcoming the hug, “Ms. Gabbana, you look lovely as always.” The woman laughed, “That’s the botox. Anyways, you looked so amazing opening the show!” 

Tim was quickly forgotten as Francesca Gabbana, an Italian high-end fashion designer and luxury brand owner, chatted away with Y/N. Her presence called forth other designers and models and soon enough, Y/N was entrapped in a small group talking about the next runway show next week. 

They talked about the dreaded flight to New York, and where they will be staying. It will be Francesca’s show next week, along with some other high end designers. Francesca seemed particularly excited for Y/N’s, and when Y/N first saw the design, they had to hold back the shivers.

“Right, Y/N you’re from Gotham aren’t you? Will you be visiting your family?” With the attention all on Y/N, they smiled tightly and shrugged, “We’ll see. They are always so busy so I think it's best if I don-” 

“I hope Y/N visits, it’s been a while since we last saw each other.” A large hand clapped Y/N’s shoulder, and from the facial expression everyone was making, Y/N knows who it was. Peeking up through their lashes, Y/N could see Bruce’s smile on his still handsome face. 

Cheryl was the first to recover, her eyes narrowing slightly, “How… how do you know each other?” Y/N glanced at Bruce, who right now is Brucie, and before he could say anything Bruce gasped, “Y/N, you haven’t said anything?” The young adult shrugged, “It never came up. Bruce Wayne is my father.”

The room erupted, and Y/N actually wanted to go die in a hole. What proceeded afterwards was the most intense questioning for the next two hours. 

++++

“Bruce, why are you here?” Y/N asked over dinner. He tossed the crouton around in his salad, waiting for his father’s response. They have never had a 1 on 1 meal together. It was alway family meals, and even then Y/N rarely showed up for those. There was no need too. They never noticed when Y/N was there or not. 

The Billionaire playboy shrugged, “Is it wrong to see my child open a highly sought after show?” Y/N chuckled, “No, but you have never shown any interest in this before.” Y/N never hid his modeling gigs. Often using the family weight room to keep in shape and also turned one of the unused offices into a strut practice room when Y/N lived in the manor. Hours and the amount of money spent to ensure their skin was perfect and their hair was nice, and that they looked beautiful. 

Y/N never hid their modeling job, even as a teen, and yet the only one who seemed to notice was Alfred. 

“You never said anything.” 

“I didn’t think I had too.” Y/N can recall trying to show Bruce, Dick, Jason, anyone that would bother to look, a photo of them making it onto Vogue. Not the cover, not yet, but as a newer model within the prestigious magazine. They made it at 16. 16, and only modeling for a year! Francessca had them in a piece that was first page worthy, and it fit Y/N like it was meant for them. 

Alfred was the only person to look at the magazine Y/N held open with their trembling hands, and ruffle their hair and congratulate them. 

“You didn’t even tell Alfred where you are living.” No, because Y/N doesn’t want Alfred showing up unexpectedly and seeing the almost empty fridge. The thought of the older man’s disappointed look and inquisitive questions would have Y/N breaking down crying. 

“Hmmm, I’m always moving around so I didn’t want him showing up when I am not there.” Bruce nodded, taking a bite of his lobster, and watching Y/N take a small bite of the salad. Y/N swallowed with great difficulty, “Bruce-” 

“Since when does a child call their parents by their first name?” Y/N sucked their teeth, “The only one who calls you ‘father’ is Damian.” 

“You used to.” Y/N shrugged, “You never seemed comfortable with me calling you that.” Bruce rarely answered when Y/N called him ‘dad’ or ‘father,’ and yet he alway responded when someone else called for him.  Y/N would watch from afar as Bruce came running to them in need, but when Y/N needed help they had to figure it out on their own. 

At some point Y/N stopped calling for Bruce entirely, running and calling only to Alfred.

Y/N is not mad about it. They never were. Dull E/C eyes accepted it and pushed forward, watching the explosive fights, the angry words, and the silent apologies. Alfred’s words affirming that they all loved each other, despite everything saying otherwise. Y/N watched, and continued to watch as they focused on themselves when Y/N began making a name for themself. 

