d0xxingcl0wn

[d0xxingcl0wn]

Omg WAITT I've been WAITING FOR THIS 1. CHOICE 2. Butterflies 3. SCAPEL 4. FigureItOutHoe @goobershnoober @carn4g3

(I think I need more friends on tumblr..)

Please don't freak out guys I totally don't stalk you </3

🌱 wip game🌱

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Thanks for the tag @vamillepudding!

revenant

Inheritance

Side of your father

these are high pressure tags. if you don't play my feelings will be hurt forever @coquitten @galaxythreads

[d0xxingcl0wn]

CHOICE - TIM WRIGHT X READER

CHAPTER 4

Chapter 1

(Next chapter will be updated)

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WARNING: Gore, Psychological Manipulation, Stalking, emotionally charged physical contact, and Emotional Distress Noun: Fracture - the cracking or breaking of a hard object or material Words: 2988 A/N: I send apologies for the lateness of this chapter! Trying to rewrite this one into what I wanted it to feel like back then was a bit difficult! Hopefully you'll enjoy! <3

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YOUR POV

I jolted awake, a ragged gasp tearing through my throat like I was drowning in air. Sweat clung to my skin in clammy sheets, my shirt sticking to my back. My lungs refused to cooperate, the inhale going down wrong and sending me into a coughing fit. I gripped my chest with one hand, trying to remember how to breathe — really breathe — as panic settled like a weight behind my ribs.

It took a minute for the bedroom to come back into focus.

Dark walls. A fan spinning lazily overhead. No eyes in the corners. No shadow lurking near the closet. I scanned the room twice before exhaling — shakily, warily — trying to convince myself it had just been another nightmare. That lingering feeling of being watched, of something sitting just out of frame, burrowed into my gut and refused to let go.

Still... no mask. No blood. Just silence.

I pushed the blankets away with more force than necessary, the fabric twisted around my legs from restless sleep. My feet met the cold hardwood floor like an unwelcome slap, but it grounded me. I stretched, joints cracking, arms rising over my head like it might pull the exhaustion out of me by force.

Across the room, my uniform still lay crumpled on my desk chair — the same place I'd tossed it days ago. It was wrinkled, one sleeve dangling off the side like a limp arm. I picked it up and brought it to my nose, sniffing to confirm it hadn't crossed into unacceptable territory. Still wearable. Barely.

I didn't have time for anything else. No breakfast. No shower. No second-guessing.

I changed quickly, almost too quickly — moving on instinct rather than routine. My brain wasn't fully awake, and that gnawing unease in the back of my skull still hadn't left. Like I was forgetting something important.

Something dangerous.

I grabbed my bag from the floor without looking inside. It felt heavier than usual, but I didn't stop to check why. My keys jingled in my hand as I stumbled over a pair of old sneakers near the doorway. Everything in my house felt off-kilter — like the furniture had shifted slightly overnight. Like it had all been touched.

I shook off the thought. Again.

I was halfway out the door before I realized I hadn't checked my phone. Or the locks. Or the— Don't look back. Just leave.

I didn't even want to think of him.

4.1

I opened the front doors to the police station, blinking rapidly as the harsh fluorescent lights greeted me like an interrogation lamp. My eyes burned — from fatigue, from the drive, from... everything. I rubbed at them with the back of my hand, trying to will myself into alertness.

Before I could take two steps inside, a pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around me — warm, steady, and impossibly grounding.

"I thought you might've died, dumbass," Elliot said with a breathy laugh, the kind that sounded more like relief than teasing. His voice was low, and it broke through my nerves like a safety switch flipping off.

The scent of his cologne — something woodsy and old-fashioned — filled my lungs, and I allowed myself to melt into the hug for just a moment longer than I probably should have. My eyes fluttered shut, just to rest, to pretend the world wasn't on fire for a second.

But the second I let the comfort settle in, he pulled back, though his hands stayed gently anchored on my shoulders.

"Glad to know you made it another night, Hun." His voice was softer now. Almost... tired.

I finally opened my eyes fully and got a proper look at him. There were fresh shadows under his eyes, thick stubble peppering his jaw, and his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it too many times. He looked like shit — in the way only someone who'd been worrying all night could.

That... warmed something in me. Maybe guilt. Maybe gratitude. Maybe both.

"You look like hell," I murmured, trying to mask the emotion in my voice with sarcasm.

"So do you. We match," he said with a tired smile, his thumbs slowly rubbing over the fabric of my sleeves, grounding me.

Then his expression shifted — curious, cautious, careful.

"Any updates on Mr. Intruder guy? He ever come back?"

I stiffened.

My whole body felt like it locked into place. My throat dried.

Oh god.

I'd forgotten.

I was supposed to tell them. Tell him. Warn them. File a report. Follow protocol.

But all I could think about was his voice, gravelly and low, whispering threats while pinning me to the floor.

You tell anyone, and I'll paint the walls with your insides.

I swallowed.

"Y/N?" Elliot's voice cut through the fog. "Well... did he?"

I forced a small laugh — weak, unconvincing — and shook my head. "No... no. Just... slept weird, I guess."

He didn't buy it. I saw it in the furrow of his brow.

"Slept weird that you had to think about your answer?" he asked, half-joking, but there was an edge. "Sweetheart, if you're hiding something—"

"I'm not." I cut him off. Too fast. "I just... need to wake up more. I promise."

He studied me.

I couldn't meet his eyes.

After a moment, he let out a long breath. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just... worried.

"If you say so." His voice was quiet now. "I'm choosing to trust you. Don't make me regret it."

He gave a small nudge to my shoulder and finally dropped his hands. But the warmth his touch left behind made my uniform feel heavier.

Suddenly, the shrill crack of radio static sliced through the quiet between us. I flinched slightly, the harsh sound grating against my nerves. Elliot instinctively reached for his radio, adjusting the volume with one hand while the other hovered near his belt — just in case.

"Officer Elliot Vance and Y/N L/N," a dispatcher's voice crackled through, firm but strained. "We just got a frantic call from downtown — woman says she found a body in her apartment. Looks like a possible homicide. You two are the closest unit. Can you report to the scene?"

There was a beat of silence.

The tension that had lingered between us now hardened into something sharper, colder.

I sighed heavily, running a hand through my hair for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. "Well," I muttered, trying to keep the weariness from my voice, "guess it's not going to be a slow day after all."

"Think I could drive this time?" Elliot asked, eyeing me cautiously.

I snorted. "No. We're taking my car. I still don't trust you behind the wheel. You drive like you're racing God."

Elliot raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. You're the boss, Cap." He gave me a small grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Not this time.

He started toward the exit with his usual lazy stride, but I could tell by the way his shoulders were set — slightly rigid, tense — that he was already preparing for what we might find. Homicides always hit different. Especially ones with too many unknowns.

I followed him out, my badge cold and heavy against my chest. The morning air stung a little as the glass doors slid open, and for just a second, I felt that gnawing unease creep back in — the kind I thought I'd left behind at my front door.

The car beeped as I unlocked it, the sound sharp in the stillness of the lot. I slid into the driver's seat, the leather freezing. Elliot climbed in beside me, adjusting his seat like he'd done it a thousand times before — because he had.

I took one last glance at the station behind us.

Then I turned the key in the ignition.

And we drove toward whatever fresh hell was waiting.

4.2

The building loomed in front of us, worn brick and crumbling stairs bathed in early morning haze. The sirens hadn't started yet — we were the first ones here.

I killed the engine, the silence in the car sudden and loud. Elliot was already unbuckling, glancing toward the stairwell where someone sat huddled in a bathrobe, legs pulled close like she could fold herself out of existence.

"She's the caller," Elliot said, voice softening. "Let me talk to her."

I nodded, stepping out of the car, gravel crunching under my boots as I followed a few feet behind. The woman didn't even look up as we approached — not when Elliot knelt beside her, not when he offered his badge gently like it might shatter her.

"Ma'am," he said, crouching to meet her eye level. "I'm Officer Vance. You made the call?"

She gave the slightest nod, eyes locked on something far away. Her hands trembled in her lap — violently, like she was cold from the inside out.

"Can you tell me what happened? Did you see anything? Hear anything?"

Her mouth opened. Closed. Open again. Nothing came out. Only a shake of the head.

Elliot looked at me, concern flickering behind his eyes. I tilted my chin toward the building.

"I'll go up," I said. "Check the apartment."

"Be careful," he muttered, standing back up.

The entryway smelled like dust and someone's leftover dinner. The halls were narrow, claustrophobic. I found the right unit easily — the door slightly ajar, the deadbolt hanging broken.

Inside, the air felt... still. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

The living room looked untouched. A coffee mug sat half-full on the side table. A blanket was tossed over the back of the couch. A framed photo of the woman and a man — presumably her husband — smiling on some lakefront shelf.

I stepped farther in. Everything looked normal. Too normal.

Until the bedroom.

I stopped in the doorway.

