#this is terrifying but the only way out is through

[queeniewithabeanie]

Split-second

Dpxdc Prompt #24

It had only taken a split-second for the reality of the situation to set in. Martha Wayne, her husband, and her son were being threatened by a mugger wanting their belongs holding a gun.

Thomas—kind, peaceful, sweet Thomas—had attempted to diffuse the situation.

It didn't work.

Her husband was on the floor, dying, and she was a widow-to-be.

She screamed.

The mugger turned to her and shot, about to leave her little Brucie an orphan.

Then, for a split-second, everything felt strange, the bullet went right through her skin and she felt light in a way she hadn't felt in years.

The mugger was confused, Martha used that moment of confusion to pick up her shellshocked son and run out of the alley.

As soon as she got home she pushed past a concerned Alfred and turned on the news. Phantom, a hero from the town of Amity Park, had turned the entire planet intangible to stop them from being destroyed by an asteroid.

It just so happened to line up with when she had been shot at. It was only for a split-second, but it had changed the course of her and her son's lives forever.

When he and Mom got home from the theatre from his Dad's murder Mom had immediately rushed to the television.

Phantom, the news called the teenage hero, savior of the world. But for Bruce it was different, Phantom hadn't just saved the world.

Phantom had saved Mom.

Later as Bruce poured over articles about the ghost, anything to distract him from the Manor being emptier than it should, he realized Phantom did a lot to help around his own town too.

He had been saving regular everyday people, and it had made a difference.

It was then and there that Bruce found his resolve. There was no way he could save Dad, it was too late.

But... if Phantom could save Mom from halfway across the world and saved his fellow citizens from attacks. Then maybe, just maybe, Bruce could save someone else's dad, or mom, or brother, or sister, or friend.

Maybe Bruce could make a difference.

When Mom tucked him in that night, something he had recently said he was too old for, but didn't protest after the night, she kissed him on the cheek and softly spoke.

"Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bats bite."

Bats were Bruce's biggest fear. As his eyes drifted shut he recalled something he had heard Phantom say in an interview.

"Oh I'm constantly terrified when I'm fighting ghosts. Even though I am one that doesn't mean it's not scary, they were the things my parents would tell exaggerated spooky stories about as kids after all. However, I like to think that however scared I am of them, they're just as scared of me"

Maybe Bruce could use his fear of bats to help him help others too.

[calypso-rt]

When Rafe Realizes...

He’s Falling for You

-> Rafe x F!Reader

The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting golden light over the backyard as Rafe leaned back in his chair, the legs precariously balanced on the uneven patio bricks.

You were sitting beside him, scrolling on your phone, the occasional sound of your laughter breaking through the hum of cicadas.

He wasn’t sure when it started, but lately, he found himself watching you more than he should...at least more than someone who was supposedly "just friends" should.

He told himself it was harmless. You were easy to look at, after all, with your beautiful hair catching the light and your lips quirking into tiny smirks when you read something funny.

"Rafe," you said, your voice cutting through his daydream. You barely look up, your attention still on your screen. "Your hair is doing that weird thing again."

"My hair doesn’t do a weird thing," he shot back defensively, running a hand through it out of instinct.

You snorted, finally glancing up at him. "It absolutely does. Hold still."

Before he could protest, you leaned in, your fingers brushing against his forehead as you flattened a rogue piece that had sprung up, defying gravity. The touch was brief, just the lightest pressure of your hand smoothing over his hair, but Rafe felt his entire body tense like he’d just been electrocuted.

"There," you said, sitting back with a satisfied nod. "Now you look less like a mad scientist."

"I didn’t look like a mad scientist," he muttered, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up his neck.

"You kinda did," you teased, your focus already back on your phone.

Rafe leaned back again, a smug retort dying on his tongue as he felt the ghost of your touch still lingering. It wasn’t like you’d done anything grand. Just fixed his hair.

People did that kind of stuff all the time, right?

Except… no one else did it to him. And certainly not like that. There was something so natural about the way you’d reached over, like it was second nature, like it was the most normal thing in the world for you to touch him.

And now he was stuck, hyperaware of how the air still smelled faintly of your sunscreen from when you’d leaned in.

How the air between you had felt charged, even though you’d gone back to scrolling like it was nothing.

He shifted in his seat, trying to push the thought away, but it clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind. How could something so insignificant make him feel like the air had been knocked out of his lungs?

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched you laugh softly at something on your phone, oblivious to his internal crisis. He swallowed hard, his chair tipping back a little further as he tried to refocus.

How does something so insignificant feel so important?

"Careful," you warned without looking up. "Fall off that chair and I’m not driving you to the ER."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

You had no idea, did you?

No idea that one absent-minded touch had just tipped his entire world off balance.

"Thanks for your concern," he said dryly, finally steadying himself.

You gave him a fleeting smile, one he tried to memorize. Because somewhere in the chaos of his overthinking, Rafe Cameron was beginning to realize something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

He was falling for you, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Rafe leaned against the counter of the grocery store, pretending to scroll on his phone while you wandered the aisles. He hadn’t even wanted to stop here, but you’d insisted on grabbing snacks before heading to the beach.

"What’s the big deal? It’s just food," he’d grumbled earlier, but you’d only rolled your eyes and dragged him along anyway.

Now he was waiting impatiently, glancing at his watch every few seconds. “You done yet?” he called out.

“Almost!” you yelled back. “I’m looking for something specific.”

He sighed dramatically. “We’re going to miss the sunset at this rate.”

When you finally rounded the corner, a triumphant grin on your face, you were holding a bag of… lemon pepper sunflower seeds?

“What’s that for?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You blinked at him, clearly unimpressed. “For you, obviously.”

Rafe stared at the bag, then back at you. “What?”

“You told me a few weeks ago you used to eat these all the time when you were a kid. Remember? You said your dad used to bring them home after his fishing trips.”

For a moment, he was silent, caught completely off guard.

He had mentioned that, hadn’t he?

Some random memory he’d thrown out one evening, barely thinking about it. It wasn’t even important. Just some passing detail about his childhood.

But here you were, holding a bag of sunflower seeds like it was the most normal thing in the world to remember something so small.

“I didn’t think you’d…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck.

“Didn’t think I’d what? Listen to you?” you teased, tossing the bag into the basket.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I always listen, Rafe. You just don’t talk enough for me to prove it.”

There was a lightness to your tone, but the words hit him harder than he expected. You listened to him. Actually listened. To the stuff no one else cared about, the random memories he’d barely even registered himself.

“Sheesh,” you said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “If I’d known this would blow your mind, I would’ve grabbed these for you weeks ago.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he was smiling now, following you toward the register.

As you paid, chatting casually with the cashier, Rafe kept glancing at the bag of sunflower seeds in your basket. Something so simple, but it made him feel… seen. Like you actually cared about the parts of him that most people ignored.

Walking out of the store, he finally nudged your shoulder. “Thanks. For, uh, remembering that.”

“Of course,” you said, flashing him a grin. “Just don’t eat them all at once. I’m not buying more if you get another craving later.”

He laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he fell into step beside you. Inside, though, his chest felt warm in a way he wasn’t used to.

She actually listens to me, he thought, stealing a glance at you as you debated what playlist to put on in the car. How is she so thoughtful?

And just like that, another piece of the puzzle slid into place. He was falling for you, headfirst and helplessly, and he wasn’t even mad about it.

The rain was relentless, pounding against the pavement like a drumline gone rogue. Your car sat lifeless on the shoulder of a backroad, hazards blinking uselessly in the downpour.

You’d tried everything.

Turning the key again and again, Googling quick fixes, even giving the steering wheel a good, frustrated whack.

Nothing worked.

Which is how you ended up sitting in the driver's seat, soaked from your earlier attempt to check under the hood, dialing a number you swore you wouldn’t use unless it was an absolute emergency.

“Rafe?” you said when he picked up, voice sheepish.

He immediately picked up on the edge in your tone. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you rushed to say, cringing at how pathetic you sounded. “My car broke down, and it’s pouring, and I’m kind of stuck on the side of the road. I just… I didn’t know who else to call or...or what to do...”

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the rain hammering against your windshield and the faint noise of his car’s radio in the background.

“Where are you?” he said, tone clipped and serious.

You gave him the location, muttering something about how you didn’t want to bother him if he was busy, but he cut you off.

“Stay put. Lock your doors. I’ll be there in ten.”

True to his word, Rafe’s truck pulled up exactly ten minutes later, tires skidding slightly as he parked in front of your car. You barely had time to roll down your window before he was at your door, an umbrella in one hand and an intense look in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning down to peer inside.

“Yeah, just a little damp,” you joked, gesturing to your soggy clothes.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he opened your door and handed you the umbrella before crouching to look under your hood himself.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” you said, feeling a little guilty as you watched him fiddle with something. “I could’ve called a tow truck.”

“Yeah, and waited an hour for them to show up while sitting out here alone?” he shot back, not even looking up. “Not a chance.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone.

“Rafe, I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine,” he interrupted, standing up straight and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Your car’s dead, you’re soaking wet, and it’s pitch black out here. What if someone stopped by who wasn’t me, huh?”

The thought made your stomach flip, but you tried to shake it off. “I had my doors locked.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

You stared at him, taken aback by his uncharacteristic panic. “Why are you so worked up?”

“Because I care about you!” he snapped before freezing, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Your eyebrows shot up. “You… care about me?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I care, okay? I don’t like the thought of you being stuck out here alone in the middle of nowhere. It freaks me out.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. The Rafe you knew was cocky and confident, never flustered or vulnerable like this. Seeing him so visibly shaken made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“Well,” you said softly, “thanks for coming to my rescue.”

He finally looked at you, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. “Always.”

You smiled, holding the umbrella a little higher to shield him from the rain. “Guess you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t let that get around.”

As he helped you into his truck, soaking wet and dripping water all over his leather seats, he couldn’t help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye.

You shivered, hugging your arms to your chest in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

Rafe’s eyes softened for a split second before he quickly reached for the spare jacket in the back seat, tossing it to you. “Here,” he muttered. “Put this on before you freeze to death.”

You gave him a grateful, but shaky, smile, slipping the jacket on. “Thanks, Rafe.”

He didn’t respond, but you caught the way he kept his eyes on you, making sure you were okay. The warmth of his jacket, the concern in his eyes, it was enough to make the cold rain outside feel like nothing.

She called me. Out of everyone, she called me.

And that’s when it hit him, hard and fast like a tidal wave. He wasn’t just smitten. He was utterly and completely gone for you.

Rafe sat back in his chair, his gaze lazily sweeping over the busy café. He had his usual coffee in front of him: black, no sugar, no cream.

Just the way he liked it.

It was a Saturday morning, and the place was a bit quieter than usual, with only a handful of people scattered at tables around him. His fingers tapped the rim of his cup as his mind wandered.

He was halfway through a text to a friend when he noticed something that made him stop mid-typing.

You had slid to sit across from him, sipping on your own cup of coffee. When you lowered it, you caught his eye and gave a small smile.

"Coffee’s perfect today," you commented, stirring it absentmindedly.

Rafe blinked, then stared at your cup for a second. It was identical to his: black, no sugar, no cream.

"You—" he started, his voice trailing off in confusion. You hadn’t ordered the same thing, had you? No, you always chose the caramel latte, but you had started transitioning to more bitter coffee...

His eyebrows furrowed, watching you take another sip.

"What?" you asked, noticing his stare.

"Why’d you..." Rafe caught himself. "Never mind."

He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. You’d been unconsciously drinking your coffee just the way he did. Had you even noticed?

His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned back, his gaze not leaving you. You’d also been humming that same song he had been listening to on repeat all week. An old track by some band he'd introduced you to, one that had been stuck in his head for days.

When you softly hummed the chorus as you fidgeted with your phone, he couldn’t help but grin.

