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brunchable · 6 months ago

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It's not a Meet-𝑪𝒖𝒕𝒆, it's a Meet-𝗨𝗴𝗹𝘆.

《 Chapter 5: Your Crying Shoulder. 》

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: It's not a meet-cute, it's a meet ugly, Grumpy Meets ✨️Sunshine✨️, Opposites Attract, Sassy Pet Matchmaker, Enemies-to-Lovers (Lite), Destined to meet again, Bucky is a hidden softie. Summary: When everything falling apart, you found yourself in the arms of the person you least expected. A/N: This story will be OUTSIDE of MCU but Bucky's traits will be mixed comics/mcu. This will be updated every FRIDAY(AEST). I can't help but place a TikTok meme in here somewhere lmao. Credits to me for the Banner lmfao. credits to @ khaer for the divider.

Mission Report - J. B. Barnes To: N. Fury Subject: Family Dynamics

Key Findings

1. Family Structure

Y/N Y/LN: CEO of The Emporium NYC, handling New York operations, public relations, and key corporate responsibilities.

Jonathan [Half-Brother]: Oversees Miami branch expansions and operational strategies. Professional but distant relationship with Y/N, characterized by mutual respect and a clear division of responsibilities.

2. Operational Observations

Financial Irregularities: Offshore accounts linked to Emporium subsidiaries display significant fund transfers with unclear purposes. Investigating their potential connection to Hydra-related activities is a priority.

Board Affiliations: Certain board members are linked to political figures and tech firms specializing in advanced security technologies. Their involvement requires further investigation for possible ties to Hydra.

Employee Turnover: Leadership restructuring followed Y/N’s promotion. Several former executives now hold external consulting roles, potentially redirecting focus from Emporium’s internal operations.

3. Personal Relationships

Rhys: Y/N’s boyfriend and the son of a global luxury hotel mogul. While not directly involved in Emporium operations, his influential family ties and potential connections to Y/N's network merit attention.

4. Behavioral Insights

Y/N demonstrates dedication to her role but shows signs of frustration with corporate pressures. She appears unaware of financial irregularities within the organization, suggesting compartmentalization of information.

No evidence connects Y/N directly to suspicious activities. Monitoring her relationship with Rhys could provide additional context, as his background and resources may intersect with Emporium’s broader dealings.

Recommendations

1. Background Checks: Investigate board members, financial consultants, and Rhys’s family business for any links to Emporium's offshore holdings and potential Hydra connections.

2. Monitor Relationships: Subtly observe Y/N’s interactions with Rhys and board members for indirect insights.

3. Enhanced Financial Scrutiny: Deepen analysis of offshore accounts to establish potential links between Emporium funds and Hydra-backed projects.

End of Report

× × × ×

Figaro pranced confidently into Bucky’s apartment, his tail held high, a familiar item clamped between his teeth. Alpine looked up from her spot on the windowsill, tilting her head as she watched him strut across the room.

“Alpine,” Figaro greeted, setting down the item—a soft, worn scarf that unmistakably carried your scent.

Alpine sniffed at the scarf, then looked at Figaro, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Your human let you out with… that?”

Figaro settled down next to her, casually licking a paw.

“Oh, she doesn’t know I took it,” he replied with a lazy flick of his tail. “But I thought you might appreciate a little reminder of her.” He gave her a knowing look, lowering his voice. “She was patching up your human’s busted lip the other night, by the way.”

Alpine’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Did she now? And did you happen to notice the way he was looking at her?” she asked, her whiskers twitching.

“Oh, I noticed. He was all ‘I’m tough, but not too tough for you,’” Figaro said, imitating a dramatic swoon, then rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair. “Honestly, he’s got it bad. She was fussing over him, and he was eating it up like a kitten with a saucer of cream.”

Alpine purred thoughtfully. “Well, it’s about time. But he won’t admit that to himself.”

“Yeah, well, the issue,” Figaro continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “is that there’s another guy in her life. Rhys.” He spat out the name with as much disdain as a cat could muster. “Total bore. Calls her ‘baby’ like it’s some kind of magic spell. And he smells like cheap cologne. Honestly, his existence is an insult to felines everywhere.”

Alpine’s ears perked up. “So he’s competition?”

Figaro scoffed.

“Please. He’s like the knockoff toy they keep at the bottom of the discount bin. My human doesn’t even smile around him anymore; she just tolerates him. But every time your guy shows up, she lights up like it’s Christmas morning.” He stretched, his claws extending as if to make his point. “I’m telling you, we’ve got to get rid of him. For the sake of all that is right in the world.”

Alpine let out a thoughtful meow, eyeing the scarf Figaro had brought. “You know, if we could just keep nudging them together, maybe they’ll take the hint. They’re not too bright, but they’ve got chemistry.”

“Exactly!” Figaro said, his eyes gleaming. “Our owners are hopeless without us. This is a mission, Alpine. A noble mission. A mission to save her from that pathetic excuse for a partner.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “And frankly, if I have to listen to him call her ‘baby’ one more time, I might cough up a hairball on his shoes.”

Alpine let out a low chuckle, nudging Figaro with her paw. “Well then, Mr. Matchmaker. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, I’ve got ideas,” Figaro said, eyes narrowing as if deep in thought. “Plenty of ideas. After all, I’m doing the world a favor.”

× × × ×

There was cold silence since that tense encounter with Rhys, and though you’d pushed it to the back of your mind, his apology text had come through late tonight, begging you to talk. You decided, almost against your better judgment, to go. Maybe it was a habit, maybe just closure. But as you reached the hotel and made your way up to his office, a cold, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of your stomach.

The hall was dimly lit as you approached, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Then, as you neared the frosted glass door of Rhys’ office, you stopped in your tracks. Two silhouettes were visible through the blurred glass, close, intimate. You watched as Rhys pressed a woman—with a golden hair clip—against the glass, their forms locked together in a kiss that left little to the imagination.

Your throat tightened, a dull ache building in your chest as the weight of the betrayal hit you. To be honest, I felt like I already knew it, you thought, the silent admission somehow worse than the scene unfolding in front of you. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You tried to swallow down the emotions swirling within you—anger, sadness, and that unmistakable pang of disappointment. Being cheated on hurt, even when you’d mentally checked out of the relationship. It chipped away at something deeper, a quiet part of your self-worth you hadn’t realized still cared.

Water rimmed your eyes, but you blinked it back, refusing to let him take that from you too. You inhaled deeply, straightened your shoulders, and turned away from the office door, leaving as quietly as you’d arrived.

× × × × Fews days after

Bucky squinted, utterly baffled.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he muttered. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling absurdly judged by a cat.

Alpine huffed, letting out a short, dismissive meow, clearly unimpressed with whatever answer she’d decided on. She trotted off toward her food bowl, pausing just once to throw him a final, critical look before bending to eat.

“Alright, sure, just go back to ignoring me,” Bucky grumbled, watching her. But as he leaned against the counter, glancing down at the faint trace of your scent still on his sleeve, he couldn’t help feeling like Alpine had silently decided something about him that she wasn’t going to share anytime soon.

Bucky watched Alpine chowing down on her food, her tail flicking in satisfaction as she devoured each bite with gusto. He allowed himself a moment of peace, but then came the unmistakable sound of someone struggling with his lock.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, his mind flashing back to the night you’d drunkenly tried breaking into his apartment, mistaking it for yours. Swinging the door open, he was prepared for a repeat performance, only to be met with Sam, frozen in mid-action, his hand clutching a spare key. Behind him stood Steve, holding two large bags of takeout, and Nat, arms crossed with a smirk.

“Uh… hey, Buck,” Sam greeted, attempting a casual tone while quickly tucking the key behind his back like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

“Why are you trying to break into my place?” Bucky narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms.

Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Steve and Nat for backup.

“We’re, uh… your backup! Sent by Fury.” He flashed a grin that looked anything but innocent.

“Backup?” Bucky repeated, deadpan, as the three of them filed in with the casualness of seasoned intruders. “Fury said it was a simple assignment. Barely a mission.”

Steve rolled his eyes, giving Bucky a pitying look as he passed by to set down the bags on the table. “You really believed that? Seriously?”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get a word in, Nat had already made her way over to Alpine, who blinked up at her with the smug satisfaction of a cat who’d been expecting her. Nat scratched Alpine’s ears as Alpine purred, looking even more at ease than Bucky had ever seen her.

Just as Nat leaned down to pet Alpine, her gaze flicked up, catching sight of Bucky’s busted lip. She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Nice lip, Buck. Trouble on the way to the door?”

Bucky’s hand instinctively went up to his mouth. “Oh, that? I… tripped over Alpine.”

Steve’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing as he tried to keep a straight face.

“You tripped… over Alpine?” He looked down at the serene, not-at-all-menacing cat sitting contentedly by Nat’s side, then back up at Bucky, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh.

Bucky crossed his arms, his expression turning defensive. “It’s possible, alright? She’s tiny but lethal.”

Sam let out a snort. “Yeah, sure. I’m sure the Winter Soldier can handle a battalion of Hydra agents but gets taken out by a house cat.”

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” Bucky just rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as Sam already raiding the fridge like he owned it.

“Oh no, please, make yourselves at home. I’ll just find somewhere else to live, shall I?” Bucky’s voice was dripping with sarcasm as he watched the scene unfold.

“Buck, you have got to keep better beer in here. This stuff is practically water.” He settled on a bottle anyway, taking a long swig before glancing back at Bucky. “We’re just here to help, man. Think of us as… extended housemates.”

Bucky crossed his arms tighter, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Extended housemates?” He gestured at the room. “You act like you already live here!”

Steve, entirely unbothered, started setting out the food, carefully placing burgers on plates and arranging napkins. “We thought you might need a little company. I mean, it’s a Friday night, after all.”

“I’m perfectly fine alone, thanks,” Bucky replied, his gaze narrowing as he watched Sam polish off half a beer in one go. “How about you go keep each other company?”

Steve chuckled, handing a plate to Nat. “You said the same thing last time we showed up. Yet, here we are. Again.”

Nat, now comfortably settled on the couch with Alpine, flashed him a wicked grin. “Let’s not be dramatic, Bucky. Just think of us as… spontaneous visitors.”

“Visitors don’t usually come with their own keys,” Bucky grumbled, his gaze settling on Sam, who was busy rifling through his cabinets for snacks. “And they certainly don’t bring takeout to make themselves at home.”

Sam shrugged, unfazed. “You think of it as invading your privacy; I think of it as improving the vibe around here.”

Bucky let out an exasperated sigh. “I swear, one of these days, I’m changing the locks.”

“Good luck with that. We’ll just get new keys.” Nat smirked, scratching Alpine’s head as if she were orchestrating a coup.

Bucky glared, but Steve was already setting a plate piled with ribs and a burger in front of him. “Eat up, Buck. Before Sam devours everything like the human garbage disposal he is.”

Sam waved his beer bottle, looking completely unbothered. “Hey, I resent that. This is strategic eating. Besides, with your ‘barely-a-mission,’ we need all the fuel we can get.”

“I’m starting to think Fury set me up.” Bucky rubbed his forehead, exasperated but clearly losing the battle.

Steve just grinned, popping open his own beer. “I’m sure Fury thought you’d appreciate the backup.”

“Or at least tolerate it,” Sam added, grabbing a handful of fries and popping them into his mouth.

With a resigned sigh, Bucky sank into a chair, shaking his head. “You guys are impossible.”

“Impossible is our specialty,” Sam shot back, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To back up, and to Buck finally admitting he likes having us around.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” Bucky snorted.

Alpine purred louder, clearly pleased with the lively atmosphere, while Nat smirked at Bucky. “See? Even Alpine agrees. You’re just a grump with a soft spot for us, admit it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. But next time, bring your own key.”

“Oh, we will,” Steve assured him with a smirk. “And maybe a couch, a pillow or two.”

Sam, now munching contentedly on fries, raised his beer again. “To crashing Bucky’s place—where every night is a mission, and the food’s free.”

Bucky took a reluctant bite of his burger, trying to ignore how comfortable his “guests” had made themselves. Just as he was starting to think the worst was over, Steve casually leaned over to Sam, as if sharing a quiet plan.

“We’ll grab the rest of our stuff from the car when Buck’s asleep,” Steve said, completely deadpan.

Bucky nearly choked on his burger, staring at Steve like he’d lost his mind. “The rest of your stuff? What are you talking about?”

Sam, without missing a beat, grinned. “Perfect. Nat can take the bedroom, and the three of us can crash in the living room. It’ll be like a sleepover.”

Nat raised her eyebrows, feigning delight. “I called dibs on the bed, anyway. I always knew Buck had the fluffiest pillows.”

“Hold on, hold on! This isn’t some youth hostel! You all have your own places!” Bucky’s face twisted in horror as he looked around the room.

“Yeah, but none of our places have a view of you panicking about your personal space.” Steve looked unbothered, casually unwrapping another burger.

Bucky glared.

“I’m not panicking! I just—” He waved a hand in utter frustration. “This is my place! You can’t just... commandeer my bed!”

“Don’t worry, Buck. We’ll all be snug as bugs on the floor, reliving those good ol’ days in the barracks.” Sam leaned back, looking way too comfortable for someone who’d apparently just broken in.

“Except Nat,” Steve corrected, “who will be enjoying Buck’s luxurious mattress.”

Bucky looked to Alpine, almost pleading. “You see what I deal with? Even the cat respects my space more than you three!”

Alpine simply blinked, looking rather indifferent to her owner’s plight as she happily settled on Nat’s lap.

“Oh, come on, Buck,” Sam said, reaching over to ruffle Bucky’s hair. “We’ll make it fun! Popcorn, ghost stories, some embarrassing truths about Fury… just like old times.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve added, grinning. “Think of it as team bonding.”

Bucky threw his hands up. “This isn’t bonding! This is trespassing! And I don’t want to hear any ghost stories or truths about Fury. I want my bed, my couch, and my fridge not raided!”

Nat sighed, patting Alpine who purred louder. “Look, Buck. Clearly, Alpine’s on board. You’re outvoted.”

“Traitor.” Bucky narrowed his eyes, looking at Alpine in betrayal.

Steve chuckled, leaning back with a smug grin. “Face it, Buck. Tonight’s already decided.”

Bucky let out a resigned sigh, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath. “Next time, I’m leaving the country.”

× × × ×

You strode into the dimly lit restaurant, greeted by a chorus of cheers and mock applause as Serena, Mei, and Jane raised their glasses, voices rising in unison. "Woooo, here comes the CEO!"

You shook your head, laughing as you took your seat, subtly glancing around the table. Your gaze caught on one unfamiliar face, though it took a split second longer for the memory to click into place. Carly. She was Rhys' new assistant, a realization that caused your brow to lift just slightly. You’d thought she looked familiar from somewhere else, but with her new polished appearance and newfound confidence, it was hard to tell right away.

Chloe, ever the instigator, nudged Carly forward with a smile that held a hint of challenge.

“Ladies, meet Carly. You might remember her, Y/N. She used to work at The Emporium,” she said, her words smooth but her gaze pointed.

You kept your expression cool, a practiced smile settling on your lips. “Ah, that explains why she looks familiar.” You gave Carly a nod, and she responded with a forced smile, her eyes holding something less friendly beneath the surface.

The evening moved along, filled with laughter and a few rounds of drinks. Serena, Mei, and Jane offered congratulations, and Sarah, as always, played the role of your unwavering cheerleader, throwing a few enthusiastic compliments your way. But as the night flowed, it was Mei who leaned in, her voice dipping into a sympathetic tone.

“So, I heard Rhys de Armande cheated on you.”

You blinked, not expecting the topic to surface so bluntly. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, though a subtle flicker crossed your face.

“You forced a light laugh, though your jaw tightened beneath it. “Oh, it was probably because I told him to take his bare minimum and keep it out of my sight. Pretty sure he wanted to vanish into thin air after that, especially since his entire office got to witness it.”

Jane, Mei, and Serena burst into laughter, clearly picturing the scene as you animatedly relayed the story.

“Oh my gosh, that’s incredible,” Serena giggled, shaking her head. “He absolutely deserved every bit of that.”

You let out a faint laugh, flipping your hair back and letting it settle over your shoulder as you raised an eyebrow. “Ugh, I’m too busy with work to be hurt by this kind of stuff,” you replied, feigning a casual air as you took a sip of your drink, though the words had a hard edge underneath.

“Do you know who the woman was?” Serena leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

Chloe’s lips curled into a faint smirk.

“I mean, with Rhys’ type, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s someone… eager to climb the ladder, if you know what I mean,” Mei said.

Sarah’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, ready to retort, but you discreetly squeezed her hand under the table, keeping your expression smooth. You didn’t need her stepping in right now.

“You should’ve grabbed her hair!” Jane piped up, half-laughing, her fist in the air as if she were ready to throw a punch herself, “I respect the way you’re so laid back, because honestly I would’ve gone apeshit.”

“Oh, forget it. He’s the one who cheated. I couldn’t care less about her,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “She’s probably no different from him—anyways! Enough about him!”

As the words left your mouth, Carly’s face visibly tightened, her forced smile slipping as she pushed back her chair, muttering under her breath as she walked off toward the restroom. Her eyes flickered with a glare that lingered on you as she departed, barely concealing the frustration bubbling beneath her cool facade.

Serena raised her eyebrows, catching the shift in mood. “What’s with her? She was glaring at you the whole time.”

“Oh, who knows,” Sarah murmured, watching Carly’s retreating figure with a slight smirk, her hand still entwined in yours beneath the table, a sign of solidarity.

Chloe glanced after Carly, a subtle, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Probably just adjusting to her new… surroundings.”

You glanced down at your phone, barely containing the irritation rising within you as you took in the image on the screen: Rhys and Carly, cozy on a beach, his arms wrapped around her as if he hadn’t been apologizing to you just days earlier. It was from an unknown number, but there was no doubt in your mind who had sent it.

With a measured breath, you slipped the phone back into your bag and stood, offering your friends a polite excuse before following the path Carly had taken. You found her just outside the restrooms, leaning casually against the wall with a smug smile, almost as if she’d been waiting.

“Why did you send me that?” You stopped in front of her, gaze steady.

She didn’t bother hiding her grin, crossing her arms as she looked you over. “Because I wanted you to know.”

“Know what?” You raised an eyebrow. “That Rhys cheated on me?”

“No,” she replied with a sickeningly sweet smile, crossing her arms tighter. “That I seduced your boyfriend. You seemed completely fine with it.”

A scoff escaped you as you let out a dry laugh, crossing your own arms.

“Did you expect me to crumble just because I was cheated on?” You tilted your head, studying her. “Alright, let’s say you two ‘fell in love.’ Then you should be apologizing to me—”

Her smile faltered as she cut you off, her voice raising a fraction. “I felt guilty at first. But then you acted like it wasn’t a big deal. You weren’t curious about me, didn’t even acknowledge what I did. So my self-esteem? It just kept plummeting.”

You looked at her, incredulous, and chuckled coldly. “Wow—seriously? You’re such a loser—You’re blaming me for your self-esteem issues?”

Her lips pursed in irritation. “Why shouldn’t I? Why do you think I can’t do what you do? I can seduce your man and be just as successful—be just like you. But you never gave me the chance. Not only that, you took my opportunity at The Emporium away from me.”

“Ah,” you murmured, amusement in your voice. “So this is about me firing you?”

Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t deserve to be in that position. You act so high and mighty, like nothing can shake you. You have it all, don’t you? The job, the influence, the respect. But guess what? I can take what’s yours. I already did, didn’t I?”

You laughed, unbothered, shaking your head slowly.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” You stepped closer, gaze locked on hers. “If you couldn’t handle the job, that’s on you. Throwing this little tantrum only proves I was right about you. As for Rhys…” You shrugged, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You can keep him. My ex cheating doesn’t affect my work—but you? You do. So maybe I’ll have a word with his parents and see how your career fairs then.”

You turned to leave, but her voice came out sharp, dripping with venom. “You can’t pretend you’re not bitter about it. That’s why you’re here, right? To confront me?”

Pausing, you glanced over your shoulder, an icy smile on your lips. “Ever step on something nasty on the sidewalk? Hmm I don’t know like shit? It’s a pain, but you don’t let it ruin your day. You wipe it off and move on. That’s what you and Rhys are to me—Shit—something I’ll be glad to scrape off my shoe.”

Without another glance, you strode back to the table, your head held high. Your friends glanced up as you approached, a few eyebrows raised.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked, eyeing you with mild concern.

You forced a polite smile, nodding as you picked up your bag. “Actually, I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. I should get going.”

With a few quick goodbyes, you left, satisfaction settling over you as you stepped out, knowing you’d left Carly exactly where she belonged—behind you.

× × × ×

“Sarah! Open the noor! I know you're in there, Sarah! Open the noor!” Your drunken voice slurred through the quiet hallway, louder with every knock.

Inside, Bucky froze, instantly recognizing your voice. His eyes widened, and he shot a panicked look at the mountain of files scattered across his coffee table��the very files on you and The Emporium that he’d been piecing through with Steve, Sam, and Nat.

“Everyone! Gather the files, now!” he hissed, immediately jumping to action.

“What? Why? Relax, man, we’re not under attack or anything.” Sam raised an eyebrow, lounging on the couch with a half-eaten sandwich.

Bucky shot him a glare, practically yanking the files out from under Sam’s plate. “One of our ‘subjects’ is outside the door, Sam! Now MOVE!”

“Wait, you mean her?” Steve asked, eyes widening as the banging on the door got louder.

“Yes!” Bucky hissed, shoving an armful of files into Steve’s hands. “Now stop talking and start hiding!”

Nat rolled her eyes, stacking papers hastily. “Isn’t this a little dramatic? She’s probably just lost.”

“She’s not ‘lost,’ she’s drunk!” Bucky snapped. “And I’d rather not explain why I’m reviewing her life story with three nosy intruders!”

“Oh, we’re the intruders now?” Steve muttered as he clutched a bundle of files to his chest. “Could’ve sworn we were here for your mission!”

The banging grew even louder.

“Sarah! Don’t you ignore me, woman!” Your voice was muffled but determined, sounding like you were one step away from kicking the door down.

“Go, go, go! Get in there!” Bucky herded them like sheep, arms waving wildly as he tried to push them toward the bedroom.

“Ow, Bucky, stop shoving!” Sam complained, elbowing Bucky back as he tripped over a rogue sneaker. “Seriously, why are you acting like we’re about to be raided?”

“Because she’ll see this mess and ask questions!” Bucky shot back, pushing him forward again. “Just get in and be quiet!”

Nat stumbled as Bucky prodded her toward the door, muttering, “Why are you so panicked? Did you do something wrong, Buck?”

“Would you all just move?!” Bucky whispered furiously, practically bulldozing them all through his bedroom door. “I’ll explain later. Just don’t make a sound!”

Steve stumbled, catching himself with a loud “Ow!” as Bucky finally got all three of them behind the door. He shut it firmly and leaned against it with a sigh, only to hear a loud “Shh!” from Nat, Sam, and Steve bickering in hushed whispers.

“Move your elbow!”