They’re not mad. Y/N never was. Hurt? Maybe, but not mad. That is just their hand in life. Besides, it made the modeling career easier. No need to worry about missing any events, Y/N wouldn’t be invited even if they had lived there. Holidays weren’t huge, nor were birthdays. The only one Y/N sent a card to was Alfred. 

It made traveling easier. There was no such thing as homesickness. It made taking more gigs easier, more destructive behavior easier to handle. 

“Y/N,” Bruce called to him and Y/N paused while eating. Raising an eyebrow in question as Bruce set down his own eating utensils. Ocean blue met E/C, and Y/N tried to place the emotion in those blue eyes. 

“For what it is worth, I… I am sorry about the neglect you have faced within our home.” Y/N’s mind stopped functioning and they stared at Bruce in shock. The man either ignoring him or not realizing that Y/N was staring at him continued. 

“You… you didn’t deserve that, especially when you were grieving and that fact that I could not see that shows my fail–” 

“Wait wait wait!” Y/N held their hands up, cutting off Bruce, “What are you talking about?” Bruce stared at Y/N with questions in his eyes, and blinked in shock when he saw the genuine confusion in his child’s eyes. Y/N looked floored, “Bruce… I-I… what?”

Bruce knows he’s not a good parent. He is intimately aware of his failings and shortcomings, and how some of them haunt him. They claw into his skin, his mind, and chest as a reminder of all the times he has failed his children. He and Dick barely started talking, Jason and him are slowly mending that bridge, and Tim and Damian seem to hate each other and Bruce doesn’t know what to do about that. It seems the only children he hasn’t officially fucked over are those that aren’t even his. 

Then there’s Y/N. A child of his genetic makeup, just like Damian, only Y/N’s mother was a model Bruce had treated as a hookup whenever she was on the east coast. Y/N was 13 when they came into Bruce’s care, older than Damian and a few years younger than Tim. Their mother was caught in a drug-use scandal, one that cost her her career and then her life. Her choice left behind a traumatized child, walking in on the body as she decomposed in their bathroom. They had been forced to pack up their bags and move across the country to live with a parent that they only heard about once or twice. 

Bruce somewhat knew of Y/N. He knew that Y/N’s mother had been pregnant, but when he asked if she wanted child support, the woman huffed and said ‘no thank you.’ Her income was enough, as a high in demand supermodel, and she didn’t need Bruce’s ‘pity’ money. 

So, he never sought after her and she never phoned him. 

Until CPS called and told him of the news and the now homeless 13-year-old child he was now in charge of. 

Y/N and him never really connected, and Bruce wonders if some of that is his own fault. He was always too busy with Batman, then his drama with Dick, and Jason’s whole dying thing, the persona of Brucie Wayne, then there was Tim, then Jason coming back from the dead thing, then Barbara’s whole Joker incident, then Damian…. 

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t too busy, he just never made time for Y/N. Which, the other never seemed to complain about. If they did complain to Alfred, the butler never said anything, and neither did their brothers. Y/N was just a ghost living in the manor that showed up for meals because it was expected, and then… left. 

Now he sits here, across from his child who doesn’t seem to understand the wrong done to them by not only Bruce, but the rest of the family. 

“Where did this come from?” Bruce doesn’t have the heart to tell them that it was because of Alfred that Bruce and the family finally realized what was wrong. The tour of Y/N’s old room, still kept clean due to Alfred’s insistence, but instead of clothes on the ground and signs of life within the room, it had photos of Y/N's past modeling gigs. Hundreds of photos, some framed, some not, as they covered the walls. Magazines that had Y/N on the front cover, magazine pages that had Y/N taking up the entire page.

The tour of the room-turned-practice room. Full of mirrors, and a 4 inch wide ply board used to practice walking. The shoes that were hidden in the closet, some too big and some too small. Blood staining the heel area of most of them as the image of Y/N practicing until and through the blisters filled all their heads. 