The smell hit first — a mix of copper, rot, and something too warm for a cold apartment. My eyes adjusted slowly. The curtains were drawn tight. Shadows draped over the furniture. But the bed...

He was sitting up. Or what was left of him was.

His back was slouched against the headboard, his arms dropped forward. His stomach had been ripped open — not sliced, ripped. Viscera hung from the cavity like wet rope, blood-soaked hands cradling them as if he'd tried to push them back in. His neck was slashed from ear to ear. The wound looked surgical — deliberate.

And above the bed, in thick, uneven letters smeared in blood:

SNITCH.

My body locked in place. I couldn't move. Couldn't blink.

It was exactly how he'd threatened me. Every detail. The guts. The neck. The word on the wall. He hadn't just made a threat — he'd rehearsed it.

I swallowed hard, forcing bile back down.

And then — something caught my eye. A flash of dull orange near the bedroom doorframe. At first I thought it was part of the curtain, but...

No. It was a scrap of fabric. Frayed. Faintly smeared in something dark. It clung to a nail jutting out from the molding.

My stomach turned.

It was his. That same jacket. The one he wore — orange canvas, worn smooth at the seams. The one I'd seen on him last night in my home. The one I let bleed into my couch and my air.

And now it was here.

I stepped back. Too fast. The nausea came on hot and sudden, like acid in the back of my throat.

If someone saw that...

If someone put it together...

My prints were probably in his blood. I let him sleep under my roof. I let him walk past my badge. If the wrong person saw even a fraction of that scene — the connection, the stain of guilt I was starting to feel — I could lose everything.

My rank. My job. My life.

I gripped the edge of the wall, trying to ground myself.

This wasn't just murder anymore.

This was a noose slowly pulling tighter.

"Y/N?"

Elliot's voice snapped me out of it. I turned, trying to school my face into something neutral, something unreadable.

He stepped into the doorway behind me, taking one look at the body before pulling back instinctively.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "What the hell—?"

"Call for backup," I said quickly, forcing the words through the pressure in my chest. "And CSU. Tell them to bring everything."

Elliot looked at me again, softer now. "You okay?"

I nodded too fast. "Fine."

"You're shaking."

"I said I'm fine," I repeated, quieter. My throat ached.

He stepped closer, brushing his hand along my shoulder with a tenderness that made me want to cry. "You're allowed to be shaken up. That's not something anyone should have to see first."

He thought I was just rattled by the body. And in part... I was.

But not for the reasons he thought.

4.3

The door slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.

I stood there, keys still in the lock, hand trembling around the doorknob. My breath came fast, shallow. Every part of me felt like it was being squeezed from the inside out. I hated this feeling—this raw, anxious, crawling sensation under my skin that made me want to rip my own clothes off and scream.

I didn't feel safe.

Not even in my own home.

I stumbled into the hallway. The silence was too loud—oppressive. Not peaceful, not calm. Just wrong. Like the walls were listening. Like the shadows were watching.

Like he was still here.

But the house was empty.

No footsteps. No creaking floorboards. No taunting voice.

I moved through the dark slowly, one room at a time. Living room—empty. Kitchen—empty. Bathroom—empty. Bedroom—

I didn't check it.

I didn't want to check it.

I leaned against the hallway wall instead, pressing the back of my head into the cool plaster as I tried to ground myself. My chest rose and fell rapidly, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of my ribs.

I slid down the wall just enough to rest my hands on my thighs, palms sweaty. My eyes fluttered shut. Maybe he was gone. Maybe he left. Maybe I was alone—

"Something wrong?"

The voice sliced through the silence like a blade through wet paper.

I froze.

Everything inside me seized. My stomach dropped. My lungs stopped.

That voice.

I turned slowly, not because I wanted to—but because I had to.

And there he was.

Standing.

At the end of the hallway. Calm. Still. Effortlessly looming like a painting that follows you with its eyes. The mask was on—white, cracked, grinning like it knew every thought in my head. His hands were at his sides, relaxed. But his posture said predator. Always ready. Always watching.

He tilted his head slightly. "You look tense," he mused. "Rough day?"

I didn't say anything.

My fingers curled into fists. I didn't care how reckless it was. I didn't care what he'd do.

I lunged.

The air between us vanished in a second. My fist arced up, aimed square at the mask, teeth clenched with everything I'd been holding in since the first moment he showed up in my life like a nightmare with a voice.

But he moved first.

He caught my wrist mid-swing, his fingers wrapping around my arm like a vice. I tried to pull back, but he didn't even flinch. His grip wasn't crushing—just firm. Controlling.

He opened his mouth like he was about to mock me again—but I beat him to it.

I cracked.

Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over without warning. I didn't even get a chance to hide them. My throat burned. My chest heaved. And I sobbed.

Big, ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that made my legs shake.

I didn't understand it.

Everything inside me was loud, so loud. Guilt, fear, confusion, hate. But the worst part—the most damning part—was the smallest flicker of something warmer underneath it all. Something terrifying. Something that made me not want to pull away.

I looked down.

My shoes were touching his.

The tips of my laces brushing his boots. That close. That intimate. And he hadn't moved. He was just... there. Letting me fall apart in front of him.

He released my wrist slowly, like I might break if he let go too fast.

My arms dropped. I didn't wipe my tears. I just stood there—humiliated, shaking, furious with myself.

I turned, ready to walk past him and bury myself under blankets I no longer trusted, in a room I no longer felt safe in.

But his hand landed on my shoulder.

I stopped.

His fingers tightened just enough to pull me backward—not violently. Not roughly. Just... enough. Enough to force my body to brush his chest. To make me feel how warm he was. How real.

Then he moved.

He stepped closer until his frame was flush with mine. I felt his chest rise and fall behind me, slow and steady compared to my erratic breathing. Then—he bent down.

He pressed his face into the crook of my neck.

I froze completely.

His mask scraped lightly against my skin, the edges cold. Then I felt it—the subtle shift of plastic and fabric as he lifted it. Just enough. Just enough to let me feel the tip of his real nose against my neck.

Cold. Damp. Breathing.

His arms wrapped around my waist from behind, palms splayed across my lower stomach. Not squeezing. Just holding. And my body betrayed me.

I stopped crying.

Not because I wasn't scared. Not because I was okay.

But because something about it felt like a missing piece snapping into place. A piece that should've never been mine to begin with.

I could barely breathe.

He didn't speak. He didn't laugh. He just stood there—holding me like I was his and like I always had been.

Then, without warning, he let go.

The warmth of his body disappeared like it had never been there. His mask clicked back into place. The hallway felt colder.

I didn't look at him.

I just walked away.

But I knew he was watching me.

And deep down, I didn't know what scared me more—the fact that he was still here... or the fact that I was starting to feel like I didn't want him to leave.

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Probably off topic but it's my birthday today :smirk:

[d0xxingcl0wn]

Tim Hc’s?👀 I love seeing everyone’s prospective on every character they right for and I’d love to see what you do you with Tim (I LOVE TIM SO MUCH ITS NOT FUNNY)

YESSS, he's legit the lomf don't even TEST ME.

GENERAL TIM WRIGHT HEADCANONS

CW: Safe for work,

THIS IS ALL OPINION BASED/CANON - If you don't like it then you can leave

TIM WRIGHT

-> To start off heavy, I tend to think that a lot of the operator's doing is masked as Schizophrenia. Making him take the pills (when Brain doesn't steal them) more often than he really needs to.

-> Tim smells like pine and cigarettes (for obvious reasons). Theres also a faint smell of blood.

->DAD BOD 100% - I do NOT tolerate twink Tim.

->I have a sneaking suspicion that he's a morning person, but also at the same time a night owl. He'll stay up all night, working or being paranoid and then get up extremely early for no reason at all.

->Watches nature documentary's </3

->Please believe me when I say he's littered with body hair.

->Listens to divorced dad music, but ONLY listens to music when he's driving. He doesn't see why he would listen to music at any other time.

->Clips his nails constantly, he's well maintained with himself.

->STAINED JEANS - like near the bottom of the jeans its littered with mud/blood. AND BOOTS, I don't know why but guys who wear jeans + boots are so HOT.

ADDITIONAL TIM WRIGHT + S/O

Figured I would add this for the simps (me) as well

-> Never feels like he deserves to have you. It takes so much convincing just for him to actually feel safe. He has a constant worry the operator will make him forget you, or Masky will kill you. He doesn't distance himself, you're too much of a drug to him to even think of leaving. He does, however, give you any attention you want. A kiss? He'll give two. A hug? Cuddling session right there. He's trying his best to make sure you aren't forgettable.

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IM SORRY IF THIS WAS SHORT - I'm bad with headcanons if they aren't a specific topic </3

[d0xxingcl0wn]

CREEPYPASTAS + TOUCHY GN READER

Featuring - Eyeless Jack, Tobias Rodgers, Tim Wright ---------------------------------------------------- WARNING:Slight NSFW (MDNI)

Appearance of the creepypastas are based mainly off of canon design/some of my own details!!

