lisssyyu

[lisssyyu]

Eternity to taste

PAIRINGS: Caitlyn Kiramman x wife!f!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you may have noticed, I really like to write with an emphasis on psychology (which is funny, because I am a lawyer by profession), so the second part may be (!) the last. In general, I really like writing in this genre, especially about the game Signalis, and maybe I'll even post a couple of fics about this fandom.

WARNING(S): Mention of violence; possession; control; implied manipulation; power imbalance; age difference (!Caitlin 28, !reader 22) ;; mention of pregnancy

wc: 6.3k

parts: 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

You no longer remembered how the street smelled, how noisy the main square was on holidays. The world that once seemed so alive and close had now dissolved into a fog, like an old photograph faded by time.

You only knew that Caitlyn drank coffee with milk, that on Tuesdays her gloves smelled of cold metal, and on Saturdays of lilacs. You knew that she always asked you to tie her tie, even though she could do it herself.

"I'm not holding you back," she said, stroking your hair like an obedient little animal. "But where will you go? To whom?"

You tried to imagine it. The city, the air, your friends. But if those thoughts had once brought a smile to your face, now your heart tightened into a knot of fear. The world had become huge and alien, frightening without her.

"They don't understand you," Caitlyn whispered, her voice growing colder and harder with every word. "They always laughed behind your back. I saw it."

You listened to her words in silence, but inside you were feeling something completely different. It was scary, not just because of what Caitlyn was saying, but because somewhere deep inside you, her words were starting to ring true.

Maybe it was true that no one was waiting for you outside the walls of this house. That your friends had long since turned their backs on you. That the world was too cruel to accept you as you were.

You felt more and more strongly how your former self that brave, lively person who once took to the streets with hope and dreams was slowly dissolving. Its place was filled with a cold, empty fear of being alone, of forgetting yourself and losing everything that was even remotely important.

Caitlyn was the one who never leaves, who harshly but unwaveringly keeps you on this precarious edge. There is no room for doubt in her voice, which means that your desire to argue with the reality she creates begins to die. You cling to her words like a lifeline, because who else but her will be there when everything falls apart?

You no longer want to resist, because resistance means being completely alone. And being alone means disappearing.

And now you are her little two. The one who belongs to her, who lives in her shadow and breathes to her rhythm. And even if a faint glimmer of your former self remains deep in your soul, it drowns in this incessant whisper:

"Only I need you. No one else needs you."

And this has become your eternal prayer.

"What's that?"

You looked down at your lap. There lay a book you had found by chance while cleaning. The house was getting colder and lonelier, especially when Caitlyn left for long shifts. You thought reading would help distract you.

"Just a novel," you whispered, feeling your voice tremble. "I got bored."

She approached, and there was no anger in her gaze, only weary cruelty, as if you had once again failed to meet her expectations.

"Are you bored with me?"

Your breath caught, the words slipping out in a mistake you would pay dearly for. Caitlyn stood almost close enough to touch, her cold presence squeezing you like a steel grip.

"I'm leaving for twelve hours. I kill for order. And you… are you bored here?"

You wanted to crawl back, but the back of the sofa behind you prevented you from doing so.

"I'm sorry," you breathed, already knowing it would lead nowhere.

"You're always apologizing. You know who else apologizes? Weaklings."

She grabbed the book with the force of someone tearing off a bandage, without pity, and threw it against the wall so that the pages scattered like feathers.

"I feed you, clothe you, keep you warm, while outside people are killing each other for crumbs of bread. I pulled you out of that filth, out of that city where you would have died at the first intersection if it weren't for me."

She leaned toward you and grabbed your chin sharply, forcing you to look up.

"And you really think you have the right to be bored?"

You wanted to argue, to say, "I was just reading," but your mouth was dry and the words stuck in your throat.

"Look at yourself," she hissed in your face. "Pathetic, scared, shaking like a rabbit. Do you really believe that anyone but me cares about you?"

You shook your head.

"That's a good girl," she said, as if it were a reward.

Caitlyn kissed you on the temple almost tenderly, but that kiss concealed the same power that had recently torn your soul apart.

"I love you, you know that," her voice became quieter and lost its former sharpness, "but when you disappoint me… I can't control my anger."

Over time, fear and anxiety began to recede, but not disappear. Rather, they hid somewhere deep inside, like animals huddled in a warm burrow.

In their place, habit took hold. The day consisted of repetitive gestures: the creak of the front door lock at exactly seven in the evening; the muffled rustle of a coat; heavy breathing before Caitlyn shook the city cold off her shoulders. You met her at the doorframe with an almost smile.

