#watcher x reader

[fandomlit]

ghoul boys masterlist

last updated june 3, 2025

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shane madej

*always flirting and ryan calling him out

∘ associates (demon!shane x angel!reader) | chap. 1 | tbc?

*calming you when you’re nervous

*dating him

secretive

ryan bergara

❤ *interrupting while you’re playing among us with friends (pewdiepie, corpse husband, markiplier, ect.)

* “meeting” ricky goldsworth

the ghoul boys

*appearing on the show bc they missed you

❤ *jealous ryan, comforting shane

[kyleoreillylover]

Ryan Bergara x Fem!Reader Headcanons

Summary: What’s it like being best friends with Ryan Bergara?

A/N: In my Ryan mood and I can’t resist not writing him anymore! I barely see any Ryan x reader fanfics so I had to write one myself!

If you were not already a Boogara, he would absolutely do anything to try and convince you to become one.

Sends you videos and calls you at 3 am to share “evidence” that he had.

“Ryan, I am trying to sleep!”

“I’m sorry, I just needed to show this to you before I forgot to!”

You forward the videos to Shane and he always responds either with a “😂” emoji or just full on making fun of Ryan.

It is funny either way.

Shane is your shared best friend.

He likes to tease you and Ryan.

But he loves when you gang up on Ryan with him.

And you both tease him.

Ryan acts like he hates it but he secretly loves that both his best friends get along and are besties 🥹🥹

Shane sees you like an annoying loving sister.

Ryan is definitely the more protective out of the two of you.

You are super chill, and one thing everyone can agree on is that you are one of the sweetest people ever.

But it does lead to you letting people walking over you sometimes.

But you have Ryan!! And he does not let that happen. He doesn’t hesitate to step in and check a bitch if he sees you uncomfortable.

He hates seeing the people he cares about being hurt or treated like crap.

When you are with Ryan you both feed into each other’s recklessness. You might be calm and chill, but when you are with him, it is like all your fears go away and you can let go of responsibilities and common sense!

It also helps that you trust each other with your life, so you know the other would never lead you to getting hurt.

It does lead into both of you doing stupid shit, though that Shane makes fun of you for.

One time you convinced him to do the handcuffed for 24 hour’s challenge for a video, and you both lost the key within an hour 😭

You are also the scriptwriter for Buzzfeed Unsolved/Watcher, so Ryan sometimes will come to your house with the both of you and staying up late until 2 am searching for information about a case/ location and cracking stupid jokes

You once woke up to him laying on top of you, you in his arms and laptops and papers scattered across the desks, and your legs tangled together and him snoring in your ear.

You grabbed your phone, took a picture, posted it on your story maybe knowing the internet would explode, then snuggled into him and went back to sleep.

You are not on camera that much, usually you are behind it with the crew, but Ryan begs you to at least do the Postmortems/Debriefs with him and Shane.

You are hesistant at first, what is the fans don’t like you? Or they think that you are trying to get in between the ghoul boys?

Ryan assures you that they will love you.

And he is right!

They end up loving you and your dynamic with Ryan and Shane!!

Which gives you the confidence to go with them to ghost and crime sites.

Every time Ryan felt anxious and fearful, he would look at you and see you behind the camera and that makes him feel 1000 times better.

And if it got to the point that he was freaking out and panicking(like that ep where Ryan was laying on the floor and Shane was trying to comfort him) you’d get out from behind the cameras and hug and comfort him.

Because you can’t stand to see him like that

“Breathe Ryan, you’re good. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

If you were staying at a haunted hotel, if everyone was sleeping in separate rooms, he’d FaceTime you the whole night

There’s no way in hell he’d sleep through the night, and Shane would make fun of him if he called hum throughout the night

You didnt even have to talk to each other, your presence was enough for him

He’d wake you up randomly though if he thought he heard something in his room 💀

“Y/N! Y/N, Are you awake??”

You groggily woke up, moving your phone away from your ear at Ryan’s screams.

“What?? What happened?”

“…”

You let out a sigh at his silence. “It was your shadow, wasn’t it?”

“…..Maybe? But I swear I thought I saw something move!”

You rolled your eyes at the camera. “Go to sleep Ryan.” You ignored his voice as you went back to sleep.

The internet ships you guys a lot

They tend to do that with most male and female friendships online tbh

And it doesn’t help that the both of you can’t help but be naturally affectionate to one another.

Whether it’s wrapping an arm around the others shoulder, jumping on Ryan, scaring him and forcing asking him to give you piggyback rides and him throwing you onto his shoulder as revenge, the fans will eat up every moment.

You guys just find it hilarious 😭 It becomes a game between you guys to try and make the fans go insane 😭😭

You guys are honest with each other all the time and are open books with each other. If you are feeling down, he can tell just tell, no matter how hard you try. If someone is not good for Ryan, you will straight up tell him. He trusts your judgment because he knows it’s coming from a place of love and you rarely steer him in the wrong direction.

You tried to teach him to cook once and he almost burned your house down 😭 So he just randomly comes to your house to eat your food because he swears your cooking is the best.

Makes fun of your height. You're taller than him? It doesn't matter, your still getting attacked lol. You're shorter than even? Even worse for you, you can't make fun of him at all without him calling you a dwarf at least once.

He is a gymhead (He's not Biceps Bergara for nothing) and makes you go with him all the time. He claims you need to get stronger in case someone tries to attack you but you think it's cause he likes to see you suffer.

You take the ugliest pictures of him known to existence. He tries to delete them but you just keep getting more (Shane sends a lot to you but Ryan doesn't need to know that)

Acts like he hates your music taste to annoy you but secretly loves it

He drives you everywhere because you are quite literally the worst driver he has ever seen.

"Slow down, slow down, you almost hit that car!"

"It's not my fault they were in the way!"

"The light turned red and it was their turn!"

You force him to do Tiktok dances with you, and he's surprisingly not that bad at them?!! 😭

Whenever one of you needs comfort, no words are needed. You just wrap each other in your arms, the hugs and comforting presence silencing the outside world for as long as you both want.

All in all, Ryan would be a loving, playful best friend who holds you and your friendship close to his heart. He'd do anything for you to see you happy, he would make fun of you ( he is the only one allowed to do that) but would defend you in that same breath if anyone messed with you. He is truly grateful for you, and even though you guys joke and make fun of each other all the time, he makes sure you know it every single day.

[starkeymeow]

WATCHER OR PLAYER?

watcher or player?

what are you?

on an app like nerve, you choose. watchers pay to see the chaos unfold. players take the dares, chasing money, fame, or just the rush of it all. the rules are simple. complete the dare, get paid. fail, and you lose everything.

the deeper you go, the higher the stakes. the watchers decide what comes next, pushing, prodding, testing how far you’re willing to go. and above all, you never back down.

now rafe cameron was loud, reckless, daunting, daring—of course he’d be on an app like nerve.

but he didn’t start out willing.

he was the type to throw the first punch, the type to speed down the cut with no headlights, the type to make a bad decision and double down on it. but nerve? that was a different kind of trouble. something calculated, something that dug its claws into you and never let go. he never wanted to play.

until you.

y/n . . . you were a name climbing the ranks. a flash of adrenaline in human form. no one knew where you came from, only that one night, you appeared on the leaderboard, and you never left.

maybe it was the way you played to the watchers, or maybe it was the way you never hesitated, not once. every dare was met with the same unwavering look, the same easy smirk. like you were untouchable. and you knew they were watching.

rafe never saw you coming that night.

the dare was simple. a test run. something to pull him in, just one move, one kiss, nothing more. but the second his name and yours flashed across the screen together, the watchers took notice. two players, both unpredictable, both reckless in their own ways.

the game saw an opportunity.

and now?

it wouldn’t let either of you go.

series coming soon. based on “nerve”.

authors note ; i wanted this to give off “if this was a film, the first movie would be rafe and some other girl maybe, but the second movie is rafes origin story (prequel) with the real person who taught him how to play and rank up (reader) that fans/readers would actually say is his true love obvi” and its like id imagine “they were supposed to be endgame” “BRING Y/N BACK” comments if this was real LOL

i still need to finish “forget me not” tho so ill get back to that!! do let me know if u want to be part of this tag list tho <3

main masterlist | *NEW* taglist request

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar

[teruri-ruri]

he's just a little nervous ok

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Taking Root 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Bucky and Leaf.

Summary: a neighbourly connection might be more than chance.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Bucky cracks his neck as he approaches the large windows. He rubs his eyes as he snarls at the sunlight peering back at him. Steve always leaves the curtains open. Always gone before Bucky drags himself out of bed.

He tugs them shut but stays close. It's not noon yet. She'll be out shortly.

He's not much for television. He tried a few TV series, some movies recommended on that chat, but he just can't keep his mind from running. It's why he wakes up late. Most nights, he doesn't even sleep. This is what keeps him enthralled. There's not much plot, but the main character is fascinating.

He swigs from his mug as the city street chugs from down the alleyway between their apartments. Her balcony is slightly lower. The perfect vantage.

Pathetic. That's what he'd call himself if he wasn't him. All those guys on that discord Steve found are that very flavour. But he's not them. They're all weirdo virgins. He's had plenty of women. More than enough. She's just different. Like him.

As if beckoned by his awakening, she appears. Her railing is curtained with ivy, enough that she doesn't think of modesty. He doesn't mind. She comes out wearing a loose sweater that reads SWEET in large caps and a pair of her frilly panties. He likes those ones, they ride up when she bends over to pick up the watering can.

She goes about her usual routine. She checks the leaves, waters the soil, untangles the overgrown stems, and treats the plants with rot or infestations. The cluster of plants takes up most of the space. She's like a little chipmunk among them.

She finishes and takes the can inside. The sliding door gives a generous view of her place. Inside, she lingers at the window ledge and checks the row of cactuses. He admires her devotion to those plants. She'll haven't the big square planters soon. A few of the tomatoes growing up the posts look close to ripe.

He rubs the cleft of his chin and his stubble makes a bristly noise. He backs away at the unnerving idea. It's too much. Too soon.

Fuck that. He's not that weirdo Jensen. He's been tailing his married boss for three years. Now that's fucking desperate. Besides, they all made a pact, as lame as it was. They're going to make their moves. Either do something or get over it.

Right. Finish the coffee and get your ass together, Barnes. He rinses the mug then goes to make himself human again. Show, brush the teeth, untangle your hair, tie it back, no one will know the different, clothes. Alright. It won't be so bad to get out and it'll get Steve off his back about Vitamin D. Funny, the sunlight only makes him feel worse.

He heads off with a cap pulled down low and his hands in his pockets. There's a shop down the way, they have tables outside full of seeds and little pots. And a coffee shop right next door. He could use a second cup. Maybe a third.

He stops by the display of plants on the corner. There's a big red sign marked 'End of Season Clearance.' Better late than never.

The old woman who runs the shop offers him a shallow box to put his purchases in. Some pansies and violets. He doesn't know. The colours are nice, he guesses. She tells him to get a nice long bed for them and he should be able to have a nice bunch before the frost.

He gets his coffee, agitated as he balances his starters in one arm, then heads home. He gets back to the apartment and leaves the box on the table. He doesn't touch them as he paces around. He goes to the window. She reading in her chair, reclined, one leg bent, sweater rumpling to expose a bit of tummy. He narrows his eyes. He reaches for the binoculars nearby. Oh yeah. He shouldn't be so into it but he can see a little bit of hair sticking out the edge of her panties. It makes him chafe in his jeans.

He backs up as his stomach growls. Fine. He eats grilled cheese and canned tomato soup. He's still groggy. He goes to the window again. He stays there until she's gone. The censor will let him know if she comes back out.

Steve gets home. He's in a rush. His bag clatters off the bench as soon as he lets go of it. He huffs and picks it up, scurrying around. Bucky doesn't ask. He's on his way to that volunteer gig. They both know why he's in such a hurry.

"Have fun," Bucky calls out from the sofa.

"Oh, flowers?" Steve pauses as his soles scuff.

"What's it to ya, punk?"

"Nothing. You know I got allergies, right?" He sneezes as if to make the point.

"Sure I do. They're going on the balcony... tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Steve asks. "Why not-- achooo!"

"Cool off," Bucky warns. "I'll cover them up."

"Ugh, I don't got time," Steve mutters. "See ya. Oh, and you probably don't want the cat chewing on those n-n-neith-- achoo!"

"She's off terrorising the mice," Bucky snorts. "Get out of here, Rogers."

The night rolls by slowly. Hours spent with his eyes open. On the couch until his roommate gets back. Then his bed. Back to the living room. Steve gets up to get ready for work at the museum. Bucky puts Alpine on his chest and scratches her chin. Her box needs changing.

The sunlight softens between the curtains as he's left alone. He lets the cat out with him as he angles the box of flowers through the door. He got the big trays too and soil. He'll replant it like she did hers. Or try to. Steve keeps saying the place needs a bit of home to it. Goddamn it, Steve, shut up.

He puts the flowers on the iron table and sighs. He doesn't know where to start. The squeak of a hinge makes him tense. It's hers. He knows it without looking. She yawns and he trembles, fighting not to look down at her. He can hear her sipping from her porcelain mug. Is it the one with the lillies or the roses?

"Are those Blueberry Swirl Pansies? Those are so pretty."

He doesn't move at first. She's talking to him. He knows it. His chest feels like it's full. He pushes away from the rail and checks the little tag then faces her. He gives a small wave.

"That's what it says, yeah."

He leans against the railing and looks up at him, "I love flowers, if you can't tell." She giggles and it's music in his ears. The kind that sticks in his brain and he'll keep hearing over and over.

"No, I can't," he chuckles. "Wouldn't mind a few pointers. Kinda new at this."

"Well, I'd start by keeping the cat out of them," she points and he turns to find Alpine digging in a pot.

"Right," he mutters. "Thanks."

[dreamyblanket]

https://www.tumblr.com/dreamyblanket/774993854186356736/humble-art-requestreader-hugging-caramel-arrow?source=share

Tbh I don't mind if you talk about her for that long because you drew her so well i hunger for more art of her so *throws another Caramel arrow x reader request at you* nyeh!

Aww thank you, have a flustered cara and rambling in the tags in return!

[magicalbunbun]

So I'm thinking Dsmp Y/N with either Technoblade,Wilbur or Bbh and Skeppy don't ask why

And I feel like Foolish,Slimecicle or Jaiden(Platonic sorta way?,more siblings relationship?)

Dsmp

Qsmp

And witch ship I enjoyed the most:

A/n

By the way guys, I redesign MC from dream smp because I start to not like the design I made then🫣

[dismas-n-dismay]

Suki - Chimera Falin amv

I present before you: The Chimera Falin Edit.

[casuallyobssessed]

—୨Bleeding Love୧—

David Allen Griffin x Fem!Reader ❥ 14.5k Words

A/N: This is based on a request I received from the lovely @gea-chan96 🫶🏻 Fell in love with the Watcher when I first saw it and I knew I had to write something for DAG. Sorry it took me so long to finish. Please heed all warnings. Divider creds to: /edenspoem and /kodaswrld

Warnings: P in V sex, Fingering, non-con, Dead Dove Content, Bloodplay, Injury, Stalking, Kidnapping, SelfHarm (brief), Restraints, Dollification, Needles, Stockholm Syndrome (if you squint)

Archive of Our Own Link

The first time you meet David, you're carrying one too many bags of groceries up the stairs to your second floor apartment. You nearly dropped the heaviest one when your new next door neighbor opened up his door and saw you struggling. 

“Need a hand?” He had asked, rushing over to you and taking the unruly, overfilled paper bag from your arms. 

You thanked him and he followed you into your apartment. It was close to ten o'clock at night when you got home and you hadn't left any lamps on, thinking you'd be home before nightfall. Your apartment was dark, barely any light from the moon came in from the curtained windows as you entered. 

With your hands still full, you didn't get a chance to turn the light on, but David reached out before you even had to ask him. His fingers trailed the wall with unsettling precision, stopping exactly where the switch was, like he had done it before.

