#Me when the mental illness is mental illnessing

[br0kenangel]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝐌𝐲 𝐝♡ve 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

Pairing: Unhinged Aegon x Therapist Reader part 4

Summary: you left as fast as you could. What was his gift? You were praying to god that your love be safe. But little you knew, it was just the start...

Warning: blood, mental illness.

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. Original gif by @asoiaffan ♡ Hope you enjoy!

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest like a drum as she gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. Her breathing was shallow, frantic, as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Every horrible possibility ran through her mind, twisting her thoughts into a frantic knot. Her boyfriend wasn’t answering his calls. Aegon had smiled at her like he had some dark secret, that twisted, sick smile. The gift he left. What had he done?

She pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car speeding recklessly through the empty streets. The world around her blurred as she focused solely on getting home—on finding out what was waiting for her. Her hands were trembling so violently she could barely keep the car steady. As she took a sharp turn, her tires screeched against the pavement, almost colliding with a car coming from the opposite direction.

“Shit!” she gasped, jerking the wheel back. Her pulse skyrocketed, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The other car honked angrily as it sped past, but Y/N didn’t care. She couldn’t think about anything except getting home.

“Aegon’s lying,” she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling. “He’s trying to scare me. He’s just… messing with me. I’ll get home, and it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the fear was still there, gnawing at her insides like a festering wound. She could still hear Aegon’s voice in her head, the way he had laughed so softly, so eerily.

Did you open the gift I left you?

Y/N swallowed back the rising panic, her throat tightening. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, her heart thundering so loudly in her chest she thought it might explode. She pressed harder on the gas, speeding through another intersection without checking. Her mind was a whirlwind, screaming at her, warning her, pleading with her to turn back—but she couldn’t. She had to know. She had to see.

When she finally pulled into her driveway, she slammed on the brakes, barely giving the car time to stop before she jumped out. The moment she stepped outside, she froze.

The air was thick, heavy with a putrid smell—like something had rotted, festered. Her stomach lurched as the stench hit her full force, bile rising in her throat. It was a smell she couldn’t ignore, and it only heightened her terror. Something was wrong. Something was so wrong.

“Jacob…” Her voice cracked as she whispered her boyfriend’s name, the words barely a breath. Tears pricked her eyes as she stumbled toward the door, her legs weak and shaky. The smell only grew stronger as she got closer to the house, the kind of stench that clung to the walls, suffocating. Her mind spiraled into horrible images, and she felt her knees buckle beneath the weight of her fear.

“What did Aegon do?” she whimpered, her throat dry, her lips trembling.

She fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The smell hit her full force, thick and rancid, making her gag. Her eyes watered from the stench, and her mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t breathe.

“Jacob,” she whispered again, her voice desperate, pleading. “Please, God, no…”

Her eyes scanned the room, her vision blurry with fear. The house was eerily silent, except for the pounding of her heart in her ears. The living room was still, as if nothing had been disturbed. But then her gaze fell on something that hadn’t been there before—a large box sitting in the middle of the couch.

Y/N froze. The knot in her stomach twisted violently, her chest tightening with dread. The gift.

She took a slow, shaky step toward the box, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The stench was overwhelming now, and her breath came in shallow gasps as she tried to steel herself, telling herself it would be okay.

“He’s messing with me. He’s messing with me. He wouldn’t…”

But her thoughts were fractured, her mind replaying Aegon’s twisted smile, his eerie laugh, the way he had hinted at something horrible waiting for her. Her steps were slow, each one more painful than the last as she forced herself closer to the box. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to stop, to run, to leave—but she couldn’t. She had to know. She had to see what he had done.

Her knees nearly gave out beneath her as she stood in front of the box. Her hands trembled violently, hovering over the lid. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath ragged as she tried to calm herself, tried to tell herself that whatever was inside, she could handle it.

“You can do this,” she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. “It’s just a box. Just open it. Open it, and it’ll be over.”

She took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she gripped the lid. And then, just as she was about to lift it, she heard it.

“Meow.”

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, her heart skipping a beat. The sound was soft, almost delicate, and it took her a moment to process what she had heard. Slowly, with trembling hands, she lifted the lid of the box. Inside, curled up in a soft blanket, was a small golden kitten with wide, innocent eyes and a pretty blue collar around its neck.

For a moment, Y/N just stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Her breath caught in her throat, and the tears that had been threatening to spill over finally broke free. She let out a sob—of relief, of exhaustion, of fear—and collapsed to her knees in front of the box.

It was just a kitten. A cute, tiny kitten. Nothing horrible. Nothing gruesome. Just… a kitten.

“Oh my God,” she choked out between sobs, her hands trembling as she reached into the box and scooped the kitten up into her arms. The kitten nuzzled against her, purring softly, and Y/N cried harder, her body shaking with the force of her relief.

She hugged the kitten tightly to her chest, pressing her face into its soft fur as she sobbed uncontrollably. The tension, the fear, the gut-wrenching panic she had felt—it all came crashing down at once, and she couldn’t hold it back. She kissed the top of the kitten’s head, her tears soaking into its fur as she whispered, “Thank you. Thank you, God. Oh my God…”

For what felt like hours, she just sat there, cradling the kitten, her body wracked with sobs of relief. The terror she had felt—the belief that she would find something horrible, something irreversibly gruesome—it all melted away, leaving her trembling and exhausted.

When she finally managed to calm herself down, she stood up, still holding the kitten in her arms. Her mind was a haze, her body weak from the emotional onslaught. As she walked toward the kitchen to find something for the kitten to eat, she noticed something strange—the smell was still there.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach twisted again. She glanced around the kitchen, her eyes landing on the counter where a package of meat had been left out—rotting. The smell was coming from the meat.

Y/N almost laughed—a weak, breathless laugh. All of her fear, all of her panic, had been over rotting meat.

The realization made her feel foolish, but it also made her feel relieved. She hadn’t found her boyfriend’s body. She hadn’t found anything horrible waiting for her. Just a kitten and some rotten meat.

But as she fed the kitten and sat down on the floor, petting its soft fur, a new fear crept into her mind. Aegon’s words still echoed in her head. Why isn’t he answering your calls?

Her relief was short-lived, replaced by a sinking feeling of dread. Something was still wrong.

The doorbell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the quiet of the house. Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She held the kitten closer, her mind racing with a flood of possibilities. Was it Aegon? Had he followed her here? Her stomach twisted with fear as she slowly walked toward the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

With trembling hands, she peeked through the peephole. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Jacob standing on the other side, holding a bouquet of flowers. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—he was alive. Jacob was standing there, perfectly fine.

She flung the door open, tears spilling down her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. “Jacob!” she cried, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Oh my God, I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you so much.”

Jacob stood there, stunned, the flowers still clutched in his hand as he blinked down at her. “Y/N… are you okay? What happened?”

But Y/N didn’t let him finish. She tightened her hold on him, her tears soaking into his shirt as she pressed her face harder into his chest. “I thought… I thought something happened to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ve been so scared. I missed you so much, Jacob.”

His arms wrapped around her slowly, pulling her closer as he kissed the top of her head. “I missed you too, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice soft. He held her tightly, gently rubbing her back as he tried to calm her down. “I’m here now. Everything’s okay.”

For a moment, the relief was overwhelming, and she stayed in his arms, soaking in his warmth, the familiar smell of him. It was real—Jacob was safe, and Aegon hadn’t touched him. She hadn’t lost him.

After a few moments, they moved to the couch, and Y/N wiped her tears, trying to compose herself as she sat beside him. Jacob placed the bouquet of flowers on the coffee table, a small, awkward smile on his face as he looked at her. “I brought these for you,” he said softly.

She managed a weak smile, trying to hide the lingering fear that gnawed at her insides. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

They sat in a brief, comfortable silence before Jacob sighed, his expression turning more serious. “Y/N… there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Her heart sank. Something to talk about? She suddenly had a bad feeling, the unease creeping back into her chest. But she forced a smile, trying to push the anxiety aside. “What is it?”