“Steve, that’s my foot—ow!”

“Could you three not sound like an entire stampede?”

Outside, your voice grew louder, slurring but stubborn as ever. “Saarah! Come on, I brought sushiiii!”

Bucky took a breath and opened the door, his expression calm yet barely holding it together. There you stood, wobbling slightly, hair slightly mussed, and an unmistakable grin on your face when you saw him.

“Oh! Sarah, you changed! You look so much taller… and more... Bucky-like.”

“Uh, hi,” he said as he steadied you. “I think you might have the wrong door, trash panda.”

You blinked, frowning, and swayed a little closer. “Wrong door? But I brought sushi! And, wait—” You squinted at him, leaning in. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, Bucky,” he confirmed, holding back a chuckle as you gave him a suspiciously scrutinizing look.

“Ohhh…” you drawled, clearly trying to process it all. “Well, if you see Sarah, tell her the sushi is... sushi-ing.”

He nodded, keeping his tone light, even though his friends were probably eavesdropping as best they could.

“Will do. And, uh… maybe we should get you home?”

“Good idea. But you keep this. Looks like you could use some fish.” You nodded, albeit unsteadily, handing him a stray piece of sushi.

You gave Bucky a wobbly smile, one that looked a little too determined for someone in your state. Before Bucky could stop you, you swayed forward, making a beeline past him and into his apartment.

“Wait, Y/N—this isn’t… Sarah’s place!” he said, barely catching up as you staggered into his kitchen.

“Close enough,” you slurred with a grin, swaying dramatically from side to side as you reached for the fridge handle. Alpine, sensing a new friend in distress, trotted over, rubbing against your legs with enthusiastic little chirps.

“Oh! Hey, kitty!” you cooed, reaching down to pet her, then looking up at Bucky with wide, innocent eyes. “Sarah’s cat never welcomes me like this. See? She gets me.”

Bucky ran a hand over his face, half-amused, half-panicked. “Right. Because Alpine just loves guests raiding the kitchen.”

You opened the fridge door, inspecting the shelves as if on a mission.

“Where’s the… the ice cream?” you muttered, voice muffled by the refrigerator door. “Sarah always has chocolate fudge swirl, and I need it.”

“Seriously, you’re in the wrong apartment,” Bucky tried, sounding both exasperated and entertained as he reached out, but you sidestepped, one hand still on the fridge door, the other now waving vaguely in the air.

“Shhh, Bucky,” you chided, squinting as you leaned in further, peering deeper into the fridge with a sense of deep concentration. Alpine padded around you, her tail curling around your ankle, clearly thrilled to have you there.

“Listen, Bucky,” you slurred, not even glancing up, “all I want… is chocolate ice cream and maybe… maybe a good laugh. Do you have tissues? I feel like I’ll need them, like, a lot of them.”

Bucky couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. He tried his best to guide you away from the fridge gently, but you shot him a mildly annoyed look, shoving a stray pack of carrots aside as if they were personally offensive.

“Don’t you dare hide the good stuff behind the veggies,” you said, mock-scolding him as Alpine hopped onto the counter, watching the scene with wide, curious eyes, tail twitching.

“Really, Alpine?” Bucky muttered at his cat, who was clearly rooting for you and even pawed at Bucky’s hand as if to say, Let her have the ice cream!

“I knew you’d understand me, Alpine,” you cooed at the cat, as if she were your personal support group. “See, Bucky? Even she gets it. She knows.”

Bucky sighed, half-heartedly resigned. “You know what, fine. If Alpine says so, who am I to argue?”

Finally, you pulled out a random tub—yogurt, not ice cream—and peered at it in disappointment.

“Greek yogurt? Bucky, are you… are you okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, perfectly fine, thanks.”

You blinked at him, still clutching the tub. “Well, clearly, you’re living a sad existence if this is all you’ve got.”

“Or I’m just not prepared for unexpected trash pandas who raid my fridge,” he replied, crossing his arms, trying not to burst out laughing as you clung to Alpine for support, who purred loudly, delighted with the chaos.

“Fine, then!” you declared dramatically, patting Alpine’s head. “Alpine and I will fend for ourselves.” You turned on your heel (or tried to, at least), your balance giving out just slightly as you wobbled with an exaggerated sway. Alpine gave an encouraging “mrrp!” as if saying, Yes! Go forth!

Bucky finally took pity on you, grabbing a pint of actual ice cream from the freezer, waving it like a peace offering. “This? Will this make you happy, your highness?”

You lit up, the joy on your face as radiant as if he’d handed you a crown. “Now that’s more like it!” you cheered, taking the tub, your steps still swaying as you made your way to his couch.

Bucky followed you over, shaking his head as you sat down, giving Alpine a spot next to you. He sat down nearby, stifling a chuckle as you dug into the ice cream.

“So… just gonna crash here tonight, then?” he asked, leaning back with a smirk.

You waved the spoon dismissively, barely even looking up. “Obviously. And you, Bucky Barnes, need to get more ice cream. Greek yogurt’s just… depressing.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Noted.”

You tore into the box of tissues, your frustration boiling over as you whipped open the plastic bag for trash with the precision of someone handling a life-or-death task. In one hand, you wielded the spoon like a weapon, in the other, a tissue you’d already shredded halfway. Bucky sat a few feet away, wide-eyed, clearly out of his depth. Alpine perched on the coffee table instead, her tail swishing in judgment, shooting Bucky a look that all but screamed, Fix this.

“You good there?” Bucky asked cautiously, his voice hesitant, like he wasn’t sure whether he should move closer or start looking for an escape route.

You let out a short, sharp laugh—bitter, too loud for the small space. “Good? Oh yeah, I’m great! I mean, how could I not be? My ex-boyfriend cheated on me with his assistant, who, surprise, also happens to be the same girl I fired for being utterly incompetent.”

Bucky, sitting stiffly on the couch, could only blink as you laughed. Not a gentle laugh, but one that bordered on hysteria, punctuated by short, sharp breaths. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from something funny; it was the kind that cracked through the tension when words couldn’t quite hold the weight of everything you were feeling.

“Oh, my God!” you exclaimed, raising your spoon as if to make a toast. “It’s just perfect, isn’t it? Fired her for being terrible at customer service, and what does she do? Rebounds as my boyfriend’s personal assistant. Like, how poetic is that?” You gestured with the tissue, accidentally flinging it onto the coffee table, but you didn’t stop.

“And then—get this—she blames me for her low self-esteem! Like, excuse me for not sending her a gift basket after she slept with my boyfriend. I mean—” You let out a bark of laughter, shaking your head as tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You can’t make this stuff up!”

“And then tonight?” You gestured wildly with your spoon. “Tonight, I had to sit there, all smiles, pretending like everything was fine, because God forbid I let anyone think I’m not. And Carly—oh, Carly—had the audacity to act like she’s the victim. She felt bad about it! Isn’t that just hilarious?” You scooped another bite of ice cream, your laughter spilling out, sharp and brittle, filling the air like broken glass.

Bucky sat frozen, his jaw slightly ajar, his heart twisting as he watched you spiral. You leaned forward, still laughing, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet apartment. You looked absurd, sitting there with a tub of ice cream and tissues in hand, trying to force humor into something that was clearly tearing you apart.

“Y/N,” Bucky said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t seem to hear him, your laugh rising in pitch as you tilted your head back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s hilarious, really. Just the perfect little tragedy. I kind of saw it coming, you know? Rhys was always—”

“Y/N.” Bucky’s voice was firmer this time, cutting through the haze of your spiraling thoughts like a blade.

He moved off the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his steady blue eyes locking onto yours. The laughter caught in your throat as you met his gaze. There was no judgment in his expression, no pity—just an unwavering presence that felt like a lifeline. His gaze softened, like he was offering you something you weren’t sure how to accept.

“Just cry,” he said, his voice calm but resolute.

Your lips parted as if to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. The lump in your throat tightened, and for a moment, you thought you could hold it together. But the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world—broke down every defense you’d spent the evening building.

“Don’t force yourself to laugh,” he added gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to cry.”

Your smile wavered, trembling at the edges before fading completely. You looked away, the dam bursting as tears spilled over, hot and relentless. A shaky breath escaped you, and your hands fumbled with the tissue box, but they were trembling too much to hold anything.

Bucky let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the closed bedroom door. He rarely, if ever, allowed anyone to see this side of him. Vulnerability wasn’t something he was used to sharing—especially not with his friends only a room away. But for you? He didn’t hesitate.

“Ah, screw it,” he muttered under his breath.

Alpine let out a soft “mrrp” of approval, watching as Bucky leaned forward, wrapping a careful arm around your smaller frame. He didn’t say anything, just held you close, letting you bury your face against his chest. His touch was gentle but grounding, the steady rhythm of his breathing anchoring you as you finally let yourself break.

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his other hand rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back. The weight of your head against his chest grounded him as much as he hoped it comforted you.

Alpine, perched on the coffee table, watched with what could only be described as smug satisfaction, her tail flicking contentedly.

Bucky’s awkwardness melted away bit by bit as he felt your breathing begin to even out against him. He let out a soft sigh, glancing down at you. Alpine’s watchful gaze was fixed on him, as if daring him to get this right. Bucky cleared his throat, searching for the right words, feeling more vulnerable than he’d admit.

“You know… you’re stronger than you think,” he said, his thumb grazing your shoulder without him realizing. “You take on so much, and you do it with so much grace. Even when you don’t have to.”

Your breath caught, and you lifted your head to meet his gaze, his blue eyes soft but unwavering.

“I know you don’t need me or anyone else to tell you how incredible you are. But, just… let someone see it, will you? Because you… you deserve that. And I mean every damn word.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and you felt a rare sense of peace, your heart light in a way it hadn’t felt in so long. Bucky looked at you, his expression softening further as he took in the sight of your smile, his own heart skipping a beat.

Just as the warmth of Bucky’s words started to sink in, your phone erupted with an insistent buzz, breaking the peaceful moment. You glanced down to see Rhys’ name flashing on the screen. You groaned, but before you could even react, Bucky had snatched the phone from your hand, holding it up as it vibrated relentlessly.

On the fourth ring, Bucky pressed "answer," bringing the phone to his ear with a calm confidence that sent a thrill through you, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm.

“Rhys right? You know, she’s a little busy right now…” he greeted, the single word laced with a tension that could cut glass. “Here’s the deal: you’re gonna stop calling her. Got that?”

You watched, wide-eyed, as Bucky ended the call without waiting for a response and promptly shut off the phone. He set it down with an air of finality, his gaze meeting yours. Before you could form a coherent thought, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, making you both jump slightly.

“Y/N? I know you’re in there.” The voice outside was unmistakable—Rhys.

Your stomach churned as Bucky’s eyes flicked to the door, his jaw tightening.

“What the hell?” he muttered, standing up, his posture instantly tense.

“Bucky…” you started, but he raised a hand, silencing you with a look.

The knock came again, harder this time, followed by Rhys’ impatient voice. “Come on, Y/N, open the door! Let’s talk.”

Alpine, perched on the coffee table, let out an annoyed hiss, her tail flicking sharply as if she shared Bucky’s distaste for the situation. Bucky moved toward the door with deliberate steps, glancing briefly at the bedroom where Sam, Steve, and Nat were undoubtedly eavesdropping.

“Stay here,” Bucky instructed, his voice low and commanding. You watched as he reached for the door, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

The door creaked open, revealing Rhys standing in the dim hallway, his expression a mix of desperation and annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice was dangerously quiet, but the threat beneath it was clear.

Rhys crossed his arms, his gaze darting past Bucky into the apartment. “I’m here to talk to Y/N. This is between me and her, so if you don’t mind…”

“Oh, I mind,” Bucky shot back, stepping further into the doorway, blocking your view. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“You don’t speak for her,” Rhys snapped, his voice rising. “Y/N!” he shouted, his voice cracking with frustration. “You can’t avoid me forever!”

The tension in the room was palpable, and you stood frozen, torn between staying put and stepping in. But before you could decide, Rhys’ voice dropped, and the words that followed sent a chill down your spine.

“I know what you’re hiding.”

Bucky’s entire body stiffened, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. His head tilted slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the shift in his demeanor. The calm before the storm.

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s voice was low, deadly.

Rhys scoffed, his tone dripping with false confidence, voice low while glancing shortly at you. “Don’t play dumb. I know about the Emporium. And I know about you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, your breath catching as Rhys’ words hung in the air like a grenade waiting to explode. Alpine let out a sharp, warning hiss, her tail flicking wildly.

“Y/N,” Bucky called over his shoulder, his voice steady but laced with coldness that made your blood run cold. “Go to my room.”

“What? Why—”

“Now.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument, and with a wobble in your step and the slight haze of alcohol still clouding your mind, you retreated into the hallway.

You staggered slightly, catching yourself on the wall as your eyes darted toward the only other door in sight: Bucky’s bedroom. Your curiosity—or perhaps your drunken instincts—propelled you forward. You weren’t sure why, but something about the tension in Bucky’s voice and the way he’d so urgently told you to leave made your heart pound faster.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as you approached the door, your hand reaching out hesitantly toward the doorknob. You heard a faint shuffle from behind it—too faint for you to process fully in your current state—but enough to make you pause. Your fingers hovered above the cool metal, trembling slightly.

The voices from the other room grew louder for a moment before falling eerily silent, the tension almost palpable even through the walls. Your breath hitched as you gripped the doorknob tighter, the faintest click of the mechanism echoing in the stillness of the hallway.

The door began to give under your push.

Inside, Steve, Sam, and Nat froze mid-whisper, their eyes darting toward the door as it inched open.

tags: @winchestert101 @lomlbuckybarnes @lveegsoi @itsshellzy @almosttoopizza

@aami98 @hextech-bros @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @infqnitysblog

@ayayaeyato @blackbirdwitch22 @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @crdgn

@yiiiikesmish @jae0515 @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @nikey-no-likey @aami98

@almosttoopizza @wisteriaandwafers @yiiiikesmish @marvelavengerspovs1 @xunquish-blog

@ppbhquinn @ziawbarnes @scott-loki-barnes @let-it-sn0o0ow @seven0714

@lostinspace33 @clockworkballerina @bonnie-bun

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kururreal · 14 days 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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luv4arinn · 2 months ago

Text

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

220 notes · View notes

hanistry · 20 days ago

Text

THE PAWN SHOP | YANG JUNGWON.

genre | fantasy au, magic au / meet cute

synopsis | jungwon stumbled directly into a new job opportunity when he barged into the only store still open on the night of christmas eve.

word count | 6368

warning | killing, death, crush injuries / mentions of blood, a disregard for human life

world | two

The first snowfall landed on Christmas Eve, not that it mattered to Jungwon.

Usually a light stepper, Jungwon found that the invisible pain on his body had rendered his feet heavy, and it was all a courtesy to the merciless debt collectors that sought him out on Christmas Eve and punished him over a late payment.

Although, between himself and nobody else, he knew he was merely an unlucky target for a man to take out his frustration. Possibly for a missing present under a tree, and the dissatisfied pout from a spoiled daughter.

There would be a trail of blood on fresh snow if he hadn't gotten out of the grasp firmly pressuring him down to the ground. It wasn't as if he could fight back anyway, at least not when the debt collectors came in a group of three.

Since retaliating wasn't an option, he opted for an escape. Not a great one, just a desperate one; desperate enough to run down four blocks without pause, each pant a prayer that one store would still be open so close to midnight on Christmas Eve.

Sweat drenched his hair, but the cold air numbed his skin enough to lose the sense to feel it suffocate his neck and back. His legs brought him past one closed store after another, and he noticed almost all had a holiday closure notice at the front of their entrance. He cursed. It didn't make sense. Restaurants tend to operate on regular hours, even during the holidays.

He turned a sharp corner, his eyes welcoming the tender orange from the street lamp and a bright gold from a singular store that remained open. He suppressed the celebration inside his throat and the guilt of throwing the poor employee into a hectic situation they likely did not train for. He picked up his pace, trying to lose the men on his tail.

You flinched and spun around, your fingers clutching your wooden staff tighter. Fully prepared to find a harpy staring you down at the doorway, your shoulders slumped with a confused sigh when you only saw a boy standing there.

A few seconds later, the door was forced open again and three men trailed in. Jungwon, already knowing who was behind him, bounced away from the door and rushed over to you.

You looked up at him with furrowed brows. This was abnormal. You had already served all the customers who were supposed to find the pawn shop today. You had already flipped the open sign and cleaned up for the night. No human should be able to see the store.

You leaned back when Jungwon was near, your thought cut short. "What is happening?"

"I need help," he replied. "Please help me. I'm hurt."

"Roping an innocent bystander into this mess? That's awfully indecent of you, Jungwon."

You raised a brow as you turned to the group's spokesman, and then your eyes trailed across the two behind him for a better idea of the kind of trouble that had intruded on your closed shop. You realized there wasn't anything alarming about their appearances. You wouldn't have batted an eye if you had walked past them on the street.

"Seriously, what is happening?" you asked again, but this time, Jungwon noticed the question was directed at neither him nor the men who chased him into the store. You directed the question at the ceiling.

Looking up was a pit of black and a messy collage of irregular shapes. Jungwon blinked. He looked down, back up at the ceiling, then down again. Disregarding that you spoke to the ceiling, he just now found out there were no lights.

When he looked up at the ceiling, it was pitch black, yet the store was lit with a shade of warmth. When he looked around in search of light bulbs or strings of light hidden in creases of walls, there was none.

"Where is the light coming from?" he whispered.

"Hm? The light?" You twirled your index finger. "It's coming from the windows. It's day time outside."

Jungwon looked around. "There are no windows."

"Bummer," you nodded, "I guess there aren't."

He pulled a face at your skeptical answers, and you smirked politely in return before you looked up again. The glasses perched lowly on your face and slid back toward your eyes. You adjusted it and placed your hands back on the wooden staff.

"Is none of you going to answer me?" you asked as you gestured toward the newcomers. "We all know this isn't supposed to happen."

The spokesman tilted his head. From the lack of attention to the cryptic conversation, none of which he signed up for when he barged into the store, he was quickly losing patience. Shoving his arm forward into a beckoning wave, he hollered, "Hey! What are you two whispering about over there-"

The structure shook and cut off his sentence, which was nearly at its end. You stumbled at the abrupt commotion, but before you had to ground yourself with the staff, Jungwon reached out and steadied you by the back of your shirt.

He let go as soon as you gathered yourself, sheepishly stepping back only to find himself approaching you again when he turned to look at what caused the Earthquake.

Blood seeped from beneath a pair of wrinkled talons. Standing tall and unfamiliar above the talons was a bird with a woman's head. Its hair was long. Its color was identical to its feathers, so it was hard to decipher where the hair ends and feathers begin.

The bird woman had eyes like a hawk—sharp and uncanny—but it did not have a beak. It had ears and a nose but lacked dexterous arms and hands.

When Jungwon adjusted his eyes at the horror, he realized the debt collectors chasing him the whole Christmas Eve were crushed to death by the bird woman. He carefully looked down at his feet and pursed his lips to prevent acid reflux, instinctively stepping away from the blood that had trailed to where he stood.

"Harpy!" you exclaimed accusingly. "A lot of work goes into preserving wooden floors!"

"I was helping," Harpy said. "It looks like they were bothering you."

You sighed. "We both know you didn't do that out of the goodness of your heart."

"Does it matter? The problem is solved," Harpy said.

"And it generated a new problem," you said, eyeing the dirty floor. "I have to clean this up."

Harpy tilted her head to glance behind you at the shrunken boy trying to hide behind you. She mused at the fact that he was almost a head too tall for that and because it had been a long time since a human had seen her in the flesh.

She must admit Jungwon's reaction was less entertaining than anticipated, but she understood. He still has to wrestle with himself to determine if he wants to believe in her or consider this an alarmingly realistic dream.

"Why don't you ask him to clean it up?" Harpy nudged her chin toward Jungwon's direction. "This all started because of him, anyway."

Jungwon flinched. You turned around to find him all shaken up from the sight. You considered the suggestion before reaching up to grab him by the chin. You tilted his head and examined his face, humming here and there as if critiquing him.

"Do you know how to clean blood off wood?" you asked.

He nodded. "I was a housecleaner for two years."

"What a coincidence."

Harpy's musing made you whip around. "What do you know?"

"Me?" Harpy shrugged. "Nothing."

"Have you noticed any changes recently?"

"No."

"This doesn't make sense," you muttered. "He's not supposed to be here. Four humans barged into the store today."

Harpy considered your words briefly before she looked up. She chirped lowly, her feathers moving along with the sound. Not long after, an orchestra of screeches sounded from above. Jungwon covered his ears at the sound akin to scratching a fork on a porcelain plate, but he suspected there was more than one bird woman in the structure. He didn't dare look up. He wanted to avoid catching eyes with one.

"Nobody has noticed anything different," Harpy said. "One of my daughters said the Oak Tree recently recruited a human boy at the Masquerade. What's his name? Jisung?"

"That's not abnormal," you pointed out. "Every employee working at the cosmic stores is human."

"Except for Jongseob and Soul.”

"Human souls. Human beings. Same difference."

"Agree to disagree," Harpy said. "If all are dead ends, then I suppose something happened to the veil."

You grimaced. That was the last thing anyone needed. "That's difficult trouble."

"We've had incidents of a torn veil before," Harpy said. "I am most certain the issue will be fixed with time."

The conflicted expression on your face was unreasonable, but Harpy ignored it and turned the subject matter to Jungwon instead. She lifted hr feet from the corpses, her shift in weight forcing the floorboards to creak. She stared at Jungwon, her nail dripping with blood.

"I am going to take them home to feed the children," she said to him. "If you have anything to say to them, now is the time."

"He is in shock," you chimed in. "The least you can do is introduce yourself."

"I don't think that will be helpful," Jungwon muttered.

"Oh dear. Where are my manners." Harpy put her feet back atop the corpses, squirting what liquid remained inside. "My name is Harpy. I am a Harpy."

"A bird woman," you whispered.

Harpy. A bird woman. The creature named herself exactly what it was. It was a convenient choice; Jungwon would give it that.

"Does this not bother you at all?" Jungwon turned to you after a moment of silence. The betrayed confusion in his tone helped stand up the hair on his neck.

You shook your head. "They lived among us back when I was born, so this isn't new to me."

"No! That's not-" Jungwon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "That's not what I meant."

"I see." Your hand briefly slid down the jagged wood of your staff. You glanced at the corpses, the squashed organs melting together inside the blood and losing their individual value. The men could have had a more timely death, and it was unfortunate that they didn't. That was all you could muster. "I can't feel how you expect me to feel about it."

Jungwon dropped his arm to his side. He wasn't sure why he imposed any expectations on a stranger, anyway, or why he even cared how you felt about the death of three people you had never met.

He dropped his head but glanced toward the side through the gaps of his hair. His eyes fixated on the bloody sight, and he has long lost the urge to puke from disgust.

He was relieved now. It would be a while before anyone chases him down for debt again.

"I have nothing to say to them," Jungwon muttered. "Just take them away."