David placed the bag on your kitchen counter and you made small talk while you put your groceries away. Once you finished, you had a chance to really look at him. His hair was longer than you had seen on most men, but it suited him. On his hands were black leather gloves that matched the jacket he was wearing. 

David was incredibly handsome and very easy to talk to, flashing you a charming smile that made you want to melt into the floor. ‘I’m David,’ He had said, ‘It's a pleasure to meet you.’

You offered him some wine and he shrugged, ‘why not?’ he said. All you had was a cheap moscato but he didn't complain. You poured two small glasses and had a chance to talk a little more. He mentioned he hadn't had a home cooked meal yet since moving here, so you offered to cook him dinner as a thank you. Usually, you made too much for just yourself to eat anyways, and some company would always be nice. 

To your disappointment, David declined your invitation, insisting he had to get back to his apartment before it got any later, which was fair. Time had gotten away from you. You said your goodbyes and told him that you were here if he ever wanted you to return the favor. 

-

When you meet David for a second time, you're knocking on his door at two o'clock in the morning. Why you chose him and not your other neighbors, you aren't sure. You could've sworn you heard someone in your spare bedroom, shuffling around and going through your items in storage. 

That room had access to the fire escape outside, so it was entirely plausible that someone could’ve found their way in.

Terrified, you cowered under the covers before you worked up the courage to run out of your apartment in only your tank top and underwear. You were only slightly embarrassed when you found yourself rapping your knuckles against his door, waiting rather impatiently for him to answer. It took him a few minutes, which was understandable considering the late hour and he was probably asleep. 

When he finally opens the door, he's standing there fully dressed, even wearing his shoes. Again, it's not something you think twice about because of the fear of an intruder in your home seizing your common sense. You apologized for bothering him so late, and explained the situation to him, asking if he'd check it out for you. 

Thankfully, he agreed. He stepped back into his apartment for a moment, you heard a few beeps and some metal shifting before he came out, gun in hand. You don't know if it made you feel relieved or uneasy knowing he had a firearm, but right then you were just glad he answered the door. 

You followed behind him as he headed to your apartment, opening the front door slowly and holding his pistol at the ready. He went straight to your guest room without any direction and threw open the door. David cleared the room before calling you in, showing you the open fire escape window and the mess of stuff left behind. 

It definitely seemed like someone was going through your things. You couldn't tell if anything was missing at the time because of the absolute chaos of everything strewn everywhere. He offered to help you clean up, but you refused. You needed to get some sleep and the mess could wait. 

You thanked David profusely for his help once again, and told him that you owed him double. He laughed and said it was no big deal, that he was happy to help, and if you ever needed him again, to just knock and he’d be there. He also recommended some window locks for you to buy and you told him you'd look into it. You hadn't had a good night's sleep since then, and the clean up took you days. 

-

One evening, there was a knock at your door. On the other side stood your neighbor, David. In his hand he held an older looking camera. He explained to you that photography was one of his few hobbies. 

On this particular day, he claimed that one of his friends had stood him up on being his model for the day, so he wondered if you'd be willing to step in. Only if you were comfortable, of course. So, without much hesitation, you cheerily said yes and asked what you should change into. He was adamant that your current outfit of shorts and a t-shirt was more than adequate. 

When you followed him to his apartment, the entire place was eerily dark, except for one room that held a backdrop and a softbox lighting setup. The living room was surprisingly plain and smelled… off. A scent you couldn't exactly identify hung in the air, making you pause and look around. 

There was one antique looking, red couch in the center of the room facing an older television set with a small coffee table in between. On the coffee table was a small, unlabeled photo album. 

David asked you to wait in the living room for a moment while he got things set up for the shoot, so you had an opportunity to sit down and flip through the album. 

The first page had a picture of a beautiful, brunette woman with red lipstick and a black dress, seated at a table in the outdoor section of a restaurant by herself with a coffee in hand. You flipped the page to find two pictures of the same woman. 

One was a shot of her at the beach, bikini top untied while laying face down on a towel, presumably suntanning. The second picture was an up close view of her face while she was asleep in bed, hair tousled and mouth slightly agape. 

You heard David's footsteps echoing down the hallway and you quickly closed the book and put it back on the table. There was an odd feeling in your chest, like you had seen something you weren't supposed to and you were about to be chastised. 

He looked down at the album on the table and then at you, and gave you a weak smile. David walked around the couch and sat on the opposite end. He let out a sigh and then asked if you had looked through the album. You nodded and told him you only saw the first two pages, apologizing profusely.

David stopped you and let you know that it was okay. He explained that the woman in the photos was his late wife. She was murdered by a serial killer in Los Angeles, and he moved here to escape the painful memories of living there without her. 

There were a few times he had to stop to compose himself and you suddenly felt very guilty about dredging it all up. You should've just minded your business. You offered your condolences and he thanked you, letting you know that he was ready to start the picture taking whenever you were.

The shoot went by quickly. Time flew by while you were having fun. To loosen things up, he poured you both a glass of wine (or two). Those drinks turned into laughter, with David turning on his stereo to convince you to dance with him in the middle of taking pictures. 

David made you feel comfortable and beautiful. Compliments flowed freely, but never in a creepy or distasteful way. It made you feel seen. 

After concluding the session, David sent you home with a pink bottle of fancy looking rosé as payment and hurried you out of his apartment. He simply had no time to waste developing the photographs and wanted to get started right away. You were slightly disappointed, but understood and made your leave. 

Although you had fun and enjoyed your time with David, there was a gnawing feeling in the back of your mind that you couldn't quite place. 

When you got back to your apartment, you opened up the wine and started drinking by yourself. Missing the feeling you had earlier with David, you turned on your music and danced around in your living room until you were so tired, you could barely keep yourself upright. 

You shuffled your way to your bedroom and collapsed on top of your comforter. The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest had spread all throughout your body, especially down between your legs. Squeezing your thighs together did nothing for the persistent ache. In your drunken haze, you shoved your hand into your underwear and touched yourself. 

David flashed in your mind as you lazily rubbed your clit, thinking about the way he held you when you were dancing together. His strong hands led you, pulling you against his warm body. You thought about his leather gloves and how they might feel caressing you, maybe even slicked up and… Your vision went white, mind blanking as you came with a whimper of David's name. 

You awoke in the morning, squinting as the sun beamed through your curtains. There was a pounding in your head that only worsened when you spotted the half empty bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut Rose sitting on the floor next to your shorts. You didn't remember buying wine, much less wine that you are certain you can't even pronounce the name of. 

The confusion didn't stop there. With an unmistakable slickness between your legs coating your thighs, you wondered when you had taken your shorts and underwear off. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a dark spot on the top of your thigh, where it meets your hip, half covered by your shirt. You lift up the fabric to reveal four, round bruises wrapping around the curve of your hip and one on the top of your thigh. 

You try to recall even coming back to your apartment last night, but the memory is too fuzzy around the edges. Aside from the hangover, you at least felt fairly rested. That was the best sleep you had gotten in a very long time. 

-

A week later, your drunken ex boyfriend Donnie came banging on your door around midnight. Upon cracking open the front door to see who it was, he came barging in, spewing some slurred spiel about how he missed you and wanted you to take him back. It's the same bullshit he pulls every few months when his latest fling won't put out anymore. 

By now, you're used to it. You know how to handle his tantrums when you say no (even if sometimes you give in and sleep with him) and ask him to leave. Sure, Donnie could be unpredictable, but you really weren't expecting him to haul off and punch a hole in the wall of your living room. 

With all your screaming combined with Donnie throwing your books, candles, and anything he could get his hands on, it was enough to draw quite a lot of attention from your neighbor. 

The next thing you know, David is letting himself into your apartment and grabbing Donnie’s wrist to stop him from throwing his next punch in your direction. 

With a little bit of misplaced embarrassment, you started screaming at David for getting in the middle of everything. Telling him you can handle yourself, that you didn't need some guy with a hero complex swooping in to save the day might have been a waste of breath, but it made you feel better when David twisted Donnie's arm and escorted him out of your apartment. 

Donnie just couldn't take the hint, unfortunately. He came back the next night, hollering outside your apartment door. You refused to let him in. You were exhausted with no energy left to deal with him and his drama. 

When the yelling and banging finally stopped, you dared to peek your head out. Donnie was passed out, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, drink still in hand. At the same time you were about to go back in, David popped out of his apartment. 

“Did he wake you up? I'm so sorry, David. I don't know why he keeps coming back here,” You sighed, crossing your arms.

“Yeah, but it's alright. Do you want me to take care of him?” He gestured to Donnie's sleeping form. 

Your brows furrowed at that, confused by what he meant, but ultimately relieved to shove Donnie off onto someone else for a change, “Um, sure? I mean I'd hate to impose him on you.”

“It's really no problem. I'm used to dealing with dead weights,” He smirked, laughing to himself as if it was some kind of inside joke. 

You smiled at him halfheartedly, “Okay, uh, thank you. I owe you, seriously.”

From that point, Donnie hasn't been a problem for you anymore. You haven't heard from him at all. No late night, drunken visits or incoherent texts and voicemails left on your phone. It was like a weight had been lifted off your chest and you could breathe. You made a mental note to bake David some brownies or something as a thank you gift eventually. 

-

About a month goes by, and while you haven't seen hide nor hair of Donnie, you also haven't heard from David. There would usually be at least a couple days during the week you'd pass him in the hallway or hear him laughing and talking through the walls when you assumed he had friends over. 

You thought it was strange that he never shared the results of your photoshoot with you, but he didn't have any obligation to you. It's not like you were dating or anything. You had gotten used to his occasional presence and things just felt different without it. 

Part of you wondered if you had said or done something wrong. You thought that the impromptu photoshoot went well, especially with the way you and David were dancing together and giggling like little kids.

Maybe he was distancing himself from you because of Donnie, or it could have been how you yelled at him just for trying to help. You felt like you should've apologized but didn't get a chance to before he disappeared. 

-

One morning, you're rushing out the door, late to work, when you accidentally kick a small gift wrapped box that was sitting on your doormat. You didn't have the time to open it, so you shoved it into your bag without another thought and hurried on to work. 

As expected, your work day was busy. You barely had a moment to take a breather all day. 

When you got home, you collapsed on your couch, tossing your bag beside you. You idly flip through TV channels before settling on scrolling mindlessly through your phone. Today had been way too much for you, all you wanted was to turn your brain off for a bit. 

You end up having a glass of wine and falling asleep on the couch, waking up at some ungodly hour before the sun was supposed to come up. You groan and drag yourself to your feet, grabbing the edge of your bag in the process and accidentally dumping out half of the bits and bobs in it. 

You shove everything else back in before your hand lands on the small gift box you forgot to open. With so much going on, it had completely slipped your mind. 

The thought of a secret admirer leaving you a gift makes you smile to yourself. 

You run your fingers over the smooth wrapping, looking for an edge to tear. Once you find one, you carefully peel back the paper to reveal a blue velvet jewelry box. Inside is a beautiful necklace that matches some of your more expensive jewelry that you barely ever wear. 

You keep those pieces tucked away in the jewelry box on your dresser, only wearing them for special events or on dates. 

Oddly specific choice, you think to yourself. 

You try it on anyway and go to the bathroom mirror to see how it looks. You're in love with how it lays against your chest, wrapping daintily around your neck. It shines beautifully in the light and compliments your skin tone perfectly. 

It makes you wonder how much this necklace actually costs. You return to the living room and grab your phone to snap a picture of it while you're wearing it for reference. You search for the brand listed on the jewelry box and scroll through their site, looking for the same necklace. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for you to find the listing. 

…Two thousand dollars? 

You felt like the wind had been knocked out of you. Who could afford to give you something like this? Who would want to? 

You immediately take the necklace off and place it back into its box. You look at the wrapping paper, searching for a note or anything that could clue you in to who left this for you. The paper ends up being completely blank, leaving you no hints. Maybe it wasn't meant for you. It could have been delivered to the wrong apartment. 

You debate on contacting the building manager and reporting a potentially lost item, but something as valuable as this would be sure to fall into the wrong hands. 

You didn't want to leave it out in the open in case someone broke in again, so you end up hiding it in your underwear drawer. Hopefully, that would keep it safe until someone came looking for it. 

You decide to take a quick shower before crawling back into bed to try and sleep for a few more hours until your alarm wakes you up.

When your alarm jolts you to life in the morning, you're in a rush, again. You open your front door and nearly step directly on top of another box. This one is much larger, closer to the size of a take-out box. It's wrapped in a pink metallic paper with a golden bow and a black envelope sitting on top. 

Considering you were already late, you figure it can't hurt to take a few more minutes to open it properly. You pick it up and go back into your apartment.

You set your bag down and sit on the couch, placing the box in your lap. The black envelope had a strange energy to it and made you nervous, so you put it to the side for now. You find the edge of the wrapping paper and peel it back, revealing a white leather box with gold trim. 

Very carefully, you lift the lid. Inside, you find black, silky fabric. It's the kind of silk that makes you feel poor just by touching it, you realize as you lift it out of the box. You hold it out in front of you to get a better view of it.

It's a short, black, kimono style silk robe that fades into a sheer lace around the edges of the garment and by looking at it, you can tell it's too rich for your blood. You glance at the tag, Agent Provocateur, and curiosity gets the best of you. 

Searching for the brand and exact robe yields exactly what you expected. You are holding a thousand dollars in your hands. Shakily, you fold the robe up and place it back into the box, setting it on your coffee table. 

You take a deep breath and brace yourself. 

At least there was an envelope with this one. This means you could potentially find out who's been sending these gifts to you. Without further ado, you pick up the envelope and open it. 

‘You are always on my mind…’ says the front of the card. Below that is an illustration of a cat with a mouse sitting on its head. That's not too bad. It's actually kind of sweet, you think. 

Reading the inside of the card was a different story. 

As you open it up, a polaroid style picture of you falls into your lap. It's a picture of you passed out on your pillow from the shoulders up. Upon further inspection, you realize it's from the day you spent with David. You're wearing the same makeup, if only a little smudged at that point in the night. 

God, you had gotten drunk and slept so hard you missed an entire person breaking into your apartment again. 

You let out a shaky breath and read the inside of the card ‘...and forever in my heart. Yours truly, Apt -.’ The apartment number is scribbled through and crossed out. You notice the ink is slightly smeared to the right, as if the person writing the note was left-handed. 

Dread settles into your stomach as you pull out your phone and call your manager, letting them know you aren't coming in today. Your next call is to the local police station and they ask you to come in, telling you to bring the card and the photograph.

You sit in silence, the card and photo clutched tightly in your trembling hands. The rest of the day blurs into a fog of anxious waiting, your mind a chaotic reel of memories and suspicions. Every time your phone buzzes, you half-expect it to be some cryptic text from an unknown number. 

That evening, you finally muster the courage to leave your apartment. The familiar heaviness of dread weighs on your every step as you walk the empty, dimly lit streets, your mind replaying the events that led you here. The entire time, the mysterious gifts and the inexplicable note swirl in your thoughts.

-

Around the same time that you began receiving unsolicited gifts at your doorstep, Detective Joel Campbell started receiving mysterious photographs in the mail. The first few were only cut up, smaller pieces that were clearly part of a much larger picture of someone. 

One square was a picture consisting of an arm, one was a leg, the next being a woman's torso, until he had all the pieces of a body except for the head. As of now, the puzzle looked like a young woman sprawled out in bed with only a shirt on, presumably asleep. Hopefully asleep.

Joel knew who was sending these pictures because the man had called him, boasting on the other end of the line about how he had a new flame in his life. 

Of course, he didn't actually know how to find him, or else Joel would have arrested him already. Joel couldn’t trace the call, he had already tried. The bastard was a ghost, but they did have a history together. 

Back in Los Angeles, Joel had been having an affair with a married woman. She ended up being one of this serial killer’s victims and Joel had been the one to interrupt the man before he killed her. Joel had run him off, and made the rash decision of chasing him down instead of staying and untying her. Joel wasn't fast enough and never did catch up to the killer, and by the time he got back to his lover, the house was already up in flames. 