Jacob ran a hand through his hair, his eyes filled with hesitation. “I’ve been offered a job,” he began slowly, “but it’s far away. Really far away. I’ll have to leave soon, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

Y/N’s mind immediately raced back to Aegon—the man who had haunted her thoughts and dreams, the man who had been tormenting her for weeks. The man who might have killed Jacob if things had gone differently. The thought of being alone, with no one to protect her from Aegon, made her stomach churn. But she swallowed her fear, forcing herself to remain calm.

She couldn’t tell Jacob about Aegon. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through. She didn’t want to fight with him again, and she certainly didn’t want him to think she was crazy.

So instead, she plastered on a smile, pretending everything was fine. “That’s… great,” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. “I’m really happy for you, Jacob.”

He looked at her, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you sure? I know it’s sudden, and I don’t want to leave you alone—”

“I’ll be fine,” Y/N interrupted, her voice firm despite the terror creeping into her chest. “I’ll be okay. You deserve this, and I don’t want to hold you back.”

Jacob smiled, relief washing over his face. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you, Y/N. That means a lot to me.”

They sat together for a while longer, talking about the details of his job and the logistics of his trip. Y/N listened, nodding at all the right moments, but inside, her mind was spiraling with fear. She smiled when she was supposed to, laughed at his jokes, and even kissed him, pretending that everything was fine. But deep down, she was still terrified. Aegon was out there, lurking in the shadows, and she knew he wasn’t done with her.

Jacob leaned in, kissing her softly, his hands cupping her face. She kissed him back, holding him close, trying to savor the moment despite the dread twisting in her stomach. When they pulled apart, Jacob smiled, his eyes soft and full of love. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Jacob smiled, clearly relieved by her reaction. He leaned in and kissed her softly, and she kissed him back, pretending everything was okay. But inside, she was shaking. The terror of what Aegon had said, of what he was capable of, still gnawed at her.

When they pulled away, Jacob wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close again. Y/N rested her head on his shoulder, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She closed her eyes, breathing in his familiar scent, trying to ground herself. But the fear still lingered, festering inside her.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the table, and Y/N flinched, her heart jumping into her throat. She reached for it with trembling hands, her eyes widening when she saw the message on the screen.

Do you like your gift? :)

The message was from an unknown number, but Y/N didn’t need to guess who it was. She paled, her heart hammering in her chest as the blood drained from her face. Aegon.

Her breath hitched, her body going rigid as fear gripped her once again. Her mind spiraled, panic clawing at her insides. She wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room, to run. But she couldn’t. Not in front of Jacob.

Jacob glanced over, noticing her reaction. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice casual, but Y/N could hear the hint of curiosity.

Y/N forced a smile, quickly locking her phone and setting it back down on the table. “No one,” she said, her voice strained but steady. “Just a spam text.”

Jacob didn’t seem to notice the tremor in her voice. He nodded, leaning back against the couch as he wrapped an arm around her. “I guess it’s just me and you tonight, then,” he said with a smile.

Y/N smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Inside, she was screaming. Aegon was watching. Aegon knew.

The days after Jacob left were quiet. Too quiet, in fact. Y/N tried to keep herself busy, throwing herself into distractions to keep her mind from wandering. At least she had Fluffy, the golden kitten Aegon had given her. He was a good boy, sweet and playful, a small comfort in the silence that now filled the house. She'd named him Fluffy because of his soft fur, and he seemed to take well to her affection, curling up in her lap and purring as if he sensed her unease.

But even Fluffy couldn't drown out the constant notifications from her phone. Aegon was still texting her, not the threatening or possessive kind of messages she was used to, but almost... sad ones. He talked about how he was feeling, how much everything hurt, how lonely he was. His words were raw, like those of a lost child, begging for attention, for someone to understand him.

“| don't know what's wrong with me anymore, Y/N."

"Everything hurts."

"I can't sleep, I can't think, I can't breathe without you."

"Why don't you ever reply? Do you even think about me? Or am I just dead to you?"

But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the kitten, or the movies, or anything else, there was one thing she couldn't escape: her phone. It buzzed constantly, the screen lighting up with message after message from Aegon. At first, she didn't bother reading them. She had learned long ago that giving him any attention, any response, was like feeding a starving animal. He would latch onto it and never let go.

He mentioned Fluffy too, explaining that he got her the kitten because he wanted her to have something to make her happy, something to be her friend when she felt alone. He wanted to give her a little version of Sunfyre, his beloved cat, so that she would have a piece of him even when he couldn't be with her. Aegon just wanted her to be happy.

There were long paragraphs detailing his spirals, how he would drink until he couldn't feel anything, how the world seemed to blur around him. His words became increasingly disjointed, desperate.

"I feel like I'm disappearing. Do you even remember me?"

"I bought him for you so you wouldn't be alone. So you'd have a piece of me with you."

"I wanted you to be happy. That's all l've ever wanted."

Sometimes, Y/N felt a strange flicker of pity for him. He sounded so hurt, so lost. But every time she thought about feeling sorry for him, she reminded herself that this was Aegon. The same man who had put her through hell, the same man who had stalked her, who had terrorized her. It didn't matter how sad or broken he sounded-she couldn't trust him. She couldn't let herself fall into that trap again.

And so, she ignored him.

She never replied to his messages. She couldn't. And for a while, it seemed like that was enough. Aegon remained calm, his texts gentle, almost pleading, but never aggressive. Everything was fine, or as fine as it could be.

Until it wasn't.

One evening, Y/N noticed her phone buzzing more than usual. At first, it was just a few messages from Aegon, the usual ramblings about his day or how much he missed her. But then the texts became more frequent, coming one after another, a steady stream of notifications lighting up her screen.

He was demanding her to reply.

It wasn't a request anymore-it was an order. The tone of his messages shifted, becoming more erratic, more desperate.

"Why aren't you answering me?"

"I know you're there."

"Please, just talk to me."

The texts came faster, piling up one after another until her phone buzzed continuously. Then, the calls started.

Her phone rang and rang, Aegon's name flashing across the screen. She ignored it, her hands trembling as she tried to keep herself calm. But the ringing didn't stop. It was relentless. The sound echoed in the small living room, pounding against her skull, making her chest tighten with anxiety.

Y/N couldn't take it anymore. Her heart was racing, her hands shaking as she reached for her phone and turned it off completely. The sudden silence was deafening, but it was better than hearing Aegon's voice, than seeing his name over and over.

She tried to distract herself, to forget about the flood of messages, about the growing dread building in the pit of her stomach. She put on a movie, curled up on the couch with Fluffy, trying to lose herself in the noise of the television. But her mind kept wandering back to Aegon, to his erratic texts, his sudden shift from pitiful to demanding. Something was Wrong. She could feel it.

And then, the doorbell rang.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

Her eyes flicked to the door, her body going cold as fear washed over her. She didn’t move at first, just stared at the door, her breath shallow, her mind racing. It couldn’t be…

Slowly, she stood up, her legs trembling as she moved toward the door, careful not to make a sound. She didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to see who was standing on the other side. But she had to know.

Peeking through the peephole, her blood turned to ice.

It was Aegon.

He was standing there, his face pale and smeared with blood. His clothes were stained with it too, dark crimson splashes that looked like they’d been hastily wiped away. His hair was disheveled, his eyes wide and wild, like an animal cornered and desperate.

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she watched him. He didn’t look right. He didn’t look normal. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

And then he spoke.

“Please… let me in.”

Her breath hitched, her entire body stiffening in place. She didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her mind racing too fast to form coherent thoughts. She just stood there, frozen in place, as he pressed his bloodied hand against the door, smearing it with red.

"I need you," he whispered, his voice hoarse, trembling. "Something happened. I did something bad. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to go to."