"You always hum that?" he asked casually, raising an eyebrow.

You stopped and blinked, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. I didn’t realize it was the same one we were playing the other day, though."

He sat forward slightly, his eyes searching your face for a moment, trying to figure out if you were joking, but there was something in the way you said it that made it clear: you weren’t aware of the little things.

How, over the past few weeks, your habits had begun to align with his.

And in that moment, Rafe felt a quiet thrill spread through him. You were becoming his person without even trying. Without even realizing it.

He leaned back, smiling to himself, then took a sip of his coffee. “Guess we’ve got the same taste,” he said with a half smirk, watching you carefully for your reaction.

You looked at him and shrugged again, clearly clueless about what had just happened.

"Guess so," you said, a playful glint in your eyes.

Rafe’s heart gave a small, almost imperceptible flutter.

You weren’t his yet. Not officially, at least. But in this small, unspoken moment, he was already beginning to feel like you were.

You had spent hours upon hours, which felt like minutes, talking, joking around, and watching ridiculous movies with stupid plots, chowing down on various snacks.

The door had clicked shut behind you with the usual soft thud, and now that you were gone, he couldn’t help but feel that sharp pang of longing in his chest. It was like someone had tugged at something deep inside him, pulling a part of himself along with you as you left.

Rafe’s lips pressed together, and his gaze drifted to the spot on the couch where you had just been sitting.

When did she start taking up so much space in my life?

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the thought. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how true it was. Every time you were around, everything felt just a little more... right.

Even the way the silence between the two of you felt more like a conversation than an awkward pause.

With a groan, he grabbed his phone, half-wishing he could text you to come back, but he knew that was ridiculous. You’d left, and it was just the way things were.

Still, as he sat there in the quiet, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten so used to your presence in his life.

And how much he already missed it.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Something that I think people tend to forget is that...through the batman cross overs, Scooby Doo is canon to DC... that's just...truly insane to me.

It also makes me think about a certain teenage ghost that is commonly thrown into DC...

---

Danny stared down at a motley crew of four young adults, a seemingly speaking dog and man dressed in a sad, stained treanch coat looking so done with the rest of them.

Why you might ask was he staring down? Because some how, some way through a Rue Goldberg machine of utter bullshit he managed to get wrapped up in a net, that if the slight shocks to his body were correct, was ecto-charged, meaning he couldn't simply faze through them.

The tall blonde teen gave a woop of joy as Danny finally stopped spinning, "Wow, Velma! That net your aunt gave you sure came in clutch! Looks like this spooky spector ain't getting out of this one!"

Said girl, which Danny is now slowly, to his horror, is recognizing as his cousin, Velma Dinkley who was related to his mom, and if the almost terrifying glint to the girls glasses were to be trusted? She was just as wickedly smart.

"Well of course my dear Fredrick, once Shaggy and Scooby noticed the ghostly goo Casper up there was leaving around here it wasn't hard to figure out we weren't just dealing with a man in a mask, but a proper, bona fide ghost."

Velma held a proud smirk on her lips, hands on her hips as she looked up at Danny, she had caught a glint of recognition in her eyes, followed by a bit of doubt bit that was quickly shaken away.

The lanky teen, now identified to Danny as "Shaggy" looked both fearful and proud of himself, "Like zoinks Scoob! We really did catch ourselves a ghost...though this one doesn't look half as scary as the last one..."

(It was slightly unsettling to see the dog chuckle, though if Danny was going to be honest to himself it wasn't the weirdest thing he had ever seen)

The mentions of catching other ghost made Danny's head snap to them, a frown forming on his face, while he did know he was horrible at being spooky (much to his ghostly half's shame) he wasn't trying to be! He had been trying to stop Vlad get some sort of artifact that the sad trench coat guy had, though if this was the only ecto-net that they had...

Danny's eyes widened as he looked down at the group, "Shit you guys have to let me out of here! Please you...you just made him angry!" Fidgeting in the net, Danny could only helplessly beg the gathered people below, "You Guys won't be able to handle him...Please you have to get some where safe!"

The last teen, a girl with long red hair tilted her head up, and even while Danny was above her, it felt like he was being looked down upon, "Really? I have heard some pathetic threats but that one wasn't even thst good, you simply arnt going to be-"

Here words were cut off as the sad trench coat man started wheezing suddenly, grasping at his chest as sooty ash started pouring out from his mouth, great big blooms of black smoke, his cigarette falling from his now open mouth, his eyes screwed shut, but slowly a red light started glowing from behind screwed shut lids.

The red head backed away quickly, eyes wide as she watched more and more black smoke pour out from the man, "Freddy somethings wrong with Mr. Constantine!"

Before Fred could react, the red light shone brighter than ever, the last of the black smog falling from the newly named Constantine's lips before the man toppled over, body unmoving.

Danny could only watch helplessly as the body moved in a sickening way, bones popping and muscles rippling, a glowing red amulet floating out from the man's buttoned up shirt, and when the man looked up at Danny, cold chills ran down the teens spine...

Because those were Vlads eyes. Danny was too late.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hii 👋 i really love your works i would eat it if i can, especially freelance inventor, will you ever countinue writing it? (Sorry if it sound rude, English is not my first language)

"So what's the deal with them?" Steph dares to ask when Bruce and Mr. Fenton finish passing out the souvenirs the inventor brought back. She wasn't sure why she was included in the gift giving, as she never even met the man before, but she now had a bowl from Irland tucked in her purse.

She's heard about Mr. Fenton through Tim and a bit from Jason. Both boys practically worshiped the ground the man stepped on. She understood that, on some level, they owed him their lives.

Jason, after being rescued from the Joker and Tim after Mr.Fenton found him on the rooftops all those years ago. She won't lie. How they spoke about Mr.Fenton painted a completely different image in her mind.

She expected someone regal, with a cold, calculating glance, who could figure out what she was expecting with a mere glance. Someone that she wouldn't be surprised if he was found tucked away in a pure white lab, working with glowing chemicals. She knows that they never claim Mr.Fenton was terrifying, but she had personally witnessed Dick threaten to tell Bruce to the man.

If he could make Batman cower by his mere mention, Steph had been expecting someone closer to what an evil version of Alfred would be.

Instead, she got a man in faded jeans, beat-up boots, and gentleness that hurt her teeth with how sweetly he smiled. If Bruce was a Bat, then Mr.Fenton could be a flower.

Gentle. Pretty. Unassuming.

Steph had logically known Mr. Fenton was a civilian. But she thought that he would be a scary one, at the least. Maybe someone in the justice system, a personal fighter like a boxer or hell, someone good with firearms.

"Hmm?" Damian glances up from his painting. Steph noticed that he has been doing a lot lately. Leaving his room to paint around the manor. She hasn't known the boy for long.

Steph had only recently forgiven Bruce for the whole Robin stunt he pulled (making her think she was his partner only to be used as bait for Tim, burned), and she wasn't around when Bruce's bio kid was found. Based on the stories Tim, Jason, and Dick shared, though, she thought he was a little more bloodthirsty.

He is more prone to violence after his upbringing, but he seemed to be shimmering down the last few weeks. Damian had apparently been given a talking to by Mr.Fenton, who took him out of the manor into the city for some "undercover training."

Steph hadn't been in Gotham then. She was busy helping a few teen titans with a mission that had her traveling to the other side of the world. But apparently, whatever harsh training Mr.Fenton had forced Damian to undergo had brought back peace to Wayne Manor.

Or as close as it could be.

He still referred to himself as the actual blood son.

"Bruce and Mr. Fenton," she repeated, nodding to where the pair could be seen conversing in the hallway. However, it looked more like Mr.Fenton was the only one talking. Bruce was too busy staring at him like he was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "They seem really close, but in a weird way."

Damain's intense green eyes snap at her. She raises a brow, unwilling to let the brat see he made her flinch. "Do you have a problem with Father getting close to another man?"

It takes her a few seconds to understand why he sounds so guarded before she gasps. "It's not the gay thing! I don't care if their gay!"

"I should hope not. You come into our home and eat our food, Brown." The boy clicks his tongue distastefully. Steph has never seen someone look down their nose at someone two heads taller than them, but Damian proved it could happen. "I would not allow for homophobia to enter these halls. It is not within the rules of social justice."

"Social justice?" She repeats a little surprise that Damian was speaking to her without an insult so far. The only time the brat had bothered to talk to anyone besides Bruce had been to insult them. At least in the two months, she had seen him wander after her Teen Titians mission.

"Danny has pointed out that Father's civilian reputation is tied heavily with social justice. It would not due for his heir to cause trouble in his affairs." Damian places his paintbrush back on his canvas, sneaking glances at the window.

Curious, Steph creeps closer to take a peak and finds herself memorized by the water painting he is working on. It's Bruce and Mr.Fenton. In the painting, Bruce is staring lovingly at Mr.Fenton, who seems to be in the middle of laughing. Though neither have arms- Damian is working on those- it doesn't detract from their loving expressions.

"If it is not due to their gender, what do you find weird about Father and Danny?"

Steph considers the question before slowly getting closer, wanting to oversee the young boy splash some white into Mr.Fenton's eyes, making them appear glowing. "It's just.....weird how Bruce likes someone so normal. No training. No big fancy money. No ties to the capes. Just a man who's really good at science."

Damain shoots her a complicated glance over his shoulders before he slowly replies. "Yes. An average Joe, as you Americans would say. That is Danny."

"Right? Isn't it weird? And besides the fact Bruce is so obvious with his crush, Mr. Feton has no idea. But he can pull apart a toaster in ten minutes to curl Babs hair for her dance? Don't you think it's odd?"

Damian hums. "A true master does not need to show who they are until the blade is at their opponent's neck. But I will admit that Danny's appearance can be rather deceiving."

"Damian.....do you know something?"

The boy's face turned more complicated before returning his attention to his painting. He taps his paintbrush against his palate before he mutters. "I knew only Danny did not treat me like a rabid animal. He took me to the zoo. I haven't been outside the manor since his last visit and grew wary of these walls."

His words hit Steph like a brick. Her first instinct is to explain why it was essential to keep him here, but then she thinks more about it, and her teeth slam shut.

Crude, has she been acting like Bruce? Had she really allowed him to convince her that a child should be locked up like it was nothing? Then again, Damian isn't a prisoner here.

Even if he was, she helped break him out.

"Say, kid, you want to come with Tim and me to the mall this afternoon? I think they have an art store."

Damian twists around to stare in utter shock. For all his training, he really is just a kid because Steph can see the genuine yearning in his eyes as he tries to casually cover up his reaction with a regal shoulder shrug. "I suppose I will have time for more undercover training."

Strange, Steph thinks while texting Tim about Damian joining them. Mr. Fenton hasn't even spoken to me that long, and he already changed how I viewed Damian. Is this why Bruce is into a civilian?

[connorsui]

Tending to mr.crawlings hair had become a strange sort of ritual.

It wasn’t as though he ever asked for it—he rarely asked for anything, his fragmented words caught between hollow giggles and crooked smiles—but you could tell. The way he tilted his head, like a dog waiting for a pat, or the faint, bone-deep rattle of his laugh when your fingers brushed through the silken black strands dragging behind him. He liked it.

No, loved it.

“Sit,” you murmured softly, and he obeyed, folding his spindly limbs in a spider-like crouch in front of you. His face remained hidden behind the curtain of his endless hair, but his constant smile curved wider as you knelt down beside him.

“Pretty,” he giggled, his voice a rasp, the words barely audible. His skeletal fingers twitched but stayed still, letting you work.

“Yes, yes, your hair. pretty,” you teased, sifting the impossibly soft locks through your fingers. It was odd how such a thing—attached to such a terrifying figure—could feel so human. So alive. The contrast made your chest ache with something you didn’t want to name.