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EYELESS JACK

-> Silent, brooding, mysterious: Jacks main personality traits. He isn't one for talking, let alone physical affection.

-> No matter how long you've tried to convince Jack that cuddling won't kill him every once in a while, he isn't convinced.

-> "Please, just tonight?" "No."

->Simple touches were rare, his hands touching yours slightly whenever you two are just hanging out. A few times his back will graze against yours whenever he's hovering around.

->The most he'll ever touch you is when he's fixing your wounds. You memorized the way his hands move gently, outside of his 'profession'. The way each stich in your skin is like watching a painters' brush strokes. The way he gently rubs ointment into broken skin with ease. The way his touch lingers just a bit longer whenever he's finished. ->He doesn't push away; he doesn't slap or tug your hands off of his skin. He doesn't yell; he doesn't even speak. He only shakes his head, telling you now isn't the time. If only he had eyes - maybe you could see his expression better.

->At night, you can sometimes feel his presence closer to you, his breath hitting your skin slightly and his hands inching closer to you. You always wake up with him farther than before, however. ->Simple sex, his hands pressed against the bed beside you, the sheets curled in his claws. The armrest to any chair he's on. The pillow his head lay against. Never you. Therefore, he does allow you to touch him, whatever makes it more comfortable for you. ->Aftercare is simple as well: he'll help you clean up, make sure you're not sore or have any aches, then its back to him barley to never touching you. ->He loves you, yes, he loves every inch of you. He can tell you that over and over again. Theres many reasons he won't give you the touch you crave, but you're not ready for that yet.

TOBIAS RODGERS

->You're touchy? He is too! The more perfect you guys are for each other!

->Cuddling is a must have every night, something about knowing you're there and not in his head makes him sleep just a bit better every night.

->He keeps his head away from you every time you guys' hug. He doesn't want to tic and slam his head against yours any more than he already does.

->Need help with grabbing something higher than you? Expect his hand on your hip and his back against your chest. Need some company while cooking? Try not to topple over him too much!

->Back rubs are everything to him, either giving or receiving! ->His hands are always somewhere he knows you like being touched, (which he studies every single time you guys cuddle or hug). Loves when you put his hands on his chest, especially his scars. ->Aftercare is always cared for, if you pegged him or not. Not always will you get that shower in time before he's a tangled mess of limbs with you.

->You learned early he just needs someone to hug when he's in an episode, sometime to run hands through his hair or rub his face gently. He just needs someone to be there. TIM WRIGHT

->Shockingly, he is the touchy type. Not in some needy and desperate way, (maybe just a bit desperate). He needs the feeling of you with him; afraid you're just another trick the operator has put him against. ->He doesn't ask for cuddling, instead he takes it. If you're just standing around, he'll have his arms wrapped around you in an instant. If you're trying to sleep/nap he's already curled against you. If you're not doing anything and in the same room as him, expect some cuddling time.

->He doesn't like to hug you with the mask on. He says it's because he knows the plastic is uncomfortable to lean against but really, it's because he likes the feeling of you against his face.

->Loves having you against his chest. Head, shoulder, your own chest, any body part of yours that skims his chest and he's melting on the spot.

->Running your hands against his skin is like heaven to him. He'll never get tired of it.

->Gentle, he knows when its hurting. I single look of discomfort in your face, and he'll ease up. If you like it rough, he can do that too. Whatever is the most comfortable for you.

->Aftercare is nothing special. If you both really need it he'll get you both into a quick shower or bath. He rubs any spot you mention is sore. !!Cigarettes after sex!!

->He knows it's a huge risk to have a relationship with anyone, especially with the Operator constantly following him. He never knows when he'll wake up one day in a different state and no memory of you. He's trying to make it last.

[d0xxingcl0wn]

CHOICE - TIM WRIGHT X READER

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 4

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WARNING: Graphic violence, Power imbalance, Distorted romantic, Gaslighting, Stalking behavior, Mild Profanity. Noun: Unraveling - investigate and solve or explain (something complicated or puzzling): Words: 4661

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INTRUDER POV

Once more, I find myself retracing the same path as the other night. The leaves still bear the imprint of my last passage - slightly flattened, just enough to let me know I was here. Nothing else had changed. Not the overgrown trail. Not the scent of mold and wet bark. Only the air - colder now, sharper in my lungs. This time, I came prepared.

The crowbar hung at my side, no longer dragging. My grip was firm, controlled. It wasn't a tool anymore - it was a promise.

There was something different in my gut tonight. A flicker. A thrum. Like the rush of a child seeing a fairground at night, all light and wonder and chaos. But it was darker than that. Hungrier. I flexed my gloved fingers around the steel, still able to feel the ghost of their throat pulsing beneath my palm - the way their breath hitched, caught, stuttered. My mind kept playing it back. The gasps. The fight. The fire in their eyes.

They weren't afraid. Not really. Not even when they aimed that gun at me. They were ready.

And I wasn't.

I almost admired it - that clarity. That defiance. But admiration isn't enough. Not for someone like them. They don't deserve a quiet death. Not a clean one. No, they need something louder. Grander. I want the city to remember what happens to the brave.

There's something about the way they moved. Like they didn't belong in that house, in this city, in any of this. They carried something... untouchable. I could've ended them. I should've. But I couldn't help it. I wanted to see what they'd do next.

I shook the thoughts away, forcing my focus back into place. No more distractions. If I screw this up again, he'll be even more pissed than last time-if that's even possible. And I don't think I can take another round of that. Not again.

This time, I have to play it smart. No rushing. No acting on impulse like some rabid dog. I need to watch them-really watch them. Learn their rhythm. Home routine, work routine, when the lights turn off, who visits, what time the garbage goes out. Everything. If the cops showed up that fast last time, then this one's important. Dangerous. Connected. Maybe all three.

And those cased rifles... that wasn't for show. That was preparation. Protection. Maybe paranoia.

Whatever it is, I need to pay attention to everything. Every movement, every shadow, every sound. I can't afford to let another detail slip through the cracks. Not like before. Not when it almost got me killed.

I knew I was supposed to kill them. That was never the question. It was clear, carved into my intent like the weight of the crowbar in my hand. But somewhere between intent and action, I faltered - and I still don't know why.

It wasn't the gun. That wasn't what stopped me. That wasn't what rattled me.

It was them.

It was the look in their eyes - not fear exactly, but something that grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go. The way their lips stuttered with every breath, trembling just enough to catch the light. The flick of their tongue pressing to their teeth as they spoke - not begging, not screaming, just speaking. Calm. Defiant. Alive.

And the smell of the room. Of them. That soft trace of something warm and clean - a fragrance I couldn't name, but one that wrapped around me the moment I was on top of them. It clung to my skin like sweat.

I needed their blood on me. I needed their guts at my feet, painting the floor like they were meant to. That was the plan. That was the feeling - the hunger, the drive.

And yet...

There's something in my mind, pressing against that truth. Something clawing to be forgotten - or maybe someone trying to make me forget. Him.

It's like there's a part of me refusing to remember what I felt. Like my thoughts twist away from it every time I try to grasp it. Was it weakness? Or something worse? Something like... desire?

I don't know what it is. But it's still there. Sitting in my chest like rot.

I sighed, the breath inside my mask growing stale and hot, pressing against my skin and fogging up the edges of my vision. Each exhale curled back at me, humid and suffocating - like I was being forced to breathe my own hesitation.

I realized I was slowing down. My legs dragged with a heaviness I couldn't explain. It felt like those dreams where you're running as fast as you can, but your body moves like it's underwater - every step too soft, too slow, like something unseen is holding you back.

I pushed forward, forcing my stride to lengthen, picking up the pace until my boots hit the asphalt in a steady rhythm. The familiar path stretched ahead - over the narrow highway overpass, then through the string of cracked, uneven roads that branched toward my target. The house sat in the distance, barely visible but unmistakable. Still standing. Still waiting.

I pulled my hood up, tucking my face deeper into shadow. Just in case. Neighbors might be watching. People remember silhouettes. They remember postures, movement, the strange details you forget to hide. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and tried to blend in with the silence, with the dark. Every step was deliberate. Measured. I walked like the night itself - quiet, invisible, certain.

I retraced the exact path I took two nights ago - every shadow, every fence, every step burned into memory. I didn't need to think about it. Muscle memory carried me forward, back into the breach. Back into their space.

The way in hadn't changed. Not yet. The lock front door still locked. The back gate still unlocked. The curtains drawn and the backdoor opened just a smidge. The world hadn't noticed the breach - or maybe it had, and it was just pretending not to. Either way, I slipped in again, unseen.

Just like before.

I doubted they would be here - but doubt wasn't something I could afford to rely on. Just because I wouldn't come back after surviving a murder attempt doesn't mean they wouldn't. They didn't think like most people. That much was obvious now.

Any normal person would run. Leave town. Change their name. But them? No. They planned. They studied. They watched from corners that weren't supposed to exist. The kind of watching that sinks beneath your skin, quiet and constant. The kind that never blinks.

