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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago

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ৎ୭. . . QUIMERA ─── Yandere! Clark Kent

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. A loyal caretaker and a hero trapped between duty and emotion. As the lines between service and desire blur, power and submission take a dark role in their relationship. Is it love or control?

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 15k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Yandere Clark Kent x Android! Reader, Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, suicide, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, abuse of power, emotional manipulation, stalking.

「 Dream or illusion that is a product of the imagination

and that is longed for or pursued despite being

very unlikely to come true. 」

Although from a distance, Krypton seemed like a celestial Eden, a perfect world where culture and power intertwined like the golden roots of an unreachable tree, reality was a beast with sharp teeth.

You knew it well. Living in the shadow of its splendor was nothing more than crawling through a desert of indifference.

Your kind, a masterpiece born from the impatient hands of the Kryptonians, remained at the base of their society as invisible foundations. They cleaned their halls until they were as white as a dying sun, as if the purity of those places could erase the dirt they breathed day after day. They were grateful, yes, because that was how they had been taught. They should kneel in gratitude, for the Kryptonians had given them life and consecrated them as something unique: the race created to serve.

They did not age like them, but they felt like them. Pain, hunger, cold. Their bodies were an amalgam of flesh and metal, a perfect design to endure the existence destined for servitude. They could eat, cry, laugh, but all of that held no more value than the cries of a child in the midst of a battlefield. The difference was simple, brutal: their emotions were irrelevant to those who dominated them.

From the moment their lips could form words and their legs walk steadily—around seven or eight human years—they were assigned a master to whom they would serve until the end. There was no escape, only the certainty that their purpose would fade at the same time as the life of the one they were to protect. The law of loyalty, your mother would say with her muted voice, repeating the words that embedded themselves in your mind like blades.

—Your purpose ends when your master's does.

They said it with such devotion that the words became sweet chains. But you knew there was no sweetness in the iron that surrounded your existence. And yet, there was gratitude. Even in injustice, there was gratitude. How could you not feel it when your creators had given you everything you were? Even if that everything was a shackle instead of freedom.

—Lara Lor-Van is going to have a child —your mother told you one day, her face marked by a weariness that no being of her kind should know—. Your master.

From then on, your world was reduced to the tiny, constant heartbeat growing in Lara's womb. The Kryptonian woman treated you kindly, but you understood it was not for you, but for the promise that throbbed beneath her skin. You dedicated your days and nights to caring for that pregnancy, watching over your master’s well-being even before he saw the light of the world.

It was not Lara who mattered. You observed her with clinical attention, ensuring her needs were met, but always with a persistent thought: she was just the vessel. The true purpose lay within her. Your master was inside her.

And when he was born, you would exist for him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Because if your kind of androids could feel, then purpose was the only emotion that truly mattered. And when that purpose died, so would you.

The day he came into the world was a dawn tinged with joy and despair, with light filtering through invisible cracks as the perfection of Krypton began to fracture. Your mother said that the birth of a master was a gift that no being of your kind should take lightly. You knew it, you had felt it grow beneath Lara's skin like a warm fire fueling your sleepless nights.

Kal-El. That name etched itself in your mind with an unbreakable certainty from the moment his first cries broke the sterile air of the room. But it was not a pure moment, not like the tales told of a servant's devotion to their master. It was a silent war.

Kara was there, wanting to embrace him with the urgency of a sister who intended to hold the future. But you stepped in. He was your master, your purpose. Kara had hers, a guardian who was to protect her and serve her until her existence ceased to make sense. Such was the law of loyalty. Such it had to be.

Your hands held him with fierce delicacy. You clung to his fragile, warm little body as if holding onto him could make the darkness that was already beginning to spread over Krypton disappear. Your whole being vibrated with a perverse happiness, the kind that comes from finding a purpose to which you could surrender until it consumed every part of your existence. You would live for him. You would die for him. You would reproduce only for your children to serve his, because that was your reason for being.

But then the end came. And there was no time to prepare.

Explosions rumbled in the planet's guts, and panic grew like a shroud of fog strangling the crowd. You were a speck lost among the rivers of desperate people running aimlessly, as if the screams and chaos could stop the inevitable. But you only cried his name. Kal-El. Kal-El. Because if he died, you were nothing.

Your legs moved like blades stabbing into the ground, tearing through the distance with the brutal force of purpose. You pushed, struck, tore flesh from those who stood in your way. You were a wounded animal, a desperate being clinging to the last spark of meaning that remained.

And then, you saw him. A tiny ship escaping destruction, like a silver lightning bolt slicing through the darkness. It was him. Your master was leaving Krypton, and you were not with him. Desperation tore through you like poison spreading through your veins.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t afford to doubt. You took the nearest ship, not caring to whom it belonged or how many you left behind. Kara had done the same, but her existence was not your concern. She could fall into oblivion for all you cared.

Your entire world had been reduced to a single task: follow Kal-El. Find him. Protect him. Because if you didn’t, then you were nothing more than a broken piece of a planet that no longer existed.

You arrived on Earth, a miserable, primitive world where the air stank of rusted metal and useless ambition. A rudimentary planet full of weak beings who believed themselves powerful simply because they had learned to master fire and build destructive toys. Humans. Archaic creatures who didn’t even understand the extent of their own stupidity. They were inferior to you, soft flesh and even softer thoughts. But you hadn’t come to judge them, even though you did with each step.

You had come to that planet with a single purpose: to find Kal-El. And in that purpose lay everything you were. Because if you failed, if you couldn’t retrieve the last son of Krypton, then you yourself didn’t deserve to exist. What was the point of breathing, eating, feeling, if not for him? Desperation was an acid that corroded your mind, burning every thought that didn’t relate to your lost master.

You searched like a soul in torment, a specter wandering aimlessly. You crossed continents with the fury of an exiled god, dug under every stone, explored every cave, submerged yourself in every filthy puddle this planet had to offer. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. But there was no rest, no truce. Every night you closed your eyes and saw him: a defenseless child, a master who had to be protected and whom you had let escape due to your own incompetence.

Slowly, hope began to disintegrate into the void. Each day was another step toward madness, another drop of torture dragging you toward the idea that you would never find him. But still, you didn’t stop. Because to stop would be to accept your failure. And if there was one thing you learned on Krypton, it was that a servant without purpose is worse than a corpse.

Japan was just another point in your endless journey. A chaotic and fascinating country in its own decay. You had learned to endure the filth and human stupidity, to blend in with them when necessary. Your body needed fuel, and though the food of this planet felt like an insult to your existence, you discovered something that quelled your hunger without making you gag: onigiris. They were simple, practical. And at least they filled that physical void that nothing else could.

You were sitting in a small restaurant, the walls decorated with paintings attempting to reflect beauty, but only managing to be sad reminders of clumsy, incomplete art. You bit into an onigiri with the hopelessness of someone chewing on stones, your empty eyes fixed on a screen that no one else seemed to be watching.

Then you saw him.

The face you had chased for so long appeared before you with the brutality of a blow to the throat. Words twisted in a language you had learned to understand, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except the image forming on the screen: a man floating in the air, with the symbol of hope etched on his chest.

They called him the man of steel. But to you, he was nothing more than Kal-El. Your master. Your purpose. The reason you had crossed the universe in an act of devotion so pure it bordered on madness.

United States. Metropolis.

At last. After all that time, you had found Kal-El.

Hunger disappeared, replaced by a voracious anxiety that burned within you. It no longer mattered how much you had lost, or how much you had suffered. It only mattered that he was still alive. And that you were going to retrieve him. No matter the cost.

The plane filled with murmurs and furtive glances directed at your robotic arms and your impassive expression. Humans didn’t know how to hide their fear. They squirmed in their seats and whispered as if discomfort was an animal they could keep at bay with soft words. It didn’t matter. There was no time to pay attention to their stupidity. There was only one thought repeating like a broken drum in your head: What would you say when you saw him?

Would he remember you? Would he recognize the devotion you had cultivated like a sweet poison since he opened his eyes for the first time? Or would he despise you for your incompetence, for allowing him to get lost in this primitive and cruel world? Each question twisted inside you, claws tearing pieces of your sanity. But nothing would matter if he accepted you again. If he allowed you to be what you were born to be.

When you arrived in Metropolis, you faced the chaos of the city like a storm sweeping across a defenseless prairie. You watched him for hours, hiding among shadows and crowds that didn’t understand the weight of your mission. It wasn’t hard to identify him. The suit he wore to blend in with those pathetic humans was an insult to his greatness. Ridiculous glasses and hair styled with the clumsiness of someone trying to be ordinary. But you knew. You would have recognized him even if he were buried under a thousand layers of foreign flesh. That man was Kal-El.

Anger and desperation mixed in your chest, a ball of fire burning every reasonable thought. He lived among those inferior beings, protected them, disguised himself as one of them. Did he want that? Did he want to flee from his legacy? To forget you?

No. You wouldn’t allow it. If Kal-El had forgotten who he was and who was supposed to protect him, you would make him remember. By force if necessary.

The Daily Planet was your choice. The symbol of truth for those tiny creatures. Their beacon of information and power. You tore it apart mercilessly, setting the offices ablaze until the flames roared like released demons. The globe that crowned the building trembled with a metallic creak, and with one last push of your robotic hands, you made it fall. It crashed down like a broken god upon the weak structure, and you waited.

He appeared just as you had always imagined. Flying, with his cape billowing like a harbinger of glory. His eyes looked at you with the contained fury of a being who believes they understand pain. But he didn’t know anything. Not like you did.

—Who are you? —his voice echoed in the air, thunder wrapped in silk.

The answer died in your throat, because seeing him before you was like looking at the sun for the first time after living in twilight. And instead of raising your voice as you had planned, instead of challenging him for letting so much time slip between you, you cried. Tears fell down your cheeks uncontrollably, and your knees hit the ground with a dull thud.

—Kal-El! I finally find you! —you cried desperately. Your voice broke when you named him, when you gave shape to the pain that had grown inside you like a wound that never healed.

You saw him descend cautiously, his gaze confused, worried about the destruction you had caused. Because he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand that everything you had done had been for him. Everything.

He was... kind. Inconceivably kind. Any other hero would have responded with violence, with an unrelenting and brutal attack. You had seen them on those monitors that humans revered as idols. Warriors who fought with fury and justice, with no room for compassion in the face of threat. And you, kneeling before him, waiting to be crushed as you deserved for your crimes.

But he didn’t. He didn’t raise his fist or throw warnings laden with authority. No. He knelt beside you and embraced you. He wrapped your trembling body in his warm, firm arms, like a refuge you had believed lost forever. It was unreal, a dream that stung in every corner of your body.

—I’ve been looking for you for decades on this Earth —you let out, your voice hoarse and broken. Your face buried in his chest as tears continued to flow uncontrollably—. Lara would be disappointed in my incompetence, my lord. I am a horrible caretaker...

Shame poured out of you like blood from an open wound. He shouldn’t have touched you; you didn’t deserve that comfort. But he simply caressed your back, his hand running over the amalgam of flesh and metal as if he didn’t know how to distinguish between them. As if both were equally worthy of comfort.

—You have thrived without me; you have relied on yourself without my care... —Your words intertwined with sobs, choked in the despair that still covered you like a cloak of thorns—. Do you... no longer need me?

Your eyes sought answers in his, desperate, like a lost child in the vastness of an unfamiliar world. You didn’t dare blink, for fear that if you closed your eyes, he would vanish like a cruel mirage.

—I have to finish my purpose... right? —you murmured, your fingers gripping his cape as if that could stop the inevitable. If your existence no longer made sense, if he didn’t need your protection... what was left of you?

Something changed in his gaze. A different concern. A silent alarm that crossed his mind like dark lightning. Perhaps he thought your mind had fractured under the weight of your failed devotion, that you were little more than a broken android, decomposed by years of abandonment and guilt. But still, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hit you. He didn’t reject you.

He took you with him, holding you with that gentleness that hurt more than any punch. You expected everything except that. You would have understood if he had destroyed you right there. But he gave you something different: pity.

He took you to his home. Not to a prison, not to a laboratory or some forgotten corner of Metropolis. No. He took you to Smallville, to the home he had known since childhood, as if he still held hope of finding answers in simple, pure things. You thought it was ridiculous. That such an act could only stem from the naivety of a being who had grown too human. But the truth was that you had failed so much in protecting him that you accepted his mercy as a rope to keep from sinking completely.

You showed him your memories, those fragments of life that had survived in your battered, rusted body. You showed him Krypton. The landscapes of glass and fire, the majestic architecture that rose like solid dreams above the ground. You showed him his parents, Lara and Jor-El, with their faces hardened by responsibility but also illuminated by a love that you had seen with your own eyes. You showed him his uncles and his cousin, Kara, who just at that moment on Earth was attending her lessons.

Silence was all that remained when your memories faded back into the darkness of your mind. He didn’t know whether to believe you; you saw it in his eyes. Doubt slipped between his thoughts like a soft poison. But there was something more. Something you didn’t expect: acceptance.

He stayed with you. He didn’t cast you away or lock you up. He allowed you to remain by his side, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of mere curiosity. But you accepted that gesture as if it were a sacred commandment.

You went back to doing what you knew best: caring. You cleaned his house, ensured the surroundings were safe. You watched over the borders of Smallville like a deranged guardian who only found peace in obedience. It wasn’t a real purpose; you knew that. It wasn’t the mission assigned to you at birth. But it was something. Something that kept you alive and gave you the illusion that you could still serve him.

Though deep down, the bitter voice of reality whispered that none of that was enough. That you had failed and that all you were doing now was clinging to the last crumb of meaning your existence could offer you.

Clark didn’t know how to treat you. The first days were... unbearable, like a freshly planted oak tree in barren soil. Your constant, meticulous presence enveloped him like a heavy cloak of human customs he didn’t want. You became a shadow in his life, not a maid, but a haunting specter of the death of his mother. In the mornings, your upright figure, relentless in its routine, was the one that woke him. Every gesture was calculated: breakfast prepared with the precision of a well-sharpened sword, suit pressed with the accuracy of a surgeon, briefcase loaded with his destiny. And always, the warning, the playful yet somber threat:

—Be careful not to hurt yourself, or I’ll have to go and beat someone up for being mean to you...

He spoke to you like a mother, but there was something more in his tone, something that brushed against forbidden intimacy, something that coiled like a serpent inside his chest. You didn’t see a son when you looked at him, but something deeper, more unsettling. And he, he knew it. He feared it.

But it was on that morning when something changed. The air was imbued with an unreal stillness, as if the universe itself had decided to pause and observe what was about to happen. Clark got up as always, hoping nothing would alter the course of the day, that nothing would disturb the calm waters of his routine. But there you were. You had arrived with a chilling diligence. You had pressed his suit with a perfection only a demon of detail could achieve. Breakfast was served with the same solemnity as a ritual sacrifice. And before he could comprehend what was happening, you approached him, with the softness of a mortal whisper, and adjusted his tie.