You began with a comb, carefully working through the tangles at the ends. Every time the teeth snagged, he let out a breathy laugh, as though the sensation tickled him. The sound was unnerving, but you’d grown used to it—like the way he crawled instead of walking or how he never revealed his face. Well, not often.

“Does that hurt?” you asked, your voice a little softer.

“No,” he whispered, the word drawn out, lips splitting into an eerie grin. His shoulders shivered beneath the tension of your touch, lanky and fragile like brittle twigs beneath his pale skin.

"You. Never. Hurt"

You continued in silence, the only sound the occasional rustle of his hair against the floor. Once the knots were smoothed, you reached for a small bottle of oil, pouring a few drops into your palm. He tilted his head curiously as you began working the slick liquid through the roots.

“Good,” he rasped, giggling faintly. “Feels... good.”

“I thought so,” you murmured, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “Someone’s got to take care of this. You’d let it grow into a nest if I didn’t.”

“Yours,” he whispered, almost too quiet to catch. Your fingers faltered for a moment, your chest tightening.

“What?”

“Yours,” he repeated, voice more of a hiss. His head tilted back, revealing a glimpse of hollowed, scarred sockets beneath the hair. His grin widened further, a grotesque stretch of love and delight. “Only… yours.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t stop, fingers trembling slightly as you began twisting his hair into a loose braid. It trailed down his back, reaching all the way to the floor. When you were finished, you tied the end with a pink ribbon, the same way you always did.

“There,” you said softly. “All done.”

He craned his neck toward you, the smile never fading.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Whether he meant you or the braid, you weren’t sure.

[mephisto-reporting]

A Work of Art: With Rafayel

Plot: Rafayel wants to go swimming with you but your insecurities have other plans. Based on this request Pairing: Chubby! reader x Rafayel Note: Rafayel and reader are not in a relationship but there is an implied mutual attraction. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, angst (hurt-comfort).

Sylus version: More to love |

It was another scorching day in Whitesand Bay, the heat wrapping itself around everything like a heavy blanket. Rafayel’s studio, though large and open, was still stifling, the heat seeping in through the windows, making it nearly unbearable. Yet, his energy remained constant, almost too infectious. He bounced around the space, flitting between his easel and a pile of freshly painted canvases, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he teased, leaning against his easel with that insufferably cocky grin. “Thinking about me, aren’t you? Go on, admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, masking your discomfort with a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, moving closer until he was just a breath away. “Oh, but I don’t need to, cutie. You already do it for me.”

You watched him from your spot, marveling at his effortless grace. He was in his element, his dusky purple hair falling into his face as he dabbed at the canvas with a brush. Occasionally, he’d glance back at you, a sly smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “you’d make the perfect muse. Why don’t you let me paint you sometime?”

You laughed softly, a sound you hoped didn’t betray the nervous flutter in your chest. “I don’t think I’d sit still long enough for you to finish.”

Rafayel turned, raising a brow in mock disapproval. “Nonsense. You’re perfect just as you are. Besides, I think I’d enjoy the challenge of capturing your essence.”

It was always like this with him. Playful. Flirtatious. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, even though you’d seen firsthand how easily he dismissed others. People fawned over him—his talent, his charm, his looks—but Rafayel never seemed interested. Yet with you, he was different.

But you couldn’t help the doubt that lingered in the back of your mind. What if this was just his way? You wanted to believe he was just being playful, that he didn’t mean it the way your heart desperately wished he did. Because how could someone like him—a vision of elegance and charisma—see someone like you in any other way?

You crossed your arms, tugging the fabric of your shirt tighter around you, as if it could shield you from his gaze. Rafayel always had a way of looking at you like he was trying to peel back layers, like he saw something you couldn’t. And it terrified you.

And then there was your body. Stretch marks, rolls, flabs. All the things you tried so hard to hide. Around Rafayel, you were especially self-conscious, always careful to cover up, to deflect attention away from yourself. He was an artist, after all, a man who revered beauty in all its forms. Surely, someone like him couldn’t find someone like you truly beautiful.

“Earth to you,” Rafayel’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you blinked up at him to find him staring at you, his hands on his hips.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, offering a weak smile.

“Sooooo, are you ready?” Rafayel called out, glancing over his shoulder at you. He leaned against the doorframe with that devilish grin of his—flirtatious and yet utterly carefree. You glanced up from your position by the window, attempting to push the self-doubt creeping into your chest as he beckoned you over.

“Ready for what?” you muttered, not eager to engage. The last thing you wanted was to deal with another one of Rafayel’s whims.

“A swim, cutie.” he declared, his voice light and teasing. “The ocean's calling us, don’t you think?”

You stiffened, already feeling the weight of the impending conversation. Swimming. Bathing suits. He’d see more of you. That thought alone sent a wave of panic rushing through you. No, I can’t—

“I—uh, I don’t know…” You trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. "I’m just not feeling it today."

“Oh come on,” he pouted, pushing away from the doorframe with exaggerated dismay. “It’s way too hot, and we could both use a break. Besides, I promised we’d do something fun today.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to avoid looking at him too long. What if he looks at me differently? Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. You’d been covering up around him for so long, hoping he’d never notice the things you tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t have my swimwear with me,” you quickly said, the excuse feeling weak as the words left your mouth.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t have it? I’ll buy you one at the boutique down the road. They’ve got everything.” His voice was laced with amusement, but you could feel a twinge of impatience creeping into his words.

Your heart skipped a beat. No, no, no. I can’t do that. Not with him seeing me like that…

“I’m just… not really in the mood, Rafayel,” you stammered, avoiding his gaze. “You go ahead, I’ll just...Keep you company on  the beach.” You swallowed, your palms growing clammy. “I… I don’t feel like it. Maybe another time.”

“Another time?” he echoed, his tone flat. Then his voice softened, laced with curiosity. “What’s going on with you, really?”

“I said I’m not in the mood—”

“Don’t lie to me.” he interrupted, his playful demeanor gone. His gaze was sharp, piercing, as though he could see every thought running through your mind. “What’s wrong?”

The dam broke before you could stop it.

“I just… I can’t, okay? I don’t want you to see me like that!” The words tumbled out, fast and frantic. Your breathing hitched as panic clawed at your chest. “I’m… I’m fat, Rafayel. I have stretch marks, rolls, flab—whatever you want to call it. And you… you’re you. You’re perfect. Handsome. And you flirt with me, but that’s just who you are, right? You wouldn’t actually—how could you? Look at me!”

Your voice cracked, tears welling in your eyes. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to. “People like you don’t see people like me. Not really. And I don’t blame you, because who would want to? I’m not beautiful. I’m not anything. I’m just…” You trailed off, choking on the lump in your throat. “I am a whale. A big whale. People would look at us and wonder what someone like you is doing with someone like me. And you’re an artist! You see beauty everywhere, but what happens if you look at me and realize I’m—”

“Stop.”

The single word cut through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding. You froze, choking back a sob as you dared to meet his eyes. When you finally dared to look at him, Rafayel’s expression startled you. His playful smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His jaw was tense, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked… offended. No, furious.

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low, trembling with restrained emotion.

You nodded, your heart sinking. Of course, he was angry. Why wouldn’t he be? You’d made a fool of yourself, ruined whatever fragile dynamic you had with him.

“Come with me.” He stretched out his hand, his movements sharp, deliberate.

“What?”

“Come. With. Me.” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Hesitant, you placed your hand in his. His grip was firm, almost too tight, as he led you across the studio to a corner you’d never paid much attention to. A cluster of canvases sat there, each covered in white cloth.

Without a word, Rafayel grabbed the edge of one cloth and yanked it away.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was a painting. Of you.

Not an embellished version of you, not some idealized fantasy, but you as you were. Your stretch marks, your curves, every detail you hated about yourself—it was all there. But somehow, in his brushstrokes, it was beautiful. They weren’t altered. They were you. Raw, honest, and breathtakingly beautiful. You were beautiful. The woman in the painting looked almost like an ethereal goddess, with all the features you’d tried to hide—your soft curves, your round face, the way your body naturally flowed—on full display. You barely recognized the figure, as if it wasn’t you at all.

There you were, sitting by the window, the sunlight kissing your skin. There you were again, lost in thought, your features softened by a dreamy expression. In another, you were laughing, your smile radiant, your body draped in soft fabrics that celebrated every curve, every line, every part of you that you had always tried to hide.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice breaking the silence, “is how I see you. Do you even hear yourself?” His voice was low, trembling with an intensity you hadn’t expected. “You think I’d look at you—you—and see anything less than perfection? You think I’d waste my time on someone who wasn’t worth every second of it?”

You turned to him, your lips trembling. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Every brushstroke, every color—I poured myself into these because I wanted to capture you. You. Not some distorted version of what the world says you should be. You, with your stretch marks, your rolls, your everything. Do you know how beautiful you are to me?” He uncovered another, and another. Each one a masterpiece, each one of you.

“This,” Rafayel said, his voice rough with emotion, “is how I see you. Not some distorted version of yourself you’ve convinced yourself I’d be ashamed of. This.”

Each one, a depiction of you—each angle, each pose, each moment captured with breathtaking beauty. You stared at the paintings in disbelief. He hadn’t changed anything about you. He hadn’t smoothed over the imperfections, hadn’t tried to make you look like someone else. He had captured you, exactly as you were, and in a way that made you look… beautiful. You were beautiful in every stroke, every shade of color he had used.

He stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at you, still reeling from the revelation.

“This is how I see you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost reverently. “As for this… whale business? Humans like to forget that whales are majestic creatures. Powerful. Graceful. They’ve been admired for centuries, not ridiculed. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Fishes come in all shapes and forms, and yet are beautiful. As are you. Your shape, your insecurities do not blemish your beauty in my eyes, they enhance it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “I… I didn’t know.”

He gave you a small smile, that same devilish grin now softened with something far deeper. “In Lemuria, you’d be worshipped. Not shamed. You are beautiful, just the way you are, and I’m not going to let you forget that. You deserve to be seen, really seen, for all the beauty you have to offer. Every inch of it.”

You turned to face him, your vision blurry with tears. “You really think...?”

“I don’t just think it,” he interrupted, cupping your face with both hands. “I know it. In Lemuria, you would be the most beautiful woman to exist. Sought after. The very definition of beauty. And even if the entire world disagrees, it doesn’t matter, because to me, you are a work of art. And no matter what or who I paint, nothing could ever compare to you.”

His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down your cheek. “So don’t ever insult yourself like that again. And stop hiding from me. Stop hiding from the world. Because you’re perfect exactly as you are. Understand?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.

Rafayel smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Now, about that swim...”

You laughed through your tears, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a little lighter. A little more... beautiful.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[rafecameronsbabygirl]

first time anal with rafe ⋆˚࿔

warnings: graphic sexual content, anal sex

word count: 727

pairing: bf!rafe x gf!reader

"can you fuck my ass?"

rafe looked up at you, surprised at the words that had just come out of your mouth. it was you for fuck's sake. you weren't exactly the kinkiest girl rafe had been with. rafe had suggested the idea of anal to you several times, with you turning down each request out of fear that his cock would be too big. but now, you were eager to try something new—even if you were terrified.

"fuck yeah." rafe replied, throwing his phone to the side. he was already hard under his jeans at the thought. "wait right here." he said, gesturing to the couch. you sat down in the tiny silk nightgown that rafe loved seeing you in, crossing your legs in the way that drove rafe crazy. you sat patiently on the couch, listening to rafe rummage through the bedroom as he let out a string of curses. he finally walked back into the living room, a defeated look on his face.

"i don't have any lube." he sighed, running a hand through his buzzed hair. you thought for a moment about how badly you wanted this. you'd been dry-humping your pillow for the past hour waiting for rafe to get home from work so—pretty fucking badly was the answer. "s'okay, baby. we can do it without lube." you replied. rafe didn't question it. he could tell you wanted this.

