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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Chapter I: The Hour Behind the Bullet | Chapter II

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Word Count: 5k>

Warnings!: Angst, Violence, death, and execution scenes, Themes of trauma and grief, Gunfights and post-apocalyptic survival elements, Moral dilemmas, revenge, and justice themes, Mature romantic/emotional content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of a story where Joel Miller has not yet appeared, but his shadow lingers in every line. His name is a whisper—etched into the back of a watch, a secret that stretches from the darkness of the past into the vengeance of the present. It doesn't just delay the encounter with Joel—it builds it into an unforgettable, strikingly dramatic moment. The reader knows the meeting is coming… but never when, how, or in whose hands it will unfold.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

As the moon vanished with the first light of morning, the mist still lingered on the mountainside. The air was dry, but the sharp chill remained; the earth had not yet shed its nightly frost.

With a bow on your back, a knife on your belt, and mud clinging to the soles of your boots, you walked silently. “Two hours, maybe three,” you said in a low voice. “But it hasn’t gone far.”

Footsteps behind you were followed by muffled laughter.

“My God, Y/N, did you just tell time from tracks?” Nico bent down to examine the ground with you. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, but his smile was intact. “Hunting with you always wrecks my self-esteem.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you said, without turning your eyes. “You’re the one who brings the noise, the jokes, the troublesome sounds…”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Was that a thank-you I just heard?”

“You’re welcome to imagine it that way.”

You stood up. Bow on your back, knife on your right hip. You wore a waterproof cover sewn from the sleeve of your father’s old jacket. He had been of the hunter breed, and you were determined to carry that legacy.

The tracks led you to an old gravel bed by the river. Small footprints stuck in the mud.

Not a rabbit. A fox.

“Eyes open, Nico,” you said. “This isn’t just a fox. There are feathers on the ground. This animal was attacked before. We’re in a predator’s territory.”

Nico drew his knife. “You mean a Clicker?”

“No. I know those tracks. This is different. Maybe a lynx. Maybe a hungry wolf. Be careful.”

You crouched, focusing on the scent. There was a faint smell of blood, mixed with damp earth. Your hand went to the head of your arrow. You were tense, but exhilarated. The dance within the hunt always fascinated you.

About an hour later, you reached a forest clearing. The trees thinned out, and the sky began to show itself.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadow of a tree, you spotted a grazing deer.

“A pair,” you whispered. “Female and male.”

Nico squinted. “Which one do we take?”

“The female. Slower. Her meat will be more tender. And the male won’t charge if we don’t threaten him. We need to stay unnoticed.”

You readied your arrow. Placed your left knee on the ground. Pressed your elbow firmly against it. Raised the bow with your left hand, and drew the string to ear-level with your right.

You held your breath.

Thwip...

The arrow pierced the deer just beneath the neck. The animal staggered, then collapsed. Nico’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every time… you blow my mind.”

You smiled and stood up. ��Well… you’re allowed to be a little impressed.”

“Being impressed by you might be dangerous.”

You set up camp by the riverside that night. As the meat cooked over the fire, Nico watched you.

“I just don’t get it… how this world still manages to make you happy.”

You shrugged slowly. “Because there’s still a sky. I still have a friend I can smile at. I can still breathe. It’s that simple.”

Nico sighed. “Finding someone like you in this world feels like a miracle.”

You smiled, but your eyes drifted to the horizon.

In your gaze, there was a shadow your subconscious refused to name.

But tonight, there was no past.

Only firelight, laughter, and the warmth of survival.

The deer was tied securely with two strong ropes. Hung by its hind legs, it dangled slightly off the side of Nico’s horse. Its hide was still intact; the surface lightly salted to stop bleeding and keep flies away. That had been your suggestion. Salt not only preserved but also kept the meat from spoiling during travel.

“If we don’t make it to Redhill in three hours,” you said, tightening your horse’s reins, “this meat’s going to turn sour. I’d rather not have my father scolding me over dinner.”

Nico grumbled as he balanced the load on his own horse.

“Not just scolding… Don’t be surprised if he sends us to fix fences. Last time we were only ten minutes late.”

“And we hauled hay for three days,” you said, smiling with embarrassment. “My spine is still plotting revenge.”

As you crossed a narrow rocky path, stones crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The sun was slowly pulling back behind the mountains, casting long shadows. The road to Redhill used to be a hiking trail. Now it was a lifeline—overgrown with weeds and scattered with forgotten footprints.

“Your father…” Nico said quietly, “has he ever offered you leadership? I mean… has he ever thought you’d take his place one day?”

You tugged the reins gently, slowing your horse. “My place is with the bow, the tracks. His is with people—untangling knots in their minds. My father keeps Redhill standing because he knows when to be soft and when to be firm. I haven’t learned that balance yet.”

Nico nodded, his gaze wandering to the horizon. “But you… when I watch you, I see exactly what a leader should be.”

You paused. His words echoed through the quiet forest like a bell. Then you offered him that familiar smile. “Because of what you just said, I might make you carry rocks until morning.”

Nico laughed and lowered his head. “There’s no punishment worse than you.”

“Oh, believe me, there is,” you said, narrowing your eyes and turning back to the riverside trail. “But right now, I’m bored. Too much silence.”

You took a deep breath. Your voice was soft at first, then carried over the wind. From the depths of a fallen world, you began to hum a song from long ago:

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled. He knew how much you loved to sing that song. He joined you.

As the horses moved on, even the birds seemed to sing along. Until Redhill appeared on the horizon, your laughter raced the wind. Just another evening. A quiet, simple, ordinary journey home.

But none of you knew.

None of you.

This would be the last peaceful journey you ever shared.

The path through the canyon leading into Redhill was familiar; the sound of hooves on dirt, the intermittent calls of birds, and the scent of earth carried by the drifting breeze... Everything was as it should be. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to realize something was wrong.

The deer was the prize of a two-day hunt. These kinds of tasks had become routine over the years. In a self-sustaining community like Redhill, surviving the hunt was only half the job—preserving the kill was just as vital.

You were in the lead, Nico behind you. The young man had talked endlessly like an impatient child; about his new bow, how he’d outshot you, how the second deer was still out there somewhere… But something was bothering you. Whenever you approached the Redhill valley, you could always catch the scent of fresh smoke drifting from between the hills. Burnt wood, simmering stew, a lit pipe... That smell wasn’t there this time. Only damp earth and silence.

“Y/N?” Nico asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Is it just me, or... are the sentries gone?”

When you fell silent, the silence itself felt like a scream.

The wooden archway at Redhill’s entrance stood ahead—its painted emblem half-burned. The watchtower beside the gate was empty. No laughter or whistles from above like usual. No children, no women, no crates of tomatoes... It was as if everything had vanished all at once.

“Maybe it’s harvest time. Everyone’s in the back gardens?” Nico said, hopelessly.

You didn’t answer. You dismounted in a swift motion; the stones beneath your boots weren’t dry—they were laced with ash. As your eyes scanned the valley, more came into focus. Broken fences, an overturned wheelbarrow… and then… blood.

Without another thought, you started walking. Nico followed, but your steps had slowed, grown cautious. Your hand instinctively went to your knife. You searched for a threat—but the threat was gone. Only the aftermath remained.

It didn’t take long to find the first body. It hadn’t been covered. The face was charred. A knife stuck out from the back. You didn’t recognize them, but the handmade Redhill clothing was familiar—crocheted edging, handwoven fabric.

The second... the third...

Your legs carried you on their own now. They trembled, but you kept walking. And then, in the center of the courtyard, in front of a still-burning tent, two figures appeared. Reuben and Caleb. Reuben’s arm was in a sling, his face smeared with blood and ash. Caleb had his rifle leaned against a wall, his head buried in his hands. When they saw you, their eyes widened.

“Y/N…” Caleb said as he stood. “Goddamn it…”

“What happened?” you asked. Just two words. But the crack in your voice carried a weight nothing else could.

Reuben tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Attack... The Vultures...” he said. “Marcus Flint was leading it himself.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t hear them. Only saw the movement of his lips. Redhill had been attacked.

Your eyes scanned everything. Trampled fields. Shattered fences. Broken doors of shelters. It looked like an army had passed through. But Redhill wasn’t a battlefield. It was your home.

“My father?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it came from someone far away.

Reuben lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t fall. Something inside you—a cold, sharp feeling—held you upright. In this world, falling was a luxury. And you no longer had that luxury.

“Take me to him,” you said. Your voice came out steady and cool. It didn’t shake. But something inside had snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

Caleb stepped forward quickly. “No, Y/N… No. That’s not something you want to see,” he said gently, panic flickering behind his calm tone. “Remember him the way he was. As a leader… as your father. Don’t see him like this.”

You looked at him. Your eyes were cold, but a storm raged behind them. “Get out of my way, Caleb.”

“Y/N, please. His body… it’s unrecognizable. You don’t want to remember him like that.”

Reuben stood a step back, waiting for your decision. Unlike Caleb, he knew you. You weren’t weak. You never were.

You stepped forward, locking eyes with Caleb. “I’m his daughter,” you said, your voice like lead. “And if Redhill’s legacy is mine now\... then I will see the truth with my own eyes. Now move.”

Caleb looked away, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped aside. Over his shoulder, he looked at Reuben.

Reuben nodded slowly. “Come with me,” he said. “Be ready.”

Ready? What did that even mean now? Wasn’t surviving without being ready the very essence of this world?

Reuben led you to a cold shelter behind the stone storage buildings. The door hadn’t been this heavy even when the place was used to store medicine. Inside, it was dim. And there he was.

Your father.

Lying there, half-covered by a dark blanket. His hair was dusted with ash. His beard matted with dried blood. His eyes were closed. One side of his face was unrecognizable—bruises, shattered bones... But the other side... still him.

Your knees gave out, but you didn’t collapse. You knelt beside him. Your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket back a little more. A massive lump formed in your throat—one you couldn’t swallow.

Your hand reached out and took his. Still warm. Thick, callused hands… The ones that first taught you how to handle a bow. That pointed out spring herbs, that rested on your shoulder when you made small triumphs… the hands of a leader.

“Dad…” you whispered. Just once. Knowing it was the last time you ever would.

Tears fell from your eyes, but there were no sobs. Your tears were silent. You were strong, but not ice. That day, the child in you died. And something else took her place: the beginning of a leader, shattered but standing tall.

After a while, you stood up. Your heart in pieces, but your shoulders squared. You turned to Reuben.

“Where are the rest of the dead?” you asked.

“We managed to gather a few,” he said. “But more might be under the rubble…”

“We’ll find them. Every last one,” you said. “Tomorrow. At dawn. We’ll hold a ceremony—for them… and for my father.”

Reuben bowed his head. Caleb looked at you from behind, his eyes still wet.

“Y/N…” he said in a hushed voice. “You… you’re now…”

You turned to him. Met his gaze.

“No,” you said. “I’m not ‘now.’ I’m still his daughter. And I’ll remind the world what Redhill means.”

When you stepped outside, the sun was beginning to set. Long shadows stretched across the valley. Ash and silence. But you walked. With each step, you became someone else.

The funeral… wouldn’t just be for the dead. An era was ending, and something else was beginning.

At dawn, as the sun lit the ridges of the valley, Redhill was wrapped in silence. The sun was rising, but yesterday’s cold still clung to the air. A coldness that came from deep inside.

You walked toward the main square, repurposed from the old quarantine center, every step echoing beneath your boots. The mud beneath your soles clung with a mixture of blood and ash. But your stride never faltered.

You wore a dark brown leather jacket—your father’s. Its inner lining still stained with blood. The scent of it had nearly broken you as you put it on. But you’d endured. Because you were no longer a daughter. You were a leader.

The people had begun to gather in the square. Women, children, elders… The wounded and the quiet fighters. Some carried arms in slings, others leaned on sticks. The same expression on every face: a fog of grief and fear.

The dead were laid side by side on a carefully prepared platform in the center of the square. Your father’s body was at the center. A single torch burned above his head. Nothing else. No flowers, no ornaments. This world was now made of simplicity.

When you stepped forward, there was a moment of silence before you spoke. The wind wrapped smoke around you as all eyes turned your way.

You took a deep breath. You could hear your own heartbeat. Then you spoke. “They were our companions. Our neighbors. Our brothers and sisters.”

Your voice didn’t crack. Your eyes didn’t water. Every syllable struck like a hammer. “When my father founded this community, he said survival wasn’t about fighting—it was about being together. He brought order to this land. He brought safety. We’ve protected the life we built here for years. But now\... they’ve taken it from us.”

You lifted your head. The eyes of your people met yours. In them, a spark began to burn.

“The Vultures didn’t just go after one man—they targeted a whole people. They stole bread from a child’s hands. Gunned down the sick and the old. These are not enemies. They’re filth. And we... we will not stay silent.”

Your words echoed off the stone of the square. A child cried somewhere in the distance. A woman bowed her head in silence. But most of them—most of them now held something else in their eyes: fury. A fury ready to act.

“Their leader, Marcus Flint—he tried to quench an old grudge with fire. He thought burning us would end it. But Redhill rises from ashes. And now I, as my father’s daughter, will carry on the fight he left behind. We will not only mourn our dead. We will not forget them. We will speak their names alongside justice.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Reuben stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Daughter of Y/F/N... Y/N. I know you. I see your father’s fire in your eyes. I stand with you. Just as I walked with him, I’ll walk with you.”

Caleb, on the other hand, took a hesitant step back. His eyes scanned the area, filled with worry, yet also the fear of being left behind.

“Y/N... this path... it could cost us even more. The Vultures aren’t an easy target,” he said.

You turned to him. Your shoulders straight, your gaze unwavering. “What more can we lose, Caleb? I lost my father. My people are dead. Our land is scorched. All we have left is our honor. Should we give that up too?”

Caleb fell silent. He lowered his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright... damn it. I’m with you. But we’re going to make a good plan. No rushing in blind. With our minds. Just like your father would’ve done.”

Reuben stepped forward. “First, we track The Vultures’ movements. Pinpoint their locations. We don’t strike… we dismantle. We isolate their leader. Then, you’ll be the one to end Marcus Flint.”

You narrowed your eyes and looked out toward the horizon. It was like a map formed in your vision. The dark towers of The Vultures… their arrogant laughter… your father’s final breath… That feeling inside you had evolved beyond vengeance. This was the first step toward justice. And Redhill would rise again—with you.

As evening fell, the mist leaning against the hills of Redhill slowly began to swallow the rest of the camp. Torches flickered like trembling flames, casting long shadows between the cabins. Most of the community had withdrawn into silence after the funeral, mourning their losses in solitude. Many were still under the spell of your morning speech. But you carried the weight of those words now.

The small wooden cabin you were in had once been your father's "map room." His old papers still lay on the desk; dried ink stains and yellowed notes remained. An old plan of Redhill, tucked into the corner of a map, was still in place. Your fingers traced the borders he once drew. Fragmented memories spun in your mind like clipped reels of film.

The door creaked open. Reuben entered. The old jacket on his shoulders had faded to the color of dust over time. His hands were covered in mud, sweat lined his brow. His face was as hard as ever, but tonight his eyes were soft. The loyalty he had once shown your father had shifted into a quiet respect for you.

He walked toward you and let out a heavy breath.

"People expect things from you now," he said. "Not just your name... but his resolve, his heart."

You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you think I have that in me?"

Reuben furrowed his brows. He paused, then nodded.

"Sometimes you're even more. But I can't ask you to be anyone else now. So... you need to know the truth."

You sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the desk. Your hands rested on your knees. You waited.

"You keep asking why the attack happened..." Reuben began.

"Marcus Flint, the leader of the Vultures, claimed our community was hiding a criminal. He said the man was a FEDRA agent. That he escaped and found refuge here."

You frowned.

"I never saw anyone like that. No one's sought shelter here recently. And if he was FEDRA, why pick Redhill? Would he really risk that much for a group hundreds of miles away?"

Reuben nodded.

"I know. I thought it was nonsense too. But he needed an excuse. There was bad blood between him and your father—goes back years. In the early days of the outbreak, they worked together for a time. But they clashed over a trade deal—meds and food. Your father stopped Flint from selling out his own people."

Your eyes fixed on a point in the room. Something stirred in your veins—heavy like poison. Flint’s name was no longer just a threat—it had become a personal wound.

"So this attack... it was old revenge," you said.

"Yes," Reuben confirmed. "It was his way of settling the score."

You both fell silent. The only sound in the room was the wind whistling outside. Cold air crept through the cracks in the ceiling, brushing your shoulders.

Reuben turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at you over his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I’ve got one more thing," he said quietly.

"It was by your father's body. I don't recognize it, but... maybe you will."

He stepped closer and opened his hand. Inside it was a wristwatch. Its metal band was scratched, its glass cracked—but it still resisted time. You took it. It was cold. Its weight seemed to come not just from metal, but from the burden of the past.

You turned it over.

An engraving: J.M.

You didn’t move for several seconds. Time itself seemed to stop. Your fingers traced the letters. The mark of a stranger... yet the only clue found beside your father’s blood.

"I don’t know what it means," said Reuben.

"But I felt you should have it."

Your eyes remained locked on the watch. Narrowed. You repeated the letters in your mind again and again.

J.M.

That watch was a whisper of fate. Maybe a name. Maybe the gateway to hell. But now, you had a target.

And you would find him.

Two months later...

The sky that morning was a pale, ashen gray. The earth still bore the marks of blood and gunpowder. But Redhill was breathing. Wounded—but not dead.

Y/N stood at the top of the wooden watchtower, overlooking the valley. Beyond the thorny bushes, broken fences, and ruined cabins, there was an effort to be reborn.

Caleb, working on wires pulled from a broken radio transmitter, spoke without looking up.

"If we can reroute communications to the northern outpost, maybe we’ll learn where Cascade’s storing the old meds. That’d be good leverage for trade."

"Set up the line, but be cautious. Not everyone out there trades," you said. Your voice was firm, but warm. Leadership sometimes weighed heavy on you, but you didn’t show it.

Reuben entered, making marks on a map as he walked.

"Y/N, the boy from the north is back," he said. "The scout you sent."

"Rory? Send him in."

The door opened and Rory entered—sun-scorched, tired-backed, but sharp-eyed. Young, but seasoned in the field.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding.

"What did you find out about the Vultures?"

"Strange things. Their headquarters doesn’t seem as stable anymore. We used to hear constant chatter over the radios. Now… almost silence. A lot of Flint’s people have left. There’s even a rumor—he clashed with his own men."

You listened to Rory’s words in silence. Then leaned forward, fingers pressing the table.

"We need confirmed intel, Rory. If Flint’s alive, he’s still a threat."

Reuben added,

"And if he’s weakening, that’s our window."

Caleb, more cautious, frowned.

"But what if it’s a trap? What if they want to lure us out?"

You raised your head, eyes hardened.

"If they killed my father to provoke me or this people, then they already chose war."

A few days later, under your leadership, a secret meeting was held. Maps, radio data, Rory’s hand-drawn sketches of their base were spread out before you. Where Marcus Flint was last seen, which lookout towers were still active, which water routes had been cut—everything was being charted.

You pressed your finger against a point on the map.

"We’ve pushed them this far. Now they’re on the brink of collapse. We need to wait for the right moment… but if we wait too long, they’ll regain their strength."

Caleb nodded.

"When do you plan the attack?"

"Two weeks from now. I’ll send Rory out again. If Marcus is at the compound and we can strike a deal with someone on the inside, we’ll open a door from within. If not, we’ll infiltrate from the north."

Reuben smiled.

"That’s how your father used to do it. He’d read the enemy first, then end the fight with a single bullet."

You dipped your head slightly. Inside, you carried both the burden and the strength of walking in your father’s footsteps. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about Redhill’s future.

***

The wind whipped violently at the flag hanging on the border of Redhill, nearly tearing the fabric apart. The sky was covered in that hazy orange that comes just before darkness falls, as if even the sunset sensed the coming reckoning. In the center square of the community, there was a flurry of preparation. Weapons were being oiled, knives sharpened, bags packed. Every movement was silent but purposeful, because everyone knew: this wasn’t a mission—it was a journey of vengeance.

You had just returned from the old medical center. The first aid kit on your shoulder was filled with collected pain-relieving herbs, antiseptics, and bandages. Reuben and Caleb were waiting for you at the large map table.

"The first team will enter from the west at oh-three-hundred," Caleb said, pressing his finger on a red-marked spot on the map. "The second team will sneak in through the old warehouse door on the north wall. Rory said it’s still unguarded."

Reuben nodded. "There’s also someone inside they've made contact with. Someone Rory’s been in touch with... Might buy us a few minutes."

You placed your hands on your hips, looked at the map for a moment, then raised your eyes and met theirs one by one.

"Remember, Marcus Flint will die. But this isn’t just about him. We’re doing this for Redhill. For my father. For our people."

Reuben bowed his head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow almost proud.

"Your father built Redhill from nothing at your age. Now you’re rebuilding it."

When night fell, Redhill sank into silence. A team of twenty—the best warriors and trackers you had chosen yourselves—mounted their horses and rode eastward in silence. Aside from the soft clatter of hooves on earth, no sound broke the stillness. The moon split the sky like a blade, painting your path in silver.

You remained silent during the ride. Sitting tall on your horse, your hand rested on the shortbow at your side. Countless memories clashed in your mind: your father's voice, Caleb’s doubts, Reuben’s support, Rory’s intel… and the wristwatch. The one that started it all, engraved with those cursed letters: J.M.

After five hours of silent travel, you made camp near an old watermill. Rory had already gone ahead to make his final contact with the insider. The rest of the team knelt, checking their gear one last time. You scanned the entire group carefully.

At first light, you reached The Vultures' camp.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. The cabins were in disrepair, most of the watchtowers broken down. Rory had been right—Marcus Flint had lost most of his forces. Something had collapsed from within. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The plan worked perfectly. The north warehouse door was still unlocked. While Caleb and three others slipped in from the north, you and Reuben entered from the west.

Behind the cabins, the space was littered with scattered rubble, rotting crates, and toppled barrels. It was as if time had forgotten this part of The Vultures' camp. But you hadn't. You lowered your footsteps as you moved forward, stepping into the narrow path leading to the backyard. Your shortbow, slung over your shoulder, was ready at your fingertips. Reuben was on your left, and young but fearless Nico on your right. Each of your breaths was silent but sharp. This wasn’t a walk—it was the beginning of the end.

The first guard was on the roof of the cabin to the left. As he turned his head to scan the surroundings, you suddenly drew your bow. Your fingers, guided by muscle memory, pulled the string to your ear. You held your breath. One second. Two. Three.

Shhhft.

The arrow hissed through the air like a snake and sank into the guard’s neck. He fell backward without a sound. The thud of his body hitting the roof jolted the camp like a disturbed ant nest.

"They saw us!" Nico whispered, but you were already in motion.

Two men burst from the cabin to your left. They held modified rifles, barrels rusted but deadly. As they fired the first shots, Reuben pulled you down by the shoulder. Bullets whizzed past just above you, followed by his return fire.

"Down!" Reuben shouted, bracing his rifle on the rooftop edge and taking aim.

The first man was thrown back with a bullet to the forehead. You handled the second one. You dropped to a position parallel to the ground, released your hand from the shortbow, and pulled the silenced pistol from your belt. Aim, breathe, trigger.

Tak!

The man hit in the shoulder staggered for a moment, then collapsed to the ground with a scream. His weapon fell from his hand. When you reached him, your eyes met. He was about to say something, but you stayed silent. Instead, you pressed the silencer to his head and finished the job with a second shot. This wasn't mercy—it was resolve.

“Nico!” you shouted. “On the right! Two just came out from the entrance!”