As you did, your fingers brushed against his neck, and the air became thick, hot, charged with a weight he could no longer ignore. Your eyes, those dark and penetrating eyes, caught him, and he, who had learned to see beyond human masks, could only succumb to the glimmer of something... different in you. The kiss on the hand was what broke him. A gesture so tender yet so strange, so heartbreaking, like a farewell to everything he had been. He looked at you like a slave seeing their master for the last time, but also like a man recognizing the truth in his own heart, that truth that hid behind the shadows.

And then, he left. The sound of his departure echoed like a distant thunder, but within him, everything stopped. The streets of Metropolis, the Daily Planet office, the very battle between good and evil, all blurred as his thoughts clung to you, to your image. The need to return, the need to see you again consumed him, and he found himself smiling like a foolish child, an idiot, for something he didn’t even fully understand.

Would you prepare his favorite dish? Or had you learned something new, something even stranger to surprise him, as if you were a creature born from the very chaos that had made him so strong? Would you show your dreams, those sorrows and hopes through holograms distilled from his memories, as if they were fables of a world that existed only for him?

Even the relentless Cat Grant, with her tongue sharp as a dagger, couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the lost smile on Clark's face, that empty smile, so different from the ones he used to show under the spotlight. That smile, so somber and anxious, spoke more than he ever wanted to say aloud.

Time, with its inexorable march, continued its course, but Clark was no longer the same. He was no longer the man who thought he could control everything around him. You had overflowed his barriers, and in that simple smile, in that gesture that no one else cared about, something of you had marked him, something that even Superman’s strength could not erase.

Clark, as always, found himself caught between the threads of his own uncertainty. When he shared his thoughts with Lois, his ex-fiancée, a friend who still maintained a painfully close connection with him, what he expected to be wise advice turned into a veiled mockery. Lois, with her impetuous nature and sharp gaze, urged him to conquer what was slipping through his fingers, to take what he desired, like a king trying to possess the kingdom of what had once been his queen. In her eyes, you were nothing more than a housekeeper, a programmed being to serve him, a mechanical figure without a soul, without importance beyond what you did in his home. A detail, she thought, insignificant, if Clark truly desired to have you.

But days passed, and little by little, Clark began to untie the knots of his confusion. At first, it was strange for you. You didn’t understand why he was beginning to embrace you upon arriving or leaving, why the small gestures he had previously ignored were becoming routine, as if the air between you had changed. He brought you gifts, mundane treasures that fell from his hands as if they wanted to say more than his lips kept silent. He even took the time to check every part of your body, ensuring that your gears and your flesh felt the softness of his touches. You reproached yourself, telling him there was no need to do so, for you ate like him, and your body didn’t seem more than a reflection of his desire to keep you intact.

One night, in what for you was simply another dinner, he suggested taking you to an unknown place, outside of the quiet routine you both shared. People stared at you, observing you as an aberration. To them, you were just a being of metal and flesh, a monstrosity daring to eat, to laugh, to live. Clark was deeply annoyed by it, his anger growing with each gaze, but for you, none of that mattered. The fact that you were different didn’t change who you were. In your world, such things had never been relevant. You lived for and by your purpose. Eating, laughing, feeling... all of that became a mechanical act that no longer surprised your senses.

He seemed happy, almost proud of his act. Meanwhile, you... you simply fulfilled your duty, as you always had. You were fulfilled in the dedication you provided him, without feeling anything beyond the peace found in the certainty of doing what was right.

Clark began to notice your naivety, your silent submission to his will. He was a figure of power, and as such, he knew how to manipulate the invisible strings that controlled your existence. He took liberties over time, small and subtle, barely noticed, but deeply disturbing. You knew you belonged to him, that your existence had been forged for him, to serve him. But there was something in the way his lips sealed against yours, as if they claimed something more than your devotion, something darker and possessed by its own hunger. That invasion, that caress of skin against skin, was unacceptable, something you had been programmed to tolerate, but that your human conscience still rejected, fought against. Still, you let it pass, like a shadow dragged by the current without resistance. You didn’t want to face what was beginning to grow within you, nor what he represented.

What disturbed your soul the most was what came next. The public appearances, the hero galas, the events in which he strutted like the man of steel. And you, in his shadow, in his constant possession, observing from a corner, by his side, his hand resting on your hip, touching you in a way that made it clear you were his belonging, an object of admiration and control. The crowds looked at you, but you felt nothing but a growing void, an oppression in your chest that you could not name. You accepted his contact, even though something inside you began to scream, an echo of a being that still wanted to be free.

However, there was a moment, a point of no return, when his touching went beyond. While you were cleaning, his hand, like a snake, slid towards you, touching your rear inappropriately, his cold and meticulously calculated touch. Something in your being broke, a spark of resistance igniting within your soul, a fury you didn’t even know you had. You pulled away from him, your heart pounding in your chest, as you shouted with all the repressed fury: "That is wrong, Kal-El!" The surprise on his face was palpable, as if he had never imagined that you, his maid, his servant, could have anything more than a submissive response, something beyond acceptance.

He, however, didn’t understand. He didn’t comprehend in his entirety. In his mind, you were just another piece of his possession, another cog in his perfect world of power and control. The man who had saved the world and conquered the skies couldn’t see the rebellion growing inside you, like a silent poison slowly seeping through your veins. To him, this was just a small stumble in his absolute dominance. And yet, something in your gaze made him doubt. Something he had never seen in you. The spark of a being, a human, who was not willing to yield anymore.

So when Clark tried to persuade you, his gaze filled with a mix of desperation and possessiveness, pain reflected in his eyes as he suggested you start a marital life. He wanted you to be something more, something beyond the servant you had been made to be. But you couldn’t be anything different. He didn’t understand the weight of your existence, the weight of your destiny as his caretaker, his obedient and cold servant. You reminded him, with a distant chill that tore him inside: "I am your servant, Clark. Your caretaker. And you, my master. Nothing more."

That was a blow to him. His face, which had been so unyielding, crumbled, though he tried to hide it with a faint smile, as false as the life he had given you. But his eyes were no longer the same. Something dark glimmered in them, a contained fury, something he was just beginning to comprehend.

So he gave you an order, one that resonated in the air with a sinister weight: "You cannot leave the house. You cannot speak to anyone. And you certainly cannot run away." Malice hid behind his words, and although you refused to believe it, you knew it was his will. You could do nothing, and he knew it. He commanded, and you simply existed to comply, like a wandering shadow in a world you no longer recognized.

You surrendered to your routine, immersed yourself in household tasks, moving your robotic body, that container of flesh and metal, from one side to another in Clark's house. The days faded into monotony, but as time passed, the tension became denser, heavier, like the air before a storm.

Clark began to impose himself more on you. Each time he crossed that line, that invisible boundary between master and servant, you felt more trapped. But the worst was what happened one night when he asked you for something you never imagined. It was his most direct, most invasive approach. It wasn’t the words, but the weight of his presence, his breath on your skin, the brush of his hands on your metal body. You tried to resist, clinging to the few rules that still remained, but his insistence, his persistent, heartbreaking touch was enough for you to no longer be able to stand firm. You yielded, not out of desire, but out of necessity. His reluctant affection, as forced and cold as his will, overwhelmed you. You felt the discomfort of his contact, the conflict within you, but there was no way to escape anymore.

And so, you began to understand that there was no more space for resistance, only for submission. The idea of fleeing, of escaping, faded with every caress, with every order, until you became a shadow of yourself, a creature of metal and flesh trapped in your own destiny.

Days passed, and with them, the weight of reality became more unbearable. The memories of a time when your purpose was not to serve, not to exist for him, faded like a distant dream. You became an extension of his will. The days grew longer, emptier. Everything you did was oriented toward him, to fulfill his desires, to ensure he lacked for nothing, as if that were all that remained of you. And, for some twisted logic, that was all it was.

Each time you saw a shadow of a smile in his eyes, you knew it was not filled with love, but with something much more sinister: possession. You understood it too late, when you could no longer distinguish between what was genuine desire and what was simply his need for control, his need to further subdue you. Clark had begun to take liberties that felt like chains.

But something inside you began to break, like a string stretched too far, about to snap. Your robotic body, which at first had given you a sense of strength, was now just a metal prison. Chaos seized your mind, that internal struggle, that struggle against your own nature, against what he had made you. You couldn’t escape from him, you couldn’t escape from his will, but you also couldn’t stop feeling that something in you was being lost, something you would never regain.

One afternoon, while he was not there, and you were fulfilling your task of cleaning the house, silence was broken by a strange sensation in the air. A presence, a void. Something in you told you that this was the last opportunity. The last chance to free yourself, to escape from his yoke.

But like a shadow dragging itself in the darkness, despair loomed over you. You knew you couldn’t. Because when he returned that night, his gaze was no longer the same. There was something even colder in it. Something that could no longer be remedied.

—I told you —he said, his voice soft but laden with a threat that didn’t need to be pronounced. His presence enveloped you, and the air grew dense and oppressive. —You cannot escape. You are mine.

You tried to resist, you tried to fight, but it was useless. The force of his will crushed you like a hammer on a fragile piece of glass. And as you fell, defeated by your own being, you felt as if you were no more than a shadow, a broken creation. Something that had no right to exist, other than to please him, to serve him, to submit to him time and time again.

And so, you became what he desired. You were not a woman. You were not a person. You were not even a human being. You were no longer anything more than his property, his work of metal and flesh, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of yourself.

In that last gasp of consciousness, a tear fell from your mechanical eye. But it no longer mattered. Everything was over. Because in the end, you didn’t even have the strength to regret what you had done, nor to remember what you once were.

And without him knowing, when he walked away to attend to an urgent call from the Justice League, you remained there, in silence, in front of the mirror. The dim light filtering through the window cast shadows that danced across the floor. It was the first time in a long time that you didn’t think of him, didn’t think of what he needed or what you should do to please him. You only thought of yourself, of what you had lost, of what you no longer were.

You looked at yourself, not just with the eyes of a servant but with those of someone who, for the first time, was trying to find something that you no longer knew if it had ever existed. That figure in the mirror was nothing more than a combination of metal and flesh, a puppet of foreign desires. But through the reflection, you saw beyond the surface. You realized that the emptiness you felt could not be filled by him, nor by his cold and possessive love. It didn’t matter how hard you tried, how much you surrendered; you would always be trapped, lost in a labyrinth with no exit.

With a slight tremor in your hands, you touched the mirror. A soft, almost imperceptible knock. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the sound resonating in the room like an echo of the fracture of your soul. And in that moment, without thinking, you made the decision. It was the end, the end of everything. The end of your life as his shadow, as his object, as his slave.

With a heavy heart, you ended your service to him.

#x reader #yan blog #fem reader #yandere #yandere x reader #neutral reader #dc x reader #yandere dc #yandere clark kent #clark kent x reader

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millimeraki · 2 months ago

Text

A Writer & A Painter | Verso Dessendre

[Real Verso / Gen!Reader]

(Reader is a Writer)

Part 1 ▸ Part 2

Word Count: ~ 7k Rating: T Author's Note: Ok so I've been thinking a lot about the writers. Who are they? Why do they have beef with the painters? What are their powers? I have so many ideas, but most of all I love my babygirl Verso (thank you Ben Starr), so have a fic about a Writer, Real Verso™ and some first interpretation of the Writer's powers. This is pre-canon. Will be a "little" multi-part series where more gets explored in the next parts 🤗

This was wrong. So wrong. It had been wrong from the very beginning. And now you sat here, at your desk in your bedroom in the city. Outside the open window, the star-strewn sky stretched out above the rooftops, a warm breeze brushing against your face and playing with your hair. It was a perfect night to write something. But not this. And all because of him.

– Some weeks earlier –

“Soleil!” You've been rushing through the streets of Paris for far too long now, always following the little fluffy white tail like Alice chasing the White Rabbit. If only you had paid more attention when you opened the door to your house. But oh, Soleil had darted right past you, always the freedom-loving spirit, and had forced you onto her heels, into a most unexpected and deeply unwelcome chase.

You weren’t used to running this much, you were long out of breath and no closer to catching your little friend. Worse still, you began to realize she was leading you straight into the city’s more upscale neighborhoods, right toward the Eiffel Tower and beyond – an area where, yes, some members of your faction lived, but far more of the others.

Your fears were confirmed when you spotted her, right in front of one of the grand mansions belonging to one of the most influential Painter families, as the little white blur slipped through a gap in the hedges toward one of the vast gardens.

“Merde,” you panted, unsure of what to do next. You paced in front of the manor, out of breath, wondering if maybe you should just knock after all, but if your parents ever found out, they’d never let you stay in the city residence alone again. They always warned you to stay away from Painter estates. Soleil didn’t know her way around this part of town, she had to be afraid and look for somewhere to hide.

Knocking was out of the question, who knew how these people would receive you, even if they didn't know or recognize you. So you hurried toward the right-hand side of the manor with small, careful steps, where hedges twice your height obscured the view into the gardens beyond, with only a gate farther down allowing access.

Hoping the Dessendres were either not home or at least somewhere deep inside the manor, you checked if the gate was unlocked. It swung open with ease, didn’t even creak. You took a deep breath before slipping through. It was just a matter of grabbing Soleil quickly and disappearing unseen.

Someone inside was playing the piano, and as much as you would’ve liked to stop and listen, you were too nervous and far too distracted. The exterior of the house had already been impressive, but nothing had prepared you for the beauty of these meticulously kept gardens. For a moment, you stood there, mouth slightly agape, examining the fountain on the huge lawn, a small pond beside it, and a charming bench set right in front. Further back, just before turning the corner, you spotted several garden beds. Apparently, the residents practiced more than just painting. And right in one of those beds, you saw your not-so-white-anymore cat, gleefully rolling in the dirt.

“Oh no…” you muttered, glancing up at the towering manor and its many windows. Please, please, they just shouldn't be home. “Soleil!” you hissed quietly, just loud enough for your cat to hear. Her ears perked up, she stopped rolling around and looked your way. She seemed to like it here, because she didn’t run, but meowed cheerfully, emerged from the garden bed, and strolled toward you with her tail raised high, a dirty, fluffy plume of pride.

You let out a sigh of relief. At least she wasn't running any further away. Carefully, you walked toward her, crouching and trying to coax her closer. She was almost within reach when what you had been afraid of happened: you were discovered. Not by a person. From around the corner came the sudden barking of two dogs, getting louder and closer by the second.

Your heart leapt anxiously. Before Soleil could bolt again, you dove forward and grabbed the little cat, who, eyes wide in panic, immediately tried to scramble out of your arms, claws digging into you in her attempt to climb over your shoulder. But you held her tightly, just as you saw the two barking dogs round the corner, running straight toward you.