"bend over." he demanded, making a gesture with his hands. your pussy was already wet at the sound of his voice. you got up from where you were sitting and bent yourself over the arm of the couch. rafe unzipped his jeans and pulled down his boxers, allowing his hardened cock to spring out. you let out a soft moan at the sight of it, your pussy growing wetter. "spit on my cock." he ordered, walking over to you.

you immediately obeyed, letting out a string of spit onto his cock. you wrapped your hand around his shaft, beginning to stroke it intensely. rafe yanked your hand away. "nah, baby. m'cumming in your ass." he said firmly, planting your hand back over the sofa. you felt your chest tighten with anxiety as rafe positioned himself behind you, precum glistening on his tip. rafe was big. not only was he nearly ten inches, but he was also six inches thick.

rafe placed one hand on each of your cheeks, spreading them open to reveal your puffy, pink hole. "so fucking tight. might need to loosen you up." he chuckled, his fingers teasing the edge of your asshole. "just take it sl—" you were interrupted by rafe thrusting his middle finger inside of you. "fuck, rafe!" you yelped out, gripping the cushions. rafe began to twist his finger inside of you, curling around the edge of your asshole.

without warning, rafe slid his ring finger inside you. he increased the pace with both of them inside, eliciting a breathy moan from your lips. "holy fu—" rafe slapped your cheek, earning another moan from you. "you can be louder than that." he smiled, his fingers never relenting in their pace. you let out a louder moan, your face contorting from pleasure.

"keep going. feels so good." you cried out. but rafe, cruel as ever, pulled his fingers out of your tight asshole. "hell no. time for me to fuck your asshole." rafe rubbed his cock quickly, positioning himself at your hole. "just go slow, baby. please." you begged, your nails digging into the cushions. rafe didn't respond verbally, but you could tell he was being generous because he didn't immediately slam his cock into you.

rafe slid his tip in, causing a small moan to come out of your mouth. "shit. it hurts." you sobbed, biting down on your lip. "s'gonna be like that at first. but you're gonna take it." he grunted, sliding another inch in. you let out a yelp as his hand came down on your ass. he began to push himself further and tears pricked your eyes. "it fucking hurts!" you whimpered, your asshole squeezing tightly around rafe's thick cock.

"shit, you're so fucking tight." rafe groaned, ignoring your former complaint. "please, rafe! please!" you begged as he thrust deeper into you. "please what?" he leaned down so that his mouth was right beside your ear.

"please fuck my ass."

a/n: hello lovelies! this is my first time sharing anything smut related on tumblr so i hope you enjoy!!

[angelofthenight01]

A dog accident

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

genre: flufy  ||     warnings: none

Summary: On an ordinary afternoon, your girlfriend's crazy friend turns you into a furry four-legged being

You're dating Wanda Maximoff, which in itself is already pretty fantastical. You, a self-proclaimed dork who still gets excited about new socks, are going out with a genuine superhero. It's a love story for the ages, or at least one that you’re constantly trying not to overthink.

And then there’s Agatha Harkness. The woman is an enigma wrapped in a slightly dusty velvet cloak. She's Wanda's sort-of-mentor, sort-of-friend, and a full-time chaos generator. You’ve learned to accept her as a permanent fixture in your life, mostly because Wanda adores her, and partially because you suspect refusing would end with you inexplicably speaking only in limericks.

It's a quiet Saturday. You're sprawled on the couch, a book about the migratory patterns of garden snails open in your lap, but your mind is decidedly elsewhere. You’re replaying a particularly smooth move Wanda pulled in the kitchen last night while making pancakes. It was the way she flicked her wrist, sending the pancake soaring and landing perfectly on the plate. You’ve been practicing it for hours but the closest you've gotten has been flicking butter across the room. You’re shaken out of your reverie by Agatha bursting through the front door with the subtlety of a rhinoceros in a tutu.

“Wanda darling! I need… a thing!” she declares, holding up a glass jar filled with something that looks suspiciously like glowing pond scum. “For… research!”

Wanda, looking as serene and beautiful as ever, emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Agatha, what is that?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Oh, just a few… essential ingredients for a spell. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.” Agatha’s smile is a little too wide, a little too manic. You’ve learned that this is her default I’m about to do something incredibly stupid expression.

You, meanwhile, have retreated further into the cushions, trying to become one with the couch. You’re pretty sure you’re invisible, like a well-camouflaged houseplant.

“And you,” Agatha says, pointing a crooked finger directly at you. “You’ll be the perfect… subject!”

Your heart does a little tap dance in your chest. “Subject?” you squeak, your voice cracking like a teenage boy going through puberty.

Wanda looks at you with a mixture of concern and fondness. “Agatha, put the pond scum down. You know you can’t just experiment on random people.” She glares at Agatha with a look that could melt steel.

“Nonsense!” Agatha waves her hand dismissively, which is a mistake because the jar of pond scum slips from her grasp, the green liquid splashing all over you. "Whoops!"

Before you can even register what happened, a peculiar tingling sensation washes over you. Your vision blurs, your limbs feel weirdly heavy, and you feel an uncontrollable urge to scratch behind your ear with your foot.

You blink, and the world suddenly looks a whole lot larger. The couch now looms like a terrifying mountain range, and Wanda, the woman you love, is towering over you looking like an adorable giant. You let out a curious bark.

“Oh. My.” Wanda says slowly, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Agatha stares at you with a mixture of horror and fascination. “Well, that is… unexpected.”

You wag your tail tentatively. Yep, you definitely had a tail. You try to speak. What comes out is a series of yips and woofs. Your hands, or rather, paws, twitch as you try to grasp at the situation. You’re a dog. A fluffy, medium-sized, caramel colored something with comically large ears and a rapidly wagging tail.

“Agatha!” Wanda hisses, her voice low and dangerous. “You turned my girlfriend into a dog!”

“Well, yes, but it was an accident!” Agatha protests, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “I was aiming for a newt, I swear!”

You tilt your head, your tongue lolling out of your mouth. You want to ask if they have any treats, but you can only manage a happy bark.

“Okay, okay, no need to get dramatic,” Agatha says, pacing back and forth. “We just need to figure out how to change you back. I think I might have reversed that spell. Or maybe not, it depends on if I used a pinch of salamander eyes or bat wings. They're kinda similar.”

Wanda lets out a frustrated groan. "Agatha, you absolute menace."

The next few hours are an absolute blur. Wanda and Agatha are now trying to solve the mystery of your transformation. You, being a dog, are mostly just enjoying the abundance of belly rubs and the fact that you can now lick your own foot. You tried to help by bringing them your favorite squeaky toy, but the two witches seem to be too preoccupied with their spell books to appreciate your contribution.

You watch as Wanda and Agatha argue, occasionally throwing out phrases like “counter-curse,” “elemental transference,” and “what did you mean by using the left hind leg of a frog?” You realize this is probably more chaotic than your average Saturday.

At one point, Agatha tries a spell that makes your fur turn bright pink for a few minutes, this was quickly reversed by Wanda as she glared at Agatha. You were actually rather fond of the pink fur, and you make a mental note to ask Wanda to do that again.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of chanting and potion-mixing, Agatha exclaims, “I think… I think I’ve got it! This final ingredient should do the trick!” She holds up a small, suspiciously sparkly vial.

Wanda looks at you, her eyes full of anxious hope. “Ready, sweetheart?”

You bark excitedly, your tail wagging so hard your whole body wiggles. Anything to be human again.

Agatha pours the contents of the vial over your head. This time, the tingling sensation is different, accompanied by a whooshing sound and a strong smell of lavender. You blink, and you're back in your human form. You’re no longer covered in fur, and your paws are, once again, hands. Your heart nearly jumps out your chest in relief.

“Am I… me again?” you ask, your voice still a little shaky.

Wanda rushes forward, pulling you into a tight hug, her face buried in your hair. “You’re back,” she whispers, her voice thick with relief. “You’re really back.”

Agatha, meanwhile, is beaming at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “See? I told you I’d fix it. Just another Saturday for the amazing Agatha Harkness!”

You look at her, then back at Wanda, a smile spreading across your face. This is your life now. A chaotic, wonderful, and utterly bizarre life, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[rhyrhy]

Child of a Seraphite

Cw: death, grief/guilt, TLOU universe, angst, Abby finds her way with parenthood! 3.k words, Longer read. Not fully proofread

What does it take to pull a woman out of a life fueled by vengeance? The answer: you, and a baby.

M.list

Present Day

The small room was coated in the soft, warm yellow glow of the worn window. That old jacket hung behind the wooden door. The only sounds were of gentle breathing and the faint rustle of sheets against clothed skin.

Little Lev slept peacefully, his tiny hand half clenched around the hem of Abby’s shirt. You lay propped on your elbow beside them, watching the scene unfold. It was precious, really. You, her, lev and the safety of this room. After everything, this felt like a dream. A small smile tugged at your lips as you took in Abby’s half-asleep face. Her head rested heavily on the pillow, her braid draped next to her. You couldn’t resist the urge to tease her.

“You know,” you whispered, careful not to wake lev, “he’s starting to look like you.”

Abby huffed out a sleepy laugh, her eyes still closed. “Oh yeah?” she whispered back. “You seeing a resemblance?”

“Twins. No doubt,” you replied, biting back a laugh. Knowing The three of you looked like you’d been plucked straight from a diversity ad. in the most endearing way possible, of course.

Abby chuckled under her breath, and draped an arm over her eyes. Eventually after some more sleepy snickers she shushed you. You both needed rest before tomorrow. Another day of this new normal you both found yourself tangled in.

Around One year ago

The WLF base was alive with its usual routine soldiers training, patrols heading out, and the familiar buzz of machinery echoing through the safety of the walls. You were in the middle of unloading supplies when some commotion started. You paid it no mind at first, you had your own task to do. Drama was the last thing you needed to be involved with.

When you heard it.

“Abby’s back!” a soldier shouted, running past you. The heavy steps growing faint as they disappeared from your line of sight.

Abby, You hadn’t seen her in god knows how long, not since she left to chase whispers of the Fireflies. The last time you saw her, you’d gotten into a huge fight. You two had this unspoken tension and then she suddenly announces that she’s leaving and has no idea when she’ll be back. It took Issac separating you two to end the discussion with no room for rebuttal. She was going, end of story. All you could do was hope for a safe return or just one at all.

You dropped the crate of supplies in your hands, heart pounding filling your ears as you turned to face the large gates. The thought of seeing her again, made you feel a mix of relieved and terrified.

she had been determined, revengeful, dead-set on her mission that she refused to explain too much of. And now?

There she was. Abby was here.

dirty and bloodied, trudging into the base with exhaustion in every footstep. Some familiar faces scrabbled over to help, looking like she was going to collapse face first onto grass below her tired feet. Those broad shoulders slumped, Your breath caught in the back of your throat as she stopped a few feet away. her eyes meeting yours for the first time in what seemed like forever.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything. You were glad she’s back, you were sorry for the fight, you were pissed that she left you with no hug or proper bye—you wanted to say a million things at once, to save time.

But all that was pushed to the side when you seen a tiny hand reach up out of the old jacket she was tightly clutching…swaddled?

Your voice was low, full of surprise as you stepped closer to her.

“Is that a…?”

Abby shifted on her sore feet, glancing down at the baby before looking back at you. “A baby” she said, almost breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

And then it struck you—there was no one else with her. No backup, no team. Just Abby and the baby.

“Abby- Wh- …what the hell happened out there?” you asked, stepping closer, voice low so the growing crowd of onlookers couldn’t hear. Whispers already starting.

Abby glanced at the baby again, her jaw tightening. “It’s… it’s a long story.”

The ‘long story’

To say this journey’s outcome was the complete opposite of what Abby expected, is beyond an understatement.