This wasn't their first time facing something like me. And worse - it might not be their last. I could feel it in the way they had moved, the way they had aimed their weapon without hesitation. Not sloppy. Not panicked. They'd expected me. Maybe not that night, maybe not that exact moment, but they knew something was coming. They'd prepared.

They weren't new to this game - and somehow, I wasn't sure I was the one in control anymore.

So, I kept low. Kept silent. Scanned the windows, the rooftops, the shadows in door frames. My steps were quiet, deliberate - as if the air itself might betray me. Every dark corner held the possibility of a trap. Every flicker of movement, a threat.

I reached the living room, breath slow, eyes sharp. I lingered at the doorframe, peering just past it. There they were - the back of their head visible above the couch. The rest of their body was hidden, but I didn't need to see it. Just the stillness in their posture was enough to pull something taut in my chest.

My heartbeat picked up slightly - not enough to call it fear, but enough to feel it in my throat. Even so, my hands didn't shake. That had to count for something.

I stepped forward, careful, calculated. But the moment my foot pressed down, the floorboard betrayed me with a dry groan. I froze mid-breath, pulse stalling. For a moment I thought it was over - but the TV was on, soft and unfocused, filling the space with meaningless dialogue. Maybe that masked it.

I waited, still as a photograph, letting silence settle like dust around me. Then, slowly, I moved again. One step. Another. Slipping into the living room like a shadow with bones.

Then everything blurred.

They turned - quick, clean. The gunshot cracked through the room like thunder inside my skull. Instinct hurled me to the left, my shoulder scraping the wall as I ducked. The bullet missed - barely. I felt the wind of it tear past my ear, close enough to taste metal in the air.

I panted, lungs struggling to remember how to breathe. My body screamed in adrenaline, heat crawling over my skin like ants. Shock poured out of me in waves.

When I turned my eyes back to the couch, they were already standing. Calm. Rifle in hand, steady, firm - like it had grown from their arm. My gaze flicked to the wall above them. The case was open. Empty. I hadn't noticed it earlier.

I'd missed it.

Jesus, I fucked up again. Second time. What the hell was happening to me?

But worse than the shot... was the look in their eyes.

They weren't angry. Not even disappointed. No tremor of frustration that they missed. Just silence. Measured. In control.

It wasn't a failed attempt. It was deliberate.

A warning shot.

They lowered the rifle slightly - not out of mercy. Just enough to show that they could raise it again and shoot me between the eyes in half a breath.

And then something... shifted.

It was subtle at first, like a whisper in the back of my head. But then it hit me - sudden, electric - like a switch had been flipped that I didn't even know existed. My body reacted before my mind could make sense of it.

It wasn't fear. Not of the gun, not of death.

It wasn't anger either. No rage, no burning need to strike or survive.

It was warm.

Too warm.

A flush bloomed across my face, spreading from my neck to my ears like wildfire. My heart banged violently against my chest, hard enough that I could hear it in my ears. My breath caught, shallow and sharp, like I was trying to remember how lungs worked. My stomach twisted tight - like I'd swallowed something alive.

My hands started sweating, palms slick under my gloves. The crowbar slipped from my grip and hit the floor with a loud, sharp clang - metal against hardwood. It echoed too long. Too loud.

They flinched, barely. Their attention shifted to me - not startled, but assessing. I saw them straighten on instinct, only to wince and adjust their posture, bending slightly at the waist. They were still healing. That back injury - they were ignoring it. Pushing through it.

Weak point. Advantage.

And yet... I didn't move. I didn't rush. I didn't attack.

I should've crossed the room in three steps and torn the rifle from their hands. Should've dragged them down and ended it. But that heat in my face... it burned deeper than instinct. Something was screaming inside me - not to hurt them, but to hold them. To grab onto something solid. Them.

Not in violence. Not in fury. Something else.

Something terrifyingly close to-

"I'll give you one chance to explain to me why you're back," they said suddenly, their voice slicing through the fog in my brain like butter beneath a hot blade.

My throat closed. My mouth opened but no words came.

"Answer, or I'll-"

"Shut up..." I blurted.

It came out quiet, cracked at the edges - not a command but a plea.

Not how I meant it. Not at all.

"What the fuck did you just say?" they hissed. Their voice cracked with anger-but underneath it, I heard something else. Confusion. Uncertainty. Like they weren't sure they'd heard me right. Like they didn't want to hear me right.

"I said shut up," I growled again, voice low, eyes locked on theirs through the narrow slits of my mask.

Their eyebrows drew together, just slightly. The grip on their rifle loosened by a fraction, the barrel dipping a few inches. I could see the question form behind their eyes - not why I was here, but why I sounded so... off. Why I wasn't already swinging.

They took a subtle step toward me. Too close.

I moved faster.

Two strides. That's all it took. I surged forward, grabbing the gun and wrenching it from their hands before they had a chance to react. It clattered across the floor, skidding under a table.

I didn't stop.

I grabbed their shoulders and shoved - not with rage, but with finality. They went over the couch with a yelp, landing hard against the cushions. But they recovered fast. Too fast. A solid kick slammed into my gut, knocking the wind from me and forcing me back a step.

I barely had time to breathe before they were on their feet, charging toward where the gun had landed. Smart. Efficient.

But not fast enough.

I lunged again, catching their arm and yanking them backward. They stumbled into me, our bodies colliding, and for a second - just a second - I felt it again. That heat. That damn warmth that didn't belong here, in this room, in this moment.

They gasped, their face inches from mine. I could see the details now - the way their pupils widened, the tremble in their jaw, the sweat glistening at their temple. Their breath hit my mask in warm waves.

I tightened my grip on their arm.

"Sit. Down." I said, voice like gravel, like fire, like need.

They panted, brows furrowing in confusion and defiance. But they listened. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was strategy. Either way, they sat back down on the couch, arms crossed tightly over their chest, trying to mask their tension as control.

I stood there a moment longer, watching the way their chest rose and fell too fast, the subtle twitch in their jaw, the way they looked everywhere but at me.

I needed a reason to stay. Something convincing. Something they'd believe - and not just to protect myself. No. I needed to see them. Hear them. Feel their presence like I had that night.

This wasn't some slashers flick a bored teenager would replay at sleepovers, screaming at the screen. There were no dumb victims or cheesy catchphrases. This was real. And they weren't scared. They were angry. Smart. Calculating.

They'd try to get the upper hand. Try to be the righteous one in all of this.

I wouldn't let them.

"Listen-"

"I'm not listening to a damn intruder dressed like a 1980s cliché killer," they snapped, cutting me off before I even got the sentence out. Their glare could've cut glass.

I narrowed my eyes beneath the mask, sighing hard enough for it to fog up the inside. I rubbed at the bridge of my nose through the fabric, trying not to let my frustration spill over.

"If you're so big and bad, why would you even come back for a second failed attempt?" they spat. There was something smug in the way they said it, even if their voice shook near the end.

I stepped closer, slowly, deliberately.

"That doesn't concern you," I growled, gaze locked on theirs. "You were supposed to be dead yesterday."

They didn't flinch. That pissed me off more than it should've.

"Sure. And you couldn't even do that," they shot back, mocking the tight glare I wore like a mask of its own. "So why try again?"

I didn't reply. My teeth clenched so hard I felt my jaw twitch. I wanted to hit them. Not out of rage - not entirely. I wanted to feel their body jerk under my hand, watch them flinch. Anything. But they just stared at me like they were daring me.

"Because unlike the others you've dealt with, I don't give up after one failed attempt," I said through gritted teeth. I leaned in until our faces were only inches apart, our breath mingling. My eyes locked onto theirs. Cold. Defiant. Alive.

"I've got a job to do."

They scoffed, leaning further back into the couch like my presence was an annoying background noise. That made something sharp twist in my gut.

I straightened up with a grunt and glanced around their space - too clean, like they were expecting company. My blood itched under my skin. They weren't scared. They were ready. Again.

Every time I opened my mouth, they cut me off. Every time I tried to assert control, they slipped away like smoke between fingers.

"I just want to know why you want to kill me so badly," they said suddenly, their voice quieter. They didn't look at me, but I saw the corner of their lip twitch. A smirk? No. A distraction.

I watched their eyes. The glint behind them wasn't fear. It was thought. Calculation. They were working on something.

"Don't act like you're someone special," I bit out. "Just because this city has your name painted all over it doesn't mean shit to me. It doesn't change the fact that you're gonna be dead soon. One way or another."

I shifted my weight, arms crossed, trying not to let the rising heat in my throat betray me.

But I could still smell them. The faint scent of their shampoo, the warmth of their skin in the air. That same heat was crawling up my spine again. And they were still looking at me - not with fear, not with hate - like they wanted to understand me.

I hated it. I needed to stay. I needed to finish this.

I needed to figure out what the hell they'd done to me.

Just as I expected, they lunged forward.