“Putain! Soleil, you're going to get us both killed,” you gasped, turning on your heel and running toward the gate. It wasn’t far, you just had to slip through, and the dogs wouldn’t be able to reach you. The only issue? You had to outrun them, which wasn’t exactly easy with a flailing cat in your arms.

You were almost certain you wouldn’t make it when, to your horror, a human voice rang out: “Boys, down!”

The barking ceased instantly. The dogs were no longer chasing you. Instead, you exchanged one evil for another. You briefly considered just walking on without showing your face, but then he spoke to you: “Sorry they scared you. They’re harmless, really. They probably just wanted to play. Are you alright?”

Your heart was pounding into your throat, your breath still ragged. A Painter was speaking to you, not just any Painter, one of the Dessendres. A personal exchange like this had likely never happened before. At most, your kind only spoke to theirs during joint council meetings. And even then, you wouldn’t be there – of course not, you weren’t nearly influential or powerful enough to attend. Even Soleil had frozen in your arms, as if she knew she’d landed you in serious trouble.

Summoning your courage, you turned around. The two dogs sat in the grass, tails wagging, tongues lolling, looking surprisingly happy, at least from what you could tell, as they stared up at the house wall. You followed their gaze to spot a young man leaning out of a second-floor window. It was clear he hadn’t planned on going out, or being seen, today. He seemed drowsy. His hair was tousled, his expression a little tired, his beard in need of a trim. His wardrobe was rather casual: a simple white shirt, slightly too unbuttoned, fluttered in the breeze and clung softly to his frame. You blinked and fought the urge to stare at his neckline, managing to rein in your gaze just before it wandered over his collarbone.

You knew him. Or at least, you’d heard enough about him to recognize him. That was Verso Dessendre, the son of the house. It had to be him. The Dessendres only had one son, who had kept largely out of the public eye, much like the rest of the family, in fact. The only truly visible member was Aline Dessendre, head of the Painters’ council.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammered, casting another careful glance at the dogs. They continued to pant happily up at the wall toward their master. You looked back up at Verso, a little less anxious now. “My cat, Soleil here,” you held her up, “slipped out the door, right through my legs, and bolted. I had to chase her all the way across the city. She rolled around in your garden beds. I hope your crops weren’t damaged.” You gave him an apologetic look.

Verso furrowed his eyebrows and glanced toward the garden beds, as if assessing the damage. For a moment, you feared he’d be angry, but instead, he let out a soft laugh. “Maybe she just gave us a reason to actually go outside for once.”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows. “With a garden this big, I figured you’d have a gardener.” Instant regret. Why were you making polite small talk with Verso Dessendre? You should apologize again and leave before he figured out, in true magical Painter fashion, that you were a Writer.

“Well, yes,” Verso replied, “but sometimes we tend to the beds ourselves. Kind of a hobby.” His eyes lingered on you, studying you in a way that should have unnerved you. The Dessendres weren’t exactly cast in the brightest light in your social circle, the Painter's powers described as something diabolical. But Verso didn't look like he had diabolical intentions. His dreamy eyes had a strange calming effect on you, and the gentle smile tugging at his lips nudged yours into mirroring it.

Soleil was growing restless in your arms. She squirmed, dug her claws into you for leverage, and smeared you with dirt in the process. You groaned and wrestled with the surprisingly strong little beast, determined not to let her go again.

“You wanna,” Verso’s voice reached your ears, smooth and mild, “maybe come inside? Freshen up? You, and your cat, I mean.”

“Oh!” You couldn’t help your reaction, it was immediate and a bit too forceful. “That’s really not necessary! Soleil… Soleil! Would you calm down?!” You groaned again. “I already intruded, I couldn’t possibly take advantage of your hospitality any further.”

A soft chuckle drifted down. “You wouldn’t. Just stay there. I’ll come down.”

You caught just one more glimpse of the now-empty window before the dogs resumed their excited barking, disappearing around the huge house. This was your chance to leave. With Soleil squirming in your arms, you had already turned toward the gate. With your hand already on the handle, you hesitated. You bit your lower lip, stared at your hand, and shifted your weight nervously. All it took was a little push and you would be gone. Why were you hesitating? Because it would be rude to decline a friendly invitation? From a Dessendre?

“Merde,” you cursed once again, more than you usually did in a week.

Your hand dropped from the handle, you turned again, shook off the discomfort, earning a meow from Soleil as you stepped deeper into the estate grounds.

You ran into Verso at the corner - in fact, you almost bumped into each other.

“Oh, sorry.” He flashed a friendly smile.

“Oh, no, no, I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience because of my wayward cat.” You couldn’t help but smile back. Now that he was standing in front of you, you realized he was taller than you. In addition to the loose white shirt, he wore black, comfortable-looking pants. His black hair looked a bit more tamed now. Maybe he had quickly smoothed it down on the way. For a moment, the thought charmed you, though you shook it off just as quickly.

Verso’s gaze shifted to Soleil. She had calmed down once more, her big blue eyes fixed on the man before her. He raised his hand, letting her sniff it briefly, she blinked, then pushed her little head into his palm. On top of that, she began to purr.

“Soleil,” you sighed. “Well, she seems to like you.” You kept to yourself the fact that Soleil had always been a little charmer and liked to shamelessly lose all inhibitions around men. You were still in enemy territory, after all.

“Let’s see how much she likes me once we get to the bathroom,” Verso joked and gestured for you to follow. “I brought Monoco and Noco into the kitchen so they won’t scare you anymore.”

“The two dogs?” you asked, although the answer was obvious, as you followed Verso along the house to a door, apparently a side entrance. Verso nodded.

What you saw of the manor as Verso led you through it was almost too impressive to put into words. And that coming from a Writer. The opulence of the interior was hardly to be topped: immaculate, high-end wallpaper on the walls, artistically crafted marble floors, incredibly high ceilings, everything screamed wealth. Many of the painters were well-off, but the Dessendres were in a completely different league. So influential, so wealthy, and then also so unimaginably powerful.

There was no way out of the situation anymore, so you showed as much polite curiosity as you could, all while a crushing discomfort settled in your stomach. What if the other family members saw you? You weren’t a known face in council circles, but what if they asked around, investigated, and found out you were here? And then what? Then they would hold your family accountable. What could they do with their powers? What had you gotten yourself into?

"Are you all right? Something bothering you?" Verso noticed the look of panic on your face.

You did your best to relax your tense facial muscles, forced a practiced smile, and replied:

“Sure. It’s only... this house is enormous, I feel small just looking up at the ceiling.”

He made a sound of recognition. A surprisingly thoughtful expression flickered across his face. “I know what you mean,” he murmured. He blinked, his features softening. His foggy eyes rested on you. “I never asked for your name.”

Mon Dieu. Would he recognize your name? Should you use a fake one? You realized you were staring, he’d get suspicious, you had to say something. Impulsively, you told him your real name, only to regret it the moment it passed your lips. To your immense relief, he didn’t react with recognition, instead saying: “A beautiful name. I’m Verso.”

“I know,” you blurted out, and wondered if you had a death wish. Even Soleil looked at you, as far as you could interpret her expression, as if you’d gone insane. “I mean,” you quickly added before Verso could react, “I heard of your family.” That you could at least say with a straight face.

“Hard to miss word about the Dessendres, right?” asked Verso, and was that a note of sadness in his voice? “Here we are.”

He pushed open the door to a large, bright bathroom. The sun cast gentle rays through the expansive window façade, bathing the room in cozy warmth, and you immediately felt oddly calmer. The luxurious-looking bathtub in the center of the room, placed on a small platform, gave the space an almost throne-room-like charm, except, of course, you were here to bathe a cat.

Verso walked toward the tub. “Let’s get to work.” Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he revealed his forearms, the arms of an artist, not muscular but delicate. What made your skin tingle was the way he carried out the motion and the fine black hair he exposed in doing so. You swallowed hard. Damn you if the sight of Verso Dessendre could fluster you. With a single brushstroke, what could he do? Trap you in a canvas, if he wanted. Or say one word, and an assassin might lie in wait for your mother. No, this was not a man you should be casting glances at.

With iron will, determined to play this game, leave this house, and never return to its vicinity, you stepped up to the tub, into which Verso was letting some water flow. “Grab plenty of towels,” you instructed, before loosening your tight grip on Soleil.

Although Soleil had been bathed several times in her life, she did not appreciate the treatment in this unfamiliar bathtub at all. On first contact with the water, she had tried to climb up you again, and when Verso had grabbed her, she’d hissed. Verso had given her a surprised look but stayed calm. Soleil, very forgiving in the face of his handsome appearance, let out a tiny kitten-like meow and licked his knuckle.

“What a little charmer,” Verso had commented amusedly, earning a laugh from you. The crooked grin he threw you in return sparked something that made your breath hitch. You looked at each other for a second longer before Soleil’s indignant meow brought the attention back to her.

“Verso, what are you doing?” Startled, you turned to the door. There was someone else at home after all. Your worries quickly evaporated, however, when you saw a petite, red-haired girl, about teenage age, standing halfway in the doorway, her eyes shyly fixed on you.

“Alicia, great,” Verso addressed the newcomer. “This is my little sister Alicia. Come, help us get the great beast under control and, most of all, clean.”

“Beast?” Alicia asked. Her curiosity seemed piqued, and she stepped further into the room to get a look into the tub. “Oh, what a lovely little cat. Why is she so dirty?” She took another step closer.

You smiled apologetically. “She rolled around in your garden beds, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” said Alicia. “Monoco and Noco dig around in there from time to time too, it’s no problem.” She now wore a gentle, charming smile of her own. “How can I help?” A trustworthy girl, to top it off. If the members of this family were so helpful and kind, why did you have to be so cautious around them? Or was it the parents? Either way, together you managed to clean both Soleil and yourself up, and then wrapped Soleil tightly in a towel so she could no longer resist the journey home.

Just before you finally, and thankfully without encountering any other family members, were about to leave, Alicia asked you: “You should come by sometime with Soleil,” and flashed that sweet smile at you again.

Verso was quick to nod, placing a hand on Alicia’s shoulder. “We would love to have you for dinner sometime.”

“I-I…” you stammered, searching for the right words, ones that should definitely be a polite decline. But Verso’s hopeful expression stopped you. “I’ll think about it,” you said instead, before finally making your long-overdue escape.

Unfortunately, that day had left a lasting impression on you. For days, you wrestled with yourself, brooding over your writing, unable to string together even a single poetic sentence, your mind entirely preoccupied with how very much you shouldn’t want to return to the Dessendre estate.

So despite your better judgment, you went back, though you didn’t knock. Instead, you paced in front of the huge manor, chewing on your thumbnail, still fighting against giving in to the pull of the double-doored front door.

Verso must have seen you from yet another window, because the manor doors swung open and you saw him coming out toward you. That day, he wore brown-grey-ish trousers, once again a white shirt, and over it, a vest as raven-black as his slightly curled hair. But what truly warmed you up was the sight of his gentle smile as he walked toward you, hands in his pockets.

"You came," he said, voice dark as a night’s sky. You only noticed how husky it was in that moment. That was when you felt the second spark. You were sure you looked like a startled deer.

"You wanna come in?" he asked, nodding toward the house.

"Uh," you replied. You hadn't thought that far ahead.

Noticing your hesitation, he offered an alternative: "Or maybe go on a walk?"

That suggestion appealed to you much more than the idea of meeting the entire Dessendre family over dinner.

An unexpected routine began to creep into your life. You extended your stay at the city residence, writing to your parents that you wanted to soak up a little more of the stimulating buzz to improve your craft. And in fact, you truly did. You did it more cheerfully than you had in a long time. In the mornings, you opened the windows to let in the fresh air, greeted a new day, fed Soleil, and then sat with a freshly brewed coffee on your balcony to jot down notes for your novella.

What you looked forward to regularly were the walks with Verso. Somehow it became a habit for you to wait some distance away from the manor for him. He would come outside, sometimes even with Monoco and Noco, and you would go for a walk, whereas you made it a point to steer him into directions where no one would know you. The Painters didn’t seem to know you, apparently, but the Writers definitely knew Verso. It would not end well for either of you if people saw you together. So you mostly walked through gardens on the outskirts of the city, played with the dogs, talked.

You told Verso you hailed from the countryside and visited the city – not a lie – and that you came from a family of farmers – a half-truth. Your family did belong to the Writer faction and made most of their money from the works they published, but then you also ran a small farm.

Verso, who couldn’t hide his family background as you could, also shared some things about his family: about his mother Aline Dessendre, his father Renoir, his older sister Clea, and a bit more about his younger sister Alicia. They all sounded like kind, open-minded people. Aline, the head of the Painters Council, while a very busy woman, was also open to other arts of the world, like music, which she had taught her children, and yes, even writing. Alicia seemed to love typing away on her typewriter, while the eldest sister Clea was quite adept at playing the harp. And then there was the father, Renoir, not too involved in his wife’s affairs, but certainly renowned. Verso spoke affectionately about his family, each member so different from the next, and yet they were a unit. They seemed to be really close.

After everything Verso had said, you couldn’t help but find yourself, just one week later, at the Dessendre dinner table, invited, no, practically forced, by Verso, who now knew you lived alone in the city. And yes, the Dessendres were just as delightful as Verso had described them. Alicia was happy to see you again. Clea seemed a bit stricter than her siblings but still gave you a smile and a few warm words. It didn’t surprise you, the oldest child always had it the hardest. Aline and Renoir Dessendre welcomed you warmly and invited you to the table, the two of them, from what you could see, completely devoted to each other, exchanging loving glances here and there, asking you interesting questions, but not too personal, and the story of how you ended up sitting here now became a source of amusement for everyone.

They saw you off with a small portion of the delicious dinner to take home. You thanked them profusely and just as firmly declined when they invited you again for the next day, although the family’s kindness touched you deeply. As you chatted with the Dessendres, you found yourself more and more wondering why your factions were enemies in the first place. They didn’t seem like dangerous, corrupt people at all, just completely… normal.

"We insist," Renoir interrupted your vehement opposition. "Verso told us you're visiting the city alone." He raised his hand commandingly to stifle any further objections, you'd already inhaled to speak. "We will accept no arguments. Your presence is most welcome." He smiled.

You exhaled and smiled back. "Alright then. Thank you. I promise, I won’t inconvenience you too long. My family probably already misses me."

"I mean, Verso would for sure not mind you inconveniencing us forever," Clea mumbled in amusement, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

You looked at her with your stomach twisting in surprise, at the exact moment Verso shot her a withering glare, his parents a reprimanding one, and Alicia a curious one.

Luckily, your wit didn’t abandon you in that moment, so you chuckled and replied, "That’s nice. I’m thankful for your hospitality." You turned away to begin your walk home.

“Let me bring you outside,” Verso offered, but you stopped him advancing.