Here she was, the same woman who can bench a little over two hundred pounds was captured. At the mercy of the cult the ‘wolves’ The WLF had been at war with. ‘Scars’ Seraphite’s. Hung suspended, her arms and wrists wrenched painfully behind her, the thick ropes cutting into the skin of her neck as she wiggled. Burning with each movement. Her breaths came in sharper gasps, blood trickling from the corner of the small cut on her lower abdomen. Her vision beginning to blur.

“Cut her down” Yara panted out, her back pressed against a large rock, wincing with every breath. Her other arm remained clenched tightly around an old, worn jacket, refusing to let it go even during chaos. The tussle was over now, Three of her ‘own’ now lay dead. Deserved, as it was them or who she was protecting.

“She’s one of them-“ The other scar, cross bow in hand protested.

“Just do it!” she commanded. “Demons are coming, hurry”

With a loud thud to the ground Abby ripped the noose off of her neck. Then quickly staggered to her feet, body on fire from being bound for so long. Small cut stinging on her lower stomach. However, before she could fully orient herself, the wounded young woman thrusted something into her arms. As she couldn’t with her now broken one. Holding it there firmly against her chest.

A baby.

Abby froze, staring down at the tiny, squirming bundle in disbelief. “What the hell—”

“It’s my brother,” Yara interrupted, her voice breaking as she turned to yank the axe of a dead body “We have to go. Now!”

The groups feet were moving faster than their minds, survival being the only thing on it.

But Unfortunately, for the wounded young woman, She’d have to make one last sacrificial effort to keep her brother alive.

Gunned down by wolves as a distraction for the safety of her brother, yara laid there. A sight Abby would never forget. But the one thing she would? The promise she made to now lifeless body. Her last words being…

“You Take him… take him to your people. Promise me, he lives.” Yara’s plea was barely above a whisper, eyes locked onto Abby’s.

And promise, she did.

The air was thick, mixed with the pit of devastation in Abby’s gut. The only thing keeping her moving was her feet. After Yara’s sacrifice, Abby alone with a crying baby that she couldn’t seem to soothe. had to now make her way back to Seattle. What the hell was happening. What the hell was she going to do with a baby. The baby of the cult who’d almost disemboweled her. The child of a scar.

With almost being bitten, annoying cries she couldn’t coo away, and the stench of a dirty make shift diaper Abby was beyond exhausted. This journey was seeming to be more than she could handle, But she had promised the woman who’d saved her life. It had been weeks but That lingering feeling of that rope around her neck sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine. Without yara and the other scar who’d gotten spilt up during the mess of escaping infected, she’d be hung.

Take him, protect him. She promised.

Revenge now taking a momentary backseat..but with that, bring the spawn of the enemy wasn’t going to blow over lightly. despite her reasoning and constant explanations tensions inside the walls rose. A faction within the WLF distrusts Abby for returning with a Seraphite child, now seeing her as a liability.

It was getting out of hand. Lips of other soldiers got looser than needed. However, you seemed to be a solace as she’d seek you out to rant about the growing conflict.

“I mean he’s a child for Christ sake!” “Leave him out to what, Die? Are they insane?!”

You could recite her words like a song at this point. Some days she wouldn’t even knock on your door, just opening it and leaning on it with her arms crossed tightly Across her chest. You would give her the green light to get it all out, and trust it poured out every time. The words were full of colorful language and most importantly hurt.

Those light arm pats and words of reassurance gave her more strength to stand her ground than she’d admit to you, not now anyway. Those looks that were held too long, her shoulder brushing against yours while sitting quite close, or the blush that crossed your face when she adjusted your hold on a weapon you were unfamiliar with. Occasional pillow talk of this farm you’d found, joking of how’d cute you’d look in overalls cleaning up the place. Came pouring back in with light flashes as two came back around each other more. Much more.

It started with you having a little more knowledge in this department, you found yourself doing the little things to help her out.

“Here, uh..try this” you said adjusting the child’s head in the crook of her arm to support his head.

The Light touches and small smiles became another silent reoccurrence. Along with taking lev for a few hours so she could rest. Falling into this oddly comforting position didn’t sway you away. She was asking you for help, she never did that before leaving. Everything was ‘I got it’ or ‘I’ll handle it myself’ but now things were miles different. Amongst this, typical Manny making a passing comment on how well you two coparented, made you both awkwardly laugh. Feeling the cracks from before begin to fill with this new experience.

Yes, You two still hadn’t spoken about where you stood before she left. You decided to choke it back, there was something much bigger now. Another life, innocent and blissfully aware of the cruel words being spat him and his saviors way.

Abby had a decision to make. And fast.

But how is she supposed to turn over this child who clearly was not better off. Yet, her loyalty being doubted was stinging just as equally.

Days blended together as the sky stormed along with Abby’s conflicting feelings.

A situation she’d never thought she’d find herself in, standing with her arm out over the child protectively. The heavy drumming of rain against the metal roof of the outpost and almost drowning out the muffled arguments behind the door. her jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

They wanted him gone.

“He’s a liability,” Isaac’s voice echoed in her ears. “We took you back, Abby. But that… that Seraphite child has no place here.” “If you wish to follow in Owen’s footsteps of betrayal you may do so, outside of these walls.”

They wanted her gone.

Her knuckles brushed her pants, fist clenched. Nails digging into her palm to control her temper.

Isaac’s words felt like they were carved deeper into her skin than any wound she’d gotten these past few months of travel. “You owe us, Abby. His presence is risking the people here, the people who took you in. You choose. Him or us.”

The ultimatum that felt like it had no right answer.

One night, Abby entered your room quietly. The soft click of the door woke you.

There she stood, teary eyed, cheeks stained and a look of defeat smacked on her face. Lev on her hip, had his small head rested on her chest, half awake. Belongings that were once in hand, now dropped next to her with a harsh thud.

before you could ask her what’s going on it came out with a choked sob, ramblings of the past few months and how it was all weighing on her.

You learned of her promise to yara, and you saw the hardened woman who was once full of stubbornness and hatred now a beaten down emotionally drained individual. Pleading for the universe to ease up on her. Tore between the walls that she once called home and failing the child she promised to keep safe, from a woman who now only a memory.

You’d stood frozen in place before embracing the broken woman who looked like her knees would buckle under her with the slightest gust of the wind.

When you pulled back looking at her and the small figure clinging onto her, that conversation washed over you, a lightbulb flickered on.

It was as nuts as it sounded but you asked her anyway.

Before she left the base

“…Like old McDonald?” Abby laughed, listening to you describe a farm you’d come across while traveling Wyoming before joining the base.

You asked her to imagine it. The grass, fresh air, and warm sun beaming down on her skin during the summer.

“Hey, I’m being serious! Give me a broom and hammer I’d make it sparkle. Swear” you joked, and continued to explain how’d you live on the land. Taking the skilled you’d learned to the new environment.

Abby felt a pang of warm air pass over her seeing you in hopes of finding a more peaceful and quiet life. She agreed, but debated with finding the comfort of routine at the base. Losing herself in the conversation. Loving how you seemed to have an answer for almost every rebuttal she threw out.

And now a year later, you asking her if she’d be willing to take this shot in the dark. Making it a reality.

With you. Now.

After a few more days of preparation, she placed one foot outside the gates of base. Looking over her shoulder to the familiar faces she’d once found comfort in only to met with cold gazes because of the small hand she promised to hold. To keep alive.

A few nights before

A heavy sigh echoed as Abby carefully folded small clothes into a not too heavy duffel bag. Uncertainty hung in the air. Was this really what she wanted?

Manny leaned against the doorframe, watching his friend prepare to make a decision that wouldn’t just shift her life but his too.

“You’re really doing this, huh, amiga?”

“I am” she said dryly.

After a few more beats of tense silence weighted between them, He stepped into the room, handing over a small stuffed animal from behind his back. A worn elephant plushie came into her vision, a farewell gift. What a sweetheart he was. Her shoulders eased and she let herself actually talk to him.

Manny softened, leaning down to zip up one of the bags. “Abs, I get it. Just… you better come back if this whole farm thing doesn’t work out. You’ll be missed here. Despite the bullshit, you will”

Abby paused, taking the plushie from his hand, gently packing it away. “Thanks, Manny. For everything.”

“No need to get mushy, not your style” he said with smile. “And , if you ever need a babysitter…you know where to find me.”

“Mhm… I’ll send a postcard, yeah?” She replied jokingly feeling a small weight be lifted.

“Yeah” he repeated and gave her a small ‘you got this’ back pat.

As her other foot stepped outside the gates, she pushed any uncertainty down. She was keeping her promise, for yara…

For herself,

For lev.

The first night settled in Wyoming

Lev, feeling restless had cry’s bouncing off the wooden walls of the semi empty room. Abby sprung awake, heavy breathing as it startled her. With a heavy groan, she made her way over to try and hush the child. After no avail, you felt a small shake on your leg. On the make shift bed that was surprisingly comfortable for the time being.

“Your turn” Abby said with a pout.

You shift in the blankets, taking a moment to take in the image of this hardened soldier, hair a mess, half asleep, holding a baby out to you.

The sight never failed to make your heart swell. A beautiful sliverlining in this world which showed no mercy. A hand slowly made it way to cover your mouth.

Abby tilted her head in confusion, then a small smile crept on the corner of her lips.

“Oh this is funny to you?”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, she followed suit after a halfhearted eyeroll. Yeah, Moments like this were definitely the sweet after the sour. Moments like this, reminded her of the tough decision she’d made. Feet sore, eyes heavy, but a smile on her face.

And you’d be damned if you thought she wouldn’t choose it all over again.

————————————————-

Note: the idea of baby lev was too cute not to write! It doesn't follow the original story but idk I like this version! And yes I brought out the farm! Abby deserves the peaceful life too! Me writing a happy ending for once Any typos will be fixed LMAO

Thank you for reading!! 💐

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture

Here is the post that started this fic. A Batman x Invincible crossover for the usual neglected!batsis!reader, enjoy!

CW: Gore, not explicit beyond mentioning the wound and blood- but yk.

Chapter 1 >>next(tbc)

It’s weird how easily something can be taken away, in the blink of an eye, the passing of a second- a millisecond. Was it a second? Was it longer? A minute? Time slowed down so much that it was like a dream, a horrible nightmare. “It couldn’t be- it’s not real-” is all you thought as you saw the smoke of the gun, the small sparkle it made as it shot the bullet. Your terrified eyes followed it even as you knew the target, but how could you pull your eyes away?

You couldn’t. Not when it hits your mom, piercing her neck and hitting the ground behind her. You didn’t even notice as the teen who was trying to mug you ran away, just as terrified at what he had done as you. All you could see was your mom in your tiny arms, blood falling from her wound, splashing onto your tear-stained face and seeping into the cracks of your hands as you tried to put pressure on the hole, like in the movies, the movies mama always said you shouldn’t watch.

You never listened to that- maybe it’s why tonight she didn’t listen to you. You told her, begged her not to go through Crime Alley, the shadows warning you to stay on the main road, in the light, “Not through Crime Alley, never through Crime Alley” they whispered. But mama just smiled at you, caressed your worried face, and said it’ll be fine. She should have listened to you.

A warm hand touched your shoulder, squeezing softly. “-Kid?” a gruff voice, despite how soft he was trying to be, almost yelled, concern cutting clean through his blank façade. Your eyes meet his, the officer who brought you to the station, Gordon, that’s what that one policeman called him.

The older man couldn’t blame you, he wouldn’t be able to even if he tried. A kid as young as you, seeing what you saw, having to hold your mom while she died… They cleaned her blood off, out of your hair, from your face, and wrapped you in the softest, warmest blanket they could find, that’s the best they could do, the best he could do.

His lips moved, but you weren’t really listening. Sure, your eyes were on him, your body sitting on the armchair in his office, but your mind wasn’t anywhere near what was going on in the present. “-is that alright with you, hon’?” at his question you could only nod.