The skin of your palms remembered the roughness of wet fabric, shoulders, a tiny tremor under a uniform that smelled of gun oil. She let you help her, let you take off her gloves, touched your cheek with her fingers as a sign of her presence. And in that moment, the house became the center of the world, the only safe island amid the strange, wind-swept streets.

You learned to read her pauses. If her footsteps were heavy, you poured strong tea; if they glided almost silently, you made a decoction of oregano and mint.

Those evenings flowed smoothly, almost sleepily. She talked about the patrols in fragments: "two detained," "smuggling at the locks again." You just nodded. With each "yes" and "I understand," a strange calm grew inside you: if the world out there was really that cruel, then here, in the flickering circle of the lamp, you were on the right side of the glass.

The warmth from the lamp faded as you finally sat down to dinner. The dark oak table, the blanket on your shoulders, not a sound from the neighboring rooms. Caitlyn ate slowly, as if each movement marked the last breath of the day.

But today something was changing, and you sensed it before you heard it.

Caitlyn put down her fork and turned her palm toward you. There was so much confidence in this movement that the air around you immediately became denser.

You didn't know the words yet, but you could already feel their weight.

Seconds dragged on as a dull, muffled bell rang in your head. And when she spoke, the words fell into the silence without a splash, but the water beneath them cracked.

She wants a child.

The sound of these three words, barely whispered, was louder than any command. The world around her shifted, as if the house had suddenly tilted and the walls had cracked.

Your "no" didn't even have time to take shape. It was just a fleeting spark before it was extinguished in the darkness of her unshakable will. Inside, under her ribs, an invisible bird fluttered, but the cry stuck in her throat: a flat fear of returning to what had been before, to the cold streets, to the loneliness that had long since become more frightening than any loss.

You felt your hands trembling, even though they were resting on your knees, hidden under the fabric of your skirt. Images flashed through your mind: a child's cry, a small hand, the warm smell of milk, but next to them, in the same frame, stood her, tall, inevitable, with the same gaze that holds your world together.

You weren't ready. The word drifted away from your consciousness like a boat from a pier, farther and farther, until it turned into a tiny dot. And the tighter you hugged that dot, the more clearly you felt it melting away.

She rose from the table and leaned close to your ear. The tenderness of her breath burned your skin more intensely than a scream.

The stability you had grown so accustomed to cracked, and the crack spread across the walls of the house, across the edges of your heart, across the secret boundary where you end and her will begins. But the voice inside fell silent again: if ruins are the price of her love, then you will let the walls fall.

[lisssyyu]

from your writing alone i am intrigued by you, want more of it and believe youre so cool i think im fangirling

that's so sweet bby, i'm glad you like my doodles that i write. Actually, you confused me a little but I really appreciate such a sweet comment, haha (⁠｡⁠・⁠/⁠/⁠ε⁠/⁠/⁠・⁠｡⁠)

[lisssyyu]

The fic was sooo goooood!! I would love you to make it a part two like djjdksskkkakskjsjs i love it so much

Thanks bby, glad you liked it. I'm already writing the second part, so don't worry, I'll post it soon! 💋

[lisssyyu]

Eternity to taste

PAIRINGS: Caitlyn Kiramman x wife!f!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this idea was born when I was chatting with a bot on JanitorAi. Absolutely unexpected perverted love theme. I don't know why but I like it. Let me know if you liked it. I'm going to continue but I'm still thinking about it. and I remind you, my requests are open so feel free to write your suggestions or questions. ;)

WARNING(S): Mention of violence; possession; control; implied manipulation; power imbalance; age difference (!Caitlin 28, !reader 22)

wc: 4.1k

parts: 1 ;; 2 ::

You met at work. You had just turned eighteen, but you proudly joined the Piltov defense forces—fulfilling a dream you had cherished since childhood. A bright fire burned in your heart: you wanted to do good, protect the weak, and help the world. But back then, you didn't know that where blood is spilled and oaths are bought, there is no room for kindness.

Caitlyn was twenty-four at the time. She had already become a commander whose name was spoken with respect and fear. A leader. A soldier to the core. The firm hand of the law. But everything changed the day you first walked into her office. She called you in on business, you still don't remember what exactly, but the conversation dragged on. Then the official meetings turned into meetings in cafes and glances that lasted a little longer than they should have. Your attraction grew exponentially, and after only six months, Caitlyn confessed her feelings to you. It was truly like something out of a movie. You loved each other in a way that you felt no one had ever loved before. It was idyllic between you: no arguments, no shouting, just warm, quiet happiness.