The meal regime, still written hastily down on the post it notes, and the exercise routine that didn’t match the calorie intake. The broken mirrors in Y/N’s closets and the clothes that now looked like they would be too big on the present-day Y/N that is sitting in front of Bruce.

The written blogs, printed and folded in one of their drawers, relating them back to their mother. Accusing them of the same thing they accused M/N. Highlighting Y/N’s faults, Y/N’s mistakes, Y/N’s features, and Y/N’s heritage. 

‘Child of drug-abuser model M/N L/N, Y/N L/N using the same drug?’ A 15-year-old Y/N posed in a way to show their figure was the picture that was used. 

‘Child of famous model M/N L/N able to hold up to the heat?’ Another photo of a 16-year-old Y/N looking exhausted as they walked out of a building. Eyes red and bags under their eyes. 

‘Beauty genes skipped a generation.’ Y/N is 17 in that photo. 

‘Y/N M/N will never be as beautiful as M/N L/N without extensive work.’  Y/N is 15 again in this photo. They had kept every critique, every mean and poorly written article about them, and kept them. Some of them were tweets, printed instagram photos, and magazines. 

Bruce could see the drastic changes in Y/N throughout the photos. The strict lifestyle changes affected their appearance and made them look even more like M/N. The Y/N in front of him, still beautiful, but Bruce knows the thoughts behind the perfect skin and perfect hair. 

It would seem that one of the things Y/N inherited from Bruce would be the internalizing of every little bad thing to happen, and deny that it has affected them while they wore the scar of it on their sleeves. 

“Bruce, you didn’t neglect me. I had food, clothes, a manor… where did you get all of that from?” 

“Emotional neglect is still neglect.” Y/N still looked confused, setting their fork down and controlling their expression as they processed that. Okay, so yeah maybe Bruce wasn’t an attentive father, but the man never hit Y/N. He never said anything about Y/N that Y/N would have to go to therapy for. Besides, Bruce’s lack of attention paved the way for Y/N to do this! 

Y/N’s lips formed a serene smile, “Bruce, I’m not mad that you didn’t pay attention to me. You were busy with your company, you are legally a dad of five kids, not everyone is going to get the same attention.” They took a sip of the water, hoping the conversation would end there. 

“It wasn’t that I was busy, I just never made time Y/N… and for that I am sorry.” Y/N hates this. Absolutely hates this. All of their excuses for Bruce are being shot down by Bruce himself and it was leaving Y/N feeling a little raw. Wounds they didn’t even know about now being rubbed with salt. 

Y/N stuck their tongue in their cheek and looked around, before smiling once more, “Bruce, I am literally giving you a way out for your guilt, which I still don’t understand why you’re feeling guilty, so why aren’t you taking it? 

“What are you hoping to do?” Bruce stared into E/C eyes and he could see the irritation in them. He set his fork and knife down, and leaned forward, “Is it wrong to try and mend broken bridges?” 

“The bridge was never broken in the first place.” 

“You’re right, and that’s because there was never a bridge in the first place.” Y/N cocked their head to the side, watching with an intense expression. Those E/C eyes flickering around, taking in the restaurant and narrowing their eyes, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but did you rent out the entire restaurant?” 

“I did. So we can talk freely.” 

“The other ‘customers’ are Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian.” Bruce nodded, “Family dinner.” Y/N’s smile held no amusement, “You know, if you were anybody else I would be thinking this is a way for you to slide back in my life in hopes you could get some of my paycheck. But what is a model’s paycheck to Bruce Wayne’s?” Bruce chuckled, “You are making quite a bit. I’m happy you're conscious of your position now.” 

Y/N sipped the water, “How do you know how much I’m making?” Bruce only smiled and continued eating. He watched his child contemplate asking the question again, but then decided to drop it. 

‘Smart.’ Y/N continued to watch him, no longer touching the food and seeming unwilling to even look at the dessert menu. 

“You’ll visit when you’re back in the states, right?” It didn’t feel like a question. In fact, it felt more like a demand poised as a question to keep intentions hidden. Y/N gulped, “I’ll try.” 