After that, he moved away from everything that reminded him of her. He started a new life, but the man he chased that night had decided that Joel was his new obsession. 

Over time, Joel would receive pictures of women with cryptic messages, and phone calls from this man that seemed to go on forever. In short, Joel was given a certain amount of time to track down the woman in the picture before she was killed. 

Every single time he tried, he was always too late. Sometimes, only minutes had passed since she had been killed. 

The weight of these deaths ate Joel up inside. He knew it was only a matter of time before the woman in the new photographs ended up dead, so he needed to act fast. Unfortunately for him, he didn't even have a face to go off of this time and he wondered what changed. How was this woman different?

Detective Joel was sitting at home one night, nursing a migraine, when he got a call on his cell phone. A woman had called the station, concerned about random gifts and a photograph she had received in the mail. He nearly launched himself out of bed and scrambled to get dressed. He had to get to you before anyone else did. Joel wasn't going to let anyone else die. 

-

After walking for an eternity, you arrive in front of the local police station. The building’s harsh fluorescent lights and echoing hallways are a far cry from the warmth of your home, somewhere you wish you could still be. You push past the heavy glass doors and into the reception area, where a clock ticks loudly in the silence.

A uniformed officer directs you to a small interview room. Your hands are still shaking as you slide the card containing the photograph across the table. You explain everything that's happened so far. You tell him about the random gifts, the break in, and you even mention the growing pit in your stomach that something obviously isn't right here.

After what feels like hours of silence and clipped questions, a soft knock on the door breaks the stillness. The door swings open, and there stands Detective Joel Campbell holding a manila envelope. His eyes are a mix of compassion and resolve. You trust him already. He settles into the chair across from you and places the envelope on the table.

“Thank you for coming in. I'm Detective Joel Campbell,” he begins, glancing down at the photograph laid out beside the card, “I’ve been expecting your call. I'm just glad we got you here in time.” 

“In time? In time for what?” You look at him, slightly confused. 

“Usually, when I get these,” He taps the envelope in front of you, signalling for you to open it up, “It's already too late.” 

With an unsteady hand, you tremble as you open the flap on the envelope. You dump out the contents onto the table and that pit in your stomach growls at you, gnawing away at your courage. 

In front of you are printer copied Polaroid photographs of your sleeping body, spread out on your bed. You swallow thickly and nearly choke on your saliva. 

The pictures matched with the one that was inside your card. Same lighting and bedding, plus you recognize the shirt you had on. Embarrassment burns in your cheeks as you realize that t-shirt was the only thing you were wearing. 

Seriously, when did you even take your shorts off? You wonder how many people have seen these pictures. 

Joel senses your discomfort and gathers the photographs back up, sliding them back into the envelope. 

“Don't worry, only a few eyes have seen these,” He assures you, as if reading your mind. 

Your throat is dry. You don’t know what to say or what to ask. The knowledge that someone has been in your bedroom while you slept, close enough to take photographs, close enough to remove your clothing without you waking up… it makes your skin crawl. You feel like you’ve been cracked open and displayed on an exam table. 

“He’s not just watching you sleep,” Joel continues, voice low, steady, “He’s studying your every move and he's eventually going to strike.”

You blink, tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you ask, “Why me?”

Joel leans back, tired eyes searching your face. He is silent for a moment before he speaks. 

“That’s the question I ask myself every time. Sometimes it’s random. Sometimes there’s a pattern that I only see once it's too late. But with you,” He pauses, “This time, it feels different. He's giving you gifts, lingering and getting brave. Almost like he's playing house with you already.”

Detective Joel lays out what they know about the victims so far. They were young, mostly single women. No clear connections, no shared circles. Just a type consisting of women who were easily manipulated, isolated, and controlled.

He mentions that so far, the only victim that was outside of this killer's profile was a married woman who was close to him. Joel doesn’t elaborate, just says it felt personal. You don't press him about it. 

After he tells you everything he can about the suspect, he promises to increase the patrols around your apartment building. This allows you some room to breathe, knowing there will be someone else looking out for your wellbeing.

-

As you climb the final steps leading up to your apartment, you see a bouquet of gorgeous, fresh flowers resting on your doormat. They aren't some cheap, almost dead grocery store bouquet. This is a beautifully designed selection of your favorite flowers, complete with a tiny card attached in the middle. 

Flowers are something that not even Donnie bothered buying for you, beyond the half-wilted single rose he would bring you from the gas station down the road after being out all night drinking. 

Your heart swelled in your chest. Every molecule of your being wanted to pick them up and smell them. You were already thinking about the perfect vase to put them in before you stopped yourself. 

Detective Campbell made it very clear not to interact with anything this man left for you. Whether it be more cards or a gift, it's better to ignore it and call him to come take a look at it. You call him, get sent straight to voicemail, and leave a message. Great. You shove your phone back into your pocket and step over the bouquet. 

Exhausted from the questioning and mental war with yourself, you fumble with your keys, dropping them while looking for the right one. You lean on your doorknob, twisting it as you bend down to pick them up. 

The knob surprisingly turns all the way, unlocked and clicking as your door opens from the force of you pushing on it. You could have sworn that you locked it, but it has been such a crazy weird day, it's not unbelievable that you forgot. 

You enter your apartment and lean back against the door as you close it, making sure to latch both the deadbolt and the knob lock. The darkness is comforting as you feel your way through to your bedroom, not bothering with turning on any lights. 

Your thought process is that if someone was watching your windows, leaving the lights off would trick them into thinking you weren't home yet. It's not exactly a well thought out plan, but it makes the most sense to you right now. You have enough moonlight to kind of see what you're doing, anyway. 

Part of you doesn't want to see the box resting on your coffee table, silently begging you to open it up and try on the beautiful robe inside. As much as you want to accept these gifts and simply ignore where they came from, you can't. You heard what the Detective said about this man. You know what he's capable of. 

Wearing either item or picking up those flowers would signal to him that you agree to play his fucked up game, and that's the last thing you need. 

Once you make it into your room, you kick your shoes off and toss your bag in the general direction of your dresser. The thud of your bag hitting something wood tells you that you got close enough. 

You're quick to undress and leave your clothes in a pile where you stand. That could be a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, you just wanted to relax after a hard day. 

You flop onto the bed, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone. A few minutes in, you mutter ‘screw it’, and turn on your phone's flashlight, making your way to the kitchen.

By way of the fridge light, you pour yourself a generous glass of wine and drag your feet to your bathroom. 

With care, you strike a match and light a few of your favorite candles. They line the tub and the counter, casting the space in a soft, amber glow. The warm scent is immediate and calming. 

You run the water for a bath and pick out one of your fanciest bath bombs from your stash. The day you've had means you deserve one of the really nice ones. 

You sip on your wine as you wait for the water to rise. Anticipation shivers down your spine. You desperately need some time to unwind and there's no better place to do that than in a warm bath, surrounded by candlelight. 

Once the tub is full and the bath bomb has done its job, you set your phone on the counter and your glass of wine on the floor next to the tub, shedding the last of your clothes and stepping in. Heat envelops you, and your body starts to unknot, sinking slowly until only your face breaks the surface.

You end up falling asleep in the bathtub. The water is lukewarm now, your skin pruned and pale. A sudden jolt wakes you up, was that a knock at the front door?

You hold your breath and listen. Nothing.

Still, you stay frozen a moment longer, just in case. Then, slowly, you exhale as you watch the water twist down the drain. It seems silly, but you feel like something heavy inside you has been washed away. You feel lighter than you have in weeks. 

You dry off in the bathroom, leaving your towel hanging on the shower rod. You make sure to blow out all the candles before you leave. 

Back in your bedroom, you turn the light on. You're not afraid of anyone seeing that you're home, now. You feel braver.

You bend down to slide your panties up your legs and by the time you stand up straight, there's a hand over your mouth and an arm around your throat, pulling you backwards. You flail, trying to scream, but the sound dies in your throat as a sharp sting hits your neck. Your neck burns as the contents of the needle are injected into you. 

Your limbs go heavy and your knees buckle. The room tilts as you’re dragged onto the bed, and a shadow leans over you. You blink hard, trying to focus, but your vision splits at the edges, doubling and getting darker. 

He says something, but you can’t make it out. You hear him call out your name before everything cuts to black.

-

You wake up with a splitting ache in your head. You're up right, but you're not standing. You're sitting, bound. You can hear the clack of wheels underneath you as you shift. Your skin sticks uncomfortably to the vinyl of the chair as you pull against your restraints. 

You take a moment to look around, slowly blinking. You're in someone's kitchen. 

Oh no. It's David's kitchen. 

No no no no no. 

Panic rises in you, but your limbs won't cooperate. Whatever sedative he gave you hasn't completely worn off yet. There's a rustling in the next room and you see David come around the corner. 

“Is my sleeping beauty finally awake?” He coos, giving you a warm smile. 

You shoot daggers at him with your eyes.

“Wha-at the fuck is this, Da-avid?” you manage, your words thick and slurred. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

He walks over and stands in front of you, tilting his head as he studies your face.

“This?” he says, gesturing vaguely to the room around you, “This is a fresh start, sweetheart. I did what you needed me to do.”

��I don't…” You stop, still trudging through the fog in your brain, “I don't understand. Are you the killer Jo-oel warned me-e about?”

“You make it sound so ugly,” He says softly, yet indignantly, “Killer? I don't like to label myself.” 

You blink, trying to keep your head up, but the weight of the situation is pulling you down.

“He said, ugh,” You have to take a deep breath, “You killed people, David.”

“I gave them a purpose, just like I'm doing for you.”

There’s a long pause. The fog in your head starts to lift just enough for fear to settle into the spaces it left behind.

“That woman, was she really your wife?” 

“No,” He says plainly.

“Why did you lie?”

“Because if I’d told you the truth, you wouldn’t have stayed.”

“Why the photos?”

“Part of me wanted you to see, wanted you to know the kind of man I am,” David sighs, “but you were just too kind to pry like you should've.”

“Was she… one of your victims?” You ask hesitantly, the words barely making it out of your throat. 

“She was a mistake. Maybe you should ask Joel about her. I'm sure he'd love a walk down memory lane,” He mutters, jaw tightening, as if he wants you to drop the subject. 

“What about Donnie? What did you do to him?” You ask, not sure if you want the answer to that. 

“That piece of shit? I took him out like the trash he was,” David laughs, “Normally, I don't go for guys, but I can swing both ways.”

Your heart skips a beat, and not in an exciting way. As much as you disliked Donnie, you didn't want him dead. David walks around to stand behind you and leans down.

“I shouldn't have intervened, but I did. Do you know why?” David's cheek brushes against yours as he noses your hair and whispers, “I couldn't stand the thought of another man leaving his mark on you. You're mine to corrupt. Mine to bend. Mine to break.” 

“I am not yours,” You whisper, leaning away from him.

David takes this personally. He backs away from you for a moment and you can hear him rummaging around behind you, metal scraping against wood and other pieces of metal. You want to turn your head and peek at what he was doing but frankly, you really don't want to know. 

“Say it again,” He demands from behind you, voice low and serious. 

You shake your head no.

“Say. It. Again.”

Again, you shake your head.

There's a thick, suffocating intensity in the air. It definitely doesn't help when David wraps a cold, thin wire garrote around your neck, pulling it tight against your skin. Your head whips backwards, trying to avoid the pressure on your throat. 

When you open your mouth to speak, he tightens his hold on the handles. The sharp piano wire bites painfully into your skin, but it doesn't dig deep enough to affect your air intake. David knows just how far to go before he actually hurts you, evidently. It's effective in keeping you quiet.

“Don't want to speak? Fine. Maybe I should take the privilege away from you altogether,” He says coldly, “I know you're acting like you don't want this, don't want me, because you're in shock. That's normal, to be expected, but you belong to me now.

“Everything I've done, I've done for you, for us. You are my fucking priority. Do you understand that?” David's words come out harshly, but his voice is soft.

“You're delusional,” You choke out.

“I felt the connection and I know you did, too. I just had to show you.”

“By drugging me? Kidnapping me? Are you serious? What makes you think I feel anything for you now?” You hiss through the pain, all but laughing at him, “You're a joke.”

You have to admit, you had underestimated David. As harmless as you thought he was, everything made sense now. The break ins, how David seemed to know his way around your apartment, the random gifts…

He leans down close to your ear, breath hot against your ear, “Did all those nights you spent touching yourself and moaning my name mean nothing to you?”

“What-” He pulls the wire tighter, cutting off your response as his leather gloves creak against the handles.

“Shh, shh. Of course I was there, I wouldn't have missed those moments for anything,” David sighs. 

Your blood turns icy cold in your veins.

“You finally got predictable once I started mixing flunitrazepam with your wine. Ever heard of a roofie?” 

Your eyes grow wide with realization. No wonder your wine habit has gotten so bad. You were drinking every night now, addicted to how quickly it helped you fall asleep considering your ongoing battle with insomnia.

“I know, I know. At first, I just wanted to help you sleep, really… but you looked so perfect, so peaceful. How could I not get closer?”

You scrunch your nose up in disgust. The thought of him watching you sleep, masturbate, and who knows what else made you shift in your chair. Sharing every private moment with someone you didn't even know sent waves of nausea through you. 

How could you have not known you had eyes on you for so long? 

“Do you know how many times I climbed into bed with you? How often I touched you? Memorized every inch of you?” David leans down to rest his head on top of yours, “You always gave me that pretty smile. Even a moan, once. That's when I knew I was doing the right thing.”

You don't dare say a word, afraid of popping whatever lovesick bubble David was in right now. 

You sit frozen beneath him, your breath shallow as the garrote presses against your throat. His head is still resting on yours, his body draped behind you like a weighted shroud.

“Do you feel it now?” he whispers, as if inviting you into some shared fantasy, “That love. It’s always been there.”

He loosens the wire, just enough for you to gulp in a breath, and trails a gloved finger down your shoulder like a lover would. Your skin crawls.

“You don’t know how hard it was,” he continues, voice heavy on your ears, “Watching you live your life like I wasn’t already in it.”

You let out a groan, wincing against the pressure.

“I gave you everything. My time, my devotion, my patience. You think I wanted to rush this? You gave me no choice.”

You don’t dare move. Any twitch might break his calm demeanor. David circles in front of you, crouching down to your eye level. His pupils are blown wide, wild with obsession. He cups your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye where a tear has left a trail on your skin.

“I know this is overwhelming,” he says gently, “But that’s only because you've never been loved the way you deserve.”

Your silence seems to calm something in him. David rises slowly. That smile creeps back onto his face, the one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I think you need some time to reflect,” he murmurs, “To understand what we are. I’ve prepared a place just for that. Just for you.”

Before you can argue, he moves with a surprising swiftness. The garrote is gone and you can breathe freely. You attempt to stand, pulling against the restraint, but he’s already behind you, moving the chair underneath you. 

“Let’s not make this harder than it has to be,” he says softly.

He wheels the chair backward through the narrow hallway. The room he brings you to is colder. The walls are painted a dull gray. You recognize this as being the same room he had his photography set up in. This time, there's a bed in the center, its headboard and bedframe fitted with thick leather cuffs. You scream and kick, but he doesn't care.

“I knew you’d be scared, but you'll come around. I promise.”

You’re still fighting when he unties you from the chair and lifts you onto the bed. The cuffs click into place around your wrists and ankles before you can twist away. The restraints are padded, but the metal underneath is harsh and unforgiving. David stands over you, chest heaving slightly, not with exertion, but anticipation.

“There,” he whispers, stepping back to admire his work. “Now you can have some alone time, to really think about this.”

-

After he leaves, the last thing on your mind is wanting to think about David. You want to be home, curled up comfortably under your blankets. 

You're left alone on the bed for what feels like hours. Your muscles feel strained from fighting against the cuffs, and you're exhausted overall. You try to deny the heaviness of your eyelids, but it's a losing battle for you. 

-

When you wake up, there's duct tape over your mouth and David is on the phone with someone. He's watching you from the chair in the corner, leaning casually on his hand and smiling at you, acknowledging that you're awake.