Harpy curled her talons to pick up what remained of the bodies. She looked at Jungwon after she prepared for take off. His distraught expression reminded her of you centuries ago when the willo-o'-the-whisps warpped you out of the Chimera's cave you mistakenly ventured inside to look for the magic lamp. Your naivety amused her to this day.

The magic lamp wouldn't be in the forest but in the catacomb or an underground ruin.

"Let go, boy," she said. "Or it will consume you."

Jungwon raised his head with a grimace. "What?"

Harpy turned to you. "Best of luck to you."

"What?" You mirrored Jungwon's expression.

A strong gust of wind accompanied the vanishing of the bird woman. She was gone in the blink of an eye; some might even say the wind was a distraction so no one would see where she flew off.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Harpy's blessing was brief and confusing. It could have been that the bird woman knew something unrevealed to you, but why would she entertain the conversation about the broken veil if she already knew that wasn't the case? If it wasn't a fractured veil, why would Jungwon be here, leading three more people inside the store?

"We have to go talk to Seungmin."

"Who?" Jungwon scratched the back of his head and gestured toward the blood on the floor. "I can clean that up for you. Do you have detergent and a mop?"

"The blood can wait," you said. "We should find Seungmin.”

He tilted his head. "It'll be harder to clean if we wait."

You walked over to the pool and examined it briefly. Stomping the staff against the ground near it, You closed your eyes and whispered a sentence. The leaves that were irregularly sticking out of the vines wrapped spaciously around the shaft and danced without wind. Light shone out of the crevices of wood curled into the shape of a bee's nest.

Everything stopped quickly after, or better yet, it returned to normal. You turned to Jungwon with a nod.

"That should do it," you said.

He shook his head, his eyes widened in disbelief. "What did you even do?"

"I will explain on the way," you said, shuffling over to the door. You placed your hand on the doorknob and beckoned Jungwon to follow your with a head nudge. "Come on. We are heading to the tower."

Jungwon moved despite hanging strings of disbelief at his tongue. As he neared, you opened the door, and he paused.

The dark, snowy roads he came from a few minutes ago have been replaced with bright greenery.

The Repository was blue. It was scattered over with a hue so blue Jungwon thought it was a tower built underwater instead of sky-high. Not to mention, it was technically inside a tree, or he thought it was inside a tree because you led him through a gaping hole in one, and he came out the other side where the tower was.

The building has an eerie chill. There were no windows in the tower as far as he could see, only floor after floor of metal doors and books on walls. It didn’t feel like the air circulated. Still, it was cold. The kind of cold that sticks to Jungwon’s spine, the kind that makes him tremble without touching a single surface on his skin.

There was a small table upon their entry. It wasn't a reception counter, but it acted like one. The librarian—a boy, seemingly older than Jungwon—already had what you needed on the desk when you arrived.

Seungmin briefly scanned the book in his hand before he slammed it shut. He looked at you and nodded. "He is supposed to be here."

Your shoulders raised in acknowledgment and then more in confusion. You shook your head, your tidy bangs barely shifting. “What else?”

Seungmin stared at you before he tipped the book over toward your face. "What else is you figuring it out for yourself. You can read."

Jungwon grimaced at Seungmin’s response but said nothing as you received the book and turned around. He followed you to a makeshift booth that looked like it was made by a person hacking at a tree log until there was a shape resembling a booth chair.

A soft seat cover draped neatly on top, and there were a few books stranded on the floor next to it. You dusted the seat cover and sat down, crossing your legs to put the thick book on your knee.

"Let's see what it says." You opened the book and carelessly flipped toward the middle.

Jungwon leaned over to take a peek. Ranging from the horrific Harpy and the sudden appearance of a magnificent forest, he wondered what kind of book it was to have the answers to your questions surrounding his untimely arrival. “What is this?"

"This is a Book of Life. It is as its name describes." You pressed a finger to the lines. "It details the beginning, the middle, and the end of a person's life."

Despite the immense curiosity, he recoiled from the information and looked away from the pages. Despite his less-than-suspicious actions, he rejected the concept. “There’s no way.”

“Why not?” you questioned through a dismissive chuckle.

“I…” Jungwon inhaled. You raised a valid question, especially after everything you had shown him. From the changing doors to the sky-high tower, why wouldn’t a book like that exist? “I don’t know. I just can’t believe it.”

“Mhm. You dropped out of high school?” you asked rhetorically. You continued to flip the pages and answered questions spilling out of your mouth. “Your mom had cancer. You took out an unofficial loan from a local gang to pay for medical treatment because your part-time jobs aren’t paying enough, but you got scammed, and she passed away anyway.”

“I’ve seen a lot of people in my life, but this takes the cake.” You whistled when you finished. “What are you, nineteen?”

“The book doesn’t tell you that?” Jungwon muttered as he turned away. Although he has unknowingly begun to suffocate from your casual tone as you recounted his lived experience, he made no attempt to remove himself from your presence.

He hadn’t wanted it to get to him. Not too much, at least. Not enough to force a spotlight on himself, which fleeing would promptly do. It has been over a year since his mother died. He cried once at her low-budget funeral, and when came the financial trouble with his debt, he got over it.

He has to be over it. If he thought about his mother too much, he would have died. All this time swallowing his grief cannot be undone because he couldn't handle a stranger reading his life off a magical book.

You peered at him and returned to the book, debating if you struck a fresh wound or Jungwon didn’t want to believe such a book existed. You made no attempt to apologize, even though it was your oversight.

"The Gods are real," you said after turning a few pages of the book. "They used to be people."

As Jungwon collected himself, he rubbed his fingers together. He stared ahead. "I wasn't thinking about that."

"Oh, I was just telling you,” you responded. "I don't know about your God, but my Gods are real. They are twins."

"I'm not religious," he muttered, putting his hands into a praying gesture and leaning his chin against it.

"That might matter," you chuckled lowly. "But you know there is one."

"Like I said," Jungwon rubbed his eyes, "I don't believe in those."

You looked up and breathed deeply, but it felt like a refreshing breath of air rather than one that eliminated all the stressors in your life.

“It’s not about that, is it?” you mused. “Knowing and believing don’t have to coexist, and religion isn’t just about believing.”

Finally, after his hand dropped to his lap, Jungwon turned with tired eyes and sighed. “Right. Some people know he’s not real, so we don’t believe in him. Now that you told me there is a pair of Gods who do exist, that naturally makes it that the one we know is not real.”

"Truthfulness and correctness don't necessarily coincide either,” you said. You dipped your head to look at Jungwon. "Just because my Gods are confirmed to be true doesn't mean it's correct to say your God doesn't exist."

"You are basing this off a technicality," he said.

"Sure," you mused. "There's nothing wrong with that. After all, it's not real faith if you need to confirm its reality before devoting to it."

"Then is he real?" Jungwon asked. "Is our God real?"

You closed the book and stood up. You shrugged. “How would I know? I've never met it before."

Jungwon leaned back at the useless answer with a scoff. He exhaled, his shoulders visibly relaxing as you left to find Seungmin at the counter, and he tried to find something else to focus on.

Something tangible, unlike the existence of a Book of Life or you and Seungmin's identity as otherworldly beings, or the question as to why your Gods never responded when he prayed for his mother's recovery.

Something tangible. Something easy to access.

Jungwon got up from the seat and followed You back to Seungmin’s desk. You dropped the book on the table, leaving your hand on the cover as you leaned against it.

"So," Seungmin started, "what does it say?"

"Nothing," you responded curtly.

"Okay, don't tell me."

“No. There’s nothing,” you said. “The pages are still in the book, but the words were blurred together.”

Seungmin picked up the book slowly. With a raised brow, he flipped it to the last few pages he hadn’t accessed prior, and, as you mentioned, the pages were intact, but the content had been scrambled like watercolors mixed inside a bowl of water. He peered up at Jungwon and down at the pages, hummed in thought, then shut it, dropping it by his worksheet.

“My mistake,” he said. “The content is rearranging in real-time.”

The events detailed in a Book of Life were more similar to an ultra-accurate prediction of a set of predetermined factors of a person. It was partly the work of the cosmos and, for a lack of a better term, statistics.

Hence, it is typical for the content in a Book of Life to change according to deviations. However, when the whole second half of a book blanks out, that usually takes a miracle.

"What does that mean?" Jungwon asked, stepping forward so he could be in the know.

Seungmin turned to him. "It's exactly what I said. It erased its original content and is currently following your life because it can no longer predict it."

"Is that bad?"

“No.” Seungmin shrugged. “It’s just a book. The only way for a meaningful change is if someone reads their book and modifies their actions. But you haven’t read it,” he lifted the book and tilted it side to side, “so it doesn’t matter what happens here.”

You nodded but couldn’t resist the urge to fiddle about with your hands. Something wasn’t adding up. From the short time you’ve known Jungwon, based entirely on a first impression, you could not pinpoint what was so special about him that warranted a miracle.

He did bring three people with him through the store entrance, though. Could it be his affinity with magic? Magically gifted humans aren’t common, but with the help of the Cosmos, they are easy to pinpoint.

"Okay." You squinted your eyes at nothing. "Thanks."

“You’re welcome,” Seungmin said. “Are you going to be in the Green Hallow, or are you heading back to the store?”

"We should head back," you replied. "I kind of owe him an explanation."

Seungmin placed the book gently on the counter and nodded at Jungwon. "Good luck to you, then."

Jungwon frowned. He wondered why.

When you returned to the shop, the first thing you did was apologize for the mess. Jungwon wasn’t sure what you meant until you flipped the light switch.

The hidden area revealed itself with each grand flicker of the lights that, once again, came from invisible bulbs.

Previously, shielding the hidden area was a wall that appeared to be an illusion, as it disappeared as soon as the light hit it. The hidden area was bigger than the main area of the store; it looked to be of a square structure, while the main area was of a narrower, rectangular structure.

The room was as cluttered as you implied, but the more Jungwon looked at it, the more organized the mess seemed.

There were multiple wooden tables organized the same way he remembered his high school’s art classroom did it. On top of the tables were trinkets and bigger objects, ranging from table cloth to farming equipment to treasure boxes and pearl necklaces hanging from their rusty locks.

Pulling himself back in hopes of seeing a bigger picture, Jungwon found there to be none. There was no pattern to the placements. Everything was where they were out of randomness.

Stuck firmly to the wall were tidy shelves that served as a contrast to the tables. They were mainly littered with labeled jars and boxes, some potted plants, and books. These items were grouped and lined up neatly, indicating general importance or personal preference.

“We should sit,” you said as you grabbed a hook pole leaning against a shelf. “We have a lot to talk about.”

You reached for a salt shaker on a wall shelf nailed at your face level and briefly dusted the hook with it. Carelessly returning the shaker, you extended the pole as you neared the center of the store.

Once it was of appropriate length, you hoisted it up into the dark ceiling and rummaged through it. Jungwon furrowed his brows as clanks and pangs sounded from the rummaging before you finally hooked onto something and pulled it down with one strong sweep.

A metal pan fell from the ceiling. Once it hit the ground, it bounced, and the material stretched. Following a stream of uncomfortable and jarring sounds came a single couch stretched into by a cooking pan.

You scratched your head sheepishly when the air quieted again, and you tapped the couch twice with the hook before the noise circulated again to return the pan back the way it was.

“Sorry about that. It is also really messy up there,” you said after throwing the pan high. It didn’t come back down. You brought the hook pole up again and shifted it left and right. When You noticed Jungwon’s incredulous stare, you informed casually, “It’s a pocket ceiling. I gave up the lights for it.”

“Really,” Jungwon hummed sardonically. “I couldn’t tell.”

Giving him a brief pointed stare, you stopped as if you had come across something immobile. You thrashed the pole around briefly before finally pulling a red and gold velvet drape down. It moved exactly like the metal pan when it fell on the floor, except the drape was slower and more graceful as it shifted into a single couch.

You dusted the seat once the transformation was over and stepped to the side to present it to Jungwon.

“Ta-da!” You sang. “This drape has been around since the Renaissance.”

Jungwon hummed in acknowledgment. The sound of you shifting the pole around to find something suitable as couch fabric faded into the background. He dusted the seat, assuming it had never seen the light of day since the Renaissance, and sat down. “That’s the art movement?”

“It is. I wasn’t around Europe at that time so I missed it, but it was of great artistic significance!” You patted your chest with an approving nod

“You were gone from Europe for three centuries?” Jungwon raised a brow. He noticed you had pulled something down from the ceiling, but he did not catch what it was. Standing beside you was a single couch with a polka dot pattern, so he assumed it must be home decorations again.

“Traveling outside of Earth takes a lot of time and effort,” you said as you sat down. You soothed out your pinafore. “Well, at least that’s how it was back then since I was still mapping the places. I also used a pen and paper, so there were no shortcuts!”

Habitual suspicion vanished from his throat. It has been a while since he left The Repository, which was one of the more defining pieces of evidence that cut his disbelief short.

From the Harpy to the magical tree, and finally to the sky-high tower built inside said tree—all of which he saw with his naked eyes or walked through with his feet. His suspicion of the supernatural has mostly eliminated itself and was replaced with curiosity.

“There are places outside of Earth?” he asked.

“Oh, great! You’re starting it.” You clapped in relief before you settled to answer. “They are places outside of Earth and within Earth. Some exist in space, some exist beyond time and space, and those within Earth are in a shielded reality that normal humans cannot access.”

“Do you remember me talking about a veil with Harpy?”

“Yeah.”

There are three commonly used spells for spacial alterations: a veil, a barrier, and a ward.

A veil is invisible and can be walked through by anyone, but only those who possess magic can access the duplicated reality inside the veil. Whatever is done inside a veil does not transfer outside, so the original reality will not be affected. If there has been a hazardous event with great infrastructural damage, fixing it is as easy as sealing the veil.

However, it only applies to what is duplicated. People who enter the veil after its creation are not considered so.

A barrier colors itself a blurry, transparent grey so people outside it can faintly look into it. A barrier cannot be entered or exited once it is created. Whatever happens inside a barrier simply happens.

A ward functions similarly to a barrier, except it is explicitly used to keep things out. Exiting a ward is possible, but entering it is not unless one is the creator of the ward. Whatever happens inside a ward also just happens.

There are an uncountable amount of magical beings. Most of the humanoids usually live among others, while some others have created both open and gated communities in suburban areas.

There are faeries and dryads, witches and sorcerers, mushroom rings and moon pools. Tiny creatures hanging around each corner of the place that he would miss out on if he stopped paying attention.

“There are also Entities, but I don’t deal with them too much,” you said. “The workers at the cosmic shops tend to get trouble from them the most because of the affinity they collect from troubled humans.”

Jungwon fiddled with his thumbs in recognition. He remembered hearing you talk about that briefly with Harpy. “They hire humans.”

“They do, but most of them are magically inclined, which is necessary for them to be, considering the risks,” you said. “Unfortunately, humans have a lot of offer.”

Vampires enjoy human blood; Eodukseoni feeds off of fear; An incubus and a succubus, and many more others, drain people’s life force. Humans are a reservoir of delicious food for a majority of magical beings. Hence, the cosmic stores would get attacked, as their services leave a great deal of emotional residue from humans.

“On the topic of being magically inclined!” You straightened from the chair and got up. “I need you to do something.”

You shuffled to the back of the counter and vanished once you crouched. Jungwon pushed his back away from the chair and barely raised his head to check out any movement. You stood up soon with a jade crystal in your hand. You left from behind the counter and returned to the seats.

You handed Jungwon the crystal before beckoning for his hands. You helped him cup it tightly, putting your palms over his hands and pulling it toward your face.

Jungwon’s hands trembled, a faint blush appearing on his face when your breath hit his skin as you spelled. You released him when it was over.

“Try to change the shape of the crystal,” you said.

“What?” Jungwon raised a brow. He looked at it and weighed it on one hand. It was heavy. “With brute force?”

“No, with magic,” you clarified as you slumped on your couch. “I gave you some of mine, so all you have to worry about is giving the crystal a different shape.”

Jungwon looked down at the jade crystal. You sprung this on him so suddenly that he paused on the spot, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know the first thing about using magic, and he figured it was too cliché to close his eyes, concentrate, and visualize. Those were methods shown in movies. Yesterday, he still thought they were fake.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Close your eyes, concentrate, and visualize?”

“Okay,” he deadpanned. “Is there a spell for this?”

“No. Modification is a process, so it’s less about chanting and more about how you let the magic trickle out as you shape it,” you said. “But don’t worry about making a perfect shape for now. Worry about being able to use the magic.”

Jungwon sighed deeply as he rolled his eyes to refresh his mind. The only thing he knew was that he couldn’t feel anything abnormal. His body wasn’t cooler or hotter, heavier or lighter. However much magic you borrowed him has integrated perfectly into his body. His best-case scenario was either to do as you suggested or reject doing the task at all.

“What am I doing this for?” he asked, lowering the crystal onto his lap.

“I need to check if you are magically inclined enough to work here,” you replied after humming in thought.

“The pawn shop has a preplanned list of customers that will be temporarily allowed access inside a veil and be led directly into this store on the day of their planned entry. You and the men who chased after you were not part of the list. The veil surrounding this area was not torn either. I was compelled to believe you came here for a reason: to start a new life.”

Jungwon tightened his grip on the crystal, not realizing the faint glow seeping through his fingers. A new life would be compelling if he didn’t already take on so many responsibilities. After his mother passed away, he focused on working the days away to make back the money he owed. He also didn’t want to think about the amateur mistake he made trusting strangers for financial aid.

Some of his jobs held no emotional value, so it wouldn’t be a problem to up and leave without so much as a two-week notice. He would likely put in a paid time off request and pray for the best. Other jobs were managed by kinder others or involved people he’s grown to like and care for.

He wouldn’t owe anybody an explanation for why he’s abruptly leaving; even if he did tell them, they wouldn’t have believed him. But he didn’t want to abandon anyone without a reason.

Considering the nature of everything about the cosmos and the businesses being operated inside the know, he assumed once he decided to work at your pawn shop, being able to return to the regular human world would be a rare trip.

The outside world intrigued him. He didn’t think it would bore anyone living in the city and working a dead-end job. There were many more things to discover, learn, and do. But he couldn’t leave his life for it.

He couldn’t leave his mother there.

“Earth will be here when you come back,” you said, breaking his train of thought. You smiled when Jungwon looked up, and then you pointed at his lap, where the crystal was formed into an irregular shape of sharp edges with a swirl of an unrecognizable color. “That’s fantastic news.”

He carefully lifted the object and examined it. His curiosity changed its color into a brighter, warmer shade, and his confusion forced it down into a dimmer tone. He huffed in pleasant surprise. You grinned to herself, delighted that his intrigue in magic remained despite the uncertainty.

“Look, Jungwon,” you said. “If you have a place to stay, I don’t mind if you clock out and go home at the end of the day. It’ll just be like a regular job.”

“Oh,” he muttered, looking back at you and lowering his hand. “I guess I assumed wrong.”

“Well, not really,” you said. “I was planning to make space for you at the shop because the book told me you are currently living at a homeless shelter. Obviously, it will be easier for me if you do make this place your home because then you can work twenty-four hours a day.”

Jungwon frowned. “That’s not convincing me.”

“Some resources can only be collected at night.” You shrugged. “That’s just how the world is. We can’t do anything about that.”

He faltered. There was no good reason for him to refuse the opportunity besides sheer unwillingness. Even then, he knew he wasn’t entirely against the idea.

There was nowhere for him to go when he leaves, and the debt will eventually catch up to him again. It could even be worse knowing that there are families out there waiting for those men to return. The pawn shop was more than a job opportunity or a chance to explore a magical world. It’s a safe haven from his life.

“What does the job entail?” Jungwon asked. “I’m just asking to grasp what I have to do. I’m not turning the offer down.”

You turned your head slightly and squinted your eyes. “Are you accepting it?”

Jungwon rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Yeah?”

“And you plan to go home at the end…” You dragged the end of the sentence longer, waiting for him to respond.

He blushed with embarrassment, looking away. “Actually, I’d like a place to stay if that’s… not an issue.”

“Oh great!” You jolted up from the couch and reached over. You removed the crystal from his hands and warmed it with your palm. It immediately returned to its original shape. After, you beckoned at Jungwon. “Get up. We’ve got a lot to do!”

He did as You you, slowly and unsurely. “Like what? An orientation?”

“That, and other things. We have to rearrange my room to fit a bed for you,” you said. “We have to go back to the oak tree, and then make you a bed, and then get you a wand, and–“

“There’s more?”

“Well, yeah.” You nodded. “We are going to find a good place in the Green Hallow.”

“For what?”

“So we can properly bury your mother.”

#world two !#enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x y/n #enhypen x oc #jungwon imagines #jungwon scenarios #jungwon x reader #jungwon x you #jungwon x y/n #enha imagines #enha x reader #enha x you #enha scenarios #enha x y/n

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jjkamochoso · 5 months ago

Note

Helooo sorry to barge in!

I was hoping maybe you do a creation of one of Kaiju no 9 of making humans but he left her thinking she's a waste of creation.

The JAKDF found her though she was dead (inside a pod that contains some water and oxygen mask for humans to breathe)

Then the container suddenly opens and Hoshina out of reflex catches fem reader.

These might be time consuming so sorry about that but you can take your time of wanting to do this but even if you ignore it I don't mind. Ok! Thankyouuu for your time!!🤝🏻✨✨✨

Hello and welcome to my blog!! Thanks so much for this request, this is such a cool idea!! I’m sorry it took so long but I very much appreciate your patience😁🫶 I hope you love this!!

Too Cute to Be a Kaiju

Angst, Fluff

Soshiro Hoshina x f! reader

Warnings: description of medical paraphernalia (oxygen masks, tubing attached to body, etc.)

You felt… incredible. Invincible, even. Of course, that was after the excruciating pain that had been inflicted upon you for the past who knows how long. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt sunshine on your skin or what a breath of fresh air tasted like, but you also couldn’t remember what it was like to feel so powerful.

And then everything went black.

Kaiju No. 9 had been quiet for the past month.

Too quiet.

Soshiro Hoshina frowned at the news, or lack thereof, being reported to him about No. 9’s whereabouts by a soldier tasked with the unfortunate job of being at the brunt of the JAKDF’s finest’s frustrations.

“…and there was nothing to report there either. Our operations team did report a sudden spike in fortitude levels near an abandoned cave, but the excavation team didn’t make note of any evidence of No. 9 having been there-”

“Hold on. Where was that?” Soshiro interrupted, his bored expression turned immediately interested.

“Where was what, sir?” the solider replied, the shake of nerves overtaking her voice.

“The spike in fortitude levels. Where was that at?”

“At… at a cave, sir,” she swallowed thickly.

Soshiro fought the urge to grab her by the collar and shake the answer out of her, instead choosing to grin sarcastically.

“I got that part. Any idea which one?”

“Um…” She flipped through the pages of reports in her hands with fervor. “Here, sir.”

He took the paper from her outstretched hand. A singular red dot stood out on the black and white map, its location just outside Third Division’s city boundaries.

Thanking her, he handed it back. “Did anyone follow up on this irregularity?”

She shook her head no and Soshiro’s eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s all. Thank you.”