Nico was young but agile. He’d learned archery from you. He turned to the target, drew his arrow, and released it. The first man was hit in the shoulder, the second in the chest. They collapsed in front of the barrack.

“The camp's almost empty!” Nico called out, breathless. “These are just Marcus’s leftovers!”

“So they still don't take us seriously,” you said, your eyes locked on the large building at the center of the camp. “That’ll be their last mistake.”

As you passed between the shacks, three more men appeared. One had a shotgun, the others charged with knives. The first bullet came from Reuben’s gun, bringing the shotgun-wielder down. You slung your bow onto your back, gripped the knife from your belt in a reverse hold, and rushed in.

The first attacker swung at you before reaching, but his move was clumsy and fueled by rage. You ducked and drove your knee into his thigh. As he stumbled, you buried the blade into his abdomen. When you pulled it out and turned, the second attacker’s punch grazed your face. You rolled backward, bounced up from the dirt, and struck back quickly. You pinned him to the ground with your knee on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

Nico was wrestling with the last man. He was tall, trying to overpower Nico. In a blink, you intervened, stabbing the man’s knee. He fell with a scream, and Nico struck his head with a rock.

Silence. Only distant gunshots from the rooftops. And slowly, even that faded.

Reuben rubbed his shoulder, looking at you. “You’re not your father’s daughter. You’re the war itself.”

Your face was cloaked in shadow. The dirt and blood on you had become a warrior’s blessing. But your eyes... they still mourned your father. Even in the heart of revenge, they searched for ways to remain human.

There were almost no obstacles left between you and Marcus Flint.

The office building was one of the strongest structures in the Vultures' camp. Built years ago, its concrete foundation still held, but the walls were moss-covered and the windows shattered. The front door was ajar. One hinge had fallen to the ground, the other creaked with the wind. This was the place where Marcus Flint made decisions, where lives were determined. But now it felt more like a tomb, devoid of his footsteps.

Your gun was in your hand. The cold metal clung to your palm, heavy with sweat, rage, and the weight of a long journey. Reuben and Caleb had stayed outside. This confrontation was yours alone. It was your father’s blood that had been spilled. You needed answers.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then a voice came from inside the office. “Close the door,” it said calmly. “The wind’s messing with my thoughts.”

You stepped in. Gun raised with both hands, you locked onto your target. “Marcus Flint!” you said. Your voice cracked, but your resolve did not falter.

The man behind the desk looked up. His hair, a reddish shade of brown, was streaked with gray. His face was stern, the corners of his eyes lined with fatigue. He sat proudly, but his spirit had aged more than his body.

“Marcus is gone,” he said. “I’m Cutter. The last remaining owner of this structure.”

Your finger trembled on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me. Marcus is here. I came all this way for him. Where is he?!”

Cutter smiled faintly. He leaned back, nudged some empty casings on the table with his fingers. “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Last month. Drowned in his own filth. Took his pride with him.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You wanted to look into his eyes, steal his breath, then pull the trigger. But now someone else sat before you. And in his eyes, there was not death—but truth.

“How?” you asked. Your voice dropped slightly, but the determination remained. “Who killed him?”

Cutter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, he became a victim of what he created. False alliances, shattered decisions... This place wasn’t a camp anymore—it was a swamp. Your attack was just the final blow.”

You took that object from your backpack. The watch. Rusted, the glass scratched. You didn’t strap it on your wrist, you placed it in your palm. Showed it to Cutter. “This,” you said, “was found beside my father’s body. There’s something carved on the back.”

Cutter recognized it without looking. His eyes widened slightly, but were quickly replaced by quiet acceptance.

“Joel,” he said. “Joel Miller. I recognized the watch. Never met a man so obsessed with time. If he dropped it... he must’ve thought he made a mistake.”

The blood drained from your face. You hadn’t heard that name before. “Who is he? Why was the watch with my father? Did he...”

Cutter lowered his head, silent for a moment. Then he stood from his chair and looked out the window. At what remained of the camp.

“Joel Miller was a mercenary. But not your average killer. Quiet, precise, did everything his way. Marcus hired him to kill your father. Joel did the job. But... he disappeared right after payment. As if... the weight of what he did broke him.”

You swallowed. “So... he’s the one who killed my father?”

“Yes,” said Cutter.

The words hung in the air for a while. The watch in your hand was no longer just an item. It was the key to a door leading into the past.

"Joel Miller..." you murmured to yourself. The name left a sharp taste on your tongue; metallic, rusty, like blood.

Cutter was still by the window. His shoulders were slumped. His voice held no triumph, only exhaustion. “Look. Flint is dead. He was your father’s enemy. He had him killed. Now he’s buried too. The score is settled.”

He slightly turned his head, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know there’s no redemption for what we did here. But… you’re different. You think like a leader. For Redhill’s future…”

“Stop,” you said, low but sharp. “Did you see that day?”

Cutter didn’t answer.

“Did you hide? Did you run? Or did you watch my father get shot?”

Cutter’s lips twitched. “I want to protect you,” he said. “Like everyone who died here, I fell apart too. I just wanted you to know that.”

You stepped forward. The grip of your gun fit so well in your hand, it felt fused with your bones. The watch was still in your pocket. It weighed you down—but not as much as the burden you carried inside. Like a curse flapping its wings in your chest.

“I will find Joel Miller,” you said. Your eyes no longer trembled. “And I’ll find out what happened that day. Turns out it wasn’t just Flint. The man who executed my father had a name. A voice. A breath. And now, that breath belongs to me.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “If you’re going to find Joel…” he said quietly, “pray he doesn’t recognize you… or that he does.”

You paused. There was a threat in those words, in Cutter’s voice—a lingering fear that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a warning. Joel Miller was the kind of man whose name burned itself into memory, who made lips dry when whispered in the dark.

“Who was he?” you asked. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Cutter clenched his jaw. “He spoke with darkness. Sometimes he didn’t even know who or why he killed. You make a deal with him, he gets it done. But he always leaves a trail of blood behind. Flint made a deal. But Joel was never anyone’s dog. Maybe he killed Flint too. Maybe his conscience caught up. But… that conscience buried a lot of people.”

Cutter stepped back. At the end of his words, it was like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He was waiting. For mercy. Forgiveness. Maybe just to be spared.

But you only looked at him for a moment.

“That man executed my father,” you said. “Neither Flint’s rotten orders nor your aged guilt can change that. My father built Redhill with hardship. But I was the one who buried him.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Cutter’s head slumped to the side. His eyes stayed open in surprise, as if even in the end, he couldn’t believe it was your hand that sent him off. When his body hit the floor, silence swallowed the room. No triumph, no grief… only that sharp clarity creaking in your bones: Nothing could stop you now.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. The watch… was still in your pocket.

Your footsteps echoed as you left the office. Your eyes weren’t on the darkness—they were fixed on the horizon of vengeance.

Now you had a target. Joel Miller.

And you… would not speak to him. You would not forgive him.

Outside, Reuben and Nico were waiting. Their eyes immediately fell on your gun, on your blank expression.

Nico stepped closer. His brows were furrowed, but there was a trace of relief in his eyes. “Is it over?” he asked. “Marcus… is he dead?”

You didn’t answer.

Reuben exhaled deeply. “Y/N… What happened in there?”

Instead of replying, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the watch. Slowly, carefully. Your fingers brushed the metal for a moment. Then you handed it to Reuben.

“Joel Miller,” you said. “That’s the name of the man who actually killed my father. Marcus died during the riot here.”

Reuben’s face turned pale. His hand trembled as it hovered around the watch. “That name…” he said. “It sounds familiar. But…”

Nico stared at you in disbelief. “What are you saying? Flint gave the order, didn’t he? That bastard paid the price. Fate punished him for you. And you…”

You cut him off. “There’s no such thing as fate,” you said. Your gaze was fixed, like a dusty desert horizon. “Only choices. And I’ve made mine. This isn’t over.”

Nico couldn’t make sense of the silence that surrounded you. There was a mixed sense of victory on his face, but your expression was far beyond triumph. Reuben, however, understood everything. He slowly took the watch in his hand, felt its weight, then handed it back to you.

“This isn’t just his watch anymore, is it?” he said. “For you… it’s the key to a new war.”

You nodded. “I found it next to my father’s body. Cutter said Joel was the one who executed him. Even if it was under Flint’s orders, he pulled the trigger. And that doesn’t mean it’s over. It means this is just the beginning.”

Reuben slightly bowed his head. “Y/N... Revenge can be poison. You carry a fire in your heart for years. I trust your leadership, but… you’re not going to turn this into a blood feud, are you?”

...

On the road, the horses’ hooves kicked up dust as you rode toward Redhill. The sky was still gray, but there was something else on the horizon this time. What had happened in Marcus Flint’s town was still fresh in everyone’s mind, but the images in your head were older: your father’s face, dried blood, the watch placed in your hand, and Cutter’s final words.

You were riding in front, eyes locked on the horizon, your lips pressed together. But those behind you read the silence differently.

Caleb was the first to speak. His strong voice cut through the dry air. “Y/N. You didn’t just avenge your father today. You carried the weight of all Redhill. You fought for all of us.”

You slowed your horse, glanced back slightly, but didn’t reply.

Rory rode his horse beside Caleb’s. The young man’s eyes were shining. “When the town burned. When Flint’s men tied the children to trees and dragged the mothers away—we couldn’t do anything. But today... today, something finally changed. People will hear about this. Redhill is no longer alone.”

Voices started to rise behind you. You weren’t the only ones who stormed that town. A few more fighters from Redhill had come, all watching you.

An older woman, Mellie, spoke in a whisper, but her voice was clear: “Your father stood up for us. Now you carry on where he left off. But your road is long. If you’ve taken this bitter decision on your shoulders, don’t leave it unfinished.”

Reuben looked at you from over his shoulder as you pulled gently on the reins. Your horse stopped. From the mountainside, the distant lights of Redhill came into view. You slowly turned around, your face glowing in the red of the setting sun. Your eyes turned to your people, your companions.

“When my father died,” you said, your voice rough as gravel but steady, “all I had left was a watch. A clue. I followed it. I chased it. I killed Cutter. But behind that watch was another name. Joel Miller. And that name opened the door to another story, soaked into the soil of these lands.”

Your lips parted again, your gaze returned to the horizon. “This isn’t my path anymore. It’s the path Redhill walks now. And you... you’re putting it on my shoulders. Like a stone, heavy and sharp. But if this is truly your war too... then I’ll walk it to the end.”

Those looking at you bowed their heads. Rory placed a hand over his heart. Mellie nodded, wiping her tears away.

Reuben slowly approached, took your reins. “You won’t walk alone, girl. You won’t kill alone. This will be Redhill’s final farewell. And we’ll be the witnesses to that farewell.”

As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Redhill’s lights drew near.

But in your eyes, a darker, more distant light was burning now:

The memory of Joel Miller. And the final day when you would face him.

261 notes · View notes

areislol · 7 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤobsession bound

pairings. m!yandere x gn! reader

warnings. yandere, mature explicit 18+ content, MDNI, suggestive content, toxic obsession, stealing clothes, stalking, the whole yandere package.

a/n. i don't condone this irl guys!! please do not fantasize about this

wc. 2.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤi love you like an alcoholic - the taxpayers

he knows everything about you. not just your favourite foods, hobbies, or the songs you play on repeat, but the details you wouldn’t even think to share. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought, the pattern of your breathing when you sleep, the subtle twitch in your hand when you’re anxious. he’s studied you as though you were a divine text, each quirk and habit catalogued and committed to memory.

your presence is his religion, and you, his deity. he doesn’t just love you—he worships you. to him, you’re the very essence of perfection, the axis on which his world spins. every smile you offer, every word you speak, is a blessing he clings to with an almost fanatical devotion. if he could, he’d bottle the sound of your laughter and keep it close, playing it on loop in the quiet hours when he can’t be near you.

his obsession began innocently enough—a fleeting glance in passing, a shared space for mere seconds. but those seconds were enough to ignite something dangerous within him. from that moment on, you consumed him.

your image invaded his thoughts, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. it wasn’t enough to see you from afar. he needed to know you, to possess you, to make sure you could never leave.

he follows you everywhere, his footsteps as silent as a predator stalking its prey. he’s always there, just out of sight, ensuring you’re safe—or so he tells himself.

when you stumble, he fights the urge to rush forward and catch you. when someone dares to get too close, his fists clench, his jaw tightens, and dark thoughts swirl in his mind. no one has the right to invade your space like that. no one but him.

every trace of your existence is precious to him. he’s collected everything—strands of your hair caught in your brush, the lip balm you left on your desk, even the receipt you crumpled and threw away. he keeps them in a secret box, hidden away like a dragon hoarding treasure.

he’ll run his fingers over them, murmuring your name like a mantra, his mind spinning fantasies of the life you’ll share once you finally see the truth.

he keeps a journal where he writes about you obsessively. page after page filled with your name, detailed accounts of your daily activities, and his dreams of your future together. he’s planned it all—your wedding, the house you’ll live in, the names of your children. he knows it’s premature, but in his mind, you’re already his. the only thing left is for you to realise it.

his jealousy is a violent, uncontrollable thing. anyone who gets too close to you is a threat that must be eliminated. he doesn’t care who they are—friends, coworkers, even family. they don’t deserve to share your attention.

they don’t love you like he does. he’s not above sabotage, spreading rumours, or even more drastic measures to ensure they stay away. it’s for your own good. can’t you see how much safer you are without them?

his methods of surveillance are disturbingly meticulous. cameras hidden in your home, trackers on your phone and keys, even your favourite coffee shop isn’t spared. he needs to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with at all times. if he sees something he doesn’t like, he’ll act without hesitation. a threatening text to someone he perceives as competition, a “chance” encounter to remind you he’s always there—it’s all part of his carefully crafted plan.

the nights he spends in your home without your knowledge are the most sacred to him. he’ll sit in your chair, run his fingers over your belongings, and breathe in the faint scent of you lingering in the air.

when he’s feeling especially bold, he’ll lie in your bed, his heart pounding as he imagines you beside him. the boundary between fantasy and reality blurs, and for those moments, he allows himself to believe you’re already his.

despite his madness, there’s a tenderness in his obsession that makes it all the more unnerving. he’ll leave gifts on your doorstep, thoughtful things he knows you’ll love, but always unsigned. he’ll take care of things you don’t even realise—paying overdue bills, fixing a broken lock, replacing the lightbulb you forgot about. in his mind, these are acts of love, proof of his devotion. he’s your saviour, your guardian. why can’t you see that?

his darker thoughts are carefully hidden beneath a façade of adoration. but they’re there, lurking just below the surface. he’s imagined what it would be like to keep you locked away, safe from the world that doesn’t deserve you.

a place where it’s just the two of you, where no one can hurt you or take you away. he’s convinced himself it would be for the best. you’d be scared at first, but eventually, you’d understand. you’d love him like he loves you.

he’s a master of manipulation, always a step ahead. when you start to suspect something, he’ll play the perfect confidant, the shoulder to lean on. he’ll comfort you, reassure you, and subtly guide you into his arms. every move he makes is calculated to draw you closer, to ensure you never look anywhere else but at him.

his love is suffocating, overwhelming, all-consuming. it’s not just a feeling—it’s a need, a compulsion, a fire that burns so fiercely it threatens to destroy everything in its path. he doesn’t see the danger in it. to him, it’s pure, untainted, the way love is meant to be. and if you ever tried to leave, he’d see it as a betrayal so profound it would shatter him. he’d do anything to keep you. anything.

he’s utterly captivated by every little thing about you—your smile, your voice, the way your clothes hug your figure just right. his eyes linger longer than they should, memorizing every curve, every subtle movement. he tells himself it’s just admiration, but the way his thoughts wander late at night says otherwise. the image of you is burned into his mind, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t escape it.

his fantasies are vivid, detailed, and deeply personal. he doesn’t just imagine holding you close or brushing his lips against yours; his mind ventures further, into moments that would make your cheeks burn if you knew. he’s thought about how your skin might feel against his fingertips, the warmth of your body pressed to his. he knows it’s wrong, but the idea of being the one to make you blush, to see the shy tilt of your gaze, is intoxicating.

he’s fascinated by the small, intimate details of your life—the scent of your shampoo, the way you unconsciously adjust your clothes when you’re nervous, the way your lips part when you’re lost in thought. it’s not enough to simply watch; he wants to know what it feels like, what it tastes like. the thought alone sends a shiver down his spine, a mix of guilt and desire twisting in his chest.

your photos are his most cherished possessions, though he’d never admit it aloud. he’s saved everyone he’s found, both those you’ve posted and those he’s taken without you noticing. they’re his solace on nights when his need for you becomes too overwhelming. his fingers will trace over the screen, wishing he could reach through and pull you to him, to claim you as his own in ways only he dreams of.

his touches are deliberate and lingering, though he always makes them seem innocent. a hand brushing against yours when you pass him something, a too-long hug where his hands press just a little lower than they should. he tells himself it’s harmless, that he’s just expressing his affection, but the heat that pools in his chest whenever he’s near you betrays his true intentions.

he’s memorized the way your clothes fit, the way they shift when you move, and he often imagines what lies beneath. it’s an intrusive, maddening thought that he tries to push away but can’t. he tells himself it’s only natural to wonder about someone you love this much, but the intensity of his fixation borders on obsessive.

his jealousy takes on a darker edge when he sees someone else earning your smiles or making you laugh. he imagines pulling you into his arms, pressing his lips to your ear, and whispering that you’re his, only his. the idea of someone else touching you the way he wants to sends a wave of anger through him, but it also stokes the fire of his need to claim you in every way possible.

he’ll leave little hints of his affection, gifts that seem innocent at first glance—a necklace that sits just right against your collarbone, a dress that hugs your body in a way that makes his heart race. he wants to see you wear them, to know that he had a hand in how you look, to feel like you’re his in some small way, even if you don’t realise it yet.

the nights he spends in your home without your knowledge are where his darker fantasies come to life. he’ll stand in your bedroom, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you sleep, his mind wandering to places he knows it shouldn’t. he wants to reach out, to touch, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his palm, but he stops himself. not yet. it’s not time yet.

he’s thought about what it would be like to have you entirely to himself, away from prying eyes and other distractions. a place where you wouldn’t need anyone else but him, where he could show you just how deeply he feels for you. his fantasies are tinged with possessiveness, imagining you looking at him with flushed cheeks and soft whispers of his name, the way only he would ever deserve.

he knows your body as well as he knows your habits, even if he’s never touched you the way he dreams of. the way you stretch when you’re tired, the curve of your lips when you smile, the smooth expanse of your neck—he notices it all, cataloguing every detail to revisit later in the privacy of his own mind. you’re a living masterpiece, and he’s the only one who truly appreciates every stroke of your beauty.

his obsession isn’t just emotional; it’s physical. he craves the warmth of your body, the softness of your skin, the way you might gasp if he were to press his lips to yours. it’s a hunger that grows stronger with every passing day, consuming him until he’s left trembling with the sheer intensity of his desire. he tells himself he’s patient, that he can wait for you to come to him, but his restraint is wearing thin.

he imagines the way your voice would sound, breathless and needy, calling his name. the thought alone makes his heart pound, his breaths shallow. it’s a dangerous game he plays, teetering on the edge of madness, but he can’t help himself. you’ve become his addiction, his obsession, and he knows there’s no turning back.

he loves jerking off to photos of you taken by him. he flips through the steamy photos on his phone, a wicked glint in his eye begins undoing his pants, freeing his rock-hard erection. a low groan escaping his lips as he wraps a hand around the thick shaft and starts stroking it slowly.

steals your clothes. he's practically grinning maniacally as he rummages through your dresser, his fingers trailing over the fabric of each garment with a possessive touch. he snatches up your most intimate items - panties, bras, and even that cute little skirt from last night - holding them to his face and inhaling deeply before tucking the stolen clothes into his bag like precious treasures.

—

the sound of footsteps trailing behind you wasn’t unusual. you had grown accustomed to the presence of people bustling through the streets or even just the echo of your own shoes against the pavement.

tonight, though, something felt...off. the streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, thin shadows that seemed to stretch and waver unnaturally. you clutched your bag tighter as a cold breeze cut through the air, the faint rustle of leaves amplifying the eerie silence.

unbeknownst to you, a figure lingered a safe distance behind, his breathing steady, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that bordered on fanaticism. he had followed you every night for weeks now, taking meticulous care to remain unseen.

you never noticed the subtle changes in your routine—the slight chill in your room despite closed windows, the faint smell of cologne that wasn’t yours, or the way your things never quite seemed to be where you left them. he made sure of that.

when you finally reached the safety of your apartment, fumbling with your keys, a wave of relief washed over you. the feeling of being watched dissipated the moment the door clicked shut behind you. you didn’t know he was already inside.

hidden in the shadows of your closet, he crouched silently, listening to your every move. your obliviousness only deepened his obsession.

he had memorized your schedule down to the minute. he knew the way you stirred your coffee in the mornings, the playlists you hummed along to while cleaning, and the books you kept on your bedside table. each detail was etched into his mind as sacred knowledge, proof that you were meant to belong to him and only him.

his fingers itched to touch the belongings he had stolen—your hairbrush, the shirt you thought you lost, even the empty chapstick tube you tossed away without a second thought. they were treasures to him, pieces of you he could keep close when he couldn’t have you entirely. not yet.

you were so kind, so trusting. it amazed him how naive you could be. When he brushed past you in a crowd, intentionally grazing your shoulder, you had offered an apologetic smile as though it were your fault. when he sent anonymous gifts to your doorstep, you accepted them with gratitude, never questioning their origin.

you had no idea who he was, but he knew you. he knew everything. He watched as you unknowingly consumed his devotion and smiled sweetly, blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing just beneath the surface of his calculated calm.

the days passed in a blur. you noticed small things—a lingering glance from a stranger at the café, a text from an unknown number asking if you’d gotten home safely.

you chalked it up to coincidence, even as unease began to settle in your chest. little did you know, he had orchestrated it all. the stranger wasn’t a stranger at all. The text wasn’t random. everything was deliberate. everything was for you.

one night, you woke to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen. heart racing, you crept out of bed, clutching your phone tightly. the light from the hallway illuminated the edge of a shadow—a tall figure, unnervingly still. your breath hitched.

before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, and you were pulled into an unrelenting grip. his voice, low and desperate, whispered your name like a prayer.

"shh, it’s me," he said, as though that explanation should bring you comfort. "i couldn’t stay away anymore."

you thrashed against him, but his hold was iron. His tone turned sharp, frantic. "stop. please don’t fight me. i've done everything for you. don’t you see that?"

your heart pounded in your chest as his words spilled out in a torrent of obsession. he spoke of how he had protected you, how he had eliminated those who dared to insult you, how he had waited so patiently for this moment.

it didn’t make sense—none of it did—but the sincerity in his voice was chilling. He believed every word.

when he finally loosened his grip, you stumbled away, trying to catch your breath. his golden eyes shimmered with something between adoration and madness. he took a step closer, and you backed away instinctively. "don’t look at me like that," he pleaded. "i’m not a monster. i love you. i've always loved you."

you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. fear constricted your throat, making it impossible to form words. he noticed your hesitation, and his expression darkened.

"you don’t understand now," he said softly, almost to himself. "but you will. i'll make you see. you don’t have to be afraid of me—i’d never hurt you. i'd only hurt anyone who tries to take you from me."

your legs trembled as you pressed yourself against the wall, desperate to find an escape. he tilted his head, watching you with an unnerving calm. "you’re so beautiful when you’re scared," he mused. "but i don’t want you to be scared of me. i want you to love me back."

the realization of how deeply unhinged he was hit you like a wave. this wasn’t just a stranger breaking into your home. this was someone who had been in your life—lurking in the periphery, shaping your reality without your consent.

you had no idea how much he had already taken from you, how much he was willing to take to keep you his.

and he wouldn’t stop. no matter how much you begged or how far you tried to run, he would always find you. because in his eyes, you were already his.

you are his world, his everything. and in his mind, that’s not obsession—it’s love.