I barely had time to grab their wrist - didn't even bother to block the blow. Their shoulder collided with mine, and then teeth. Sharp pain tore into my upper arm as they sank their bite through fabric and skin. I let out a sharp yelp, more from surprise than pain, before shoving them back onto the couch with a thud that rattled the frame.

I threw myself on top of them, pinning their arms down against the cushions. Blood bloomed warm and sticky beneath my jacket, seeping in slow pulses.

"Bastard," I muttered, my voice low and rough, digging my nails into the thin skin of their wrists like punishment.

"Dick," they spat back, lips curled, defiant. I rolled my eyes - thankfully, the mask caught most of it.

But then, in a flash - they slipped one wrist free.

I barely blinked before their fingers were at my face, clawing at the edge of the mask. My heart stuttered. No, no-

They tore it off in one fluid, furious motion, and for a single breathless second, I froze. I felt cold air on my face - exposed, like my skin had been peeled off. My heart plummeted to my stomach.

Panic snapped me back into motion. I slapped my hand over their face, pressing their eyes shut even as they hurled the mask across the room with a triumphant hiss of breath. It clattered uselessly against the wall. I didn't even look.

"Fuck," I hissed.

Before I could get control again, their fist shot up, cracking hard into my nose. It felt like glass shattering behind my eyes - pain erupted like white fire, and I reeled back with a guttural groan, more beast than man.

Blood poured down over my lips, hot and metallic. I cupped my hand to my nose, fingers trembling as I wiped it, smearing red across my knuckles.

They stared at me - breathing hard, their eyes burning.

3.1 - YOUR POV

I stared at him, breath coming in fast, shallow pants. My chest rose and fell like I'd just run a mile. Maybe I had - not with my legs, but with my body, with every damn nerve firing off at once.

His eyes weren't even on me anymore. Just... somewhere else. Like I didn't exist for the moment.

I already knew his hair color - black with hints of brown that caught the lamplight. His eyes, now narrowed, were a deep brown that almost swallowed the whites. Focused on the blood trailing down his nose. His brows were thick, drawn together in a knot of pain and fury. The rest of his face was hidden behind a hand slick with blood, staining his fingers dark and glossy.

He didn't try to grab me again.

Didn't even flinch.

Like his rage had short-circuited into something quieter.

"I can-" I started, but he cut me off fast, lifting his hand without looking at me.

"Just-shut the fuck up for two damn seconds," he hissed.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, body bent like something had finally broken him down to the bone. His hand fell, dripping blood onto the carpet. He stared at the floor like it might answer for everything.

If not for the soft noise of the TV and the occasional passing car, I could've sworn I'd hear his thoughts tearing through his skull. Fast. Brutal. Loud.

And then it hit me - the absurdity of it all.

A killer, sitting in my living room, inches from me in total silence. No mask. No screaming. No second attempt. Just... there.

Like we knew each other.

And worse - I let him. I didn't scream. I didn't run. I didn't cuff him, or grab a phone, or pull a weapon.

I let it happen.

If anyone in the department ever found out, I'd be done. Stripped of rank. Fired. Mocked. Maybe arrested for obstruction. And yet I sat there, staring at him.

Did he find it weird, too?

He pulled his hand away from his face, staring at it for a moment as if waiting for blood to bloom again. When it didn't, he sighed-quiet, almost relieved. Then, without hesitation, he wiped the blood onto his jeans.

That motion made my eyes drop.

I froze.

The fabric was smeared - not just with red, but with something darker, crusted into the folds and creases of the denim. Mud, I had assumed. Two nights ago, I didn't question it. But now...

Now my brain clicked into gear, piecing together things I didn't want to acknowledge.

What if it wasn't mud?

What if it never was?

Who did it belong to?

My lungs forgot how to work. My ribs tightened around the air like they didn't want to let it out, like holding my breath might make me invisible. Might keep me alive.

Because this man-this thing sitting less than five feet from me-could kill me. At any second. Just lunge forward and snap my neck or slit my throat or crush my skull against the floor.

And it would be easy for him.

He wouldn't even blink.

My body finally started to believe what my mind had been trying to deny: I'm not safe. I've never been safe. I might not live through this.

The instinct to flee sparked in my spine. Every nerve screamed for action. Run. Scream. Fight. Do something. But I didn't move. Because I knew-I knew-if I so much as twitched the wrong way, he'd catch me. His eyes were already on me. Watching.

Like a hawk waiting for the rabbit to blink.

I sucked in a breath-sharp, shaky, barely controlled-and let it out slowly, praying he didn't hear the tremor. I drew my knees up to my chest, inching just a little further away. Every inch felt like a mile. Like I was crossing a minefield barefoot.

I kept my eyes on him.

And he kept his on me.

Neither of us said a word.

It felt like we were playing a children's game.

Suddenly-without warning-he jerked forward and clamped his hands over his ears. His body trembled like he'd been struck by lightning. A sharp, animal-like hiss escaped through gritted teeth as his face twisted in agony.

I flinched.

He shook his head violently, like he was trying to dislodge something from his skull. His eyes squeezed shut, and tears welled at the corners, glinting in the dim light. I looked around instinctively, expecting some shriek, some siren-but the room was silent.

I heard nothing.

But whatever he heard... it was deafening.

I didn't move. I didn't dare. I only watched as he shook, like something inside him was splitting open.

After a long moment, he stilled. His hands dropped to his knees, fingers digging so hard into his jeans that the fabric pulled taut. His shoulders slumped. His head hung low. For a second, he looked like a kid-lost, confused, hurting.

Then the silence turned dangerous.

"You're going to work tomorrow," he said, voice hoarse, strained like he'd just screamed underwater. "You're not going to say shit to anyone. Not a goddamn word."

He paused. Thought. Something inside him shifted.

Then he stood-too quickly.

I instinctively shrank back, trying to press into the couch, as if the cushions could swallow me whole. He stepped closer. Slowly. Predatory. He pointed his finger at me, his eyes sharp and dark, focused like a blade on my throat.

"One word that I'm here," he growled, "and I will rip your guts out and watch you try to shove them back into your pathetic, dying body. Understand?"

My heart thundered. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was insane, that this wasn't over. That I was a cop. That I wasn't afraid of him.

But I was.

So I nodded.

A tiny, shaky nod.

I told myself I was buying time. Playing smart. That I'd fix this later, get backup, bring him down. But deep down, I wasn't sure I believed it.

"Good," he murmured.

And then-without hesitation-he punched me in the face.

I didn't even feel the impact. Just a flash of heat, then darkness creeping in from the corners of my vision.

My body went limp.

I felt hands beneath me, strong ones, lifting me up like I weighed nothing. Arms wrapping around my legs and back. The warmth of his body pressed against mine, the fabric of his jacket scratchy under my cheek. My couch-my safe place-was slipping away, and I couldn't fight it.

I tried to groan, to speak, but only a whisper escaped.

My head lolled against him. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He smelled like sweat and metal and something faintly sweet-something that made my stomach knot in confusion.

He laid me down on something soft. My bed? The floor? I couldn't tell.

Then, gently-too gently-something touched my forehead. A hand. A kiss?

And then everything went black.

3.2

I woke to the sound of rain tapping softly against my window.

The room was dark, washed in shades of blue and gray from the moonlight spilling through the blinds. My body ached in dull pulses, like I'd run a marathon in my sleep. But it was warm. The sheets tucked around me perfectly. I could feel the mattress cradling my limbs like it wanted to hold me longer.

For a moment, I forgot.

Forgot the blood. The chaos. The threat that had curled itself around my throat and whispered promises of death just hours earlier.

It was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

The kind of silence that felt... staged.

I shifted slightly, my cheek brushing the pillow. The scent that clung to the fabric wasn't mine-slightly woodsy, edged with sweat and something bitter. Not my detergent. Not my skin. But familiar.

His scent.

My breath caught in my chest.

I blinked up at the ceiling, heart beginning to beat faster now. I tried to sit up but my body felt slow, as if whatever happened earlier had wrung the strength out of me like water from a cloth. But I didn't feel afraid. Not exactly.

It felt like being watched.

I turned my head slowly to the right, expecting to see nothing more than the cluttered top of my nightstand-half a glass of water, my badge, a stack of case files...

But instead-

Two eyes.

Not blinking. Not moving.

Just staring.

Embedded in the darkness between the dresser and the wall, barely lit by the glow of the moon, were two unmistakable eyes locked directly onto mine. They didn't widen when I noticed them. They didn't shift or react.

They were just there. Patient. Present. Unbothered.

Waiting.

My mouth went dry. Every nerve in my body lit up at once, but I couldn't scream. Couldn't speak.

He was still here.

Still watching.

Still deciding.

And then-

Nothing.

[d0xxingcl0wn]

MEET THE WRITER

REQUEST OPEN!

HIIYA!!! Never done one of these before sooo bit nervous! I'm Clown!! She/Her (Genderfluid) Tim Wright number 1 fan right here I write anything lowkey, ask and you shall receive. Requests might be a bit slow because im balancing a job and shits, but I'll try my best!!