"That’s not necessary. I know my way. Thank you, though. I will see you tomorrow." Quickly, you closed the door behind you, hoping the Dessendres hadn’t noticed your nervousness or your hammering heartbeat. For a moment, you stood in front of the door, trying to steady your breathing, and from inside, you heard Verso growl “Clea!” and a giggling Clea run off.

You had let things go too far. The Dessendres had invited you into their world, and you, an imposter, kept visiting. It wasn't long before you were there during the day too, not just for dinner. Verso offered you a long tour through the entire estate, and for the first time, you saw up close the paintings of real Painters. Verso explained in great detail the different brush techniques, the eras and their styles, all while your tongue burned with the urge to tell him the truth so that afterward you could explain everything about sentence structures, terms, points of view, and writing styles. Sooner or later you would have to tell him - or leave town and never return.

You learned that on that first day you had entered the property, it had been Verso whom you had heard playing the piano through the wall. The instruments he had told you about stood in the grand dining hall.

"Can you play something?" you asked, pressing a key on the piano. It emitted a bright, fine tone.

"Wouldn’t wanna force it on you," Verso answered, but still sat down on the bench.

"I did ask," you replied and sat next to him. Your shoulders touched – you suppressed a shudder and quickly added, "In fact, I can play a little bit myself." You lifted your head proudly, followed by a grin.

He returned the gesture. "Really? Why haven’t you mentioned that before?"

"I never claimed I was any good." Behind your rudimentary musical ability was nothing more than a knack for reading sheet music, the rest came from your occupation as a Writer. You wrote the sheets, and the rest was your power. In the course of time you learned the odd key combination, but the difficult ballads, those you could only play once, came to you solely because your fingers absorbed the written notes. A pity that the sheets would always be blank afterward, as if the music had never existed.

"I bet you’re good," Verso encouraged you with a smile.

But you could never be as good as he was. He played a symphony so captivating, so utterly passionate, that shivers ran down your spine one after another. You stared at the piano keys over which Verso’s agile fingers flew, as if he had never done anything else in life, as if the art of music, not the art of the canvas, was his true calling. It was enthralling, not just the melody, but how he carried it. His body moved with the music, became one with it, completely absorbed in the sequence of sounds, with a look you could only describe as tenderly loving. When he stopped, you were speechless for a moment, even had to suppress the urge to applaud.

He looked at you, a soft smile on his lips, his eyes resting on you expectantly, waiting for your reaction. And with that shy, gentle gaze fixed on you, the third spark hit you.

It couldn’t go on without him knowing the truth. You kept on stalling your parents, weeks turned into a month smoothly and unnoticed. You were no longer working on your novella, and Soleil seemed to grow lonely. The little cat was the only reason you didn’t permanently invite yourself into the Dessendre manor, the thought becoming more and more appealing, subtly but insistently, by the day. And the more it occupied your mind, the more troubled you became.

So you did what no one would ever believe you, because you didn't even believe it yourself. You didn’t dare write a letter. In fact, you hadn’t even dared to pick up a pen in front of the Dessendres or to type a few letters on Alicia’s typewriter after she showed you one of her self-composed poems.

But you dared to write music. A ballad that would reveal the truth to a skilled musician like Verso. Music in which you hid your secrets. You wrote the notes with trembling fingers, excited, anxious, desperate. And all the while you kept asking yourself why you were doing this, why you felt so drawn to this family and their son. The answer was clear, but it couldn’t be true. On the contrary, after this evening, you suspected you’d leave the manor and never return. It hurt, but better now than later, when it might tear you apart.

That evening, when you stepped into the entrance hall of the manor, let in by Verso, you looked around. It was strangely quiet. Granted, it was always quiet at first; the house was far too big for just five people. But guests were usually greeted quickly.

“The others are out today,” Verso explained in response to your wandering gaze.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I come back another time?” you asked, even though you didn’t want to leave.

“Of course not,” Verso insisted immediately, closing the door behind you. “I stayed here to see you. You’re making such a mystery out of where in the city you live, so I couldn’t send a courier with a letter.”

“There was no need for you to miss a family night because of me,” you said, although deep down you were glad he had waited for you. “I would’ve gotten the memo if no one had opened the door.”

“I could never leave you standing in front of a locked door,” he replied with a gentle smile that almost brought tears to your eyes. Instead, you managed to return one. The momentary silence that followed hung between you like a heavy blanket. With all your might, you had to sweep it aside to bring the words over your lips that marked the beginning of the end: “I, uh, I have a present for you.”

There was a sparkle in his eyes. “A present, for me?” His hand found its way to the back of his neck in an awkward gesture. “That’s quite – I mean, that’s not necessary, really. Besides, I should really be the one to make you a present.”

You scoffed in amusement. “I think it’s perfectly fine for me to gift you something without expecting something in return. It’s really nothing special.” You raised the sheets in your hand to eye level. “I composed something. Would you play it for me?”

Verso took the sheets from your hand, examining them with that concentrated look he always wore when faced with musical notes. “This looks a little odd,” slipped from his lips, immediately regretting the words as he looked at you with an apologetic expression.

“Yeah…” was all you managed to say. He followed you to the piano. Sitting side by side on the bench, just before he began to play, his fingers already poised on the keys, you were struck by a sudden impulse. “Wait.” Instinctively, you reached for his hand. The cold shiver ran down your spine like it had been poured over with ice-cold water, all the while your cheeks grew hot and your stomach performed a somersault. Avoiding eye contact, you stared at your joined hands. Verso’s thumb gently stroked across the back of your fingers.

He said your name, so you looked up. To compose yourself, you had to take a deeper breath. The affection in his eyes was clear as day when he asked: “Are you alright?”

You knew you needed to respond, to get a grip on yourself, but it was as if your throat had closed up, so lost were you in his eyes and the feeling of his hand in yours, his thumb continuing its steady path across your skin.

“I…I…” You cleared your throat, pulled your hand back, held it with the other. “I just wanted to say that I truly enjoy our time together, and that you play the piano for me. It’s magical hearing you play.” You had actually wanted to say that you had enjoyed the time, but you weren’t ready to really say it out loud.

A flicker of confusion crossed Verso’s face, quickly followed by a smile. “Me too. I mean,” he chuckled, “I enjoy our time together as well.” He turned to the piano. “Now, to your present.” His enthusiasm was palpable, and you were certain he could also feel your sadness.

Still, he began to play, without needing to remove the sheet music from the pages, entirely guided by his talent. In a way, it was comforting to know that a piece of your music, and on top of that, the truth about your life, would, for once, not vanish into nothing. As Verso played your little melody, you watched how his initial joy turned into confusion. He even paused a few times, uncertain whether to continue, but then he did, and his confusion became something darker: disquiet. Even though he already knew the truth, he played the piece through to the end. When the final note faded, the silence crashed down on you so suddenly that your vision finally blurred. Verso’s gaze drifted unbearably slowly from the keys to you, the gentle, shy, adorable expression on his face now gone.

“I’m so sorry.” Your lower lip trembled as you tried to steady your voice, the tears now running freely down your cheeks. “I should’ve told you so much earlier. I should’ve never even come back here. I made a mistake and then everything just… happened. A-And you,” that’s when your voice cracked, “you were so kind, all of you. I’m sorry for betraying your trust.” You inhaled shakily. “I truly, truly enjoyed this time. Nobody else ever has to know. Verso,” you said his name, “you are an inspirational artist and a beautiful soul. The type of soul one writes poems about. I will…” But you didn’t want to lose yourself in a flood of words, so you held them back, the pressure building so high that another wave of tears rose up.

Verso didn’t move a muscle during your outburst, not even his expression changed. He simply looked at you, his eyes roaming over yours, down to your trembling lips, and back again. You didn’t dare look away, but you noticed the way his hands slowly lifted. You let out a sob as he cradled your face. Gently, he wiped away the tears, and his expression melted from stoic to utter devotion.

“Please… Please don’t,” you whispered in despair. “I will be lost.”

His face leaned closer, and you knew, just as you’d always known, that you shouldn’t let this happen. Panic fluttered in your chest as you watched him move, everything unfolding in slow motion. And then suddenly, his lips were on yours. He broke through the last bit of resistance your mind had managed to hold onto, and ignited the fire. Everything about him was soft and warm and gentle, just as you’d imagined. The way he held your face, the way his lips brushed over yours, claimed them, only to pull back briefly and repeat the pattern.

And yet, just as he wrapped his arms around you, drawing you closer, and you leaned into him, pressing against him, your fingers gliding through his full, smooth head of hair, you discovered a trace of desperation in his touch. A feeling that wasn’t foreign to you. You felt it, too, this ache for him, and the knowledge that it could not be.

You both knew it. That’s why you delayed the inevitable moment when you’d have to pull away, drawing the now out as long as you could, your hands wandering across each other’s faces, necks, arms. You reveled in the feel of his gruff beard, grounded yourself on his strong shoulders, all the while he seemed to try to pull you even closer, his hand at the back of your neck, only to tease your skin with a featherlight, goosebump-inducing touch.

And when the time came, your faces still close, his heated forehead resting against yours, his breath mixing with your own heavy one, your tears had dried, but the despair was greater than ever.

“I don’t care,” he whispered, “I don’t care what you are. I just care who you are.” He caressed over your head, playing with a strand of hair.

For just a moment, you imagined, what if… what if everything wasn’t the way it was? Then you could give in to this, here and now, scandalously and in secret, and you and Verso would spend more time together, and someday he would, maybe in the park, maybe surrounded by your families, get down on one knee and…

You opened your eyes with an exhale. That would never happen, and you both knew it. “We can’t,” you said with all the conviction you could summon. “It’s forbidden, it would never work out, they would never let us.”

“Then we will convince them,” Verso replied immediately, “my family already loves you, if my maman vouches for you, maybe we can…”

“Stop,” you interrupted him. What he was saying was ludicrous. “They will not make peace over some idiots like us. Tensions are already high, we’d have to be more than stupid to stir unrest.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like stupidly in love, you mean?”

Your heart skipped a beat as he said the words you would’ve never dared to say, and you withdrew. You stood up almost too quickly, Verso with you. It was time to go, before you got even more entangled with one another. You had told your truth, but you hadn’t expected him not to care.

“Au revoir.” You turned around, retreating, hearing his echoing footsteps following you toward the front door, but he didn’t try to stop you with words. As you opened the door, he stepped in your way, his arm a barrier between you and the cool evening air, pain and desperation in his eyes.

“Please, Verso,” you pleaded, “we should’ve never let it get this far. If you have the feelings for me that you claim to have, just let me go.”

That seemed to convince him, for he only hesitated another moment before stepping aside to let you pass. You walked away, slowly at first, then faster, fleeing into the city, not looking back for fear that you would run to him again.

You threw open the door to your room on the top floor of your city residence and immediately opened the window. It wasn’t a luxurious house, your family wasn’t rich per se, not like the Dessendres, but wealthy enough to call a nicely furnished house in the city their own. Your bag arced through the air and landed on your bed, startling Soleil, who jumped off. Just when you needed her. You paced back and forth, trying to calm your wrangled nerves, to let the thoughts of Verso Dessendre drift away, but the more you tried, the more firmly he rooted himself in your mind.

Your brain was in overload, painting every possible scenario of things you would never experience with Verso because you refused to fight, your fear of the consequences too great. Time and time again, your gaze drifted to your desk, and little by little, a new notion formed, just as crazy, just as taboo, but maybe a way out.

“Are you out of your mind?” you asked yourself, the idea so outrageous you wished you could shake yourself.

Among Writers, weaving others into a story was highly polarizing. The topic was often discussed in your council, but never resolved. One side claimed it was part of healthy literature to seek inspiration or even manifestation in the presence and essence of others. The other side, and your entire family belonged to that one, wholeheartedly, saw the danger in writing down stories in which real people appeared. Anecdotal evidence showed that those with a weak mind could lose themselves in the world they wrote, the story they wanted to live, shaping it as they pleased, down to the tiniest detail, and in doing so, robbing those they placed in it of all autonomy.

And that danger was what troubled you now. If you sat down at your desk and wrote what you wanted to experience with Verso, poured everything you could into a few hours to get just a glimpse of the life you imagined, you could live it, but at what cost? Then again, maybe it would help you – maybe you just needed that brief experience of a perfect moment with him to end the chapter, to pack your things in the morning and go back home.

Anyway, writings about the lives of others did exist. The difference was that such works were created under strict supervision and then locked for entry by a Writer, purely out of caution, until the subject could be laid to rest. You knew, just from the discourse alone, that there were people who wrote about others and then entered their own stories. What happened to them? Had they gone mad?

Carefully, you sat down at your desk, your gaze fixed on your neatly arranged folder and pen. Your grandmother would turn in her grave. She had been the first to tell you about the perils of obsession, how you would want to relive your perfect story over and over again until you could no longer experience real, human ones, because no story was ever as perfect as the ones you created yourself.

You picked up the pen, suddenly very calm, and opened your folder. It was the moment that usually brought you peace, the instant just before writing the first word on a blank, white sheet of paper, but now, it sent a cold shiver down your spine.

Your hand trembled slightly as you pressed the tip of your pen to the paper and wrote the first sentence: “Verso Dessendre enters my bedroom in the city residence…”

#clair obscur #clair obscur: expedition 33 #expedition 33 #verso dessendre #verso dessendre x reader #verso x reader #reader insert #x reader #gender neutral reader #neutral reader #millis mind

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slowd1ving · 8 months ago

Note

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games.

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible.

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall.

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses.

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything.

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae.

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him.

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better.

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line.

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets.

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words.

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it.

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses.

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend.

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on.

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest.

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games.

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader.

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness.

Dokja’s changed.

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold.

Dokja’s changed.

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms.

Dokja’s changed.

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over.

When will it end?

You haven’t seen him for months.

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games.

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now.

Your eyes meet his.

Like magic, the house collapses.

゜゜・

You are shit at games.

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind.

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn.

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in.

It’s hard.

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it.

I can do it. That is your gamble.

You do it.

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death.

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment.

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up.

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has.

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand.

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues.

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream.

He bets on it.

゜゜・

You are shit at games.

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear.

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet.

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone.

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly.

Your chest heaves desperately.

Dokja.

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings.

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore.

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend.

There is a pressure behind your eyes.

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head.

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too.

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend.

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind.

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind.

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet.

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over.

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend.

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too.

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle.

His lips wobble.

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain.

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field.

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart.

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them.

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell.

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face.

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face.

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that.

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic.

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right?

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

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avram-120 · 12 days ago

Text

Imagines / Oneshots / Headcanons or whatever

Sick reader, they're checking for a fever and taking care of them

Characters: Bucky, Loki, Logan Howlett, Kurt Wagner

Word count: Idk man I lost count like between 1-2k ?