Caitlyn was kind back then. Restrained, neat, even strict. Her touches were rare but warm, her words a little detached but undoubtedly honest. She was your support, your haven in a city where everything was falling apart. She knew when you drank coffee, which books you read to the end, which ones you hid under your pillow. She remembered your medications. She remembered when you just needed silence. She listened. And you fell in love with her for that calmness. For her discipline, for the fact that when she was around, the world seemed to become a little clearer and more reliable.Back then, you didn't know what it would all turn into.

Everything changed after the wedding.

Not right away, no. At first, it was even better than you had dreamed. You moved in together, and the house was filled with her footsteps, her voice, the scent of her perfume that lingered on your shirts. In the morning, she would leave for work, always on time, always in uniform, with her buttons perfectly fastened. You watched her leave from the window, and in the evening you met her at the door with dinner and a kiss, hoping that at least today she would come back less tired.But fatigue wasn't what scared you the most.At first, she was just curious: who are you talking to, what are you reading, why are you taking so long to answer? There was no malice in her voice, just a sharp, cold clarity. You told yourself it was out of concern. Just professional deformation. She was just used to knowing everything.Then she insisted that you stop working.

"There's no rush," Caitlyn said once, without looking up from the book she was reading by the fireplace. "You don't need to rush around town, breathe in the fumes, listen to idiots. I earn enough. Stay home. Take care of yourself. Rest. You deserve it."

From that day on, you no longer wore your uniform. You didn't put on your boots. You didn't go out without permission.

She was still on duty. She still called others by their last names and with a voice that made the new recruits freeze in the hall. But with you, she was softer. Almost tender. At the time, you thought it was romantic. After all, no one had ever looked at you with such attention or hugged you so tightly at night, as if the whole world would disappear without you.But you didn't notice when the house keys disappeared from your bag. When meeting friends became "unnecessary risks." Even when Caitlyn told you what to wear and where to go, you thought it was just concern.

"I just don't want anything to happen to you. The world is too dangerous. You're all I have left," she always said when you started to worry about her actions.

You didn't immediately notice how her voice had changed.

It used to be soft, warm, slightly lazy, with that very weightless irony that you loved. It sounded like a favorite record on scratched vinyl, imperfect but genuine. It enveloped you and made you feel safe.

Now there was precision in it. Like a gunshot. The words no longer flowed, they lined up in a row, cutting tangentially, but always hitting the target. You tried not to attach any meaning to it. You blamed it on fatigue, on work, on post-command habits that are difficult to unlearn.

She still stroked your hair. She still said you were the best, the smartest. That you were one of a kind. That no one else knew what you had been through, how much it hurt you, how hard it was to live in this world where everyone was just waiting for you to fall. No one — except her.

She never yelled. She just spoke a little quieter, a little harsher.

Caitlin didn't forbid, she formulated "recommendations."

She didn't take things away, she "made your life easier."

You don't remember exactly when it happened.

First, she asked you not to go downtown because "it's dangerous there."

Then, not to see Laura, your friend, because "you never liked her, remember?"

She still kisses you on the forehead before leaving in the morning. She still says she loves you. That you are her pride and joy. That all you need to do is keep the house cozy, be beautiful, and be smart.

That you are not to blame for anything. That all of this is for you.

[lisssyyu]

Dried Blood - The Renaissance Project

PAIRINGS: VI × F!READER

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I honestly didn't think I'd write part two this quickly, but here it is. It's still not a full-fledged fanfic or anything, but... it's better than nothing, really.? English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please point them out to me!

WARNING(S): —

TAGS: behavioral specialist!Vi ;; Jurassic World!au ;; drabble ;; arcane

@baylegend6 ;; @sevikas-whore ;; @klallx

туалет: 5.2k

часть: 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

A typical morning.

Your mornings were always busy: setting up your headset, making the rounds, attending a bunch of boring meetings in the lab, and writing mandatory reports. But today was different.

Today you have a free schedule. The meeting is only closer to lunchtime, which means you can afford to deviate a little from the protocol and do what you've wanted to do for a long time: watch Vi.

You haven't known each other for long, and your communication has mainly been based on teasing and sarcastic comments. But you couldn't help but be intrigued by the ease and.. devotion with which Vi approached her work. It was as if she lived among predators and spoke their language. And that raised questions. And interest.