HAPPY TO BE MOOTS!!!

[d0xxingcl0wn]

CHOICE - TIM WRIGHT X READER

CHAPTER 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

----

WARNING: Trauma Response, Emotional Conflict, and Mild Language. Noun: sanctuary - a place of refuge or safety Words: 2535

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No memory came easily. They all floated just out of reach, like fragments of a dream slipping through my fingers. But one truth cut through the fog like a blade: someone had broken into my home — into my sanctuary — and tried to kill me while I was most vulnerable. The realization still didn't sit right, like an itch just beneath the skin. I was lucky to have made it out alive. Luckier still that I escaped with barely any injuries — though the pain told a different story, one that might linger far longer than bruises or bandages ever would.

I stirred awake slowly, a warm beam of sunlight spilling across my face. It felt too gentle, too serene — like a lie. My eyelids fought against the brightness, fluttering open with reluctance. A low, incoherent groan escaped me as I shifted under the sheets, my body aching in places I hadn't even noticed before. Instinctively, I raised an arm to shield my face, squinting against the invasive glow that now flooded the room.

For a moment — just a moment — I could have believed everything was fine. The pain in my back and the dull, relentless throbbing at the base of my skull had faded into a manageable hum, distant and ignorable. I almost convinced myself it was just a bad dream.

Then it all came rushing back.

The flash of movement in the shadows. The sound of glass shattering. The weight of a body crashing into mine. The smell of sweat and fear and blood. The sharp, metallic tang of panic that coated my tongue. It hit me like a wave, crashing over the shore of my fragile calm. I inhaled sharply, the pain roaring back to life with the force of a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my spine and skull. I winced and curled slightly inward, teeth clenched.

"Took a bit of a fall last night, hm?" That voice. Southern, familiar, irritatingly calm. I knew it before I even opened my eyes, and I hated that some part of me relaxed just hearing it. I didn't answer — I only waved my hand weakly in the air, hoping he'd get the message and vanish.

"Fuck you..." I muttered, the words muffled as I burrowed my face deeper into the couch cushions beneath me. They smelled faintly like leather, old smoke, and whatever cheap cologne he always wore.

I heard him chuckle, low and under his breath, that irritating sound that always carried just a little too much amusement for someone watching me fall apart.

His footsteps padded closer — slow, deliberate, too damn smug.

"Rise and shine, your majesty," he said, voice coaxing, one hand settling on my shoulder with a gentleness that felt more infuriating than comforting. "They want to see you today. Get a few answers. Maybe a sketch. Lucky for you, no duty"

"No."

"Yes," he replied without missing a beat. "And if I have to carry your stubborn ass, I will." He gave me another shake — firmer this time. Not rough, but enough to make my aching muscles protest.

I let out a long, pained sigh, my breath hitching slightly at the stiffness in my ribs. Slowly, I rolled onto my side and cracked one eye open to glare at him.

He crouched beside the couch, face unshaven, dark hair tousled like he hadn't slept much either. There were shadows under his eyes — maybe concern, or maybe exhaustion. Hard to tell with him.

"You look like shit," I muttered.

He smirked. "So do you. Difference is, I can walk."

"Barely."

"Still counts."

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The air between us was heavy, filled with unspoken things — fear, guilt, maybe something else neither of us wanted to name.

I rubbed my face, trying to shake the fog from my head. My limbs felt like they were made of wet sand.

"Just... give me a second," I whispered.

His expression softened, just a flicker. He nodded and stood, stepping away to give me space.

The light from the window crept in slowly, illuminating dust motes in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a kettle whistled.

I was still alive. That counted for something.

Elliot walked away, but not before ruffling my hair — something he knew I hated. I watched him vanish into the kitchen, that familiar bounce in his step that made it hard to stay annoyed.

I sat up slowly, my muscles aching from too much stillness. My hair had to be sticking up in every direction — I could feel it — but I didn't care. Not now.

Another yawn escaped me as I looked around the living room. The furniture was the same: the sagging couch, the scuffed coffee table with one short leg. Toys were scattered across the floor — plastic dinosaurs locked in battle; a small pink tiara perched awkwardly on a cereal box. The place was a mess. A warm, lived-in, honest mess.

I rubbed my eyes and leaned back again, letting out a long breath as I stared at the ceiling. The urge to sleep again tugged at me, but it felt more like escapism than rest.

"Melody at school?" I called out, my eyes tracing the uneven pattern of the ceiling tiles.

"Yeah," Elliot's voice answered, faint from the kitchen. I heard the whistle of the kettle die down, followed by the sound of him pouring into mugs. "I still can't believe she's in first grade already."

"Me neither," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips.

It felt like just yesterday we were sitting in the waiting room, holding our breath as the judge signed the papers. Elliot had gotten custody — finally — and he'd held it together until we reached the car.

He had cradled Melody's tiny backpack in his lap like it was something sacred. He didn't say much, but the way he looked at her... like the world had tilted back into place.

He's a good dad. The kind who reads bedtime stories with all the voices, who sings even when he's off-key, who burns pancakes and still insists they're "extra crispy."

It's like he was made for this, standing barefoot in a cluttered kitchen, pouring tea, humming some nameless tune to himself while his daughter was off learning to spell "butterfly."

I finally stood up, knees protesting, the dull ache in my back reminding me I wasn't anywhere near one hundred percent. I teetered slightly and caught myself against the wall with a muttered curse.

The floor felt colder than I expected — or maybe I was just too slow to feel steady on it. Either way, I shuffled into the kitchen like a zombie freshly risen from the grave.

Elliot stood over the stove, spatula in hand, flipping something that sizzled deliciously. Pancakes. Maybe bacon too.

"Morning, sunshine," he chuckled, glancing over his shoulder with that warm, disarming smile of his.

"Morning," I mumbled, trying to mimic his tone, letting out a chuckle that came more from exhaustion than amusement. "You wouldn't happen to have any spare clothes of mine here?" I already knew the answer. I'd practically taken over one of his drawers months ago.

"You know I do," he replied, voice soft and fond. "Check the dryer. And pray to God you didn't leave anything in the pockets, 'cause I didn't check."

I rolled my eyes with a smirk. "So if my debit card got mangled, I know who to sue."

"File it under 'friendly fire.'"

I pushed off the doorframe with a grunt and made my way toward the laundry room. Surprisingly — or maybe not — it was the cleanest room in the house. No toys underfoot, no socks flung into corners, just the gentle hum of the dryer and the faint scent of fabric softener.

I opened the dryer and dug through the warm pile, pulling out a blank black T-shirt and a pair of worn-in jeans I barely remembered leaving here.

Balancing the clothes over my arm like I was cradling a sleepy cat, I turned around—

Only to come face to chest with Elliot.

I jumped, letting out a startled yelp. "Holy—! You scared the shit out of me!"

He flinched slightly too, raising both hands like he was trying to prove his innocence. "Sorry, sorry! Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammering. "Jesus, man. Announce yourself next time like a normal person."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Didn't think I needed to. This is my house."

"Yeah, well, I scare easy."

A beat passed. We were close — closer than I realized. The warm air from the dryer still clung to the space between us.

"You okay?" he asked, more serious now. His eyes flicked to the clothes in my arms, then to my face. "You're pale."

"Just tired," I said, brushing past him. But part of me wanted to stay there — just for a second longer. In that quiet warmth.

"Breakfast is ready," Elliot said, standing above me. His tone was light, teasing, but soft in that way it got when he was being careful. "Whenever eating becomes one of your top priorities again, it's on the table, Hun."

His gaze lingered — just a beat too long. I didn't have to look up to feel it. I already knew. And I hated that I knew.

Ever since we'd started working together — through every dumbass thief, every screaming Karen at the station, every exhausted stakeout — he made it obvious. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he made me coffee exactly how I liked it, even when I hadn't asked. The way he called me "Hun," like it meant something, even if he never said it out loud.

He liked me. Probably more than liked. And I knew. I knew before he ever had to say anything.

The worst part? I had no good reason not to feel the same.

He's perfect. Seriously. He's patient, gentle with Melody, never raises his voice unless he's being protective. He makes terrible dad jokes and actually pulls them off. He's got this solid kind of warmth — like the kind of man you'd want to fall asleep next to on a bad night. Strong, dependable, with just enough softness to lean on.

But I didn't feel it. Not like he wanted me to.

Maybe I've known him too long. Maybe my brain just locked him in as "friend" and threw away the key. Or maybe — and this is the one that really haunts me — maybe I'm just too scared.

Too scared to ruin what we have. To hurt him. To lose Melody.

She sees me as part of her family. She runs into my arms when I visit. She draws me in those ridiculous crayon stick-figure portraits where I always have more hair than Elliot and a crown.

And he... he loves me. I know he does.

But I don't love him. Not like that.

And I hate myself a little for it.

And I hate how he's so willing to wait for me.