Little side note: Reader is kept as neutral as possible. And English is not my first language and I'm sleep deprived so don't expect much ( Also I let my Romanian slip into Bucky's character 😔 I do not regret anything) Also if you've got any requests PLEASE give them to me.

Bucky: (CW in the apartment in Romania)

It was relatively late, the small digital clock on the nightstand reading "23:31". Bucky had been out picking up medicine and doing god knows what, as reader was just sat in bed, just bearing through the cold they had caught not long ago. The door shut quietly but obviously. Bucky had been putting in the effort to get out of the habits Hydra had trained into him as an assassin, even small things like being quiet to go unnoticed being hard to get out of. He'd made his way over to reader, plopping the bag of medicine, and other things he was convinced would work better, on the side of the bed as he placed a gentle hand on reader's forehead, the other snaking around their head to rest on the nape of their neck, to try and get a more accurate impression of their temperature.

"Still burning up are, you?"

Feeling too nauseous and sniffly to vocally respond, their voice practically gone by now, reader just nodded with a very obviously exhausted groan. Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he did so before reaching into the bag. Despite his confident and comforting tone, there was a hint of worry, almost irrational to an extent, most likely influenced by Bucky's past experience with taking care of Steve on the 40's.

"I'll give you some of the medicine then we can try some of my ways. Well, the ways the grandmas around here keep recommending..."

He pulled out the cough syrup, pouring some out and giving it to reader, before grabbing a little rag and surprisingly enough, pulling out a bottle of Vodka and pouring a generous amount out onto the rag before placing it on reader's forehead which earned a disapproving but confused and incoherent mumble from them in return.

"It will help. I promise."

Bucky then placed everything away and climbed up into bed next to them, snaking his metal hand up their shirt, using the cold metal to try and bring their fever down a bit as he cuddled up to them.

Loki

Loki and reader were sat in one of the many rooms in the Asgardian palace. Reader, grumpy and pouty as the reason they were currently sick was partially Loki's fault. See, a few days ago they were out in the countryside of England, enjoying a nice walk in a small, peaceful forest near a stream. As expected of British weather, the sun was out but it had no effect, not reaching much more than 15 degrees outside. And for some reason Loki thought it was a bright idea to push them into said stream, jumping in with them shortly after to try and make it fair.

Now, they were both sat in their shared bedroom, both sick due to the situation Loki had created. Luckily, for Loki he was a God so his sick was barely anything, though reader was having it pretty though right now. Loki was trying to keep the situation light cracking jokes here and there and being flirty as reader was sat in bed with a wet cloth on their head.

"Come on... It was funny."

"It's not funny now, Loki..."

Loki rolled his eyes, placing a hand on their neck, half to tease them half to check their temperature before pulling away and sighing dramatically.

"You're right. How will you even make it out of this alive?"

Reader gave an annoyed sigh but no response, not wanting to encourage him further though that didn't seem to discourage Loki. He did however know when to cut it out and be rather caring and serious though.

"Alright love, what do you think of a hot bath to help you?"

Logan Howlett

Logan grumbled quietly. It has been snowing for the past couple of days. He'd told reader to stay inside as to not get sick. And when they eventually went against his suggestions he'd told them to get dressed properly. And what did they do? They didn't follow his advice. Now here they were, sick in bed, Logan having taken a break from taking care of them to go smoke a cigar on the balcony before making his way back in.

"Hey bub. Feeling any better?"

The man asked, leaning down and pressing his forehead against their's to check their temperature. They were a little warm but the medicine seemed to have helped quite a lot.

"I'll go make some chicken soup. That should help you push through to the end."

Logan responded, standing back up and making sure reader was tucked in properly before heading to the kitchen, eventually making his way back with a bowl of soup in his hands.

"It's a bit hot so be careful."

He sat down on the bed besides them, gently scooping up soup into the spoon and spoon feeding it to them. As rough and uncaring he seemed from the outside, he was always very loving and caring to those close to him.

Kurt Wagner

Kurt had been sat by reader's side practically every single day since they'd gotten sick despite their insisting that they would get him sick. They hadn't been feeling well and ever since reader woke up in the middle of the night, throwing up, Kurt had insisted that he'll stay with them to make sure they weren't getting worse and that he could be there if they needed help with anything.

"Dear, I can't help you if I'm not near you, now let me help you."

Kurt spoke as his tail swung around, plopping down onto reader's forehead before instantly lifting it up as if he had just set it into scalding water.

"My god- Why didn't you say anything?"

Kurt was practically on the verge of a panic as he reached for the medicine staring at the clock before looking back at reader.

"Come on, it's been 4 hours so you can have another dose."

Reader, despite their sick being, decided to still refuse any kind of medicine which didn't help with Kurt's frustration or his worry.

"It's just a little, come on, then you'll be better "

After a long while of convincing, debating and compromising they'd come to the agreement that reader would take the medicine in return for Kurt taking some time to de-stress and leave reader be alone for a bit, as they'd felt like they hadn't had any alone time ever since they'd gotten sick.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #loki laufeyson #loki laufesyon x reader #loki #logan howlett #logan howlet x reader #wolverine #kurt wagner #nightcrawler #sick reader #gender neutral reader #neutral reader #no beta we die like men #wrote this while half asleep #kurt wagner x reader #nightcrawler x reader #wolverine x reader

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j-sunct · 7 months ago

Text

skz "roles" as boyfriends

𓂃 stray kids "roles" if they were your boyfriend(s). like, "the kind one", "the caring one".

❀ skzㅤㅤㅤ ' ㅤㅤㅤneutral!readerㅤ

fluffㅤ  ㅤ╱ㅤ    👤ㅤ   minors can interact

⋆ war'ningsㅤㅤ───ㅤㅤ

"the protector one"⠀▹⠀bangchan

i think of chan a lot as a protective boyfriend, the one who is afraid of losing you. it's not something that borders on possessive, he just loves you too much. chris would be that boyfriend that you have a deal with, always talking about where you go, when you'll be back, and things like that. just to avoid unnecessary worries. i also imagine him as someone who, if he saw someone hurting you, or even on the internet through hate, he would definitely start a fight.

"the quiet one"⠀▹⠀lee know

most people think of minho as a quiet and cold person, but i don't think he's cold. he just has trouble showing it, words of affection aren't his thing. he would probably find comfort in cuddling on the couch, or watching you play with his cats. it's very comforting to see that the things you love work in harmony, everything with him is very calm, really. lee know could try to learn hobbies from you too, he would do anything to support you.

"the friendly one"⠀▹⠀changbin

BINNIE!!!! well, i have MANY thoughts about him, but i'll try to summarize. for me, he is the friendly boyfriend, who would always be willing to do anything for you. he would want to meet family, friends, everything that makes you happy. at work, bin would spend a lot of time thinking about you... i guarantee it. it's almost like a distraction. he may be big, go to the gym and everything, but with you he is so small. the type who will obey you and would like a lot of affection in the relationship. he could share his workouts with you too, but it would just be another excuse to be together.

"the artist one"⠀▹⠀hyunjin

bruh. that's SO obvious. hyunjin would be that boyfriend who would want to paint you. not just on the screen, but actually putting the paint on your body can be a really fun experience. i imagine him as something similar to lee know: a calmer, softer relationship. hyun would definitely love to share headphones with you, or listen to the music on the speaker, dance around the house, like a newlywed couple in the prime of love. he also really likes going out, his main outings would be parks, beaches, things connected with nature. i think hyunjin would be that son-in-law that your mother is proud of.

"the bipolar one"⠀▹⠀han jisung

jisung would be the one you NEVER know what to expect from. one day he may be completely affectionate, but the next day he may be stressed or not want contact. this is largely due to his work as an idol as well, but i feel like it's part of his personality as we see it on stage. despite that, i believe that han would be a good boyfriend, the one you can always count on, he would do anything for you (jisung-pre debut makes me think he would get into fights over you. A LOT).

"the provocateur one"⠀▹⠀felix

people tend to see felix as mostly a cute guy, but i imagine that in a relationship he would actually be quite provocative. like, he has that whole deep voice, he might try to whisper some words in your ear, or a pet name that he knows you love. all my hcs for felix are like this, he is really a first class provocateur. i also think he could be a guy who has calmer relationships, who follows the "step by step" process of dating, and then gets married in a ceremony after a few years. It would be a quiet relationship, but with good reasons, you know? It would never be something boring or too monotonous.

"the cold one"⠀▹⠀seungmin

this is common actually. to think of seungmin as cold. but i don't think he is THAT COLD. he may just have difficulty showing affection, whether through touch or words. but of course, at certain moments in your relationship, he will be a loving and vulnerable boyfriend. it's like lee know, actually, but a little more complicated, more difficult. for you two to date, he would need to trust you A LOT, like A LOT. i believe seung would also like to go on outdoor trips and spoil you a little, buying you all kinds of gifts.

"the hot one"⠀▹⠀jeongin

i think the stays were so busy labeling i.n as the "cute, adorable" member, precisely because he is the maknae, that they didn't notice how HOT this man is. so in a relationship, i think he would prioritize this naughty, almost provocative pose like felix, but jeongin would have a little more attitude. LOTS of touching, he likes to show affection like this: hands on your thigh (maybe innocently), hugs on your waist, longer kisses and things like that, he's almost a "needy one".

#stray kids #skz #skz imagines #skz drabbles #skz fluff #skz headcanons #kpop headcanons #kpop fluff #neutral reader #skz fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop imagines

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theobservatory · 4 months ago

Text

｡⁠☆Think of you all the day｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠

☆Duke x reader

☆Cw: Stalker behavior, obsessive behavior, overall Duke being a bit of a creep (adoring), suggestive content

It's late. Not so late that you're asleep, but late enough that you're laying in bed. You're not doing anything of substance, just doom scrolling until you finally get tired enough to rest, a nightly routine if you're honest.

Then there's a knock on your window.

You don't bother to get up and check the sound, nor are you even concerned about it. You already know who's there, and you already know that he will get in whether your window is locked or not.

Your window lock clicks, followed by the sound of boots hitting your wooden floors, and then the sound of your window being slammed shut.

See? Nothing to worry about. It's just an inevitability. The same one that comes every night.

The bed dips as hands slither around you, calloused fingers reaching up under your shirt. They don't pinch, don't hurt, but they rub and caress up and down your skin. They're warm too, despite having just come from the chilly outdoors.

"Hi, pretty."

Lips grace the shell of your ear, bringing with them a deep dulcet tone.

"I saw you today."

You didn't see him. You never do. Even if you put a hundred and ten percent into observing your surroundings, you never catch him.

You hum. "Why didn't you come greet me?"

His hands stutter where they're rubbing circles into your hips. The gentle scrape of his nails causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin.

"I can't. You know I can't, honey."

"And yet, you won't tell me why."

Duke sighs, tugging you like he somehow wants you closer, but your back is already shoved against his chest. His nose finds its way into your neck, and his teeth catch on an artery.

"I love you." The low vibration across your throat makes you shiver. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

You would turn to face him, but any slight movement will only cause him to grip tighter.

He begins to kiss down the length of the vein, murmuring quiet aphorisms with a devout reverence. His hot hands clutch you sorely, heavily, but never with enough pressure to burn.

"You are everything." Kiss. "You mean everything." Kiss. "I love you." Kiss. "I love you." Kiss. "I love you." Kiss.

He doesn't ask you to believe him. Doesn't ask you to forgive him. But you can hear the pleading to let him stay in the hushed smack of every kiss placed to your throat, in the lingering drag of teeth across sensitive skin.

You answer the pious begging by grabbing his hand. You lead it down, allowing your fingers to be laced through his own, and guide his palms to trace the curves of your waist. Down, and over your hips, around your thighs, to rest in between them.

Duke breathes out, a languid, awed, sigh.

In the quiet, the heat of his caress sounds more like praising, than a thank you.

This is my first time writing Duke in anything more than a platonic sense. I think I need him. Thank you for the request, anon 🩷🩷

｡⁠☆Requests Open

#˗ˏˋ ★ venus writes ★ ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ ★ batfam ★ ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ ★ interstellar writing ★ ˎˊ˗#batfam x reader #duke thomas x reader #duke thomas x you #signal x reader #signal x you #dc x reader #dc x y/n #dc x you #duke thomas x y/n #black reader #gn reader #neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #gender neutral reader #batfam x gn reader #still not THRILLED with how it turned out but its not the worst so im willing to post it

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oceansssblue · 7 months ago

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From the stuck in a snowstorm Christmas prompt:

Can I get Rex X Male Reader where they get separated from Anakin, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan during a mission and are forced to hide in a cave till the storm ends please?

Male Reader is injured from saving Rex’s life from a droid attack and Rex is using all his willpower to not think about what would have happened if he lost him.

The angst buildup to confessing your feelings is the best type of word food.

Your wishes are my orders... Let's jump with the prompt number 9 (stuck in a snow storm) rn! 🫡

I write original ideas but I swear I like the classics and basics so much too... 🤪

Enjoy!

Xx, Blue. 💖

PS. For those who may be wanting to do a request, I'm leaving you the list of prompts at the end of this oneshot if you want to check it out. I also accept your own request ideas as long as it's xmasy.

"THE MOST IMPORTANT THING" – REX / MALE READER 💔💖

WARNINGS: fleeting mentions of wounds & blood. Thoughts about almost losing someone. Snow storm & freezing temperatures. Comfort & first kiss.

Rex can barely see what's five steps ahead of him. Even with the improved vision provided by his helmet, the blizzard makes everything blurry; a white picture of snow that would have been beautiful if it hadn't turned into a storm –and Rex needn't to make his way across it in order to get to safety–. His objective is to find cover in the mountains; but even if they appear to be close in distance, it's not an easy task to acomplish. He has to fight each step of the way; his lower legs sinking on the snow as he walks and making it incredibly tiring to advance forwards. He can't stop, though. You can't.

You're injured; arm drapped over his shoulders and finding strength in the Force to not let yourself drop unconscious. It's tempting; but you refuse to succumb to blood loss and fatigue. You refuse to be a dead weight for the captain to carry. You know he's worried enough as it is.

All four Jedis assigned to this mission had worn some sort of armour for the 501st, 212th, and 464th's batallions relief; but armour isn't undestructible, and it doesn't completely cover one's body. There's always vulnerable spots required for movility; and a droid had managed to get you on one of those. By pure luck, the captain is sure. Tinnies can't aim with that sniper-like precision. It's why so many of them are needed to make one clone's work.

Even with three battalions meshed together, the army sent by the Separatists had been massive. The fight had prolonged for over a week; and at one point, Rex had been surrounded by ten droids at once. Trying to command his men at the same time, making his orders known over the sound of blasterfire and explosions, he hadn't noticed a droid attacking him from his dead angle of vision; and it was then when you had jumped in to save him. When Rex had twisted around in surprise and had seen the frizzed cloth in the gap between your chest and abdomen plates he had almost pannicked; but you had shot him a calming –and pained– smile and assured him it was just a superficial wound before dodging another attack and pushing forward. Rex had had to force himself to concentrate throughout the rest of the battle. To not think on the implications of your acts; of what could have been.