“You always were slow to start, Joel. Tell me, do you think she screams louder than the last one? You would know, wouldn't you?” David stands up and places the phone on the bed beside your head. 

The duct tape muffles your cries as he runs his gloved hand over your stomach before slipping his fingers under the waistband of your panties. He yanks them down, but when the fabric snags at your thighs, he exhales a sharp breath of frustration and tears them off. The sound of ripping cloth cuts through the air as you yelp behind the tape, the burn of the fabric rubbing raw against your skin. 

He tosses the scraps haphazardly towards the head of the bed, never taking his eyes off of you. He leans over you and rips the duct tape off of your mouth, leaving behind raw, stinging flesh. You wince, momentarily distracted by the pain before you remember the situation you're in. 

“I want you to be loud for Joel, okay? Let him hear how scared you are,” David laughs cruelly and runs a gloved hand along the side of your body, lingering on your hip in the same spot you were bruised. 

“Mr. Campbell?” You turn your head and whisper to the phone. David looks up at you with one eyebrow cocked, but he doesn't silence you.

“I’m here. Stay with me,” Joel's voice crackles through the phone, “We're coming.”

You let out a sob of relief. Someone knew where you were. Help is coming. You just had to hold on long enough for them to find you. 

“Please hurry, I'm scared,” You say a little louder, “I want to go home.”

David freezes. His expression changes into something dark, as if you were the one who betrayed him. You flinch as he leans in, pressing his hand against your stomach. 

“That's very disappointing,” He says darkly.

He grabs the phone and lifts it in front of your face, “Did you hear that, Joel? She doesn't want to be with me. She's scared.”

You see David’s thumb hover over the ‘end call’ button, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he drops the phone back on the bed, screen facing upward so the call continues with Joel listening on the other end, powerless. He leans over to the bedside table, opening a drawer, he pulls out something heavy.

David lifts up a black leather roll, which he unfurls slowly across the edge of the bed. Inside are a set of polished surgical tools, glinting under the low light. You can see scalpels, forceps, and even a small bone saw. He handles each one with a delicate familiarity.

“Do you want to know what makes you different?” he asks, not looking at you, “They screamed. They begged. They didn’t understand. But you get it, don’t you? You understand my feelings for you?”

You shake your head weakly, tears streaking your face, but David smiles like you just confessed your love. He kneels beside the bed and picks up the scalpel. It seems to be his favorite, by the way he cradles it before pressing it gently against your collarbone, not breaking the skin, just letting the cold metal rest there as a promise.

“Joel can’t save you. You know that. He’s always too late. Always been too fucking slow to stop me,” He says, turning the phone back toward you, tilting it just enough so the open line continues to broadcast your ragged breaths, “He’ll hear everything, but I want your eyes on me.”

Then he climbs onto the bed and straddles your waist, his weight pinning you in place. The scalpel glides down your arm this time, just a scratch, but it's enough to let a single bead of blood rise to the surface and roll down your forearm. 

You sob and turn your face away from him, from the phone, from everything, but David cups your chin and forces your eyes back to his. 

“You see?” David murmurs, voice syrupy sweet as he bends down and drags his tongue slowly along the cut, “This? This is real love. Taking whatever your body gives me without a single complaint.”

The glint in his eyes is terrifying. He believes this is right, that this is how he's supposed to be intimate. You struggle against the restraints with all your might, but it's no use. 

David climbs off of your waist, opting to kneel between your legs on the bed, bringing both hands to rest on your stomach. He's still holding the scalpel in his left hand, but keeps it raised. He wants any cut he makes to be intentional. 

David trails his right hand down the sensitive skin of your stomach again, hovering his hand over your mons. 

“Please s-stop,” You think about trying to bargain with him, but you know you don't have anything to offer that he would want besides, well, you.

There's another crackle from the phone, it sounds like Joel says ‘god dammit’ but you don't know if it's directed at you or not. 

David meets your eyes. Then, slowly, he dips his leather-clad thumb between your folds, flicking your clit with precision. You hate the way your cunt responds, clenching around nothing. And you absolutely despise the sounds that come out of your mouth as he slides his thumb lower, pressing persistently into your tight, wet heat. 

You try to hold back by biting your lip, and it works, but only until he replaces his thumb with his middle finger, sliding it effortlessly up to the last knuckle like he's done it a thousand times before.

As if you weren't already struggling enough, he brings his thumb back to your clit and rubs slow circles around it in sync with the thrusting of his hand. He ambitiously decides to slip another digit in and suddenly you're bucking upwards to meet his hand. 

Your body doesn’t know that it should be afraid. All it understands is the feeling, the electric pulse that David is building inside of you. Your mind protests, but is drowned out by a flood of endorphins and adrenaline. 

For the second time today, your cheeks are flushed in humiliation. You know Joel can hear you. Every gasp, every ragged cry David wrings out of you is a prayer that you know won't be answered.

You want to care about the fact that he's listening. You want to cry out for Joel to save you. You want to pull yourself together and stop letting David play with you like a cat plays with the guts of the mouse it kills. 

But you don't. You can't… or you won't?

David watches your face, his eyes are dark and intense, taking in every bit of emotion, every gasp and moan that falls from your lips. Electricity flows from your core, traveling through every inch of your body. Your legs start to shake, just the slightest bit, as you pull against your restraints. 

“I want to hear it,” he says, voice low and firm as he speeds up his assault on your clit, “Tell me when you're about to cum, baby girl.”

His fingers curl just right, pressing that tender spot deep inside you. Your spine bows off the bed as far as you can manage. You gasp out a moan and it sounds like something you'd hear in a cheesy porno, but it's real and desperate. 

“You liked that, huh?” 

You nod, giving him a breathy, “Uh-huh! I'm… I'm gonna-”

David grins. It's this wide, toothy smile that makes your blood run cold. Without missing a beat, he takes the scalpel in his left hand and brings it up to your thigh. You don't have time to register what he's doing before you're thrown into your orgasm, your body convulsing beneath him. 

Waves of pleasure wrack your body right as he digs the blade into your soft flesh. At first you don't feel it, your senses blinded by him continuing to roughly rub your oversensitive clit and fuck his fingers into you. But the moment you're able to take a deep breath, the sharp pain manifests on your thigh. 

David's concentrating hard on keeping you overstimulated while he slowly carves into your skin. You look down at what he's doing and you scream. 

From your position on the bed, you can see the top half of what you're pretty sure is a ‘D,’ followed by what kind of looks like an ‘A’. The scalpel glides smoothly in a curve, leaving behind a clean cut for a moment before the blood blooms and blurs the line. He makes one more cut before pulling back to admire his work, revealing the last letter, a ‘G’.

He removes his hand from your cunt with an obscenely wet noise. David doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at what he’s done, entranced by his initials etched into your flesh. The blood doesn’t pour, not yet. It seeps, slow and warm, like your body is too shocked to fully react.

You’re still panting, chest heaving, stuck in that awful in-between where the aftershocks of your orgasm blur into reality. Every nerve feels like it's on fire. Your clit is throbbing, abused and burning, while your thigh pulses with something heated, deeper and sharper. 

You want to move, to pull away, but your wrists are raw against the restraints and your muscles won’t listen. Your arms and legs tremble like a puppet with cut strings. David finally breaks the silence with a satisfied hum. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, running a gloved finger through the blood. 

He draws a red heart after the ‘G’ before licking the leather of the glove clean. His eyes light up as he bends down and laves his tongue over the bloody initials, tracing the shape. His saliva burns, seeping into the cuts like venom.

You choke on a sob.

“Shh, don't cry. It's over now, isn't it?” He mockingly comforts you, looking up at you from his spot by your thigh.

Tears paint your cheeks as David tosses the scalpel onto the bedside table and slowly crawls up your body. He kisses your cheek, tenderly, then your jaw. You groan, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn't. He kisses you, swallowing your cries and silencing you. 

You taste copper. Your own blood, you assume. He pulls away when you gag, licking away the smear of red on his lips as if it was icing.

The phone clicks and the line goes silent. You had forgotten that the detective was still there at all. You can't believe Joel hung up on you. How dare he leave you alone with this bastard? 

Your heart drops into your stomach, doing a couple flips before landing directly in the acid that's eating you up inside. The last line of hope you had was gone. Just like that. 

David laughs, almost maniacally, “Do you really think that he's coming to save you? You think Joel's going to finally be the fucking hero for once in his life?” 

You let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your body stills. David gets off the bed and shuffles around somewhere in the room. You don't bother looking up until you hear the telltale click of a camera. 

You can't believe he would dare take pictures of you right now, in such a vulnerable state. You protest, but it's not good enough to stop him. 

David snaps pictures of you shackled to the bed. He photographs his now embedded signature, your breasts, even your tear stained face, capturing every detail with obsessive precision. 

One hand forces open your weeping cunt, while the other works the camera. He laughs at your weak attempts to clamp your legs shut as he spreads you wider. 

His camera clicks with mechanical indifference. It's methodical and detached, as if documenting something clinical rather than cruel. Each picture that the camera spits out is placed in rows on the nightstand. 

With one final shot of your puffy, tear stained face, he places the camera on the nightstand, lens facing you. 

"You were amazing," he murmurs, “I'll be right back.”

He leaves you alone with your thoughts. 

In the meantime, the camera sits there, still and watchful. Silent proof that this happened, that you were seen. The shame sinks deeper into your chest.

You close your eyes and try to escape into the darkness behind your eyelids, but there's no refuge there. Just the dull throb of pain.

After excruciating silence, David returns and plops down on the side of the bed. He doesn't say anything. He simply sits there admiring you and his work when suddenly, there's a huge crash in your apartment next door.

There's shouting, footsteps, and dozens of voices.

Help is here, you think, letting out a ridiculously huge sigh of relief. You had endured enough. You were so brave this whole time. All you needed to do was wait for them to bust down David's door, too, and then you'd be safe. 

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

David's eyes widen and his shaking hand flies to cover your mouth before you can scream. 

“Mr. Robert Smith?” Calls a man's voice from outside the front door, “It's the police. Open up.”

Mr. Robert Smith? Who are they talking about? Did David lie to you about his name? 

David hastily locates your underwear, shoving them in your mouth. You choke on the fabric, trying to spit them out as he digs through the drawer. He finds the duct tape and rips a piece off with his teeth, slapping it over your mouth again. 

“Not. A. Sound,” He hisses in your ear and hops off the bed, ripping off his gloves and tossing them onto the bed with you. You can hear David open the front door and the detectives identify themselves. You don't hear Joel's name or voice and a knot forms in your stomach. 

You never told Joel where you were. You never, not once, even mentioned David's name to him, at the police station or during the phone call. They don't know that you're here, they must have thought you were still in your apartment. You're absolutely fucked. 

“What seems to be the problem?” David asks, coyly.

“Mr. Smith, we have reason to believe your neighbor’s life may be in danger. Can we come in?” 

“Oh, that's awful. I'm sorry to hear that,” David lies right through his stupid teeth, “Sure, come in.”

“Thank you,” The two policemen enter the apartment and from your spot on the bed, you can see them standing in front of the couch in the living room with their backs turned towards you. 

They just had to turn around for a split second. All you needed was one of them to be curious enough to look your way. They'd see you spread out and cuffed to the bed and hopefully get you out of here.

You quickly try to think of a way to get their attention. You had no slack to move any of your appendages. Making sound was nigh impossible with the way he shoved your panties halfway down your throat, but you tried anyway. All you could muster was a low grumble, unable to scream anymore. 

It wasn't enough. 

“Have you noticed anyone unusual coming or going? Seen or heard anything strange recently?” The officer asks, oblivious to your efforts.

“Let's see. Hmm,” You see David rubbing his chin almost cartoonishly while trying to think up the best way to get them to go away, “There’s been a man coming around, especially late at night. They argue a lot. I think his name started with a D? Or maybe a B? I can't remember, really.”

Trying to frame Donnie? Of all people? You roll your eyes. Donnie is absolutely a violent man and mean as a rattlesnake, but being a stalker who specializes in killing is a bit above his IQ abilities. 

“Right. Can you give me a description of this man?” The lead officer pulls out his notepad and begins to write. 

David describes Donnie vaguely, using certain minor details that the police probably already have about himself. The detective offers David his card and tells him to call if the man shows up again. He says to keep the door locked, just in case, and bids David a goodnight. 

The men turn to leave and you scream as loud as you can, but it's too muted. If they'd just look your way, you're right here for fuck’s sake! 

David smiles at you from the living room as they make their exit. He locks the door behind them and all but merrily skips his way back to your room. 

“You did so well,” He praises, enthusiastically patting your injured thigh and making you wince. 

Then, as if nothing just happened, he calmly begins to tidy up the room. He retrieves the gloves from the bed and tucks them into his pocket without a glance at you. The tool roll is collected next, each one inside carefully aligned and rolled back up.  He stacks the photos with precision, tapping the edges to make them flush before placing them neatly back on the nightstand. The camera stays put. 

You don’t know if it’s the pain or the exhaustion, but your eyes well with fresh tears as he moves about like someone cleaning up after a romantic evening with their lover.

“I need to run out,” he says finally, “I have some business to handle before it gets any later. We'll finish this when I get back, okay?”

David leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead, “Be good while I’m gone, sweetheart.”

You watch him leave. The front door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re left strapped down, sore, and hurting in more places than you can count. You let yourself cry, ugly and quiet, the sound muffled by the underwear stuffed in your mouth. You can feel your wounds oozing, blood and plasma leak from every cut, dripping down your skin. 

Each movement sends a jolt of pain through your body, but stillness is no kinder. The cuffs rub painfully on your wrists and ankles, but nothing could feel worse than the aching feeling in your chest. It's an agony deeper than any physical pain you've suffered and nothing in the world would be able to ease it now. 

The photographs on the nightstand seem to taunt you now. They're moments of your humiliation frozen in time, hard evidence of how your body has been vandalized. 

You close your eyes again and you see nothing but flashes of David's smile. 

-

Eventually, you're able to doze off and get a little bit of rest before David comes back. 

When David returns, he says nothing. He simply walks in silently, and begins unbuckling the restraints at your wrists and ankles.

You're free now, technically, but you don't even entertain the thought of escaping. Your body wouldn't make it that far. He peels the duct tape off of your mouth and removes the makeshift gag.

He lifts you easily, cradling you like you're fragile, and carries you to the bathroom. He draws a warm bath, the sound of the faucet running is oddly soothing to your nerves. David helps you into the water, and settles on the edge of the tub, watching you as he reaches out to touch you.

Calloused fingers trace the bloody line cut across your throat before delicately washing the wound with a soapy cloth. He methodically cleans each cut on your body. You wince from the stinging each time he presses against sore flesh and tears start forming in your eyes. 

David looks at you with something akin to what maybe he thinks is pity. He kisses the tears away when they begin to fall silently down your cheeks. 

Maybe there's still a part of David that doesn't want to hurt you. There's a softness in the way he bathes you, hands purposed and unwandering. The way he delicately brushes your wet hair sends tingles down your spine and leaves you more breathless than you'd like to admit. 

Dressing you is an act of worship. He takes his time fitting each piece of clothing on you perfectly. There's pride in his eyes as he looks at you fully dressed and clean, sitting on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap. 

For the first time during this entire ordeal, you're not afraid of him. Nothing menacing is radiating off of him right now, it's another feeling entirely. It's something squishy and raw, something he hides away from the world. 

This time, when he kisses you, you don't fight back. You lean into it, ball your fists up, and meet him halfway. He smiles against your lips and gives you a small huff of a laugh before grabbing the sides of your face and peppering kisses all over your lips. Your hands relax against your thighs. You want to reach out and touch him, maybe use this chance to take control of the situation, but you can't bring yourself to do it. 

-

David doesn’t press for more than a kiss and you're grateful he stops there. It’s a quiet relief, but then he extends his hand with a smile that makes your heart melt.

“Dance with me.”

You hesitate. Maybe you pause too long. He notices and you nod, because what else can you do? 