1.1

"You know..." Elliot began, voice low, measured, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. "If you don't feel safe going back home, you really don't have to."

His fingers curled a little tighter around the steering wheel. Not enough to turn his knuckles white, but enough that I noticed. He glanced sideways at me, then looked back at the road — his eyes flicking between care and caution.

"Yeah," I muttered, the word falling out heavy. I leaned my head against the window, watching the blur of trees and low-rise buildings passing by ghosts on the other side of the glass. "If the bastard comes back, I know how to deal with it now."

I didn't sound nearly as confident as I wanted to.

The car was quiet for a few beats, the hum of the highway and the soft whoosh of passing traffic filling the space between us.

"I know, Y/N," he said softly. "But I just... I keep thinking, if nobody showed up, you'd be—"

"Dead," I cut in. "I know."

His jaw clenched. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his grip on the wheel tighten just slightly. Like the thought of it physically hurt.

"Just be glad I'm not stupid," I added, trying to inject some humor into the pit in my chest. "And that my closet can fit a person in it. Real cozy hiding spot."

He exhaled, a breath that was more weight than air. Then he leaned back slightly, letting one hand slide off the wheel and reach over to rest on my thigh.

The contact was warm. Grounding. Reassuring.

I didn't push him away. Didn't flinch. I just placed my hand on top of his, fingers brushing gently over his knuckles. Somehow, I felt like I was comforting him instead.

"You can stay with me," he offered again, voice softer now, almost hopeful. "Just for a while. Melody won't mind her favorite person crashing a few nights. She'll probably make you pancakes and call it a 'sleepover.'"

I let out a quiet laugh, the first one that didn't feel forced in days.

"It's fine, Elliot," I said. My voice still had a hitch in it, but I managed a small smile. "Besides, I've got a plan now. Lure him in, trap the bastard, arrest him. Easy."

"Like a bad sitcom villain," he said with a small smirk.

"Exactly," I replied, letting my head fall back against the seat. "I've done worse with less."

We both went quiet again. The suburbs were beginning to fade behind us, swallowed slowly by the taller buildings and muted skyline of the city.

I watched the transition through the window, the way the sun hit glass windows just right — the kind of thing you'd never notice unless you were really trying not to think about other stuff.

Still, I could only be grateful. For the seat I was in. For the man beside me. For the hand that hadn't moved from my leg. For the simple, stubborn fact that someone out there cared if I lived. And right now, that was enough to keep me upright.

[d0xxingcl0wn]

CHOICE - Tim Wright x Reader

CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

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WARNING: Home Invasion, Graphic Violence, Attempted Murder, Use of Weapons, Mild Profanity Noun: Invasion - an unwelcome intrusion into another's domain Words: 3071

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The crunch of leaves underfoot marked each step I took. Cold air bit at my exposed skin and seeped through my clothes. The sharp scent of damp earth and raw vegetation clung to me, tainted by a faint trace of cigarette ash. Overhead, the moon cast broken beams of light through the trees, illuminating my unfamiliar path in scattered fragments. The stars were hidden behind long branches heavy with lush green leaves. My crowbar dragged behind me, my grip loose on the cold metal, eyes fixed on the ground ahead.

An annoying headache mocked me, making the journey even more unbearable. If I'd known any better, I might have turned back and dug myself a grave just to escape the pounding in my skull. But I bit the inside of my cheek and kept pushing forward.

I lifted my crowbar and slung it over my shoulder. My gaze dropped to my feet, watching every root and fern I stepped on. Maybe I did it to avoid the monotonous sight of overgrown bushes and weeds—or maybe to avoid the moonlight that stabbed at my eyes. Not that I could think straight anyway; the migraine was too unbearable to form a coherent thought. I let out a low groan and brought a hand to my face, rubbing my eyes hard with both thumbs.

After what felt like hours of trudging through the dark, the distant rumble of engines began to cut through the silence. It was faint at first—just a low, rhythmic growl—but it grew steadily louder. I knew I was close to the highway. The forest thinned out around me, the trees growing sparser and more brittle, as if they, too, were retreating from civilization. Cracked pavement peeked through the underbrush, and the air started to smell faintly of rubber and exhaust.

I pushed past a final wall of bushes and stepped onto a patch of short, dew-dampened grass. In the pale moonlight, I looked left, then right—an old habit, even though the road was nearly empty.

Wasting no time, I approached the edge of the highway, slipping my free hand into my pocket. I swung one leg over the rusted railing, then the other, and stepped onto the blacktop. The road stretched out wide and silent, lit only by occasional passing headlights. Luckily, it was late—too late for much traffic. Still, I kept alert as I crossed, my pace quickening with each step. The soles of my boots scuffed against the rough surface until I finally reached the other side.

There, a tangle of side roads sprawled outward like veins, quiet and uninviting. I pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from my pocket, reading the jagged handwriting under the dim glow of a distant streetlight. Just an address—barely legible, almost like a dare. I tucked it back into the depths of my jacket and moved forward.

Mailboxes lined the roadside like sentinels, each one labeled with names I didn't recognize. I followed them down a narrow lane, my eyes scanning every driveway and house number, waiting for something—anything—to match what was written on that paper.

A worn-out mailbox stood at the edge of the driveway, leaning slightly to one side like it had been forgotten by time. The chipped paint and crooked numbers made me pause. Just to be sure, I pulled out the crumpled slip of paper again and compared the address scrawled in ink to the one printed faintly on the side of the mailbox. A perfect match.

I gave a slight nod—maybe to myself, maybe to no one. Just a small ritual of acknowledgment. I had found the place.

The mailbox creaked as I opened it. Inside, a handful of envelopes sat untouched. I flipped through them, noting the name printed on each one. Only one name. No "Mr. and Mrs." No roommates. No family initials. Just one occupant—alone.

I glanced up at the house beyond the mailbox. No bikes in the yard. No toys scattered on the porch. No leash, no dog bowl, no barking from inside. It was quiet—eerily quiet. The grass was short but patchy, the porch light flickering faintly as if it hadn't been changed in years.

A solitary life. Isolated. Predictable. Easy.

I slid the mail back in, shut the box, and stepped back onto the cracked path leading up to the door. My hand tightened around the crowbar at my side.

Tonight, would be simple.

I reached for the front door, easing the screen open without a sound. Locked. Predictable.

I scoffed under my breath and stepped off the porch, circling toward the tall wooden fence that wrapped around the backyard. The moonlight barely touched the yard, and the overgrown bushes lining the property provided decent cover. I tried the gate—unlatched. Too easy.

I slipped through and quietly shut it behind me. The curtains on the back windows were drawn tight, giving me cover. No need to crawl or crouch; the fence was tall enough to keep me hidden from curious neighbors or passing headlights.

I moved across the yard, each step deliberate. The grass was soft underfoot, slightly damp with dew. At the back door, I wrapped my fingers around the handle, already preparing to wedge the crowbar into the frame if I had to.

But to my surprise, the knob turned.

The door swung inward, just enough to throw me off balance. I stumbled, catching myself with a quiet grunt as I crossed the threshold.

I paused. Listened.

Nothing.

The house was silent.

I pulled the door shut behind me and stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. The smell of dust and stale air hung in the space—untouched, undisturbed. I tightened my grip on the crowbar, feeling its cool weight in my hand.

I was in.

I moved through the kitchen with careful, deliberate steps, placing each foot lightly on the tile to avoid even the smallest creak. The clutter on the counters—dirty dishes, an open cereal box, an old coffee mug—meant nothing to me. I wasn't here to clean up, and I wasn't staying long enough to care.

The house was small. No second floor, no dining room—just a tight cluster of rooms wedged together like an afterthought. I stepped into the living room. Sparse furniture, outdated carpet. My eyes landed on a pair of rifles mounted in a glass case above the fireplace.

Noted.

I glanced over the back of the couch to make sure the resident wasn't there. The cushions were sunken and stained, but otherwise undisturbed. No threats. No need to linger.

A narrow hallway stretched ahead, ending in two doors. One stood wide open, revealing a plain bathroom—clean enough, nothing unusual. I walked past it, toward the second door.

The bedroom.

I turned the knob slowly, pushing the door inward with the tips of my fingers. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, no lamps left on. I stepped inside, quietly pulling the door shut behind me. The air was still. Heavy. A faint scent of detergent and something older—dust, maybe, or sweat—clung to the air.

My eyes adjusted slowly, pulling shapes out of the darkness. A bed sat near the center of the room. Sheets rumpled. A shape under the blanket.

I tightened my grip on the crowbar.

For a moment, I considered waiting. Just standing there in the dark, watching them breathe, letting the moment stretch until fear did half the work for me. I could wake them. Make it personal. Make it slow.

But the migraine pressing behind my eyes reminded me otherwise. I just wanted to be done. To go home.

I raised the crowbar over my shoulder, adjusting my stance. My other hand found its grip, steadying the weight.

One breath in. One breath out.

Then I swung.