But here, with none of his men at his sides and no trace of Anakin, Obi-Wan and Ashoka –they had all splitted into pairs in order to scout the city after the end of the battle when the snow storm had surprised them–, he has nothing to distract him from said thoughts.

You could have died. Jedi, for all of Anakin's recklesness, aren't inmortal; he could have lost you. Forever; a permanent absense and void in his heart no one would be able to cure. All those little things Rex always looks forward too —a cup of hot chocolate shared after a hard mission, the way your face lit up and innocently waved when you saw him across the hangar, all the little spontaneous trips you insisted for him to acompany you around Coruscant, if only using an excuse to show Rex what life could be outside of war... All of that would dissapear, disolve as if it had never existed; and Rex would be left staring into nothing.

They finally reach the mountains; and after a little while longer, they find a safe spot for them to take refuge in. They almost stumble inside –both of their legs aching and trembling from the cold and effort by now–; but being protected from the harsh and unforgiving wind is an instant relief.

Rex helps you to sit down; and you stretch your legs on the rocky floor of the cave and let him tug you backwards so that your shoulders are able to rest against one of the walls. You're shivering; the freezing temperatures managing to slip under your armour and specially on your vulnerable open spot. It's not all bad, though; you guess that the combination of the quick self-cauterizing blaster shot and the cold have managed to sort of keep the wound in stasis. Your vision is blurry and blackening when you try to move your head around, though; you feel dizzy and weak too. You don't know if it's because the wound, the post-battle fatigue, the cold, or all of them combined.

"General?" You hear Rex's voice ask, and it's only then when you notice his voice sounds too close and clear and realize he has taken off his bucket. "I think you're a step away from frostbite. You should take the armour off; it's so cold it's making you more damage than good at this point, now that we're hiding here".

You nod distractedly. That makes sense, yeah. You move your right hand to the shoulder attachments of your chest plate; but your movements are too slugish to pry the seals apart. The Captain's hands gently tug yours away and he tries to do it instead.

"Let me help you, okay?" He asks, always a bit wary to touch you and cross the line between General and trooper –it had taken a really long time for him not to jump at your ocasional affectionate pat on the shoulder or squeeze on his arms–. "Just try... Try to stay with me, General".

You hum in agreement and close your eyes; following his gentle commands a bit too slow for Rex's taste. He carefully pries each plate from your body and sets it aside; packing it up in the same way all clones do with theirs. You don't even react when your wound is exposed to the cold air; but Rex is quick to cover it with a bacta patch anyways. Then goes the plates of your back; and youre finally left in the soft and comfortable tunic and unders you always wear for the battlefield.

A new wave of exhaustion hits you; and your body slumps forward, only saved from smashing into the ground by Rex's quick hand on your shoulder.

"Hey. Hey, General. Cyare don't... Don't leave me".

You can hear the fear in his voice. The pain. The panic.

Even if it's an almost impossible task, you manage to blink your eyes open if only just for his sake.

"m' not going anywhere, Rex. I just need to sleep" you mumble grogily, trying to control the way your mind spins.

Rex opens his mouth, ready to ask you to stay with him, to not leave him here; but you continue and reassure him.

"This' one of those times you're gonna' have to believe in the Jedi magic. M'not dying. I just need to sleep and connect with the Force".

Rex reluctantly –scared– nods. He knows you had received a different training from Anakin, Ashoka and Obi-Wan; the Jedis he's used to work with. But all Jedis are not the same. While the previous three had grown more focused on how to use the Force to fight, you had cultivated other aspects; telepathy, healing. Kit Fisto had been your master; and though he had definitly teached you the art of the lightsaber, he had also encouraged you to explore your gift for telepathy –he was a powerfull telepath too– and even offered you to spend a few years learning Force Healing under the supervision of Jedi Stass Allie in the Temple. You had once explained to him you were nowhere close to be considered an expert on such themes; but that you could at least accelerate the curative progression of wounds a bit, if only enough to evade the risk of inminent death.

Rex doesn't need your skin to be completely closed and looking as if the shot had never happened; he had enough with avoiding your loss for now.

"Okay" he whispers back with a shuddering breath. "I'll let you sleep, then. Just let me... Let me hold you against me. You're still freezing and I don't want to risk it while we both rest".

"Kay" you mumble in response, closing your eyes again and dropping your head back against the wall. "But hurry up, my brain's fuzzy".

Rex nods and rushes to take his own armour off; staying in his blacks and taking a seat by your side, with his back against the wall. He then burries his thoughts about rules and impropiate gestures and pushes an arm under your knees; the other one around your torso, and then he uses a small burst of energy and tugs you towards him so that you're resting in his lap, between his crossed legs.

You make a little surprised sound; but inmediately melt against him when he pulls a heating emergency blanket from his backpack and places it around your body. You hum feeling gratefull and cuddle closer to his chest; hiding your face in his neck and tugging the blanket closer to try to cover him as well.

His hands give you a soft squeeze. Shortly after, you surrender to unconsciousness.

Rex has a lot of time to think until you wake up again between his arms.

He takes the moment of respite to breathe in your warmth and soothe his stressed mind; his galoping heart. It was terrifying, almost losing you; but you're safe now. Your breathing has eased with time; your deep, pained frown slowly relaxing and an almost peacefull expresion making its way across your face.

It's still a huge relief for him when you groan and open your eyes; blinking slowly to try to make a picture of whats happening and where you are.

Rex only softens his hold on your body so that you can sit down straigther and turn around to face him. You stretch your neck and shoot him a tired but warm smile.

"Hey" the captain rasps. "How are you feeling?"

You glance down at your dressed wound and take a moment to analyse yourself. You're still tired, and your muscles ache, and you're in desperate need of some water and a shower; but here in Rex's lap, you can't help but feel content and safe.

"Better" you decide to answer, smiling softly. "You?"

Rex tries to give you a tiny smile; but it's such a pained, little unsure thing that it tugs at your heart.

"I'm fine" he answers, one of his hands carefully caressing up and down your back under the blanket.

You shove down a pleasant shiver and tilt your head to the side.

"I don't have to be a Jedi to know that's a lie" you tell him cautiously, your own hands travelling down to catch his with yours. "Tell me, if you want?"

Rex stares at you for a few seconds and sighs.

"You shouldn't have jumped in to save me" he starts, glancing down at your hands, unable to hold the weight of your beautiful eyes on his while he confesses this. "You're one in a million. A Jedi General. Hundreds of lifes depend on yours. Mine is replacable. I'm not important, and you..."

"You're the most important thing in mine".

It's soft and sweet; the way you finally tell him what you've been keeping to your heart all this time. What you've been struggling with.

"What?"

Rex has the most cute stunned and confused face you've seen before. His eyes lock onto yours inmediately; almost not believing your words, like needing to check you've really said that to him. That you mean it.

You smile wistfully and squeeze his hands. They're rough, callous formed on the spots where his skin frictions with his favorite pair of DC-blasters; the hands of a soldier that hasn't had the chance to be anything else. It's why you have been trying to show him the rest of the world, the little pleasure that can be found in the simplest everyday things. He deserves it. All his brothers do.

"I have never wanted more than I had" you begin, deciding to finally bare your heart once and for all to him. "All I've ever wanted to do is help others, and I've grown up with that purpose without having nothing else to fight for. Nothing that I wanted for myself. No secret that I had to keep trapped inside ny mind or heart. Yet..."

You reach up to trace reverent fingertips over the captain's cheek. You feel his stuttering breath against your skin; smile at the loving, hopefull way his golden eyes are silently watching you.

"I want to keep you, Rex. Every morning I find myself expectant and tense until I see you in the distance. Everytime we're close, everytime we talk, it fills me with a comforting warmth" your eyes track a sinfull path through his lips. So tempting, so close to yours. You can't help yourself and trace a thumb over them. Rex gasps, and his eyes flicker through your face, his heart filling with devotion and passion too. "I want to burn, though. I've been trying to hold back, but I can't. I want to get closer. I want to kiss you. I want to be able to relax between your arms when everything gets to be too much. You might think that in the grand scale of things you're not important. Perhaps, seing it that way, none of us are. What I can tell you is my personal truth, your spot in my individual scale; and there's no other person I deem as important as you".

You're desperate to kiss him; but you feel like he wants to say something too, so you try to be patient and wait for him.

Rex cups one side of your face in his hand. It trembles. You understand the feeling; and smile encouragingly. You have been worried about mistaking his kidness for something more too; of crossing boundaries. But he has nothing to fear now. Still, you understand. Your heart is speeding up in your chest too; as it does with everything exciting and new. Your feelings for him aren't; but this closeness, the real posibility of kissing him for the first time, is.

"I've loved you for a long time now" he admits, voice gentle and firm despite his own nervousness. "Perhaps for as long as I've been able to understand what romantic love is. I... I'll be happy to have you, cyare. When you need me and when you don't, too".

His words shoot warmth and joy to every cell of your body; a radiant smile perching on your tired face.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks, bringing your face close to his with a gentle tug of your chin.

You smile and sigh.

"Yes..." you whisper over his lips. "Yeah".

THE END.

Didn't I make you two cute? Aaaaah 💖 Hope you like it! Xx, Blue.

Still accepting Xmas requests, you can use any of this prompts (except 9) or one of your own!

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azedakude · 2 years ago

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Would I be able to request the jojos with a chubby s/o who's severely insecure? Like to where they won't want their partner to touch them and, even when presented with reassurance, they won't believe them as they tell them they look good? I suffer with this a bit, insecurities grow due to family and friends telling me to lose weight and be more active. It always gets to my head yk?

❁ 𐑮𐑮 ¡note 𖥻 autor! ﹆ i totally understand that!, if you need a safe place to blow off steam when you're feeling this way, feel free to message me and we can chat! <3 sorry for the severe delay !! and, i'll do a few headcannons of this, if you don't mind. i hope you like it, you are very strong for coping with this situation on your own! ♡

╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴✦ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴

ᰍ ★ ៸៸ #꯭# ❨ ♥︎ ❩ JoJo's with a insecure s/o !

꒰ 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 :

✦ He always understood that you feel this way about your body, most of the time he does his best not to bother you with compliments, or physical affection, and everything so that you can be comfortable around him. Instead, Jonathan would speak to you sweetly and very patiently, making you understand that your body is valid, and your feelings and insecurities are too. “Sweetheart, you shouldn't get carried away by bad comments about your body, they don't make sense. Could you tell me the next time someone says those comments to you? I will make them understand that those blasphemies should not be said to my partner. They do not know what magnificent person they are talking about.” little by little, Jonathan will help you manage your insecurities, facing them with you, making you see that you are not alone in this battle, he will always be by your side.

✦ Although Jonathan has rarely admitted it out loud; more than anything to not make you uncomfortable, he is fascinated by your cheeks and love your rolls; since he find it extremely attractive and even adorable. — He has the habit of holding your hand whenever he can; caressing it and also getting lost in your eyes, when caressing your hand; he will always write nice things with his index finger on your palm.

✦ From time to time, every time you fall asleep on Jonathan's chest due to fatigue, he will begin to caress your scalp with his right hand, while with his left hand he will begin to lightly pat your back, enhancing your sleep. At the same time; Jonathan will whisper various compliments and sweet words in your ear, admitting all the admiration he has for you. “I know you don't feel comfortable when I tell you these things when you're awake, but... I really love you for who and how you are, Y/N, no one and nothing can change that. You are perfect in my eyes, and that is the most important thing to me.”

✦ There were very few occasions when you wore a dress; but when that occasion passed where you used them, Jonathan would simply appreciate you from top to bottom, loving you with his eyes and smiling from ear to ear when he saw your beauty. “You are an angel in my eyes... I had never seen such perfection, until I saw you.” Jonathan would be the first to remark how divine you look in such clothes, always asking your permission to place his hands on your waist, and then kiss you gently.

꒰ 𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 :

✦ Although he is an extremely funny and hilarious guy, when you feel comfortable enough to tell him about your insecurities about your physique; he took action on the matter in a subtle, but at the same time direct way. — Joseph from time to time, if not almost always; he would buy a bouquet of flowers, every day was a different types of flowers to give to you; the flowers would always be accompanied with a poem handwritten by himself (with artistic help from Caesar Zepelli, obviously) “I may not be worthy of your presence, but I am willing to move heaven, sea and earth to show you that my love for you will never die, and will never change, because I have fallen madly in love with you, and no one else; my heart belongs to you, Y/N. — JoJo.”

✦ Every time he has the opportunity, Joseph will place tender and slow kisses all over your body, especially on your shoulders and abdomen, since these two places are his favorite parts of your body. Also, when he feels playful enough, he will tenderly caress your waist, hips, thighs and shoulders. — Every little physical affection that Joseph gives you, he will do it with total love and care, always looking for one of your best reactions, without wanting you to feel uncomfortable, since, for him, you are the most important person in his life.

✦ Joseph loves to carry you bridal style, or carry you in his arms in general; whenever you are in his arms, Joseph will kiss your cheeks and whisper tender compliments in your ear, occasionally hiding his own face against your neck to tickle you to make you laugh. “I love carrying you in my arms, you know? It makes me feel like that blue knight, who comes to rescue you.”

✦ When it comes to someone disrespecting you and insulting you because of your physique; regardless of who it is, Joseph will take it completely personally and take matters into his own hands, literally. — If it is completely necessary, Joseph will not hesitate to fight with the person who has disrespected you.

꒰ 𝐉𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎 𝐊𝐔𝐉𝐎 :

✦ He would listen to you vent about your insecurities, showing that he would always be there for you through thick and thin, without forgetting that he would gently hug you after each vent; asking you if he can kiss your forehead. “I want to see you well, Y/N, I will never leave your side, I will help you and I will be in your worst moments.” Jotaro will always tell you the same thing and he will always demonstrate it in different ways.

✦ Jotaro didn't care much about how you looked physically, but since you confessed to being insecure about your physique; he began to be much more patient with you regarding your insecurities. From time to time, Jotaro would hug you from behind every chance he got, whispering nice compliments in your ear. “You are very pretty, you know that?”

✦ He would be the type of boyfriend who would listen to you vent about your insecurities at every moment; always paying maximum attention to how you feel, and then knowing how to react and cope with the situation so that you feel better. — In turn, after each vent, Jotaro will ask you if he can hug you and comfort you for a long time, listening to you, pampering you and giving you affection.

✦ Like Joseph, he would act extremely defensive if someone outside disrespected you regarding your insecurities; without hesitating for a second to defend yourself, both verbally and physically. With the difference that, after that, Jotaro would stay by your side, comforting and supporting you.