You settled down on a higher observation platform, not particularly hiding, and picked up your notebook. This was not a work notebook, but a personal one, in which you wrote down not only the behavior of the animals, but also everything that did not fit into a dry scientific scheme. Thoughts, impressions, moments that could not be explained by formulas.

At first, everything went as you expected: cleaning, feeding, checking locks. Routine, almost boring work.

None of the raptors had shown themselves from the bushes yet. Only after a couple of minutes did you hear the soft squelching of paws in the mud and see Ship, Vi's favorite, whom she described as a fast, voracious creature.

"Come on, girl," Vi said, crouching down. "No tricks, or you'll push Wouter again like you did yesterday. I saw you."

The raptor clicked its teeth quietly, stretched its neck, and Vi held out a piece of meat to it. The next second, she slapped Ship on the side with a sharp movement. Not hard, more like a game.

"Yeah," she smiled. "I missed you too."

You exhaled, catching yourself smiling.

07:40 — demonstrative "play" behavior. Vi interacts with the individual as a social partner. Contact is not through fear, but through habit and mutual trust.

You wrote a lot. So much that you almost fell off your chair when Vi shouted at you without turning around:

"Hey, smarty pants, write this down too: 'The observed feels like they're under a microscope, but doesn't complain because the observer is damn annoying but cute.' "

You didn't answer. Your cheeks began to burn treacherously, and, trying to maintain at least some dignity, you silently got up and left as if you hadn't been sitting there at all, watching your "partner" go about his typical morning.

A scar on her wrist.

It was summer. Hot is an understatement. Although it was almost always hot on this island, this time the sun seemed determined to melt everything alive. Management strictly forbade removing uniforms for safety reasons, but Vi, unable to stand it, thoughtlessly rolled up the sleeves of her signature dark blue shirt to her elbows just to lower her body temperature a little.

That's when you first noticed them.

Red, angry scars stretching from her wrists upward, as if wrapping around her arms. You froze, your gaze glued to those scars. You wanted to ask right away, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And when you finally mustered up the courage and approached her, Vi, as you expected, simply ignored your question. She didn't even look in your direction. She just walked away.

You thought about it all day. You came up with theories. You imagined how she heroically defended someone from an enraged predator, how she grabbed the raptor by the mouth and didn't let go. In your mind, it was almost beautiful.

But at night, during your joint shift, when you were sitting next to each other, tired, in silence, and she was still wearing the same shirt with rolled-up sleeves, Vi suddenly spoke:

"It's not from a dinosaur. It's from a human. A stupid boy. I didn't know then that monsters also walk on two legs."

There was silence. Vi cleared her throat awkwardly and took a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"But you're not one of them. Thanks for asking."

"Zone 7".

A new enclosure was built. This meant it was time to release a young herd of predators into it. The management department immediately called a general meeting: employees, administrators, curators, and even scientists. You and Vi were among the first to arrive.

The discussion quickly turned into an argument. How to raise the herd and which method would give the best results?

Vi insisted on her approach: the "instinctive bonding" method, working with the dominant leader, creating a personal connection, and direct participation in the formation of the pack from the very beginning. Live contact. Risk, but stability.

You proposed a different approach: through positive reinforcement, a controlled environment, and creating a sense of security. Behavioral incentives, gradual socialization. No pressure.

Surprisingly, most of those present unexpectedly leaned toward your version. Maybe because it sounded more "scientific," or maybe because Vi spoke too harshly.You saw her clench her fists under the table. How tense she was. How, without saying a word, she got up and left. She just walked out of the room, ignoring everyone.

Later that evening, you found a note on your desk. The handwriting was uneven, slightly sweeping, clearly written in the heat of the moment:

"Good luck with the training, Professor. Just don't forget that they don't read your articles — they eat."

a holiday that doesn't exist.

Vi doesn't celebrate birthdays. It's like a taboo. No cakes, no congratulations, not even hints. No one knows why. Maybe it's because the past leaves marks deeper than scars on the skin.

Once, while sorting through documents in the archive, you accidentally found her personal file. It had the date she was born. It seemed like a small thing. But you decided to make a small gesture that might say more than words.

When Vi left for her morning rounds of the enclosures, you quietly slipped into her room and placed a small bag of dried mango slices on her bed, which she had talked about and praised so much. Next to it lay an old coin engraved with a raptor, a symbol of strength and freedom that seemed to have meaning for her.

Vi said nothing. Not that day, nor the next. She behaved as usual, flashing her cheeky grin and teasing you about little things.

But a week later, leafing through your observation notebook, you found someone else's handwriting on one of the blank pages.