He holds you close, swaying to a tune only he seems to hear. His hand rests just a little too low on your back with his breath warm against your temple.

“You're coming around,” he says gently, “I think you’ve earned a little more freedom.”

You blink, unsure whether that’s a kindness or a warning.

“I’ll remove anything dangerous,” he continues, like he's talking about baby-proofing the place, “I know you hate the mark I gave you, but I can’t have you hurting yourself just to erase me.”

His words hang in the air like smoke, wrapping around and clinging to you, waiting for you to choke. He gives you the rules like they’re a favor. You can move through the apartment freely now. You’ll no longer be confined to one room. His bedroom is off limits unless he’s with you. That’s the only real rule, he says.

That, and the fact that the doors and windows are to remain locked. Always.

-

With your new privileges came a strange sort of freedom. One that felt more like breaking into a museum of someone else’s life than living your own. 

You spent hours drifting from room to room in David’s apartment, running your fingers along surfaces you weren’t sure you were allowed to touch. Pushing against locked windows and twisting locked door knobs became something of a habit for you. The novelty faded quickly, and the silence started to stretch. 

Eventually, you found yourself kneeling beside him on the couch, eyes wide, asking for something to do.

He caved and gave you a small stack of books, but promised to buy you more if you were a good girl for him. 

When you asked him for a comfortable place to read, he even set up a reading nook for you in the corner of his living room. In the corner of the living room, he built you a soft, cozy nook consisting of one oversized cushion, several throw pillows, and a few soft blankets that smelled like his detergent. 

Beside it stood a lamp with a gooseneck for you to maneuver around when you wanted to change reading positions. It was one of the nicest things he had done for you. 

Over time, you learned the rhythm of his moods. His unspoken rules became muscle memory for you. You learned where to stand, how to sit, when to speak. You stopped resisting, it was easier that way.

One of David’s unspoken rules is that you’re never allowed to bathe alone. He insists on being there, every time. You're kind of glad he's with you because you're not sure what you'd do if he wasn't. You think he knows that, too. He can see the way you avoid the mirror, the way you refuse to look down, avoiding your thigh like it was cursed.

David caught you once, clutching a pair of dull hair scissors, trying to carve over his initials he’d etched into your flesh. He had left them in a bottom drawer. Maybe by accident, but probably not. 

You barely got one trembling cut in before he busted through the door. You dropped the scissors onto the floor. Your nails were the next tool at your disposal, digging and tearing at the raw skin like it was something foreign and wrong.

David didn’t yell or chastise you, he just held you. Arms locked around your chest, whispering that he forgave you, even though you’d tried to erase the gift he gave you. For a terrifying second, you melted into him seeking comfort, almost forgetting it was him that made you like this.

There’s a ritual to your nighttime.  

A practiced routine he performs before, during, and after your bath. You’re not even allowed to wash your own body or brush your hair. 

At first, it was humiliating, but now, you’ve become accustomed to his pampering. He lotions your skin, trims your nails incredibly short, brushes out your hair, all with a care that mimics adoration… but only when done his way, by his hands.

After he bathes you and gives you your own special spa treatment, he takes you to your room and gets you ready for bed. 

First, he dresses you in what you assume is a very expensive set of lingerie. Each night, it's a different piece. Some are babydoll style, delicate and flowy, with sheer fabric and matching panties. Others are more risque with form fitting, lacy bodices that accentuate your figure. If a set pleases him, you might wear it again, but that’s rare.

Then comes time for the camera. 

You didn’t need to be bound anymore. The cuffs still dangled from the bedposts like a warning, a reminder of the consequences for acting out, though he hadn’t used them in weeks. He didn’t need to. 

You sat where he told you, posed the way he instructed with your hands on your thighs, eyes down, and your chin up. You listened to the camera shutter click, and felt the flash like lightning behind your eyelids.

He says the pictures are for a surprise. You don’t ask what kind, even though you do have some idea. Your heart swells sickly at the thought of him putting together something for you. 

Finally, he tucks you into bed. ‘Tucking’ you into bed, for David, means laying down with you while he kisses  you and lets his hands roam your body in long, lingering strokes. He murmurs soothing things while the sedative he slips you takes hold. When your eyelids start to flutter, when you stop resisting, you realize there's something inherently comforting about someone caressing you to sleep. Holding you protectively in their arms as you drift off, giving you permission to let your guard down, that's all you've ever wanted.

-

The next morning, David brings you breakfast in bed. A huge spread of eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, toast, and even fresh cut fruit is neatly placed on a fancy looking silver platter. He sets it in front of you with a proud little smile, giving you time to pick and eat whatever you like before quietly taking the rest back to the kitchen. 

When he returns, he's holding a small photo album, similar to the one you found on his coffee table. You look at him curiously and gesture for him to sit next to you on the bed. He smiles at your invitation, and sits down carefully beside you. 

David shows you the album slowly, page by page, unveiling his hard work. Each photograph is a carefully composed portrait: your body arranged in silk and lace, the bruises and carvings on your thigh captured in soft focus, the ligature mark on your neck turned into something almost elegant. It’s horrifying and overwhelming. 

You hate how a small, shameful part of you feels flattered. The rational bit of your brain is screaming at you, but the part of your brain that just wants to be loved is drunk on the attention. You knew it took dedication for him to put this together for you. 

David then tells you he sent a copy of the album to Detective Joel. You look at him silently, wondering what reaction he's expecting from you.

But, that's not all he did. He says he spoke to Joel, and convinced him you were already dead. According to David, he sent him chasing shadows for a body that would never be found. 

He even mailed cards to your family, apologizing for killing you and offering his condolences. The case has gone cold. No one is looking for you anymore.

Maybe you should be numb to this by now, but you're not. You're livid. 

Rage spreads through you so violently that your hands tremble. He ripped you away from your family, your job, your friends, your life, and still had the audacity to exploit your image and manipulate Joel. David has forced everyone you knew to mourn you in a lie. Living dead girl, he jokes.

You try to regulate your breathing, but big, angry tears roll down your cheeks, anyway.

David soothes you, like he always does. His voice is gentle and reassuring. He's very proud of what he’s done for you. He tells you this is your chance at real freedom. No job. No responsibilities. No more expectations. Your family will collect the life insurance payout, and you’ll stay with him for the rest of your life. 

You realize that your life will only last as long as he deems it to be. Your attitude changes quickly, if only partially a survival tactic. 

Unfortunately, you feel yourself starting to come around to the idea of being with him permanently, and it doesn't sound so bad. 

-

Days after he breaks the news to you, you decide it's finally time for you to find out what he's been keeping in his bedroom. 

Careful to avoid the creaky floorboards, you tiptoe to his bedroom door. Your hand trembles as you reach for the knob, half-expecting it to burn your skin on contact.

It doesn’t. The door opens easily, to your surprise. There's a king sized bed in the middle of the room with matching bedside tables, and one long dresser against the opposite wall. In the corner beside the dresser is a small metal safe. You’re positive that's where he keeps his gun. You aren't sure if you want to know what else he might be keeping in there. 

One of the tables houses a wide lamp, emitting a deep orange glow. It's not very bright, but you can easily see your way around. On the dresser, the robe he gifted you is folded neatly with the necklace sitting on top. 

You're tempted to put it on, just to see what he'd say. Maybe he'd appreciate you taking some initiative for him. You have to keep yourself from laughing at that. 

Your first instinct is to go through the dresser. You're not some creep trying to go through his underwear drawer, you tell yourself. You just want to see what he's got going on in here, why he wants you to stay out of this room so badly. 

The top drawer slides with some difficulty, the track gets stuck halfway and you have to yank it open the rest of the way. Inside, you find a ton of random objects. Most of them are your missing items.

Three pairs of your panties are crumpled in the corner of the drawer. The last time you remember seeing two of them was in your dirty clothes basket over a month ago. When you couldn't find them, you had assumed the dryer must have eaten them. You wish that had been the case. 

The third pair are the ones you were wearing during the day you spent at David's that somehow found their way off of you in the middle of the night. A sick feeling twists in your stomach as you put two and two together. 

Alongside your underwear, there's a hairbrush with your hair still in the bristles, chewed gum in baggies, an empty coffee cup with your favorite lipstick shade on it, and a bunch of small knick knacks that were supposed to be decorating your apartment. 

So David was the reason you had to buy a new brush? You aren't sure you even have the ability to feel surprised by this man's perversions at this point. You shove the drawer closed, and move on to the next. 

When you open the second drawer, you think about retracting your previous statement.

There are dozens of plain cover photo albums here, just like the one he had on his coffee table and the one he made for you. You pick one at random and flip open to the middle page. What you see makes your stomach lurch. 

A woman with blonde hair, glassy eyes, and slack jaw stares back at you from the page. A dark ligature mark is carved into the skin of her throat, purpling her neck with a splash of red. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, her expression frozen. You nearly drop the album, but a morbid curiosity makes you need to see more. 

Your hand shakes as you dare to turn the page. It's another picture of the same woman, but she's completely nude and stiffly posed on a bed. The comforter she's laid on has the unmistakable same floral pattern as the one David has on your bed. 

She’s laid out like a doll in lingerie with her limbs carefully arranged and her hair neatly brushed. There's even red lipstick painting her plump lips, immaculately applied. 

Your breath catches in your throat. It's some kind of grotesque, post mortem boudoir shoot.

A pang of sick, confusing jealousy hits you in the gut like a freight train. Not fear, not even rage. Just jealousy. You told yourself you weren’t the only one. Detective Campbell told you, but somewhere, deep down, you believed that David loved you differently than them. 

You thought you were special, chosen even, but this woman had worn the crown of thorns before you. Judging by the albums lining the drawer, so had many others. Just like that, the illusion cracks for you. 

You weren’t special to him, you were just next in line. 

Tears stream down your face as you look through the different albums. All the different women who looked nothing like you made your stomach churn.

You're caught up staring at one of the photographs when you hear the soft creak of the floorboard behind you. You freeze. The album trembles in your hands as your breathing stops. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

David’s voice is soft, almost gentle, “I see you've been exploring.” 

His tone isn’t angry. He sounds more disappointed than anything, like a father scolding a child who got into something they shouldn't have. You clutch the photo album to your chest and slowly turn to face him. He’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. 

“You lied to me,” Your voice shakes and your bottom lip quivers.  

David takes a step closer, and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. It makes you uncomfortable. He's too calm and controlled.

“I just didn't tell you everything,” he says, his voice kind and rehearsed.

You clutch the album tighter, backing into the dresser, “You said I was the only one for you, that the other woman was a mistake.”

He sighs, almost theatrically, “You are the only one for me, baby girl. I don't have eyes for anyone but you.”

“Then why are there so many?” You challenge him. 

David’s jaw twitches. His hands drop from his chest, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s trying to stay composed, “Because I was looking for you. Don’t you get it? They were all trials. You… you’re my finale, the sun to my moon.”

He steps closer again and reaches out to touch you, making you flinch. 

“Please, David, don’t,” you whisper, the album slides from your grip and lands on the floor with a soft thud.

“I convinced myself that you would be good,” His voice breaks, “But you broke the rules, sweetheart.”

His hand catches your arm before you make it two steps. His fingers are like a vice around your wrist. The scream barely leaves your lips before he yanks you backward, sending you crashing to the floor. You scramble to get on your knees to stand, but he shoves down on your shoulder, keeping you on the floor.

“Stop fighting me!” He shouts, the sudden change in his voice makes you stop moving. You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t gentle, or loving, or even human. It sounds purely evil. 

His facade drops for a split second and you can finally see the monster behind the mask. 

In that moment, as he looms over you, the fantasy shatters around you. He never loved you, not really. He collected you, like he did all the other women he killed. You look up at him, wide eyed and shaking. The bunny caught in the wolf’s maw before he rips you to shreds. 

You’re frozen in place, unable to scream again. The photos, the lipstick, the lingerie, the flash of his camera, the bed, it all becomes a swirling blur. The images layer over your own memories like film reels in your mind. 

He lets go of you and starts talking, but the words don’t matter anymore. 

You start to laugh. Quiet at first, then louder, bordering on hysterical. You think that maybe if you laugh hard enough, you’ll drown out the truth of what you found. 

You double over, hugging yourself while your body shakes with laughter in between sobs. David kneels down in front of you, gently taking your hands in his. His skin against yours feels like grabbing a live wire. You snatch your hands away and he frowns. 

“Don't you think this is a little dramatic, sweetheart?” David says, honey lacing his words again as he places his hands on your thighs. 

Slowly, he pushes his hands upwards, sneaking under your dress to brush against your underwear. It's enough to pause your hysterics and grab your attention. He gently parts your thighs, and rubs his finger over the front of your panties to find you soaked. You wish your cunt knew the difference between danger and desire. 

“I can fix this. Let me show you what you mean to me,” David whispers as he leans in to plant a kiss on your cheek. 

You go quiet. It's not because he's succeeded in calming you down, but because your mind starts to drift as he slowly guides you backwards. You allow yourself to go limp.

Laying underneath him feels surreal. You whine as he hikes your dress up to expose your breasts, but you don't feel his touch. There's pressure, sure, but he may as well be touching someone else. 

It's not your body anymore.

You feel like you're floating above everything, watching from the ceiling. You don't recognize the girl trembling beneath David. The colors of the room blur together, soft around the edges but too bright and too dim all at once. 

David says something but his voice sounds muted, like he's speaking from underwater. He undresses her further, sliding her panties down and situating himself between her thighs. He quickly plunges his fingers into her before pulling them out, lining his cock up with her cunt. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

You think of anywhere but here. You picture the ocean, with waves lapping against the sand. Or your childhood bedroom, hiding under the covers. You think of anywhere safe, somewhere your body still belongs to you.

Right as you’re settling into your fantasy inside your head, you hear someone cry out. Your eyes snap open and you see David shoving his way inside of the girl underneath him. He shushes her, stroking her cheek with one hand and tightening his grip on her hip with the other. 

He can have her. It's not your body anymore.

-

David is the kind of man who breaks his toys and shoves them back together, not caring what gets lost in the process. For you, that means being forever fractured, with pieces of yourself littering the floor of this home like flower petals. 

[pointbreakvhs]

Sacred Obsession

A gift I wrote for @casuallyobssessed 🤍

Pairing : David Allen Griffin x female!reader Genre : headcanons Note : Keep in mind, I've never watched the movie. I'm writing this from intuition. Warning : needles

Divider by @enchanthings-a

David Allen Griffin loved the sight of the needle piercing the flesh. The needle pierced slowly, deliciously penetrating the flesh. Penetrated the person. It was almost intimate, like sex, he thought. But he preferred the fear or the thrill before sex. It was more alive, more intense. More exhilarating when two contradictory emotions collided. When the needle penetrated the skin, it was slow. Each time, a sick rush twisted his insides, whether he was a witness, a recipient, or, most often in his case, dealing with one of his victims. Whether it was drawing blood for a health check or, more commonly, using an anesthetic to drug his victims, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle of the syringe as it pierced the skin while the victim began to fall asleep, sinking into a kind into slumber before waking up later. A form of dark communion, a moment where he holds absolute control over life and consciousness.

You were an angel. All you lacked was your halo. But he saw it, unlike you and the others. You had become an obsession for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your very being. He had to watch you from a distance. You were supposed to be his next victim, but something unfamiliar stirred in him. Of course, he first wanted to indulge in the pleasure of the sensual hunt, to draw you to him. To possess you. He had met you by chance in a supermarket while doing his own shopping. Your aura had drawn him in for a reason he could hardly explain, despite the cliché of the situation. Yes, all those romantic movies with the clichéd meetings when the two protagonists were shopping or something else. He hated that kind of forced situation. And yet… he couldn’t help but approach you, despite the absurdity of a situation he initially despised. You were struggling to reach a high shelf of canned goods. He approached you stealthily and took the item you wanted. A startle overcame you as your large eyes turned to him, a mask of innocence on your face. Genuine. He could never forget your grateful smile, your deep eyes, when he handed you the item with a charming smile you couldn’t ignore. You thanked him with an adorable little laugh that shook him deep inside as you walked away to continue your shopping. A new obsession, a new victim.