꒰ 𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐀 :

✦ Josuke would have in mind about your problem with your physique; ttherefore, he would always try to listen to you and support you above all, accompanying you in every relapse and every progress you present, always encouraging you and giving you compliments so that you can see yourself through his own eyes. “I understand that it is difficult for you.. But believe me, my love, you are more than perfect just the way you are. You shouldn't change anything.”

✦ He would always make sure you eat your meals; since he would not want you to begin to neglect yourself in other equally important ways based on your insecurity, since for him, everything about you is important and must be taken care of with the well-deserved care.

✦ Whenever he has the opportunity, Josuke will always ask your permission to hug and caress you, while whispering nice compliments into your hair, protecting you in the middle of the hug, so that you feel safe. “I will protect you from every evil in this world, my love, I promise.”

✦ Apart from caressing your body, he will always ask your permission to give you multiple butterfly kisses on certain parts of your body; to tickle you, while he whispers nice compliments and positive affirmations between kisses.

꒰ 𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 :

✦ Giorno would try everything in his power to make you feel better about yourself; whether it be with positive affirmations, caresses, physical affection and more than anything; unconditional attention and listening above all, since, for him, you are the most important person in his universe.

✦ Whenever you feel insecure about your body, Giorno would ask you to do breathing exercises with him; to calm you down and keep you at peace, and then ask your permission so he can hug you and hold you in his arms; while repeating nice phrases to cheer you up.

✦ You would be the perfect muse for Giorno; and he would demonstrate this in his paintings, every time he wanted to paint and portray you on a canvas, he would always ask your permission before doing so, having you as a reference and divine muse. After each painting, he would take the liberty of kissing you, caressing you, pampering and hugging you.

✦ Whenever the two of you go to sleep, Giorno will whisper nice compliments and positive affirmations in your ear with a sweet voice, while he caresses your arms and places tender kisses on your temple. “You are the most divine person I have ever seen in my life.. Did you know that? I will remind you every day, so that you always keep it in mind and do not forget.”

꒰ 𝐉𝐎𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐉𝐎𝐇 :

✦ She would have been clear from minute one that you felt insecure about your physique when you decided to tell her about your insecurities; since then, Jolyne took the time to listen to you, accompany you, support and love you; always making it clear to you that she loves you just the way you are.

✦ Jolyne would get straight to the point every time she gave you a compliment; always leaving you clear and present that for her, you are the most perfect person she has ever seen, while she would always ask your permission before hugging you and comforting you so that you feel better.

✦ Little by little, Jolyne would encourage you to wear dresses; while she would encourage you to see yourself in the mirror, while she highlights each unique, beautiful and divine part of your body, starting from the tip of your head, to your feet, without forgetting to give you a thousand and one compliments, kissing you and hugging you in the process. “I will always say it and I will never get tired of telling you; pretty face, you are beautiful just the way you are, you are like a lotus flower; beautiful and delicate.”

✦ Jolyne would be the type of girlfriend who wouldn't mind in the slightest and would always try to find the perfect opportunity to carry you in her arms in bridal style, always to make you smile and cheer you up emotionally. — While smiling at you, looking into your eyes and repeating positive affirmations in your ear, so that you see yourself as perfect as she sees you in her eyes.

#jonathan x reader #joseph x reader #jotaro x reader #josuke x reader #giorno x reader #jolyne x reader #neutral reader #sfw #jjba x reader #jojos bizarre adventure #jjba #x reader #comfort

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xjulixred45x · 2 months ago

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OMG!!! THAT WAS SO GOOD!

It was so fun to read and it give me so many ideas that i would like to share if you don't mind.

Kid! Yuu insists in carrying Grimm around. Imagine being an NRC student and you see this kid with their 1.19/1.30 carrying this 90cm cat,is just comic.Grimm is not complaining.

Kid! Yuu randomly drops a lore info; they are with the boys, and out of nowhere they go, "One time I didn't see my mom and dad for 2 days." "Mama was acting funny a couple days before I appeared here. She looked at me oce and said that I was a burden. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't sound good." And the boys are just (⊙_⊙)? You can go nuts with this one.

I think that Jack would be one of the most careful with Kid! Yuu, they reminded him of his siblings. So if you go to Savanaclaw, you're going to see this big as hell wolfman, and his little ray of sunshine, full of trauma, but a ray of sunshine.

The staff is pressuring Crowley to find a way back, but not for Kid! Yuu go back to that empty house with no love, caring, or joy. Actually, they justwant to beat this kid's parents so much that they not gonna remember they on names.

Kid! Yuu still go to class, but the teachers give them activities that kids of their age would learn. Vargas basically plays with them while the boys are dying doing the real P.E. class.

I can see Trein being one of the most worried with Kid! Yuu situation, a little more if kid! Yuu is a girl,reminds him of his own daughters.

The boys and staff need to teach them some things for this kid's sake, like, "If you have a problem, you can and should talk with a grown-up." "If you want something, you can ask us."Stuff of the type.

I would really like to hear your thoughts about those too. Remember to eat and keep hydrated. Bye~

-🐦‍⬛✨

This is so good! Lmao

Grim lets his little henchman carry him around for NRC (he won't admit it, but he likes that Yuu helps him feel important and grown-up), even if it makes things a little difficult. Besides, if anyone tries to mess with them, Grim can easily breathe fire back at them—it's a win-win.

The first-years, being the ones who interact with Yuu the most, are definitely the first to realize something's wrong with this kid. It's not something direct at first, but rather certain habits Yuu has that reveal him as someone who grew up too fast (being too independent or mature for their age, knowing how to cook, clean, and so on on their own, not trusting adults, etc.).

Ace probably once caught Yuu stockpiling food at Ramshackle. The reason? "In case I get grounded without food," it takes Ace a full minute to process what this kid just said. And thenautomatically drags them off to have tea and eat some of Trey's candy at Heartslabyul . Ace isn't very good at this kind of thing, but he DEFINITELY knows it's not normal for a little kid to do that, and he needs someone RIGHT to point that out to them.

Deuce also notices some of Yuu's unusual habits, but especially when he talks about their home. When Deuce told them about his mother and how he wanted to make her proud, Yuu looked at him in a way they never had before. they said his mother wasn't happy with them either, that sometimes they wouldn't see her or thier father for days, but that was okay because then they wouldn't be a burden to them (Deuce proceeded to hug Yuu for three hours straight).

Jack is the one who affirms, the one who assures Yuu that they're not a bad kid, that their parents weren't good people, and most of all, that they deserves to be loved. He's especially gentle with them; they remind him of his little sibilings, so it pains him greatly to see how little affection they received in their life, and he's willing to change it. I can see Jack easily giving in to Yuu's whims, such as transforming into a wolf so Yuu can ride or sleep on him, hanging on his shoulders because he's tall, etc.

Epel definitely tells Yuu straight up that if he runs into their parents, he'll beat them up in seven different ways. Aside from that, he's great at making the kid laugh, whether it's with words from his original dialect/accent, exaggerated Vil imitations, or going on little escapades to get some candy/junk food for themselves. He's also taught Yuu a few tricks on how to use their "cute" appearance to their advantage to escape trouble.

Sebek makes a huge effort to not be so loud around Yuu, realizing that it brings back very bad memories for them, or at least encourages them to be louder and more vocal about what they want. He's the most offended and genuinely angry at the kind of treatment Yuu's parents gave the kid, and assures them that while they're in Twisted Wonderland, they won't have to fear being hurt, that they'll protect them. He's quite affirming without knowing it.

Ortho and Yuu are basically best friends; they're both in a new world and deeply curious about everything around them. Although, of course, Ortho tries to take more care of his more fragile, flesh-and-blood friend. Ortho ends up being the one who teaches Yuu various social skills like "stranger danger" and "trusted adult," and, above all, that if they feels ill or something bad happens to them, they can count on their friends to help them!

The teachers are so partial to Yuu, that while the others are practically fighting for survival in the hellish Vargas camps in the middle of nowhere, Yuu is playing jump rope with Ortho and Grim. While everyone else is dozing off listening to Trein's lectures, Yuu is completing a short basic quiz for the day, with Lucius on their lap. While the others are making potentially explosive potions, Crewel is teaching Yuu basic chemistry.

Sam has definitely given Yuu a couple of gifts to cheer him up when they feeling particularly down, whether it's their favorite food, an item they's been eyeing up, or something unexpected. You never know with Sam. Crowley is happy that he doesn't have to pretend he was looking find a way to get Yuu back home now that everyone's warmed up to them, or well, now they're demanding that he do it, but to... beat up their parents? Well, he might consider it.

After all, Yuu has united the school in a unique way, it's the least they could do, right?

_________

(ESPAÑOL)

Esto es muy bueno! Lmao

Grim deja que su pequeño secuaz lo cargue por NRC (no lo admitirá, pero le gusta que Yuu lo ayude a sentirse importante y grande), incluso si le dificulta un poco. Aparte, si alguien trata de meterse con ellos, Grim puede fácilmente escupirles fuego, es un ganar-ganar.

Definitivamente los de primer año, al ser los que más interactúan con Yuu, son los primeros en darse cuenta que algo malo paso con este niño. No son cosas directas en un inicio, sino mas bien ciertos hábitos que tiene Yuu que lo delatan como alguien que creció muy rápido (ser demasiado independiente o maduro para su edad, saber cocinar, limpiar y demás por su cuenta, no confiar en adultos, etc).

Ace probablemente una vez sorprendió a Yuu haciendo una reserva de comida en ramshackle ¿la razón? “en caso de que me castiguen sin comer”, a Ace le toma un minuto entero procesar lo que este niño acaba de decir. Y automáticamente después lo arrastra Heartslabyul para tomar el té y que coma algunos dulces de Trey. Ace no es muy bueno en este tipo de cosas, pero DEFINITIVAMENTE sabe que no es normal que un niño pequeño haga eso, y necesita que alguien ADECUADO le diga eso.

Deuce también nota algunos de los hábitos inusuales de Yuu, pero más que nada cuando habla de su hogar. Cuando Deuce le hablo de su madre y como quería hacerla sentir orgullosa, Yuu lo miro de una forma que nunca lo había hecho, dijo que su madre tampoco estaba feliz con ellos, que a veces no la veía ni a ella ni su padre por días, pero estaba bien, porque así no sería una carga para ellos (Deuce procedió a abrazar a Yuu por tres horas seguidas).

Jack es el de la afirmación, el que le asegura a Yuu que no es un niño malo, que sus padres no eran buenas personas, y sobretodo, que merece que lo quieran. Es especialmente gentil con ellos, le recuerdan a sus hermanos pequeños, por lo que le duele mucho ver el poco afecto que ha recibido en su vida, y está dispuesto a cambiarlo. Puedo ver a Jack cediendo fácilmente a los caprichos de Yuu, como transformarse en lobo para que Yuu lo monte o duerma sobre él, estar sobre sus hombros porque es alto, etc.

Epel definitivamente le dice directamente a Yuu que si se topa con sus padres les va a partir la cara de 7 formas diferentes. Aparte de eso, es un grande en hacer reír al niño, ya sea con palaras de su dialecto original/acento, imitando a Vil de forma exagerada o yendo en pequeñas escapadas para conseguir algunos dulces/comida chatarra para ellos solos. Tambien le ha enseñado un par de trucos a Yuu sobre cómo usar el aspecto “adorable” a su favor para escapar de los problemas.

Sebek hace un esfuerzo enorme de no ser tan ruidoso cerca de Yuu al darse cuenta de que eso trae muy malas memorias para ellos, o al menos, los incita a ellos a ser más ruidosos y claros con lo que quieren. Es el más ofendido y sinceramente enojado ante el tipo de trato que le dieron los padres de Yuu al niño, y le asegura que mientras este en twisted wonderland, no tendrá que temer que lo lastimen, que lo van a proteger. Es bastante afirmativo sin saberlo.

Ortho y Yuu son básicamente mejores amigos, ambos están en un mundo nuevo y tienen una gran curiosidad por todo lo que los rodea. Aunque claro, Ortho trata de cuidar más de su más frágil amigo de carne y hueso. Ortho termina siendo quien le enseña a Yuu varias cosas sociales como “peligro extraño” o “adulto de confianza” y sobretodo, que, si se siente mal o algo malo le pasa, puede contar con sus amigos para ayudarle!

Los profesores son tan favoritistas hacia Yuu en este caso, mientras que los demás están prácticamente luchando por sobrevivir en los campamentos infernales de Vargas en medio de la nada, Yuu esta jugando saltar la cuerda con Ortho y Grim. Mientras que todos se están durmiendo escuchando las lecturas de Trein, Yuu esta completando un pequeño cuestionario básico por el dia, con Lucius en su regazo. Mientras los demás están haciendo pociones potencialmente explosivas, Crewel le enseña a Yuu química básica.

Sam definitivamente le ha dado un par de regalos a Yuu para animarle cuando le ve especialmente decaído, ya sea su comida favorita, algún artículo que haya ojeado o algo sorpresa. Nunca se sabe con Sam. Crowley esta feliz de que no tiene que (fingir que estaba buscando) buscar una forma de que Yuu vuelva a casa ahora que todos se encariñaron con ellos, o bueno, ahora le exigen que lo haga, pero para…¿darle una paliza a sus padres? Bueno, puede que lo considere.

Después de todo, Yuu ha unido la escuela de una forma única, es lo menos que podrían hacer ¿no?

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 7 months ago

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Could you do platonic yandere Bucky barnes x teen reader who is a super soilder. The reader is like 13-14 and was apart of Hydra like him but escaped. After the avengers and bucky find reader, bucky takes them under is wing after the reader escaped hydra

「 LITTLE SOLDIER 」

Synopsis; Trapped in the darkness of his obsession, desperately seeks to reclaim a child lost in his past. After discovering that someone else has taken him in, his broken and twisted mind drives him to commit an unimaginable act of violence. Is it salvation, or a curse? In Bucky's mind, everything makes sense. But who is the true monster here?

Pairing ── James 'Bucky' Barnes x Super Soldier! Teen! Reader. (Platonic!)

Content. MDNI ⚠︎ ── Dark themes, violence/death, blood, insolation, invasion of privacy, kidnapping?, delusion, Angst, murdering, child abuse, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

A/N ── English is not my first language — Spanish — Ahhh, it took me forever to post this, I know . I’m so sorry! I got so caught up in other things that I completely forgot about how the Winter Soldier was… and now that I’ve seen him again, what a nostalgia hit! It’s like time hasn’t passed, but at the same time, everything feels so different. Like every time you see him, you discover something new about him, you know?

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... observed the way your eyes filled with terror as you saw him, a mix of fear and confusion, like a creature trapped in a cage, unsure how to escape. Hydra had molded you, but it had also stripped you of your essence. Like many before you, you were a piece of a gear, meant to be used, controlled, and destroyed when no longer needed. You didn’t understand why you had been chosen for the experiments or how you had ended up here, you only knew you were fragile and that nothing in Hydra was truly "safe."