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fratttymatty · 8 months ago

Text

Jock'd

(All characters are 18+)

Cameron Hayes was a high school senior with two things that defined him: his love for biology and his passion for nerdy hobbies. He’d always been the type of kid who spent his afternoons reading biology textbooks, obsessing over cellular processes, and analyzing ecosystems. At 18, he was already planning to study biology at a prestigious university, and his life revolved around his love for science. But that was before one fateful night.

It all started when Cameron sat down to finish his biology homework, which was supposed to be a simple review of basic human physiology. As usual, he’d spent hours studying the material the day before, and now it was just a matter of getting the homework done before bed. His room, decorated with posters of scientific breakthroughs and his collection of rare fossils, felt like his sanctuary.

On his desk lay his open notebook, the textbook, and his phone, all with the soft hum of a lamp glowing beside him. He breezed through the first few questions—simple stuff. His mind, sharp as ever, was in its element. But then came the last question. It looked innocent enough:

"What's one form of exercise?"

Cameron didn't hesitate. He wrote down the first thing that came to mind: "Sports."

It was supposed to be a harmless answer. After all, sports were a form of exercise, right?

But the moment he finished writing, something strange happened. His head buzzed, his vision blurred, and an icy chill ran down his spine. He blinked hard, thinking maybe he was just overtired, but something was different. He felt... strange. His body seemed to tingle, like every cell was reconfiguring. He swore he heard faint laughter echoing in the air, distant, but unmistakably mocking.

Before he could even process it, his room began to warp. The walls seemed to contract, the posters of atoms and molecules turning into athletic ones, with images of football players, basketball courts, and weightlifters replacing his beloved scientific displays. A strange heat spread through his body, like he was suddenly in the middle of a workout.

His body itself was changing. His arms grew thicker, more muscular, his once slender frame becoming broader and stronger. His clothes seemed to shrink as his muscles swelled, his jeans tightening around his quads and his shirt clinging to his newly developed pecs. His hair, once a soft brown that barely fell past his ears, now grew short and spiky, and his face changed too—more defined, sharper, with a hint of arrogance.

He stumbled in front of his mirror, his heart racing in confusion. The boy looking back at him wasn’t Cameron Hayes. The reflection was of someone else—tall, strong, and undeniably attractive. His face had lost its nerdy softness, replaced by a chiseled jawline and a confident smirk that Cameron had never worn before. And most bewildering of all: the name that he now saw written on the mirror was no longer "Cameron."

It was "Kyle."

A surge of memories flooded his mind—new ones that didn’t belong to him. He remembered his high school’s football team, the parties, the beer, the girls that surrounded him, and the constant urge to be the center of attention. His brain, once filled with complex scientific concepts, now held only simple things like winning games, lifting weights, and picking up chicks. He felt... dumb.

Cameron—no, Kyle—gazed in horror at his transformation. The old him, the geeky, intelligent Cameron, felt like a distant memory, lost in the haze of his new identity. His brain just didn’t care about science or biology anymore. What mattered now was sports, looking good, and impressing people.

As he stood there, confused yet strangely satisfied by his new reflection, his phone buzzed. It was a message from one of the jocks, no doubt someone who’d gotten a laugh out of this transformation. He read it:

"Bro, you look SO ready for the football game tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll show you how to throw a perfect spiral."

The words didn’t even faze him. Kyle just grinned, his mind only focused on the idea of tomorrow’s game. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about homework. Hell, he didn’t even want to know anything about biology anymore. All he wanted was to hang out with his jock friends, hit the gym, and be the life of the party.

As he grabbed a basketball from his new collection of sporty gear, Kyle felt a surge of energy course through him. His muscles flexed, his chest puffed out proudly, and his confidence was sky-high.

He didn’t need to worry about anything anymore—no homework, no classes, no biology notes. His new life was all about being the king of the school, playing sports, and dating hot girls. And he loved it.

When Kyle walked into school the next day, every head turned. His former friends—quiet, bookish kids—now seemed like distant strangers. They watched in awe and confusion as Kyle swaggered down the hallway, laughing with his fellow jocks and getting high-fives from everyone he passed. He didn’t even remember his old friends' names, nor did he care. They weren’t part of his new world.

The old Cameron was gone, replaced by Kyle the jock, and that was just fine with him. There was no turning back now.

By the time Kyle walked through the halls of his high school the next day, he felt completely at home in his new skin. The sensation of power, of confidence, was intoxicating. Every step he took, he felt more sure of himself, more right in this new role. The people he passed seemed to admire him, their eyes following him as he swaggered down the hallway.

As he approached his first class, he bumped into Madison, the most popular girl in school. With her long blonde hair, perfect smile, and reputation for dating only the top athletes, Madison was everything Cameron had once admired from a distance. Now, she was smiling at him, and her eyes had a sparkle that made Kyle feel like he was on top of the world.

"Hey, Kyle," Madison said, her voice low and flirtatious. "I saw you at the gym yesterday. You’re looking even bigger than last week."

Kyle grinned, puffing out his chest a little. "Yeah, just trying to stay ahead of the game, you know? Got to keep the muscles strong if I want to keep winning."

Madison giggled, her hand brushing his arm as if she was already claiming him. "I like a guy who works hard," she said, clearly impressed by his new look—and more so by his jock swagger.

Kyle’s new brain buzzed with excitement, and he leaned in a little, his voice oozing confidence as he responded, "Well, I don’t just work hard, babe, I dominate."

It felt so natural. Too natural.

Madison laughed again, this time a little more flirtatiously, and Kyle felt the old Cameron—deep down, in the quiet corners of his mind—shudder. But he didn’t care. He was Kyle now.

The bell rang, and as they made their way to class, Madison slid her arm through his, leaning in close to him as they walked. Kyle smiled smugly, enjoying the attention, enjoying the way people looked at them with envy.

Later that afternoon, Kyle met up with his jock buddies in the cafeteria, his tray piled high with a ridiculous amount of food. They were already at their usual table, laughing and tossing around their footballs. Kyle was one of the guys now, and it felt like he was finally where he belonged.

"Yo, Kyle!" Tom, the quarterback, shouted when Kyle walked up, slapping him on the back. "Madison was totally checking you out, man. You’ve got her hooked. She was practically drooling over you."

Kyle chuckled, running a hand through his freshly spiked hair. "Yeah, she’s been eyeing me for a while. What can I say? I’m irresistible."

His friends all laughed in agreement, nodding enthusiastically.

"Dude, you’ve got everything," another guy, Mike, added. "The muscles, the looks, the girls. Seriously, it’s like you were born to be a jock."

Kyle threw his head back, laughing, and for a moment, he actually felt like he was on top of the world. "Hell yeah, man. That’s because I don’t waste time on stupid stuff. I’ve got priorities, you know?"

The guys nodded in agreement, each of them trying to one-up each other with stories of parties, girls, and who’d bench-pressed the most at the gym.

Kyle’s new personality had already become a perfect fit for this crowd. He found himself throwing out one-liners about how much he hated studying, mocking anyone who wasn’t in sports, and bragging about how he could easily pick up a girl just by showing off his abs.

The old Cameron—the one who loved discussing the complexities of plant biology and how to identify different species of insects—seemed like a memory from a distant life. Now, he was the guy cracking jokes about how much homework he’d skipped or how much he could drink without puking.

And as the conversation shifted to tonight’s football game, Kyle grinned even wider. This was it. The peak of high school glory.

"After we crush these guys on the field, we’re gonna hit up Joey’s party," Kyle said with a smirk. "You know, get some drinks, talk to some babes. Maybe even let them take a selfie with me."

The guys laughed and cheered, high-fiving each other. They didn’t even seem to care that the game wasn’t for a few hours. They were all already living for the after-party, and that was enough.

And then, as if on cue, Madison showed up, leaning in from behind and slipping her arm around his waist. "Hey, Kyle," she purred, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ready for tonight? You can show me how many push-ups you can do with me on top of you."

The table erupted in hoots and laughs, and Kyle felt an unfamiliar sense of pride flood him. Madison was his. She was smiling at him, wanting him, and all of his jock friends were jealous.

"Yeah," Kyle replied coolly, "I think tonight’s gonna be a good night."

And just like that, he realized: he didn’t care anymore. The old Cameron, the one who loved biology and was obsessed with books, was a distant, pointless memory. What mattered now was sports, muscles, parties, and making everyone around him know that he was the king of this school.

As Madison kissed him on the cheek, her fingers tracing his abs, Kyle couldn’t help but smirk. This was the life. And there was no going back. Not that he wanted to.

#male tf #male tf story #gay to straight #nerd to jock #smart to dumb #gym bro tf #jockification

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livelaughloveluffy · 8 months ago

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when he's falling for you - portgas d. ace

a/n: @captainportgasdace sorry babe, its feels wrong for you to not be the first person to see any new ace content i post 💀 (but please do let me know if you don't want to be tagged, i would totally understand if thats the case 😭😭😭😭)

a/n: whenever i write for ace, my heart just fucking swoons, i will always have a soft spot for him 😭😭😭 i didnt plan this intentionally but i guess i wrote ace with a "love at first sight" type trope but thats what this turned into💀 also accidental "cleaning his wounds" trope 😭 (god, he just works so well with so many tropes, i cant help it)

nothing but fluff here 💗

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-ace still remembers the very first time you touched him, lightly placing your hand on his bicep to quietly move past him, and the group of guys he was having a conversation with, in a narrow hallway on the moby dick.

-he notices his feelings the first time he saw you laugh and messing around with marco, "no fucking way, he did not do that" you squealed as marco recalled the time the two of them were doing some typical teenage boy things . the way your eyes had closed ever so slightly, the faint blush of your cheeks, it was that moment he started to look at you in a different way.

-when you patched up some of his wounds, the care and worry in your eyes, the gentle touch of your fingers and cotton, profusely apologizing whenever he expressed small amounts of discomfort. "ace, please be careful next time. i hate seeing you like this. i know it stings, but i don't want this getting infected." from that day forward, he began to fight with much more caution. he never wanted to see that worry on your face again, not if he could do anything about it.

-he never so much as hesitated to tell you exactly that. ace may flirt and tease, but when it comes to his emotions, he doesn't see the point in downplaying them because the second he realizes his attraction, he wants the opportunity to enact on it. "why delay happiness" kind of mindset.

-however, what sealed the deal for ace, was after the two of you had spent some time together. you were funny, intelligent, kind-hearted, understanding, literally everything he's ever wanted in a partner and more. the chemistry between the two of you was simply unmatched. he knew instantly that there was no world where you and he existed under the same sun, but not in a relationship. that you were his person.

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a/n: (also totally off topic but i slightly underestimated how much work it was doing all this pretty formatting for fics and materlists and as much as im enjoying it, im also tired 💀 feel like im working a full time job over here 😭😭😭 never have i been this organized about doing a hobby in my life and a girl is struggling but i think i finally got my system down so hopefully i get my shit together so please forgive me if i slow down with posting 😭😭😭)

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st7rnioioss · 9 months ago

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˙ . ꒷ 🦌 girly!reader showing skater!chris how to scrapbook .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

₊˚⊹⋆ … you sat pretty in chris’s lap, your skirt fanning over his thighs beneath yours. his hands were securely grabbing your waist as he pressed his chest against your back, his chin leaning on your shoulder to watch your movements intently.

“see? this is from your birthday.” you smiled proudly, shoving off the creative but beautifully decorated page. pictures of chris, you and chris together, his brothers, parents, and your mutual friends adorned the paper, a small recap of the day in the corner of the page.

journaling and scrapbooking was a fond hobby of yours. you loved how you can write down and save memories, whether it was from vacations, trips, birthday parties, or just spending a day with friends or your boyfriend. you just had to teach chris, or at least show him your stuff. he had peeked over your shoulder a couple times, but never fully sat down, like now, to watch.

chris leaned forward as his grip on you tightened, careful not to hurt you in any way, his gaze falling over the page. he quickly remembered the day all too well, a faint smile tugging on his lips.

“wow… you’re like.. a pro at this,” he chuckled, his fingers gently running over the candid photo of the two of you, his arms around your waist from behind, lips attached to the top of your head.

he loved that photo. it showed off how different you two were, but how perfectly you fit together. your pink dress next to his almost all-black outfit and huge jeans was not an unusual sight. your wide smile always made his heart flutter and a smile tug on his lips. you were everything to him.

“thank you,” you giggled, turning your head to face him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, wiping off the lipgloss stain as you pulled back again with a small ‘sorry’.

“okay, so. how do we do this?” chris asked, peeking over your shoulder again to look at the pictures you had just taken today, watching you flip to an empty page.

“you’ll start off by glueing the picture wherever you like, okay? and then i’ll add a little recap of our day. and you can doodle… or add some stickers.” you explained with a faint smile, handing him a glue stick to put the candid photos wherever he desired.

chris usually had a fair amount of remaining stickers laying around, since he couldn’t fit them on his skateboard. or computer.

chris quickly got to work, taking the cap off the glue stick, picking up one of the pictures to carefully bring the glue onto the back of it, leaving a gentle kiss on your shoulder blade.

“is here okay?” he asked, the picture hovering over the paper. he was careful not to place it, in case it was a stupid placement considering you had to add some writing and he himself had to add stickers.

“no, that’s perfect. wherever you want, baby.” you smiled at him, leaning over the table, your elbows resting on the hard surface to hold up your chin in your palms as you watched him stick it onto the empty page.

he turned to look at you, smiling widely as his eyes flickered back down to the paper, before looking back at you.

“see, that’s perfect, chris! and now add the rest, maybe one of the other page, or something, just not in the middle, then i can’t close it.” you smiled back up at him, your fingers momentarily caressing the side of his face in a sweet gesture, your fingers momentarily brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

he suddenly leaned closer to you, pressing a fat kiss to your cheek. and then a few more. you squealed, a loud giggle slipping past your lips as he laughed with you.

“i love you. and i love this, it’s really fun. i get why you like doing this so much.” he chuckled, planting a final kiss to your pink cheeks before going back to glueing the photos onto the scrapbook. you watched him - yeah, him, not his work. your eyes fluttered over his features, his concentrated expression, fixated on the picture, his tousled hair.

after a moment or two chris showed you the page, and you smiled proudly at him, telling him he did an excellent job. he pulled out some stickers, and you allowed him to add a few since this was your page, and you wanted your personalities to shine through.

“chris! what is this,” you laughed, pointing at the sticker chris had added. you had been so focused on writing a small amount of text, that you didn’t see the stuff he had added.

there was a sticker of bambi and thumper, and he had drawn two arrows pointing at each character, writing your name above bambi and his name above thumper.

it was such a typical move of chris, always sending you random pictures of two characters, animals, items, you name it, and saying ‘this is us’.

“what do you mean! that’s literally us,” he laughed back, putting the cap back on the pen as he threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

your heart fluttered at his words, a huge urge to kiss him dumb was growing in your tummy, but you pushed it off.

“you are such a silly guy.” you giggled, palming your face as you leaned back into his chest, laughing as you felt his arms wrap around you, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, feeling the soft skin of his lips meet your flushed cheek, his chest rumbling with laughter as well.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘

chris had been fairly entertained about making the page as perfect as possible. he went as long as finishing your little text with a recap, taking over your work completely. you weren’t complaining, leaning back into his chest as you watched him let his creative side out, as if that wasn’t out all the time, even snapping a few pictures of him. now you had something to do tomorrow as well.

“look what i made, isn’t it cute?” he looked up at you from his bent over position on the table, his elbows resting on the wood.

chris had put the cliché ‘y/n + chris’ in a heart, even adding an arrow through the pink heart.

“it’s like, y’know, in the forest and stuff, where people carve it into trees. i thought it was sweet.. and, yeah. since we don’t exactly have a tree growing out of your scrapbook.” he smiled sweetly at you, and you couldn’t contain the burst of emotions that went through you. he was such a goof, but in the silliest most perfect way ever.

you immediately threw your hands around his neck, repositioning yourself so you were straddling his lap, one leg on each side of his thighs clad in the jeans a few sizes too big.

chris was startled for a moment, but he was used to you being touchy with him, so he quickly melted into your touch, his hands resting on your hips.

“god, i love you, so, so much. silly guy.” you giggled, speaking quietly as you hugged him tight. you leaned back to look at him, running a hand through his tousled hair as you planted a kiss onto his soft lips, and then another, and another.

“i prefer ‘i love you, babe’ but silly guy works.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘

you ended up flipping the page to add a little more text, chris going off with stickers and doodles. he seemed to like this a lot. he was the cutest when it came to this, writing ‘y/n + chris forever’ all over the pages, and if that wasn’t good enough for him, he went all out with ‘i love my girlfriend’.

you were still perched in his lap, the both of you leaning over the table, but still leaving space for each other to fill out the page without bumping your elbows into each other. you were both focused, some small talk here and there, laughing at stupid stuff, giggling at some words chris had misspelled, but lovingly fixing it for him, even sneaking some kisses in between words and stickers.

you had perfectly written down a more detailed version of the start of your morning, hence the new empty page, continuing on with the rest of your day. how you both woke up around the same time, spending another half hour in bed cuddled up close to each other. after finally getting up, you had had breakfast, before getting ready to stroll around the park all day.

you insisted on getting coffee, dragging chris to the nearest coffee shop, finding an empty bench near the small pond in the park, just mindlessly chatting until chris had suggested to take a few pictures. ‘just because’ he had said at the moment, but later explained that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. like he ever could.

chris had even made his own little section on the empty page you had flipped, writing his own perspective of the day you had spent together. he allowed you to read it, and in your world it was a hundred times better than what you had written - which, of course, he denied.

“should i add this?” he randomly blurted after silence for a moment, pulling out his wallet. you knew exactly what was coming as soon as you saw the black leather, and you turned completely red in the face as he pulled out a specific picture.

and there it was, laying on the table right in front of you both.

“chris! no, no, no! stop! we’re not adding that,” you blubbered, completely flustered as you hid the picture with your hands. you knew that picture all too well, and the moments before he had taken it was replaying in your head. such a tease.

it was a picture chris had begged to take of you, laying on your back in your bed, completely naked, looking up at chris behind the lens.

he laughed, stuffing it back into the depths of his wallet for no one but him to see, ever.

“what? it’s a beautiful picture. you’re beautiful,” he continued chuckling, wrapping his arms around you while you sat there, hiding your flushed face in your palms.

you had begged chris to not put that picture in his wallet, and just keep it in your nightstand drawer or something. but, of course, chris had denied and put it in his wallet instead.

you could tell he didn’t believe you, and you playfully rolled your eyes at him as you scoffed, but you pulled him closer to you.

“i hate you so much,” you mumbled, withdrawing your hands from your face to look at him, still a wide smile on the both of your lips.

“oh yeah? do you?” he teased back, raising his brows at you as he leaned in closer, obviously not believing a word. you both knew you were lying, and that only made the whole thing more exciting.

“shut up..” you mumbled, your words trailing off as you leaned in, closing the painfully small gap between your bodies, your lips attaching to his as you interlace your fingers in his hair, forgetting completely about the doodles you were gonna add to the page. oops?

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘

more skater!chris here

୭˚. ᵎᵎ taglist: @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @elizasturn @witchofthehour

#🐇་༘࿐ works #chris ₊˚⊹♡#⌗⋆. skater!chris x girly!reader ⋆. 𐙚 ˚#chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets

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munefille · 9 months ago

Note

Omg, I love your angel oc! Could you perhaps write a drabble about him and an s/o who bakes and makes sweets, that also has an equally sweet personality? Thanks a bunch!

thank!!

He wouldn't really understand your hobby. He gets the basic concept of cooking, but the more complex process of gathering different ingredients, prepping them, and then coagulating them until they've forfeited most of their original properties is lost on him. He would rather just eat your neighbor, but if you really insisted he'd try something you make.

𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

yandere!angel(?)oc x gn.reader

cw: animal death

Heat was drifting throughout your home. A modest fire crackled pleasantly, the ceaseless sound carrying with it the scent of warm sugar and vanilla. One look at the pastries told you they were goldening nicely in the flames, crisp dough rising until it was bloated from the hot air inside of it. Only a few minutes; then they would be ready.

Clicking on glass stole your attention from the dishes in your hands. The window, left uncovered to the vast woodland bordering it, was the source of the interruption. Without turning your head to look, a smile drew across your face. You knew who your visitor was.

Shuffling out of your humble kitchen and towards the window, you spied flashes of white feathers and an inhumanly tall form bending down to peer inside. Your heart beat increased, not out of fear, but excitement to present your gift for the creature- the angel.

The window creaks open as you unlock it, letting the cool evening breeze whistle through your hair and drag the sugary scent out with it.

"Hello!" you chirped, a giddy tone resonating in your greeting. The being looked down at you with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You turned towards the kitchen again, "One moment!" you called, hurrying to fetch the baked sweets before the fire chars them. They came out steaming, sweet light whiffs that had been permeating your home hit you at full force once they came out.

It was a simple treat, sugary cookies that you had perfected. No one had ever said they disliked them.

There you were at the window again, hot tray in hand. The angel waited patiently beyond your walls for your return. Long ivory hair draped over his eyes and cascaded down his shoulders like a waterfall, so pale it seemed to reflect light even in the presence of the falling sun. He seemed to only ever visit you at night, when the light fades into nothing but the soft glow of the moon.

You presented the cookies to him, placing the tray on your window sill.

"An offering?" He quietly asked, smooth voice tinged with the hint of an accent you couldn't quite place. Though you nodded at his inquiry, he made no effort to take one.

You picked one up off the tray, taking a nibble of it in what you hoped to be a reassuring way. "They're sweet, see? I made them myself."

You practically shoved one towards him, wide doe eyes encompassing the look of a kicked puppy. "I wanted to find a small way to thank you," you mumbled genuinely. It was true- ever since you met him, life had started looking up for you. It was little things, you were rarely ever harassed anymore and people you disliked never came upon you again. You had no doubt it was the work of your guardian angel.

He stared at you through the wisps of white hair covering his eyes for a few moments longer. Then, slowly, he reached to pick one up, two long fingers pinching the treat between them.

You caught a glance of spired, bladelike teeth before he swallowed. You never questioned why an angel would have such a trait.

"How was it?" you inquired, beaming for a reaction.

His face, as far as you could tell, was blank. However, the magnificent pair of bone white wings behind him shuddered ever so slightly.

"Different."

You would take that.

The next morning, you awoke to the thick, metallic scent of rot. You searched for the origin of the putrid fumes, worried that you had left something out, when you had found it. A present was left for you on your doorstep; the corpse of a freshly deceased fawn, its head snapped to look in your direction. The wide eyed stare frozen onto its face held an unspoken warning.

An offering, for an offering.

#monster x reader #yandere x reader #yandere drabble #oc x reader #yandere monster x reader #teratophillia #yandere male #monster oc #lorne the forsaken

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pearlymel · 1 year ago

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Heart to heart

⑅˚₊ feat: Diluc, Alhaitham, Neuvillette, Ayato.

Summery: Romantic things you do with them, or they do to you.

notes: all fluff!! Gender neutral reader, mentions of taking a bath with neuvi but nothing sexual. This one was a short one but i enjoyed writing it nonetheless <33 not proofread i tried doing it while writing.

𓏲 ˖. Diluc.