“You should, Alfred misses you. Besides, Manhattan, New York isn’t too far from Gotham.” It was such an innocent sentence. One spoken with a smile on his lips and kind sky blue eyes. An innocent sentence, except Y/N has never once told them where they live. 

“A beautiful place, I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave. With windows like those and that giant skylight, it is truly a wonderful place befitting a top model such as yourself.” Y/N’s mouth went dry, and they could feel the sweat on the back of their neck as they continued to stare at Bruce. Their instincts implore them to go along with this. 

Urging them to carry on the conversation as they felt the gazes of four others on their back. They gave a wobbly smile, “Ye-yes. I really love it, I am super lucky that I managed to have enough saved up, and that I make enough to own a beautiful home such as that.” Bruce nodded, “As an apology for all the missed birthdays and Christmases, I decided to help out a bit.”

“...Excuse me?” Bruce ignored them, and instead looked at their plate that was still untouched from when Y/N had put down the utensils. He took a bite, “Do you not like your food? I can get something else made for you.” 

“N-no, I’m-I’m just full.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed before making a show of shrugging it off, “If you insist. Do know Alfred will want to feed you when you visit.” Y/N’s smile was becoming hard to maintain, “It was a pleasure to have dinner with you, Bruce, but I have to go. Long flight tomorrow and I need to be ready for next week.” Y/N fished out their credit card, but Bruce stuck his hand out, “Don’t worry about it, dinner has been paid for.” 

Y/N didn’t fight, only nodding and smiling pleasantly, “I suppose I will see you next week?” Bruce stood up, and brought Y/N into a tense hug. Feeling the bone and sinewy muscles in his rough hands. Y/N’s top is open back, exposing the shoulder blades and some of Y/N’s spine. Each one a small knob against skin, looking like the Rocky Mountains. 

“Safe flight, Y/N. See you at the shows next week.” Y/N gave a tight smile and quickly left. The four other pairs of eyes never left their back, and when finally in the safety of the streets, Y/N pulled out their phone and checked their Mortgage app. 

‘Successfully Paid!’ In bright green letters, bolded as if it were a game. 

It’s been paid off. Y/N now owed nothing on that house, and while that might have been freeing, it meant someone could now have access to their mortgage account. An alert sounded on their phone, and when Y/N saw that it was their bank account, notifying them of a deposit Y/N felt the breath leave their lungs. 

A large sum, one that had Y/N blinking at the amount of 0’s, was just deposited to their checking account. Right under their bill for walking on that runway. 

‘Shopping money, for when you visit.’ - Dick 

They have access to their bank account. Y/N’s family, because while Bruce was a solitary kind of guy he never was one to withhold information from his former Robins, now had access to their account. They could see what they were spending money on. 

They know where Y/N lives. From the sounds of it, Bruce was even in the penthouse. Y/N covered their mouth and tried to stifle a sob, the feeling of an invasion of their privacy weighing heavy in their chest. 

++++

Y/N stared at the article of clothing with anxiety. When Francesca had first shown them the clothing, it had only caused slight discomfort. Now, now that Y/N knows that their family is here, and watching, the clothing had felt like it was a metal ball. Francesca stood next to them, admiring Y/N’s hair and makeup, and how it all looked with clothing item. 

“I knew this would look great on you. As a Gothamite, this must feel great right? To be wearing the symbol of your City’s greatest vigilante.” Y/N swallowed down the bile, “He’s typically seen as the boogeyman, but yes. I suppose it does feel odd wearing the symbol.” 

The piece of clothing was quite scandalous, a bat symbol made out of gold rest across their chest, attached to a black silk fabric and lace. It hugged their body, bringing out the hip dips and long legs, as well as exposing their toned stomach. 

“Why didn’t you say anything about you being Bruce Wayne’s kid?” Francesca asked, and Y/N could only shrug, “Just… it just never came up.” Y/N loves that Francesca drops that. There are tons of models who have family issues. Y/N’s are minor. 

Not worthy of anything. 