“But the report, sir, I’m not done-”

“Are there any sightings of 9 in there?”

“No sir.”

He shrugged. “Then I’m good. I’m releasing you from report reading duty to go do something more worthwhile.”

The soldier, albeit confused, saluted him and walked out of his office. Rubbing his face with his hands, Soshiro took in a breath.

Looks like I’m going spelunking.

A few days, tons of arguing with higher ups, and plenty of paperwork later, the vice captain of the Third Division found himself facing the depths of a cave on the coast outside Tokyo. He was allotted two soldiers to go with him in case something went awry, both of which were currently arguing over who had to enter the suspicious looking cave first. While they were occupied with each other, Soshiro pulled out his tablet and began to measure fortitude levels in the surrounding area. For several minutes, the reading stayed at zero, signaling that nothing of concern was residing there.

Maybe it was a fluke.

Without warning, the fortitude level readings pulsed with numbers fluctuating between 1.4 and 7.6. Soshiro’s eyes blitzed away from the screen and began to scan for an immediate threat, yet he found none. As quick as it began, the levels went back down to zero.

“Have you two stopped bickering and figured out which one of you is heading in there first?” Soshiro addressed the squabbling soldiers.

“Since you’re in charge, sir, we think you should,” one of them said after a moment’s pause, causing the other to nod along eagerly. Soshiro sighed and entered into the depths, his fingers itching for the safety of his blades.

The cave was like a labyrinth; it would be a feat for Soshiro’s small team to be able to retrace their steps to the entrance when they were done exploring. Keeping an eye on the fortitude readings, there was no change while walking the first few miles of the underground tunnel. All of a sudden, like before, the tablet alerted Soshiro to readings ranging from 3.3 to 8.5. He pressed on, his soldiers cowering behind their vice captain like scared children. The pathway of the cave started to narrow and Soshiro felt his heart pound with unease. Before long, he was struggling to fit through the tunnel. With the little light he had emanating from his flashlight, he saw that the tunnel has been damaged by some sort of explosion, leading the walls to cave in on themselves.

As if someone—or something—had been trying to hide what they were up to.

There’s something here. I know it.

With one final squeeze over fallen rocks, Soshiro and his team were rewarded with a change of view. They had come upon a wide open space, with stalagmites gracing the surrounding areas. Sticky air permeated this part of the cave and Soshiro’s lungs struggled to work in the thick atmosphere.

“What is this place?” piped up a squeaky voice.

“We’re here to find that out,” murmured Soshiro, his flashlight lighting up the walls to gain a sense of his surroundings. “Take a look around and report back if you find something.”

“I found something!” yelped the other solider, his flashlight quivering, casting moving shadows on the…

The…

What exactly was that?

Soshiro inched closer, wanting to investigate. There was no way that was what he thought it was. As he moved in and realized what he saw, his eyes widened in shock. Standing tall in the middle of the cave was a giant tube filled with some sort of liquid. Floating inside the tube was a woman, a thin white gown covering her body and an oxygen mask covering her mouth. There were various small tubes and cords running off of her, but nothing seemed to be in working order.

She couldn’t be the source of the wavering fortitude levels…

Could she?

Against better judgement, Soshiro approached the tube. This discovery, no matter what it was, was going to be extremely important. It didn’t matter if this was a breakthrough for the JAKDF or just the local police force.

He was going to get her out of here.

“Is she a Kaiju, sir?” asked the soldier who found the woman first.

“I don’t see how she could be,” replied Soshiro, circling the tube, “but this is very strange.”

“She’s too cute to be a Kaiju,” remarked the other soldier and Soshiro glared at him, the soldier now averting his eyes in embarrassment.

Soshiro studied the woman for a good while, his hand clasped under his chin in thought. She must be dead since there was no way she could’ve survived down there with no food or water, suspended in water like that.

“What happened to you, hm? Were you experimented on by some sort of freak?” Soshiro wondered aloud. His tablet alerted him to a change in fortitude levels but he had no time to check it.

The pod burst opened.

Without even having to think about it, Soshiro caught the woman’s body with ease as she was flung out of the now opened pod door, water pouring out and soaking the both of them. Soshiro was thoroughly confused by what brought that on, but he had barely a moment to think before the woman’s eyes fluttered open and his tablet recorded no more instances of rising fortitude levels.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding her close to his chest.

“I… don’t know,” you croaked out, your voice rusty from disuse.

“Shh, don’t hurt yourself. I’ve got you, okay?” Soshiro reassured you, his firm grip a comfort on your aching arms. You didn’t seem like a Kaiju, going off of your looks, but there was no way you were 100% human. Your skin was much too cold for you to not be shivering, nor was it pruny from being suspended in water for who knows how long.

“Hey, dumb and dumber. Disconnect her from the tube, would ya?”

The soldiers, frozen in surprise at the alive woman in front of them, broke out of their stupor and pulled at the cords, unplugging you from your container.

“What’s your name, darling?” asked Soshiro, trying his best to keep a calm demeanor to get you to talk.

“I… I don’t…”

Your head felt like it was splitting in two. All of your memories were hazy. You couldn’t remember your real name, where you were from, or how you got down there in the first place. The only thing that was clear in your mind were the experiments done on you and a sinister voice calling you disobedient and a waste of creation. You didn’t want to think about your past anymore—you wanted to focus on the present, with the soft touch of a handsome man quelling your worries like you never had them to begin with. This man, who was holding you with such fondness, too much for a stranger like you, you thought, was making your chest pound like your heart would burst through at any time.

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t stress over it. We’ll get you out of here and cleaned up, okay?”

The man gestured at who you assumed were his team. You didn’t care to look at them; you couldn’t take your eyes off the man with the bowl cut.

He looked very familiar.

“You… I know you…” you declared, staring into his bright purple irises, trying to place where you knew him from.

“Do you? I’m on the news a lot, you know.”

He flashed you a smile, his fangs barely peeking over his lips, but it was enough for the memory to come rushing in faster than the water rushed out of your pod. You flung yourself out of his grasp like his skin had burnt your own, putting a fair amount of distance between the two of you.

“Vice Captain Hoshina,” you called out, your breathing heavy as you grappled between restraining yourself and giving into your monstrous urges, “I was going to be sent to kill you.”

Soshiro only raised his eyebrows at your words, seemingly not worried about anything of what you just told him. He sauntered over to you without a care in the world, his goofy grin still plastered on his face.

That’s too bad. She really is cute.

Taglist: @kana-daydreams

#soshiro hoshina x reader #soshiro hoshina angst #soshiro hoshina x reader fluff #soshiro hoshina fluff #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina #soshiro hoshina x female reader #soshiro hoshina x you #kaiju no 8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 #kn8 x reader #kn8 fluff #kn8 angst #hoshina x reader

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qwimchii · 2 years ago

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𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 6) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 13.1k

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, p. in v, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬 (𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢?), 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 😵‍💫, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯

note: i really hope this isn’t too angsty and confusing? also i noticed the atrocious amount of typos i had in the last part and holy moly... hopefully this one had less because i very lightly proofread it 😭 but if it does i am sorry (im really lazy about proofreading help 😵‍💫)….

two months later

you had not talked to Simon for two weeks. you had not even seen him for days.

the last time you did, it was late at night in the office.

most nights, just like days ago, you were up late working, rain pelting against the window where you typed at your desk, just the irregular patter of rain filling the empty office and the quick clatter of the character keys beneath your fingers. there was a sharp ache in your shoulders and you sighed, rolling them back and wincing at the cracks along your spine.

rolling your head back, you looked at the desk beside your own—painfully empty in the dim lighting.

as promised, one-four-one had filled the gaping power chasm within the western frontier, shifting headquarters to the capital of the west and buying several properties on every key corner of the sprawling city—much like the brand new townhouse you called an office.

not many rival gangs had stood up to the power shift because they couldn’t. widespread federal crackdowns had swept through the city. the anonymity of one-four-one had still been preserved—though over time, you had grown to doubt that—and one-four-one had won the war.

it didn’t feel like it though. it felt like you were in hiding all over again, but not from Turner’s men. it was the law this time.

now, at least, one-four-one disclosed all business endeavors to you.

you poured over their financial bookings. Simon had grumbled about it, saying something like it was dangerous for you to be so involved, but it didn’t matter much anyway. you were their main operation of business now, and all ordeals went through you… and your father’s saloon chain.

Kate implored, with the heat of the law breathing down one-four-one’s back, that they needed a legal guise for their illegal ventures. and you offered the saloon chain as an outlet so long that you would remain the major shareholder.

one-four-one had agreed and Simon, albeit grudgingly, with a grumpy disposition, had agreed.

but establishing a saloon in every town, city, and borough of one-four-one’s proved to be difficult, making Simon busy and you even busier.

eyes darting back down to the empty desk, you missed the vacant absence by your side nonetheless. rubbing at your face, you decided to call it quits, reaching over to turn off the lamp at your desk. the room plunged into darkness, and only the murky light of the moon seeped through the window.

a chill swept through the place and you couldn’t help but shiver, swiping away all papers and materials into the filing cabinet beside your desk when there was a knock at the back door of the office.

“who is it?” you called, sliding the drawers shut and wiping your palms against your dress.

when there was no response, you paused, craning your neck to peer at the door. through the opaque glass, you could make out a tall, shadowed figure at the door.

sighing, you snatched a revolver from your purse, cocking it just in case, and strode over to the door to twist it open.

“business hours are closed—” you began, looking up to the tall figure in the entrance, breath hitching when you saw a familiar scarred face.

Simon looked tired—more tired than you remembered him after two weeks. maybe older too, you worried, watching the downpour roar of rain slip off his trench coat. he just watched you with quiet eyes and a blank expression, swaying slightly in the doorway, which only worried you more.

“Simon—” you said, voice pinched as you reached out to him, then muffled a yelp when he suddenly lurched forward and pressed his wet body to yours.

your hand was still outstretched when he curled into you, big body bent down to wrap around your waist and pull you flush to him.

“missed you,” his whispered, pressing his nose into your neck, then kissing there. the water seeping through your dress made you shiver and he rubbed at your sides, like he was trying to warm you.

an overwhelming crash of confusion wracked you. Simon wasn’t due to be back for a while. at least a few more weeks. nonetheless, you twisted your hands into his clothes, amazed to find him solid and real in front of you.

“Simon. why are you here—?”

he pulled back from your neck and suddenly pressed his lips to yours, the kiss cold and wet from the rain, his stetson tipping off his head when he angled his head to kiss you deeper, messier, his teeth knocking into yours as his tongue dipped through your lips.

you muffled a squeak, trying to match the fast movements with your own, curling your arms around his neck and letting the revolver clatter to the floor. when his tongue brushed against yours, there was a rich and bitter taste in your mouth, and you gasped. alcohol.

you pressed against his chest and he pulled back with a disgruntled noise, frowning, before trying to kiss you again. but you pushed him away by his jaw and his frown only deepened.

“why?” he asked softly, brows furrowed.

you rubbed his chest, quelling the hurt look on his face to melt away.

“you’re drunk, Si,” you whispered back before gently tugging him towards the vacant chair in the office.

when he sat in it, the chair groaning under his weight, he tried to pull you onto his lap, fingers curling around the back of your thighs and tugging you forward. when you didn’t budge, he huffed, and jerked you forward with enough force that you fell into his lap with a yelp.

“Simon—!”

he curled you up into his lap, snaking an arm around your waist and the other up your chest, hand gripping at your shoulder to keep you locked against him. with a sigh, you let it happen, smoothing your dress free of its wrinkles Simon had just created. his eyes lazily followed the movement, nose pressed into your cheek and hot breath against your skin.

“pretty dress,” he remarked, squeezing you tightly. you just rolled your eyes.

you were about to give him a sarcastic quip when, voice deceptively soft, he asked, “why are you avoiding me?”

the breath left your lungs, and you went very still.

when you didn’t give a verbal response, Simon shifted beneath you, just winding around you tighter.

“supposed to be my wife,” he said, forehead sinking into your neck. his voice was so somber that you had to stifle a laugh of disbelief.

“you haven’t even proposed,” you reminded him. he just grumbled something you couldn’t hear, words smothered against your skin.

you didn’t know why you were avoiding him.

Soap had told you—very briefly during one-four-one’s inhabitation of san francisco—that it gets worse before it gets better. he had said it so briefly that you hadn’t know what he meant, didn’t really think it meant anything, until your life resumed in a new bustling city that felt impossible to get accustomed to.

now you know exactly what he meant. swallowing hard, you willed the thoughts away, burying them under a thick layer of bitter denial that Simon sniffed out like a hound.

“marry me then,” he offered, and you pinched the skin of his wrist.

“no. you’re not proposing to me while you’re drunk.”

he huffed out. “why not?”

you ignored him. “why were you drinking?”

when he was silent for a long moment, you smothered a smile of victory, feeling like you had won for some stupid reason.

then, he grumbled out quietly, “you were ignorin’ me.”

the smile slid from your face.

after a pause, you hiked up your dress, uncaring for indecency when you twisted in his hold, hooking your thighs around his in the chair. he gripped your hips tightly, looking up at you with hooded eyes. the small, unpleasant twist of his lips soured any warm feeling in your chest.

“m’not ignoring you,” you said softly, reaching up to brush the tangle of his blonde hair from his brow. his hair was getting too long now—the close shave on the sides of his head shaggy and unkempt.

he looks pretty anyway, you decided dreamily, kissing his forehead gently. his hands slid up to your waist, gripping you tighter.

“feels like it,” he grumbled and you suppressed a smile.

“sorry,” you said, the ache in your chest only swelling when you noticed the crestfallen look in his dark eyes.

“i’ve been busy,” you admitted, rubbing a comforting hand over his chest.

he just pulled you closer, forehead knocking against your shoulder. his hands crept up to your upper back now, clutching at your dress.

“so have you,” you pointed out.

he mulled in silence, hands sliding back down your torso, a shiver wracking you in his hold. then, he dropped his hands to your legs, fingers brushing over your legs as he edged up your dress, hands sliding beneath the fabric to play with the hem of your drawers. the leather of his gloves was cool against your skin.

“Simon,” you chided, blushing when his fingertips slithered beneath the fabric.

“missed you,” he reiterated, grip firm on your upper thighs as he pulled you tight against his hips. the blush bloomed across your ears and neck when you felt his hard arousal beneath his pants.

“not in my office,” you hissed, and he grumbled.

“you were gonna shoot me,” he complained, picking his head up to glare at the revolver that lay forgotten across the carpet floor, just by Simon’s fallen stetson.

you rolled your eyes. “i was not gonna shoot you.”

“you should make it up to me,” he interjected, voice a seductive, low rumble.

with another roll of your eyes, you swatted at him, pulling off his lap despite the string of expletive protests that left his lips.

you knew him too well to be fooled by his manipulative seductive tendencies. instead, you gathered your items and your purse, ignoring his big, sukling body beside yours. when he tugged at your dress, and you ignored him again, he made a sad noise.

upon observing the dark cloud of disapproval that roiled off his body, and the deep scowl on his face, you promised, “later Si.”

at that, he perked up, looking hopeful as he followed you to the back door of the office. you picked up your revolver on the floor and shoved it in your purse. opening the door to the pouring rain outside, you sighed, wishing you had an umbrella as you craned your neck out into the night.

instead, Simon picked up his stetson from the floor and pushed it onto your head. it was too big on you and tipped forward, concealing your vision of the city streets. at that, he huffed a laugh and drew you closer, hitching up his coat so that you were tucked beneath his arm and the flap of his trench coat.

“lead the way, lovely,” he said, voice tinged with an amused lilt as you frowned, tilting his hat back so that you could see as he led you down the little steps from the office and out onto the street—bound for his horse by the cobbled sidewalk, the black stallion stomping in the rain. bound for home.

looking over at Simon whose eyes were trained ahead, you took in his content, handsome profile with a greediness, only realizing just then how much you had missed him. down to the very bones of your body, you had missed him.

just then, you couldn’t help but feel that you were already at home in his arms.

but that was days ago.

Soap had ridden into the city with a panic that same night, roving around to find that blonde brute of yours, he had explained in the comforts of your new, big apartment. the third place he had looked was your home, and you had tried to hide the flush of your skin behind the cup of tea you sipped.

he had explained that Simon had gone home prematurely without a notice, too drunk to reason through with things. too drunk to be able to quell how much he missed you.

with a sinking feeling, you had come to acknowledge with a tinge of guilt just how much you had been neglecting him. not that it was your responsibility to take care of him in the first place. you weren’t married.

though, after everything, that didn’t seem to matter at all. you were completely his anyway.

with a wince, you couldn’t help but wonder, was he yours as well? could you even dare to wonder if your relationship was an equal give and take? if it was anything more than a silent power imbalance?

eyes darting from Soap to your open bedroom door, you eyed the large lump beneath the blankets of your bed. you hadn’t even done anything upon arrival at your home. you had pushed him toward the bedroom and he had sunk down into the mattress, exhausted from his long ride to san francisco, and promptly fell asleep, thoroughly soaking your sheets.

you had let him sleep, content to lay flush by his side and tangled in his wet embrace, till there was a pounding on your door. you had opened it to find Soap dripping with water and looking just as tired as the hulking man who slept in your bed.

and there you were on the living room sofas with Soap, sipping tea as he explained that they needed to go back and finish taking care of things in arizona and mexico. then they would be home bound again. it was a promise.

once the sun crested the sky along the horizon, you gently shook Simon awake, looking confused and sleepy in the morning light.

he had gone without much reluctance—much more sober than the night before. a composed stoicism overtook him again and he was curt in his goodbye. so curt it made your heart ache.

he could barely look at you, brushing his gloved fingers gently against your cheek in a brief reminder of his deep, lingering affection, before he disappeared with Soap out your apartment. the only remnant of him was your drenched sheets and the soft smell of smoky ash and woods against them.

this was how it had been for months. it gets worse before it gets better, Soap had said to you when things had grown tense between you and Simon. you were managing a business. he was managing the entire western frontier through the business you managed.

was marriage an option anymore?

your mind chanted a quiet reminder that it wouldn’t be long before one-four-one would be in san francisco permanently. Simon’s stoic presence would be more resolute and then maybe, maybe, you could do something about it.

there were nights when you caved when he was home, staying just across the hall from your apartment, knocking at his door and desperate for his touch on your skin. he would always relent, picking you up and throwing you onto his bed, crawling over you and setting your whole body alight with sensual touches and long, breathless kisses as he fucked you through several earth shattering orgasms that had your nails scratching down his back, hands twisting his hair, sometimes biting down on his shoulder to try and quell the overwhelming pleasure of it.

you’d roll in the sheets for hours, tangled together until the sun came up after a long, pleasurable and sweaty night. there were always bruises left along your skin, a darkened splotchy purple against your hips where his had slammed into you over and over, making you see stars.

there were nights when he’d do the same. you remembered opening the door to him—half-naked and his bare, muscled torso on display, a scarred, discolored twist of skin over the side of his chest and shoulder that matched the skin of your own arm. there was always a tinge of plea in his voice, of desperation, as he edged you into your own apartment and you always, always relented.

you remembered being down on your knees for him for the first time, throat swollen and tight as he eased his cock down your throat, a gentle hand in your hair.

“thas’ it,” he had praised, voice slurred as he guided you through the unusual motion. your head slid up and down his thick, hot length that pulsed in your mouth, sucking him with closed eyes.

“look at me,” he had commanded, thumb pressing against your cheek and you had fluttered your eyes up at him, head feeling light and airy from the lack of oxygen circulating in your system.

“fuck,” he choked out, head tipping back at the sight of you, so small and obedient between his thighs.

it was just like this every time—mind blowing and unforgettable. content in his strong arms after every night of intense passion, your cheek pressed to his warm chest and soft, lulling whispers into your ear as he stroked your hair till you fell asleep to his random bursts of rambles about work, one-four-one, and you. soft, loving words about you.

he was always the most talkative those nights. in the morning, he would always be gone, and in the light of day, you’d half ignore each other for fear of…

you didn’t know what you should be fearing but you feared something so strong that you buried yourself in work and allowed yourself to be selfish. trying desperately to forget everything and always failing much to Yue-Yi’s amusement.

damn special privileges, you had hired Yue-Yi as a personal assistant after the majority of brothels had been shut down with the crackdown of law across the west. managing so many of her own personal clients throughout her life, Yue-Yi proved to be adept at organizing your busy schedule and especially adept at keeping you company when one-four-one was gone. when Simon was gone.

she reminded you to take care of yourself when you were overworking. you always countered by saying that one-four-one was working twice as hard, though with the incredulous look she would send you every time, you grew to become unsure of yourself.

and here you were in the present, days since you had “talked” to Simon though his mind seemed to be barely present underneath a veil of intoxication. days since Soap had whisked him back to whatever duties that lay east of san francisco.

you tried to ignore it all, taking long strolls through the park during lunch to avoid the hustle bustle of your office during the busy hours. you preferred to work in silence, but that proved difficult with the growing number of employers that were corralled into your business, no matter how perturbed they thought an unmarried woman as their boss.

you heard their gossips and whispers. they thought you were hiding a secret marriage with the prophesied ceo from them. Simon Riley. little did they know, their ceo was actually you. you didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were wrong and allowed them to continue thinking you were some favored personal assistant of Simon—just a typist and nothing more.

you only let a few men—vaqueros who knew good english with proficient math and business skills—into your secret, pressing real business matters to carry out into their hands. they never questioned it, and whether it was a command from Alejandro or not, you thought of them as amiable acquaintances.

the fall leaves littered the path in the park on this day, your hands clasped behind your back as you observed the sun flecked surroundings. a husband and wife ambled through the grass as their children trailed behind, throwing up colorful leaves into the air with pitched laughter. immediately, you looked away from the sight.

that’s when you spotted a familiar man staring at you, splayed across a nearby bench in a fancy three-piece suit and ginger hair fiery in the sunlight.

you stopped in your tracks.

“Konig?” you choked, slowly edging toward him. he tipped his head to you with a smile that smothered something strange in his pale green eyes.

“pleasant to see you little lady.”

your mouth opened and closed and you would’ve sat by him if it weren’t for the thrumming, ominous instinct in you to stay away.

and you did just that, stopping a comfortable distance from the big man, his eyes never leaving you as he took a swing from a flask before tucking it back into the breast pocket of his suit.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, dismayed, wondering if you were hallucinating it out of your own loneliness.

he ruffled his hair, smile lopsided but eyes still flat and dead and cold. Konig had disappeared on the move into san francisco. he would reappear every one and a while, poking around in your business and checking on your well-being before disappearing all over again. it was frustrating and left you beyond confusion.

it left Simon seething because Konig would conveniently pop up in the midst of a random, bustling street, tell you with joy that he was staying just around the corner of your new apartment and make Simon sulk at the very sight of the austrian man.

“my employers in Austria,” he said with a tilted head, “they want me to stay in san francisco for business.”

your mind spun. business? assassin business?

your throat ran dry. “you won’t kill Simon, will you?”

the smile on his face was malicious.