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he looked so utterly pathetic, so broken, that for a fleeting moment, Y/N almost felt sorry for him again. Almost. But the sheer terror that gripped her heart wouldn't let her move. She couldn't afford to feel sorry for him. Not now.

"I don't feel good, Y/N" Aegon sobbed, his hand sliding down the door, leaving a dark red smear behind. "Please... I just want to see you. Please. Let me in."

Y/N’s hand hovered over the doorknob, her mind a storm of confusion and fear. A part of her wanted to open the door, wanted to help him. He looked so broken, so lost. She couldn’t help but feel that same flicker of pity again, that small voice in the back of her mind whispering that maybe he really did need her, that maybe he really was just a scared, lonely boy.

But then Aegon’s face twisted, his tear-streaked expression contorting into something darker, something terrifying.

“You fucking bitch!” he snarled, slamming his fists against the door. The sudden violence made Y/N jump, her breath catching in her throat as she stumbled back, her eyes wide with terror.

“I know you’re in there!” Aegon screamed, his voice raw with rage. “You think you can hide from me?! You think I don’t fucking know?!”

He pounded on the door again, harder this time, the wood rattling under the force of his fists. “You’re mine!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fury. “I’ll fucking kill you, Y/N! I’ll rip you open! I’ll tear you apart!”

Y/N’s body went cold, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. She stumbled back, her mind screaming at her to run, to hide. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t face him. Not like this.

Y/N's body moved on instinct, her fight-or-flight response kicking in. She ran. She bolted to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hands shook so violently that she could barely turn the lock, but she did it. She locked the door and stumbled backward.

Y/N sat huddled in the tub, her entire body trembling uncontrollably, clutching Fluffy so tightly that she could feel his little heartbeat against her chest. Her breath was shallow, uneven, the fear twisting in her stomach like a knife. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to silence the sobs that threatened to escape. If she made a sound—any sound—he would know where she was.

The front door had crashed open. Aegon was inside. He didn’t call out anymore; the apartment had gone terrifyingly quiet except for the slow, deliberate thud of his footsteps. Each step echoed through the empty rooms, growing louder, heavier. He was searching for her.

Her mind raced, each frantic thought more horrifying than the last.

He’s going to find me. He’s going to kill me.

Her heart hammered so violently in her chest that she thought it might explode. The apartment was small; there weren’t many places to hide. He would check the bedroom soon. It was only a matter of time before he found her.

Stay quiet. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe he’ll think you’re not here.

But the thought was ridiculous. He knew she was here. He had known from the moment he’d started pounding on the door. He could feel her fear, her presence, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

The footsteps grew closer.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing herself against the cold, hard surface of the tub. Her grip tightened around Fluffy, who had gone still in her arms, sensing the terror in the air. She could hear Aegon’s footsteps in the hallway now, slow and methodical, as if he were savoring the anticipation.

Don’t come in here. Please, don’t come in here.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Her entire body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat. She bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood, forcing herself to stay still, stay quiet. Her chest ached from the effort of holding her breath. Every muscle in her body screamed in agony from the tension, but she didn’t dare move. She didn’t dare make a sound.

The silence was unbearable. The only thing she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears, each thud a countdown to her doom.

The floorboards creaked. He was inside the room now.

Her mind was racing, a whirlwind of fear and desperation. What do I do? What can I do?

Run? No, he was too close. He would hear her. He would catch her. There was nowhere to run.

Fight? With what? She had nothing. She was defenseless. He was stronger than her, and she had seen the blood. She had no idea what he was capable of.

Hide. Just hide. Stay quiet.

She could hear him moving through the room, the soft scrape of his shoes against the floor. He wasn’t saying anything, but the silence was more terrifying than his screaming had ever been. It was the silence of someone who knew exactly what they were going to do. The silence of someone who was in control.

He’s looking for me. Her stomach twisted into a knot of terror.

The sound of a drawer being yanked open, then another. He was checking everywhere. She could picture him tearing through the room, methodically searching every corner, every shadow. Her heart thudded in her chest, so loud she thought for sure he could hear it. Can he hear it? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic surging through her.

Please, please, just leave.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted. Y/N’s breath hitched as she realized he was standing right outside the bathroom door. She could hear his breathing now, low and ragged, like a beast just beyond the threshold.

He knows. He knows I’m in here.

Her whole body locked up in terror as she imagined him standing there, staring at the door, his bloodshot eyes wide and crazed, his hands still covered in blood. Her mind conjured up horrifying images of him busting through, grabbing her, and dragging her out of the tub, his fingers sinking into her flesh.

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me and I’ll never see daylight again.

Fluffy shifted slightly in her arms, a soft, almost imperceptible meow escaping his tiny throat. Y/N’s breath hitched, terror flashing through her veins like electricity. No, no, no, no, no.

The bathroom door handle rattled.

She froze. Every inch of her body turned to ice. The metal handle creaked as Aegon twisted it, testing the lock. It didn’t open, but he was trying. He was there. Just on the other side.

Her entire world shrank to that single sound—the soft, rhythmic rattling of the door handle as Aegon tried to get in. It felt like hours passed as she sat there, paralyzed in the tub, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for him to break through.

And then, with a sickening thud, the door slammed.

He was pounding on it now, harder and harder, the force of his blows making the door tremble. Each hit reverberated through her, shaking her down to her core.

Oh god, he’s coming in. He’s going to get in.

The doorframe groaned under the pressure, the wood splintering. Y/N pressed herself further into the tub, trying to make herself as small as possible, her heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst. Her breathing was shallow, her chest tight with fear. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to run, but she couldn’t. She was trapped.

The door cracked. She could hear the wood giving way.

Oh god, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me.

But then… silence.

The pounding stopped.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Was it over? Did he leave?

Her body trembled, her muscles aching from the tension. She didn’t dare move. She didn’t dare make a sound. She just waited, listening.

Nothing. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the eerie, deafening quiet.

Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her head, straining to hear something—anything. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Maybe he had given up. Maybe he was gone.

But then, out of nowhere, a loud, sickening crash shattered the silence.

Y/N’s blood ran cold. She whipped her head toward the source of the sound, her heart seizing in her chest.

Aegon’s face smashed through the small window in the bathroom door, the glass shattering around him. His bloodshot eye stared through the broken pane, wide and unblinking, searching. His face was smeared with blood, his skin pale and stretched tight over his bones, but it was his eye—his one, crazed, bloodshot eye—that was the most terrifying.

It was staring right at where she was hiding.

Did he saw me? Did he saw me? Oh god. I'm dead. I'm dead.

Y/N slapped her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she tried to stifle her breathing, her whole body trembling uncontrollably. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that he couldn’t see her, that he couldn’t hear the terrified gasps that escaped her despite her best efforts.

Don’t breathe. Don’t move. He can’t see you. He can’t see you.

But his eye… it was right there, inches from her, staring through the broken glass with a wild, unhinged intensity. His breathing was heavy, ragged, echoing in the small space as he scanned the room, looking for her. His hand reached through the broken window, the bloodied fingers scraping against the door, searching, clawing.

Y/N’s heart thundered in her chest, her pulse so loud she thought for sure he could hear it. Her entire body shook with fear, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. She pressed her hand harder against her mouth, trying to muffle the sounds of her sobs.

Please don’t find me. Please, god, don’t find me.

For what felt like an eternity, Aegon stayed there, his face pressed against the door, his eye wide and frantic, his breath fogging up the glass. He didn’t say anything, didn’t scream or yell. He just… looked.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

He pulled back, his bloodied hand retreating through the shattered window. His footsteps echoed through the apartment once again, slow and deliberate, growing fainter and fainter until they finally disappeared altogether.

He was gone.

Y/N stayed there, curled up in the bathtub, her body trembling violently, tears streaming down her face as she clutched Fluffy to her chest. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even breathe properly, too scared to believe that it was really over.

When she was sure he was gone, she let out a strangled, shaky breath and crawled out of the tub, her legs weak and shaking. Fluffy stayed behind, still curled up in the tub, too scared to move.