“Y/N, for what it is worth, I do think you are a one in a century model. No one has taken to the runway quite like you have. I think if you had started the runway earlier you would already be a supermodel.” Y/N smiled at Francesca’s kind words, and they wondered just how they got so lucky to have befriended her.��

“Thank you.” 

“Models get ready!” Y/N took to the back of the line, being offered to close the show just after they had opened one. Another prestigious offer that Y/N gratefully took. Sighing heavily, they watched as the line grew shorter and the sound of cameras flashing and grew louder. 

Taking a deep breath, they steeled their breathing and controlled their expressions. Blocking out the world in the way they do best, strutting. The intensity of the flashes increased, and Y/N made a show of keeping their face neutral. 

Just how Batman does. 

They made a point to not look at the people in the front row. When they made it back behind the entry way, there was no time to catch their breath. They were ushered back into line for the final walk out, and Y/N wonders if they can all see how pale Y/N is. Can they see the sweat on their brow or the fact that their E/C eyes are terrified? 

“You did great Y/N!” 

“Looking beautiful Y/N.” 

“C’mon Y/N, after this its a party!” 

No, no they can’t see it because they are all focused on what Y/N wants them to be focused on. Y/N has spent countless hours into ensuring they loook beautiful without makeup, and ethereal in it, no one will care about their inner thoughts and turmoils. 

Y/N strutted to the music one last time, focusing on the flashing light and hoping that the photos they captured showed exactly what Y/N wants them to see. Once they were in the back, the models stripping and changing into comfortable clothes and all of them getting ready for the afterparty, Y/N stayed seated. The pads of their fingers running against the cold metal that was in the shape of a bat across their chest as their makeup artist and hairstylist undid all of their work. 

Francesca smiled, “You were great Y/N, I knew you would be the right person to pull this off.” 

“Thank you, what inspired this piece if you don’t mind me asking.” Francesca smiled, “Oh, I got a call actually. It was just a call to run the idea by me, but I loved it so much that I accepted it.” Y/N furrowed their brow, “A call?” They began to strip out of the clothing, but Francesca’s startled look made them pause. 

“...What?” 

“You’re not going to keep it on?” Y/N gave a confused look, “We don’t keep clothes, Francesca.” The stylist smiled, “Well, no. But Y/N, that was a commission for you.” Y/N stared at Francesca with a new found fear, and their mouth going dry as they processed it all. 

“Who… who did you say the call was from?” Francesca beamed, “Your father, who by the way I am offended you didn’t say anything about, Bruce Wayne.” Large hands clapped their shoulder, and Y/N would have shouted if it weren’t for the familiar smell of cologne. 

Turning around, they met Bruce’s blue eyes, and the blue eyes of their siblings. All of them dressed to the nines and eyeing the clothes. 

“Truly a wonderful piece, Ms. Gabbana. I could not thank you enough.” 

“Of course! Thank you for the idea!” Y/N felt their breath quicked when Dick’s hands gripped their wrist, and gently tugged them in his direction, “C’mon Y/N, you’ll be late to dinner. Alfred is making your favorite.” 

“At least let them change, Dick.” 

“Todd is right, a drive in that would be difficult. Not to mention that  it is snowing outside.” 

“Y/N, we have some clothes for you. They should be more comfortable then the clothes you came in.” Y/N couldn’t even say anything as they were dragged away, Bruce keeping Francesca busy while their brothers pushed them into a changing room. Dick smiling gently as he passed the bag of Y/N’s clothes, taken from their penthouse, into Y/N’s trembling arms. 

“Bruce paid for that outfit, so try not to ruin it, okay? We’ll be waiting out here for you.” Dick booped their nose, and left Y/N alone in the changing room taht only had a curtain for a door. With trembling hands, they searched the bag for their phone. They have to call someone. Cheryl will help them. So would Jon. Maybe even Maya! Y/N just needs to call– 

“Y/N, we have your phone out here, so don’t panic.” Y/N bit their lip to stop themself from sobbing. One thing. They just want one thing to go right today. 