“i already tried,” he said slowly, and you suppressed a shiver, remembering when Kate had told you that Konig had left Simon for dead in that fire but took you with him. saved your life.

“that british boy,” Konig said, brow furrowed like he was concentrating hard, “i do not like him, Engel.”

you sighed out, rubbing at your temple. “i know, Konig.”

when Konig only kept staring at you in silence, you decided to probe him with questions. “where have you been?”

you were surprised by the hurt in your voice. his brows only rose slightly. “san francisco—”

“what have you been doing?” you interjected, twisting your hands in your dress.

he stared at you for a long moment. “business.”

his voice dropped an octave. “and watching you.” then, he rephrased, “watching you and Ghost.”

you wrinkled your nose. not ominous at all.

“you care about him,” he observed lightly, looking away from you. a frown twitched at his lips and you sighed, gaining the courage to sit on the very opposite edge of the bench. though with his sheer size, he took up more than half of it, his arm splayed out over the back and his fingers pressed against your shoulder when you leaned back to look up at the clear, crisp sky.

“i do,” you confirmed, and he shifted beside you, picking up his hand to play with the ends of your hair.

“why? he’s an insufficient boy,” he grumbled and you couldn’t help the smile on your lips. you had never heard someone describe Simon as a boy, though sometimes, you couldn’t help but feel the same.

“i am an insufficient girl sometimes,” you countered, surprised when Konig shook his head.

“i have always seen you for what you are, Engel.” his pale green eyes flitted from your hair up to your eyes.

“capable.”

at that, you swallowed hard, but he continued on. “i want to stay in america. for you, little american.”

quickly, you countered, “you didn’t know me before, Konig.”

he shook his head again. “i don’t need to.”

there was a dizzying panic that rose in your chest.

“i’m not innocent,” you practically hissed, pinning him with your most intense gaze that he easily held. “i have mental issues. i don’t know who i am or what i want. i just want…”

your voice faltered. “Simon.”

then, you whispered so quietly that you almost couldn’t hear yourself, “i love him.”

the admittance of it was like a weight that slid off your shoulders, and you gasped a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Konig had gone very stiff beside you, a pure look of something dark and angry twisting his face before it was swept away. he took his arm from you, letting your hair drop against your shoulders, sighing as he looked away.

“i don’t get it,” he grumbled.

you could only agree. “i don’t either.”

after a long moment of silence, Konig stood from the bench and whirled around on his heels, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face, though you could see the strain in his eyes.

“no matter. this will be the last time you see me, Engel.”

“i doubt that,” you said bitterly and his smile only grew.

“you are a business woman,” he said carefully, giving you a slight bow, “i am sure we will do business later in life.”

i’m counting on it, you thought, but didn’t voice as he turned on his heel and strode out the park with a confident step. your heart shrunk with every step he took. maybe you cared about him more than you realized.

you winced, trying to imagine how you would tell Simon about this strange encounter. then, you corrected yourself, reminding yourself that you actually didn’t need to tell him anything at all.

“excuse me!” a voice called from afar, and you turned to see Yue-Yi standing at the edge of the park, hands balled up by her side.

at the sight of her, a smile crept up to your face as she impatiently tapped at her wrist.

“you’re late for a meeting,” she hissed as you strode over. with a nasty look, she whirled around to trudge toward the office with a huff.

you looked back at Konig one last time, towering as he weaved around people who glanced at him with a wariness.

when he didn’t look back, you hurried to catch up with Yue-Yi, a strangled laugh escaping you when she quickened, throwing a mischievous look over her shoulder as you chased her up the steps to the office.

the meetings went smoothly. as usual. most of Turner’s men had been decimated or scattered, lost to the winds as they left western gang life for a mundane one. few changed sides to work for one-four-one. there wasn’t much threat to your livelihood now, especially now that there was a legal outlet for illegal activities. you implored one-four-one to set up a horse race betting system within each saloon—semi-discrete and something local law enforcers were a part of from time to time…

the rest of the day continued to go smoothly till it was late in the evening, nearing dinnertime, when you passed Yue-Yi typing at her desk. gathering the necessary papers she typed up, one paper by her typewriter caught your eye.

familiar, obnoxiously loud handwriting in all caps lined the top, addressed to YUE-YI from SIMON RILEY. you immediately picked it up, eyes darting over the paper, just reading the first few, formal sentences when Yue-Yi snatched it from your hand.

“didn’t anyone ever tell you it was rude to read someone else’s letters without permission?” she said with a scowl, wagging a finger at you.

you ignored her, reaching for the letter but she leaned back, crumpling it into a ball in her hand.

“Yue-Yi,” you whined, and she just rolled her eyes with a little smile.

“what is this about?” you probed, endlessly curious as to why Simon had written to Yue-Yi.

and not you, a slither of a whisper spoke in your mind. you grimaced. in all fairness, you never wrote to him either.

mulling by the edge of her desk, Yue-Yi sighed at the sight of you, lost and confused, as she resumed her work and lined up a fresh piece of paper at the typewriter.

“one-four-one is coming back tonight.”

you balked. “tonight?”

she shrugged. “Ghost addressed the information to me several days ago. the letter did not arrive till this morning. we will dine together at six o’clock.”

checking the clock on the opposite of the room, you bristled.

“it’s half past six, Yue-Yi,” you gritted out between a clenched jaw.

she stopped her incessant typing, giving you a brief glance full of impatience. “your meetings didn’t end till half past six.”

you groaned with frustration, stomping back into your office and moving past Simon’s vacant desk without even a glance at it—a bad habit that you had developed to somehow will him to return quicker.

not this quick, you lamented in your head, rifling through the wardrobe (for special occasions just like this) by your desk, undressing in your personal bathroom with quivering hands.

someone knocked on the door politely, a three beat rhythm you recognized as Yue-Yi, and with huff you tugged it open, not sparing her a glance out of your own frustration. she closed the door behind her softly, moving closer to undo the back of your dress for you.

you wasted no time to pin up your hair, eyes darting to hers through the mirror, flushing to find her gaze already pinned on you.

with a grumble, you complained under your breath, “how could you do this to me.”

she lightly smiled, helping you pull on the fine gown, exposing your neck and a glimmer of your collarbones.

“i knew you would’ve ran away if i told you weeks ago.”

grimacing, you chose not to say anything, remembering how you had done the same a couple months prior. but it was just once—Simon had written to you saying that he would be in town for the night, and you had written him back saying you were just too busy that night.

it was a lie.

oh how the tides had changed between the devil and his angel. it wasn’t out of your own revenge, but the gnawing fear wracking your bones and those simmering, painful questions running circles in your mind.

could Simon ever be yours?

it just wasn’t so simple anymore. maybe it never was.

Yue-Yi hummed softly as she pulled your corset tighter for good measure and buttoned up the back of your dress, smoothing it over before giving you a hug from behind.

“you look divine,” she said as you pulled silk gloves up your forearms.

“thank you,” you squeaked with a flush. she patted your sides before opening the door for you like a proper gentleman.

you curtsied for her and rolled her eyes, smacking your backside on your way out of the office as you squealed, and she laughed when you rubbed at your ass that stung beneath your gown.

moving through the townhouse, rooms of the place had been converted into work spaces, lined with desks of busy men with cigarettes between their lips that filled the room with a smoky haze. they paid you no mind as you followed Yue-Yi to the end of the hall, passing by the room of women typists who bid you kind goodbyes and waved as you descended down the spiral steps to the lobby.

there was already a horse and buggy stationed at the sidewalk with an impatient looking coachman, whose eyes darted between you and the watch in his breast pocket.

“do you women not know how to tell time?” he spat, and you gave him a narrowed side glance.

“it would do good on you to remember who your employer is, Mr. Busby.”

“that would be Mr. Riley, miss,” he shot back, opening the door for you nonetheless.

you ignored him but Yue-Yi didn’t.

“and you should remember that the miss is his lady,” she quipped, brow furrowed with a glare as she helped you up into the carriage.

that shut him up, grumbling something under his breath you couldn’t be bothered with as you slid into the leather carriage, Yue-Yi flush at your side as the coachman snapped the reins, horses taking off over the bumpy cobblestone road.

with a sigh, you said to her, “we ought to buy one of those fancy model t’s after today.”

she choked a laugh, clasping her hand with yours as you watched the passing scenery with a smile, though it didn’t last for long, melting from your face with every passing minute—every minute the distance between you and Simon closed.

the one-four-one mansion neared on the twinkling horizon, a good time’s travel from the inner boroughs of the sprawling city, far away enough from commotion where you could hear the soft drag and pulls of the ocean lapping at the shores. the mansion sat just near a cliff overlooking the pacific ocean.

the first night you had stayed for a formal event with important stockholders and other prominent figures involved in the family business, you had laid stock still in the ginormous bed, buried beneath blankets and thick, expensive furs, listening to the lulling roar of the ocean crashing against the cliff rocks through the open windows. a breeze danced through the room, brushing against your cheek so real and strong it felt like skin against your own.

blinking open your eyes, you saw Simon by the edge of the bed, his hand brushing over your cheek and hair in a mess like he had just awoken. without a word, he clambered into your bed, snaking beneath the blankets and pressed to you, bare skin hot to the touch and soaked through with sweat.

some words of concern had left you, some words you had forgotten now as you sat in the carriage, some words he had smothered with a sweet kiss. a kiss that you returned as you pushed him onto his back, shimmying out of your nightgown and undergarments with a practiced ease before straddling him, rolling your hips against him to pull gentle groans from his throat.

you leaned down to pepper kisses over his skin, sucking along his neck and his sharp jaw. then, with an earth shattering reminder of just how strong he is, he tugged your hips up his body till you hovered above his watering mouth, hot breath against your swollen cunt.

with a squeak of confusion, you had gripped at the fluffy pillows above his head, meeting his dark gaze as he pulled your pussy flush to his lips, guiding your hips over his face as he devoured your cunt, suckling your clit into his mouth till you were a shaking, crying mess.

it was strange and felt too dirty but your neediness betrayed you, just wanting more and more of him. even when he flipped you over, pliant and weak from a strong orgasm, and stretched your tight cunt open with his thick cock and low comforting words.

good girl. my sweet little angel, my sweet little slut. just f’me, all f’me.

you weren’t sure why it always ended up like this exactly—somehow tangled in each other’s bed and desperate for skin against skin, tongue and lips on each other, and his low throaty whispers in your ear that sent you reeling over the edge every time with breathy, pitched whines and his fingers rubbing addictive little circles into your clit.

shivering at the memory with a hot flush of embarrassment, you pressed your thighs together, taking your embroidered fan and flapping it at your face as the coachman drew the carriage up the drive-way to the mansion, the butler and servants lined along the extravagant entrance of the victorian mansion.

just beyond them, one-four-one filed out the doors of the mansion, Soap striding up to the carriage with a loud greeting. the coachman opened the door for you but Soap waved him away, outstretched his hand to you with a rugged smile.

you took it, holding the hem of your dress up as you stepped to the ground.

“yer a sight for sore een, bonnie,” he said with a big grin and you choked a laugh.

“sore what?” you asked as he kissed your hand brusquely, not elaborating as he moved to help Yue-Yi out the carriage as well.

you walked up the steps of the entrance, John and Kate calling out to you in greeting. your eyes darted over Gaz and Simon, looking like a pair of twin statues with the way their arms were crossed over their chests and a stoic look pinched their face.

you bit back a scoff, letting Kate pull you into a soft hug as John looked down at you with an affectionate smile, hands clasped behind his back. turning to Gaz, he gave you a curt nod which you returned.

eyes sliding to Simon’s, his arms dropped to his sides, hands clenching and unclenching, lips parting like he was going to say something, but Yue-Yi materialized at your back in an instant, and his mouth closed, jaw clenched.

“Yue-Yi,” he greeted with a nod. she just tilted her head in response, a menacing scowl twisting her lips.

the look they shared passed something between them that you couldn’t decipher—like a silent argument ensued in the air between them before he let out a low huff, sending you a lingering look, before he followed one-four-one into the mansion.

promptly, you turned to Yue-Yi.

“what was that?” you probed, and she completely ignored you, pushing you into the mansion with an impatient, hushed reminder that you were late.

you bit back your frustration, letting yourself be led by the butler to the banquet table stacked with half-eaten food and empty bottles of whiskey and wine, the vaqueros loud laughter and chatter filling the cavernous dining room. they all stood at your presence, which you protested with a startled squeak, sitting down in an plush chair near the head of the table where John sat, and right beside Simon.

Simon pushed in your chair with an ease, face blank as he plopped in the seat next to you, lacking manners when he leaned an elbow on the table, a tense silence filling the space between you.

desperately, you ignored it, grateful that Yue-Yi flanked your other side, and looked down to the other end where Alejandro, Rudolfo, Kate, and Maria sat, a raucous laughter and chatter ensued. it filled the whole room with an expanding joy that you rode—joining in on a few conversations across the table, hyper aware of the quiet, hulking man beside you sharing low murmurs with John and Gaz.

his hand crept over to the arm of your seat, long fingers hanging off the edge where he rested his forearm, fingertips barely brushing over your thigh. you shot him a look from your peripheral, but he was still braced against his other forearm, leaning over to speak in John’s ear, his face furrowed as he nodded along to Simon’s words.

across the table, Soap piled your plate with food, one hand spooning out generous portions from different platters and the other tipping back a glass of whiskey into his mouth.

with a sheepish laugh, you thanked him, happy to finally have a meal after such a long, exhausting day.

you took a big spoonful of mashed potatoes, chewing happily when a vaquero across the table pointed out you got some on the corner of your lips with a mix of sign language and a couple words in english. embarrassed you swiped at it, but he just laughed, saying something in spanish as he smiled at you.

then, you recognized him—his twinkling brown eyes and gentle smile, tanned skin, dark slick backed hair that parted and curled around his ears. handsome in a soft, pretty way.

“it’s you!” you exclaimed, happy to see a familiar face.

he nodded, pointing to himself. “i am Javier.”

“your name is Javier?”

he nodded again, then pointed at you. “you are Angel.”

with a blush, you shifted in your seat, changing the subject quickly. “how are you?”

when he looked confused, you tried to rephrase, “how are you feeling? good? bad?”

his let out an ah, eyes twinkling as he leaned forward in his seat. “good.”

then, he tilted his head. “escuche que eres la chica de Ghost. pero ya no lo parece.”

he was looking you up and down. “te ves tan bonita esta noche, Angel.”

his words were hushed, just loud enough so that only you could hear. there was a different, more intimate tone in them that had the heat in your cheeks just thickening.

“what?” you choked and his smile only widened.

you looked to Yue-Yi beside you, locked in conversation with someone on her other side, growing uncomfortable under the vaquero’s curious, lingering gaze.

you had thought that no one had heard when a strong arm had curled around your waist, dragging your entire chair across the floor with a screech so you were flush to his side.

“¿todavia parece que no es mia cabron?” Simon’s words were a low snarl that carried through the room and cut through the end of the other table. immediately, the room quieted, and Alejandro’s eyes darted up from his conversation, the smile melting off his face.

with a deadly amount of leisure, Simon threw his revolver on the table, eyes a glare full of challenge at Javier. you stared at the hard lines of his face and panicked, knowing he’d hold to whatever word he had just delivered if it was something as trivial as his male ego being threatened. especially if he thought you were being threatened.

when Javier reached for his own revolver beneath the table, you threw up a hand, standing to shield Simon.

“wait—!”

but Alejandro beat you to it. “Javier.”

Javier looked down the table at his leader that stood, hunched over and knuckles pressed against the table. Alejandro shook his head lightly, and Kate heaved a sigh, her cutlery clattering against her plate as she put them down.

“here they go again,” she grumbled distantly, blue eyes flashing when they met yours.

after a long pause, Javier finally leaned back into his chair with a huff, then turned his gaze to you once more.

“debo haberme equivocado. lo siento Angel.”

the smile on his face was deceptively soft, eyes never leaving your wide ones as he spoke, and Simon’s grip only tightened on your waist.

“Javier,” Alejandro repeated, sounding impatient, though Javier’s gaze on you was unflinching.

for a long, terrible, twisted moment, you watched Simon’s hand twitch by his revolver before it curled into a fist, and he sat back against his chair with a thud and a low grunt. finally, Javier looked away, and you sunk back into your chair, gasping a breath you didn't know you were holding.

at that, Alejandro straightened and held a bottle of whiskey up into the air with a smile.

“no need to fight my brothers and sisters. we’re here to celebrate our victory, vaqueros and vaqueras!”

at that, the table cheered and resumed its festivities, retopping their drinks with a tipsy hand so that their drinks fizzed over with liquid that soaked into the tablecloth. then, Alejandro gestured his bottle to you, meeting your eyes, mouthing out the words so that only you and Simon could see.

“to the devil and his angel.”

he took a big swing of the whiskey bottle, and the muddled feeling in you only sunk, jolting when Simon pressed his lips to your ear.

“sit in my lap,” he commanded and you shot him a glare.

“you haven’t talked to me all night,” you hissed under your breath and he narrowed his eyes at you.

“you haven’t either,” he countered, which you thought was rather immature as you looked up at him with a pinched expression.

with a little yelp, you jolted when his hand lazily slid around your throat. “and i wasn’t asking, princess.”

swallowing hard, you let him pick you up and drop you in his lap, curling both arms around you in a vice, chin tucked over your shoulder. you told yourself, chanted to yourself, that you were doing it to prevent any further bloodshed already spilled between the men and women of the room, your eyes darting over Kate and Maria flush together at the end of the table.

you clutched at Simon’s strong arms, leaning back into his massive body, turning your cheek so that your forehead was against his jaw, closing your eyes.

“sleepy?” he offered, voice gruff in your ear. gently, he kissed the lobe of your ear, and a resolute ache wracked your chest.

you realized, in his arms, this was the first time in multiple days since he had held you. you reached back to clutch at his neck, sinking into him.

“mhmm,” you hummed, grateful that Gaz and John ignored the pair of you in their own conversation.

then, he kissed your neck softly. “i can take you to bed.”

the suggestiveness of his words don’t go unnoticed. “now?”

“no one will say anythin’,” he promised, already pushing you off his lap softly. even if half the table watched you disappear through the rooms of the mansion with Simon’s arm wrapped around your waist, you found yourself completely uncaring, just nuzzling closer into him.

once you were both completely out of sight, he hooked an arm under your knees and carried you up the stairs and into a random room shrouded with darkness, the blankets and furs soft against your back when he laid you out over a bed.

you watched him undress in silence, undoing his vest and then his button up before you heard the clink of a belt in the dark and his dress pants dropped to the floor. he crawled over to you, completely bare for your greedy eyes.

“let me?” he asked softly, finger hooking in the low collar of your evening gown, and you nodded, letting him sit you up and unbutton the back of your dress. you tugged it over your head, uncaring that it crumpled the fabric, and flipped your hair over your shoulder, turning so you offered your back to him.

when he made no move to your corset, you sent him a confused look over your shoulder, lips parting at the sight of him breathing shallow, and swollen, veiny cock pressed against his thigh.

he edged forward with a low curse, kissing your shoulder as he untied your corset expertly, too expertly now, with a clumsy rush, your breasts bouncing when he practically ripped the thing from your torso.

a gasp escaped you when he bound an arm around your chest, kneading at your breast while his other hand tugged at the hem of your drawers. you lifted your hips, awkwardly shimmying out of them in his tight hold. he tore it the rest of the way down, and you chided him with disapproval that he ignored, arms squeezing you tight to his muscled, warm chest.

you could feel his feverish cock pressed into the curve of your ass, and you reached down blindly to stroke him but he grumbled out something like a no, burying his face into your hair and neck as he just held you there in that awkward position.

you clutched at his arms, feeling the muscled strength of them tense beneath your touch. “Simon?”

he hummed distantly, pressing pleasant kisses to your skin.

“i need to show you something,” he said, untangling himself from your body for a brief moment to step away and search for something on the floor. he took something from the pocket of his discarded pants, silvery and shiny in the dim light as he crawled back onto the bed and pulled you flush to him once more.

he looped both arms in front of your chest, the silver thing dangling in the air in front of your face.

you gasped at the sight of the pink jewel embedded in an ornate silver casing—dazzling even in the low light. it wasn’t unlike Simon to bring you back trinkets and small mementos from his travels, though they were always discrete, left on your nightstand after an intimate night, or the kitchen table in your apartment.

this was the first time he had directly presented you with something so romantic.

with a content hum at your reaction, he clasped it around your neck, pulling your hair out from under the silver chain, pressing his lips along the necklace against your skin. the contrast between its cold metal and his hot kisses left you shivering.

“what is it?” you asked in wonder, clutching at the jewel against your chest.

“pink tourmaline,” he slurred against your skin. you met his half-lidded gaze from over your shoulder.

“s’my birthstone,” he said, voice deceptively soft as he reached around to toy with it in your fingers. a heat slithered down to your core, and you had to clench your thighs together to stave off the aching pressure of it.

the act was so possessive it left you hot with delirium.

physically branding you as his, a happy voice sung in your somewhere, though the logic of your mind swatted at it, reminding you this wasn’t how you wanted it.

you bit down on your lip, feeling conflicted as you stared down at the jewel in his fingertips.

when you didn’t respond to him, Simon gently pressed you onto your back, sliding over your body to study your face with a blank expression.

“what’s wrong, lovely? you don’t like it?”

you shook your head, reaching up to cup his cheek. “no. i like it. it’s just…”

he tilted his head, eyes flitting down to your exposed, swollen breast from his kneading, then up again.

“fuck me,” you offered, and his face pinched, pulling back from your touch so he sat back on his haunches.

“what’re you not tellin’ me, lovely?” he asked, angling your chin down so you were looking right into his dark eyes.

you swallowed hard. “Konig came and talked to me.”

he stiffened, grip on your chin tightening as he frowned. “he didn’t touch you, did he?”

“no,” you said, clutching at his wrist, “he told me that he wanted to stay in the city for me.”

with as much honesty as you could muster, you told him, “i realized that i care about him more than i believed.”

his hand dropped from your face, jaw clenched as a new void look swept through his expression, which left you icy inside and out.

“you want to tell me that you love him?” there was such a strain in his voice that it didn’t sound like his own.

“no,” you said immediately, and the tight bunch of his shoulders dropped. “i want...”

that voice in your head screamed and you tried to bury it but it came out wracking and loud. you screwed your eyes shut.

you Simon, it screamed. i want you. you wanted him so bad it was soul-crushing. you wanted him so bad you’d rather deny yourself of the need, ignore him endlessly, if it meant that he wouldn’t… reject you.

those same, sharp questions pierced finally broke the barricade of your mind. could you ever hope for Simon to be yours? would he ever think you an equal? was it more than the power balance you felt it to be?

you looked into his stoic face.

“i want to start over.”

he tilted his head, voice rough. “start over.”

you nodded. “i’m a business woman. i’m a murderer. i’ve done awful things. i’m not innocent anymore.”

you held your breath, hoping with all your might he would believe your words. you were so, so, so very afraid that he cared for a girl that you weren’t anymore.

you are a woman now, Yue-Yi had said to you with wonder after your reunion in san francisco, marveled that you had survived the harrowing gang war.

he edged closer to you, creeping over you so his body bowed down to your own. his hands slid up to your cheeks, holding your face as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. his dark eyes flitted between yours.

you pressed on. “let’s do everything over. no more secrets. retell me ones i’ve already learned.”

when he was silent, you reached up to gently hold his face in your palms in return.