Of course, he had taken care to photograph you from every angle, each one he found perfect. The photos were displayed on a wooden board, hung on one of the walls in his dark apartment, like an altar devoted to you. He would trace your lips in the photos with his gloved index finger, slowly, reverently, imagining his own lips in place of that touch. His lips against yours. Would fate bring you together? He didn’t believe in fate. If anything, he believed in force. In control. He would create his own destiny, to feel his lips on yours, not muffled by tape meant to silence your screams.

Sometimes, he would sneak into your apartment and shift things almost imperceptibly to unsettle you. Sometimes, he took objects you considered insignificant, long forgotten, their absence barely noticeable. Vacation trinkets long tucked away in a closet that you wouldn’t notice missing. Sometimes, he was a bit bolder, stealing some of your underwear. He loved watching you go about your little routines: waking up late on weekend mornings, padding across the floor barefoot, or lounging on the couch with your breakfast.

He had started leaving you small messages. Not love letters. Fragments of sentences you couldn’t understand. A word scrawled on the back of a receipt. A phrase etched faintly into the condensation on your mirror. Things no one else would notice, but that unsettled you. The message was never direct, always vague, like a whisper. He wanted you to feel a presence without being able to name it. He wanted your paranoia to grow slowly. For you to doubt yourself before doubting the world. He wanted to be felt. One morning, you found a note on your table: You forgot to close the curtains. The light suits you so well. You double-checked the locks. You glanced over your shoulder. You started to wonder if you were imagining things. But deep down, you know you're not.

He had followed you into the alley behind your place that night. Everything was ready. The syringe in his pocket. The glove already on. You were alone, as expected. And yet… he hesitated. His finger trembled on the plastic of the syringe. Warmth. Fragility, maybe. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He turned away, dissolving into the shadows. He had given in. He didn’t know why. He only knew it was stronger than him.

After failing to kidnap you in the alley, David begins to punish himself for his weakness. He pricks his own skin with a needle, not to draw blood, but to feel the pain of his failure. He does this in front of your photos, as if offering his pain to your image. Each prick is a reminder that he must regain control, but it also deepens his obsession, as he imagines sharing this pain with you someday, not to harm you, but to merge your experiences in a perverse act of intimacy, to bind you to him. In his mind, it would be a merging of sensations. A communion. A perverse kind of intimacy that only he could understand.

He fantasized a scenario where you find his shrine and, instead of fear, feel flattered by his devotion. He fantasizes about confessing everything to make you see the “art” of his obsession, the careful attention.This fantasy is why he can’t bring himself to kill you; he wants you to choose him. The question about “pure love” in his mind is his desperate attempt to justify his actions as something other than destruction.

He had kept one of your scarves. Stolen, of course. Imbued with your scent, soft, indistinct, unique. He brought it to his face like an offering. He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. There was no longer David Allen Griffin, only a being suspended between reality and fantasy. The scent brought him back to you more violently than any image. Something that urged him to get even closer, yet also to hold back from destroying you. He wanted to keep that scent with him forever. He had never felt such intoxication. He no longer knew if he wanted to love you, kill you, or simply… keep you frozen in that eternal scent.

[fernpetals]

This is the second part of THIS asks

Masterlist

Warning: Psychological torture, violence, gore, disturbing psychology, delusionional behaviour, dollification, allusions and direct mention of murder, description of dead bodies, violence and much more

Yandere David Allen Griffin

Honestly, this started as an analysis but now has turned into a whole one-shot, and finally, I have managed to finish it. Please brace yourself for the torture. Word Count: 6k+

GIF does not belong to me, credit to the rightful owner.

Unedited Piece

Imagine you take Joel's place in a yandere scenario, and it is not only women he murders. Men or women, David does not care as long as he has your attention.

Imagine starting out as a rookie, and your mentor gets this murder case, and inevitably, you assist him in it. The police have nothing on this man. No face, no pattern, not even voice or fingerprints. Nothing. But instead of your mentor, you give him one hell of a chase. You just won't give up on the murdered girl. It's annoying to David initially, but then, he follows your patterns. For a rookie, you have learnt one of the best techniques in the field–instincts. You rely on them, even if they are limited, you stick to them, and you almost have him on his second murder. Two murders in two fucking years and you almost have him.

Something shifts in David while he is being chased by a rookie cop. For once, he does not wish to get rid of a person in uniform. He realises how alive he feels, being chased by you–your attention, your moral view, your naivety regarding the justice system, everything about you. You become his fixation.

So it displeases him when the cases are declared cold. This means, your attention is going to shift, and he cannot have that. So he strikes again. This time, a blow close to your heart, your mentor, your godfather.

And something shifts in you. You have studied the case, you have been closest to him, a grasp away. Despite all the lack of evidence and diverting pieces, you know it is him.

And so the chase begins.

But this time, something is different.

To his utter surprise and frustration, you resign instead and go off the radar.

He cannot watch you, he cannot know where you are. Your apartment sits empty, you do not visit the cafe you used to or meet the people you used to. It's like you were never even there.

David is the type who loves to watch you- you fascinate him endlessly. It is different from the type of observation and purpose that Donaka portrays. David finds that he is not even searching for anything in you. He simply loves watching you. And now he cannot find you.

In his delusional, fucked up head, he believes that you are playing chase now. You want him to pursue you. So that is what you want? He will give it to you. He searches through the city, the alleys—everywhere and anywhere he can think of finding you– and is unsuccessful.

He cannot track you, your car is sold. He cannot see you, he can no longer watch you. David thinks he is patient, and he has been in many ways–he is a cold-blooded murderer after all. He thinks, he plans and then he  acts. He is always ten steps ahead of the police.

But now, he gets a little restless, a little impatient, and so he skips the dramatics and dives into the murder. No more dancing, no more secret places. It is just a bloodied body in a shady alley. But he keeps in mind to not get caught, of course. The police also suspect that there are two serial killers in town. That helps because he does not enjoy the chase. Not unless it is you.

David Allen Griffin is obsessed with you to the extent that you become the sole purpose of his acts. So when you do not come out of your burrow even after three murders in six months, he stops. Getting caught and never seeing you again is his worst nightmare. his old tricks clearly aren't working anymore; the best he can do is to be patient and wait. He has many pictures of you, and every time he pays a woman to make his nights less lonely, he demands they wear a wig that is eerily identical to your hair and the clothes you are wearing in all the pictures he has of you. It is like that is the only way he can feel pleasure- deluding himself that it is you, trying not to look at the woman underneath while he thrusts into her

Imagine that after your godfather and mentor's death, you resign and fly off to another state or country, but the anonymous killer never leaves your mind. Everything you do is to reach him now. Your godfather's death haunts you, and while you pursue a degree in criminal psychology, you also visit a therapist regularly. The sleeping pills may make the nightmares stop, but they do not make you capable of overcoming the trauma of discovering your mentor's bloodied body in his apartment. You have come to realise that if you want to win his game, you will have to understand his mind.

Imagine returning five years later with a degree in criminal psychology and some field experience, not to join the police force this time, but a crime analysis and research agency where you can remain low-profile and off the radar.

For most, perhaps, not for David. he sniffs you out within six months of you being back in town, and to him, it is the February sun---warm, inviting and a relief from misery. Five years of waiting, of hoping, of writing love letters to you on your anniversary(the night you chased him, he remembers the date and the time) and leaving them at your still-unoccupied apartment, and he finally sees you.

David is delusional enough to genuinely believe that you have returned to the city for him. This time, though, he does not slip in a letter into your old apartment on your 'anniversary', he waits. He knows that you will return there one day. A month later, you do, and discover his previous letters, and while you are reading them, mentally trying to keep calm, he discreetly slips in the latest. You notice the distinct fragrance of your old perfume first and immediately spring to action, looking around frantically and reaching for your gun out of caution. And when you notice a delicate pink envelope in front of the door, you rush out, slamming the door open and not even bothering to close it.

David feels his blood rushing south when he watches you frantically look around the area. He even wonders if the back of the dark building he is hiding in is a good enough place to loosen his pants. Ultimately, he decides against it, being content in just watching you. He finally has you chasing him after years, and if this is not what he has waited for, then he does not know what he has been even doing.

To your utter disappointment, you fail to catch him once more, but now you have something substantial. You know that this man, this monste,r is somehow fixated on you. You have researched and helped solve such cases, but the difference is, this one is personal, and this is just one of the many aspects. You have not been able to figure him out until now. Now, you have something, a form of communication, albeit one-sided, but it is something and there will be more, you realise, sniffing the latest envelope that reeks of your old perfume. It's creepy enough that it is what you used to use, but what makes it creepier is that it was the perfume you reserved for special occasions.

You have been considering selling that apartment, but now you have decided against it. You keep that place but do go back to living in it. You know that he's clever; you need to be smarter.

David is smart; he somehow knows the inner workings of law enforcement, and he has forensic knowledge, but he is also delusional. When he sees you carrying his letter back to your new apartment he is yet to invade, it is all the confirmation he needs about you. You feel something for him, you have to. Why else would you be carrying those letters back to your place?

He is elated, he is over the moon. But the sheer joy turns into the in his mouth the moment he sees you with another man.

David fumes. He is the type to see you as his purpose but also his possession. Like his favourite toy, he would hate to hurt you. Seeing you all dolled up for another man makes his heart burn.

Do you not know? He burns for you, because of you? Are you tormenting him for giving you a chase?

From a distance, he watches, the burning simmers into a cold rage as he puts on his gloves and waits for that man to drop you home.

You are shocked to find the picture of your date all over the television two days later---murdered in his apartment. The police question you since you are the last person he saw before meeting his demise. Strangled with a piano string that cut into his neck with steady force. The pictures are bloody, and it almost seems like someone has tried to imitate the elusive serial killer but has been crueler. In your gut, though, you just know it's him.

You get the confirmation in the form of a picture of the man, clearly taken before his death. His terrified eyes stare at the camera as blood trickles down his temple. But what makes it worse is that it is wrapped in your old perfume fragrance. You try to curb the anxiety, slowly wrapping your heart with its thorny tendrils. You have been going to regular therapy since your mentor's death. it's getting better, all you have to do is control your breathing, you tell yourself.

The landline ring slices through the otherwise silent apartment. It makes you jump, but you rush to pick it up, albeit with shaky limbs. "Hello?"

The silence from the other end makes you frown. You listen closely, there is breathing. Someone is holding it close but not speaking. The breathing is light at first.

"Hello? Who's it?"

The breathing increases, turns a little louder, and your stomach drops. You go silent as well, waiting.

"Let this be a lesson for what happens when you go behind my back and cheat."

You hear his voice for the first time and freeze. It's deceptively pleasant and deep but with a soothing airiness to it. If you did not know better, you would have thought you could fall asleep to this voice.

But it's him.

The line cuts, but you feel his voice linger. he leaves an impression, an ugly impression and the burning hatred you have felt for him for so long rears its ugly head in the form of a crumbling bout of anxiety. You try to steady yourself, rushing towards your room. Pulling out the bottle of pills, you pop one into your mouth and swallow it with water, and you know that the voice will haunt you for a long time.

David’s attention shifts from just keeping an eye on you to keeping your attention on him again. He finds the research agency you work in and leaves an anonymous tip on one of his older killings for your boss. He knows this will get your attention, and to his utter delight, it does.

Five years ago, you would have jumped into a blind chase, an arrow shot in the dark struck something—so you would have chased it. But not anymore. You understand such games. You know it is him, and you are determined to outplay him. You humour him, following his lead, but in reality, you want to lure him out of his burrow.

Meanwhile, you frequent your new therapist. Since his call, you have visited twice a week instead of thrice a month. The building is a hospital that houses several departments. The psychologists and psychiatrists sit right on the top, with the cardiac department in the middle. Now, you have nothing to do with the cardiac department, yet more than once, you have crossed paths with a man in a white coat.

 He passes you a silent smile, and while you are guarded and mostly exhausted, it is hard not to smile back. He has this sweet and welcoming air about him that perfectly pairs with his height and handsome features, a straight, sharp nose, and brown eyes that may seem deep brown at first, but when the light hits them, the honey-brown shines through. They have a warmth in them; he has something comforting about him. Though the analytical part of your brain can sense that he is far from gullible, he holds an overall warm and optimistic aura.

But that is all speculation. You have never truly spoken to him. He smiles at you, and you smile back. The rest of the ride is silent. You have crossed paths only three or four time,s but the familiarity is somewhat comforting. 

Imagine one day, he does not get off on his usual floor, instead, he stays. You are surprised but do not comment; your work occupies your mind, and you are too exhausted to socialise anyway. You know his name by no,w though—Julian Mercer. He walks out of the lift with you instead and for a moment, you do feel an urge to at least say ‘hi’. Yet you don’t. Your insomnia is worsening, and you only want to find a way to sleep better. How will you outplay that monster if you can’t even sleep right?

“Is this the first time he has contacted you?” 

“No, while I was actively working on murders, he sent me the location of two bodies anonymously.”

“And how do you know that it’s a man?” She asks.

You sigh and look up “He called.” You cannot bring yourself to say it out loud. 

The doctor nods her head and scribbles something down on her notepad

“Did it scare you?”

You realise it did more than just ‘scare’ you.

“It rattled me.” You admit, “I have been more anxious, and I have not been able to sleep more than three hours. It’s like ten steps back.”

“Progress (Y/N) is never linear. Healing takes time, and time tests you.”

“ I thought…I did not think it would affect me this way.”

“I think he enjoys your attention, he clearly did not like you going on a date with another man.”

You look up to meet her gaze “Yes, he made it obvious.” You grit out.

“You might have to continue your medication for a while.”

“Figured that out.” You lean against your chair

Although you are continuing with your previous medication, no new has been added, with a regular session with your new therapist, you hope to leave the current ones behind as well. But the current situation seems to make that a tougher goal.

David is the type to stalk you; he has this intense fascination and predatory instinct warring within. He is more or less a psychopath, so what he feels toward you is pure obsession, not ‘love’. A part of him just wants to pounce on you, wrap his hands around your throat and watch the light fade from your eyes. Maybe he can keep all your belongings? Especially everything you used, like your half-empty water bottles, unwashed clothes, make-up—anything.

Yet another part of him, the stronger, bigger part, is fascinated by you—your movements, expression, grit, and breathing. You. Out of all the others on dollification, David truly sees you as an object. His most prized possession is that even though he believes that you and he balance and complete each other, you both need each other. His perception of you is complex and contradictory, and so is his mind.

When he gets his hands on your recorded session with your therapist, he spends hours listening to your voice. And he spends hours listening to all the times you have mentioned him.

“ I thought…I did not think it would affect me this way.”

“I think he enjoys your attention, he clearly did not like you going on a date with another man.”

 “Yes, he made it obvious.”

He sighs. Listening to this conversation for the fifteenth time.

“You are upset, aren’t you? But I did it for you, for us. To make it work between us. And I would do everything to make it work. What is a relationship without any turbulence? It will make us stronger.”

He says out loud, throwing his head back.

Imagine him sending an anonymous note to the police about his next target. The place where they shall find the body. It is a riddle so as expected, the police make it public, and it reaches the intended audience– you.

You throw yourself into solving the riddle, figuring out the exact location. You are on a time limit though. You have to reach here before he does, with the body. This time, he calls you on your mobile phone. 

“Don’t you feel alive? The chase, the rush. You finally have it all back. I gave you back your purpose.”

“You know nothing of my purpose. You think you do, though.”

You try to pry, get into his mind while you can.

“I know you more than anyone else (Y/N)!”

You breathe in. Small victory: he is getting worked up.

“I do not care about you or your riddles. I have left that all behind.” You lie, the city man in your hold as you try to put the dots together through the riddle.

The silence on the other end has your breathing paused for a moment before he speaks again.

“You have not left anything behind. You visit your apartment, you visit a stupid therapist, and you eat out at the same sad restaurant at a sad table every other day. I know deep down you miss me as well…You simply cannot forget, can you? That old man’s body on the pool of his blood. He choked on it, you have known. I know you took the postmortem report back home.”