Her fingers fumbled for her phone, but she had turned it off earlier. With shaking hands, she powered it on, and as soon as the screen flickered to life, she called the police.

But even as she pressed the phone to her ear, the sound of her own heartbeat drowned everything else out.

How about you? Did you like this part?

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[marcyvampire]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[genericpuff]

Hi! So this is coming from a place of genuine concern, LR Persephone isn't going to have DID right? I know you probably can't reveal much but DID is already a very stigmatized disorder so I'm always worried when I see the Signs, I hope you understand lol

I understand fully your concerns, and I hope I can reassure you in my own intentions regarding Kore / Persephone that the goal is not to demonize or stigmatize DID in any way. I actually do regularly interact with a family member who's currently seeking an official diagnosis for it, and have my own firsthand experiences with my own mental health and symptoms of childhood trauma that are intersectional with that of DID. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm immune to stigmatizing, but rest assured that I am aware of the stigmas surrounding DID and the misconceptions that a lot of people have about it, no thanks to how it's been portrayed in mainstream media.

If I can add some additional and necessary context as to why I chose to write Kore like this, much of how I'm writing her is based on how she was initially presented to us in S1 of LO, particularly through the personification of her wrath:

I really liked this concept and was subsequently disappointed when it seemed to get left behind (though considering how LO turned out, maybe that was for the better lmao) I've always enjoyed these "inner conflict" character dynamics, but I also understand from years of writing characters like this that much of these types of tropes are often intersectional with common misconceptions and stigmas surrounding personality disorders and mental illness.

Within the context of Rekindled, Kore does not specifically have DID but her experiences are clearly intersectional with it. Ultimately my goal is to empathize, not demonize. As much as "Persephone" may be currently presenting herself as a sort of snarky "alter ego" of Kore, she is not evil, no more "evil" than Kore herself, because they're ultimately of the same mind and body, flaws and all. Persephone is often speaking truths that Kore is simply not willing to admit or able to face, the worst of which we've yet to uncover, but will be necessary to overcome. There will certainly be times when Kore's actions - spurred on by the voice of Persephone in her ear - may be ugly or wrong, but I hope in the end that I'll achieve my goal in expressing that everyone - even immortal gods - can always have another chance to heal, to forgive themselves for their past, and to do right by themselves for the sake of a brighter future. This will apply to other gods in the story as well, many of whom also share Kore's struggles and experiences.

And, assuming I do my part and deliver on my promises, there will be closure for Kore/Persephone, the readers who relate to their struggles and experiences, and many of the other characters who were hung out to dry in the original comic. That's definitely one of my biggest goals with this retelling, at least! (•̀ᴗ•́)و It's definitely one of my riskier moves as the nature of the subject is very sensitive, but I'm giving it my all in the hopes that it pays off in a more nuanced and in-depth character arc for Kore/Persephone than what we got in LO that can hopefully be embraced as a message of acceptance and self-love. And y'all can hold me to that (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧

[autismswagsummit]

Since Ferb is on this bracket, I think it’s important to point out that Gretel from Dan Povenmire’s latest show Hamster and Gretel was confirmed to have ADHD in an interview! While ADHD and autism aren’t the same thing, there’s a lot of similarities between the two and AuDHD is pretty common, so I think she deserves to be mentioned here!

There’s a lot of canon autism rep but not as much canon ADHD rep so I’m glad that Gretel is confirmed to have ADHD. It hasn’t been stated in the show yet but it’s heavily implied through scenes of her being frustrated by schoolwork and getting distracted easily. Dan clearly worked hard to get the representation accurate!

That's really interesting! It's not a show I'm familiar with, but I'm pretty much always happy to hear about good quality representation for mental illnesses and neurodivergence. If memory serves, someone joked about telling Dan Povenmire about the competition before (during the Doubles Round when Phineas & Ferb were running) and it gave me a bit of a weird feeling because his work was quite a big part of my childhood. Good on him for doing some good for all the ADHD kids out there

[dreadnought-despair]

hey y'all yeah this is the post you think it is

after two official tries and several unposted attempts over the course of almost 8 years, i think im calling dreadnought despair, er... mostly dead? BUT im bringing this blog back! ill be picking stuff to answer from the askbox (keep in mind i have a job and im getting old lol) as well as just drawing the kids bc i miss them

i also feel pretty bad about where i left off, so i'm considering finishing out chapter 1 (if i can remember how i had all the code set up 😬) but it would take A While. so heres a poll

more of an explanation under the cut. if you want to see what else I've been up to, check out my art blog @amelias-art and my twitch [AmeliasArt], where i've started streaming pretty regularly on tuesdays and thursdays around 7pm CST!

im sure this cancellation isn't a surprise to anyone but i just wanted to get this out there for my own peace of mind

it has nothing to do with the wonderful folks who supported me through the years and everything to do with my mental health, getting older, and frankly poor story planning. it's a classic case of a project that never had a strong outline and thus ballooned in scope as it went-- you'll see what i mean when i start trying to answer asks about what would've been the endgame LOL. and ill do my best to answer some stuff, but there are some unintroduced concepts and characters that i would like to save for other stories so i may be vague about parts of it

even if it was masterfully planned, though, it still would've been hard to really pick up again-- I started this fic in college when I was at my most suicidal, and the reboot happened in 2020 which, well anyway,, im in a better place now with a loving husband, a stable job, a healthier relationship with my queerness, and multiple mental health diagnoses and medications. im proud of what i did accomplish with dreadnought, and im grateful to it and the community for getting me through some miserable times, but it's still a reminder of those times in and of itself. maybe by officially shelving it i can move on

thank you so much for sticking around! it really means a lot to me

[thebramblewood]

this is in a similar vein to an ask you got recently but do you have any tips for those who are interested in sims 4 (or even other games like ts3 and ts2) storytelling? I write fanfiction but I think making sims 4 stories could be a fun venture. Anyway, thank you for your time! I love your stories so very much they're literally my hyperfixation!

Well, that makes two of us because it's literally my hyperfixation. I think I've shared bits of advice before, so some of this might sound familiar, but here are some things I think are important to remember (and I tried to be concise, I swear).

Write the story you want to write. Obviously, it's a great feeling when something takes off and people get invested. But if you pursue an idea only because you think Simblr will like it, you probably won't be inspired for long and it'll probably show. I've been very lucky with my story, but it didn't blow up overnight. Early on, I was thrilled to get double digit notes or one reblog or comment and was admittedly disappointed when I put a lot of effort into something and nobody seemed to notice. But I kept going because I was obsessed and wanted to see it through, and that's more true now than ever.

Start with low stakes and allow yourself to evolve. Before I was on Simblr, I made Sims stories with no poses or visual enhancements or fancy editing. I wrote them for myself, and I loved every minute of it, but they also gave me a solid foundation for the kind of storytelling I do now. Even after starting this blog, I eased myself into it. I learned how to use poses and Reshade, then moved on to more advanced editing techniques, then moved on to teaching myself to make poses and very basic CC. If you try to learn it all at once, you're more likely to give up because you're overwhelmed. Take your time and make peace with the fact that perfection isn't possible. Everyone's always learning!

Take advantage of the fact that Sims is a game. Even though I've been a creative writer for most of my life, I don't come up with fully-fleshed, elaborate Sims stories from scratch. It started off with my legacy and not wanting every generation to feel the same. I thought about gameplay I hadn't experienced yet and centered each generation's story around that. Even with HZID, I just wanted to make and play with vampires! That's it! Initially, I used a lot of gameplay to convey Helena's college experiences, and I still try to incorporate it when I can. It can really be a great base to spark your creativity if you don't know where to start.