“the one i love is you,” you admitted, amazed at how the weight slid right from your shoulders into some intangible pit below, just how it had been that noon with Konig.

you searched his eyes, finding nothing changed in them after your words. just Simon’s brown eyes. still just Simon. the clarity in that realization was like finally finding a foothold after months of free fall.

“you’ve changed Angel,” he said, quietly, like he was in awe.

your breath hitched. “is that bad?”

“‘course not. is this what you’ve been worrying your pretty little head about for months?”

you frowned. “yes.”

his whole body relaxed, easing down to trap you beneath his muscled body. “i thought you were rethinkin’ about marrying me.”

you winced, because in all technicality you were, but not because you were doubting him. you were doubting all of the unreliable circumstances that danced around the two of you.

he said softer, “i thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“i want you more than anything,” you squeaked and he cocked his head.

only you could decipher it as the silent question that it was. then why’d you do all that to me?

your breath hitched, the guilt of neglecting him like a crashing, icy wave splashing over you. or, rather, you had neglected yourself.

“i can’t explain it,” you choked and he rubbed a hand over your chest.

“take your time Angel.”

shimmering tears glossed your eyes, and you said quicker than you thought, “i wanna be equals.”

the slow, soothing circles he drew against your chest stopped. “equals?”

“i wanna be more than this,” you said, clutching at the jewel on your chest, hoping with every fiber of your being that he understood.

more than the once innocent and naive girl he kidnapped.

but he was just silent for a long moment, eyes darting between your face and the little jewel, and you made a strangled noise of frustration.

“i want you to be mine, too,” you admitted, so embarrassed by the proposition that you couldn’t look at him.

when his silence just continued, your eyes darted over to meet his, face void of anything perceptible before he suddenly smothered a laugh, pressing a fist to his lips and twisting away so you couldn’t see his face.

“what—”

you scrambled up to see him keeled over by the edge of the bed, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Simon!” you shouted, kicking at his shoulder to get him to quit it, but that only goaded him on.

with a sniffle, you wiped at the tears in your eyes and scrambled from the bed, standing up to stomp out of the room. even if you were naked and all, you didn’t care.

“don’t even try to run away,” he growled between laughter, winding an arm around your waist and pulling you back so you fell back against his chest with a yelp, fighting him as he wrestled you back down to the bed.

when your cheek was pressed against the mattress, back arched and ass pressed to his hips, you slumped with defeat and he let out a low, approving hum, laughter finally subsiding as he bent over you to nose at the crown of your head.

once he settled above you, he hummed again, an iron grip around both of your forearms that were pressed to the bed. he kneed your thighs apart, cunt spread and presented to him in the most indecent way possible.

you shuddered, a burning heat in your tummy.

“silly girl,” he murmured, hips sliding forward to press his leaking cock into the softness of your inner thigh.

you gasped, squirming around in his grip, trapped beneath him.

“my cock was made for this pretty pussy,” he rasped, low enough that it sent goosebumps across your skin, a little whimper torn from your lips.

“made for you,” he emphasized, picking up a hand that pinned down your forearm.

you looked down between your quivering legs, watching him wrap a large hand around his length and pump his cock a couple times before lining up with your entrance.

“already?” you whined, shaking at the feeling of his drooling tip pushing through your gooey folds.

“you can take it can’t you?” he cooed softly, leaning down to press a messy kiss to your cheek.

of course you could, you wanted to say, but the memory of how the stretch of your cunt around his big cock burned even when he prepared you made you tremble.

but that didn’t stop you from wiggling your hips back into him, wanting him to just slide in already, the wetness of your cunt hot and unbearable. you couldn’t keep from whimpering against the sheets for him.

at your meek display of submission, he whispered in a low, throaty tone, “good girl.”

slowly, he pressed his cock into your unstretched cunt, smothering your cries against the blankets. you screwed your eyes shut, tears slipping down your cheeks as you half-sobbed.

Simon smoothed a hand down your spine, his other hand going between your thighs to circle at your aching clit as he plunged further in.

“hurts,” you whined and he hummed, kissing your shoulder blade.

“want me to stop?” he offered softly, but you immediately shook your head, wanting to please him.

always wanting to please him.

“you’re perfect,” he purred against your skin, bullying the last thick inches of his base into your pussy till he was flush against your ass.

lingering there for a moment, letting the sharp burn subside as you sniffled against the sheets and he peppered kisses all down your neck and back, fingers still massaging your swollen clit.

“needed this so bad,” he admitted, hot breath against your back making your shiver, “needed this pretty little, tight cunt so bad.”

the first snap of his hips punched the breath from your lungs, the rest leaving you gasping, breathless, and mind dizzy as he fucked you. rough. rougher than you felt in a long time.

punishing, you thought dreamily as his hand reached around your throat and squeezed periodically to keep you from passing out.

his hips slammed against your ass, growling out low grunts that coupled with your breathy hiccups in the quiet of the room. it had you delirious and out of your mind, thick tears rolling down your cheeks and pooling at the mattress below.

when he stopped abruptly, hips flush to the back of your thighs that stung from repetitive impact, he manhandled you onto your back, twisting you on his cock as he draped your legs over your shoulders, bending you in half and ignoring your little whimpers as he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

when his hand snaked up to your throat again, you thought he’d give you those delicious little squeezes that had your cunt throbbing and aching, but he wrapped his fingers around your necklace instead, pressing the jewel of it into your throat.

his head was tilted, eyes predatory and clouded beyond recognition.

“pretty,” he snarled, fingers digging into your cheek to keep you still as he pressed more messy kisses to your face as you whimpered.

not punishing, you realized, choking out a sob when he slammed deep into that sweet spot in you, possessive.

so possessive that it made your head spin, clit twitching for his attention, your hips bucking up into his rough movements as you whined for his touch desperately.

“touch yourself,” he commanded roughly, and you sobbed out a thank you, running a hand down your stomach to rub at it—but it just wasn’t as good as the rough pads of his fingers that knew exactly how you liked it.

whining again, he chided you with a tsk, leaning down to shut you up with a hot, wet kiss, tongue invading your mouth as he pushed your hand aside. he pressed his thumb against your needy clit, fingers splayed across your stomach as he abused the pebbled bud to perfection.

“oh, Simon,” you gasped into his full lips, watching the silvery scar of his upper lip stretch when he smiled, malicious and pupils blown wide.

“hm? tha’ good, baby?”

“yeah,” you choked out, more tears running down your face when you screwed your eyes shut. he kissed them away with a softness that made you melt, curling into his touch, taking and loving every one of his rough thrusts that drove you a little further up the bed.

so far that he held up a hand against it, broad and big body towering over your small, shaking one, dwarfed by him in the darkness.

he groaned, little strings of praise leaving his lips. “so perfect takin’ me, Angel. so small and tight and takin’ it all.”

you nodded, gasping for breath as your fingers twisted in the sheets, overwhelmed

“this cock yours? hm?” he goaded, and you just kept nodding through your hiccuped gasps, hands running up his strong arms to sink your nails into his shoulders, tugging him down to you with a whine.

he relented, dropping down to squish you beneath his heavy weight, your thighs almost pressed to your ears as he fucked his thick cock into you, your eyes rolling back when you felt it throb inside you.

“tell me m’yours,” he growled in your ear, and you moaned, snaking a hand into his hair to pull at its roots and quell the crashing pleasure wracking your body with little overstimulated shakes.

“you’re mine,” you squeaked back, and he chuckled low in your ear, talking you through an orgasm with throaty murmurs.

good girl. come for me now. wanna watch your pretty face while you come. thaaas’ it, pretty thing, come f’me, come f’me—

and you did, every one of his words spurring you closer to the edge, thrown over it when he snuck a hand around your throat and squeezed, the cold metal of your necklace digging into your skin.

it was too much, and you came so hard you saw white, throaty groans in your ear as you came down from the high, Simon’s thrusts slower and more affectionate.

“did so well f’me,” he cooed, and you nodded weakly, still clutching at his hair as your body continued to shake.

“think you can do it again?” he asked softly and you immediately shook your head.

“no,” you sniffled, but he pressed his lips against your hair, a telling smile twisted them and you whimpered, knowing exactly what that meant.

you gasped when he suddenly pulled out of you, feeling light and airy and cold from the weightless absence of him. dizzy, you picked up your head, blinking your eyes against the darkness, pacified when he leaned down and enveloped your lips with his warm ones, movements slow and soft when he flipped you to straddle his hips.

you leaned against his chest, feeling just as woozy and dizzy as he angled your hips, dripping length pushing through your folds and catching against your sensitive clit.

“i think you can, lovely,” he said, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip. “can you try? f’me?”

you sniffled, sending him a pout that just made the smug look on his face stretch.

“want you to use me,” he rasped, eyes darting down to where his cock was nestled between the wet folds of your entrance—sopping with your orgasm and the pearly white liquid that rolled from the tip of his cock.

you whined, grinding down on him, feeling that needy thrum between your thighs again, and he hummed approvingly, guiding his cock back into the waiting clutch of your heat.

the position was unusual to you—so exposed in the cold air of the room, begetting you a whole new berth of control that you were unsure what to do with when you sunk down on him, watching his blonde lashes flutter as his eyelids drooped, sighing out a heavy breath.

once you were settled flush to his hips, you gasped, head tilted back and eyes wide at how deep the head of him nudged against that gummy crook of your inside that ached and keened for stimulation.

“Simon,” you gasped, unsure what to do.

he placed two hands on your hips, dragging your hips up so just the tip of him was at your entrance, before spearing you back down.

you gasped when the head of his cock pressed right against that sweet spot again, and you clutching at his big hands on your hips, picking your hips up before dropping back down onto him, the new pleasure blooming through your body.

“tha’ it,” he grunted, lolling his head back into the pillows, watching your work his length with little breathy moans and gasps, “use this cock. s’all yours.”

you whined at that, whimpering a little, “mine” as you peered down at him through half-lidded eyes.

“mhmm,” he affirmed, using his thumb to play with your aching clit, “m’all yours, princess.”

a moan escaped your lips as you tipped your head back, riding him slow and sensual to your own pleasure, letting it overwhelm you with loud keens of pleasure, head spinning at the thick, pulsing cock between your legs.

all yours, your mind chanted, reaching up to pinch at your own sensitive nipples and whimpering at the sensation that mixed into all the others, watching Simon groan beneath you.

“such a dirty, corrupted little thing,” he grunted, thrusting up in time with your movements so he slammed a little deeper in you every time.

“gonna let me make you my pretty little wife, princess?” he asked, voice so soft as he cupped your cheek.

you nodded incessantly, babbling incoherent words and little pleas as you leaned forward on his chest, another orgasm rushing closer and closer to you.

“gonna come?”

you nodded again, pitched little whimpers the only sound you could push from your lips as he snapped his hips up, taking over the weak, shallow movement of your hips, thighs burning from the effort.

your whole body turned to jello, muscles going lax as you collapsed over him, core convulsing with sweet, delicious pulses that blissed you out, a roar of static in your ears as you screwed your eyes shut with a broken sob.

you hadn’t even realized your cheek was pressed to Simon’s chest till you were coming down from the intensity of it, mind still buzzing with overstimulation, as you just listened to his lulling breaths against your hair and the slow swells of his chest.

he brushed his fingers up your back. “alright, lovely?”

you nodded with a contented hum against his bare chest, tracing the mottled scars of his body softly.

you only noticed his throbbing, hard length still flush to that sweet spot in you when he bucked his hips up, and a surprised moan left your lips.

“can i?” he asked, lifting your hips softly to slide his cock out the tight clutch of your cunt.

you weren’t sure of what he was asking for till he perched your leg up, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking, tip pressed right up against the rim of your entrance.

you moaned at the sight, craning your head back to look at the quick swipe of his hand twisting around his cock, hips bucking up in an irregular pattern that made you dizzy.

he twitched beneath you every time slapped the head of his cock against your clit, making you mewl out with sensitivity, turning your head back to him, finding his dark, clouded eyes already on you.

he picked his head up in a silent offering that you took, kissing him with a delirious need, needing him to do something, needed him to come.

“need it,” you whimpered, grinding your hips down against the head of his cock, and his hips bucked with a low groan against your tongue.

“fuck,” he grunted, forehead pressed to yours, “you don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

that only left you confused, brow furrowed as you traced your fingers over his neck and collarbones, scratching lightly over the skin just to hear his breath go shallow.

“need you to come in me,” you begged, whining at the very thought of his hot, milky spend spilling into your cunt, not knowing why you needed it, just that you did.

he groaned loud, hips bucking up into his hands a few more times till he held the head of his cock right against your entrance and came all over your pussy lips, splashing them with a hot, goopy liquid as you whimpered, grinding down on the feeling.

you were half tempted to sheath himself back into your cunt, but his fingers already beat you to it, slithering down your stomach to curl up into your entrance. you gasped as he pushed the spend in you, hot and slimy and just as you had imagined as you ground down on his fingertips.

“this what you needed?” he asked, voice hazy and distant. you blinked up at him, his head lolled against the pillows with a lazy smirk.

shifting up you pecked his lips, humming as he fucked his fingers into you, spreading his spend within you. he pecked your nose in return.

“good.”

then, his fingers were sliding out your cunt, leaving you empty and cold after the accumulated sweat on your body had dried. but his arms were warm as he wrapped you in his embrace, turning you over to crush you beneath him again, just where you belonged.

stretching out beneath him, you winced at the sting between your thighs.

“sore?” he asked, reaching down to cup your cunt, and you swatted at his hand with a flush.

“s’your fault,” you said with a pout.

he just thumbed at your lower lip that jutted out, and you playfully bit down on it, satisfied when you saw a little smile on his lips.

“i promise i’ll stretch you nice and good beforehand next time. with a couple orgasms too,” he purred in your ear, and you only flushed deeper, hiding it under an indignant nod and a little hmph.

“but that won’t be happenin' for a while, pretty,” he said, rolling off you to sit at the edge of the bed.

when you sent him a quizzical look, beseeching him to come back and keep you warm, he just shook his head.

“s’improper while courting.”

you stiffened against the sheets, dropping your hand back down to your side. then, your eyes narrowed. “since when do you care about that kind of bullshit?”

he just bellowed a laugh, standing, tall and broad and stretching his compressed muscles in the open air. your eyes dropped beneath his hips, taking in the hair along his naval and his softening cock with a greediness.

tipping your knees open suggestively, you bared your intimates to him, and his eyes honed in on the messy mix of wetness caking your lower body.

“don’t do that,” he said, low and threatening as his eyes darted back up to your own, tongue sliding along his lower lip.

you couldn’t help but swallow at the sight of him, splaying yourself suggestively over the bed to entice him back. he just turned on his heel with a scoff, muttering something like insatiable beneath his breath before he walked off somewhere into the spacious room.

with the whiz of a match, you saw a space on the opposite of the bedroom bloom with light as he lit candles inside the bathroom.

in the meantime, you burrowed beneath the blankets and soft furs, humming with content at the warmth, brow furrowing when you felt them being pulled off your. with closed eyes, you felt Simon lift your leg, gently wiping your thighs and the sensitive place between them with a warm cloth, making you jolt at the sensation.

he pressed an apologetic kiss to your shoulder before the blankets were on you again and there was the sound of rustling, footsteps in the distance, the rush of water, footsteps nearing you, and more rustles when Simon slid into the bed behind you.

you turned onto your back to blink your eyes lazily at him, seeing him propped up on his side against the pillows and looking down at you. you smiled, tracing along his jaw and the silvery scar on his upper lip before he stooped down to kiss you with an intensity, tongue softly brushing against yours, before he pulled away again.

“do that again,” you commanded and with a huff he complied, kissing you so hard it made you dizzy.

“better?” he asked with a relaxed look on his face, reaching around you to play with your necklace.

“mhmm.”

you clutched at his wrist. “this my first courting gift?”

he let it drop against your skin, snaking two arms around you to pull you flush to his chest. it was warm and inviting. exactly where you belonged. exactly where Simon belonged.

“naturally.”

you smothered a smile, slithering your hand over his bound around your waist, intertwining your fingers together. he nuzzled against you with a hum, yawning right by your ear like a big cat.

“it was my last effort at failing to court you for months,” he admitted softly, breathing in the scent of your hair and skin shamelessly. you swatted at him, giggling at his ticklish breaths on your skin.

“leaving things around my apartment was courting?” you asked with a snort, and he grunted against your neck.

“i don’t know how it works,” he grumbled, and you drew lazy patterns across the veins of his muscled forearm.

“i could’ve taught you,” you sighed, remembering how your mama had described your daddy’s courting process.

Simon’s prolonged silence goaded you, and you began, “supposed to have a chaperone. first, you talk to her parents, gain their approval to pursue her, then—”

“i know all that,” he interjected, sounding sheepish. it was the first time you heard him so flustered, but you decided not to push him when you could feel him frown against your hair.

squirming around in his arms, he loosened his hold enough so that you could turn, taking in the strained look on his face. you pecked the corners of his scowl, willing it away, but it didn’t relent.

“then,” you said, brushing his brow with your fingers, “you fix a date to court her in front of her family.”

his scowl just deepened and you huffed a laugh.

“court me in front of Yue-Yi,” you offered, letting your head sink into the pillows, a droop pulling on your eyelids.

“i don’t want to,” he countered and you rolled your eyes.

“she’s the only family i’ve got besides one-four-one,” you said, stifling a yawn, “unless you wanna court me in front of John.”

he nodded slowly, like he was being thoughtful. “that could work.”

you scoffed, letting your eyes slide shut. “unbelievable.”

his fingers traced along your bare spine. “i’ve gotta tell you somethin’, lovely.”

“hm?” you prompted, tilting your head into the pillow like you were listening.

“i did ask your parents for permission.”

you stilled in his arms, breaths growing shallow, waiting for him to explain. when he didn’t, you pressed him.

“and?”

when his silence was only prolonged, you blinked your eyes open, lazily looking up at the serious look pinching his face.

“your mother was shot by one of Turner’s men in the street. it was a mess. don’t know how she got there, or where your father was. just hauled her down an alley and tried to save her.”

your heart swelled so big that it cinched your esophagus, and you found it hard to breathe around the beating appendage in your throat.

“in her dyin’ moments, she asked me if i had done somethin’ to you.” he screwed his eyes shut, a pained look crossing his face.

“i told her that i had, but that i cared about you more than anythin’. i promised i’d marry you and be a good, faithful husband.”

gripping his jaw lightly, you shimmied up in his arms to press a kiss to his lips that he didn’t return, dark eyes flitting over your face.

“i think she wanted to kill me,” he admitted softly, and you just gave him a wry smile.

“sounds like my mama,” you said, trying to ease the pained look on his face, heart sinking when his scowl only strengthened.

“i tried to save her,” he said, voice gruff and brows pinched together, “i promise.”

you nodded, brushing your hands over his face, willing all of his pain away. “i believe you.”

he closed his eyes with a frustrated huff. “m’terrible at courting.”

you would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the dark roil of deep disapproval coming off him in waves.

“we didn’t exactly have a practical start,” you reminded him, thinking back to months ago. when it was the heat of a dusty summer and he was waltzed into your daddy’s saloon like he owned it, snatching your heart just at the first sight of his brown eyes behind the bloody layer of his glittering mask.

you could barely remember how it looked after it so long. you took in the handsome planes of his face just to remind yourself that you could.

“you deserve more,” he grumbled, still not looking at you. instead, you kissed his eyelids softly.

“stop it,” you chided, patting his cheek hard enough to make his eyes snap open.

“i only want you,” you said, enjoying the way his expression went sweet and gooey at your words, a sleepy smile on his lips, “there is no more or less.”

“this is it,” he said, voice soft as he pressed your foreheads together.

“this is it,” you sighed, curling your arms around his neck, letting your eyes close once more.

goosebumps rose where his fingers danced across your skin, picking up the ends of your hair against your collarbone and playing with it gently.

“marry me,” he offered, hooking a finger beneath the silver chain of your new necklace, rattling when he tugged on it.

“i do,” you sighed, letting him kiss you softly before his warm touch was pulling you down into a heavy slumber.

translations: — te ves tan bonita esta noche, Angel = you look so pretty tonight, angel — escuche que eres la chica de Ghost. pero ya no lo parece = i heard you're Ghost's girl. but it doesn't seem that way anymore —¿todavia parece que no es mia cabron? = does she still look like she’s not mine, bastard?

anyway! next up.... wedding scene 🌚 unless.... jkjk unless............. 👁️👁️ jk (unless...)

taglist: @poohkie90 @kunikku @tomiesdiet @silverianni @doublesuicidewithme @cliosunshine @one17 @mr-sol @warenai @saturnknows @migueloharaapologist2 @keiva1000 @kenma-izhu @lilvampirina @deltottoro @maki-z @leeeenistop @danika1994 @stillinracooncity @saevitiaa @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @karagd13-blog @nattywatty @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya @havoc973 @mentallynot-here @aqua7ofana @ccerviee @haleidontknow @imjusttheretofightforlove @moonstonedeluluera @tieflingteatime @syddieuh @savakewl @shinebright2000 @bakugo-apologist98 @queenie-b- @whenyoushipuponastar

#simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost smut #ghost angst #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

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amazingabellini · 1 year ago

Text

Every Single Thing 621 is Called on Rubicon

Dog Augmented Human C4-621 You 621 Intruder Illegal Enemy AC Merc Corp AC Registration number Rb23 Raven Callsign: Raven Mercenary Corporate Merc Corporate Dog Interloper Military Force Hostile AC Shameless Coral scavenger Independent Mercenary Hunter Sharp A local An Independent A merc who only kills for credits A real merc G13 G13 Raven Kiddo Freelancer Maggot Fake Redgun Tagalong Sewing club member Not a total amateur Not a pro Corporate Vulture Mere pawn Scavenger Hound of Walter Competition Good for nothing Good for something Wretched vulture Unidentified AC Damn Hyena Rotten Money-grubber Corporate scum Enemy backup One of the infamous Walter's hounds Wallclimber War buddies Comrade Buddy Intruder Doser Shameless Corporate Dog Greedy Mercenary Greedy hound Daring A symbol of resolve Only Other Person That Can Keep Up With Me You Again Old Augmentation Recalcitrant Mutt Vermin Pest The Pest of Rubicon Code 15 Raven the Wallclimber Code 31C Solo Independent Mercenary Pitiful Dog Gen 4 Fine hound Another dead dog Older type of Augmented Human Tourist No ordinary tourist Smart Cookie No slouch A cut above the rest Not afraid of anything Belongs in a museum Freak My favorite little Tourist A certain someone New friend The Freelancer from the dam raid Target Walter's Hound Solo AC Independent Merc Trespasser to Rubicon Walking Advertisement Mascot AC of Unknown Affiliation Suspected Corporate Hire Single AC Code 5, Unknown AC Independent Mercenary Assembly That AC Hostile AC Priority Subject for Termination One helluva merc Hired Operative Intruding AC Grunt Famous Mercenary Fine Soldier One Loose End Corpse Quick on the uptake Not like those savages Cur Scoundrel Oathbreaker Just an AC Patchwork AC Better than the other ACs Like a bird in flight Killer Menace to Rubicon Target for Termination Unknown Intruder Intrusion Attempt Menace Volunteer The Objective Just a Gen 4 Strong Worthy of your name False Alarm Impostor Impressive Pilot Wormkiller Threat to Planetary Closure 20 Iguazus A Real Redgun Not so Special Too Dangerous to Keep Around Not Afraid to Die The Only G13 Who's Managed To Live This Long

One of Carla's

A new friend from afar Strong A Threat Dangerous Another Threat to Rubicon Veteran The Mercenary Who Took Your Name Rat Fool The Big One Corporate pawn Rather Extraordinary Gen 4 Augmentation High Level Threat Strong Candidate One of Allmind's The One Rusty was talking about Head in the Clouds Old-Gen Alive Handler's Hound Old Colleague Subject Beast of burden Guest of Honor The Key Smartass Freelancer Wonderful People Demon Miserable Relic Trigger for the Change to come Dog without a shred of intelligence Not worthy of humanity Stray Dog Obstacle Faithful Hound Biggest Threat Legacy Augmentation The Greatest Obstacle The Liberator of Rubicon The only one The Spark of War The Fires that Haunt Rubicon The Monster who Burned the Stars One With Allmind Aberrations to The Plan Trigger for Coral Release Irregular The Old-Gen Who Could Do It All

The Freelancer Who Had It All

#ac6 #ac6 spoilers #c4 621 #augmented human c4 621 #armored core 6 #armored core #why did i do this #armored core vi #acvi #armored core fires of rubicon #raven #registration number rb23 #g13 #g13 raven

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ye4gerism · 4 months ago

Note

Hii!! Can I request a fic where reader and Curly have a more happier life kinda au? Which includes them having their own kid/baby? If you want, you can add a bit of smut here and there🤭🤭 (Sorry if i’m being too specific, feel free to reject this request if you don’t feel like writing it.)