Your breathing hitches as your fingers tighten on your flip phone.

“I am sending you another clue. After all, one of us has to work on this relationship.”

You bite your tongue to refrain from saying anything stupid before he hangs up. 

You know you should not be doing this. You know that you are giving him exactly what he wants, but you cannot help it. Someone’s life is in danger, and the ex-rookie, idealistic cop in you cannot sleep on it. You can play his cruel games later; right now, you need to save an innocent person.

Of course, you fail to get there on time. Just as you think you have it all figured out, you reach the place, only to discover the body of a man lying dead, eyes open with the ghost of shock and pain lingering. It hasn’t been late, the blood has not even begun to dry up. You search around the place, anguished.

“Come out! I know you are here. Show yourself you coward!” You scream out, but all you get is the distant horns of rushing vehicles and the blowing wind. 

David’s heart drums against his chest as he presses further against the pillar. It’s not fear, nothing about you scares him. It’s pure joy. You are only a few feet away; all he wants to do is pounce. 

Would you bite him? Hit him?

Oh, he hopes you would be as passionate as him—teeth against teeth, mouth against mouth. Will you thank him at last? He has reignited the fire in you. He has given you a purpose.

—--

Imagine returning to your apartment later that night, exhausted and disappointed, when the landline rings, tearing through the heavy silence. You know who it is before even before picking up the phone.

“Did you miss me?”

“Just by minutes, I suppose.”

You know this is not the answer he was seeking, but you have no energy or patience to lure him, not tonight. You will have to be cold and thorough this time.

“Oh, (Y/N),” he sighs from the other end, “Only if you knew how hard I have worked for you to get here, for us to come this far, reignite the fire. You don’t need those stupid therapy sessions, you need me, like I need you.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? You do not understand, do you?”

“Understand what?” You frown

“Goodnight (Y/N).” 

—------

You smile at the man in front of you. The pub is the perfect place for a drinks night—date night. You feel at ease after what feels like ages. Jack has a smile that can brighten the room and the kind, sincere brown eyes you wish to lean into. He makes you laugh and lean closer to him. He is everything a woman would wish for—kind, intelligent, sincere, cheeky, self-assured and gentlemanly. You feel the kind of warmth and security you wish you felt before. It makes you smile from within, beaming, blushing and giggling—back to the sweet days of giddy and carefree temperaments. You are never going to be the same, but it feels better when someone brings back those feelings for once

 It goes well with a parting kiss and a promise of a second date. 

Imagine fiddling with the lock of your door, a little drunk with a giggle bubbling in your throat before a gloved hand covers your mouth, snatching you away. Your instinct kicks in a moment too late, the sharp prick of a syringe weakens your kick to the shin of the assailant, it earns him a grunt, but your vision is already floating.

—----

You wake up with an ache in your neck and your vision still floating. You blink, trying to focus and help the dull ache behind your eyes. Your body feels heavy and achy, so when you try to roll your shoulders, you realise that your hands are tied behind your back.

Of course.

You groan, realising that you are in a sitting position, a wooden chair. You look around, only to find Jack tied on the floor, still knocked out, the dried blood on the side of his head and it becomes all too easy to guess how he ended up here.

You try to steady your heartbeat and let out a long, quivering exhale. That is when you notice the tape over your mouth. 

Fucking great!

You huff, though you cannot bring yourself to be too upset. The bastard is finally going to show himself.

When you received his call, you knew it in your bones that he was targeting your therapist. The poor woman had nothing to do with this, and you would not let her be dragged into the mess. You had to come up with something. And if not your therapist, he might go after the poor doctor. It was unlikely, but you wanted to warn him anyway.

You needed someone to distract him, you had to piss him off, he would make a mistake. That was when you contacted your old colleague and friend–Jack Traven. You and Jack had joined the LAPD together, but after you resigned, he was selected to join the LAPD SWAT. You kept contact with him throughout your years abroad, the only person from your previous workplace you put efforts to maintain a connection with. It was to his credit mostly, Jack kept check on you, regularly contacting you through mails or calls. He was the one who knew that you were actively hunting your godfather’s killer, and he was the one you thought of when you realised that you needed help.

You reached the hospital earlier than your regular schedule with the intention of distracting your therapist and the doctor. You remembered that he was from the cardiology department “Hi, I am looking for Doctor Juian Mercer?”

The receptionist looked confused before shaking her head.

“You mean Doctor Joshua?” She tested.

“Oh no, Doctor Julian Mercer, uh, this is the department of cardiology, if I’m not wrong?”

“Yes, Ma’am, it is. But there is no  cardiologist of this name working here.” You frowned, surprised.

“Um, could you check for me once?”

Sighing, she took out a file. “This is where the staff members are at the end and beginning of their shift.”

There was no Julian Mercer after all. Your throat parched as you began to connect the dots.

“Thank you so much.” You smiled at her before walking out.

Everything has gone according to plan. You called Jack, who had a friend help him make a fake profile of an electrical engineer, and you both acted to be on a date. You had deliberately avoided meeting Jack after your return; you did not want him to become a part of this mess, and it paid off. You knew he would know, and Jack is more than capable of handling himself. But the only surprise factor is that he has taken you along with Jack. 

Clearly, you and Jack have underestimated him, and you know that he has taken off the gun strapped to your ankle because ropes dig in through your pants now.

You look at Jack with concern. Maybe involving him was a bad idea; he has his life ahead and the possibility of a bright, happy future. You had asked for someone else, someone not related to LAPD at all but willing to get his hands dirty, but Jack insisted that he would do this himself, he is a stubborn, loyal man of morals and looking at his unconscious form, you are afraid that this might be the cause of his demise.

No, no, no, focus!

You chide yourself, trying to keep your rising anxiety in check, shifting your attention to the ropes instead. No, they are knotted clever and tight.

Come out, come out, bastard.

You look around the dimly lit place. The small window shows nothing but darkness, making you grit your teeth. You know he is watching from the shadows; he has to be here somewhere, and the faint drag of metal along concrete confirms that.

Despite your best efforts, your breathing is not free from faint quivers. You almost flinch on hearing a click before a record starts playing, a kind of romantic song one wants to dance to. You look around, trying to locate the device, probably a cassette player.

Instead, he emerges from the shadows—and your theory has been proven correct. ‘Doctor Julian Mercer’ emerges from the shadows, wearing a black leather jacket and the same smile he has been greeting you with for a while. Now, all he seems to lack is a set of sharp, pointed teeth. 

“And finally we meet, isn’t it romantic?” He looks around and purses his lips “Ah, maybe somewhere better, with candles, and…” his gaze falls on an unconscious Jack “Without unwanted company.”

He drags a metal rod along the concrete, sauntering towards Jack’s motionless figure. Your heart drums against your ribs as you try the rope while being as discreet as possible. But maybe you have not been quiet enough. He turns to you, the beaming smile returns, and you gulp faintly. 

“I had planned a better setting (Y/N), and it was perfect, by the river, for a dinner date. But you—” He looks away and runs his finger through his hair “You just had to ruin everything.” 

You feel your heartbeat picking up when he walks towards you instead. He leans in with both hands on the arms of the chair. If you want to lean away, anyone would, but you do not, you cannot afford to miss your only chance. You gulp and gaze into his bottomless orbs. At a glance, they might seem deep brown, but on closer inspection, they seem a shade lighter. From afar, he might seem a gentleman; on closer inspection, you can see the madness flickering in his orbs like a bonfire—controlled yet nurtured.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, tearing the tape off your mouth as you suppress a hiss. 

The act tears off a little bit of skin, and a hint of crimson seeps out that he wipes off with his thumb before sucking it off. You breathe in deeply, subduing a shudder.

“I wondered why you went silent.” You whisper out. 

It’s not a complete lie, but you refrain from giving him what he wants.

He smiles, sweet on the surface, and it makes it even more unsettling “Because I was waiting for you…Did you read my letters?”

“Yes. Yes, I read your letters, every letter.”

“Yes, I used your sweet perfume, just for you. I sleep with it every day. You know why?”

“Because you hunt at night?”

It makes him chuckle, his breath mixes with yours “Just to feel close to you. Just to smell you, feel you beside me.” He reveals, making your stomach flip, “You vanished,” he clicks his fingers “just like that. But I knew that you would return, could not let go of your old man’s dead face, could you?”

That makes the subdued fire within you rage; you may have managed to keep most of your emotions in check, but this is a sore spot.

“There it is, the fire—I knew I could reignite it, I always knew it, only I can keep it. I felt it that night when you chased me. You were so, so close.”

“Yes, I was so, so close.”

I should have shot you down

David smiles. “You see it, too; you just need to accept it. We give each other purpose and balance each other out. Like yin and yang, one cannot exist in the absence of the other. We need each other. Say it…admit that you need me (Y/N).”

“You know how many serial killers are active in the city right now?” 

You feel slightly disoriented due to whatever he injected into your bloodstream. Your neck aches, and it climbs into a dull headache on the side of your head. But it all is worth seeing that sinister grin wiped out of his face. 

“Five more. And you know how many serial killers I have profiled and analysed? Over twenty. Even when I was a rookie, I was analysing serial killers; even when I was studying Forensics, I was analysing them.”

“All because of me. I was the reason. I started this fire. I gave you a purpose. Say it!”

You look into his crazed eyes “You are just another paperwork.”

All traces of amusement or mirth evaporate from his eyes before a swift strike almost makes you topple over with the chair, but he holds it steady. 

“Fuck.” You curse, your cheeks throbbing along with your head. 

“All you do is put everything down the drain while I try to save our relationship.” You force down the pained whimper when he grips your cheeks to jerk your face towards him.

“It’s him, isn’t he? That therapist of yours and he are making you stray from your true purpose. Can’t you see it? We could make this work if that thing did not show up in your life again.” 

For the first time in the night, you see his calm demeanour crack, showing a glimpse of his twisted mind.

“You…You should be thanking me. But you have been such a brat.” His fingers dig deeper, earning a pained gasp from you, much to his delight. 

“Stop touching her.” Comes a tense voice from behind.

Your eyes turn to Jack, still lying on the ground, now glaring at David.

“Oh, look who’s awake!” David claps his hand with a grin as his attention shifts behind him, allowing you to move your shoulders a bit as you adjust your hands and fish out the thin and small but sharp pocket knife from your back pocket.

“Has nobody taught you that stealing is bad?”

“She’s not a thing, asshole.” Jack’s words earn him a kick on his stomach, and while you wince, you are partly thankful for this distraction, trying to cut through the ropes as fast as you can.

“You know what she just called me? Paperwork.” He grins, holding the back of Jack's neck and yanking him to stand up, only to kick his shin and make him fall back on the concrete

“I will give a nice, slow death.” He mutters, getting hold of his metal rod once more.

“Thank you.” 

The rod ceases mid air “What did you say?”

“I said…Thank you.” You repeat louder, glancing at the rusted rod hovering over Jack.

David chuckles, clearly delighted. Dropping the rod on Jack’s shin, his grin stretches at the poor man’s groan before he walks towards you.

“Say it again.” He whispers, leaning to match your gaze

“Thank you.” You repeat, quieter this time.

“Louder.”

“Thank you.” You oblige, praying that Jack is not badly wounded.

“Good, very good… That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He leans closer, and while you try to keep your anxiety in check, the proximity makes you feel uneasy.

“Say that I give you purpose.” You can practically feel his breath over your lips, 

“You gave…” You pause as he leans closer, his gaze dropping to your moving lips “You gave me a purpose.” 

“Open your mouth.”

What?

“Open your mouth and stick your pretty tongue out.”

Okay, this is far worse than you assumed.

When you do not comply, he smirks.

“That’s why we are perfect for each other.”  Without warning, he takes out a gun from his pocket and shoots behind him. The bullet hits the concrete pillar just a few inches away from Jack.

“NO!” You cry out, eyes wide and heart thumping

“Now open your mouth or the bullet hits his leg next.”

Trying to keep your breathing under control, you glare at him as you reluctantly open your mouth.

“Very good.” He drawls, slipping his thumb into your mouth, “Think twice before biting me.” He waves his gun in warning, still pointed towards Jack.

He lets out a sigh, resting his thumb on your tongue, and you wonder if he contemplating ripping your tongue out. But you already know that he might have something much worse in mind.

“You know how many times I imagined this? You showing me gratitude, accepting me, acknowledging this…This is the electric connection between us. This pull that always brings us together.”

You fume, not even having the luxury to grit your teeth.

“Now show me some gratitude and suck.”

Your eyes narrow at that.

He raises an eyebrow, pushing his thumb deeper “Is that how it’s going to be then? Well—Agrh!”

You flinch when hsi head wisp to the side and he pulls his thumb away, stumbling and clutching the back of his head instead.

“I said stop. Touching. Her.” Jack stands over, clutching the rod, eyes raging.

Grasping the opportunity, you spring to action, untangling your hands from the now cut ropes, you bend to free your feet as well while Jack knocks out the gun from David’s hand and lands punch on his gut.

But he has no idea who he is dealing with. David does not stay down for long, kicking Jack on the shin and pins him to the nearest wall by the rod pressing on his neck. “Should have emptied my gun into your head earlier.” David growls, choking Jack with the rod.

You lunge for the gun laying on the ground.

“Get the away from him!”

David turns to you and smirks.

“You cannot kill me (Y/N), you need me, we need each other. We are made for—”

You pull the trigger before he can repeat his delusional claims, watching his head jerk back before he falls to the ground with the rod, motionless while Jack hunches over, coughing.

“Time to sleep, scum.”

You whisper out, years of rage finally beginning to dissipate. You have imagined this moment  every night, every day and watching it turned into reality, your hands shake with exhilaration. 

“Y–you okay?” Jack’s voice is rough as he looks at you concerned.

“Yeah.” You finally lower the gun “Yeah, I am.”

“I am more than okay.” You admit quietly.

*****

Update: I watched the movie, and it is not so bad. Some scenes were obviously inspired by the movie, and those who have watched it will know. If you haven't, it doesn't make any difference. hope you enjoyed reading!

[yurislilygarden]

ʚїɞ Self Aware! Hazbin Hotel

ʚїɞ Their reaction after becoming self-aware and first thoughts about reader!

ʚїɞ Charlie Morningstar and Vaggie / Part 3!

ʚїɞ Keep in mind English is not my first language, so you may find mistakes!

ʚїɞ Word count: just below 1.2k

ʚїɞ Part 1! (Lucifer and Alastor) Part 2 (Angel Dust and Husk)

ʚїɞ Not me casually posting like it hasn't been months since the 2nd part... ANYWAY... This took WAY too long but it's here!!!! This is shorter than I wanted, but I already knew it would be short as I don't grasp these two too well imo, so I didn't have too much to say here. Probably will rewrite it one day if I ever decide I got better with their characters as I would love for this to be longer <3

Very few characters would notice something wrong on the first watch of the show, but wouldn't realize, nor become self-aware until the 2nd or further watch.

While everyone's reaction would be different with different amounts of stages before total acceptance of the situation, they all would share the first emotion, simple disbelief. They would first need to even process the fact that they're not real, that they were created solely for the purpose of entertaining… something? Someone? In a completely different Universe. That everything that they thought had happened to them before they died didn't actually happen, they were never alive in the first place. Only after that did the emotions and reactions differ. The very first emotion or actual personal reaction would be:

Charlie

Fright, confusion, frustration

Charlie didn't know what to think at first. On one side, she, and everyone else, are 2D characters on a show for fucks sake, but on the other side, you didn't do anything to them. She would be the only one (in hell) to not be outright negative about you, she started out at the neutral zone.

Whether the others were already aware or not, they could notice a change in her behavior for a few days after the situation hits her. To think that the 200+ years that she thought that she was alive was actually a lie, fake, would be a hard fact to swallow. Her being rightfully confused about the situation, many questions filled her head and she had no answers. Like father, like daughter, if you will.

What exactly do you want from them? Can you do something else besides watching them? Do you want to do something more? Would you talk to them directly if you could? Do you-

Yeah, she's like her father in that aspect.