— Picking flowers together. as cliché as that may sound, picking flowers has quickly become one of your favorite activities to do with your husband. Especially when you found a cute way to keep it on without tiring both of you too much, plus you could definitely store it in your journal books.

“Sweetie, hold on,” you take his wrist to adjust the tape around his skin that he seemed to struggle putting on, his confused expressions only fueling you more to do this with him.

“Darling, I’m failing to understand what’s the purpose of this…?” His frown turned upside down at your keen face. Seeing you all excited to do something with him again makes his heart race uncontrollably fast while he tries ignoring the pink rising through his cheeks by faking a cough with his fist covering his mouth.

“Flower bracelets.” You tell him, and before he could register in your words, you quickly laced your fingers with his and walked him out of the dawn winery for a short trip around the garden.

You soon demonstrated your idea of a bracelet flower to him, carefully picking the colorful petaled flower and sticking it on the tape around your wrist. He follows after, even serious about it when he walks around with your hand latched on his free hand, walking you around the bushes while making you sure you don’t trip or get hurt from the thorns of the bushes as he picks matching colors for both of you to wear.

— leaving love notes. But he strictly leaves the small notes around places only for you to see, he’d rather dig into his own grave than have Adelinde read those sweet words he saves only for you.

When you want journal on the desk, a note rests there. When you want to appreciate your appearance infront of the mirror? A note is right there. Do you want to change your clothes after a long day? Surprise, another “i hope you drank water.” Or “i miss you.” Note would hang there.

It has come to the point where you had to send him secret notes in return. So when Diluc opens the lunchbox you prepared for him to eat at angel’s share tavern during rush hours, he’s surprised to see a little hidden note.

With furrowed eyebrows, he picked up the note, eyes scanning through the neatly written “i miss you and i hope you enjoy your meal ♡︎” with a little heart at the end. He thinks he could almost faint.

“Tell me, what does it feel like to be married and have your heart race over the littlest sweet thi—“

“How about you fix your drinking habits, then maybe you won’t throw up infront of your date again. One closer step to marriage.” Diluc interrupts Kaeya’s usual teasings, who now has his jaw dropped.

𓏲 ˖. Alhaitham.

— enjoying your hobbies together. Alhaitham loves nothing more than a good quiet time with his partner and the smell of new books in the air with every turn of a page. Now if you’re not into reading, then he would gladly read to you while you, sitting comfortably on the carpet with his back against the couch while you are above him sitting on the couch. Playing with his hair or even doing your own thing of you’d like. But if you don’t enjoy him reading to you either, then you talking or also indulging yourself in old hobbies would work for him. Anything as long as you were in the same room as him.

“… and so she came up to me and was like, what’s your hair routine?” You continue mindlessly talking about your earlier encounter with a random person while your hands were busy learning how to crochet.

“And did you tell her your secret?” He asked while flipping onto the next page of his book, “yeah, I wouldn’t gatekeep. Unless i used something that’s really hard to find in the market.” He hummed thoughtfully at your words, a small smile creeping upon his face.

“And tada, I’m done.” You lower your hand to his head level to show him your newest crochet creation that you were pretty proud of. Although Alhaitham doesn’t know what it is… even when he tried avoiding the urge to ask, he needed to know what the hell you just created.

“And this is…?”

You gasp when he couldn’t immediately and magically figure out what it was, “it’s you!”

“Me?” He squinted at the green creature, fingers skimming over the soft material. Ah, he could finally see it. The little grey strands and wireless headphones that you managed to add. Oh well, he was going to add it to the collection on his shelf where you gifted him the other things you created.

“Thank you… sweetheart.” He let out a chuckle, turning his head to press a kiss at the side of your thigh and you swing your legs back and forth happily.

— cooking together. I believe Alhaitham knows how to cook, even if he doesn’t take a liking to it. It’s important to know and learn how to do things yourself and be independent, though he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t know how to cook. He would gladly cook for you, but he would teach you as well in the process.

“There’s like… sixty ingredients infront of me.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“Okay there’s twelve ingredients.” You let out an exasperated sigh as you point out the arranged ingredients on the counter. “What are we even making?”

“Butter chicken.” Your stomach starts growling at his answer, and suddenly, you were determined to finish this dish with him.

“Firstly cut the onions, and ginger. Be careful with the knife.” He would start explaining it one by one while handing you the knife and cutting board. You don’t need to be told twice before you started cutting them up, the part where onions made your eyes tears totally slipped your head. Maybe it was a pain to cook.

“For… the butter chicken.” You say like you were going to disintegrate, Alhaitham shook his head while grabbing a tissue to wipe away those tears.

𓏲 ˖. Neuvillette.

— taking a bath together. As intimate as this sounds, He would rather do nothing but have a warm bubbly bath after a long day reading papers back at his office, with you of course. He finds the comfort of your presence with him to be soothing, and an escape to the overwhelming emotions he felt on a daily basis.

The sounds of moving waters and scrubbing of shampoo mixed with your skilled fingers massaging his scalp was the only thing disturbing the tranquility of the bath.

A low rumble leaves his throat, a soft sigh falling from his lips, “I cannot thank you enough, dearest.” The tension in his shoulders loosened as your nimble fingers massage his scalp, his head tilted back to melt back into your touch. And when you’re not washing him up, he would be right behind you, your back pressed up against his chest and his arms securely around your waist while he presses soft kisses along your shoulders.

“Are you happy, my love?”

You snorted, “You’re asking obvious questions, honey.”

“Mm, i can tell by your ear to ear smile. I was only making sure I’m not doing anything wrong.” You should definitely give extra reassurance for this inexperienced dragon.

— holding hands. Whenever neuvillette approached you, you should know that he would and will take your hand into his. Whether it be when you’re asleep, your hand would be held close to his chest. But of course he wouldn’t bother you while you do your chores.. unless you wanted to.. then he would gladly take your hand in his.

You were ready for him to take your hand when you both agreed on going out for a walk as the sun was setting. You watched how he pulled his gloves from his hands, the smooth, supple skin unveiling.

“Somehow, i feel honored to be the one holding your hand without the gloves.” You say in awe as you take his hand which earns a chuckle from him.

“As i am honored for you to accept holding my hand each time.” He spoke in that low and soft tone as you both started your stroll together.

Since it was rare for Neuvillette to be showing himself out in public, you tried taking him somewhere where he wouldn't attract much attention. Just the perfect place for both of you to talk about your day.

He would listen intently, letting the sound of your voice soothe him while he held your hand tightly, his grasp almost bordering on being too hard, but in reality, it was simply because he was afraid of losing you.

𓏲 ˖. Ayato.

— dancing together. It was only one time you mentioned it to him that you were in the mood to dance with him while everyone was asleep, including Thoma retiring for the night. And tonight, you definitely got your wish.

“Where did you learn how to dance?” Ayato smirked at your question as he led you effortlessly across the dancefloor, his hands firm yet gentle on your waist as he guided you in a graceful circle.

“As the future head of the Kamisato Clan, it was expected that i learn the arts, including dance.” He twirled you around gracefully before pulling you back into his arms, his eyes locked on yours. “But i admit that tonight, I’m enjoying it more than ever before.”

"it's because I'm so good at this, right?" You add sarcastically while wiggling your eyebrows up and down. Ayato chuckled again, his smile widening a bit at your playful comment.

"Naturally, my dear," he said, his voice as well laced with a hint of sarcasm. "You're absolutely flawless, after all."

He pulled you a little closer, his hand snaking around your waist possessively.

"But yes, it doesn't hurt that I have such a graceful partner on my arm." He would then lean closer to rest his chin on your shoulder while you hummed, "You're lucky today, it's not everyday you get to see my talents." You whispered playfully, resulting to both of you laughing quietly in the hallways.

— playing board games together. Yes it's romantic if it gets you to laugh and fall in love more with them as you spend more time together, yes he would challenge you in a game of chess, and yes he would have to teach you how to play if you don't know the rules of it.

You sat across the table from Ayato, your eyes fixed on the chess pieces before you. The game was intense, both of you clearly well-matched. But with each move you made, Ayato was full of praise.

"Clever," he said, nodding in approval as you captured his bishop. "You're getting better at this, darling. Where did you learn to play like this?"

"Only learned from the best." You answer confidently before straightening your posture. But that doesn't mean his sweet talking should make you lose your focus on this game.

"Ah, you flatter me," he raised an eyebrow, his eyes briefly glancing towards you as he moved his knight. "And to think someone as talented as you would learn from me of all people." He spoke softly but in amusement, the words gliding smoothly off his tongue.

Just as you were about to celebrate victory too early, your squint at the board when he announced "checkmate" so innocently.

"I believe that's game," He looked up at you, his eyes gleaming. "Looks like I'll remain your teacher for a little while longer, wouldn't you like that?"

You sigh, a "yay." Escaping your lips unenthusiastically.

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jaytipede · 2 months ago

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... JJ's introduction! ── ✎ᝰ.

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

Hello! My name is JJ! I'm fairly new to using Tumblr so apologies for any weird mistakes LOL. You probably know me from either TikTok or Instagram as the girl with the characters named Cookie and Jasper. If not, welcome! Let me introduce myself!

Once again, my name is Jay or JJ! My pronouns are she/her. If it isn't obvious by now, I am an artist and I love to draw and write stories! It is my number one hobby. The project I am currently working on (and will be for a long while) is titled "How the Cookie Crumbles." I am a very secretive person on the internet, so there is not much I can think of to put in my introduction! If you can't tell, I am a very bright person and I love cuteness... which is ironic, considering my story-telling is the total opposite. Speaking of...

⚠︎ TRIGGER WARNINGS! ⚠ ←

If you're new around here, my story-telling contains incredibly heavy discussions that are not for the faint of heart! The story's theme centers around different forms of grooming, hoping to shed light on various types of abuse, SA, etc. If you are sensitive to these subjects, I don't recommend following! While there is more to it than just that, those are the central themes. My goal is to represent these topics as tastefully as I possibly can, I can assure you that I always have the best intentions! I am incredibly open to criticism when it comes to representing things tastefully (and generally speaking) so feel free to criticize the morality if needed! I will always do my best to listen to others concerns.

BOUNDARIES! ←

On the topic of criticism, please do not criticize my art unless asked! While I never want to do something morally incorrect, my art style, designs, etc. are not as serious. You will know if I want criticism, as I usually speak very literally!

Fanart of any kind is okay, as long as it is in good faith and NO NSFW, please!

Feel free to send me as many asks as you want! I may not be on top of them 24/7 but I will try my best to get to them!

I am okay with DMs, but please remember, strangers: a response does not automatically mean we are friends! Do not behave in a parasocial manner towards me! You may think you know me, but I do not know you! Always keep that in mind!

If you are unsure of a boundary I may or may not have... please ask! I have a very open-mind and will never judge anything harmless!

Please do NOT interact if you are:

Homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, islamophobic, etc.

Racist, sexist, ableist, discriminatory, etc.

If you invalidate a person's pronouns/gender/identity (yes, even neos/xenos!)

If you're a pedophile, sexualize minors, joke about rape, etc.

If you are "proship" or anything of that nature.

If you support, participate, tolerate, or justify any of the above.

If I deem you any of the above, or if you make me uncomfortable in any way... I will block. No questions asked.

Fandom Wiki! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Some of my followers put together a fandom wiki, which is so sweet! I do not edit anything in here as to not take away the fun for y'all, so not all the information may be accurate. For the most part though, I believe it is. Keep in mind that some information is missing as well! Here is the link! ->

Anyways...

Yeah! That's all I can think of, currently. I hope my story can help you feel a little less alone in the world!

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

#intro post #introduction #new to tumblr #artists on tumblr #oc lore #original art #original character #idk how to tag this #be kind

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sharkorok · 2 years ago

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all eyes on you (enhypen)

or the moments that make everyone think you’re dating

cw/genre: idol!reader, reader doesnt have specified gender but implied to be a female, fluff, so cute bye, secret relationships, humor, u have delulu fans

requested: naurrr

a/n: ehe thx for 100 followers :) I hope my writing makes u happy because knowing people read my works makes me super duper happy! luv uuuu

•-•-•-•-•-•

heeseung

-at an awards show your outfits were matching, like very obviously matching

-matching bracelets, you had one on your left wrist and he had one on the right, the colors matched each other, same style and aesthetic…

-he gets v nervous but also you were in some dating rumors with another idol so…he wouldn’t be mad if he was next tbh….BUT THEN UR GROUP WAS ASSIGNED NEXT TO HIM??

-dawg was sweating the whole time trying not to admire you and how cute you two looked

-but no every one of those “enhypen mma reaction” or “heeseung reaction focus” showed him very clearly staring at you 😭, twt had a field day with you two

-he can’t help it, you looked so good and how can he keep his eyes off his lovely s/o when they’re all dressed up + matching?? seriously his management was insane for putting him so close to you

-and when all groups were leaving he was seen literally sprinting to be closer to you

-ya dispatch didn’t even need to confirm anything after that awards show

the others r below!

jay

-during a live he got his guitar out and started playing all your favorite songs

-and this was literally a day after you named your favorite songs

-then to make it worse he was like “yeah these are y/n’s favorite songs don’t they have good music taste?” and then he kept talking about you and staff was sweating while watching istg

-the way he talked about you tho,,he either had a massive crush on you or you two were dating

-the ship edits the next day were insane honestly some of your fans need to get into the editing business because you genuinely believed a photo of him holding your waist was taken at inkigayo

-he doesn’t even try to hide how much he likes you istg, he goes out of his way to talk to you at awards shows and always films challenges with you, he gives the shippers so much content

-then another time jay cooked your favorite food in a vlog and specifically said it was your favorite food, name dropping and everything

-literally no one is surprised that you two are confirmed dating after a while.

jake

-accidentally went on live while talking about you

-he fully believed he closed out of the app when he was talking to jay and saying stuff like, “I’m really excited to see her at the performance, I hope we have time to hang out…” and then he hears notifications and sees that he was streaming and he nearly faints

-plays it off like he fully intended for everyone to hear that and continues like he planned on going live

-he’s also trying to hide the way his eyes flickered up to your rapid texts being like, “JAKE WHY ARE WE TRENDING ON TWITTER??”

-jay is behind the camera just trying not to laugh becuz how do you even recover from this one, literally all the comments are talking about you and him

-“y/n…? yeah ahahah I know her uh huh mhm anyways moving on” and his horrible deflecting skills are making it even more obvious

-and when you go on live?? oh u bet the comments are “did you see jake’s recent live?? are u cheating on us y/n?”

-u desperately distract by spoiling your comeback but there’s already 14k Tik toks analyzing every interaction you had with Jake and why you two are cosmically intertwined

sunghoon

-describes you to a T when asked about his ideal type

-he meant to just mention the broad details but he gets excited talking about u ok :(

-“yeah a good heart and around (your exact height), with (the hex code of your eye color) eyes, born on (your birthday), hobbies include (every single one of your hobbies) and also…(literally all the information under your kprofiles page)”

-ur fans catch on and are like “isn’t this literally y/n” and he’s like “omg nooo coincidence”

-it is NOT a coincidence bro he was fully thinking of you and only you during that interview

-anyways you don’t help the situation by describing him too when asked about your ideal type, but ur at least a tad less obvious 😭

-“yea I love guys who ice skate and stuff”

-u two definitely get scolded by management

sunoo

-sometimes he forgets to care about keeping things secret (like that lipton tea thing he did)

-so he’s showing fans his camera roll and he shows selfies you never posted before…in his camera roll…never before seen by anyone but him and you to the camera and is like

-“y/n’s visual is so perfect, right?”

-and yeah duh ur stunning and gorgeous but fans are distracted by your beauty for a second before being like “hm…how did he get those selfies and why r they in his camera roll”

-ur fans r thankful for the content tho so he kinda did everyone a favor

-but it’s a LITTLE suspicious…but neither of you address anything so it just festers a little

-until you two do a tik tok challenge together and he captions it with a heart emoji like oh my god 😭

-you’re not innocent either when you said “sunoo’s visual is so amazing” like both of you get some media training I beg

-everyone loves how obviously whipped you two are for each other tho :,)

jungwon

-accidentally exposes your polaroid in his phone case

-thankfully he has photos of his members and maeum but why were you there??

-he completely ignores it tbh he shows the photos to the camera and is like “these r the polaroids in my phone case. anyways.” n he’s playing it cool but internally he’s PANICKING

-“hopefully they didn’t see the heart I drew on the Polaroid,” he thinks foolishly

-we did.

-so you try to do some damage control on your own live when asked about why he has ur photo in his phone and ur like “oh we’re really close friends!!”

-n honestly that’s a good and healthy response because everyone has the right to their platonic relationships

-but jungwon’s heart he drew on your Polaroid was just a little bit tooooo suspicious…anyways this leads to fans over-analyzing every single interaction to the point you two weren’t allowed to be seen in a ten foot proximity at events for a while

-but at least it reminded jungwon to be more careful lolol

niki

-accidentally rizzes you up on live television

-you’re an mc for smth and you’re interviewing enhypen and you’re like, “oooh, some burning questions, what is your ideal type?”

-and Niki, with no hesitation fully goes, “you lol” and you see ur career flash before your eyes

-ur co mc is nervously laughing and niki realizes like oh wait we’re being broadcasted so he’s like “oh just kidding haha!!!” even though you two are making awkward eye contact while you’re mentally scolding him

-he’s so used to teasing and flirting with you in private so it’s a little hard to shake off in public

-anyways fans notice he’s looking at you a little too lovingly and being a little too genuine when he responded so it’s not long before you see ship edits on Twitter and tik tok

-doesn’t help when you answer the ideal type question with “someone who is playful and funny” thinking it was broad enough but ‘twas not <3

-he doesn’t really care too much but thought it was funny, even if he had to take a media training class again afterwards >:T

#enhypen drabbles #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x reader #enha fluff #enha imagines #enhypen headcanons #enhypen reactions

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divaofmads · 17 days ago

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ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter II: Bruises and Lullabies

"This isn’t a moral downfall. It’s a weakness. But in this city, weakness brings death. If I love you, I can’t protect you. If I don’t love you, I’ll lose you. Which one should I choose?"

Warnings: Angst, +18, Taboo Love (Step Daddy Bruce Wayne), Age Gap Romance, Yandere Undertones, Dark Jonathan Crane, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Fear Toxin Effects, Childhood Trauma, Possessive Dynamics, Implied Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narration (due to drugged/dissociative state)

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

The living room was as silent as the evening itself.

Thick velvet curtains kept out the Gotham night, blocking the gentle melody of the rain tapping against the windows. The only sound in the room was the rustle of papers – like a sentence suppressed, thoughts buried before they could be spoken.

Bruce Wayne had settled into the armchair closest to the window. In his hand was a folded newspaper, the corner bent between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. He appeared fully focused on the pages. But focus is often an illusion.

You were sitting across from him, your legs tucked under you. You wore a red and white gingham halter top that hugged your figure, and soft pants of the same fabric that ended just below your knees. You had opened the Edward Nygma file you brought from Arkham. You were taking notes in blue ink, sometimes thinking out loud. Bruce was listening. Even when you didn’t know he was.

“Riddler’s connection to riddles isn’t a classic obsession, in my opinion,” you said, not lifting your gaze from the pages. “He’s not lost in the question itself. He wants to dissolve into the answer. It’s a kind of psychological claim. He’s not satisfied by knowing, but by solving.”

Bruce slowly turned a page of the newspaper.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, but with a subtle, scrutinizing undertone. “And what about Batman? What do you think of him?”

You raised your head for a moment. Your eyes sparkled with surprise, and a hint of playful mischief.

“Hmm. Personally or professionally?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly with a faint smile. “Do you think you can tell the difference?”

You shrugged, but the little defiant girl inside you stepped forward.

“Batman… is someone who has buried his identity. He probably experienced deep trauma. But instead of suppressing it, he recreates it. Every night. With his own hands. He identifies with criminals. Rather than just fighting them, he recreates their fear. That’s why his mask isn’t any different from the ones criminals wear.”

Bruce locked eyes with you for a moment. The corner of his lips curved upward, but it wasn’t satisfaction. It carried a kind of melancholy.

“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? Maybe Batman is just a man trying to bring justice. Maybe he’s not that dark.”

You tilted your head slightly. Whenever he tested you like that, that slight, smug grin always found its way to your lips.

“If a man puts on a cape every night and breaks criminals’ bones, I don’t care how brightly he walks in daylight. He must be doing it from somewhere deep inside. If that place is dark… then I find it even more compelling.”

For a split second, Bruce’s expression froze. Something deep in his heart cracked with a single hammer blow. But he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Compelling, huh?” he asked. There was a touch of sarcasm laced with hidden fragility in his voice.

“What kind of effect is that, exactly?”

You didn’t answer. You turned back to the file, but the words on the page were now blurry. He was watching you. And you could feel it, even without looking.

“If you ask me...” you said at last, glancing at a corner of the file, “Batman isn’t a savior. He’s more like someone familiar. He knows loss. He knows the void. That’s why he affects me.”

Bruce turned his eyes back to the newspaper to stop watching you. But this time, the warmth in his voice was more distinct.

“Your theories are sometimes... quite embellished with imagination.”

You laughed, short and confidently.

“Well, I am Bruce Wayne’s student, after all. If my imagination wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t be interning at Arkham, would I?”

There was a moment of silence after you said that. Bruce lifted his head again, and his gaze fell back on you. There was a glimmer in his eyes you couldn’t quite name. Admiration? Guilt? Fear of something?

"Knowing some things this well... it’s a bit much for your age."

His voice was low, deep, like he was talking to himself. But he wanted you to hear.

And you did. You understood.

You smiled. Squinting slightly, you turned your head.

"You don’t have to keep reminding me of my age. I’m legally an adult now, you know."

That sentence changed the air in the room. Even the crackling of the fireplace seemed to pause for a moment.

Bruce didn’t react. But his gaze stayed on you. Long. Silent. Then, after a moment, he lowered his head and folded the newspaper.

"If you’re going to keep working with Riddler, be careful. While you’re trying to solve him, he’s analyzing you. It’s a dangerous balance."

You sighed.

"The real danger is Batman. I wish I could meet him. I feel like... he’s someone who’d truly see me."

Bruce stayed silent for a while. Then turned his eyes back to you, but his gaze was somewhere else entirely.

As if your presence was the echo of something he once lost. As if you were both his victim and his savior.

"If you had met him..." he said slowly, "maybe you would’ve changed your mind."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"Or maybe... he would’ve affected me even more."

Bruce stood. Slowly. And looked at you.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime?"

The words came in a fatherly tone, but there was another layer beneath. Like a man trying to hold himself back.

You didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever... helped someone without being seen? I mean... someone you protected without wanting them to know it was you?"

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes froze on you. He stayed silent for so long it felt like an answer.

Eventually, he looked away and began to walk.

"Everyone has a shadow, Y/N," he said.

"But some learn to see from inside that shadow."

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched him. Long and still. Your eyes were slightly narrowed, but there was something swinging between a child’s gaze and a woman’s instinct.

You knew the weariness on his face by heart. How his lips pulled sideways when he tried not to smile, how his shoulder relaxed when you squeezed it...

And at that moment you realized, you had stored all these details in your memory like a file. Just like Nygma’s notes.

Bruce lowered his head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You straightened slightly, rose to your feet. "Because sometimes... I want to look with you from inside the shadow you live in," you said, slowly walking toward him.

You leaned on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in and gently touched his knee with your fingertips.

"And that paper-cut serious expression on your face is a bit much. When you frown, you look more like Alfred."

Bruce glanced sideways at you. His lips twitched upwards unwillingly, but he tried to keep a straight face.