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘 - 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

word count 3.1k

content warning pregnancy struggles, parenthood, jimmy has a wife, tension, black reader friendly

author’s note sorry for the radio silence 😳 college is so weird. also, there isn’t any smut in this, anon😭 didn’t know how to fit it in. and…nobody’s really happy here🧍🏾‍♀️anyway, pls enjoy this fic.

synopsis curly doesn’t get on the tulpar and starts a family with you. you have the best daughter you could ever ask for and you finally feel at peace with your husband. but, per usual, jimmy has to butt his way in.

Dinner tonight was inauthentic tacos. It wasn't the taco place you and Curly liked to visit when you were dating but to you, it tasted just as good. The kitchen was filled with the smell of seasoned and spiced meat that was slightly burned at the bottom of the pan.

The swing of the front door follows with two sets of footsteps, one faster and lighter than the heavier one that harmonized with it. "Take your shoes...wait a second kiddo!" you hear your husband call out. Evidently, his pleas didn't work as your little girl met you in the kitchen. "Mommy!" She raises her hands for you to hold her.

"I'll hug you in a moment, sweetie. My hands are dirty. Can you listen to your dad and take your shoes off? And maybe wash your hands and come eat dinner?" you ask. Your four-year-old nods before running out of the kitchen. Curly crossed paths with her but stopped to remind her not to run.

Your husband's head pops over the kitchen counter and once he locks eyes with you, he shakes his head. Curly walks around to embrace you. He gives you a long kiss as he's been out all day at work and with your daughter. "How are you, Mrs. Curly?" he asks, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm good now that you're here, Mr. Curly," you answer back.

"I might have gotten her ice cream after school, which is why she's a little out of control. Sorry," he then says. You shake your head and chuckle.

"Who knows if she's actually washing her hands? I should go check on her - make sure she's not wasting any water." You wiggle yourself out of his arms and start to walk away from Curly but he grabs your hand and pulls you in again - your back against his torso this time. He locks you in with his arms around your belly.

"Who cares? You know I can afford the bill and besides," he leans down and places kisses from your temple down to the crook of your neck, "We don't get much time to ourselves these days." One of his hands leaves your belly and finds its way to the band of your pants. You slap his hand. "Not now, silly."

Curly chuckles and brings his back to where it originally was. Your bodies rock together and he hums. "But hey, it'd be nice to have another. I think we can do one more baby," he says suddenly.

Your body slows. "It was hard to get pregnant the first time and it was even more difficult to have her."

One day, your contractions felt off and irregular. You alerted Curly and sooner or later, he was packing your car with all the baby stuff you needed. You get checked into the hospital and examined by your doctor, who lets you know you're in early labor and that you are fine to go home. Something about the whole thing didn't feel right - so you stayed.

Hours later, they tell you the baby isn't coming - at least the way you expected. The baby isn't in the right position.

They rush you to the operation room, your husband right at their heels. Nurses help prepare the room and dress your husband in a hospital blue hospital garment.

There isn't really much you remember except for the clutch Curly had on your hand and the blueness in the room. Your doctor, after the longest time, tells you that the baby's out but you don't hear any cries and you see how some of your medical team has walked away from your open body.

You don't have much energy to yell and your husband is as confused and panicked. You hear pats from the other side of the room and finally a cry. A wave of relief washes over you and you close your eyes.

The next time you open your eyes, you're back in your hospital room. Curly's asleep on the sofa. You look over to your right and see the bassinet with a pink label reading 'Baby Girl Curly'.

"I don't know if I want to do it again, Curly," you tell him. His hands settle where your c-section scar sits. He doesn't say anything. You did have a conversation once about what it would have been like if you guys had kids earlier but you were both focused on your careers and got married later than what is considered usual by society.

"We're lucky to have one...to have her. Just be grateful for what we could have." You pull away from his grasp when you hear the little footsteps approaching the kitchen.

"My hands are clean!" your little girl exclaims. She holds her visibly wet hands at you. You rip a piece of paper towel and help your daughter dry her hands. "Good job, baby girl. Now, tell me what you want on your taco..."

"Daddy, did you tell Mommy about your friend who we saw at the ice cream place today?"

Curly gives your daughter a pointed look. "Don't talk while you're eating, sweet girl. The taco shells are pretty sharp. I don't want you to choke."

Normally, the three of you would have small conversations throughout dinner but tonight with almost silent with your choice of meal and the awkwardness from your conversation with Curly.

"No, he hasn't," you respond, looking at Curly. He avoids your gaze but if he could see you, he'd read 'it better not be Jimmy' in your eyes. "But I'll ask him later, sweetie."

Curly was booked to go on the Tulpar but decided to pull out when you found out you were pregnant with your daughter. The pony people were pissed, so Curly quit, causing them to restaff the mission. Jimmy's life seemingly got better; you say this because he became the captain of the Tulpar trip and he even got married to some girl he swears he didn't kidnap or brainwash. They also share a daughter. In Jimmy's head, he's one step ahead of Curly but to you, the only thing he lacks is true love and passion.

Dinner's finished and it's time for your daughter to get ready for bed. Curly takes care of bath time, which lasts thirty minutes. You meet him in the bedroom to wish your daughter good night but the moment you get there, her eyes are already closed. Curly sits at the side of her bed, staring at her lovingly. You lean on the doorframe and take in the image of your family.

"I thought about what you said...maybe she's all we need," he says quietly. He looks up at you. "We do have other options though. We can always adopt. I just...I just don't want to hurt you or lose you."

"When we get there, we can talk more. Let's let her sleep, come on," you respond. Curly gets up and meets you at the door. You close it and waste no second asking about his whereabouts.

"Was it Jimmy you saw today? When you went for ice cream?"

Curly puts his hands up in defense. "He just happened to be there with his daughter. He saw us and came over to say hello. Our daughters really kicked it off - you know how quickly kids make friends."

You cross your arms. "There's more you aren't telling me."

"He invited us to do some grilling...like old times!" Curly confesses. "I know you probably don't want to go but I...I think enough time has passed and I haven't seen my friend in a long time. It'd be nice for you to meet his kid."

You scoff. "The kid that he has with his wife that is how many years his junior? Curly, please."

You both share a silence. Curly looks down at his feet sheepishly and you can see right through him.

"And what do you mean friend? The same friend who made it his mission to ruin us? The one who didn't want any of this to happen?"

Curly's even more embarrassed. "You're right. Probably shouldn't call him my friend."

"Fine. Just this once...but I want this to stop, Grant. You live a different life now. Only God knows what would have happened if you got on that ship and, frankly, I'm glad I never have to worry about that."

Curly can't meet your gaze and you begin to feel guilty. You brush your fingers against his arm. "Hey, cheer up. At least you'll get to see your hot wife every day."

He hums before pulling you close to him by your waist. "You're right. I can never be upset about that."

"Really? I'm not convinced. Prove it to me."

You wrap your arms around his neck and he cups one hand under your thigh before lifting you. Curly presses his nose against yours. "Oh, I'll prove it to you."

You giggle at his response as he begins to carry you down the hall to your shared bedroom.

Saturday rolls around.

And the animosity you feel towards the upcoming event returns.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," Curly says. He's buttoning the last button on his shirt.

"Well, I need to keep an eye on you and your boyfriend."

"I can call and tell him we can't make it."

"Oh, don't do that on my accord! Please, let's go visit good ole Jimmy and move on with our lives!"

You and Curly share a look of annoyance. The past few days, things have been tense between the two of you. You almost regret enabling him to go to this barbecue but at the same time, you just wanted him to get Jimmy out of his system.

The car ride was backed by your daughter's vocals and the nursery rhymes she asked you to play. You admire your daughter through the front view mirror - if anything she was your saving grace. She was the only one who could really brighten then your day. She was all you needed.

Curly finally pulls into Jimmy's driveway. He lives in a one-story dark blue home. His front lawn is decorated with leaves and he has a few lawn chairs out.

Curly gets out of the car first and heads to the back to unbuckle your daughter out of her seat. You sigh at the sight of Jimmy's home; you had to march up to his home with this apple pie sitting on your lap and act like there wasn't a time when he tried to make you feel inferior. Your daughter was going to have a play date with his and your husband was going to crack open beers with him like they're frat bros catching up.

Your husband knocks on the passenger side of the window, waking you out of your thoughts. He lingers for a moment, a firm line across his face. Soon, he walks away from the passenger seat, allowing you to leave. Eyes on the house, you take a deep breath and follow after Curly and your daughter.

Curly knocks on the door and after a few minutes, the locks turn and the door opens.

Jimmy stands before you: hair up to his shoulder, stubble more prominent, and overall, he seems brighter and happier. His signature slouch is gone and stands like an actual man.

"Curly, you made it!" The two men do a handshake and hug combo along with that deep laugh that all men like to do for whatever reason. Jimmy separates from Jimmy and gets down to your daughter's level, which triggers your fight or flight. But the soft look in his eyes calms you. "Hey there again, little lady." He places his right hand out for your daughter to shake. "Aisha's in the backyard if you wanna play with her." Your daughter wastes no time running to the back.

Jimmy stands up and his eyes land on you. Your breath hitches again and you find it difficult to stand next to Curly.

Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets. "Mrs. Curly. Long time, no see."

"What is there to see, Jimmy?" you say. There's a bit of hostility in your voice, which makes Curly look over his shoulder at you and cringe slightly. His eyes beg you to behave.

Jimmy opens his mouth but is interrupted by the touch of his wife. She takes hold of his arm and smiles brightly at him. She's still as beautiful as the first time you saw her: her skin was like smooth chestnut, her braided hair wrapped up in a way that complimented her smile, and she was tall and slim. And ridiculously young...at least ridiculously younger than Jimmy. The only difference is that her belly was slightly swollen.

"Why are you still keeping our guest outside?" And her voice is sweet. You still don't know how Jimmy landed her...or what he did to convince her to pick him. "Please ignore him and come in." She ushers you into their home.

Their home looks like a home: shoes by the door, baby gifts in the living room, and family portraits everywhere. "Jimmy's was just about to start with the grill, if you want to help out, Curly," Mrs. Jimmy says. Jimmy elbows Curly playfully and gestures that they head outside.

You're left alone with Jimmy's unbelievably gorgeous wife. She takes note of the pie still in your hand. "I can take that. The little one's been craving some apple pie," she jokes, rubbing her belly. She takes the pie from your hands and goes to the kitchen. You follow.

"Remind me your name. Curly's mentioned you but I can't remember your name to save my life," you admit.

"Jada. And you're...y/n, correct?"

You nod. "Yeah, Jimmy doesn't talk about you as much as he talks about Curly but he says you weren't a big fan of his."

And yet, you still aren't.

You decide to change the subject. "So, how far along are you?"

Jada places the pie in the fridge. She takes out a few items - microwaveable mashed potatoes and mac and cheese - before closing the fridge. "I'm five months. Jim wants another girl but I think we're having a boy. What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not pregnant-"

"I-I wasn't making that assumption! I was going to ask if you were planning on having any more..."

You hold your stomach uncomfortably now. "I think I'll head outside now. Just to check on the girls."

You leave Jada standing there uncomfortably.

"This is the first time you two have met, huh?" Jimmy realizes. He's on his first beer. One hand grips the bottle and the other is resting on his wife’s waist.

"I think so," Curly answers for you. You're tucked under his arm and you're fuming. He's on his second beer. The girls are inside, watching a Disney movie. "Babe, you should hear the story of how they met."

Oh, you're very well aware. Jada worked at a sports bar called Sirens and Jimmy was a regular. He'd ask for her and tip her in large amounts. You're not sure what order this happened in, but she fell for him, had his baby, and married him in a courthouse ceremony - all before 26.

"I'm actually going to find the bathroom." You get up and quickly walk towards the screen door.

You close the door behind you and let out a sigh. Aisha and your daughter are on the couch, laughing and eating their hamburgers. They don't notice you and you just take in the sight. If only they could be friends under normal circumstances.

You really don't have to use the bathroom, so you step into the kitchen to breathe. Picking the kitchen as a place to calm down started to feel like a bad idea as all of a sudden you began to feel uncomfortable.

"She's something...just like you. Had a lot to say when I first met her. Smart girl you have there."

You're startled by the sound of Jimmy's voice. He inches closer to you but stops, leaving some distance between you. He sizes you up, attempting to look like the bigger person.

He tries to hide behind a casual tone but you can tell he wasn't being genuine. He never thought highly of you; he didn't like you because you always chose to go beyond what was expected of you. In his eyes, as Curly's lover, you were meant to be obedient and quiet but you defied that. "Hopefully she grows out of that. You were kind of a pain in the ass."

You collect yourself. He may scare the shit out of you but one thing he wasn't going to do was insult your daughter. "She's a blessing," you cut in. "You were well aware of how hard Curly and I worked to become parents. He'd call you on the phone and tell you what was going on. You think I didn’t know about that? And still, after so many years, you talk down on me. Give it a rest, Jimmy."

Jimmy's face goes pale and suddenly he’s not so smug anymore. He was there for the negative tests, the false positive, and understood Curly's desire for a family.

"In a way, you're still her stupid, fucking uncle that I can't rid of. So be that. Don't look at my child as some sort of inconvenience," you finish.

The last time you both were in a kitchen, Jimmy had you in a corner. He violated you. He sent you running home. But you won't let it happen again. "Thank you for inviting us, Jimmy. Best of luck to you and your family." You walk around him, leaving him with his own thoughts.

You're sitting in your bed, finishing up some work when you're interrupted by a light knock. You put away your iPad, ready for your daughter to emerge.

But instead Curly enters the bedroom.

Since Jimmy's barbecue, Curly's been sleeping on the couch; he goes after your daughter's tucked-in and returns to your bedroom before she wakes up. He really really pissed you off with his carelessness. However, some part of you took responsibility for even allowing him to accept Jimmy's invitation.

That invitation wasn't just to grill but to briefly bring back bad habits.

"I know you don't want to see me right now, I want to apologize to you." Curly sits at the edge of the bed. "I don't know why I got comfortable. I really don't have an explanation. I should have declined Jimmy's invitation. I'm sorry, my love."

You tap your lap, allowing him to come closer to you. Curly rests his head on your thigh and you finger through his hair. "Ever since the day we've met, you've broken a lot of promises and have talked me through plenty of apologies concerning that man-"

"And it ends today. I'm really sorry I put you through that."

You don’t say anything back but continue to play with his hair. Your relationship was built on promises, most of them broken by him. One can only hope he’ll do right by you now.

#captain curly #curly mouthwashing #captain curly x reader #curly x reader #mouthwashing x reader #curly x reader mouthwashing #black yn #black reader

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to---the---ark · 1 year ago

Text

I'm touch starved, and now I'm thinking about Tim.

He spent all his childhood being terrified by a faceless creature and then locked in his hospital room by doctors. He was a kid who needed to be listened and believe to, but only got drugged up and locked in a damn room.

Then in college he met Brian.

Brian isn't seen much on screen, but all his actions in the serie, and the comic book special "Issue 3.5 - ToTheArk" speak volume: he loves his friends and he loves deeply.

Do you think Tim melted the first time Brian hugged him?

Do you think he realized how touch starved he really was? How burning his skin seemed to be, and how much relief Brian's hug was giving him?

Do you think Tim felt ashamed of that? Do you think he thought of himself as too clingy, or too needy? Do you think about all the times he probably cried alone in his bed, because he was loved for the first time ever but didn't dare to go ask Brian for even an half hug? Just an half hug, a quick one, he could've been happy with some pats on the shoulder, even when he really needed the grounding weight of someone lying on top of him.

Do you think he ever got embarrassed about those thoughts? About those needs?

Do you think Brian managed to make Tim spill the beans? And if so- do you think Brian started to just lay on his best friend whenever Tim got too fidgety, or too anxious?

Do you think Brian learned how to ground Tim with physical touch to help him after an episode, or after a seizure?

When Brian disappeared, do you think Tim got to force himself to ignore his touch starvation like he used to before Brian? Do you think he cried and shook, his skin on fire, his breath irregular, his mind racing?

When he finally understood the truth about The Operator being something real, Tim surely got scared of infecting everyone else.

Do you think he forced himself to keep quiet?

Do you think Hoodie ever tried to hug Masky, to calm him through a gentle touch, only to be smacked away? Do you think the negative emotions and the anger Masky felt were somehow sad too?

When Tim got closer to Jay, do you think he ever got the temptation to hug him?

And Jay, our young man who just wanted to help, got turned into an angry individual, maybe a little lost, and surely scared, but also so courageous or simply too far gone to stop. Do you think he ever wanted the comfort of a friendly hug?

Do you think Tim wished he could hold Jay close and relaxed, before losing him? Do you think Tim felt something familiar while looking for his own things in the pockets of a still Hoodie? When Alex showed him Brian's corpse, do you think Tim wanted to just crawl over there and take his best friend between his arms, squeezing him in a comforting way?

Do you think Tim hallucinated those college night, with those familiar arms wrapped around him?

Edit: I wrote something about it, click here!

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dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 2 months ago

Text

busted

author's note: I've been doing really well lately, idk why my mind is filled with angst. the POV is so messy ngl because you see "your" thoughts but there's also a major focus on deans inner turmoil and observations...not my best work but I had to spill it out. I may come back to revisit it later but just wanted to preface that LOL also this is inspired by my bot!

summary: a call from the Greensboro Sherriff's Office causes your heart to stop dead in the middle of your apartment. you bring dean back into reality, as he takes in your reaction to his choices.

pairings: dean x reader

characters: dean (20 years old), reader (anywhere from 18 and up)

word count: 6.1K

warnings: cursing, slight injury (a bruise and a cut), John Winchester hate, HELLA angst, not exactly proof read good luck

-+-+-+-

NOVEMBER 14, 1999

sluggishly jabbing the key into the handle, you open the door to your studio apartment. you drag your feet in, missing the sight of your place, as it feels like you haven't been here for days- when in reality, it was only fourteen hours because of the double shift that you took.

throwing anything in your hands on the counter- keys, purse, leftover food- you make your way into the bedroom to change into loungewear instead of your work clothes. you couldn't focus on anything else until you stripped yourself of anything from work. an oversized grey shirt that reaches down to your upper thigh is accompanied by your black yoga shorts and fuzzy leopard print slippers. you couldn't bring yourself to care. all you want to do is eat and pass out, because you know you're up again tomorrow to open.

you didn't mind your work at all. there was a consistency about it that was rather soothing to you since hunting was anything but consistent. you only went on hunts every couple of months, since it was hard to take off more than a couple of days at a time.

once you sluggishly make your way back in the kitchen to grab your leftovers, a buzzing starts to sound from your bag. you rummage through it trying to find your pinging cell phone that seems to have been buried in a mountain of credit cards, mascara bottles, and god knows what else you've tossed in there.

upon finally snatching it, you hurriedly flip it open before it goes to voicemail and accept the call, with an drowsy, "hello?"

the line is still for a moment, before you hear, “is this," your full name is said across the line, an older woman with a gratingly, unenthusiastic tone.

you stand up straighter. the unsteady beat of your heart was the only thing you could focus on for a moment or two, thumping in your chest with unease. a bad feelings swells in your chest. you aren't sure who you would've given your number to recently. you don't give it out at all unless it's to close friends or family. your mind goes to the worst case scenarios. a hospital calling to tell you that someone is gravely injured.

or dead.

you swallow, a moment before you shakily respond. "uh, who's asking?"

the droning woman continues with an exasperated sigh. "you have a collect call from Greensboro Sheriff’s Department, do you accept the charges?”

perplexity racks your brain for about a second before you close your eyelids with a knowing sigh.

dean.

you try to keep the contents in your stomach down from the rush of nerves. you swear your legs feel like they're about to give out from underneath. you brace your hand on the counter, leaning into it. “yes,” you manage.

a click in the line signals that the operator is connecting the call, as it rings twice before a hoarse voice speaks your name. it is exactly who you figured.

“dean? what the hell's going on?” the panic slips out from your throat as you attempt to keep a level volume.

a waery sigh travels to your ears, and he sounds a lot less assured and cocky than he normally does. he comes across with a softer mumbling, a tone you haven't heard before.

"can you pick me up?”

he sounds tired. embarrassed almost. it didn't help tame your irregular heart rate.

you shake your head with worried incredulity even though he can't see you, "from greensboro? where's that- north carolina?"

"yes."

your eyes squeeze shut, trying to maintain a regular breathing pattern. it was all wrong. you wanted to be angry, and yell and scream and curse at him but this call, his defeated voice, and curt answers... it's not like this was on purpose, you remind yourself. he just makes bad decisions sometimes.

though, this is one probably takes the cake.

you blink your eyes open, a dreadful huff escaping, "god- it'll be a couple of hours before i get there." you glance to your wall clock hanging next to the kitchen cabinets. 10:44PM. you estimate you won't get there until 1:30 in the morning. god damn this.