“That’s good. You’ll see, Bruce is a great man, he’s already adopted a son, so I’m sure he’d love you the same way. You’re his daughter- he’d be happy to know you-“Gordon started rambling and you stopped listening. He was nervous, clearly not used to dealing with traumatized kids. With time he’ll get better at that, despite his hopes of never having to deal with something like this again.

Bruce. Bruce Wayne, yes. The man you saw on TV, every time with a different woman, if not in an embarrassing situation. Yes, you remember now. They took your blood, ran it through the system. To try and find family, relatives so that you wouldn’t be sent to the overcrowded orphanage. You found it silly at the time- how could they possibly do that?

No matter. The billionaire was found to be a match, and you didn’t know how to feel. You just wanted your mami, that’s all you wanted but they wouldn’t let you see her. How could they not? She was your mami, even if she was mean sometimes, even if she forgot about you sometimes. That man was never in your life- a dad isn’t supposed to not be in your life. A father is supposed to be there to love and nurture, always, Bruce wasn’t.

The sound of Gordon’s office door opening startled you, head moving to look behind you. It wasn’t an officer, and it wasn’t Bruce. The man was too old, too skinny. He had greying hair, slicked back, and a strange mustache too. But mama always said never to say that out loud.

Gordon seemed surprised too. Alfred, Gordon called the old man, said that Bruce was preoccupied with other matters, didn’t have the time to pick you up himself. You felt critiqued under Alfred’s gaze like he was picking you apart, judging eyes catching every imperfection.

Sure, you looked more like your mom, but the policemen said that there was no way the results were wrong. They wouldn’t lie, right? These are childish thoughts, but you’ll learn later in life that everyone lies.

You were losing track of time. Trauma, Gordon called it. It must be something bad if he whispered it the way mama whispered things that you weren’t meant to hear. You don’t remember getting into a car, you don’t remember walking through the front gates of the Wayne Manor, but you remember the tight lip of Alfred as he put you in the car, the way he sat you in your room, the way he took your blood like the cops did, the warm meal.

You haven’t had a meal this good- well. You’ve never had a meal this good. But it wasn’t worth it to you, not when the bedroom was so cold, so dark, so lacking in the coziness of the little apartment you and your mama stayed in. It felt sterile, like a hospital. You didn’t even meet Bruce that night, he was your father, why wasn’t he here, comforting you as you took the pillow and covers and hid yourself against the wall, under the bed, seeking a snug, warm embrace while you cried? Where was your dad when you needed him the most?

Notes: I am surprisingly proud of this first chapter, minimal changes from the first draft, set the mood I wanted. The second chapter is in the making, I'm not quite as happy with that one but I'll get there :)

I haven't decided yet if this will be a slow burn until the Invincible part of the fic so if the next 2 chapters aren't time skips expect it to be a slow burn.

Also the gore warning will probably be a constant considering it's Invincible and my batfam is more like the movies, aka there's blood that's red not black... and joker... I doubt he won't make an appearance.

I'll also make a masterlist for no other reason than I need it to keep track of stuff :)))

[muletia]

Psychic Patch anon here! So glad you enjoyed that idea <3 love putting Op in situations

But as a bonus I could see that debacle being a good entry point into the obsessed megop back-and-forth. Might as well make use of what little info they did get out of Optimus's processor, 1: That you're extremely important to him and 2: Your address.

Thus begins the weekly kidnappings because you're one hell of a useful hostage, but also because Megatron has some curiosities of his own. How could you, a human, possibly be so alluring as to have a Prime at your beck and call? It makes the growth of his own infatuation a bit terrifying, he saw with his own optics what you did to Optimus's mind and can feel himself slipping down that path.

It also factors into his desire to have you as his queen, his second in command. He has some twisted respect for your "powers". After all you must be incredibly cunning and ruthless to claw your way so deeply into his spark even while he was aware of your tricks. (Little does he know there are no tricks, you're just catnip to powerful enough Cybertonians)

Our minds were totally on the same wavelength because I thought of the exact same thing! Thanks for sharing this idea <3

It’s not so easy to impress Megatron, and he doesn’t hand out his respect to just anyone. Even less so can I imagine him respecting some pathetic, miserable human... unless that human somehow managed to charm their way into and settle firmly within the very spark of Optimus Prime.

He wants to see how you pulled it off. To conduct research on a species that, until now, mattered to him as much as an empty energon container, and to use the knowledge he gains for his nefarious™ purposes. But also to talk, this time to peer into your primitive mind and extract the information he needs. To get to know you from the inside, but not destroy you — because you’re far too valuable.

I think he’d spend long sessions just staring at you while you sit on his lap. Studying your reflexes, waiting for you to uncover the true potential of your abilities, and verbally prying information out of you.

Megatron is convinced that your relationship will only ever be a one-sided transaction. He’ll squeeze everything he wants out of you and then eliminate you once he grows bored. But then you get “rescued” by the Autobots. And that’s when the real game begins — the back-and-forth of both factions fighting over you. Giving obsession time to spread through every inch of Megatron’s being.

Over time, he realizes he’s not taking you back to study your tricks. He’s taking you back for you.

Is he furious that he let himself be beguiled by a human? Probably. But the fury that burns within when he sees you in Optimus’ servos is far, far greater and hazardous...

jdbd the comparison to catnip is so spot on — not just because it’s ha ha funny, but also because of how easily you intoxicate the bots you spend time with and how dangerously quickly they become addicted to you <3

[metaphorfordeath]

Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again. 

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it. 

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon. 

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I? 

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand. 

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood. 

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong. 

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition. 

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?” 

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.” 

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?” 

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.” 

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me. 

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script. 

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling? 

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.” 

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world. 

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby. 

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it. 

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say. 

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X. 

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫・h.j

—for months you have dealt with constant intrusive thoughts, wondering what life was like before your head was swarmed with anxiety—until one day, you wake up and it isn't your OCD that you remember—it's hyunjin. alternatively: you find hyunjin baking your favorite sweet treat and you fall even deeper in love with him.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・hyunjin x gn!reader // 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・hurt and comfort, established relationships, one sided angst, me trauma dumping, tooth-rotting fluff // 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・1.4k // 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・reader with OCD, could be read as any sort of obsessions + compulsions but focuses on the obsession of time and the thought that this state of mind will never change, one curse word, kisses, so so many kisses, kisses that end in food fights, food being made that ends in kisses, was the food ever actually made? the world may never know. // 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭・je te laisserai des mots by Patrick Watson

𝐚/𝐧・this kind of really sucks, but i decided to throw away my perfectionism for a little bit and just pour my soul out instead. I've recently been dealing with some serious OCD symptoms and I am trying to get a phycologist to help me navigate these symptoms and get diagnosed, but I thought of this today what it would be like to not wake up and immediately remember my anxiety and my obsessions...then started sobbing :D then hopped on my computer and wrote through the tears haha. edit cookie: I wrote this in early December hated it decided to post it anyways in the small happenstance that somebody might relate to it, I hope that somebody out there feels even the smallest comfort from it :)

You wanted to run away—to take Hyunjin by the hands and disappear into the forest brush; to press your palms into the earth until it felt as though your fingers had become roots, twisting and tangling, becoming one with the trees. You longed to rest beneath the grass, to watch as the stars sang like fairies, strung in sweet, serene stillness. You wanted to trace constellations on his skin, set fireflies alight in his eyes, to kiss him until you were sick of it—until your lips could bear no more.

You wanted to run away and never look back, but 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 always had a way of looking back at you. One day, you awoke, and all the stars had fizzled out—ripped from the sky like a fallen angel's wings. Your world had been dipped in ink, a single drop that spread underneath your eyelids as though you had never woken at all. It consumed you, a once-magical world stolen in a single moment, leaving you completely and utterly under their control.

The trees had grown thick with leaves, their vines crawling up your spine; creeping across your legs, your feet, your teeth. Go away, you wanted to scream. Go away, go away, go away! But the more you squirmed, the deeper they sank their thorns in. There was no escaping; you had become one with the fear, one with the shadows. The sense of what had been faded out, swallowed by the crippling uncertainty of who you were 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 the darkness returned.

Months later, that feeling still hadn't left, and it terrified you to imagine it never would.

In the small stretch of time, floating on the edge of an in-between, is where you felt most at peace. Only a heartbeat short of two seconds, where sleep was nothing but an echo, yet the world had not quite begun to spin again. And for a breath, as you stretch your palm across the silky sheets, still warm from the imprint of Hyunjin's body, you didn't think about 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞; you didn't think about anything but him.

You stay here long after the world began to spin again—waiting, wondering, sinking deeper into the thought of him: the fallen star nuzzled just beneath his eyelid, the feel of his fingers, soft and saccharine, brushing over your knuckles; the way his lips taste like oranges and his skin smells like fresh rain. You study every moment as though they were going to fade away—fluttering from your palms like ashed scrolls.

Then suddenly, it hits you. There were no intrusive thoughts, no anxieties—nothing but the ache where Hyunjin should have been; an ache that consumed you so greatly that you didn't have enough time to worry about 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞. The realization sinks deep into your bones, pulsing in tandem with your trembling heart—everything felt so overwhelming in that bed, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 flooding back in. Though this time, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 tasted bittersweet—a distant, muted sour, a small break from the usual loud, potent flavor it tended be.

Something about the thought made your chest feel heavy, your head feel loud. You wanted to ask yourself so many questions, so many things you didn't have the answer to, but instead, you decide to search for Hyunjin, rising to your feet.

The faint scent of bananas and honey wafts through the crack in the door, slightly ajar from where he had left minutes before. You follow the scent down the hall, willing your trembling legs to hold you steady, though the sight that awaits you makes you weak in the knees for an entirely different reason.

Hyunjin's standing above the stove, still disheveled in his pajamas, swiftly whisking a bowl of batter. Beside him lays a cutting board with sliced bananas and a bread pan, the inside sticky with butter. And when he tilts his head to check the stove's timer, you notice the streak of flour smeared on his cheekbone, and for whatever reason, that detail absolutely destroys you.

Dewy-eyed and weak, you shuffle towards him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to shake the whisk from his hand. Hyunjin jumps, startled by the sudden touch, before he blanches, watching a single tear fall from your lash line.

The bowl drops onto the stovetop with a soft thud.

One second, you are feeling his heartbeat flutter underneath your palm, and the next, it is pressed against your cheek, the tip of your nose nuzzled into his throat. You breathe him in, filling your lungs up until it feels as though your chest has blossomed with the subtle scent. Hyunjin smelled like the forest's first breath—a faint, delicate petrichor that clung to his skin, as if he was the creator. A smell that brought you right back home.

"My love, what's wrong?" His voice hums against your cheek, trembling with a worry you were so reluctant to cause. It takes you centuries to speak, brushing through the vines creeping up your throat.

"I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought of was you," you whisper.

Hyunjin stills underneath your palms, his breath catching like weeds in his throat. It killed him to see you this way, utterly terrified by the very person he was so overwhelmingly besotted with. For months, he guided you through it, every restless night, every bad day, murmuring into your hair—when there's darkness look for the stars—with his hand held tight, you would argue "but there are no stars."

So Hyunjin created some. Every night before bed, he would coat your thoughts in honey, so with every kiss you would be reminded of him, and not them. It almost brought him to his knees, knowing all his hard work paid off.

He was over the moon, grateful tears collecting on his lash line. It takes him three shuddering breaths to push the words off his tongue—falling into your ears like sweet nectar.

"Oh, baby," he chokes, capturing your cheeks between trembling palms, still mindful of his sticky fingers. "I'm so glad, baby, I'm so fucking glad." Hyunjin can't hold himself back as he leans his forehead against your own, pressing his lips to yours.