"There’s no room for another personality disorder in Wayne Manor," he said. "Especially if someone’s impersonating Alfred, I’ll throw them out the door."

You burst out laughing. "Ooo! So now you’re threatening me, Mr. Wayne?" You tilted your head playfully and winked. "Or are you saving that Batman rage just for me?"

Bruce shook his head. "One day, your mouth is going to get you into trouble, young lady," he said, his voice a mix of fatherly affection and stony patience.

But you had already jumped from behind the chair as if to sit on his leg. Then you backed off like a child hopping in place. Bruce quickly moved and grabbed you by the waist.

"Gotcha," he said in a low voice, both serious and teasing. His arms wrapped around your slender waist, pulling you close enough that you couldn’t escape.

You laughed heartily, nearly falling into Bruce’s lap.

"That’s not fair! You’re so bi..." you began, but his look stopped your breath before you could finish.

You locked eyes.

The joy on your face gave way to brief confusion, then to your signature slyness.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath close enough to touch Bruce’s face. His fingers were still on your waist. Not tight, just there, holding, not letting go.

There were only a few inches between you.

You squinted and whispered.

"You know... I missed this game. This closeness. These little battles. It feels like I’m living inside a poem. One without a poet, but every line echoes in my heart."

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes as he prepared to respond. He slowly leaned toward your hair, but didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, waiting.

You rested your head on his shoulder. And neither of you spoke.

As the darkness of Gotham crept in through the windows of the Manor, time slowed a little more for you both.

And the shadows... deepened.

Bruce leaned back. His left hand touched your shoulder. Gracefully, yet with quiet determination. When his fingertips moved slightly, you took a deep breath. The warmth from where he touched you began to spread inward. Even in the darkness, there was that gray haze in his eyes, always thoughtful, always somewhere else, yet somehow always seeing you. You didn’t know which war he was hiding behind, but sometimes you just wanted to believe he was only here, only now, with you.

And that moment—right then—was exactly that. Real.

“You know,” you said, your voice low, warm with a tinge of sorrow. “I missed this... just being close. Without talking. Just... being.”

Bruce locked eyes with you, then glanced at your face, and finally, your lips. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Perhaps it was the moment when whatever he was trying to suppress nearly broke the surface. But of course, he was Bruce Wayne. Master of everything, even the warden of his own feelings.

“I did too,” he said in a hushed voice. “But sometimes... the more you miss something, the further it feels. Like you’re suddenly more aware of what’s slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t want it to slip,” you said. “I want us to be like we were. Like that morning... remember? The one when Alfred tried to wake you up with coffee, but I was lying on top of you.” You rested your head gently on his shoulder. “You said, ‘Y/N, this is a form of torture.’”

Bruce dipped his head. A faint smile touched his lips. “Because it really was,” he said. “But the good kind.”

You didn’t laugh. You just closed your eyes. As if trying to drink in the silence, you inhaled his scent, his clothes, his skin, the aftershave... and beneath all of it, that hidden, complex, dark, metallic smell. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it was just... the mystery that seemed to cling to him.

Then a thought crossed your mind. A glowing, mischievous, seductive thought.

You suddenly straightened. Before Bruce could react, you moved onto your knees and slipped gracefully into his lap. Your posture was elegant, yet undeniably bold. Your fingers reached toward the buttons of his shirt, not to undo them, just to touch. Tilting your head slightly, you looked at him, a spark in your eyes, a subtle secret on your lips.

“You know, that swimming race last month... wasn’t fair at all. You always bend the rules in your favor.”

With a playful smile, you continued:

“So maybe now... it’s my turn to set the rules.”

Bruce’s body tensed slightly. He didn’t look away, but his smile had faded. In his eyes, the amusement had given way to something else: a mix of desire and guilt.

He shook his head. Like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N... No. This—” he said. He paused. Then, in a slower, wearier voice, repeated:

“This can’t happen.”

For a moment, just a moment, the sting of those words didn’t register. But then they settled in your chest. Not gently. Harshly like a crack.

You looked at him. Your lips still carried that playful smirk, but your eyes had stopped smiling.

“It can’t?” you asked. “Why not?”

Bruce’s hand was still at your waist, but now his fingers had loosened. He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head. As if the weight of the world fit into a single answer he couldn’t say aloud. Because to name it, to say it, would be to give up the secret, and push you away.

And then, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Alfred stepped inside. His gaze passed from him to you, but he said nothing. That expression he always wore, as though he’d seen everything, yet nothing at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said. His voice was calm but unhurried. “Charlotte Rivers has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the front.”

Silence… then the shadow on Bruce’s face deepened.

You, still in his lap, turned to Alfred.

And Bruce’s next words sank you into an even deeper silence:

“Thank you, Alfred. Let her in.”

Alfred gave a nod, paused a moment more at the door, then quietly withdrew.

You turned your face to Bruce. There was no play left on your lips. That spark had vanished.

And with only a whisper, you asked:

“Charlotte Rivers?”

That night, the wind outside Wayne Manor howled even harder.

But inside... the real storm had begun.

You were standing on the marble floor that gleamed like golden reflections of the warm yellow light beneath the towering crystal chandelier. On your left was Bruce’s familiar calm, and on your right, the approaching footsteps of a storm. Charlotte Rivers.

The sharp, steel-like sound of her heels echoed through the empty hall, and for a moment, you held your breath. When the silhouette of the woman appeared before the grand door, the infuriating entrance scene you had imagined countless times finally took flesh and bone. Absentmindedly, your hand rested on the sleeve of Bruce’s jacket—unknowingly. As your fingers drew near his skin through the fabric, the woman’s smile kept drawing closer.

“Bruce, darling…”

Charlotte smiled with a polished lie on her lips. Without the slightest hesitation, she stepped up to Bruce and pressed a short yet distinct kiss on his lips. Though the kiss was brief, her fingertips lingered on his chest for about two seconds longer than necessary. And you stood there.

You looked on without narrowing your eyes. The red mark of her lipstick may not have stayed on Bruce’s skin, but the spark in your eyes—the instant flame of jealousy—betrayed you. Still, a faint smile played on your lips, as if you were amused. You weren’t revealing the war inside you. Not yet.

When Charlotte turned her head toward you, she said, “Ah… Y/N, isn’t it? How lovely to see you again. You’re still… living in this house?” Her expression was kind, but her voice was coated with sugary poison. She had left such a deliberate pause between the words that you could almost hear the subtext: “Isn’t it a bit strange that Bruce is still with you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Sometimes people don’t leave a place. They make it theirs.”

Your response was just like her smile: subtle, but equally sharp. Charlotte slightly raised her brows; her face suspended somewhere between surprise and delight. It showed she accepted the challenge. And you, placing your hands behind your back, took a small step back to watch.

Bruce cleared his throat to break the tension. “Charlotte, come. Let’s move to the sitting room. Alfred will bring the drinks shortly.”

But Charlotte hadn’t moved yet. She gently touched Bruce’s arm. “Honestly… I didn’t think I could’ve missed you this much. But maybe it’s the magic of Wayne Manor. Or… your presence.”

Her voice was so composed, you might have mistaken it for genuine. But you could see the calculations behind her eyes. And Bruce… said nothing. He wore that mask you knew—the mask of blankness—and responded to her words with neither denial nor approval.

But that was the moment that hurt you the most. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t defend you. It was that he acted as if you weren’t even there. Charlotte leaned in a little more, lightly touching Bruce’s chest, her fingers tracing the seams of his jacket. These small gestures were a deliberate dance performed in your presence. Every gesture was an insult. Every smile, a provocation. And Bruce hadn’t stopped the dance.

You just watched. With your wrists clasped and your nails digging into your palms, you stood upright. You were smiling, but your teeth were clenched with fury. Your heart was tight, yet your face wore a soft expression. And your eyes… when they found Bruce again, the fragments of admiration still lingering there were now shaded with pain.

At that moment, you noticed Charlotte whispering something to Bruce, ignoring you entirely. He slightly nodded, but there was still no trace of that ghostly smile you once knew so well. That face—it no longer belonged to you. For a fleeting second, it felt like you were watching Bruce’s ghost. And that ghost had found life in someone else’s body.

That night, even the stone walls of Wayne Manor seemed to breathe—bound by a kind of ancient, ominous loyalty that refused to let anything inside or allow anything to escape. The darkness of night had devoured the scenery, and the shadows of the trees in the garden reflected on the window like silhouettes gasping for air. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows and reality blended into one—just like inside your mind.

Your room was actually your favorite corner in Bruce’s house. The dark navy wallpaper Bruce once gifted you was still there. On the bookshelf, carefully arranged volumes of Freud and Jung stood neighborly beside plush teddy bears. The white lace curtain at the window fluttered gently with the breeze, appearing to be the only thing in motion at that moment. The room was elegant, but still youthful. Just like you.

You were pacing back and forth inside, your feet pressing into the soft texture of the dark carpet, while your heart pounded so hard you feared its sound might shatter the silence. You kept replaying in your mind, again and again in countless variations, what Bruce and Charlotte were doing, where they had gone, and how they could so easily leave you behind.

It was 1:30 a.m. now. Two hours. Two hours, and Bruce hadn’t returned. Charlotte hadn’t left. And you… you were decaying in silence, in your own room, digging your nails into your palms.

Then… that laugh came.

High-pitched, careless, far too relaxed. It was Charlotte’s laugh. Even from a distance, you could see her throwing her head back as she laughed, placing her hands on Bruce’s shirt, narrowing her eyes. That sound had made its way to the upper floors of the house, all the way to your room.

Your body reacted instantly. Your feet carried you to the door without your permission. Your palms pressed against the wood of the door; you turned your head slightly, listening. First, footsteps… then a few murmurs… then Charlotte’s voice again.

“…You’re so tense lately, Bruce. Maybe you should learn to unwind a little. That’s what nights are for, aren’t they?”

The touch within her voice poured into your ears like silky venom. The insinuations, the invitations… they made it hard for you to stay upright. Your heart started pounding again—this time, in your throat. A fist seemed lodged there, and swallowing was impossible.

“Do you remember that night? Champagne, me, you, that famous jacuzzi… I tricked you a little, but you liked it. Why are you being so distant now?”

And Bruce’s reply… never came. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it. Maybe he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t answer at all. But the silence didn’t seem to discourage Charlotte.

“Come upstairs with me. Let’s… refresh old memories.”

That was when a sharp pain hit your gut. Your knees buckled, but you didn’t collapse. Your eyes locked on a single point: the door leading to the dark hallway.

Were they going upstairs? To Bruce’s bedroom?

A moment of silence passed, then a faint click… footsteps… heels echoing on the marble stairs. You recognized them instantly. Charlotte’s walk was always a performance. And Bruce was he following her?

You leaned your back against the door, your head tilting upward with the knot in your throat. The chandelier’s crystals fractured the ceiling light, casting soft shadows on the walls. But that beauty could no longer comfort you. In your mind appeared the image of that foreign woman’s lips touching Bruce’s. You recalled that laugh. That invitation. And Bruce’s silence.

You clenched your teeth. You felt something crack inside, thin and long like a fissure. Slowly growing, pulling you into darkness.

It wasn’t just jealousy. No. It was the foreboding sense of loss, the helplessness of being forced to watch everything you love slip quietly through your fingers. It was watching another woman erase you from his memory in every moment you weren’t by his side. Quietly. Calmly. Wanting to scream, but only being able to swallow it down.

You whispered Bruce’s name. It came out like a plea from between your lips… but no one else was in the room. He didn’t hear you. And even if he did, maybe he wouldn’t turn around anymore.

And that night, for the first time, you were truly alone.

The time had long passed midnight, and the silence of the house was no longer a comfort; it settled over you like a suffocating burial shroud. The thick stone walls of Wayne Manor were woven with a cold, resentful stillness, every crevice filled with history, weight, and secrets. In the dim light of the room, even the echo of your footsteps felt like a betrayal, each step pounding like a heart caught in the act.

You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried. Your feet forced you into pacing, your hands wrapping around your own wrists as you moved back and forth across the room. The sheer curtains twisted in front of the window against the breeze, the moonlight making the delicate fabric sway as if it wanted to wrap itself around your body.

But the wave inside you was much stronger.

Bruce. Charlotte. That laughter.

That look. That touch.

You were burning from within.

In the middle of the night, you moved like a shadow losing control. Even the tiny click as you opened the door on your tiptoes startled you. The chill in the hallway slithered across your skin like a sneaky intention. Every step, every creak made you feel even lonelier, even more alien in this house. You stopped when you reached the start of the staircase leading to the upper floor. There was something inside you now: jealousy, dressed up as courage.

You didn’t know how your heart could beat so wildly as you approached something you thought belonged to you. But when you stepped into the corridor where Bruce’s bedroom was... something else happened. Your feet stopped. Your breath caught. Because you had heard it.

Those sounds.

A breath echoing. A stifled giggle. The rustle of sheets brushing together.

And Charlotte’s voice, faint, but with a seductively sharp sweetness as it rose:

"Hmm... just like that. I feel like I remember you again now. You know, Bruce… when you look at me like that, I still remember that night. My hands were pressed against the wall in the stairwell..."

Her voice sent a chill to the tips of your hair and a heavy punch right to the center of your stomach. There, right in front of the door, you leaned against the wall. Your legs had gone numb. There was no hand on your chest, but it was there. Another muffled moan came from her. Then Bruce’s low, husky voice, unclear, but the vibration of his words seemed to stroke Charlotte’s hair.

You swallowed. But your throat was dry. Your lips parted, but you had not a single word to say. What was inside you… was like the shattered shards of a mirror. Each piece slicing into a different part of your soul.

Hatred.

Desire.

Disappointment.

Betrayal.

And... mistrust.

And yet, how much had you wanted to be the one next to him. Sitting on that couch, just one more touch and you would’ve belonged to him again. And now, behind that door, Bruce Wayne was slowly unraveling in the hands of another woman. Your dreams were being carved into someone else’s skin by his hands.

Charlotte whispered again:

"You make me feel like I belong to you. You really haven’t forgotten me, have you?"

And Bruce’s response came in the form of silence. But that silence hurt you more than any word ever could.

You trembled. Your back pressed harder against the wall. Your fingers went to your chest, your throat. You could feel the rise of the anger you tried to suppress. And it was no longer just jealousy. This was a claim. Your pride had been crushed, your desires trampled.

And worst of all: Bruce had lied to you. He had looked you in the eyes and lied when he left you alone.

The line of light slipping from under the door touched your ankles. It felt like it was cutting you. You wanted to step closer to the door but couldn’t. Because if you took one more step... you would lose another part of yourself. Irretrievably.

That night, in that dark hallway, you felt completely exposed. And perhaps for the first time, you realized you could never trust Bruce the same way again.

There was still night in the hallway. The morning sun, seeping through the gray velvet curtains, seemed too timid to step inside the house. The walls of Wayne Manor were, as always, silent—but it felt as though everything had already been said.

You were dressed for your morning internship, moving in a simple black shirt with fine white stripes and fitted black slacks… your steps were quiet. Too quiet. You were quiet just so you wouldn't hear him. Just because you felt too broken to deserve any sound.

But life always loved testing you where it hurt the most.

As you were leaving, you saw him. Bruce. Wayne.

He was coming down the stairs, his black t-shirt disheveled, his hair messy, and his gaze heavy from lack of sleep as he looked at you. He was alone. But you knew. Upstairs. Inside. Charlotte Rivers was still in bed.

Only two staircases away from your room.

When your eyes met, time seemed to pull back—like a thread being drawn through the skin while stitching a wound; silent, tense, but amplifying the pain. When your gaze locked on him, he noticed. His lips parted, as if to say something, but he couldn’t. Because you spoke first.

You straightened your shoulders. Tilted your neck slightly. Just as he was about to say “good morning,” your voice sliced through the air: “You looked very tired last night. I hope… you were able to rest.”

Your words were like shards of glass stuck in the neck of a wine bottle; elegant on the surface, but already cutting through beneath. Bruce averted his gaze. But you didn’t. You stayed right there. You kept looking. You waited.

There was silence. And then, he did what he always did: tried to control the guilt.

“Y/N… if I need to explain...”

You raised your hand, slicing the air gently. It was a graceful, almost tender gesture. But not on the inside.

“You don’t need to explain. I already heard everything loud and clear.”

There was no shouting in your voice, no reproach. And that deepened the lines on Bruce’s face even more. Because your tone was patient. And patience was something no one your age should ever have.

He saw that spark in your eyes. You weren’t a little girl anymore. No longer that “sweet” presence who used to fall asleep reading books at his side. There was something in your eyes that the night couldn’t retrieve, and the morning couldn’t mend.

“Y/N… Charlotte is someone from my past. Something began with her.”

You cut him off. Didn’t blink. “Yes, Bruce. It began. Just like what you started to show me. While what we had was a bond far deeper than a physical one… your sense of time is truly something. Seems like you’ve lost track of the difference between hurting someone and seducing them.”

You took a step closer. Your footsteps were velvet-soft, but the storm inside you pounded against your ribs with a roar. There were only inches between you now. You looked into his eyes and whispered: “I was your future. But you chose to stay in your past.”

And right then… his throat moved. He swallowed. But he couldn’t speak. Because your eyes weren’t filled with tears. You hadn’t cried. And that was the most terrifying part: the absence of tears. If no tears were shown, there could be no forgiveness.

You turned toward the door. Just as you were about to leave, a hoarse voice rose behind you: “I still care about you.”

You didn’t stop. Just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Then why did you share a bed with her?”

As one of the house staff opened the door, the morning sun on your face felt like it was smiling at you. But you didn’t look back. With the weight of no longer belonging to the darkness inside Wayne Manor, you walked down the steps. Your feet no longer moved like a child’s, but like a woman’s.

The corridor didn’t feel like its usual morning chill. There was a thick, scentless, but heavy chemical residue lingering in the air—like the ghost of a spill. Your footsteps made almost no sound. In a building this old and decaying, that alone was unsettling. The rubber soles of your black ballet flats made it feel like you were stepping on the soul of a ghost. The notebook in your hand had started to moisten at the fingertips.

When you reached the office door, it was closed—but someone was inside. Two male voices. One was familiar—sharp and measured, slicing each sentence into pieces. Dr. Crane. The other was older, a little more muffled… and dominant: Dr. Hugo Strange.

But the words… the words were blurry. You could only make out certain key terms in between sentences: “dosage,” “voluntary protocol,” “immunity,” “REM cycle”... and the phrase that struck your ear the most: “only at night.”

Instinctively, you took a step back. And just then, from behind you, came a sweet, slightly too loud, and definitely out-of-place voice:

“Hey there, sweetheart!”

When you turned slowly, you saw Dr. Harleen Quinzel standing behind you. She wore her white coat, beneath it a faded pink dress. Her hair was neatly tied, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but her lips were like springtime.

“When did you sneak in like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone curious and warm.

“Uh… just now…” you whispered, though your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Harleen stepped closer. “Like a class… If you’re standing so quietly outside a door, chances are you heard something, right?” Her voice was chirpy, but there was real mischief in her gaze. She was testing you. Measuring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, the door suddenly swung open.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment. But it wasn’t the kind of look you were used to. It was cold and measured; revealing no emotion, yet seeming to read every question in your mind. That gaze had sliced through you—it was something between being seen and being exposed. The reflection of all that waiting, the eavesdropping, the fear of being caught—coldly mirrored in his eyes. But he said nothing.

As you stepped inside, Harleen whispered a warm goodbye and walked away. The office door closed slowly behind you, and the air inside thickened even more. The shadows trembling behind the window panes seemed to still hum with Crane’s voice. As he walked to his desk, he had his head down, gathering papers. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but avoided direct eye contact. That made you even more uneasy.

You couldn’t help but speak.

“Just now… it was you and Dr. Strange in there, I think?” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “You were talking about a patient? I didn’t see any such case in my files. I was just curious if it’s an experimental—”

He raised his head.

When his gaze hit you, that same chilling silence once again filled the room. Only his eyes spoke; and in them, there was no anger. No rage. But a kind of warning. Slow, patient, slithering like a snake.

“Curiosity,” he said. His tone was sharp, but there was no smile. “In psychiatry, it’s a variable all its own. When not properly guided… it can be harmful.”

You swallowed. Your instincts told you to break eye contact, but something—pride, or maybe the need to explain—kept you rooted there.

“I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to listen. I just happened to be nearby. I overheard because—”

“Because you were standing by the door,” he said, calmly. Almost kindly. “And you overheard. Because you want to show how good of an intern you are… don’t you?”

He used the silence you left as a blade. He took two steps toward you. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet, but something inside you coiled. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining you.

“You’re in your sixth week, Miss Wayne. A bit early to be searching for all the answers. Some questions come with a price,” he said slowly. “Some knowledge... shouldn’t be so easy to gain.”

You instinctively took a step back, but he noticed and stepped closer. So close now that you could feel the chill of his breath on your skin. Yet he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t raised a hand. And still, you were already trembling.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sounding like it didn’t even belong to you. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

There was a curl at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile. It was the reaction of a man who had shaped someone into exactly the mold he wanted. He had pushed you into that pit of guilt. And then left you there.

He returned to his desk, straightened the folders. Then, shattering the silence, he said:

“In your next session with Edward Nygma... continue to use your observational skills. But don’t forget to draw boundaries. The line between observation and obsession... you know, it’s very thin.”

You felt your insides freeze. You knew that was a reference. But to whom, it wasn’t clear. To you? To himself? Or perhaps… to both of you.

Dr. Crane’s gaze had sliced through your soul like the edge of a scalpel. He hadn’t even asked the question. He had asked it with his eyes; accused you with a look, passed judgment in silence. Just looking into his eyes had been enough to put you in your place. The words that came from his mouth weren’t sentences—they were cold, procedural, as if part of a treatment protocol. He hadn’t hurt you. He had ruined you.

You had lowered your head, trying to salvage the moment with a short “I’m sorry,” but the word stuck in your throat the moment it left your lips. Feeling like a child in his presence had become something you were slowly getting used to. But this time… this time something was different. Was he acting like this because you had heard the argument? Or had he always been like this and you were only now beginning to see it?

When you turned to your chair and opened your notebook, your fingers were trembling. Every letter you tried to write clashed with the thoughts echoing in your head. “What was it about? Who was in the room at night? ‘Extrasynaptic neurotransmission’? ‘Chemical orientation curve’? They hadn’t sounded like medical terms, more like the passwords to some secret ritual…” You placed your hands on your knees and took a deep breath. The air you inhaled through your nose didn’t carry the sterile metallic scent of the clinic—it carried the depthless darkness seeping from Crane’s office. That room… often felt less like an office and more like a coffin. Quiet, intimate, and soundproof enough that even if someone screamed, no one outside would hear it.

Just then, the silence was torn apart like a scalpel slicing through skin.

“Y/N?”

Dr. Crane’s voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a sharpness in its depth. He didn’t even glance at you from the corner of his eye. But his voice pierced right through you. When you lifted your head, you saw him standing among the files.

“Do you remember Arnold Wesker?” he asked, his voice like a warning you’d never want to hear in a dream. “The decision has been approved. He’ll be admitted today.”

You swallowed.

Wesker. The Ventriloquist. The Puppeteer.

Your hand instinctively gripped the pen tighter. You bit the inside of your lip, just to avoid reacting to the name. But the familiar hum had already taken hold of you. A fear crawling to the tips of your fingers. Puppets. Those dark figures without hard eyes, but always watching you… He knew. Before he even said it, he knew what your reaction would be. That’s why he had spoken the name out loud. He was watching your response. Perhaps he had already made up his mind.