"no, that's fine- it's...i'm sorry," dean barely raises his voice above a whisper. his strained, resigned voice breathes across the line as he continues, "i didn't know who else to call."

oddly enough, you're genuinely thankful. given that dean was more of an 'i'll do it myself' guy, you are relieved to know that he called you instead of allowing himself to spend a night or two in jail. sure, this is a major problem to deal with, he's in a fucking holding cell at the sheriff's office right now, and you're hours away from having to drive to bail him out.

but he did call for you.

the anger isn't quite faded, but it's pushed to the back of your mind, as you grip the phone a bit tighter, your voice getting stronger again, "just- it's okay. i'm glad you called me. i'm on my way, just- god, don't get into any more trouble while you're there." you're already halfway out the door with a map in your hand as you scold him over the phone.

"i won't, i won't." he ensures tightly, before quietly adding "drive safe, sweetheart."

you utter a quick bye as you hang up, heading to your car parked outside the apartment building.

you can't say that you weren't aware of what you were signing up for when you started dating him. you knew exactly what you were getting into. and it was hard. he's not always around, and when he does show up, more often than not he's battered and bruised. although you take pride in the fact that he shows up to you when he can. it's hard to get close to him, so you take anything you can get when it comes to helping him. and when he is around...you forget how to act. he is unlike anyone you've ever met. he's got this wicked charm and sense of humor that you adore. he is selfless to a fault, putting everyone before himself. he cares deeply for those around him, even though it's not always in plain sight. he's surprisingly romantic- though some times you do have to remind him of what boyfriends do. being one of his first "long-term" girlfriends means that he's doing a lot of learning. and he does learn, you admit, and he makes you happy.

so you keep replaying these thoughts in your head as you curse his name on the three hour drive to Greensboro.

-+-+-+-

only when you park at the sheriff's department is when you realize you never changed. you were still in your lounge clothes from earlier. a funny thing to make note of, but your thoughts were so scattered right now from the evening's events that you couldn't care to linger on the topic.

you walk through the front doors to an eerie and dim-lit waiting room. one officer behind a guarded cubicle shifts his glance to you. you slowly walk up to the desk, trying to hide your uncertainty, seeming as you've never picked up anyone from a holding cell before. you speak up, "uhh- evening...i'm here to bail out dean. he was brought in today..." you left out his last name, hoping that they hadn't got his legal name and that maybe he was using a coverup.

the officer, a balding guy in his mid-forties (if you had to guess), clicks his tongue as he files through a comically large binder, skimming through until he reaches the page with dean's information. "yup. we got 'im. take this. fill it out. he's processed already, so we just need a check and some info and we'll send him on his way."

he hands you a clipboard with a couple of pages of paper and a pen, asking for some of your identification and background. you flash him with a quick, forced smile as you take it over to one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the lobby.

you stand up and hand it back to the officer from the slit in the plastic guard. you notice a badge on his chest that reads "WADE", as he just stares at the chunky computer that his eyes seem to be glued to. you clear your throat, offering the clipboard and papers in further, along with a check for $300.

dean better be damn lucky i have a savings...

"fantastic," although, the enthusiasm obviously didn't reach to his expression as he printed out a receipt, on an obnoxiously loud printer. he slides it through slit and exasperatedly groans as he stands from his seat. once the officer grabs keys from the desk, he shuffles over to the hallway with a pressed, "cyom'on."

you follow behind him with an awkward silence. the only noises to be heard were the echoes of his boots booming with each step, and his occasional throat-clearing. he swings the key ring around his finger with soft, metal clinking and slows down at one of the locked doors.

this room is full of other desks occupied by a small handful of other police officers at their stations filling out paperwork. one or two glance up to you, but it's short-lived.

"wait here and i'll grab 'im," he holds out his palm, signaling for you to stop behind him, as he disappeared through another set of doors.

you are for sure angry with dean, but the way the cop said "grab 'im" makes the protective bones in your body activate. it sounded too aggressive, even though you knew dean could be quite the handful.

he was your handful, and you have to remember that. when you answered the phone call, you assumed the worst, which was that he was dead. and he's not, thankfully. you just have to remember that this night could have been much worse.

you take in a long inhale, sitting on the edge of one of the chairs. you lean your head in your hands, the exhaustion taking you out by the minute. and it didn't help that you're out there for another fifteen minutes before you hear the same door open with a second pair of footsteps. you stand up immediately and exhale in relief, and all negative feelings are spared for the moment when you watch dean trudge in front of the officer with a fresh, red-pigmented bruise forming on his left cheek with a small cut paired at the center of impact. his eyes look glossed over from probable sleep deprivation, as his strides are more lethargic than you're used to seeing.

"this the guy you want?" he points lazily, double-checking as he looks at you unimpressed.

you usher yourself over to them, confirming with a sharp, "yep."

although despite your tone and your blank face, you couldn't help but instinctually reach out to dean and bring him in for a firm embrace.

he obviously wasn't expecting it, as he grunts from your grip on him, and he raises a surprised brow but puts his right arm around you as he swallows down his own emotions. his gravelly assurance reaches your ears, "i'm fine."

you pull away with a disbelieving scowl, reaching a hand up to the side of his face and turning it so you can see the little souvenir he received from this experience.

"what's this." you deadpan, laced with a bit of a challenging bite to it.

dean sets his jaw as you hold it in place, avoiding your gaze as he grates out a dismissive, "nothin'."

you let go of him, shaking your head. your expression morphing into a controlled irritation and worry.

"son," officer wade impatiently calls from the desk a couple of feet away. he slides a paper towards the edge of his desk with the tips of his fingers, "fill this out for us while i git the rest of your belongin's and such."

dean lets out a quick huff of air, as he turns to the cop leaving their vicinity, "yes sir, officer krupke." he mumbles under his breath, which in turn gets him a backhand on his arm from you. he whips his head to you with shocking amount of surprise, as you eye him with a stern look that said "you better fucking watch yourself". dean rubs his arm slightly and widens his eyes briefly before sitting down at the chair across from the desk, writing on the bail acknowledgement sheet.

after a little while, dean turns his head to you, darting his tongue out to wet his lips before he hesitantly asks, "hey, uh...did they give you an amount for bail?"

you take a deep breath in, grinding your teeth as you avoid his gaze before you numbly answer, "it was $300, dean."

he gulps. his eyebrows flash up in shock and be blinks a couple times, and gives you another glance, "damn. thanks for covering me."

"just fill out the paper." there wasn't any attitude behind it. just clear exhaustion.

he looks at you funny, like he didn't expect you to be this terse. he takes a breath, and huffs a bit of it out, bringing the pen to the designated lines.

after about ten minutes of silence, officer wade drops off a plastic bag of personal items of dean's with a sharpie label on it. he drops it on the desk unceremoniously, bringing dean's attention to him.

"if that's all done, you can git." he points to the doors leading out, "but i don't wanna see you back in here or we'll have problems. y'understand?"

you let out a chide scoff directed at dean, answering for him, "trust me. he won't be back here. thank you, officer wade."

he dips his head in acknowledgement. dean scuffs the chair backwards as he eyes the cop, and he stands up slowly and with a slight threat in his look still.

you hurriedly walk down the hallways of the sheriff's department, not even looking back to dean.

now...

now is when the anger starts to simmer a bit.

you're a couple of feet ahead of dean as you push the door open with more force than necessary, but you figure it might be better than taking it out on dean after he just was released from the cell.

and you can't tell if he knows you're upset- or if he knows and he doesn't want to pay attention to the fact.

"listen, i'll pay you back every penny of that bail, alright?" dean catches up to your strides quickly as you basically dart to your parked car.

you bite your cheek, an unresponsive scowl still on your face after dean's amendment to the situation.

the uncomfortable silence is something that dean wasn't used to between you guys. "it was absolute torture in there. i didn't think what i did was that bad. but then they started playing the BeeGees on the radio in there-"

you stop halfway to the car, and dean almost smacks into your back. you shake your head with disbelief, your lips twitching with aggravation. yet your tone is scarily even and low as you glance to him, "how fucking dare you make jokes right now. after i just drove three hours to get you at one a.m. after my fourteen-hour shift. from jail."

and that did it. he got quiet real quick. you almost feel bad, because his face immediately falls, and he resembled a kicked puppy, even with all the effort in the world to hold up his "everything's peachy" facade. he can barely scoff, unknowing of what to say at all.

you open your mouth to say something else, but it dies off, and all you do is turn around and head back to the car. once you stick the key into the handle of the driver's seat, you unlock it for dean as you both sink into your seats. closing the door where all the negative energy is contained, and stuffy, and hard to vent out.

"where's your car, dean."

he tucks his head down slightly, carefully glancing to you for a moment before he mumbles like a kid, "it's not with me. dad has it with sammy, a couple of states away."

that piques your concern, and you brave it and look to him as you ask, "w-where are you staying then?"

dean nods in a general direction in front of them, "just at a motel near downtown."

john left his eldest son, who is still only twenty, in a shitty part of town with no car, to stay at a dingy motel by himself.

you wish you could say you were surprised.

you sigh, disappointedly. "where..." you begin to buckle your seatbelt, and put the key into the ignition.

the car roars to life, and dean answers flatly, "it's called Morrison's Motel, on Holbrook, Street or somethin'."

you place your right hand on the back of the passenger seat, leaning on it so you could angle yourself backwards while backing out of the parking spot. once you're able to get back into drive and onto the main road, you announce to dean, "you're gonna grab your stuff and come back with me."

his eyebrows furrow with intense confusion, "what?"

"you're grabbing your stuff," you break apart the words with a bit of an edge leaving no room for argument, "then you're coming back to my apartment."

he stares at you in disbelief for a bit. he doesn't argue, but he's unsure if he wants to.

on one hand it was you. you're his everything. and you always took care of him. when he's come by your apartment after hunts, you feed him, heal him, make love to him, talk to him- whatever he needs.

on the other hand... it was you. and you are royally pissed.

he despises the fact that he feels like a child right now. he knows the game you're playing right now, and he loathes it. it doesn't exactly "work" for him. this intense, condemning attitude where you think you know what's good for him. what's better for him. he's heard talks of similar nature and he's dismissed them, because it get's nowhere. his stubborn ass hardly gives thought to what's better for himself. his brain chemistry is practically permanently altered to do what's best for anyone else but himself.

and you were damn determined that you would change that.

not today, and not tomorrow. but you needed that to happen for him.

he sinks into the seat, marinating in his own irritation at the fact that he practically has to deal with this situation. it definitely won't be any better to avoid it. he knows better than to try and get away with anything from you. nor does he want you to resent him.

he knows he fucked up.

once you park outside of his motel, you unlock the door from inside the car. you wordlessly allow him to get out, and collect his duffel and whatever else he had been left with. he checks out of the motel, and he joins you back in the car, closing the door with a slightly irked slam.

you don't pay attention to it, taking off the highway. back home.

-+-+-+-

the silence stretched for the entire three-hour ride. so much so that you didn't even notice that dean fell asleep against the door. you turn and pull the key out of the ignition once your in front of your apartment building, just staring at him for a moment.

he looks exhausted. his eyes had darker bags around them, and he didn't even look comfortable the way his neck is positioned. you were sure going to jail for a night was enough to wear you down from stress alone. he came off aloof when you picked him up, sure, but you know dean. you know that he's not really going to show you everything he's really feeling. you can only imagine how he's been since his dad just abandoned him at the motel.

he doesn't really do well with being alone, you've noticed.

and curse your empathy because the pit in your stomach had settled a bit, and you've calmed down some. you reach a hand out too his bicep. his arms were somehow crossed in his sleep. you barely touch him, and he inhales deeply before jolting slightly against the seat.

"easy," you tell him, not as gentle as you normally would but still you try to disarm him. "c'mon. let's go."

he blinks himself awake, clearly struggling to come back to the present. he jerks his head to the passenger door that you've opened, with a little impatience, and he lets out a tired huff as he climbs out.

once you reach your front door, it opens to the living space dean remembered it to be. he really liked your place. it was simple, and small, for sure, but you didn't require a lot of space. the occasional decoration scatters on the walls and tables throughout, adding a touch of home to your space. dean usually feels at home here.

but for once, he wasn't exactly sure what to do with himself.

he hovers by the door, and you've already taken off to drop your keys and purse on the kitchen counter. you don't yet look him in the eyes.

"come here, please."

he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, expecting a lecture or something. he rests his hands on his arms again, keeping his demeanor closed-off, while he watches you shed your things in the kitchen. and he's dumbstruck again by you.

"do you need an icepack?" you offer.

he swallows, almost forgetting about his bruised cheek, "i'm fine."

you turn yourself to face him, matching his stance with no real emotion displaying on your face, "when's the last time you ate?"

he scoffs defensively this time, lifting his shoulders tensely, "I don't know...today- or yesterday or whatever." he didn't actually eat more than a gas station pizza slice that day.

you note his attitude but neglect it, walking over to the fridge, moving around a couple of loose bottles and containers. you stand on the top of your toes to reach to the back of the top shelf, grabbing a container of macaroni and cheese you had made the other night, along with left-over rotisserie chicken. it wasn't exactly a home-cooked meal, but it's mostly better than what dean normally has.

you pull apart the chicken and silently start putting it on a plate that you grabbed from one of the cabinets, and scoop out some of the mac and cheese on there as well. you throw it in the microwave for a minute, leaning against the counter with your hip with no other words.

dean forfeits his indirect protest at your mother-henning and sits at your miniature table-for-two in the corner of the kitchen. he slumps, resting his back on the wall while he's in the chair, and his legs splay outward, ninety degrees away from the table as he keeps his gaze to the floor. or wall. or anything besides you, really.

the microwave dings and you bring the plate over to him with a fork stuffed underneath the food. you ungraciously drop it in front of him, letting the ceramic plate smack the table a bit. dean casts a quick glance to you before staring straight ahead, not wanting to acknowledge the food in front of him. because if he did, that would entail that he was hungry, like any other human being. that he can starve and that he had been since his dad left.

but it smells fucking good.

he takes a breath, relenting as he grabs a fork and mumbles a quick "thanks". he stirs it around for a couple of moments before taking massive bites at a time.

and you knew he was hungry. you know he doesn't take care of himself on the road. that's why you loved when he would stop by in between hunts. you were comforted by the fact that he ate something more than a a bag of chips and a granola bar when he would stop by.

you don't say anything, as you put away the containers of food and clean up the kitchen some. by the time you're done, you lean against the refrigerator with your eyes on dean.

you couldn't let go of this. you know you won't be able to sleep regardless of tonight, but at least you'll have answers.

"you wanna tell me what happened?" you start, and there's no bite in your tone. it's a simple question.

and with that in mind, dean's response really set you off.

he pauses on his last couple of bites of food, and shakes his head with a short-tempered snort, "you signed the bail papers, didn't you? i'm sure it said why."

your blood boils and your unable to keep the poker face you've been maintaining. you stalk closer to dean, kicking yourself off the fridge. "you know what dean, i did sign the papers for you, so i don't understand why you're the one who's got attitude here. you know what else I did? i paid. for. your. bail. that was three-hundred fucking dollars, dean. do you think i'm made of cash-"

dean brings himself forward and sets his forearms down on the table, causing the ceramic plate to clink at his motion as his voice rises with defense. he looks you dead in the eyes as he reiterates, "i said i'm gonna pay you back. i intend to keep my word on that."

"that doesn't fix the situation, dean!" you retort as your voice starts to seethe with emotion, "you got arrested. i drove three hours after a fourteen hour shift to pick you up, so you don't get to be angry with me."

"i'm sorry, okay?" he snaps loudly, standing up briskly causing the chair to scuff backwards against the floor. "getting arrested wasn't exactly on my agenda for today either."

"you think that makes this more acceptable? because you didn't mean to get arrested?"

he shrugs his shoulders with a hardened expression on his face, "what do you want me to say?

you scowl harshly, like it was obvious. "i want a goddamn explanation! getting arrested doesn't happen on your typical Tuesday, dean."

"i'm a hunter," he says your name with pronounced snark, "there's no such thing as 'typical' for us!"

"were you on a hunt?"

your question stuns him for a second. "I- well," he stumbles, at a loss for words, "not exactly, but-"

"no." your voice is low and dangerous, "you weren't on a hunt. disorderly conduct and false identification were the charges. so this has jack shit to do with hunting." you take a couple of steps closer to him, pointing to him with a thundered glare, "you were at a bar, using a fake ID, illegally drinking and fighting. that is a whole other level of reckless for you, dean."

he matches your intensity and gets closer to you so that you are only about two feet apart. "i wasn't drinking recreationally- i was blending in while hustling pool money! they didn't like that I won, so they tried to start something. they did, not me. there's the whole explanation- are you happy now?"

your voice falters at his spat as you tremble with emotion, face morphing more into distress than anger, "no! no, i'm not happy. do i look happy?"

dean huffs, and he doesn't respond at first. his face neutralizes slightly before he breaks eye contact with you and rubs a hands down his face as he paces away from where he stood.

"jesus christ, look-" he turns back to you with a controlled, firm expression, "they let me off with just a fine. i don't even have to go to fucking court so i don't get why are you turning this into such a big deal-"

"do you know how worried I was when I picked up the phone to hear from the police station?"

the sentence resounds against the walls of your apartment. and dean freezes, the only thing moving is his chest which rises up and down from the overload of his frustrations. for a moment, you could hear the honks and revs in traffic, the buzzing hum of the air conditioning, and the whir of the electronics and appliances around you with how quiet it became.

"a shiver ran down my fucking spine, dean. i felt like my heart stopped. i was damn near shaking when they called. i didn't know i-if they were calling to say they found your body, or if you were hurt, dean. i was scared- i was so fucking scared. why- why, why, why can't you see that I'm worried about you? i don't want to sit here and berate you for your choices, because yes, this was a fuck-up but i know you know better and i know that you're beating yourself up for it too." for a brief second, you wonder to yourself why dean's face had dramatically gentled into a look of pained concern, and you didn't realize up until that moment that you had streams of tears down your face.

then you notice that your breath hitches, and the lump in your throat weakens your speech. "i don't want to sit here and lecture, and yell- i just don't want to feel that again-" your words get cut off in a sobbing squeak.

"okay, okay," dean croons and suddenly his arms are wrapped around you, and your face is buried into his chest. your breath heaves as you try to reign back control on your body, and you want to be angry at dean, but his hands hold onto you so tight and he brings his mouth to the crown of your head, and one of his hands to your hair. he mumbles a couple of apologies, his own voice getting caught as he watches you crumble into him.

"i'm sorry- hey, i'm sorry. i-" you can feel him shake his head above you as he rubs your upper arm and shoulder, "i should've realized- i didn't know you were that worried. i-" dean curses to himself as he feels you shake in his grasp, and he rubs your arm with affection. "sweetheart, i'm so sorry. i never wanted you to worry like that..."

your hands fist the back of his shirt as you try to hide your face into him, your voice slightly muffled, "i'm not bothered worrying about you- but when it's shit like this-"

"no- sweetheart, i- yeah. i get it, i do. it was stupid, okay? it won't happen again." his guilt-laced promise almost breaks its way through to you.

you pull yourself off of dean as he reluctantly lets go of you, not quite looking into his eyes as you bring a hand to wipe your face. you look down, sniffling as you hoarsely choked out, "damn straight it won't."

dean's shoulder's sag, as the events of tonight seem to finally wash over him, as he sees the tolls that it took on you. his hands find his way to your shoulders again, and he tilts his head to try and find your gaze. "thank you. for picking me up, and feeding me, and-and worrying, and driving all that way to pick up my dumb-ass. you shouldn't've had to."

you sniff, bringing your head up but avoid his gaze still. "it's fine."

"no, it's not...and i knew it wasn't and i fought you on it anyways. I just..." dean sighs as he unwillingly admits, "money's tight. dad didn't leave me much when he took off, so i was just trying to make some extra cash. it's just stress- and i didn't mean to get angry with you. i'm not angry with you..."

you look to him then, your face vulnerable and open, "why didn't you ask me for help?"

he scoffs definitively, "i'm not taking your money."

"it costed you an extra $300 to not ask for my help in the first place, dean. i would've rather given it to you then have you borrow it from me in this case." you remind him, and he thinks it over. regret and shame written all over his face.

"you want me to forgive you?"

dean blinks at you, his brows furrowing in confusion quickly before answering, "yeah- i do."

"the next time you find yourself like this- hell, when you need help at all- you call me. and i can't say that i'll always be able to but i will do my damndest to try." you assert sincerely.

he bites his lip, obviously not entirely wanting to admit to needing your help. but for you, he's willing to do anything to keep you pleased.

"alright. i will." his eyebrows slightly lower, serious with his promise to you.

"good," you nod, feeling better about the situation. not all better, but it was baby steps. you bring a hand to his elbow, giving it a gentle squeeze as you utter, "it's late. you should get to bed. you could use the rest."

"yeah." he replies in a whisper, "you too."

you gesture to the bedroom with the cock of your head as he follows behind you like a puppy. you bring your hands to your face, trying wipe away any emotion that remained from the fight. you walk to the adjourning bathroom as you wearily mention to dean, "i need to wash my face, go ahead and change if you need to."

"okay," he replies softly. it's that same quiet tone your not used to.

as you rinse your face from the stress of the evening, you let the cold water cleanse you, allowing yourself to focus on the frigid, november water. it washes over you, and you feel yourself grow sluggish as your mind becomes quieter with every breath you take, and your heart beat slows for the first time in the night.

you pat your face dry with a towel hanging on your wall, and walk out as your met with dean on the bed with the lamp on next to him. he's changed into his sweatpants that he's left here before, along with a plain black t-shirt. his back rests against the headboard as his knees are drawn up. his hands ruffle through his hair before bringing the heel of his palms to rub circles against his forehead. he smooths his hair out quickly as he notices your appearance again, and immediately lays his feet down on the bed, and waits to see if you'll join him.

you shuffle over to your side of the bed, getting under the covers.

"you can turn off the lamp now." you say after adjusting, your voice barely above a whisper.

"right," he reaches over to click the lamp off, and scoots further down so that his head is resting on a pillow.

the silence eats away at you both, before dean speaks up first, "are you still angry?"

you inhale deeply, moving onto your side so that you're facing dean. you lean down and find his lips through the moonlight shining through the room. and of course, he reciprocates the kiss with a bit of surprise.

"yes," you preface, before continuing with a gentle gaze, "but i forgive you, and i still care about you. and even though i'm mad, i'd rather have you next to me then not at all."

dean blinks a couple times, nodding a bit before one side of his lips twitches upwards. this time, it's his turn to kiss you, as he pushes onto his elbow, to meet your lips with his, taking his time. when he lays back down, he lovingly studies your face, "thank you."

"you don't have to thank me for that. i'll care about you always...get some sleep, baby." your hand finds his forearm closest to you, as you give it a soft rub.

dean watches you through the dark as you settle back into the bed. but he doesn't close his eyes yet. after a couple of minutes, he feels you shift, and you sit up and grab his farthest hand, and take it with you as you lie back down, dragging his arm over yours.

his lips quirk into a smile, the first real one of the night, and moves to hold you against him.

now... now he closes his eyes.

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