Don't have a life outside your story. I'm joking. Kind of. I'm not a very social person and I don't like leaving my house if I don't have to. This leaves me with a lot of time for working on story things. Honestly, I could probably stand to work on it less. But for better or worse, I'm doing story-related things most nights and weekends, and even if I'm not doing anything, I'm thinking about it. It's probably mental illness, but we'll just call it passion. At the same time, it's also important to take breaks! If you're feeling burnt out, step away for a while. If you can't make yourself step away completely (raises hand), just edit the script or spin your blorbos around in CAS or something rather than going straight for posing a scene.

Follow and interact with other storytellers. This is probably the most important thing, and as someone who struggles with social anxiety it was the hardest for me to do. But I try to make a point of keeping up with other stories, commenting, and reblogging. Not only will the amazing talent of other writers inspire you, but you're building meaningful connections that make them more likely to want to interact with your story. There's no denying it feels amazing to watch your audience grow. But no one's going to see you if you don't make an effort to be seen, as scary as it can be. So try to be active in the community and support other storytellers the way you want to be supported!

[wc-confessions]

The way people were harping on Dovewing dying in Ivypool’s Heart gives me serious Ferncloud vibes.

It annoyed me when people justified their theory because “Dovewing hasn’t been doing anything but have kits/be a mother”. God forbid one of the female characters be a loving mother to her children. God forbid she worry about them, especially after one of her sons was almost killed and the other actually died.

Ferncloud was killed off for being the motherly type and it’s IMO some weird Deja vu that her granddaughter is being seen in the same light by the fandom.

I also disliked how people were quick to excuse Ivypool’s outburst on Dovewing’s pain not being as bad as hers because Rowankit was a baby and in StarClan whilst Bristlefrost was an adult and is gone forever. Imagine trying to justify the belief that a BABY’S death isn’t as bad as an adult’s. Both deaths are awful experiences in their own right.

Yes, Ivypool was grieving. She lashed out. She’s still wrong though and people need to stop using mental illness/distress as an excuse to hurt others. Unfortunately the story doesn’t have her apologize for it. However, the story did good when it had Ivypool realize that whilst Rowankit was a baby, Dovewing grieved for what could’ve been. Bristlefrost said her good-byes and was prepared to die; she chose to sacrifice herself. Rowankit didn’t choose to die and he suffered slowly, suffocating day after day until his little body couldn’t fight anymore. Dovewing had to watch helplessly as her son suffered and died and wait for help that never arrived. She clung onto hope that failed her. She’s in pain but trying to stay alive.

.

[yannaryartside]

WE NEED 5 SEASONS

Okay I need to vent a little. Please indulge me

This is for this article that says the 5th season is up to Storer.

Storer said they filmed most of season 4, and some things still need to be filmed. So we will have s4 next summer, and we don't know if there will be a 5th one.

I could put my hand on fire to my belief that we will have 5 seasons. Mostly, because regardless of the importance of showing “being trapped in negative patterns” that was s3 for multiple characters, is not gonna be a satisfying conclusion if all those patterns are resolved in one season.

Realistically, i would not make sense.

Even if you think Claire is Carmy’s salvation, this graceful, perfect angel that came to serve Carmy’s redemption, and when they get together, everything will be fine (that narrative sucks ass, by the way, is perpetually insulting to everyone that had ever had a mental illness to suggest them they only need to fall on the hands of someone that ignores all their defects and are determined to please them). You could believe this is all about self-sabotage, and Carmy will wake up next season, apologize to Claire, save the restaurant by ex-maquina magic, and get his happy ending. Yeah, that will be 4 seasons of a conclusive story and an objectively terrible narrative. It is also very insulting to every person who has a romantic partner who struggles with addiction and/or mental illness to tell them they need to be this fairy tale of a person who is Claire to bring "peace" to their partner and basically solve their life. Fuck that. I refuse to believe they are doing that on purpose.

But if they put the “sleigh of hand” and Carmy has to realize that his emotional dependence on Claire is toxic and only contributed to his depression and disassociation, since you spent all S3 pulling him in that direction, making him believe that is what he wanted/needed, you are going to need a whole season for him even to “scape the illusion.” All of this will align with the Bear having to close, Syd potentially leaving, and starting dating Luca. So, S4 is going to be the “wake-up call.”

S5 should be the season of creating new patterns. Carmy will get into therapy. Syd will come back. The two will create new recipes and work on the menu (collaboration, vulnerability). They will realize they have true feelings for one another. Each character will move towards the place they are gonna end up with.

If you created a whole season about "being in the freeze response" and another two previous seasons of extending trauma and bad coping mechanisms, you are gonna need more than one season to fix that; mental wellness is not like that; it should be treated like something that requires more time combined with efforts.

Not to mention, if SydCarmy is indeed happening, you have spent 3 fucking seasons creating distance between them. I also feel like so much of Sydney's life (to her and to us) is trapped around Carmy's issues, and it actually would make more sense for her to realize being with Carmy is too taxing for her, regardless if she had the most realistic tools to actually help him to grow.

You also had not given Sydney a proper arc to grow from her insecurities and follow her dreams. She still seems to be as insecure of her own skills as when she came in, because Carmy insist on creating a menu based on his trauma. Regardless of his good intentions and the beauty of their connection, she will leave the "bear narrative" as if Carmy is the closest thing she had to a chef David, as if Carmy was the monster she needed to endure to "grow" or "decide better." Fuck that.

[plusvanity]

Hii, a few posts back you said you have your opinions on Faust and Euronymous separately could you make a post on that?

Love your analysis :)

Øystein has an interesting personality. I talked a bit about him in comparison with Varg at some point because they do share a few characteristic features.

I would describe Øystein as ambitious, talented, creative, hard-working and a leader. I don't think he worked very hard (as Varg, for example) to gain admiration from the people around him, I think that his ingenious ideas and musical innovation attracted people naturally.

He knew how to make himself be respected by his peers because he was open-minded, understanding, and had an optimistic attitude (as many described him) towards life.

It's pretty clear that he wasn't as mentally unstable as others in the scene, but it doesn't mean that he had no issues. I believe he had a bit of an inclination to be people-pleasing while also trying to remain firm on his views and beliefs.

He was prideful, confident (especially about his music), enjoyed the position of power and influence in which he was but didn't abuse that at all. He was arrogant at times and full of himself, but there is a fine line between the character that he was playing (Euronymous) and the real person he was inside.

I see him as having a few narcissistic features but not enough to consider him in the NPD spectrum. He was also quite understanding (especially when Euperor got signed by Candlelight Records) and you don't really see full-blown narcissists being reasonable and understanding.

Unfortunately, because of his strong personality and leadership attributes (dominant, assertive), he managed to attract a very toxic person in his life that lately became his murderer.

The fact that he had a healthy relationship with his parents tells a lot about him. He seemed to have much more authentic confidence than Varg ever had as well as discipline. He seemed much more thoughtful about consequences than Varg, and this became apparent when he took a step back from a situation that would have brought him extra fame, but also MASSIVE implications (negative attention). He also closed his shop at the suggestion of his parents.

These attributes generally come from a 'good enough' household.

Later on, it's quite evident that he struggled with depression because of Pelle's death. There are some indications of 'self harm' and excessive drinking behaviour. But it is also possible that he had episodic depression in the time that Pelle was alive because we all know that depression and anxiety are socially transmitted mental illnesses (or at least we should know).

I personally find his implication in church-burnings a theatrical movement rather than a truly antisocial behaviour. So this makes me think that naturally, he had fewer violent impulses than he wanted to display to the public. In addition to this, he even tried to dissociate himself from the image that Varg's juvenile criminality was put on him.

He had an inflated sense of ego that I tent to see it as theatrical rather than real, but this is how they were 'playing the game' back then.

His coping mechanisms after Pelle's death were dubious, but it is what it is. There is no point in getting into details. People cope differently with trauma. Øystein tried to cope as best as he could.

This is a very rough summary of how I see him.

Now, when it comes to Faust, I know he was seeing Øystein as a mentor. He had a lot of respect for him, this is undeniable.