“I want you to conduct the initial assessment,” he said quietly. The light from the room reflected off his glasses; you couldn’t see his eyes. But you could feel their presence. “It’ll be the first time we make such close contact with his mind. You may want to witness it.”

His tone wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t threatening either. But somewhere beneath, deeper than command, something more subterranean lingered. This wasn’t an offer. This was a test.

A knot twisted in your stomach. But on your face, you wore that professional mask. You nodded slightly.

“Understood,” you said. “I’m ready.”

But you weren’t.

And he had already seen that.

When Dr. Crane's voice fell silent, a brief stillness settled over the office. It stood in sharp contrast to the noise inside your head—your heartbeat pounded against your temples like pressure building behind your eyes. But when you looked at him, it was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dropped a name like Arnold Wesker into your lap and walked away. As if he hadn’t noticed how your hands clenched tightly, how your pupils had shrunk the moment you heard it.

But he had noticed.

Still, he didn’t let the slight curve at the corner of his lips falter. He observed you behind the glass of his spectacles—long and measured. Then, his voice suddenly softened. In that dark room, it felt like someone had extinguished a lamp and replaced it with candlelight.

“You don’t have any other tasks at the moment, Y/N,” he said. “If you’d like, take a break. A new coffee machine was installed downstairs—it’s not half bad.”

Was that all? After all that intimidation, was he going to speak this gently? At first, it felt like a trap. But his voice was so calm… so naturally carried by the flow of the moment… that it planted a seed of doubt inside you, while also gently pressing your shoulder toward the door.

You nodded, keeping your gaze steady, your smile cautious but not revealing it.

“Alright… Thank you, Doctor,” you said.

That was what he wanted. Both the words and the submission. He was sending you out through that door—but only physically.

You walked the hallway with brisk steps, as if shaking off the tension clinging to your shoulders. Arkham’s walls were as cold as ever, but for the first time, they felt suffocating. When you reached the lower floor, the corridors were nearly empty. The corner with the coffee machine had become a temporary refuge for a few staff members at the start of the night shift. You got yourself a plain coffee, though your hand was still trembling slightly.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Bruce.

Seeing his name on the screen made something tighten inside you. You slowly reached into your pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was still lit:

“How are you?”

Then, a few minutes later, another message:

“I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I’ll make it up to you.”

You inhaled and exhaled, but didn’t reply. Your finger hovered over the screen, unmoving. You slid the phone back into your pocket. Saying anything felt like it would require an apology. Or worse: an explanation.

And right now, you didn’t want to explain anything.

And somehow, that silence felt oddly comforting.

When Jonathan Crane quietly closed the door to his office behind him, the only thing that followed the sound of his footsteps echoing through Arkham's corridors was the voice inside his own head. His steps were measured, but his mind worked like a metronome of calculations. With your departure, the warmth left in the office had instantly cooled, replaced by the sterile chill of a laboratory. Exactly the atmosphere he needed.

First, he adjusted his glasses. Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a magnetic key and placed it just below what appeared to be a rusted screw hole on the elevator's call panel—an unremarkable spot to most. A soft “click” sounded. The elevator began descending without delay. This was a floor unknown to regular staff: Sublevel D, one of the clinic’s basement levels long buried in Arkham’s past and missing from any official blueprints.

When the doors opened, they revealed a corridor wrapped in ancient lead pipes, flickering under the broken rhythm of fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling, the walls rotted with age and damp concrete. But to Crane, this wasn’t ugliness. This was a kind of silent divinity. A place where science was no longer shackled by ethics, where playing god came down to nothing more than technicalities.

As he opened the lab door, the groan of rusty hinges echoed out. Inside, under the pale yellow light, the air was thick with the mixed scent of distilled water, glycerin tubes, nitrous compounds, and potassium cyanate. On the central steel table sat half-filled beakers, ampoules held in dry ice, and gas cartridges preserved under inert atmosphere. Everything was orderly. Everything exactly as it should be.

Jonathan reached for the shelves. It didn’t take long to find the specially labeled serum. A small bottle marked only with “Variant 5B-Y.” It was a new liquid form of his fear toxin—based on the core 5B fear series, but the “Y” made it personalized. The “Y” wasn’t an initial; it was a target: Y/N.

The liquid, unlike the classic aerosol versions, had a finer diffusion profile. Its low evaporation rate at room temperature allowed it to interact only with the sensory threshold of those nearby. It wasn’t an attack, it was a touch. Its chemical makeup: a synthetic alkaloid blend accompanied by delta-phenylethylamine and hydroxytryptamine. He understood fear as not only a biochemical state but also a psychodynamic resonance. The formula was designed to travel through the olfactory bulb and activate symptom clusters previously marked by trauma.

Meaning: when Wesker’s puppet combined with Crane’s gas, your defenses would collapse. And no one would call it an attack, because Crane would have merely “stood beside you.”

He poured the liquid into a thin, matte black glass vial. Not like cologne… like perfume. The exterior was textured to leave no fingerprints. Its dual-valve spray mechanism ensured that upon contact with skin, diffusion wouldn’t start immediately, it would be activated by body heat.

The antidote was stored in a small cryo unit in the corner of the lab. A small, metallic gray tube—usable only with a needle, and providing just a few minutes of reversal window. Crane pocketed the antidote in his coat and, as if nothing had happened, carefully removed his gloves and placed them on the steel table. As he sterilized his hands, a serene smile crossed his face.

This was his sanctuary. The birthplace of every plan.

And you were his most carefully observed hypothesis.

Wesker’s puppet was ready. The psychosis trigger was active. And your mental balance was about to dance on a razor-thin chemical line. Crane adjusted his glasses once more, then turned off the lamp. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark.

Because some learn to see from within the shadows.

Coffee… the only solace of the morning, a bitter, warm, and familiar refuge clinging to the corner of your lips. Your fingers curled around the foam cup, your palms still carrying the tension from Crane’s office, and as you sat at the rusted metal table outside, under the pale sunlight, it didn’t feel like you were waking to a Gotham morning—but to your own darkness. As your fingerprints melted into the heat of the cup, your eyes drifted to your phone—the grayish glow of the screen once again presenting you with Bruce’s name.

Bruce Wayne

“I’m sorry for everything you thought about last night. I want to talk to you. I’m looking forward to you coming home.”

The sentence felt like it didn’t come from his voice, but from someone else’s fingers. Too late… or maybe you were just too tired. You looked at the screen, a little long, a little silent, a little hurt. You didn’t delete the message. But you didn’t reply either. When your fingers pulled away from the screen, your eyes locked onto something far off. You wondered where Bruce’s hands were now, what voices he was smiling at. Maybe he was too blind to really see you. Or maybe he was just human, too human to want to.

And then, the footsteps echoing behind you pulled you out of that thought. Smooth, rhythmic, quiet… but familiar. If anyone could walk this softly on Arkham’s decaying stone corridors, it was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

His voice settled over you like a morning mist. Then, as you turned slightly to look back, you saw him in his deep navy coat thrown over his white shirt, his gaze hidden behind glasses, lingering on you again, studying you.

“They’ve brought Wesker into the room.”

He announced it, but his eyes said something else. “I think it’s time you met him. Are you ready?”

You nodded slowly as you set your coffee down. Your eyes didn’t meet his completely. It was as if you were still stuck on Bruce’s screen. Still there… and still alone. Crane noticed this. He reached into his pocket, and like drawing out a handkerchief, he pulled something between his fingers and began walking toward you.

“If this encounter is making you uneasy,” he said, his voice softening, “...just remember: this is only the first contact. We’ll observe. We won’t interfere. So… I’ll ask you to act like a shadow.”

You started walking. He adjusted his steps to match yours. The corridor walls were damp, and from somewhere distant came the clanging sound of something striking metal bars. But you were no longer alone. Crane’s presence seemed to mute the rest. As you walked, your hand came dangerously close to his—so close it nearly brushed. You noticed it, but he had already adjusted, his fingers lowering toward the seam of his trousers as he continued beside you, in sync. He said nothing. He simply wanted to feel you nearby. You knew that.

Then he turned slightly. Your shoulder neared his torso. The scent… yes, familiar, but also something new. Not floral, not woody, sharp, a bit damp, but drawing you in. Like warm metal. There was something unknown in that scent. In that moment, your steps slowed. Your heart beat as if two hands were pressing down on your chest.

Crane adjusted his glasses gently. Tilted his head toward you.

“Nervous?”

He asked it like he genuinely wanted to know. But beneath his voice was a faint vibration.

You smiled—or pretended to.

“I think I am.”

“Perfect.”

He said slowly, in that tone you liked, not like a medical professor, but like a confidant, a partner in crime.

As you walked, your hand once again nearly brushed his. But this time, it felt like he let it. It wasn’t a touch. It was permission. You noticed that. He was letting you step into that space.

And you… as you recalled Bruce’s night with Charlotte and searched for something in Crane’s eyes, responded to him without meaning to. With just a few seconds of contact, you accepted the calm he placed over you. It wasn’t trust. It was a silent need.

The corridor ended. You arrived at the steel door that led to the isolation cells where Arnold Wesker was held. Crane stepped ahead. But then he paused. Turned to you.

“If you’re ready, let’s begin,” he said. “But first… take a deep breath.”

You did. But what you inhaled wasn’t just air. It was the scent of a dark intent. You didn’t know it yet. But it had already touched your body.

The door opened.

Jonathan stepped in first. His gaze behind the glasses was echo-less and cool. He extended his hand slightly, as if to guide you in from behind. And again, that scent — like before, but now stronger, sharper. Sweat mixed with cologne, like rusty metal. He pressed you toward his chest. You didn’t pull back. Because there was nowhere left to run.

“Y/N,” he said, in a low tone.

“Start taking your notes when you're ready. This is his first admission. It'll be a good observation for you too.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, but underneath it, a playful note. Who was he trying to fool, right?

Arnold Wesker was in the center of the room. He wasn’t chained — because what could a man talking to himself really do with his hands? The wooden puppet on his lap, however, was much more upright and alert. Scarface… the cracks on his gray wood looked like bloodstains, his tiny eyes fixed on the void from their hollow sockets. You didn’t want to raise your head. But your notebook already read: “Scarface: passive object.” You wrote it down too.

“Mr. Wesker,” Crane said with soft professionalism. “I need to ask you a few questions. Just answer them, alright?”

Arnold lowered his head. His eyelids trembled, his voice came in a thin tone. “Of course, doctor. Scarface will be here too, but... don’t worry.”

Scarface didn’t move. But you could feel the tremor beneath your fingernails.

“Your name?”

“Arnold Wesker.”

“Your age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“When did you first start talking to the puppet?”

“...I don’t remember exactly.”

You were writing. The words were trembling. Your eyes were glued to the notebook, but your nose… your nose was still filled with that indescribable scent Crane wore. Something spinning slowly in your chest, blurring your stomach, yet lifting a veil inside your mind. Like thin splinters starting to circulate in your bloodstream.

Crane glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He noticed the breath between your lips as you wrote. The trembling of your lashes… even if you didn’t, he noticed.

“How would you describe your relationship with Scarface?”

“He’s my… protector. My brain. Sometimes my heart. He speaks for me.”

“Does he threaten in your place?”

“Not a threat…”

At that moment, Arnold’s voice faltered. He looked at the puppet.

“He only... tells the truth.”

Then you heard a sound.

The sound of wood scraping.

Did the puppet move?

No, that wasn’t possible. You were just tense. Maybe afraid. But no… it moved.

Your eyes briefly locked on Scarface’s tiny fingers. His nails… were they always that long?

Crane continued asking:

“Is Scarface here right now?”

Arnold didn’t respond. But Scarface’s head suddenly turned a few degrees to the side.

YOU SAW IT.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heartbeat started pounding against the walls of your chest. Your fingers dug into the edge of the notebook. Jonathan turned his head for a moment — but by then, Scarface was still.

He had moved only for you.

Crane fixed his eyes on you behind his glasses.

“Y/N?”

His voice was calm. But at the edge of his smile, there was something he knew.

You tried to steady your breath.

“It’s nothing… just... a reflection, I think.”

But even as you lied, your lips trembled. And he noticed.

Crane’s mind:

The antidote had worked.

The dose: small.

Delivery method: diffusion from skin surface to respiratory area.

Y/N did not “resist.” Did not fight.

But she saw.

She reacted.

Initiation complete.

Your breath spilled from your chest and clung to your collar. You could hear your heartbeat; it didn’t even feel like your own anymore. There were still echoes deep within your mind. Was it Scarface’s voice? Your father’s? Or… your own inner voice? You didn’t know. “You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N…” kept circling in the folds of your brain, as if repeated by a nailed, wooden tongue.

But when Crane’s fingers were beneath your chin… you found some calm. He was touching you so slowly, so carefully—you couldn’t tell if it was to avoid frightening you, or to prolong his own pleasure. His thumb tilted your chin upward. Your eyes locked with his. A blue emptiness watching from behind glass. But it wasn’t empty inside.

“Just a little longer, Y/N,” he said in a low voice. Meanwhile, Arnold Wesker had lowered his eyes, looking away with an ashamed expression. Unlike Scarface, he was timid, in a passive role.

Dr. Crane continued his therapy with Wesker. Your eyes had welled up with tears, but you hadn’t cried. Maybe out of fear, maybe to keep control. But more so… because you didn’t want to appear weak in front of him.

“I… I heard him. It was my father’s voice,” you thought. “The puppet was speaking. The eyes—THE EYES were looking at me. Just like his.”

You were supposed to be taking notes on Arnold Wesker’s statements, but you were lost in thought.

“I’m still there. I still hear his voice.”

Reality… was like the jagged edges of a shattered mirror. With every step, you felt like you were stepping on another shard. Your hands were still trembling; you threw the notebook between your fingers onto the metal table. Wesker flinched. He seemed to seek comfort from Scarface, as if hoping for protection.

You stood up, feeling that you had to stop there. Even the creak of the chair was like a whisper: “Run, run, run.”

Dr. Crane grabbed your wrist and called your name. But you didn’t hear him. When you looked at him —and at the puppet— you saw its sinister gaze, and heard your father’s voice.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N.”

“You should’ve obeyed me…”

“Now we’ll hollow you out, turn you into wood…”

That puppet… it was speaking with his voice. Your father’s. And you had seen its mouth move. At least you thought you had.

Just as you stepped forward, the world seemed to turn upside down. But where was the door? It felt like falling into a void. Your foot slipped. A scream rose from your chest and caught in your throat. Marble veins curled in your vision, and above, puppets seemed to hang from the walls, watching you. Puppets… no. Scarface. And his voice…

You tried to find the door, but your feet dragged you. Your knees were shaking. You spun around in panic. Your fingers slid along the walls, then found the cold metal surface of the door. You were out of breath. Your chest heaved, but breathing felt like anything *but* breathing.

At last, when you reached the door and turned the handle, you threw yourself out without knowing what you were doing. You started to run. You had to go upstairs. The stairs would save you. You wanted to get away—but you reached the landing’s railing. You took one last step and lost your balance. Your foot stepped into nothing. You were about to fall. But you didn’t.

Because a pair of arms caught you. Jonathan Crane.

His fingers pulled you to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist. He anchored you in the curve between your hip and his torso. His chest was warm. But those eyes. That familiar gray, dead calm was still there. But this time… something else too. Maybe a flicker of panic. Maybe attentiveness. Your hands were clenched on his coat, nails digging in so tight they nearly tore the fabric.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

He held you like that. His fingers still at your waist. You felt his breath on the side of your neck. His lips weren’t touching your skin, but your body absorbed his presence. As the hallucinations in your mind slowly receded, something else started to take their place. Something darker. Something more personal.

“Hey… make eye contact with me. Breathe.”

His voice was low. Barely a whisper. When it brushed past your ear, it sank into your mind like a splinter. You didn’t want to pull your nails from the fabric. For a moment, you allowed that false sense of salvation to completely envelop you. As you pressed closer to his chest, you didn’t hear his heartbeat, but the mechanical silence within him. Crane’s heart didn’t speak to the outside world.

“You need to calm down,” he said. Then, a sharp pain echoed in your arm, piercing through the fabric of his white coat. The tip of a needle entered and left just as quickly, stinging as it went. Then you felt his lips just above your ear.

“You’ll be fine soon.”

You tried to regain your breath. Your entire body was beginning to relax. Now your body was slowly surrendering to Dr. Crane’s arms.

“What’s happening to me, doctor?”

Dr. Crane tilted his head slightly to the side. As if observing a lab rat.

“I gave you an injection to calm you,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He placed one hand on your back, the other beneath your knees. He held you tighter. His fingers seemed to feel your skin. He pressed you against his chest. Your heart was pounding wildly. His was silent, but it was there. Like a metronome, arriving long after yours, measured and steady.

Suddenly the floor slipped from beneath you; you felt a sense of falling. Your eyes blurred. Something cold licked at you.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the first to reach you after hearing the noise. The heels of her shoes echoed with a metallic ring. Her brows were furrowed, anxiety all over her face, but when she saw the scene, you in Crane’s arms, something stuck in her throat.

“Jonathan… what happened to her?”

Crane didn’t turn his head, still holding you, as he replied.

His voice was frozen in its usual calm:

“She had a traumatic reaction during the Arnold Wesker session. A deep neurovegetative response… possibly an acute dissociative seizure. She’ll need to be kept under observation.”

Harleen was still inspecting you.

“Just now? What did you say to her?”

Crane turned his eyes to Harleen.

“She trusts me. She left the room in a panic. I was the first to reach her.”

He paused. Then turned his whole body toward Harleen.

“I’ll take her myself.”

There was a flicker of suspicion in Harleen’s eyes. But then she helped with her hands.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said briefly.

“No need,” said Crane, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I can take care of her.”

He was carrying you… but this wasn’t just a physical burden. At that moment, he was dissecting you in his mind into a thousand pieces, memorizing every detail, your fluttering eyelids, your racing pulse, the dryness of your lips. As if you were his most special experiment. But he didn’t call it an experiment. To him… it was passion. Desire mixed with science. And more than anything, this was the first step in transforming you.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s car moved silently through Gotham’s narrow, fog-laced streets. Sitting behind the wheel, Crane gripped it with his usual precision, his attention shifting occasionally to you in the passenger seat. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breaths short and irregular. Your skin, under the pale light of the moon, looked like cold marble. You had leaned your head against the seat, but your body hadn’t relaxed. Fear still echoed in your bones. And that scent — it still clung to you. Sweet, chemical, warm… It was Jonathan’s.

At that very moment, a muffled vibration came from inside the bag. Then a melody echoed—like a warning stubbornly ringing out against time. Crane’s brows furrowed.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, in a low tone that slipped almost through clenched teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached back — his fingers moved through the contents of the bag with surgical precision, not slowing down for even a second. At last, he found the phone screen. The incoming call was clear and jarring.

Bruce Wayne is calling.

Crane stared at the screen for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. Then, with a click, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, his voice distant, but wrapped in carefully composed professionalism.

Bruce’s voice came through immediately. There was a tension in his tone, as if racing against time.

“Crane? Why isn’t Y/N getting back to me? I’ve been calling, she’s not answering. What’s going on?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road as he spoke, his voice now a little softer, but filled with a cold, veiled game of hide and seek.

“Mr. Wayne. At the moment… Y/N is in a rather delicate condition. She had a minor episode during Arnold Wesker’s intake. She must’ve been affected, early childhood traumas might have been triggered.”

“What do you mean, an episode?” Bruce’s voice rose an octave. “Where are you right now? How is she?”

“We’re not at Arkham,” Jonathan replied, still as calm as ever. “She’s under my supervision. I’m driving. I’m taking her to my residence.”

“No. No, no. Bring her to my house,” Bruce said, his voice now trembling with barely contained anger. “Wayne Manor. She should stay there. We can provide the best care for her here.”

Crane exhaled quietly behind the wheel. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His eyes flicked briefly to you.

The veins in your neck were visible, your skin seemed cloaked in the very image of fear. And even in your unconscious state… you were his. At least for now.

“Yes… of course,” Jonathan said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll take her to Wayne Manor. She’s stable. But there might be memory fractures… it’s better if she isn’t left alone for a while.”

“Thank you, Crane. Really. I appreciate your help.”

Bruce’s voice had softened slightly, though concern still lingered. The call ended.

Jonathan drove in silence for a few more seconds. He let out a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Of course you’ll take her… Wayne. You always do, don’t you?”

He slowly turned his head and looked at you again. Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from your cheek — a delicate but calculated motion.

“You see,” he whispered in a low voice, “Even when you’re under my control, they still can’t stop wanting you.”

As the car rolled toward Wayne Manor, everything inside you swelled quietly.

You murmured something in a low voice. It sounded like it echoed right next to your ear:

“…not a puppet… I… I’m not a puppet…”

Your voice cracked, lips dry. Your mouth seemed to struggle with every word, as if language itself was trying to abandon you.

Jonathan glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your pupils were dilated, your face pale yet delicate, like porcelain on the verge of shattering.

The liquid form of his Fear Toxin didn’t induce panic directly. It brought you to the brink, then blurred the line between the conscious and the subconscious. Its effects weren’t fleeting. They left marks. Especially on a target caught in an emotional void with enough resistance to struggle...

You were such a target.

“I’m not a puppet…”

You whispered it again, barely audible, but Jonathan heard. He smiled. Still in control of the wheel, but his true focus was now entirely on you.

To himself, barely a whisper:

“I didn’t say that to her. Not yet.”

Good… That meant this fear came from within. That this fracture belonged not just to Arnold Wesker… but to a deeper past.

When he stopped at a red light, he leaned over to adjust your seatbelt. His hand brushed your back, and you shivered slightly, but couldn’t react.

“Don’t be afraid…” he murmured. His voice was calm, like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. No one’s going to pull your strings again.”

The irony in his words belonged only to him. Because he had already taken hold of your strings.

One hand moved to the back of your head. His fingers slid through your hair as he gently tilted it back. You had squinted, but Crane had already brought his nose close to your neck. He was breathing you in, imprinting you into memory. His breath moved along your nape like a wandering perfume. Then he whispered:

“This version of you is so... docile. Do you know how beautiful you become when you stop fighting?”

His words carried a corrupted desire. In his tone was a blend of affection and admiration, dangerous, impure, and unstoppable.

By the time they reached Wayne Manor and parked, you were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You thought you heard your father’s voice. But this time… it was the puppet that spoke it.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N… you should’ve obeyed me…”

Your eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall. They simply stayed there, frozen.

Jonathan saw them. He noticed your tears but said nothing.

He simply unfastened your belt and slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. Your head rested against his chest. His fingers roamed your nape, his touch soft like a caress, but beneath it, there was still control.

“I won’t be one of your puppets…” you whispered, your eyelids falling.

Jonathan didn’t reply. But the familiar curl at the corner of his lips was there as he held you in his arms.

Another plan had worked. And you, gently, weren’t falling into his mind... You were falling into the space he had made for you inside it.

The doors closed silently. Even Alfred’s footsteps outside couldn’t reach into this room; this wing of Wayne Manor was a refuge Bruce had hidden even from his own past. The dim, yellow lights turned the paintings on the walls into hazy dreams. The bedside lamp cast its pale glow on your sweaty forehead, highlighting the dull shadow of your face.

Under the blanket, your legs were sprawled to one side. Your arms still bore the marks of tension, your fingertips stiffened, nails dug into your palms. The warm, pale hue of your skin, filtered through fear, burned something deep within Bruce.

He was sitting beside you, at the foot of the bed. He had already taken off his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His palms seemed to merge with your hands, as if he could protect you with his touch, as if he could erase the past and rewrite it anew.

His eyes were watching you. Your breathing was steady but deep, each breath a sign your body was still at war. The fine line beside your nose, even in sleep, was proof that fear lingered on your face.