Pencil. A little crooked, but clear.

Next to it, a raptor, sketched with quick but precise lines. And underneath it, the inscription:

"They remember those who share their food. So do I."

[lisssyyu]

Dried Blood - The Renaissance Project

PAIRINGS: VI × F!READER

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This au came after I rewatched ABSOLUTELY ALL "Jurassic World" MOVIES, so enjoy.. Let me remind you that English is not my native language, and if you see any mistakes or inaccuracies, please correct me! let me know if you like it and want a part two.

WARNING(S): —

TAGS: behavioral specialist!Vi ;; Jurassic World!au ;; drabble ;; arcane

туалет: 3.3k

часть : 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

In a world where Piltower technology and Zaun genetic engineering have reached unprecedented heights, humans have learned how to resurrect dinosaurs. The new Jurassic Park has been built on a remote island a project financed by the Kiramman family and others, not only for the sake of "scientific progress" and geopolitical prestige. Vi is a behavioral specialist working with velociraptors and other dangerous species, and you are a new ethologist specializing in the cognitive behavior of dinosaurs.

Vi was raised on the streets of Zaun, but was recruited into a research program when the people of Piltover recognized her talent for reading behavioral patterns in animals.

Although, to be completely honest, at the age of 19, she was caught trying to break into a biotechnology storage facility (the question of why she was there remains unanswered to this day). Instead of sending her to prison, one of the scientists, a renowned professor from Piltover and another financier of the "Rebirth" project named Anabel Grimm, noticed how Vi behaved with an aggressive chemosaur in a cage. She was calm and, to everyone's surprise, got away with just a couple of scratches.

She was offered an alternative: participation in an experimental program on "instinctive contact with unstable individuals." Not wanting to make her life worse by going to prison, she agreed.

Later, she was sent on probation to a remote pilot station where genetically unstable individuals were bred. There, she encountered the predecessors of dinosaurs for the first time. They were unsuccessful hybrids with predatory habits. Ugly creatures that had nothing in common with dinosaurs.

Over the course of several years, Vi proved that she possessed a "trainer's instinct" that could not be taught at the academy. Professor Grimm wrote a letter of recommendation for her to the Rebirth Project when the selection process for the island began.

Vi lives on the enclosure grounds. She has "her own" animals, especially a pair of velociraptors, with whom she has worked since she was young.

Vi even gave them names — Ship and Wouter. Vi has no formal education. Her access card is marked "1st class field expert."

Vi believes that trust and respect are more important than collars and remote controls. She enters the enclosures personally, without weapons, which greatly angers the management.

You came to the Park as part of the second wave of scientists those who don't just grow dinosaurs in test tubes, but try to understand what they become. As an ethologist who trained in the basements of the Piltower Academy and at field bases in Zaun, you have been obsessed with the behavioral patterns of animals, predators, and herbivores since your early years.

You were attracted not only by the scale of the project and generous funding, but also by the idea itself: to create not a prison for monsters, but a living, breathing ecosystem. And also, to observe how dinosaurs learn and grow. Now your day begins with your observation journal and ends in the enclosures, where claws scratch against steel and eyes watch from the shadows. Some of the park staff think you are too soft on the "creatures."

Vi is one of the few who, even though she calls your methods "theory for dummies," really listens. Especially when the predators responded to a gesture for the first time, rather than an electric shock.

• At first, Vi considers you too naive.

She has seen dinosaurs tear off interns' legs in a second and is sure that your interest in the creatures will fade as soon as you see them in action. She calls your notes and hypotheses "fairy tales for students." But one day, you enter the enclosure of a young specimen unarmed, and for the first time, it doesn't growl. Vi begins to see you differently.

• The two of you argue constantly.

You cite data, she cites her own experience. At first with irritation, then with enthusiasm. After a couple of weeks, the arguments become a habit: coffee, enclosures, swearing, ironic smiles. Your notebook and her rough voice are a strangely harmonious combination.

• Vi begins to wait for your notes.

Although she pretends not to. Sometimes you notice that she has taken your notebook, crossed out some of the formulas, and written: "If you think this works, let's check it out. Tomorrow at 7. Don't be late, professor." The moment you read it, you felt your face turn redder than a tomato.

[lisssyyu]

── .✦ Who?

🠖 Mr. Fox ;; 18+ ;; He/She

🠖 eng/pl/rus/ukr

── .✦ Social

AO3 → 01 ⮚ Ficbook → 02 ⮚ JanitorAi → 03

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requests: Open.