Now, not all people are able to commit murder, even if in self-defense. What Faust did was reacting on impulse. I don't know what was in his head when he did it, but he described in an interview as 'seeing himself out of his body as he was doing it' and this is due to adrenaline rush combined with the brain's inability to cope with what is happening on the spot. He dissociated at the scene and probably had a hard time believing what he did after that.

In the context in which Faust committed his crime, this is antisocial behaviour. Another detail that stuck out was how he described the incident. 'Stomping on his head' is nothing but cruelty and sadism, in my opinion.

I am not saying that he is in a 'certain way', but these are my thoughts on him for what he's done.

Remember that anyone who killed a person or an animal can do it again. This is a psychological fact. Maybe they will never repeat their mistake, maybe they will seek redemption, but once you've done something like this, you are very, very likely to repeat the behaviour.

I hope you find this useful, anon

[madlificent]

Reach Clip Studio Paint Pro - 6 hours Throughout the past year, I have become entranced by the band glass beach ever since my friend recommended "plastic death" to me. "the first glass beach album" (where the line in this piece is from) is a trans anthem from a band with multiple queer members including their trans gal lead. It resonates so deeply with me and I sing along with it quite often. And as my transition continues along and I jam out to glass beach for the millionth time, I often end up reflecting back on my journey and the emotions held within it, both recent and long past. I'll admit that, despite how comforting it initially was to say the words "I think I'm trans" to my partner almost two years ago now, it was also terrifying and worrisome. I didn't know what that meant, I didn't know what that would look like for me, how family and friends would react. I was stepping into a void, an abyss if you will, and I was more than a little scared. But a part of my self, my true self, pleaded for me to take her hand and join her in diving into that abyss. Because even though the unknown was scary, with time it would grow comfortable, I'd adjust and find my footing in it and it was a whole hell of a lot better in time than the lie I was living for so long. And that's what this piece is about. It features Sorochi instead of myself as I have always found portraying my gender and mental health struggles to be more comfortable for me when they are channeled through her. Her true self bears the wings of the abyss angel, a critter of glass beach's making. I wanted to play with the “savior” concept, but angel wings felt far far too cliche and ill-fitting. The amorphous, “ugly” design of the abyss angel’s wings and its name felt much more in line with the vision I had. Because I wasn’t fully sure who I would become or what form I would take when I first jumped in. And I’m honestly still finding that out as time marches ever onward. I also wanted to spin the savior concept on its head a little and make the savior another version of one’s self. Because that’s really what happened for me. Yeah I talked about my identity with friends, yeah I sought my partner for support and a therapist for counseling, but ultimately the only one that really made the first step in all of that process was me. And that’s not to say I don’t appreciate the support and the love my friends, family, and peers have given me, I cherish it more than they all know. But I also recognize that only I could make the final decisions, call the final shots, take the first step into the abyss.

I think also that "into the abyss again" stands out in particular to me for this piece. Because, as depicted in a sort of twisted "black and white, x is absolutely y" fashion, I was already in an abyss. One I had slowly sank into over time and constructed by expectations, lack of knowledge, and fear of digging too deep lest I uncover something horrific. But that abyss was leeching me, I didn't know how lifeless, how drained I was until two years into this journey where I am finally joyous and bouncy and comfortable in my skin. Sorochi is my own OC. Lyrics and abyss angel wings belong to @glass--beach

[clangenrising]

I know u said I don’t have to apologize but I would like to preface this with I’m sorry for upsetting you, I wasn’t trying to say that those with cluster b personalities are more likely to like- Hurt people, just that their “level of evil” is at a point that I can’t imagine someone just… choosing if that makes sense? I wasn’t trying to like make them little sad soft boys just that, based on my own experiences of having a mental illness that does disposition me to do bad stuff, their thought processes seemed similar to mine rather than how I’d imagine a non-mentally ill person’s thought process would work, apologies

I understand that. But I specifically told you not to apologize to me. I know it hurts to get critiques like that, especially in such a public space, but I need you guys as my audience to be brave about that stuff, okay?

It takes a lot out of me to feel like I need to console my audience any time i push back on something they say. It's kind of exhausting to do so much emotional labor.

As well, you're still not understanding my point, or if you are you're ignoring it to justify saying what you said when you really don't have to. Razor and Sardine did "just choose" to do the things they did and they did them for racist, sexist, and egotistical reasons. That's the whole point of their characters. People can choose to be harmful and just because that choice feels justified to them doesn't make it okay and it also doesn't mean that they must have a sympathetic reason for making it or they must be mentally ill.

I'm not trying to say anything about your experience with mental illness. It sucks to have a mental illness that causes you to make poor choices or hurt those around you, I know from experience. But I think you're projecting onto these characters and that was the point of my original response; to say "You are reading my characters extremely incorrectly in a way that is actually very harmful to people who actually have those disorders".

Please stop for a second. Think about what I said and actually work on your beliefs/behavior. Do not return to my inbox to perform contrition.

The behavior itself is the real problem, not whether or not I personally got upset. You don't know me. I'm a stranger on the internet. You shouldn't be trying so hard to make me like you. This goes to all of my followers - you shouldn't be so focused on getting my approval that you ignore the actual message I'm trying to send. I want people to learn and grow, I don't care if they come and apologize for having a bad take.

[robotmechagirl]

My Aunt and Uncle (whom took the role of my parents) telling me childhood trauma before they adopted me is the reason why I’m transgender. 🤢🤮 They say they love me and want me to be happy, but only when it fits their mold for me.

They said I’m mentally ill, cheered on by friends and family to transition when it’s bad for me. They couldn’t handle me pointing out how many and friends and family members I’ve had to disconnect with because of their opposition to my existence, how much harassment and abuse I’ve gotten from the general public, and how at best I feel tolerated.

The little pissy thing they did at the end of the conversation by saying “Well son, I love you *deadname*”, and hanging up as if that wasn’t a direct jab at me.

I’m sick to my stomach now and given up on them. I’ve tried so hard to be patient and understanding with them. Never blamed them for their ignorance. I’ve tried so hard to make them proud, but their expectations are for me to be that image they’ve built for me.

Because I can’t say this to them:

Mom, Dad, I love you. However your holy book is a collection of fables and it makes you into a shitty person when you base your morality on it as though it’s history.

[stnkiconverse]

you're going to do it, and you're getting away with it. you know that.

Ch.10 - Still Here.

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genre: psychological horror (in a way), creepypasta, supernatural thriller (in a way)

pairing: Jeff The Killer x Reader

WC: 2.5k

content warnings: echoes in the static contains scenes and themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: graphic violence and murder, mental illness and psychological distress, suicide and self-harm, domestic abuse, cannibalism and strong language.

Reader discretion is advised.

Yes this has to do with Creepypastas. Yes, Creepypastas will pop up and make appearances, it's basically a reader insert into the Creepypasta word.

do not repost my work anywhere, I only post in Tumblr.

When you wake up, it's 5 PM. The light outside your window is fading, casting long shadows across your room. You sit up slowly, feeling groggy and disoriented. The dreams you had were twisted and strange, filled with static and whispers, leaving you with a sense of unease that clings to your skin.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the living room, trying to shake off the heaviness in your limbs. The first thing you notice is Jeff’s hoodie, carelessly tossed over the back of the couch, the bloodstains on it still dark and dried. Your frustration flares up immediately, knowing he’s still around.

You scan the room and see him standing in the kitchen. He’s shirtless, wearing just his black jeans, his scarred torso on full display as he rummages through the fridge. A carton of milk is in his hand, and he’s drinking straight from it.

"Are you serious?" you snap, your irritation spilling over. Jeff turns slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin already stretching across his face.

"Morning, Petal," he says, completely unfazed by your anger.

"Why aren’t you gone?" you demand, stepping toward him.

"I already told you," he shrugs, leaning against the counter with the milk carton still in his hand. "I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied."

You roll your eyes and march over to him, snatching the carton out of his hand. "And what the hell does that even mean?" You shove the milk back into the fridge, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

Jeff’s eyes follow your movements, his grin never wavering. "You’ll find out soon enough," he says casually, leaning back on the counter, arms crossed. "Relax, Petal."