Bruce quietly took a cloth and dabbed your forehead. The movement was gentle, but carried the weight of guilt. He knew you so well... Those puppets left by your father, the lifeless figures with red wigs around your house — you had told him everything, sobbing in his lap at the age of fifteen.

“The puppets are watching me, Bruce,” you had said. That day he had promised:

“None of them will ever watch you again.”

But he hadn’t protected you enough. Now, seeing you like this, that old, guilt-filled silence settled once again in his eyes.

You stirred slowly. Your eyelids trembled. A faint murmur escaped your lips, your breath quickened briefly.

“Y/N?” Bruce whispered, leaning in. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened slightly. A few seconds of blurriness… then the room began to take shape. Your gaze slowly focused on Bruce’s eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, as if you didn’t recognize him at first, then you leaned toward the edge of the pillow.

Bruce lowered his head, brought his face closer.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re here now. It’s all over.”

You turned your head slightly to the side. Your lips moved. In a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Crane… Dr. Crane…”

Bruce’s face tightened immediately. It wasn’t just jealousy — nor was it pure anger. His face bore the weight of pain. His eyes, for a moment, were not on you, but on a silhouette imagined on the wall. Maybe he was pinning Dr. Crane to it. Or maybe, it was the weight of being unable to stop you from feeling safe with him.

But he recovered quickly. Tried to smile.

“He’s not here. And he doesn’t need to be. You’re under my care now.”

You, a little embarrassed, buried your face into your arm. Yet even in that embarrassment, you clung to the softness in his voice. Just like you did when you were a child.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a hoarse voice. “It’s just… in that moment… he was the only one there.”

Bruce nodded. He reached out, slipping his fingers into your hair, moving them gently to soothe you.

“I know. In fear, the person you reach for isn’t always chosen by reason. But… I won’t let go of you. Not ever.”

You slowly lifted your head. Searched his eyes with your gaze. Eyes that had once adopted you as family, but now, something else shimmered in their depths. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You were drunk on his tenderness. You felt safe. Bruce Wayne loved you. Truly loved you. But there was something inside… something you couldn’t quite define.

Bruce looked closely at your face. With his thumb, he brushed one side gently.

“I wish…” he began, then stopped. Held his breath.

“Wish what?”

He looked away. His jaw tensed slightly.

“I wish none of this had happened… Then some things could’ve been so different.”

A silence fell between you.

He pulled you close, helping you sit up. And within himself, he silenced a thousand words.

You had begun to hear the beating of his heart. Right where your head rested, just below his chest, was that rhythm. Silent, yet strong... perhaps the only safe rhythm in the world. His arm wrapped around you like a blanket, not just enveloping you, but your past as well.

Bruce ran his hands gently through your hair. Each breath he drew seemed to burn inside his lungs, as if seeing you like this scorched him from the inside. But his voice... still steady. Still in control. Only you could sense the break in it, only you.

He placed a hand on your forehead. Wiped the sweat away, then reached for a damp cloth from the tray beside him. As if you were trembling, he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. Then he noticed something, your lips were silently moving with a fragmented sentence:

“I… I’m not a puppet…”

Bruce's eyes widened at the whisper. He took your hand and pressed his thumb gently to your wrist. Checked your pulse. Then looked at your face.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice softer now. “You own your mind. No one can control you. Not your father… not him…” — he didn’t finish the sentence. He refused to say Dr. Crane’s name. He didn’t want that name to echo through the walls of this room.

But he knew. He knew everything.

Ten years ago. A gray sky, a closed-off Gotham morning. The rain had just stopped. Inside the dark-tinted car, Bruce had seen you for the first time in a case file. The photo was small, but your gaze was immense. You held a wooden puppet in your hand. Through the soaked strands of your hair, something in your eyes looked straight through, and it wasn’t the look of a child. Maybe you were just one of thousands of children who had forgotten how to be young in this city… but there was something in your eyes: “I don’t want to be saved. I just want someone to come.”

That gaze had broken Bruce. He had pulled you out of all that darkness and brought you here. Not to give you shelter, but to give you a new foundation, a home that could protect you.

You were beginning to come to. “Bruce…” you whispered.

Bruce immediately leaned down.

“I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He took your hand. This time, tightly. As if you might slip away between his fingers.

“My father… I saw him… he was going to turn me into wood…”

Bruce’s throat tightened. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t cry. A Wayne didn’t cry, but inside, a part of him broke every time he couldn’t protect you.

“No,” he said firmly. “No one can touch you now. I’m here. I’ll stay with you all night if you want. I’ll breathe in time with you. I won’t leave you.”

Then he leaned in slightly, gently pulled you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest again. You, like a child; he, like a father. But underneath it all, something else stirred. Something buried, suppressed, locked in chains.

Love.

But a forbidden love.

While tending to your wounds, he had realized he loved you. While trying to protect you, he wanted to belong to you.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the way he looked at you, not like a girl, but like a woman who made him feel something uncontainable. But he couldn’t let go of you either. He couldn’t allow it. Because if he let go, he’d never get back that girl with the haunted eyes. So he didn’t let go. That’s why, when someone like Crane got close to you, it crushed him.

And you felt it. His heartbeat, close to your skin, had quickened. You noticed. For one moment, your eyes met. Bruce looked away. But he didn’t let go of your hand.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. If I have to… I’ll shield you with my own darkness.”

And he was there. Without ever leaving. Sitting beside you through the entire night. He placed two pillows behind your back, tilted your head gently so you could breathe easier. Pulled the thin blanket up to your shoulders, wiped the sweat from your forehead with a soft cloth again and again. Checked your temperature by pressing his fingers to your temple, counted your pulse. Each time he touched you, it was like he was handling delicate glass. One hand on his own knee, the other wrapped around yours. And when your fingers twitched from time to time, like rejecting something, perhaps the dreams, or the bottomless pits of memory, he stayed, always calling you back.

He placed his hand on your forehead again. Your fever had slightly lowered. You took a deep breath. Your lips parted:

“Don’t go…”

That word shattered every wall inside him. Bruce heard that sentence from a different place in his heart. Don’t go… because now you needed him.

And he wouldn’t go.

He lay beside you slowly, but didn’t touch you. Rested his head near your shoulder. From over the blanket, he reached for your hand again. Closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He just listened. To your breathing. To the rhythm of your heart. To the occasional murmurs of unrest. And once again, he faced the darkness inside himself.

He held you like a father, but couldn’t let go of you like a man.

By dawn, when the sun began to filter through the gray curtains, Bruce was still there. You squeezed his hand. This time, you were aware. You knew he hadn’t left you. You knew he had stayed through the night.

And in that moment, Bruce said to himself:

“When you wake up, I’ll lie again. I’ll say I only care about you. Not that I love you. Not that I’m terrified of losing you. But still… with just one look, you’ll know everything.”

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calmcoldevening · 1 year ago

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Can you pls do slashers x reader who is very girly❤❤

It's ok if you don't want to do it!❤

Hey, of course I'll write it. Well, I didn't know which slashers you want, so I chose these four. If you want another slashers, just let me know, kitten ♡

I'm sorry it turned out so little, I'm just not good at 'girly' things

Slashers x girly!reader

Characters: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt

Michael Myers

• He doesn't care. Michael absolutely does not care what you look like or what you wear, his affection is much deeper than external indicators.

• Although he doesn't particularly like it when you wear dresses or skirts that are too revealing. Michael sees people staring at you in the streets with hungry eyes. Because of this, he becomes very possessive. He will keep an eye on you on the streets with special care so that nothing happens to you.

• He likes your hips in dresses. After a long day, he just likes to put his hands under the fabric of your dress and squeeze your hips, his head resting on your stomach. You are his place of comfort.

• You are the only person whose feelings are even a little important to him. He'll be able to listen to you, but don't expect an extremely vivid reaction. If you're crying and you need comfort, the most he'll do is pull you onto his lap and hold you close, grumbling through his mask into your hair.

• He absolutely loves your shampoos and floral perfume. Amidst all the vulgarity of the modern world, you were his personal delicate flower.

• In general, such dynamics would be very much to Michael's liking. He is such a strong and big man and you are his little thing. He would be quite attentive, protective and dominant. If possible (if I remembered) Michael would bring you some trinkets, maybe even flowers.

Jason Voorhees

• Jason would be absolutely happy to be your partner. He would be as gentle, caring and attentive as possible. Jason is basically quite lonely, he lacks love and attention, and you are all so gentle and beautiful, like a young spring flower, he will love you with all his heart and protect you.

• Gives you flowers, teddy bears, all sorts of nonsense for no particular reason. He especially likes to collect flowers for you in the forest in a neat bouquet and tie it with a generic ribbon. Yes, it may not be a bouquet from the store, but it is made with all the love.

• He can listen for hours as you tell him about your makeup or some cute girly stuff. He will be very attentive. And although Jason doesn't understand everything about it, he will try to remember what you like. He really cares about your interests and tastes.

• If you make new nails, he will have a very violent reaction. Jason knows how important attention is to you, so when you come home with a new manicure, he will almost faint from such beauty. A man will gently take your smooth hands and gently kiss your beautiful fingers in turn. You are his treasure.

• Jason absolutely accepts and supports you, regardless of how you like to behave or dress. It will support all your new hobbies and help you if necessary.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba will squeal with joy when he finds out about your interests. In principle, he just liked to see you, so fragile and sweet against his background, in dresses, and now he finds out that you are interested in many different things... He loves you with all his heart.

• Bubba was fond of makeup and all that even before he met you, so now he will shyly ask you to teach him how to make up as beautifully as you do. His ears are red, and his gaze is fixed on the floor, he is a little ashamed to ask for such a thing. After all, he's such a big, tough man, but he trusts you.

• Very protective, especially from his brothers. He won't let anyone touch you.

• If you love cooking, he will be even more crazy about you. He's a pretty big boy, so he likes to eat delicious food. Hugs you tightly every time you cook your next incredibly wonderful dish. You have to eat, he has to do the dishes, he doesn't want you to ruin your delicate hands.

• Loves carrying you in her arms. He basically likes your size difference, it makes him feel like your protector. Madly in love with you and your personality, he won't let anyone hurt you.

Thomas Hewitt

• Thomas has wanted to have a sweet little wife and start a family with her all his life, but he didn't think anyone would really love him. And then you showed up. So sweet, beautiful, small and innocent. He's crazy about you.

• On the one hand, he is a strong, courageous and caring man who will try to do whatever you want for you, he always tries to make you happy. But on the other hand, in your gentle embrace, he turns into a stupid little boy who only wants attention from his beautiful wife.

• Thomas is very protective of you. He would not allow any of the victims to lay a finger on his fragile sweet lover. If they dare to look at you lasciviously, Thomas will rip out their eyes without a twinge of conscience. You made him change for the better with your bright and pure soul, but he still remains a violent maniac, so he won't let anyone offend you.

• Now he treats female victims a little more carefully. He tries not to spoil their jewelry or things, in case you want to take some of it for yourself. In addition, he takes special care to take the victims' suitcases out of their cars and checks for any trinkets that you might like.

• Can't stand the looks of Hoyt and Monty on you. When you walk around the house in a skirt or dress, Thomas tries to be close to you and hug you around the waist, covering your hips with his big hand. You are only his treasure.

#slashers x reader #michael myers imagine #michael myers x reader #michael myers #jason voorhes x reader #jason voorhees #bubba sawyer x reader #bubba sawyer #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt x reader

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the-s1lly-corner · 4 months ago

Note

Hi :) how are you? If you still write for creepypasta can I request a reader who is new to the mansion and how the characters of you're choosing try to bond with them?

Various crps x newcomer!reader

OOOUUUYGHHH anon I'm so sorry for taking so long to get to this 😭😭 this is like... an old ask

Characters: laughing jack, nina the killer, slenderman, jeff the killer

Notes: gn reader, you're a creepypasta, slender mansion au, you're new to this WOO, short post, written on mobile

CWs: canon typical violence and death

SLENDERMAN

He... doesn't actually do that much around the mansion. Of course he keeps everything in order and demands some level of control- house rules and stuff... and he doesn't really.. let you go out with him in the woods when it's feeding time for him...

The best way to bond with him is to ask questions. I like to think that he's a naturally curious creature- and even with so many people in the mansion... well, watching and interacting are two very different things! He already knows a lot about you thanks to his observations... but it's always nice to get a closer look... so much more interesting than breaking into someone's mind himself

If you ask nicely and it's a good day he'll let you accompany him in the woods for a walk- its... actually really peaceful out when someone's not getting murdered (or murdering)... flowers are nice.. and the animals are cool

NINA THE KILLER

Either stays in or goes out! Really you get to make the final call...but just know if you go out with her you're not coming back for a WHILE- and you're gonna need some time to recover

Lots of physical activity in the form of movement- she goes all around town... really fast... good luck keeping up with her. Loves yoinking stuff from shops (she WILL drop you if you steal from a small business though)-- clothing, snacks, things like that

But staying in? Want a low key and calm (well, as calm as you can get with her) night? She doesn't mind staying in her room with you listening to music! Let her paint your nails- or make stuff with her! I personally hc that she makes jewelry and accessories for herself-- you guys can match!!

JEFF THE KILLER

He doesn't like staying cooped up in the mansion for long. As soon as he can reasonably go out he's gonna bolt... he GUESSES you can tag along if you can keep up with him. His choice in fun ain't for the faint hearted or buzzkillers

That said... most of his activities USUALLY start out innocent enough- running about getting (stealing) stuff. A man's got cravings you know! Or just sneaking into places to check stuff out...

...though the moment conflict starts that usually when blood starts being shed. One of these days he's gonna get caught but for now you've just gotta book it with him back into the woods

LAUGHING JACK

He tends to go along with what everyone else is doing... not in a follower way, more like a "I'm nosy and wanna see what everyone else is up to kind of way" so of course he's going to bounce on the chance to hang out with you... just don't be toooooo boring!

He doesn't have many hobbies that he himself likes... sure he likes.. uhm.. well, clown things, but he's still got some of that caregiver funny man appeal to the people mentality- even if it's faint... he's changed a lot over the time he's been around..

Love the idea that he's fascinated with technology since he doesn't get much of a chance to interact with it in the modern day- show him some mobile game (bonus if it's two player) and he's going to be keeping you online for hours

...he might scratch up the screen though... claws and all...

#creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta imagine #crp x reader #crp x you #crp imagine #slenderman x reader #slenderman x you #jeff the killer x reader #jeff the killer x you #nina the killer x reader #nina the killer x you #laughing jack x reader #laughing jack x you #x reader #canon x reader #canon x you

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livelaughloveluffy · 8 months ago

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comfort - trafalgar water d. law

a/n: listen... i was always a law simp pre-wano..... but wano law 😭😭😭 you will always be famous. and the brain rot is just so intense for him that i had to write this fic

a/n: i'm still adjusting to my antidepressants and literally have 9 labs due this week so forgive me for not being insanely active; i'm mainly just trying to survive 💀

nothing but fluff here! 💗

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when he comforts you:

-the captain goes above and beyond to silently help you out. chores you were supposed to do around the polar tang are miraculously already done, a cold glass of water and a small snack left on your nightstand when you wake up, your laundry folded and put away.

-and it doesn't stop at that. law wants to make sure you can relax and destress, so this sweet man will run you a bath, dimly lit with candles and a glass of wine, and he'll stay to gently wash your hair and give back massages. fully allowing you to just enjoy the warmth of the soapy water and his touch.

-he'll always make time in his schedule for cuddles, even if that means the two of you are crammed into his desk chair, he'll hold you tight to him, gently stroke your hair, and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

-while advice isn't law's strongest area of expertise (he's much too pessimistic and blunt for that 💀) he is a fantastic listener. once he knows you aren't looking for a solution to your problems but just someone to support you while you rant, he'll sit through hours and hours of ranting and rambling, attentive eyes on you, his hand on the smalls of your back rubbing soft circles into you, even when he's busy he'll always lend an ear to your problems and a shoulder to cry on.

-he's a lot more affectionate than usual when he notices you haven't been yourself. pda suddenly doesn't bother him anymore, and he won't leave a room before giving you some kisses, his arm will be around your waist as he address the crew, or he'll grab your hand and intertwine his fingers with yours.

-when you're sick, injured, or on your period: law will provide literally the best cuddles you could ever ask for, his silk sheets against your body, the smell of his cologne filling the room, his warm body next to yours, your head on his chest, he'll let your fingers trace over the lines of his tattoos with absolutely no protesting. he's going to do the most for you, and if you didn't know him as well as you do, you'd truly have no idea who was leaving little chocolates and love notes on your pillow, a new book on your bed, your favorite drink stocked up in the fridge, and the fresh flowers on your nightstand everyday. he'll never address it or come out to take credit for it, he'd just do it. the captain will shower you in kisses much more than usual, on your cheek, the top of your head, a small peck on your lips, he's much more affectionate as its the subtle way he expresses his love and worry for you.

when he needs comforting:

-law is not the kind of guy to talk about his problems. a lot of this is because he struggles with verbalizing his feelings, worries, and stresses, but also because he doesn't find any relief in it. you instantly know when the captain needs you by the way he asked for you to meet him in his office. the second the door closes, he's picking you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding you so close to him, the faint scent of bourbon vanilla fills your nose as you bury your face into the crook of his neck.

-there's nothing the captain loves more than the feeling of your fingers tangled up in his soft dark raven locks, with your face resting against his chest you can hear the way his heart beat slightly slows fully enjoying the sensation of your touch.

-law finds lots of solace in hearing your voice, it's simply music to his ears. he'll listen to stories about your past or adventures you've been on, rambles about your hobbies, what you did today, anything and everything. he loves the distraction it provides him as well as the comforting ambient noise it provides while he works.

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a/n: soft law my beloved 😭😭😭😭😭 i totally forgot the whole "when you're sick" section of this fic when i first posted it, so i panic wrote that shit so damn fast 💀 it's been a minute since i wrote one of these 😭😭

a/n: enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

a/n: if you are interested in being added to my taglist: here's a google form!!!

#one piece #one piece fic #one piece x reader #one piece fanfic #one piece headcanons #one piece fluff #one piece trafalgar law #op trafalgar law #trafalgar law #one piece law #op law #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #law x you #law fluff #fluff fic #via's fics

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celenawrites · 2 years ago

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late night drive (m.)

Summary -

After a stressful work day, you spend the night with two handsome men.

Pairing -

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x F! Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Warnings -

Explicit smut (18+ only), slight praise, usage of nicknames (good girl, sweet girl, lass, etc), Oral sex (F, M receiving), Reader has self-esteem issues and it shows heavily, slight angst.

w.c. - 6.5k

masterlist || ao3 vers.

MINORS DNI, or I'll bite your ankles. This stuff is for adults only. 18+ folks only.

You have met them both at a seedy bar set a little off to the left from the heart of the city.

Johnny and Simon. You remember them sitting at the bar, glasses half-filled with Kentucky bourbon, faint murmurs of their conversation flowing like a gentle stream between them and their hands tenderly drawing mindless shapes on their scarred skins. (as if they were writing their soft declarations of love with their fingers on each other, invisible to the eye and yet etched into their souls.)

You are uncertain how you caught their eye. You are not sure if there is something in you that they had caught in a passing glance, and decided to open their hearts (and their beds) to you for this one night as a result.

You had been there after bombing another promising job interview, pissed at your failed potential (you were an A plus student - honors call and all, until you weren’t anymore) and the dead-end job of yours that had you feeling miserable for the past three or so years. It didn’t help that any time you fiddled with your phone, you’d be bombarded with pictures of your schoolmates and college friends marrying, or going on vacations and having a family of their own - growing older with someone, anyone; their lives full and moving and vibrant with colors that usually hurt your eyes.

Meanwhile, you are just living.

A day at a time. A week at a time.

Day to day to day has always been the same. You wake up, work, cook and clean for one and you indulge in past hobbies in order to capture the joy that has somehow slipped past your fingers the older you grew. You have no furry companions you can use as an excuse to go out on a walk, no lovers to send raunchy texts to, and no friends who would abandon their children and husbands to give you company while you wallow in your eternal misery as you drink your pain away with a beer bottle with condensation settling down on its neck, leaving your palms wet and slippery.

You don’t even try to think about your family.

So there you are, an untouched glass of pink gin kept in front of you and your hands nervously raking through your oiled hair and your rumpled work outfit (a sky blue blouse paired with black pencil skirt) ostracized you further from the patrons of the bar. And then you’re approached by Johnny who eyes your colorful drink with mild interest.

Johnny with his wild mohawk and kind brown eyes and kissable lips - who wondered out loud what a pretty little lady like you was doing in a place like this (you almost snorted derisively at the casual compliment, but the fatigue had you more amenable to flattery) and then he asked you about your disheveled state, and you tell him that everyone with a job feels like this on a usually busy weekday. He nods like he understands you, and then he invites you to join him and his boyfriend for some drinks.

Who are you to refuse free drinks and such handsome company?

The conversation is freeing in a way that it allows your mind to forget that the world exists outside of this temporary, delicate bubble that consists of you, Johnny and Simon. Johnny fills the space with his warm voice, enveloping you in comfort and safety as he talks about anything and everything - he tells you that both of them are in the Army (But none of them would budge to answer any questions of yours. “If I answered that, I’d have to kill you”, he joked, but his hardened gaze told you that there is some truth to it.You decided to not let your curiosity guide you anymore.), the football game on the television hung up on the wall, the movie that came out last week, the bourbon they have been nursing for the past half hour or so (“Simon only likes it when it’s Kentucky”, he says and you understand the need for some delicacies of this life staying the same, no matter what.), and then he asks you if you’d like to eat something.

You and Johnny share a plate of cheese fries.

The fries are oversalted(the perfect drunk food, but unfortunately you haven’t even worked up a buzz with your neglected drink), and the cheese is too gooey for you to not eat without getting your hands messy. You cringe at the stickiness, and Johnny laughs at your predicament and you wonder if it is possible for radiant, burning stars to be born as mortals.

His boyfriend, Simon, does not join you in eating the food.

His face is covered by a black surgical mask, and he is mostly quiet - letting his more jubilant counterpart lead the conversation. But conversation lulls between satiating your hunger and Johnny encouraging you to drink from his glass. (“Try it, bonnie. Real booze hits different”, he offers hospitably, and then he chuckles as you sputter and choke at the liquid burning your throat. At least he’s kind enough to pat your back, and then he orders a tall glass of water for your poor throat.)

Simon shakes as he dryly chuckles at the antics of his partner, and you feel heat travel down your stomach at how rough and rich his voice sounds. You find it oddly comforting against the commotion of the busy bar tonight.

After you made a fool out of yourself, the masked man (with his dirty blonde hair and white scars that ran all over his face, only for half of it to be hidden by his black surgical face mask) is much more receptive to having a conversation with you. He seldom talks, but he doesn’t shy away from cracking a dark joke or two that almost make you choke on your own spit. His eyes are dark and intense, and sometimes when your own gaze meets his own, you find it almost impossible to look away from him - afraid that the moment you do, you’d find yourself alone and miserable at the bar again.

There seems to be a pleasant silence settling between you three, and with a warm face and heavy limbs, you lean into the warm hand that cradles the small of your back and let it gently spell something illegible yet almost affectionate into your skin, the fabric of the blouse acting as a poor guard between your sensitive body and the touch you were not aware you craved until now.

You look on with heavy eyes as the couple has a secret conversation between them with their eyes alone. Warm, lovely eyes that were scattered across the different spectrum of shades of brown. Eyes that pierced you and stripped you naked until you were nothing more than your deepest yearnings and fears. Eyes that carried a never-ending love for each other, and each other alone.