A knock sounded on the wood that was hoolding the curtain, “Y/N, do you need help?” 

“N-no! No, I’m just try-trying to be gentle with the piece.” Bruce hummed, “Well, try and hurry. Alfred is excited to see you and is expecting us for dinner in three hours.” Y/N gulped, carefully stripping and putting on the sweats and hoodie. Clothes that still smell like their laundry detergent and shoes Y/N knows were in their closet. 

‘Dear God.’ They whimpered as they slipped on the comfortable pair of shoes, and bagged the shoes from teh show, and carefully picked up the article of clothing. The gold bat symbol shining mockingly at them. 

The curtain pulled open, and like a horror photo, the light from behind them casted and eerie shadow. Bruce’s face hidden in teh darkness as he reached his hand out for Y/N, knowing full well his child cannot run. 

“C’mon Y/N, time to go home.”

______________________________________________________________

A Part 2 will definitely happen! Kinda has to, to be honest.

[thehomicidalbaby]

“Everyone wants a yandere partner until”

Until what? They have a mental/psychotic breakdown? They panic when I don’t answer in time? They threaten the lives of myself & everyone I know? They suspect I don’t love them or that I’m interested in someone else? They need my constant attention/affection or they feel like they’re going insane? It hurts them to be away from me? They lash out & harm me? They have uncontrollable thought/urges, mental illnesses & trauma that make them feel unloveable?

Sweetheart, there is no “until”. I love you. No matter what illness you have. No matter if you hurt me. No matter if you hurt yourself. No matter how many times I need to reassure you. No matter the severity of your episodes. You think I care if you’re insane? That is precisely why I chose you, the reason that I want you. You can’t scare me away. I’m here, darling. I’m not going anywhere & neither the fuck are you.

[rose24207]

I. LOVE. MAFIA. LANDO. 🥵

Can I please request where the reader and Lando dated but lando broke up with her because he wanted to keep her safe, heartbroken and angry reader goes on date with a guy she met while shopping but what she didn't know was this guy an enemy of Lando and Lando being himself didn't stop loving reader and kinda stalks her with secrety camera everywhere she goes and his men looking after her from a far and when they tell Lando who they saw asking reader on date and her agreeing he goes to her house angry but reader just doesn't care and that's when Lando tells her everything. And a happy ending, please.

If he gets too close…

Summary: Lando breaks up with you to keep you safe from his dangerous world, but when you unknowingly agree to a date with one of his enemies, his protective instincts override his restraint, forcing him to confront both his feelings and the secrets he’s kept from you.

Genre: Mafia!Lando

TW: Mafia, breakup, stalking

A/N: et voilà! There you go!! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The night Lando broke up with you was one of the worst nights of your life.

You remembered the way he stood in the dimly lit living room, his hands in his pockets, his expression distant. It felt as though the air between you had frozen solid. His usual warmth—the soft eyes, the small smiles—was gone.

“It’s over, Y/N.”

His voice was cold, resolute. It felt like a punch to the chest.

“What?” you whispered, disbelief rendering you breathless.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Lando said, avoiding your eyes. “It’s not safe—for you. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. You deserve better.”

You stepped closer, your voice trembling. “What are you talking about? I don’t need better, Lando. I need you.”

He flinched at your words but shook his head, jaw tightening. “This world I’m in—it’s dangerous, Y/N. I can’t keep pretending that I can protect you from it. The people I deal with… they’d hurt you just to get to me.”

“So what?” you shot back, tears streaming down your face. “You think breaking up with me will keep me safe? That I’ll just stop loving you because you’re scared?”

He closed his eyes, as though your words physically hurt him, but when he opened them again, his resolve was ironclad.

“You have to move on,” he said, his voice like stone. “Forget about me.”

And then, without another word, he left.

Heartbroken and angry, you tried your best to piece your life back together. You threw yourself into work, met up with friends, and tried to forget the ache in your chest every time you thought of Lando.

One afternoon, while shopping in the city, a stranger approached you. He was handsome, charming, and persistent. You’d brushed him off at first, but after weeks of wallowing, you decided to give it a chance.