"Stop calling me that," you growl, turning away from him.

"You leave petals at every scene, don’t you? It fits," he says, his tone laced with mockery.

You glare at him, the mention of the person you really are making you tense, but don’t bother responding. You’re too tired, too frustrated to keep going back and forth with him. You grab your phone and sink onto the couch, scrolling through your apps, trying to find something to distract yourself from his presence.

Jeff, of course, doesn’t let you. Before you can even blink, he snatches your phone right out of your hands.

“What’s this?” he taunts, holding it just out of reach. “Got any dirty secrets in here?”

“Give it back,” you snap, lunging for it, but he dodges easily, his laugh grating on your nerves.

“No nudes, huh? That’s a shame.”

“Jeff!” you shout, swinging at him. You manage to hit his shoulder, but it only makes him grin wider.

In your frustration, you lunge at him again, but this time, Jeff catches your wrist, pulling you down on top of him. You end up straddling him, knees pressed into the cushions of the couch, and for a second, neither of you move.

Jeff looks up at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comfortable?” he murmurs, his hands resting on your hips.

You feel a flush creep up your neck and scramble off of him, grabbing your phone and muttering, “You’re such an asshole.”

He lets out a low chuckle as you storm into your room, slamming the door behind you. Leaning against it, you take a few deep breaths, trying to shake off the strange tension that lingers in the air.

---

You pull on a hoodie and head for the shower, hoping the heat will help clear your mind. The steam fills the small bathroom, and you stand under the spray for a long time, letting the water wash away the frustration. But no matter how hard you try to relax, the image of Jeff’s smug grin keeps resurfacing.

By the time you step out of the shower, you’ve made up your mind to go out. You need space—real space—and maybe even a release for the tension that’s been building inside you.

After dressing, you head out into the living room again, where Jeff is lounging lazily on the couch. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes following you as you grab your keys and head toward the door.

“Where’re we going?” Jeff asks, and you freeze, knowing he has no intention of letting you go alone.

“You’re not coming,” you say flatly, grabbing a jacket and pulling it on.

“Sure I am,” he replies, pulling on his shoes before standing up and stretching. "I haven’t had my fun yet."

You don’t bother arguing with him. You just head out the door, and Jeff falls into step beside you.

His jacket discarded back at your apartment, now wearing his tank top, and one of your black surgical masks he reluctantly put on after you forced him to.

---

The grocery store is dimly lit, its fluorescent lights flickering as you walk through the aisles. You keep your head down, focusing on what you need—bread, milk, a few cans of soup, the essentials.

Jeff, on the other hand, makes no effort to blend in. He saunters behind you, his hood up but doing nothing to hide the scars that twist across his arms, neck and torso. People stare openly, their eyes widening in a mix of horror and confusion when they catch sight of him. A young woman pushing a cart with her child practically runs to another aisle the moment she sees him.

A group of teenagers snicker nervously as Jeff walks past them, but their laughter quickly dies when Jeff shoots them a cold, calculating look. You glance over at him, but he just shrugs, clearly enjoying the reactions.

"You're really something, aren't you?" you mutter under your breath as you grab a loaf of bread.

"You noticed?" Jeff smirks, leaning against a shelf and watching you with a lazy interest.

The woman at the checkout counter is visibly shaking as she scans your items, her hands fumbling as she bags your groceries. She doesn’t say a word, her eyes flicking nervously between you and Jeff.

You scoff, obviously done. And walk out of the store, nothing in hand.

---

When you get back home, you slide a large knife from the kitchen and tuck it into your hoodie pocket. Jeff doesn’t notice—he’s too busy rummaging through whatever the fuck is left in your fridge, like it’s the most fascinating thing.

You slip back into your room and quietly open the window, climbing out into the cold night air. The darkness is thick, the streets empty as you move swiftly toward the edge of town, where the forest begins to loom just beyond the streetlights.

You don’t know the forest well, but it’s secluded, and that’s all you need. As you make your way deeper into the shadows, you spot a man stumbling out of a nearby bar. He’s drunk, barely able to stand straight.

Perfect.

You approach him with a smile, your voice soft and inviting. "Hey, you look lost. Need some help?"

The man blinks at you, his eyes glassy. "Yeah... yeah, sure. That’d be... that’d be great."

You guide him away from the bar, toward the entrance of the forest. It’s dark, the trees casting long shadows, but you don’t go too far in. You stop just at the edge, where the streetlights can barely reach.

When the man turns to face you, confused by the sudden stop, you strike. The knife slices through his throat in one clean motion, blood spilling out in a hot spray. He chokes, eyes wide with shock, but it’s over quickly. His body crumples to the ground, and you stand over him, breathless, the familiar rush flooding your veins.

You don’t linger. You leave the body at the edge of the forest, a petal from the red spider lily tucked beside him like a signature. You don’t dare go deeper into the trees, not when you don’t know the way yet.

---

By the time you get back to your apartment, your clothes are splattered with blood, and the weight of the kill is settling into your bones. You strip off your clothes and toss it aside, heading straight for the shower. The hot water washes the blood from your skin, but it doesn’t wash away the feeling—the satisfaction, the calm that comes after the storm.

After drying off, you collapse into bed, your mind heavy with the events of the night. Exhaustion pulls you under, and for a few hours, you’re lost in a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

It’s around 3 AM when you wake up suddenly, the sound of voices pulling you from the darkness. You sit up, groggy and disoriented, blinking in the dim light of your room.

You hear the voices again—low, murmuring from the living room.

Creeping toward the door, you crack it open just enough to peek out. Jeff is standing near the front door, talking to two men. They’re both dressed in yellow—one in a hoodie, the other in a jacket. Their faces are covered, but their conversation sends a chill down your spine.

“This is taking too long,” the one in the jacket says, his voice rough. “He wants her there.”

Your heart skips a beat. Her. They’re talking about you.

The other man nods. “We’re running out of time.”

You lean against the door, your mind racing. But then the floor beneath you creaks, and all three heads snap toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff’s eyes lock onto yours. There's a flicker of amusement in his expression.

Without thinking, you slam the door shut and twist the lock, your heart pounding in your chest. The silence on the other side is thick and suffocating.

Who is 'he'?

You freeze, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from your chest. The conversation outside your door sinks in—the cryptic, disturbing words circling in your mind.

“He wants her there.”

You know they’re talking about you. But the who, the why—it’s all a mystery wrapped in layers of fear and confusion. Your breathing quickens as you press your back against the wall, willing yourself to remain calm.

What now?

A voice from the other side of the door breaks the silence. It’s Jeff, his tone low and almost amused. “... What are you doing?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer, the cold fear settling in your stomach like a stone. You hear a soft chuckle, and then Jeff speaks again, this time more insistent. “Open the door.”

You remain frozen in place, torn between the urge to open it and the desire to stay hidden in the relative safety of your room. Your hand hovers over the lock, your mind screaming at you not to let him in, not to trust him, but there’s something more than fear gnawing at you now—curiosity. You need answers, and despite every warning sign flashing in your head, you know Jeff has them.

The silence stretches out, thick and heavy. Finally, you hear the other two men speak, their voices barely more than whispers. It’s impossible to make out what they’re saying, but you catch a few words—time, orders, patience.

Jeff sighs, clearly frustrated, before his voice takes on a sharper edge. “This would be a lot easier if you didn’t eavesdrop, you know?”

You glare at the door, clenching your fists. He always knows how to needle you, always trying to push your buttons, and right now you don’t have the patience for his games. But before you can respond, there’s a shift in the energy outside. You hear footsteps, the two men moving away from the door, and the front door of your apartment clicks shut softly. They’ve left.

For a long moment, you stand there in the suffocating quiet, waiting for something—anything—to happen. You can hear your own breathing, shallow and fast, mixing with the faint hum of static that still lingers at the edge of your hearing. It’s there again—the Operator’s presence, always just on the edge of your awareness.