The impact was... wrong. No sickening crunch. No muffled squelch. Just a soft thud. A hollow one. The resistance was all fabric and pillow stuffing.

I froze.

They weren't in the bed.

They knew I was here.

The metallic click of a gun cocking echoed behind me, freezing every muscle in my body.

I didn't move.

A bead of sweat slipped down my temple beneath the suffocating heat of the plastic mask. My breaths came slow, quiet, deliberate. I closed my eyes for a second and listened — to the silence, to the tension, to the threat breathing down my neck.

"Drop the damn crowbar," a voice said — calm, firm, and close.

Not panicked. Not trembling.

My target had a steady hand.

I hesitated, running through the options in my head. I could lunge. Maybe. Close the gap. Hope they hesitated, flinched, misfired. But judging by their tone, their stance, the fact that I hadn't heard a single shuffle from the closet until now... they were ready. I'd get a bullet before I got a chance.

Slowly, I opened my hand. The crowbar slipped from my grip and hit the floor with a sharp metallic clang. I didn't flinch.

"Turn around. Now."

That voice — still no fear. Just command. Assertive. Like someone who'd made up their mind.

I stepped back once, then pivoted on my heel.

And there they were. Standing across the room, gun pointed square at my chest.

I scanned them quickly — calm eyes, steady breathing. I followed their gaze and saw it then: the blanket shoved awkwardly against the closet door. That's where they'd hidden. They'd waited.

I clenched my jaw. I should've checked. I should've scouted the whole damn room.

They stepped forward cautiously, keeping the gun trained on me as they reached for the wall. The overhead light snapped on with a harsh click, washing the room in a sudden yellow glare.

I groaned, squinting through the brightness. My eyes took a moment to adjust, the mask only making it worse. But I forced myself to look. To focus.

I studied their face.

And for the first time at all... I saw the same thing they saw when they looked at me:

Someone prepared to kill.

1.1 - Your POV

I gripped the gun tightly; finger curled hard around the trigger. My breathing was heavy, loud in my own ears. God damn it—someone really broke into my house.

And tried to kill me.

The muzzle stayed trained on his chest. One twitch, and I could end this. A clean shot. A fast one.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" I demanded, voice low but firm I didn't yell. I didn't need to.

Sure, my hands trembled slightly, a fine shake I couldn't control—but I was allowed that. I was standing across from a masked intruder with blood under his nails. Fear wasn't weakness. It was survival.

He didn't answer. Just stared. Eyes narrowed. That silence made my skin crawl.

I kept the gun steady and let my gaze sweep over him, taking in everything I could.

He was tall—maybe six feet, give or take. Broad-shouldered. His hair was dark and cut short, just brushing the tops of his ears, with rough sideburns framing the edge of his face. The mask covered most of his features, plastic and expressionless, making it impossible to read his intentions.

He wore a dull, orange-brown jacket—thick, utility-style, something you'd wear to keep warm on cold nights. It hung heavy on his frame, creased and worn. His jeans were either deep blue or black, hard to tell in this lighting, but there were stains near the bottom. Mud, maybe worse. His boots were black, scuffed at the toe, thick-soled.

His hands caught my attention next.

Big. Rough. Blood crusted under his fingernails. But they didn't shake.

He wasn't scared.

And that terrified me more than the gun in my own hands.

I didn't lower my weapon. Not an inch.

My arms ached, my fingers numb from how tightly I was holding the gun, but I kept my stance solid. He moved—a slow, deliberate shift—and raised one hand in a universal gesture: wait.

My finger twitched on the trigger. Then, he began to crouch. Not fast, not threatening. Just enough to keep my nerves stretched taut like piano wire. His other hand reached for the crowbar on the floor, fingers brushing the handle.

I didn't wait to see what he'd do next.

I fired.

The shot cracked through the room like a whip, and the recoil jolted up my arms. The muzzle flash lit his figure for a split second. The bullet slammed into the red metal of the crowbar just as his hand gripped it.

Sparks scattered. Metal screamed.

He jerked his hand back with a hiss, instinctively recoiling as the crowbar skidded across the wood with a harsh scrape, landing several feet away—well out of reach. Smoke curled from the barrel of my gun. I didn't speak. I didn't blink.

He looked at me then—not just a glance, but something deeper. Measuring. Reassessing. Maybe for the first time, he was second-guessing himself.

Good.

"In less than five minutes, the cops will be here to drag your sorry ass out of my house," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, strong. I squared my shoulders, widened my stance—tried to make myself look like more than I felt.

"You better pray they don't bury you in a cell for the rest of your pathetic life."

Still, he said nothing. His silence was louder than any threat. Calculated. Controlled. Not the behavior of a panicked rookie. My brow tightened. Something felt wrong.

Then he looked. Just a quick flick of the eyes—toward the window.

My instinct betrayed me. I followed his gaze. And that was all he needed.

He lunged.

I barely had time to react before the full weight of his body slammed into mine. The air shot from my lungs in a single burst as I crashed hard onto the wooden floor. The gun flew from my hand, clattering somewhere to the side—out of reach for both of us.

I struggled, but he was already on top of me. One of his hands gripped my wrist, slamming it against the floor. The other pinned my arm at the elbow. I thrashed beneath him, legs kicking, but he hooked his knees around mine and locked us into place. Pain shot through my back—sharp, hot, blooming from where my spine met the floor. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out.

"Get the hell off me!" I spat, voice ragged, pushing every ounce of strength into resisting.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His mask stared down at me—blank, emotionless, inhuman.

But his eyes...

His eyes were focused. Cold. Like this was just business to him. My heart thundered in my chest. This was turning fast. Too fast.

My heart thundered in my chest. This was turning fast. Too fast.

His knee pressed into my thigh, pinning me down with a precision that made it clear—this wasn't his first time doing something like this.

The floor was cold against the back of my arms. I could feel each grain of the wood digging into my skin as I writhed underneath him, breath coming out in sharp, ragged gasps. Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked through it, trying to shift my weight—anything to buck him off.

His grip on my wrists tightened, and I heard the faint creak of my joints under the pressure. My own hands were starting to go numb. I gritted my teeth, biting back the scream clawing its way up my throat.

Somewhere nearby, the gun lay silent and useless—too far, maybe two feet, maybe ten. Might as well have been on the moon.

I twisted, arching my back, trying to throw him off-balance. He adjusted instantly, shifting his weight like a boulder falling into place. I felt the impact of his elbow against my ribs—hard, but controlled. A warning.

"Get. Off," I growled again, more animal now than anything human.

He didn't flinch.

His eyes, just visible behind the eyeholes of that plastic mask, never left mine. They weren't wild or angry or even excited. They were empty. Calculating.

I could feel the heat radiating off him, the damp musk of sweat and something else—metallic. Like rust. Like old blood.

The house around us felt quieter than it had ever been. Like the world itself was holding its breath. No cars outside. No wind. Just the sound of us—my sharp breaths, the creak of the floor beneath our bodies, the thudding in my ears like a war drum.

I had no idea what he was waiting for.

He was just starting. No narrow in his eyes. Maybe his eyes softened ever so slightly. Maybe the pain was just too much for me.

Maybe he was deciding whether to kill me.

Maybe he just liked watching people struggle.

I tried to flip our positions—wrenched my torso, kicked at his legs—but we both knew I wasn't getting anywhere. The pain in my back blazed like fire. It stole my strength. I could barely hold myself up, let alone overpower him.

I grunted. Thrashed. Pulled at his arms. Pushed at his chest. But his grip was iron.

The sudden sound of sirens—distant, but growing—pierced through the chaos. My ears perked up. Hope cracked through the haze of panic. They were close. Close enough to matter. His head snapped toward the bedroom door. Then to the window. And then... he looked back at me.

His hands moved fast—too fast for me to react. They wrapped around my throat, fingers pressing hard. Crushing. No warning. No hesitation. My mouth opened in a desperate gasp, but no air came. The world narrowed. Everything tunneled into that pressure. I clawed at his wrists, nails digging into skin. I could feel his pulse under my fingertips. I scratched deeper, trying to draw blood, to hurt him. But he didn't flinch.

The sirens were louder now. Tires screeched somewhere outside. A car door slammed. Footsteps. Yelling.

The front door crashed open.

He moved in a blur—releasing my throat just long enough to slam my head against the floor. The impact exploded behind my eyes. Light and sound blurred. My vision splintered like broken glass. A sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth.

I barely registered him standing, grabbing something—my gun?—and shoving it into his coat.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered, low and bitter.

I heard the scrape of the window lifting. Cold air rushed in. My fingers twitched, trying to push myself upright, but my head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The crowbar scraped against the wood floor as he scooped it up. Then... silence. One last thump. He was gone.

Just then, the bedroom door burst open—too late.

Boots stormed in. Flashlights. Shouts. But the room was already empty of him.

I tried to speak—tried to say something, anything—but only a croak came out. The police surrounded me, one of them dropping to his knees beside me, shouting into his radio.

I blinked slowly, vision swimming.

He got away.