She was curious on just how much would change if they weren't in a show, no, if they had a choice in anything, since they wouldn't exist without the show. The thought may give her nightmares. Could her relationship with her dad be better than what it is? Could she do more for hell? Would her mother still be here and not missing? 

Some frustration could come in early on, as she was already stressed about the hotel, but also trying to keep everyone from being negative about you. While they didn't know much, you didn't show any malicious intent, which in her books was enough to not outright dislike you. She would be pretty close to the negative zone in the first few days, but it would quickly turn to neutral upon knowing she wasn't the only one to know, and being told what little they knew.

She didn't even look for the signs of everything around them being just wrong, she didn't need to. She would just sit there and realize how quiet everything was outside, how many memories that she previously thought she had, seemed to be actually lacking in existence.

As for whether she would be disappointed in herself for not noticing earlier or not, I see two options.

One, she wouldn't be necessarily really disappointed in herself for not noticing, at least not as much as some of the others upon finding out and processing the fact that there were people who noticed before her, but also that there were people who didn't realize after her.

Then there's the second option where I can imagine her being immensely disappointed in herself for not noticing much, much sooner. She’s the princess of hell, she should’ve noticed it! She would be overthinking that if something happened before she became self-aware, she wouldn't have been able to help in any way. She wouldn't be aware of it.

She may have not been the first to notice your presence, but she wasn't the last, which gave her a little bit of comfort either way.

She would be in the “can only watch” team with not much hesitation about it, and in the neutral zone from pretty much the start.

Vaggie

Anger, frustration and hatred

One of the few who would hate you the moment they processed everything. At first, her thoughts weren't the most rational, going off of negative feelings in panic and in general, but what she thought about you didn't change much even after she calmed down. She despised the thought of her, them all, being some bullshit made-up characters for someone to enjoy. She started out in the negative zone with no hesitation. She really tried not to think about the fact that she, none of them, were ever truly alive, that her whole life, existence, was fake to her very core.

After she became self-aware, she tried to find signs she missed before and it pained her when she realized how obvious everything was. She couldn't remember most of the things besides what was showed on the screen for you, the outside of the hotel wasn't filled with screaming 24/7 a day like she thought it was, there wasn't even anyone outside when she looked outside. It was painfully obvious and yet she, none of them, realized it fast enough for her liking.

She would be pissed and assume you like seeing them suffer, because why would you just watch as another character got rid of her eye? Why would you just watch bad things happen and do nothing? It’s frustrating as hell to her that she can’t do shit to you/your form and the only thing she can really do is sit back, observe, and watch as things happen, unable to do anything… ironic, isn’t it?

Unlike Charlie, she would for sure be heavily frustrated and disappointed in herself for not noticing anything earlier, the fact that she wasn't in the first 3 to notice after being told everything didn't help her inner thoughts, especially with how protective she can be.

If she became self-aware before Charlie, she would be unexplainably more protective of her (and others but she would try to not make it as obvious), until her girlfriend became self-aware herself and understood the reason (Charlie would still think its a little bit too much since she would think you were completely harmless to them). She would act in a similar fashion to finding out before Charlie if she were the latter to find out, but her actions wouldn't be as concealed due to the reasons already being known.

Would make her hatred clear whenever they were on the topic of you, or when your butterfly form was around them. Vaggie would throw you a glare the moment she knows you couldn't see her without hesitation. Tried to stab you through your small body or wing with her spear to see if she could (do some damage back) hurt you, only to be disappointed when it just phased right through you.

Vaggie would be on the “only watches but can do more” team, and start out heavily in the negative zone, before, Charlie would get her to the neutral zone with some time.

Notes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated

｡⋆｡˚ ʚ Taglist ɞ ˚｡⋆｡

@laundrybear413 @leathesimp

[nemumiruku]

Nothing much, just mindless Abyss Watchers enjoying you.

tw: rape, non-con, gang-bang, double penetration, multiple blowjobs, fuck or die situation,…

Under swirling ambers in the rancid swamp, the faint glow of dying bonfires cast red and orange patterns on the churned mud beneath.

The Abyss Watchers surround you in a small semicircle, blades dripping with rotting blood, their breath was hot and bestial inside their helms. One of them steps forward, his boots squelching, the metallic rasp of his armor grating in the silence.

He doesn’t speak. None of them do. Their intent is carved into every tense line of their bodies, swords dropping with dull thuds as they close in.

A gauntlet clamps around your arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise, yanking you forward until you slam against a cold breastplate. Another shoves you from behind, forcing you to your knees in the muck.

They’re fighting each other for position, elbowing and snarling, but only barely holding back from slaughtering each other outright. One Watcher growls, shoving his armored forearm across your back to pin you down while he fumbles his cock out, already hard, fat and heavy as it brushes your lips slick with swamp water.

He pulls at your hair and presses in at the same time, forcing your mouth open with brute weight. You gag as the thick shaft slides across your tongue, the metallic tang of blood and sweat filling your senses. Drool spills from the corners of your mouth to mix with mud below. He doesn’t thrust yet, but just holds you there, savoring the heat of your mouth clamped tight around him with fingers tangled in your hair.

Behind you, another Watcher is rougher, wrenching your hips upward so your ass is exposed. The noise of his armor clattering fades behind the sloppy, sick sound of spit landing on your hole. Two fingers jam in dry, scissoring fast, making you jerk in pain.

He drags his cock along your entrance, teasing, before pushing in hard enough to punch the breath from you. The slick squelch is obscene, every inch forcing your body to stretch and burn. He finds a brutal rhythm immediately, heavy balls slapping your thighs.

Your moans are muffled around the Watcher fucking your mouth, his cockhead battering your throat. He leans forward, weight pressing you down further, until your head is nearly half in the mud, wet filth sucking at your cheeks with every gasp. His pace is slow but crushing, hips rocking with measured power, grinding your lips raw.

Meanwhile, another has pulled your limp arm toward him, curling your fingers around his shaft and forcing you to jerk him off, wet with his own precum. He’s watching the others take you, gaze locked on where you’re stretched open, his breath hardened inside his helm.

The one in your ass grunts, pace quickened, thrusts growing more and more erratic. He buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching, warmth flooding you in thick pulses that leak out immediately to smear your thighs. He doesn’t linger, pulling out with a wet pop that leaves you gaping, cum dripping down your legs.

Another replaces him instantly, ignoring your broken whine. He shoves in without ceremony, your hole already slick enough that he doesn’t need to prep. He’s faster, rutting deep and sharp, fingers digging bruises into your hips to pull you back onto him harder.

Your vision swims, tears mingling with dirt on your cheeks, throat sore and raw from choking. The one in your mouth finally cums, holding your head tight, cockhead swelling as he shoots hot down your throat. You gag, nose pressed against his pelvis, forced to swallow or drown.

He drags out slowly, leaving your mouth open, drool and cum spilling onto your chest in fat strands. He wipes the last smear across your cheek with his thumb before stepping away to watch.

Two more crowd around, armors scraping. One grabs your hair to force your head up, pressing his cock to your lips. The other kneels behind you, fingers spreading your cum-slick cheeks to spit and laugh at the sloppy mess leaking out. He rams in with a single savage thrust.

Your moans break into sobs as they use you, breathing weakly as your body quake with each violent impact. Cum spatters your face and chest as another finishes, painting you in pearly streaks. Their brutalness makes mud cakes your knees, your palms, and your hair.

Nevertheless, the Watchers don’t stop. They fight among themselves only to see who gets the next turn, dragging you this way and that, armor clanking, already snarling like animals. Their cocks are dark and slick with your spit, your blood, their cum. You’re hoarse from trying to cry out, only raw, broken noises spilling now.

One of them holds you up by your hair and arm while another fucks you hard enough your legs buckle, smearing your cum-soaked ass across his armored thighs. Wet slaps and squelches echo in the filthy swamp, punctuated by lustful grunts.

When he cums, he doesn’t even pull out. He collapses forward onto your back, still inside you, cock twitching with the last spurts. The weight knocks you flat in the ground, cheek pressed against wet earth, half-conscious, cunt leaking hot seed in thick streams.

Another kicks him off and yanks you up, hauling your spent body like a rag doll. He turns you, lifting your legs up with strong arms, forcing you to cling onto him just to look at him through the smeared eye slits of his helm. You see only a red glow and hear his breathing before he shoves in roughly.

You’re limp, barely able to move, every holes used and leaking. Nevertheless, they keep going. Silvery armors clatter, and milky cum drips, the little swamp churns with every movement.

When you can’t even mutter a single word anymore, they use your body like it’s nothing but warm meat. Filling you up again and again to satiate their corruption, their carnal desires leave your holes gaping raw. Hot and warm semen pools beneath you, steaming in the cold night air.

It feels endless. And the Abyss Watchers are tireless.

But at least once they have their fill, they’ll leave you alone.

Or so you thought as they all lick their lips at you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fool's Game 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki Laufeyson

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Loki and Bugsy.

Summary: strangers on a train aren't as strange as they seem.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The train is crowded. That's not unexpected. There are few occasions in life that truly surprise Loki. That day is just a milquetoast as any other. All but one thing. One person.

He sits across from her. She never notices him. Her eyes do not leave the screen of her console. He's not one for the habit. The glare hurts his eyes and often triggers a migraine. No games, no phone but if absolutely necessary, and no distractions.

She's so oblivious he doesn't even need to hide behind the book. Well, it helps elude the curiosity of others who might notice his fleeting gaze.

The first time she sat across from him, he was not impressed. Irked would be more apt. She flew in like a storm and fell into the seat so hard she nearly bounced right out of it. He watched her charge fall from her bag, there, right by the polished toe of his shoe. At first he did not reach for it, yet when she took no heed, he gave in. His mother's voice would not quiet until he retrieved it.

The headset with the bunny ears kept her from hearing him. At least, he would accept only that as an excuse. He's a proper gentleman and she would not ignore him deliberately. He left it on the small lap table extended from her armrest as she did not see his efforts to get her attention. He wasn't going to try any harder.

That day, her brows draw together and her forehead lines. He can't see all of her but she lets out little breaths in her frustration. She squirms and plants her feet, as if that will help her in her game. She tilts the console this way and that then drops it to her lap. She huffs in defeat. He sees the image on her screen; two lethal red words: You Died.

His eyes slowly crawl up and meet hers. She blanches and quickly hides again. He does the same. The words are not legible as his mind races.

He does not lower the book again until he hears her puffing once more in her quest. He peeks at her. She has the wire of the headset between her lips as he rests her elbows on the armrests and hunches over. He can see her figure thrashing around but not much else as the colours on the screen are skewed. She jams her thumbs on the sticks and buttons then a flash and once more, the end screen. She pouts and throws herself back against the seat. She closes her eyes and doesn't move as a dark cloud swallows the image on the console.

The tension slowly eases and her mouth slants from one side to the other. She chews her cheeks and dips her chin down. She opens her eyes and holds down the button to shut off the system. She carefully zips it away in the fuzzy case and stuffs it into her larger bag. Another piece decorated with bunnies. They must be a favourite.

She brings the knapsack into her lap and hugs it. She looks out the window and her expression strains again. She doesn't dare look anywhere but outside, away from the people, away from him.

He supposes that's why he didn't take their first meeting personally. When she was asked coffee or tea by the lady with the cart, she couldn't speak. She merely shook her head with panic in her precious eyes. He knew then why she did not see him. Well, she needn't fear, he was not out to hurt her and he would make sure no other did as well.

🐇

He stands on the platform. Not far from her but not close enough to draw detection. It's an art being unseen but fortunately he's had a lifetime of practice. His brother, his sister, both always drew all the praise, all the purpose. He was just him. Just there.

She stands with shoulders slumped. She has her hood up. Her jacket also has floppy ears and the fleece looks more fit for a stuffed toy. She sways anxiously as she stands near the thick yellow caution line at the front.

The train whines down the tracks but she doesn't seem to notice. She's distracted but he can't tell by what. She's usually the first on but several pass her by before she reacts to the locomotive's arrival.

As she goes to step up, her toe hits the edge and she falls forward. He's moving before he can stop himself. He grabs her elbow and draws her to her feet as she sniffles.

She trembles and he squeezes before he thinks to let her go. She looks down at his long fingers but doesn't have the courage to look him in the face. She wipes her nose.

"Thank you," she murmurs and turns to climb up again, this time keeping her footing.

She's crying. He usually is annoyed by others showing such dire emotion. It's often misplaced. But not with her. His chest pangs. Something's happened. Someone's hurt her when he vowed that no one would.

He follows her up. She sits in 13a and he sits in 13c. Where they always do. She does not unzip her bag or take out her console. She picks at the edges of her nail beds and keeps her head down.

She gulps and her shoulders shake. His balls his fists. He wants to know the cad who's done this!

His heart races. He can't reveal himself. Not yet. Even if she is upset. She's not ready. No, he isn't. He hasn't thought of how.

Well, it's all a fool's dream. He's not serious, is he? She's just a stranger. Even if he knows her name. And where she lives. And where she works. That's all happenstance. It's not anything much deeper than that.

She leans into the window, embracing the bag like a dear friend. He can't see under her slouching hood. The food cart rolls around. He's about to wave the woman on then thinks better of it. The evening train is usually much sparser. He pays for a shortbread cookie. He takes it and turns it in his hands so the wrapper crinkles. She doesn't move.

He leans forward slowly, gauging her reaction. She still doesn't shift an inch. Closer and closer. He tucks the cookie into the front pocket of her bag. Still not a single flinch. She won't know until later but he hope it can bring her the comfort he's too shy to offer. He'll sort it out eventually. Just not today.

[littlemisslomax]

God how I wish more movies in 1999-2000 had long hair Keanu… I wish The Watcher wasn’t such a bad situation for Keanu and so crappily edited. I’m talking like REALLY shitty editing, like those flashbang transitions??? I mean wtf was up with that?? Anyways.

I would do ANYTHING for this man right here.

[casuallyobssessed]

Emotionless - David Allen Griffin x Reader Drabble ❥ 393 Words

A/N: Short drabble to get back into the groove of writing. :3 Kind of a vent? Idk

Warnings: DEAD DOVE CONTENT, su!c!de/self-harm mention, descriptions of a dead body, mostly gender neutral reader (fem leaning), no beta

You've been dead for a few days now.

David keeps your room ice cold. He remembers how you always insisted on keeping it freezing so you could burrow into his chest at bedtime, all blankets and limbs tangled together.

So he does that for you, keeping the thermostat low. He pretends you're just cold again, that it's still his job to warm you up. He curls up beside you each night, murmuring softly into the crook of your neck, ignoring how your skin has begun to stiffen, how it's taken on a bluish tint that no amount of his warmth can fix.

When he brushes your hair, he's careful not to tug too hard. Occasionally, a few strands come loose and he keeps them safe in a silk pouch. It's normal, but he doesn't want to lose any piece of you.

The scent lingering in the air is changing now, faint and slowly creeping in. It was sweet at first, but it's twisting into something rotten. He cracks the window for you and lights your favorite candles.

When he shifts you, sometimes your jaw falls slack, and he presses it shut with trembling fingers. Even with your lips beginning to split, he kisses you anyway.

There's nothing that would keep him from showing you the love you deserve. You're still the same, beautiful you, just… different now.

He lets his fingers trail down your chest, over ribs that no longer rise and fall beneath his touch. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your nightgown and ghost over your skin that’s cold, but yielding under his desperate caress.

He takes your hands in his gently, and presses his thumbs to the inside of your wrists. The cuts there are still raw, red and angry against your paling skin. They never had the chance to fully heal. He traces each one with tenderness, memorizing their shape like he knows one day they'll fade away with the rest of you.

David tells himself that killing you was an act of mercy. You wouldn't stop trying to leave him, and each failed suicide attempt drove the knife further into his aching chest. You were suffering and he knew it.

Now, after everything, you're soft and quiet.

In this perfect stillness, the silence where your breath used to be tells him everything he's ever wanted to hear.