They talk in furtive glances, and all you can do is give up on deciphering their language and let yourself enjoy the circles being drawn onto your back by Johnny’s teasing fingers. (You possibly cannot expect to unfurl all of that history and love between them just because you get to be a part of it for a few hours, can you now?)

After they have made a decision and with a nod of mutual acceptance, Johnny turns back to you and you straighten up due to the sudden attention. He looks at you with something akin to desire, and you can only feel your mouth turn dry as he asks you:

“Wanna get out of here?”

They hail a taxi for the three of you.

Johnny is curious and impatient with his hands as he fondles you and leaves fluttering kisses up your neck. You should be mortified; getting frisky with a man you have known for only a few hours, in a taxi no less. But the attention makes it easier to swallow the humiliation that tries to consume your thoughts. Your back is pressed up against Simon’s side, who is all the more satisfied with watching his boyfriend paw at you like a cat fascinated with his new toy. You tilt your head back, and curse out when Johnny’s lips touch a spot that makes your knees buckle. And then you feel a hand engulf your throat, squeezing you gently and you think you might as well just forget to breathe all together.

“Such a pretty girl”, Simon whispers against the shell of your ear, and you are glad that the only source of light on your way to their place are the shitty streetlights, because you cannot school your expression into one of indifference. (You like the praise a little too much.You like it out of Simon’s mouth even more.)

After what seems like an eternity of being teased and taunted by sweet words and lazy actions, the taxi finally comes to a stop and you send out a prayer to any deity out there who might be awake at this odd hour and willing to lend you an ear, because you’re sure that this night will leave you ruined.

You get out of the vehicle on wobbly knees and Johnny is all the more willing to support you while he guides you to the apartment complex where he and Simon currently reside. Simon throws the crumpled bills on the lap of the driver, along with a generous tip for putting up with his frisky lover and the sweet girl they have taken home and for not kicking them out in the middle of nowhere late at night. Simon joins you both in the elevator, and Johnny is all the more eager to pin you against him and finally kisses you on the lips.

You moan into the kiss, your hands finally tugging on his mohawk and bringing you closer and closer to his body. (Not close enough, your body screams. Never close enough, it screams again.) His hands are all the more eager to explore every soft curve of you; restless fingers groping your breasts and making you arch into him even more.

“Fuck, bonnie.Yer so soft”, he remarks after breaking the kiss, and you can only pant at how breathless one kiss from this man had left you. You can only wonder what more he’s capable of making you feel.

You are turned around to face Simon, who looks at your crumpled blouse and your messy hair and the neediness that drips from your eyes and your swollen lips. He holds your chin and tilts it to look at him, before commanding you, “Open up, sweetheart”.

You comply without any complaints, wanting nothing more than to obey the masked man.

You open your mouth, letting your pink tongue tease your parched lips as you wet them and he pries your mouth open wider with a firm hand on your jaw. His dark eyes look down on you, and you feel as if you’re going to be sacrificed and all you can hope is that he likes the offering you have in store for him. (You you you, you offer him all of you.)

“Suck on it”, he orders and you swallow the thumb he offers you - letting you soothe your oral fixation while you impatiently resist the urge to tap your foot against the floor as you wait for the elevator to finish its ascent.

You twirl your tongue around it, wetting the finger in your mouth before you let it out with a resounding ‘pop’, a thin string of saliva connecting your soft lips and the thumb. Your eyes look up at him in reverence, pleading with him to reward you for your good behavior.

“Fuckin’ hell”, he rasps out, and he almost leans forward, almost closes the distance between you both when the elevator lets out a ring and stops on the designated floor.

Through drunk giggles and impaired body coordination, you follow the men as they lead you to their apartment. The moment the door closes behind them (locked carefully by Simon, while Johnny guides you inside), they’re back onto you - clinging to your body like you’re the anchor that grounds them in the storm of life.

And it feels nice to be needed like that, if only for a moment.

You’re on your knees on the floor as you wait for Simon to do something.

You are naked - your clothes peeled off from your body after Simon unzipped it for you and Johnny had been all the more eager to palm your breasts in his hands - warm and calloused and greedy for more.

Your blouse is discarded somewhere on the floor long forgotten.

(“Lovely tits”, Johnny had groaned as he had undressed you, and you thanked yourself for wearing a somewhat decent bra today. )

You sit waiting - a paragon of virtue and patience as you look up at the men who would be ultimately ruining you tonight. They talk in eyes again, and you feel a pang of irritation at your inability to decipher all that is said between them with just a single look.

Your arms are folded across your chest - a decision you had swiftly taken after feeling a wave of self-consciousness hit you in full force. You can feel your ankles getting numb at the posture - the pins and prickles forcing you to momentarily shift your weight from the ball of your feet to your knees, taking the lack of notice from either men as an incentive to ensure you don’t end up with numb legs while you wait for them to finish whatever secretive talk they are having without words.

Simon turns towards you and notices you struggling on your knees, and then he reaches for one of the pillows scattered near the headboard of their Californian-sized bed. He asks you gently, “Get up from the floor, lovie”, and you do, wincing as you feel the blood circulation return to your sore feet. He puts the pillow on the ground near your feet, bending down to fluff it up a bit for your disposal. You thank him for the considerate action, before assuming your position below him again - the pillow cushioning your knees and providing you much needed relief from the hard marble floor.

“Look at me, lovie”, he commands and you follow him eagerly, tilting your head up to meet his dark eyes. He looks godly, hovering above you like an ethereal deity - his scarred hands and intimidating gait only gives your body the incentive to feel the thrum of desire in your bloodstream as it flows south, making you ready for him.

For both of them.

“A little help here, Johnny?” he beckons and the other man stands in front of Simon, shielding your view of him with his back as he helps the masked man take off his shirt, and if the muffled groans are anything to go by - they’re both kissing and you cannot even see Simon’s face. After a moment, he unzips his pants and lets the garment fall down to his ankles - leaving him in nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs.

Johnny falls down to his knees in front of him and Simon has his mask back on. Kneeling below him, he uses his mouth on his clothed cock, peppering him with soft kisses filled with drool and lust. Simon groans above him, letting his fingers card through the man’s mohawk as he encourages him with throaty noises to continue his actions. Eager to feel all of him, Johnny slides his thumbs into the band of his briefs as he slowly slides down the garment from his hips, letting it pool around his ankles as well. From where you’re seated, you can see how thick Simon is, and you cannot help the way your mouth waters at the idea of being used by him.

You snap out of your thoughts when Simon pulls Johnny onto his feet by his mohawk, forcing him to bare his neck to the taller man and you swear you can hear him whimper when Simon catches his throat with his other hand before giving it a light squeeze.

The sight before you is nothing short of heavenly.

“Eager, are we?” he taunts him, taking his breath away with just a squeeze of his fingers and he lets out a throaty hum as he eyes up his partner, noticing the semi he’s been sporting in his jeans ever since he got a taste of you.

“But it’s her turn”, he motions to you and you straighten your back as both men look back at you.

“C’mere love”, he calls out to you, and you get down to your hands and knees, willing to crawl to him if that is what it will take for him to let you touch him, feel him under your fingertips.

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks.

“No, bring that pillow with you too”, he orders you, “Don’t want your knees to get sore now, do we?”

You feel his hands pull at your hair gently as he brings out his still hard cock out of the confines of your soft mouth. Your lips are sheen with spit and pre-cum and the running makeup paints a debauched picture of you before these men.

So perfect. So ruined. And all theirs for the night.

You look up at him with teary eyes and longing and Simon is almost tempted to allow you to keep going, to let himself finish in your warm, soft mouth. But he has quite a night planned for the both of you(You and Johnny, Johnny and you - consuming his thoughts and mind and even his heart.), and he’d rather not finish in a handful of pumps before you.

“Don’t pout at me, pretty girl”, he chides you playfully, his chest heaving as he takes in deep breaths to soothe the fire in his lungs that you have invoked within him.

You whine noncommittally, eyes focused on him and only him - and it almost shakes him to his core how much he likes having your attention all for himself. (Greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy-)

“Gotta get you ready for the both of us, yeah?” you nod eagerly at his statement, and then you feel a pair of arms around your waist lift you up in the air and you shriek as you’re thrown on the soft mattress, bouncing lightly at the impact as your head falls back on the bed.

“Johnny!” you scream out in surprise, almost tempted to scold him for scaring you but his calloused fingers trace your curves and they tickle your skin that makes it hard for you to control yourself. You let out a soft giggle as the man hovers above you, letting his hands map out every little scar, every little mole, every little mark on your soft skin.

He grins at you, before bending down and taking your lips in a soft kiss - growling a little as he tastes Simon on your lips. Pulling away, he looks down on you again as he cages you between his arms.

“Hi there, bonnie," he whispers breathlessly.

“Hi there, handsome”, you whisper earnestly, before turning your head to the side and kissing the inside of his wrist.

“Johnny will help you get ready. Won’t you, Johnny?” Simon asks, and Johnny groans as he lowers himself down over your body till his eyes line up with the hem of your soft black panties. You exhale soundly in anticipation, propping yourself onto your elbows so your head is up and your eyes gaze into Johnny’s warm brown pupils. You let out an audible exhale when you feel his hands grab the meat of your inner thigh, before he leaves a tender kiss on it, letting out his tongue to taste your skin. Your head falls back on the pillow below you, and your hands find purchase in the luscious locks of his mohawk as Johnny lets his tongue rile you up by licking and kissing every inch of your exposed skin, avoiding where you needed him the most on purpose.

“So sweet”, his teeth lightly bite the meat of your inner thigh, and you wince at the pain before whimpering.

“So pretty”, his fingers play with the flimsy fabric covering your cunt, slowly tugging them to the side and revealing how needy you are for him. For both of them.

“Johnny, please”, you beg him so sweetly with your fingers tugging on his hair, that he finally gives in to your demands with no further ado.

It isn’t long until Johnny is fucking you with all he has.

You have your face buried sideways into the pillow and a leg propped up on his strong shoulder, the position offering him a chance to fuck you deeper that your fingers or any half-hearted partner ever has.

The pillow is wet from the sweat and spit and tears it has soaked up from you, and you bite the fluff of it, trying your best to mute your incomprehensive noises down - lest the nice couple fucking you right now get a noise complaint from their neighbours tomorrow - but to no avail.

It’s like Johnny is on a personal quest to make you scream for everyone to hear.

It also helps that Simon has taken it upon himself to fuck his boyfriend dumb, and what a sight it must be - Johnny fucking into you desperately and letting Simon control the rhythm of his hips as he fucks into him. You’d beckon that he probably has his tongue out - no man can survive fucking someone and getting fucked at the same time without letting it dumb him down like a mutt in heat.

Too bad the room is pitch black for you to witness the filthy sight.

At least the dark room allows Simon to take off his mask, even though it stings to know that you may never know the man behind the mask - may never remember the man who is giving you the best night of your life before you return back to your mundane life of spreadsheets, burnt coffee in styrofoam cups and manila folders the next morning.

You feel your legs shake - the lethal amalgamation of pleasure and exhaustion coating your bones as you feel Johnny hit the spongy spot deep in you that makes you keel and beg into the mattress for the much overdue orgasm that has been building up inside you for the better part of the hour.

He bends down, letting his tongue lick your neck and his sharp incisors drag over the taut skin as he mumbles about how pretty you sound when you’re fucked dumb. None of that matters to you right now, not when you’re this close to relief - but Johnny doesn’t oblige; either too dumbed down just like you to understand what you need, or denying you what you need on purpose - which is probably the cruelest thing he could fucking do to you tonight.

You feel another pair of fingers slide up your thighs before said fingers finally map out your swollen clit amongst the mess of sweat and limbs and Simon uses his calloused fingertips to gently rub you until you’re crying and arching your back before you slide down back into the bed, your limbs sagging with relief as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Fuck, bonnie”, you hear Johnny grunt out, feel him fuck you rougher and feel his hands grope your breasts roughly, but you’re far away now - floating away in a strange, hazy headspace as you hear his groans before his hips finally stutter to a close and then he slumps forward, letting the brunt of his weight fall down on you.

Simon follows him soon after, slowly pulling out from his partner with a soft ‘Fuck’.

You whine at the impact, pushing at his shoulders weakly as you urge him to get his weight off from your sore body. You sighed out when he eventually obliged, letting himself fall into bed beside you, his fingers gently playing with your messy hair. You feel his stubble tickle your face as he lands a soft kiss against your jaw, “You were so good for us, lass”.

You preen at the praise, letting his soft words and touch comfort you as you slowly feel yourself regain control of your body and your mind, already missing how you felt just a moment ago.

You can hear the running faucet in the bathroom next door, and listen to the doors creak and soft footfalls before Simon returns to the scene with a wet washcloth. He taps your knee and you part your legs obediently for him - feeling the wet cloth drag over your innermost parts as he wipes you clean before offering you a few face wipes kept near his nightstand, which you take gratefully and you wipe away the smudged makeup, smearing the ruined mascara all over your cheeks. You hear Simon sigh before he gently pries the thin wipe from your hands, taking it upon himself to help you clean up nicely. In the dim moon light peeking through the windows, you notice he has his mask back on, and you feel disappointed at how you haven’t been able to look at him. You feel Johnny’s fingers gently massage your scalp, and the tension in your shoulders leaves you promptly, making you sag into the soft mattress as he coos at you, occasionally kissing your cheeks. It’s almost enough to put you at ease.

It’s not long before the boys clean up after themselves before they join you back in bed. Sandwiched between the two men, you feel exhaustion and the afterglow lull you into a false sense of security - and you almost feel like you’re cared for.

You hadn’t been able to fall asleep, despite your best efforts. Your thoughts have been nothing short of cruel, and you only feel shame creep under your skin the more you think about how this night had transpired.

You have desperately gone home of two stranger men (who are together, no less), sat down on your knees like a desperate whore (and liked it), had gotten naked for them (and let them see all of your curves and rolls and blemishes), and let them fuck you dumb till you almost forgot your damn name.

And now you lie between them, unable to put your mind at ease and sleep away the second thoughts.

Mortification seems to be the least of your worries at the moment.

The worst part seems to be the fact that you wished for nothing more than to prolong the facade of love and gratitude they had for you when they cleaned you up, only for it to be redirected to each other as they checked in on each other with hushed whispers and soft kisses, their intermingled hands serving you a bitter reminder that you cannot overstay your welcome.

It’s them first. And then you.

You are just another body they had invited to warm their bed for the night.

You are quick to wiggle out of the bed, feeling your ears burn in embarrassment as you try your best to locate your discarded clothes on the cold bedroom floor. You find your skirt near the legs of the bed, your cotton panties not far off from there. Your blouse and bra lie near the door, and you’re almost dressed when you hear a light click and see the light of the table lamp illuminate the room in a soft yellow. Johnny blinks, still sluggish from his interrupted sleep as he rubs away the sleep from his eyes, and you stay standing, frozen in your step. You almost feel guilty for waking him up. Were you not quiet enough?

You feel like a child who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar by her mother.

“Yer leavin’?” he asks with a helpless look on his face, and you almost walk back into his arms.

Almost go back to the space they have created for you - between them.

The clock reads a quarter past three when they both offer to drive you home.

It’s not long before Simon wakes up from the commotion. (You turn around and train your eyes on the wall, waiting until you’re certain that his face is covered - having taken the hint that he would not welcome the idea of revealing his identity to you yet.) Soon enough, they’re both asking you why you’re up and leaving and the sincerity in their voices almost convinces you that they want you here.

But you use work as an excuse to go back home, and despite how obvious that lie is, Simon insists on driving you home nonetheless. (You almost turn him down, but Johnny pipes in, “There’s not gonna be a whole lotta cabs for ye to hail. Let us make sure our lady reaches home safe,”, and you feel your walls crumble slightly, feel your very foundation of self-hatred and pity shake at how he addresses you as theirs. As if you’re now a part of them, like they’ve been a part of each other for years.)

They ask you to stay anyway, promising to drop you off to your home first thing in the morning - bribing you with promises of cuddles in your sleep and breakfast in bed; promising you intimacy you’re wholly undeserving of, and you cut them off swiftly as you tell them that you’d rather be at home right now so that you can wake up later and go straight to office - no detours welcomed.

Reluctantly, they comply.

So you let them both escort you out of the apartment building and you stand with Johnny while Simon revs up his car and lets the engine warm up before letting you both sit inside. Johnny naturally assumes his place beside Simon, sitting in the passenger seat and you sit in the backseat. You almost feel apprehensive about telling them your address, but your rattled brain cannot seem to care about it - too tired and strung up to give a shit about ‘stranger danger’.

Simon types out your address on the phone and he soon follows the path - the soft hum of the engine making you succumb to the tiredness you feel and you lie down on your side, the leather seat of the car cushioning your now-throbbing head and you cannot help but close your eyes just for a moment.

After a few minutes, you hear Johnny talk about buying groceries and he asks out loud if his boyfriend would like to add anything to the list. Simon softly replies back with a few additions - whey protein, some bananas, pancake mix, shower gel and a room freshener spray. Johnny mulls over it before recalling some more things they need to buy soon. (“Dusting cloths. Manure. Oh, gotta get some stuff from the hardware store too!” “Don’t forget to get some cereal and protein bars.” “Roger that, Lt.”)

The conversation lulls. And then it begins anew.

Simon asks Johnny if he’d like to have biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and he lets out an almost disappointing groan at his atrocious food choices. (Or so he tells him.) Instead, Johnny suggests they have some hash browns. (“Gotta get that carb in for the long day ahead!” and Simon just chuckles dryly at his reasoning.)

Then, they talk some more - about work and people. About how they’d need to go back to work, and how they’d miss staying home together. About how they should get some cigars for ‘Price’, whoever that may be. About how ‘Gaz’ is vacationing in Italy with his family. About how they should have a vacation the next time they get a break that lasts them more than a week.

They hold hands - at least Johnny does, and he brings his partner’s hand to his face, softly kissing his knuckles, and that is when your curiosity wins over as you open your eyes to witness the sickly sweet scene of two men, two souls being in love. Johnny looks at him like Simon’s his entire universe - and

You shut your eyes quickly, feeling like an outsider between them both.

That’s maybe because you are one, your brain supplies you with this thought rather unkindly and you dig your nails into your palms to distract yourself from it.

The scene oddly enough reminds you of your parents when they were still in love and when you were young and sleeping in the backseat after an exciting evening at the city fair. It is far too domestic and tender for an outsider like you to intrude upon, and so you keep your eyes shut - unwilling to witness them and get your heart broken again.

As their conversation fades to silence again, you bravely open your eyes - squinting in the dark as the only source of light are the street lights outside. You witness Simon with his hand on Johnny’s thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles against the soft cotton of his black joggers. You witness Johnny humming to himself with a satisfied smile on his face as he occasionally looks at Simon with love in his eyes. Pure, unconditional love brimming in his brown, almond eyes. And when you look at Simon, his eyes reflect the same - unfiltered affection and absolute devotion; all these emotions reserved for the love of his life. His only love of his life.

It makes you sick.

Sick with yearning. Sick with the green monster of envy.

You’re so sick with it all.

This time when you close your eyes, you feel a tear drip down your nose as you let the soft whirr of the engine and Johnny’s humming act as the lullaby you needed to hear before you sleep.

You feel someone shake you softly by your shoulder when you come into consciousness.

“Wake up, dove”, you hear Simon call you, “We’re here already”.

You stare up at him as he hovers over you from outside the car. His masked face gives little away about how he’s feeling at the moment, but you feel embarrassed all the same - for intruding upon them and for sleeping in their car as they drove you home half-asleep and still in their pajamas.

You get up and use the back of your hand to wipe away any drool, snot or tears you might’ve let out while you were out like a light in the backseat of their car. The opened car door lets in the chilly night wind, and you shiver at the drop in temperature.

“Here, have this”, he offers you a windcheater jacket - and you gratefully take it and zip it up till the collar of the clothing lightly brushes your chin. He extends his hand to you, and you take it - letting his calloused palm warm up your cold fingers as he escorts you out of the vehicle. Once you’re out on the concrete pavement, you notice Johnny leaning against one of the many lamp posts scattered across your street. He’s rubbing his hands for some warmth, and the yellow streetlights act like a halo around his tousled mohawk. He’s angelic.

The steady echo of your footfalls catches his attention, and he turns to look at you with such warmth in his eyes that you falter in your steps for a moment. His kind, blue eyes look at you like you’re the moon - like you’re something familiar and he’s known you forever.

You do not know what to make of it.

“Had a nice sleep, lass?” he asks you casually, and you feel the tip of your ears warm up in embarrassment.

You nod demurely, before responding, “Yeah, I did. I’m so sorry I troubled you with escorting me back home”.

“Don’t apologize”, Simon speaks up as he rests a gentle hand on your left shoulder, before he joins Johnny in standing in front of you. He looks at you with an unreadable look, and you worry that he can see what you don’t wish anyone to notice. That he can tell.

“We had to make sure our bonnie reached her home safe”, Johnny quips, and you feel your resolve crumble just a little bit - his honeyed words coaxing you to hug him and it catches him off guard, just a little. To feel your arms wrap around his body, to feel your heart beat so fast before falling into synch with his

“Thank you”, and you mean it - for taking care of you, for making you forget your shitty office and your shitty job for the night, for driving you back home, for showing you what love is (even though it burnt you from inside to see what they have and know that you’d never have that).

You’re thankful to them for a lot of things.

You’re curled up on your side on the bed as you try to catch some sleep before the sun greets you from between the curtains over your window, but all attempts to go back to sleep fail you.

You almost wish you hadn’t been woken up. You almost wish you were still in their car, letting them drive and talk to each other. You almost wish you hadn’t left their bed - letting their rough hands gently caress her into a peaceful slumber, feeling their love for each other fill her up.

You should’ve at least gotten their number.

It was worth a shot, and if they didn’t want anything to do with you after tonight, you’d have been able to console yourself with the possibility that you won’t have to see them in the future and get taunted by the very notion that you have been all too desperate and all too needy for someone to love you.

But you didn’t, and you caress your own arm with light fingers as you convince yourself that it was all for the best that you hadn’t done anything about it.

This was all for one night. They just needed someone to warm their beds for a night, and you did just that. Wishing for it to be something more is just plain stupid on your part. They’ve loved each other for a lifetime, and you’ve known them for only a night. You cannot fathom carving a place for yourself between Johnny and Simon. Simon and Johnny.

Not without becoming an unwanted third wheel - tolerated by the couple since they’re too courteous to tell you off. Not without becoming a placeholder - a human paperweight until a better man or a better woman comes along to be where they rightfully belong. With them.

So you hug yourself tight with your nails digging into your arm, and gently rock back and forth in the same place on your bed, as you soothe yourself with empty words and tell yourself that what you did was a brave thing - and this was all for the best, even if it makes your chest feel like a hollowed out tree, empty from within.

Note -

Got inspired by the poem - 'After the Threesome, They Both Take You Home' by Sue Hyon Bae cuz it resonated with how I have always been a bystander or a temporary placeholder between friends and couples alike - always fearing that I will never be able to experience love. Started writing this fic fuelled up on my personal thoughts and projections. Then, October came and seasonal depression knocked my ass out. Got back into writing it. Couldn't handle it well, so I rushed the ending. Bon apple tit, y'all. Or whatever the fuck they say in France.

#call of duty #cod:mw2 #cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x soap #soap x reader #soap x you #ghost x soap x reader #soap x reader x ghost #call of duty smut #call of duty angst #call of duty ghost #call of duty soap #call of duty headcanons #ghoap x reader #char.soap #char.simon ghost riley #celena.writes

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