He tastes like oranges and joy, so, so much joy it's dizzying. You seek out his elbows, then his shoulders, then his chest. He pulls you closer, so impossibly close, it feels as though your heartbeats have taken root within each other, a love sprouting through a single passionate kiss.

When there is darkness look for the stars—it was a quiet night four months ago when you first heard those words, nestled under the nighttime sky; his cheeks freckled with moon dust.

You could still feel it, the way your heart overturned as you shoved the words out of your mouth. It was embarrassing to talk about—how could you explain something you didn't understand? How could somebody sympathize with something that was so crazy?

Hyunjin didn’t say anything for a while after that, bestowing your words with all the deference you deserved. It felt as though you had died a million times before he finally decided to speak.

"When there is darkness, look for the stars." At first, you stammered, both confused and slightly offended—that was, until he hooked his finger under your chin and kissed constellations onto your skin, spreading the galaxy inside your eyes until that was all you could see, all you could think.

It was that night where it all began.

It takes one clumsy kiss for him to accidentally smear a fat strip of batter across your cheek, breaking your makeout with a startled gasp. He goes wide-eyed, only slightly apologetic as he breaks out into a smile, seeing how adorable you looked—lips swollen and red, banana and flour smudged on your face.

"Baby—" Hyunjin doesn't get to finish his sentence, not before a slice of banana is catapulted onto his forehead, sticking with an audible thwap. He yelps, utterly gobsmacked, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

You begin to laugh, a rib-splitting, belly-gripping guffaw that resounds throughout the entire kitchen. With a playful scoff, Hyunjin grabs a handful of bananas, flicking them at you like bullets. You don't stop throwing food at each other until your stomachs burn with laughter and the floor is coated with enough ingredients to make banana bread itself. Hyunjin pulls you in, lips dusted with flour and giggles. He presses his smile against your own.

You realize then, blossoming with adoror, you had been so focused on what it was like 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 that you never stopped to think about how 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 didn't include Hyunjin.

Maybe, just maybe, you could get used to 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫.

cookie owns this. thank you.

[tea1303]

Scar who, up until he won Secret Life, had no memory of any of the series’, suddenly remembers everything. He remembers his magic tower. He remembers the family. But most importantly he remembers the desert and he remembers Grian. He remembers the way Grian promised him only his first life, Grian who regularly said he’d leave when his duty was fulfilled and yet continued to fight with him even after his first death. He also remembers the unexplainable feeling of needing to always find Grian in every subsequent series and suddenly it all makes sense. So when everyone is back again in Wild Life he makes it his mission to find Grian again. And he does. However Grian isn’t alone. Grian is with Mumbo and the two are near on inseparable, Scar seeming like nothing more than an afterthought to Grian. And then Mumbo dies. Grian never sounded that devastated after any of the times Scar died.

Grian on the other hand had always remembered. He remembered the feeling of Scar betraying him, how he willingly gave the man his first life only for him to rip his second life away from him. He also remembers the feeling of killing Scar with his bare hands despite his cries of not being able to. He remembers winning yet feeling like he lost everything. He remembers never wanting to feel like that again. Then everyone was back again for Last Life and then Double Life and then again and again and every time there was Scar. It felt as though he sought him out every time but the idea of seeing Scar again after all that had transpired on the desert terrified him. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to withstand that feeling again.

But along with Scar there was sometimes Mumbo. And Mumbo was from before. Before the Watchers. The idea of seeing Mumbo bought a strange sort of comfort to Grian. Comfort was a rare luxury for a being of Grians status and so he sought it out always. Mumbo wasn’t always there but when he was Grian was never too far away. Mumbo didn’t remember Grian though and so when Mumbo appeared during Wild Life Grian thought this was his chance. He had knowledge the other players didn’t and he’d use it to his advantage. To get Mumbo to win. To get him to remember.

But the Spider malfunctioned, blowing Mumbo up, killing him first, squandering the best opportunity Grian had for his friend to remember. And grief ripped through him like the lightening that accompanied Mumbo’s death.

Started watching life series the other day (grians pov if you can’t tell) was bored at work and somehow this happened lol

[heliosunny]

Hi! I just read your yandere gojo x reader, and I loved it! I would love to request something similar, almost like an alternate path. Like instead of reader getting sucked in she convinces him to come to her world. How would he respond would he be open to the idea or shut it down? 🤔🩷

[part 1] Gojo virtual boyfriend

[part 2] - Virtual world route

[part 3] - Reality route - current

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice shaking.

He tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “Why would I do that? You chose me, remember?"

Terrified by the thought of being erased like Kaito, you made a bold move.

At first, when you suggested he leave his perfect world for yours, Gojo was suspicious. His sharp mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario: It’s a trick. Another one of your desperate plans to get rid of him, to escape his grasp.

The idea gnawed at him, but he didn’t show it. He couldn’t afford to, at least not yet. If this was your attempt to weaken him, you didn’t realize how much control he truly held, even outside his virtual paradise.

You think my abilities would fade out there, don’t you? he muttered to himself later that night, standing in the garden and watching the synthetic stars twinkle above. That I’d lose my edge in your world.

A part of him almost wanted to see your plan unfold, if only to watch your shock when you realized the truth. But as you continued to speak about your world, not with manipulation, but with genuine longing, Gojo began to see it differently.

You weren’t scheming. You weren’t even pretending. You simply wanted to live.

For a moment, the idea of losing you, of letting you slip away completely sent a surge of anger through him. But then, just as quickly, the calm returned.

Fine, he thought, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. If this is what you want, I’ll come to your world. I’ll play your game.

In his mind, it didn’t matter where you were. Whether in his world or yours, Gojo was confident he could manipulate your life. He could twist the reality you loved so much, bending it to his will just as easily as he had in his own creation. After all, why should the setting matter when the outcome was the same?

“All right, babe” he said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “I’ll live in your world. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden change in tone. “You…will?”

“Of course” he said, standing and stepping closer to you. “If it makes you happy, I’ll give it a shot. But just remember—no matter where we are, you’ll always belong to me.”

You forced a smile, nodding as if you hadn’t noticed the underlying warning.

-----

The air of your world was heavier, the sounds sharper, the textures more defined. It was overwhelming at first, but he masked it with his usual nonchalance.

“This is it, huh?” he said, glancing around your apartment with a mix of curiosity and disdain. He ran his fingers over the fabric of the couch, then picked up a photo frame from the coffee table. “Kinda…plain, don’t you think?”

“It’s real” you replied softly.

He chuckled, setting the frame down. “Sure. Real.”

Despite his dismissive tone, Gojo couldn’t help but notice the limitations of this world. His abilities were still intact, but they felt different here—more restrained, as if the rules of reality fought against his will. He didn’t mind. If anything, it added to the thrill.

What intrigued him most, though, was you. The way you moved, the way you interacted with the world. There was something raw and unfiltered about you here, something he hadn’t fully captured in his virtual construct. He found himself drawn to it, even as it frustrated him.

At first, he played along, letting you guide him through the chaos of your world. He marveled at the things you took for granted—the roughness of tree bark, the bitter taste of coffee, the way the wind whipped through his hair. But the more he observed, the more he noticed how easily you slipped back into your routine, as if he were just another piece of your reality.

You didn’t realize it, but you were making a mistake. You thought his presence here meant you were free, that he couldn’t control you in this world the way he had in his own.

But I can, he thought, watching you from across the room as you busied yourself with some mundane task. And I will.

Gojo knew he didn’t need to trap you physically to keep you. Instead, he would become the center of your world, infiltrating every aspect of your life until you couldn’t imagine a reality without him.

-----

At first, Gojo’s interference in your world seemed harmless, even playful. He’d rearrange the furniture in your apartment without telling you, claiming it 'flowed better' that way.

“Your feng shui was awful” he said one morning, lounging on your newly relocated couch as you stared at the completely rearranged living room in shock.

“You can’t just move my stuff around!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“I can and I did” he replied, flashing you a smug grin. “Admit it, it looks better this way.”

You hated to admit that the new layout did make the room feel more open, but that wasn’t the point. “You can’t just…do things like that without asking me!”

“Sure I can” he said, standing and stretching lazily. “This is our home now, babe. I’m just making it more…us.”

That phrase—our home—sent a chill down your spine. You’d brought him into your world to give him a taste of reality, but it was becoming clear that Gojo had no intention of leaving things as they were.

Things got even more complicated when you interacted with other people. Gojo had a knack for drawing attention wherever he went, and his striking looks didn’t go unnoticed.

“Wow, he’s gorgeous!!” one of your friends whispered after meeting him for the first time.

“He’s a little…intense” you muttered, trying to downplay him.

Gojo, of course, ate up the attention. He grinned at every compliment, charming everyone around him with his effortless charisma. But when the tables were turned, when you spoke to someone for more than a few minutes, especially a man, his mood shifted instantly.

One afternoon, you bumped into an old coworker while out shopping. The two of you chatted briefly, catching up on work and life. Gojo stood behind you, his expression unreadable but his presence looming.

When the man laughed at something you said, Gojo’s hand suddenly found its way to your shoulder, his grip firm but not painful.

“Babe” he interrupted smoothly, his voice dripping with false cheer, “aren’t we on a schedule? You wouldn’t want to be late, would you?”

You glanced up at him, frowning. “We’re not—”

“Let’s go” he said, cutting you off and steering you away before you could argue.

Later that night, he leaned casually against the kitchen counter, his eyes narrowed as he watched you.

“You’re really friendly with him” he said, his tone light but laced with an edge.

“It was just small talk” you replied, exasperated. “Why are you so jealous all the time?”

“Jealous?” He chuckled, stepping closer. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like the idea of someone else thinking they can take what’s mine.”

“I’m not-” you started, but he silenced you with a finger pressed gently to your lips.

“You’re mine” he said softly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Don’t forget that.”

-----

Gojo’s interference wasn’t limited to social situations. He began altering the very fabric of your world, bending it to his preferences in subtle but undeniable ways.

One morning, you woke up to find that the walls of your bedroom were no longer the soft pastel color you’d chosen but a deep, vibrant blue.

“Gojo!” you shouted, storming into the living room where he was casually flipping through a magazine. “What happened to my walls?”

“I thought you’d like it” he said without looking up. “Blue suits you better.”

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“Yeah, but I know you’ll grow to love it” he replied, finally glancing up with a smirk. “Trust me, babe—I have an eye for these things.”

It wasn’t just the walls. Your favorite chair disappeared one day, replaced by an extravagant velvet armchair that clashed with everything else in the room. Your kitchen utensils were suddenly upgraded to high-tech gadgets you didn’t know how to use. Even your wardrobe seemed to change overnight, with your usual comfy clothes replaced by sleek, expensive outfits that felt more like costumes than clothes.

“You’re welcome” he said when you confronted him about it.

“This isn’t your world, Gojo” you snapped. “You can’t just change things whenever you feel like it!”

“Sure I can” he said with a shrug. “You brought me here, remember? This is what you wanted.”

-----

While Gojo couldn’t stand anyone getting too close to you, he was quick to brush off your lack of reaction to his admirers.

“Did you hear what that girl said about me?” he asked one evening, leaning against the doorway as you washed dishes.

“Nope” you replied without looking up.

“She said I looked like a movie star” he continued, clearly fishing for a reaction.

“Good for her” you said, rinsing off a plate.

He frowned, stepping closer. “You’re not jealous?”

“Why would I be?” you asked, turning to face him. “I know what you’re like. You love attention. Let them fawn over you if it makes you happy.”

For once, he was speechless. Your indifference irritated him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“You’re no fun” he muttered, but his eyes lingered on you, his expression thoughtful.

As Gojo’s interference in your life became more pronounced, you started to feel the walls closing in. He wasn’t just a guest in your world anymore, he was taking over, reshaping it piece by piece.

“I brought you here to experience my world” you said one day, your voice trembling with frustration. “Not to make it your playground.”

“And I’m experiencing it” he replied with a grin. “I’m just making it better.”