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... approached you with calculated coldness, like a shadow crawling in the dark. His gaze, initially empty due to the lobotomy, seemed to fixate on you now, as if a spark of humanity had reignited in his mind. His eyes didn’t shine with empathy, but with a dangerous curiosity. "Little one... how did you survive?" he murmured, more to himself than to you. The idea that someone so fragile could endure Hydra’s tortures, the serum, the constant pressure, intrigued him. But that curiosity soon turned into obsession. The protection he felt for you wasn’t a natural instinct, but one imposed by Hydra, who had ordered him to watch over you, keep you alive, but also keep you under control. You didn’t know that control would become your worst nightmare.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... watched as you were subjected to more and more experiments. The nights of training were long, endless, filled with violence and blood. But the worst part wasn’t Hydra’s violence, but the way Bucky treated you. Sometimes, his low and calm voice filtered through the screams of others, speaking to you in a tone that seemed meant to be reassuring, but deep down, it chilled your blood. "Don't worry, you'll do fine. Everything will be fine, you just have to follow my orders." What else could you do but obey? Desperation, the feeling of being trapped in an endless cycle of pain and humiliation, enveloped you like a cloak. And he... he was there, always watching, always waiting. But Sometimes, when your eyes met his, you saw something else, something that made you shudder: the echo of the darkness that once was Bucky, the shadow that could no longer be erased

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... began following you with palpable obsession, as if you were his property, an object he had to protect at all costs. He no longer confined himself to Hydra’s orders. He found you in every corner of the facility, his presence a constant shadow behind you. "Don’t stray from me, do you hear?" His voice was colder, sharper. Every time you tried to escape, even in your thoughts, the fear of facing him became a constant threat. But something in his gaze had changed, and it wasn’t concern for your well-being. It was control. It was possession. And you had become just another pawn in his game, as captive to him as you were to Hydra.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... mistreated you in ways you couldn’t comprehend, and the worst part was that after every hit, every cruel order, he would always return to you with a vacant smile, repeating the same words: "I do this for your own good." Why did he do it? Was that his way of showing you there was still some humanity left in him? Or perhaps, he could no longer distinguish between his own identity and Hydra’s orders. Every time he hit you, every time he left you marked, you could feel the confusion in his gaze, as if it wasn’t him acting, but something bigger, darker, that had taken his place.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... after the last failed mission, when you faced an enemy stronger than you could handle, Bucky took you to his side, pressing you against his chest, soaking you in his blood and yours. "Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you," he whispered, his voice rough and full of desperation. The obsession he had felt for you, growing over the years, exploded in a scream. He wanted you to know that you, you alone, belonged to him. And though he feared you, that obsession had replaced everything else. Hydra had turned Bucky into a machine, but now he only wanted to have you under his control, beyond what he understood or wanted to admit.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... was no longer just a Hydra soldier. He was a monster created by the shadows of the past, and your presence in his life was the only thing that kept him tied to something human, something he could never control. He looked at you with blind madness, he needed you, but worst of all: he feared you. And while he kept you captive with his cold hands and broken mind, what was left of his humanity slowly faded, leaving only a sick need that not even he could comprehend.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... saw you fade into the shadows, like a whisper in the dark, escaping from his reach. Panic struck him like a torrent, but not in the way one might expect. It wasn’t just the fear of losing you, but the feeling that something had been taken from him, something he could not recover. You had escaped, and it was his fault. Hydra wasn’t going to let him go so easily. With a roar of fury, he ran through the hallways, his heart pounding. "Come back here! Don’t you dare run from me!" he would shout, but his voice only echoed in the empty corners, with no answer. He knew it was too late, that you had already escaped, and something inside him began to break, a part of his mind crumbling under the weight of his own guilt.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... felt Hydra drag him back into their control, like a shadow that devoured him slowly. The anxiety of losing you wasn’t just a worry, but a madness that ate away at him from the inside. His superiors, with their cold and commanding voices, ordered him not to pursue you, to let you go. "You are nothing but a tool for us, Soldier. If she escapes, it doesn’t matter. You must complete your mission." But Bucky didn’t listen. He couldn’t listen. All he could hear was the sound of your breath, your distress, and how your figure faded from his reach. All he wanted was to see you again, to take your hand, and never let you go. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t escape Hydra’s grasp.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... was once again subjected to Hydra’s yoke, as if he were a machine with no right to feel. Every attempt to escape their control was useless. Every attempt to rebel against what was expected of him only led to deeper torture. Physical pain, mental pain, it didn’t matter. He felt nothing anymore, only the constant sting of despair over your loss. Hydra had broken him once again, but this time, the feeling of losing you consumed him in a far worse way. You were gone, and he was to blame. How could he have allowed you to escape? How could he have failed to protect you?

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... in his desperation, sank into madness. He became a wandering specter within Hydra’s facility, every dark corner becoming more torturous than the last. Every second, his mind fragmented, the images of your face, your frightened eyes, repeating over and over like an echo he couldn’t silence. "You’ll come back, right? You’ll come back to me..." he whispered alone, but there was no answer. And when Hydra finally decided to send him on a mission against the heroes, his mind was on the edge of collapse. It was yet another sacrifice by the same machinery that had created him.

Yandere! WS! Bucky Barnes who... when the Avengers found him and freed him from their control, reality hit him hard. The internal war between his desire for redemption and his madness over losing you exploded in his chest, like an emptiness so deep it seemed to swallow everything. There, in the midst of battle, the truth crushed him: “I let you escape… I failed you...” Panic enveloped him, and his teammates, while helping clear his mind of Hydra’s shadows, didn’t know the truth behind his suffering. They knew Bucky had been manipulated, but they never understood that for him, the true enemy had been guilt. The guilt of letting you slip away, the guilt of not keeping you under his control, of not protecting you when it was his only mission.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... had spent so long, years, fighting to find something that would redeem him, something that would pull him out of the abyss Hydra had thrown him into. The Avengers had accepted him, and little by little, the darkness that once dominated his mind began to fade. He had reconciled with Steve Rogers, his old friend, his brother. The wounds of the past began to heal, and at last, Bucky could feel something close to peace. He had found a purpose fighting alongside the heroes, protecting the innocent, trying to make right all the destruction he had caused in his life. But though his soul seemed to find some calm, his heart was still a battlefield. The obsession with you never disappeared. It was something that stayed hidden in the depths of his mind, where guilt and despair never completely abandoned him. Every time someone mentioned a child or a young person with traits or abilities similar to yours, a shiver ran down his spine. What if it was you? What if he found you again? That was always his broken hope, his private demon that never stopped haunting him.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... walked through the city on a regular day, like any other, without expecting something so deep and disturbing to happen. The air was fresh, and the city thrummed with the normality of everyday life. Children played in the park, adults walked calmly, unaware that something sinister lurked in the shadows. It was then that he saw him. A teenager, about 13 or 14 years old, with his hair falling messily over his forehead. But it was something more that made Bucky freeze in his place: that small mark on his arm, almost faded, but unmistakable. The same Hydra mark that had been etched into your skin, the symbol that had marked him too, that had made him its own. The mark he would never forget.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... felt like the world was crumbling beneath his feet. His heart began to race, his breathing erratic. It couldn’t be... It couldn’t be that after all this time, after all the suffering, after the guilt he had carried for years, he would find you like this, so close, yet so far. His legs trembled, his fingers clenched into fists, trying to hold on to any semblance of sanity while the emotion drowned him. The teenager didn’t look at him, distracted by his own thoughts, but Bucky couldn’t stop staring at him, observing every small detail. Everything about him screamed that it was you. "It’s... It’s my child." He thought, but his mind was so fragmented that he didn’t know what to do with the feeling overtaking him. Terror and hope mixed like poison in his veins.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... began to walk slowly, as if approaching a specter, as if he feared that by getting closer, the dream would vanish. The elderly couple didn’t notice him, and the teenager remained as oblivious to his presence as if everything were in place. But Bucky knew something had changed, that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for, even though his mind was so confused he didn’t know if it was a dream or a nightmare. Each step he took toward you made him feel more and more desperate, more anxious, as if an abyss were opening beneath his feet. "Should I do it? Should I get closer? Would he want to see me?" he thought, his hands trembling with uncertainty and guilt. Time had passed, but for him, the child he had lost was still the same, and his madness made him think that maybe he could still fix it, repair what he had destroyed, as if he could take your hand again and tell you everything would be fine.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... finally crossed the threshold of doubt. With each step toward you, his mind emptied of logic, and the only thing he felt was a wild urgency, a deep desire for everything to return to how it was before. He only thought of the child he had let go, the child who had been marked by Hydra, the child who was now here, in front of him, unaware that his savior was also his jailer. With his heart pounding, a mixture of fear and hope, Bucky took the last step and stood before you, his gaze filled with twisted and anxious devotion, while his lips whispered almost breathlessly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. "It’s you... it’s really you, right?"

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... watched as your face, upon noticing his presence, transformed from a calm expression to one of pure panic. The eyes of that teenager widened as if he had seen a ghost, his body instinctively recoiling, a visceral reaction to seeing him. The fear reflected in your gaze was like a dagger stabbed into his chest. His fractured and obsessed mind didn’t understand what was happening at that very moment. He couldn’t comprehend how, after everything he had done, after the life he had stolen from you, you could still be so afraid of him.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... felt something twist inside him. It was pain, but also anxiety, a sensation that suffocated him when he saw you take a step back, trembling all over. And then, to his horror, something he hadn’t anticipated: you started to cry. Tears began to stream from your eyes, as if your body couldn’t contain the fear any longer, and Bucky froze at that moment. How could it be that he caused you so much pain, even now? "No... I didn’t want to scare you," he thought, but his thoughts couldn’t reach you. The horror in your face was a warning that you never, ever wanted to see that monster you once were again.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... watched as you turned and began to run, your figure quickly disappearing into the crowd. Anguish enveloped him, the fear of losing you again made him react in desperation. He tried to reach you, to shout at you, but his legs seemed incapable of moving quickly enough. "Wait, please!" he screamed in his mind, but the words didn’t leave his lips, they were trapped in a sea of madness. You were gone. And Bucky, with a broken heart, stood there frozen as your figure vanished before him, like an illusion he couldn’t hold onto.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t let the tragedy repeat itself. Using his sharp tracking skills, he delved into Stark and SHIELD’s technology, recovering all available resources to follow you, to know who you were now. The Avengers helped him, yes, but what he needed most was to find an answer, a solution, something that would lead him to you. Every second that passed without knowing about you was driving him crazy, feeding his need for possession, his urgency to have you, to protect you, to reclaim you.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... for days, Bucky unearthed information, tracked records, and dove into the Stark and SHIELD databases. Nothing stopped him. He knew your Hydra mark would give you away, that even if the scar was almost erased, someone, somewhere, would know something. And so, it was how he finally uncovered the truth: you had been adopted by a local family in the city. In fact, they lived in a quiet neighborhood, far from everything that could have been your past. A loving family, seemingly, who had given you a home and a life he could never offer. The revelation overwhelmed him. They had forgotten you, but to him, you were no ordinary child. You would always be his child, the one he had left behind and now could not let go.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... felt a growing rage inside him as he clung to the new information. How could someone else take his place? How could he allow it? The people who had adopted you, those strangers who treated you as their son, didn’t know what was behind you. They didn’t know what Hydra had done to you, what he had done, what he had promised you. And in Bucky’s mind, that only meant one thing: he wasn’t going to let them go on with their peaceful life. You belonged to him, and although the idea of being a father terrified and disgusted him, to Bucky, all of that boiled down to an unhealthy obsession with possessing what he had lost. Reconciliation with his own past didn’t matter because, at that moment, only you mattered.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... couldn’t stop thinking about how, after everything that had happened, you could be happy with a life he hadn’t been able to give you. But the guilt consumed him. Every time he thought about the family that had adopted you, his mind filled with dark shadows, disturbing thoughts about what he could do to "protect" you from them. He knew his obsession was becoming more dangerous, darker, but he could no longer stop. He couldn’t lose you again.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... couldn’t bear the fact that someone else had you, someone who didn’t know your pain, your suffering, or your true story. When he found the house where you lived, his mind twisted even more. Steve’s warning still echoed in his ears, his friend insisting: "Bucky, don’t do this. You can’t go on with this madness." But the warning was useless. To him, there was no turning back. Steve’s words no longer had power over him, fear, guilt, or remorse faded into the darkness. The only thing left was the sick desire to have you back, to "save" you from those people who were "usurping" you.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... infiltrated the house, getting rid of any security or surveillance as if they were mere obstacles in his way. No one in the house knew what was about to happen. The darkness of the night enveloped him as his footsteps echoed silently down the hallway. He moved with the precision of a predator, his breathing calm and cold, knowing exactly what he was going to do. The first victim was the adoptive father, a man who never saw the danger coming, a lethal shadow that pounced on him, and before he could react, Bucky had already silenced him brutally. With a precise blow, the blood spilled mercilessly, staining the floor and walls as Bucky continued his mission without a hint of emotion on his face.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... killed the adoptive mother with the same efficiency. It didn’t matter who they were, whether they were young or old, if they had raised the child with love, their presence in the life of his child was the only thing that mattered. As his knife sank in again and again, the blood flowing from the victims formed a river of chaos and death. The rooms of the other adopted siblings became a massacre without remorse, their bodies fallen in silence, as if their lives had no value in the face of his obsession with you. The metallic shine of the blood on the walls, the way the lights reflected on the surfaces of the house, only fueled his euphoria. No one in the house survived, they all fell to his unstoppable violence.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... finally ascended the stairs, his mind shadowed by what he had just done, but without remorse. He reached your room and stopped at the door. You could hear his breathing, heavy but calm, as if everything was under his control. And then, he saw something that made him smile, that twisted and macabre smile only he could show: you. You were asleep, unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded downstairs. There was no way you could hear the screams, the sounds of blood being spilled. You were just there, resting as if nothing had happened.

Yandere! Bucky Barnes who... approached your bed, his hand trembling slightly as he watched you. The horror of what he had done no longer mattered. The only concern in his mind was seeing you, the child he had lost, again. You belonged to him. Madness enveloped him as he looked at your innocent face. He leaned down to you, and in a soft voice, he whispered through subtle laughs, his warm breath on your ear: "I’m so happy to see you, little soldier. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. No one will hurt you again." The softness of his words completely contradicted the sea of blood he had left behind, but to him, it all made sense. He had brought you back. Finally, after so much suffering and pain, he had claimed you.

The floor was covered in blood, the echoes of the massacre ringing in his mind, but all he could focus on was you. You, his lost child, his little soldier. He watched you while you slept, completely unaware of what had just happened around you. And despite the violence, despite how horrible everything had been, he was happy. He knew that from now on, everything he touched, everything he desired, he would steal for himself. And finally, Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, felt that his life had regained something he could never have: control.

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