“Why not?” you said with a small smile when he asked you out for coffee.

You didn’t notice the man in the corner of the café, pretending to read a newspaper. You didn’t see the subtle nod he gave to someone outside. You certainly didn’t know that Lando’s eyes were on you the entire time, watching through the discreet camera feeds he had set up around your apartment and the places you frequented.

The sight of you sitting across from another man felt like a knife twisting in Lando’s chest. He stared at the monitor in his office, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“Who is he?” Lando asked, his voice low and dangerous.

One of his men cleared his throat nervously. “We’ve identified him, sir. His name is Matteo Costa. He’s connected to the Mancini family.”

Lando’s blood ran cold. The Mancinis were one of his biggest rivals—a dangerous, ruthless crime family. The thought of you being anywhere near one of them sent a surge of fury through him.

“She doesn’t know who he is,” Lando muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“No, sir,” the man confirmed. “It seems like a coincidence. She met him while shopping.”

Lando stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I want eyes on her at all times. If he gets too close…” His voice trailed off, the threat unspoken but clear.

The man nodded. “Understood.”

When Lando showed up at your apartment later that night, you weren’t surprised. You’d expected anger, but the intensity in his eyes startled you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his presence overwhelming. “I need to talk to you.”

You scoffed, trying to mask the sting of seeing him after so long. “Now you want to talk? After you told me to move on?”

“Who was the man you were with today?” Lando demanded, his voice sharp.

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“The man,” Lando repeated, stepping closer. “At the café. Who was he?”

Your confusion quickly turned to anger. “Why does it matter? You don’t get to act possessive after breaking my heart, Lando.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he said through gritted teeth.

You laughed bitterly. “Protect me? From what? From you?”

“From him,” Lando snapped. “He’s not who you think he is, Y/N. Matteo Costa works for the Mancinis. He’s dangerous.”

You froze, the weight of his words sinking in. “What are you talking about?”

Lando sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This is why I left, Y/N. My world is filled with people like him—people who would hurt you just to get to me. I thought if I stayed away, you’d be safe.”

“And what? You’ve been stalking me ever since?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

“Yes,” Lando admitted without hesitation. “Because I couldn’t stop. Because I can’t stop caring about you.”

You stared at him, torn between anger and disbelief. “You think this justifies what you did? Breaking my heart and then spying on me?”

“I never stopped loving you,” Lando said quietly, his eyes searching yours. “Everything I’ve done was to keep you safe.”

“You can’t keep doing this, Lando,” you said, your voice breaking. “You can’t just show up and tell me what to do. You don’t get to control my life anymore.”

“I’m not trying to control you,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m trying to protect you. Matteo isn’t some random guy. He’s a threat.”

“I didn’t know that!” you shot back. “All I knew was that someone finally showed interest in me after you left me shattered. What was I supposed to do? Sit around waiting for you to change your mind?”

Lando’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Y/N. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Well, you didn’t,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “You hurt me more than anyone ever has.”

Lando reached out, hesitating before brushing a tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought I was protecting you, but I see now that I was wrong.”

The next day, Lando didn’t waste any time. He arranged a meeting with Matteo, making it clear that their interaction wouldn’t be civil.

“Stay away from her,” Lando growled, his fists clenched.

Matteo smirked, unfazed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lando stepped closer, his voice dangerously low. “If you so much as look at her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but Matteo finally relented, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Message received.”

When Lando returned to your apartment that night, he looked exhausted but relieved.

“What did you do?” you asked, your voice wary.

“I took care of it,” he said simply, sitting beside you. “Matteo won’t bother you again.”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know what to do with you, Lando.”

“Just let me love you,” he said softly, taking your hand in his. “Let me make it right.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his eyes breaking down your walls. Despite everything, you still loved him.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Lando’s smile was small but genuine, and as he pulled you into his arms, you felt the weight of the past few weeks begin to lift.

Whatever the future held, you knew one thing for certain: Lando Norris was yours, and he would protect you at all costs.

Thank you for reading!