“For you,” you shot back. “not for me.”

The tension between you was growing, but Gojo didn’t seem to care. In his mind, you were already his, and nothing you said or did would change that.

-----

It was a quiet evening when it all came to a head. The kind of quiet that carried tension, where unspoken words hung heavy in the air. You were sitting at the kitchen table, your dinner half-eaten, your focus fixed on your phone. Gojo sat across from you, watching with an intensity that you tried and failed—to ignore.

“You’ve barely said a word to me all day.” he finally muttered, his voice deceptively calm.

You didn’t look up. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy ignoring me?” he asked, a sharp edge creeping into his tone.

Your fingers tightened around your phone, but you still didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, the sound cold and humorless. “Oh, sure. You just happened to forget I exist while scrolling through your little apps. Funny how that works.”

“Don’t start, Gojo” you sighed, setting your phone down.

“Don’t start?” he repeated, leaning forward. “You’re telling me not to start, when all I’ve done since I got here is try for you?!”

Your head snapped up at that, your eyes narrowing. “Try? You’ve been controlling everything, Gojo. Rearranging my life like it’s some game!”

“A game?” he hissed, his voice dropping low. “You think this is a game to me? You think I enjoy pretending to be normal for your sake?”

“What are you talking about?”

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he loomed over you. His usual smug demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and furious.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I don’t need to eat. I don’t need to sleep. I don’t even have taste buds, for crying out loud! Every bite of food I’ve taken, every sip of coffee, every damn smile I’ve given you over dinner—it’s all fake!”

You stared at him, your heart pounding.

“I can’t taste anything” he spat, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Do you know how stupid I feel, sitting there pretending to enjoy something I can’t even experience? Do you know why I do it? For you! Because I thought it would make you happy!”

The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. “Gojo, I—”

“No” he interrupted, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. “You don’t get to talk right now. Do you know what it’s like to exist like this? To not feel hunger or fatigue or even pain, but still pretend I do just to make you feel normal? And for what? So you can brush me off like I don’t matter?”

You were silent, the guilt clawing at your chest.

He continued, his voice cracking. “You wanted me to leave my world and come to yours. And I did it because I love you. But no matter what I do, it’s never enough, is it?”

His words hung in the air, the silence that followed heavy and suffocating.

“Gojo” you said softly, standing from your chair. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“To what?!” he snapped, cutting you off again. “To care? To try? You didn’t ask, but I did it anyway because that’s what you do when you love someone!”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he tried to rein in his emotions. For the first time since you’d met him, Gojo looked…vulnerable.

“I gave up everything for you” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “My world, my rules, my power—everything. And you…you treat me like I’m nothing.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. What could you say to that?

“I don’t want your pity” he said, his back still to you.

When you didn’t respond, his shoulders slumped, and something in him seemed to shatter. He turned back to face you, his expression one of pure anguish.

“Wait....You don’t care...” he said, his voice trembling. “You don’t care about me at all, DO YOU?”

The silence stretched between you after his outburst, thick and suffocating. You opened your mouth to speak, to try to mend the frayed edges of the moment, but Gojo was already walking toward the window, his back to you, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he said quietly, his voice eerily calm now. “You think this is just about me being jealous. About me wanting your attention.”

“Gojo—”

His eyes glowed unnaturally, a shimmering blue that seemed to pierce straight through you. “I’m done pretending, babe. Done playing by your rules. If I have to show you how much you need me, so be it.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo tilted his head, his smile sharp and cold. “You’ll see soon enough.”

-----

It started small, just like everything else he did. A missed text from your best friend. A coworker suddenly forgetting about plans you’d made the week before. At first, you thought it was coincidence—people got busy, or maybe you’d misunderstood. But then it happened again. And again.

Your mother didn’t answer your calls, her voicemail oddly generic and devoid of the warmth you were used to. Your bestie, who had been your closest confidant for years, began acting distant, her expressions blank whenever you tried to talk about your shared memories.

“Hey!” you said one night, sitting on the couch beside her. “Do you remember that road trip we took last summer? The one where the car broke down, and we had to hitch a ride with that old farmer?”

She blinked at you, confusion flickering across her face. “What are you talking about? I’ve never been on a road trip with you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You confronted him that night, your heart pounding as you stormed into the living room where he was lounging, as usual, on the couch.

“What did you do?” you demanded, your voice trembling.

He looked up from the book he was pretending to read, his expression infuriatingly calm. “What do you mean?”

“My friends” you snapped. “My family. They’re acting…different. They don’t remember things—important things. What did you do to them?”

Gojo sighed, closing the book with an audible snap and setting it aside. “Why are you always so dramatic?”

“Answer me!”

His eyes met yours, cold and unrelenting. “Fine. If you really want to know.” He stood, taking a step closer to you, and you instinctively backed away.

“I erased them” he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”

“Not all of them” he added casually, as if discussing the weather. “Just their memories of you. It’s not like they need them, anyway. You’ve got me now.”

“You…you erased their memories of me?” you whispered, horror creeping into your voice.

He shrugged. “I didn’t want them getting in the way. They were distracting you, pulling you away from me. And honestly?” He smirked, his gaze darkening. “It’s kind of nice knowing I’m the only one who really knows you now.”

You stumbled back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You can’t…you can’t just erase people’s memories! They’re my family, my friends—they’re mine!”

“Not anymore” he said, stepping closer. “Now, they’re nothing. Just strangers in your life. And honestly? Isn’t that better? No more nagging about your job, your relationships, your life choices. No more pressure to be someone you’re not.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as the full weight of his actions crashed down on you. “You had no right,” you choked out.

“I have every right” he countered, his voice low and dangerous. “You brought me here, remember? You invited me into your world. And now it’s ours.”

“You’re insane...” you whispered, backing away toward the door.

“Maybe” he said, his smile widening. “But I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s all that matters now.”

You tried to run, but the moment you reached for the doorknob, the world around you warped. The door vanished, replaced by a blank wall. The windows followed, the glass dissolving into solid, impenetrable barriers.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gojo asked, his tone light but his expression anything but.

“Let me out!” you shouted, pounding on the wall where the door had been.

He laughed softly, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Out? Oh, babe, there’s no ‘out’ anymore. This is your world now—our world. And the sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

When you turned to face him, your eyes blazing with anger and fear, he raised a hand, and you froze in place, your body refusing to obey your commands.

“Don’t fight me” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’ll only make it harder on yourself. Just let go. Let me take care of you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized the truth: there was no escaping him. Not in this world. Not in any world.

[frillydolle]

isolated doe ୨୧◞ 。

arthur morgan x female reader

after ur horse bucks u off after a fright and ur now left stranded alone in the forest across roanoke valley. unsure of what to do, u settle down for the night before hearing some heavy footsteps... and u froze.

꒰ 𝝑𓏲 ꒱ naive and timid reader , mid to low honour , dated and typical period idealogy.

u weren't sure what to do anymore, completely lost since ur home was in the middle of literally nowhere. u were out on ur horse, hazel going on another simple ride through the beautiful scenery that roanoke ridge had to offer. a pretty view within a prettier country. only for something to scare ur horse, causing u to be bucked off before hazel ran far away and u sighed softly. what can u do now? it's not like u can just walk home as u were maybe a few miles away? just a guess…

u were walking aimlessly in the woods by now, not even sure where u are or what u should do, especially since the sun was beginner to disappear. there were little rips below ur dress due to the branches attaching themselves to the fabric, and ur shirt was following that same fate. the only hope u hoped for is that nature would be kind to u and kept the hungry animals away. soon, u felt ur legs beginning to get tired with each step u took.

u gave up accepting defeat as u settle down in the clearing of a forest, the wooden bricks pressing against ur back uncomfortably but there's nothing u can do now then wait till the morning came and walk some more. luckily, it wasn't too cold like the usual, but u did feel the breeze of the night air. u didn't like how eerily quiet it was either or if u just couldn't hear anything or.. anyone for miles, u were in the middle of nowhere after all.

but then, u heard a twig snap, like it broke under someone's heavy footstep and caused u to be alert. although u couldn't see anything in the darkness, something in ur gut was telling u there was someone here, but u didn't move, like a deer in headlights. being struck with fear, ur breathing quicken slightly as ur eyes fell onto a tall figure coming towards u. ur lips quivered with fear as u did ur best to get up on ur feet before tripping over a branch, causing u to go back to where u started, on the ground.

“woah there, i ain't gonna harm ya..”

ur soft but scared gaze remained up at him as u backed up to another tree. u didn't even talk back in case he was one of those bad men u have heard about, the murfree brothers?... or something like that, u weren't too sure. since it was only a glance that u would take to the posters on ur travels through annesburg.. they were some scary men in this world, and he looked like he was one of them. or were u wrong?

to him, it was maybe wrong to think of u like this in this moment since u were absolutely terrified of him, but u were a very pretty girl. ur face remained him of those porcelain dolls he saw by the window of shops in the big city of saint denis, with those big eyes and rosey cheeks. ur hair looked soft as silk, just what he'd do to comb his thick fingers through ur hair once.

“...are ye lost? i could help ya, if ye let me.”

should u talk? or should u get up and run away as fast as u possibly could? despite feeling the tiredness that already runs through ur body. u needed to rest, and u were at least smart enough to know there was no way that u could outrun this man. he looked like he was a traveller of sorts, a hunter, perhaps? either way, u knew he wasn't the type to be easily fooled. he seemed nice enough, but u just weren't too sure about what to make of him.

“... my horse bucked me off, somethin’ scared my girl and she ran off, leavin’ me… could you give me a ride home? please, sir?” u didn't consider urself a religious girl, but u prayed and prayed mentally that he'd help u, he seemed—

“‘course. i don't mind, miss. d'ya need help up?” he says, the gruff in his voice showing through before he gives u his hand. he must be a hard-working man, callous and hardness make their appearance on his hands as u look at them.

u hesitantly took a hold and he pulled u up to ur feet, a small sigh left ur lips, glad that he had the kindness in his heart to help a girl like u out, despite how scary the outside was during nightfall.

“do you know where deer cottage is? near the valley?”

“yes i do, miss. ‘nd don't worry, yer okay.” he replied before u felt his hand rest on the small of ur back, guiding u back to the clearing of the main road and u see a beautiful brown horse, big and brooding.

“she's a stern girl but yer alrigh’.” the older man added before he helped u up onto his horse. he hitched up no long after. with a small “hyah” the horse began to trot along the road, and ur arms rested around his torso as u didn't want to fall off, either.

u were quiet, he wasn't much of a talker either and that u didn't mind, just didn't expect to see anyone out at this time of night. although, u couldn't but shake the feeling that u should say something, break the silence between u two, but u were too nervous. u didn't want to anger him, and he tells u to leave him alone. u were just a skittish and shy girl. been on ur own for as long as u can remember. now, ur staring, and u didn't mean to. it was a habit of urs. his hair was long, and he had a big stature to match his broad shoulders, like he was swiftly shielding u away. he was wearing dark gloves that matched his dark hat.

“y'got a name, miss?”

“... [name].”

“a pretty name for a pretty girl, suits ya.” he replies, looking over his shoulder for a moment just so u can hear him better, and u did.

did he… give u a compliment? u weren't even sure how to react before ur rosey cheeks got more of a red hue to them. shaking urself out of ur thoughts, u hesitantly spoke back.

“what's ur name, sir?”

he didn't say anything for a few moments, like he was now the one hesitating. do u know who he is? there's no way that u do since he hasn't done anything illegal here, yet. he should be okay, right? only one way to find out…

“... arthur. arthur morgan.” he replies as he returns his gaze back to the road. and to his fortunate luck, u had no idea who he was, and he was determined to keep it that way. he didn't want u to find out… all that.

“thank you for your help, mr morgan.”

“‘s nothin’. just doin’ what any other man would do.”