Then, a soft knock at the door. You jump, your body tense, but it’s just Jeff. You can tell by the laziness in the knock, like he’s not even worried.

“I’ll explain. Just open the door, Y/N.”

You hesitate for a moment, every instinct screaming at you not to trust him. But what other choice do you have? Slowly, you unlock the door and pull it open, just a crack. Jeff’s face greets you, that infuriating smirk plastered across his lips, but his eyes are serious—dark and focused.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

You glare at him, folding your arms over your chest. “Who the hell were they? And what the hell was that about?”

Jeff runs a hand through his messy hair, the cocky grin fading slightly as he leans against the wall. “You’re in the thick of it now, Petal. That wasn’t some random encounter earlier. The Operator—he—has plans for you. You’re part of something bigger.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of the Operator again. “What does that mean? Why me?”

Jeff shrugs, looking almost bored. “I mean, you decided to become a serial killer, so that’s that. I’m not exactly in the loop when it comes to his grand designs. But those two guys? They work for him too. Guess they’re just here to check up on things, make sure you’re... cooperating.”

“Cooperating with what?” you ask, the frustration building inside you again. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit,” Jeff replies, blunt and unbothered. “Once the Operator sets his sights on someone, you don’t get a choice. You’re in it whether you like it or not.”

You sink onto the edge of the bed, your head spinning. This can’t be happening. You thought your life was already screwed up, but now it feels like you’ve been dragged into something darker, something far beyond your control. The Operator wants you, but for what? What role do you play in all of this? What the hell even is an Operator?

Jeff watches you quietly for a moment, his usual sarcasm taking a backseat as he studies your expression. His eyes flicker with something... softer, almost like concern, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Look,” he says, his voice a little quieter now, “You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I don’t know you, Jeff. And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

He leans closer, a sly grin tugging at his lips again. “Whether you like it or not, I’m all you’ve got. You might as well get used to me.”

You stare at him for a long moment, trying to read him, but Jeff is as unreadable as ever. His grin never falters, but there’s something in his eyes—something darker, deeper, that makes you uneasy.

Finally, you let out a long breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Fine,” you mutter.

”Also,” He stops in his tracks, we’re going back to the grocery store tomorrow, there’s nothing to eat in this fuckin’ place.”

“There literally is.”

“There are ingredients in your fridge, not already made food, do i look like i want to make food? Fuck that.”

As he leaves your room, you feel the weight of everything pressing down on you—the Operator, the men in yellow, the unknown future hanging over your head. You’re in the thick of it now, and there’s no going back.

But for now, at least, you have a little bit of time. Time to figure out your next move. Time to understand what’s coming.

And as you lie back in bed, trying to ignore the faint static still lingering in your ears, you can’t shake the feeling that your life is no longer your own.

All i can say for my absence is: College 👍 (also im planning out an ARG with my best friend so that’s been keeping me busy too)

BY THE WAY THIS CHAPTER WAS SUPPOSED TO GO WAYYY DIFFERENTLY BUT I GOT TIRED 😭

TAGLIST - OPEN (comment to be added)

🏷️: @mimmickmouse @stranger-of-the-internet @akashic06072007 @hey-an-original-url

[undeadvinyls]

this is my farewell.

i realized internet has been ny biggest stressor. so, for an undefined period of time, this account is inactive. im so sorry. im so sorry, but my mental health is not doing well. at all. it cant handle internet presence anymore, it only makes me feel even worse and makes me rot in my room even more, when i dont even feel like i exist.

so, yeah. thank you all for being there, thank you all for everything. i dont know when ill be back. i hope this is just my bad period and im going to be back tomorrow. but i cant afford it. im sorry. i am so sorry.

[novella-november]

This isn't going to be another "you hate fanfiction!!" because very obviously you do not, but it is prompted by the discussion of branching out into original work, since it's something I often struggle with when trying to make that jump. Do you or any of your followers have any good resources on beginner worldbuilding? I really struggle with it.

Thank you!

If you check out my post where I made a "Prep Calendar" for Outline October (Which is a November-prep alternative/ supplement to Ominous October, the spooky short story event), I actually made a rather rough calendar outline of how to go about world building in advance for November;

The basic first steps for me are usually just three things:

Who are your characters

What kind of world do they live in (aka setting)

Whats your main plot/conflict?

To start worldbuilding at its lowest level, start with number one and work your way up; figure out what kind of character you'd like to write, where they live, and go from there!

Here is the prep calendar I threw together in MS paint, I definitely reccomend downloading it on desktop to actually zoom in to see what all it says lol.

And as a bonus, I will even make a fun, silly little exercise for anyone who'd like to get some practice in!

If you want to join in, grab a pen and pencil, or open up your favorite note-taking app :D

Here we go....!

Let's start out by saying that my basic concept for a character is *spins mental wheel of random ideas*....... a talking deer! 1) So now that I have decided that I want a talking deer character, now I have to decide: A) do *all*deer talk? B) Do *all* animals? C) Or is it just this one singular deer who is special? 2) If it *is* just this one singular deer who can talk, are they: D) otherwise a perfectly normal deer who just happens to be able to talk? E) Can they talk because they used to be human? F) Can they talk because they used to be an Alien or encountered Alien Tech (scifi) ? G) Can they talk because they used to be a Magical Creature or ran into a Magical Spell (fantasy) ? 3) Now you get to decide, mostly if you chose A or B from #1 but also useful for C : H) Is your story a more personal nature documentary, with realistic interactions between predators and prey? I) Is your story going to be a unique world where deer have built a society with technology and know how to defend themselves from predators? J) Is your story a unique world where all animals can talk and are equally sentient, therefore predators are revered as gods or keepers of the dead, who bring all back to the circle of life and prevent the spread of illness and disease, with older animals proudly going "to the wolves" to give their life to their brethren who consecrate the bones of the dead and keep resources plentiful? K) Or are predators the monsters in the dark, the teeth that bite, the slavering jaws that kill to live and *cannot live any other way*, so has learned not to regret? L) Or even, predators who feed from the already-dead when they can, and eat their fill of berries, nuts and fruits when they cannot, because they do not wish to take the lives of others for their own sake?

*clears throat* ahem. Drama done (can you see why I love worldbuilding) ,

go ahead and pick a letter from each of the above options, and jot them down on your paper or note-taking app.

You now have: A basic character, their backstory, and a basic setting!

From three-ish questions from a basic idea, you can spawn multiple possibilities, each of which can branch off into their own unique iterations!

Here's a few more, if you'd like to continue the exercise as further practice:

What is your deer's name?

What do they look like / what kind of deer are they? (deer of various species are found over almost the entire world, so there is tons of variety! :D )

What kind of world do they live in?

How do they interact with humans?

*are* there humans in your story?

What kind of zany or terrifying adventures would your talking deer and a human go on?

What kind of adventures would your talking deer go on with other deer or other animals?

How does your deer get along with other species?

Do they have friends from other species?

Do they have rivals from other species?

Do they have *sworn enemies* from other species?

Do they have a *love interest* from another species?

etc!

I am hoping this game/exercise is helpful, my brain being both autistic and ADHD means I am, at the drop of a hat, ready to start spouting more and more ideas sparked from a single concept at any given moment!

And yes, if you did this exercise, please feel free to use your deer character in a story, draw art of your deer character, etc!

If this exercise was helpful to you or fun, please feel free to tag any deer creations with "NovellaDeer" , I'd love to see them!

You can easily adapt this exercise to any story concept you need to worldbuild; pick what basic idea you have for a main character, and start asking yourself questions about them and their circumstances, and let yourself come up with multiple, contradicting answers for each question; the more the merrier!

After you've decided which starting answers you like the most, you can work your way down the list, asking follow-up questions, and before you know it you will have your very own original character :D

And do not feel like you need to keep your character exactly the way they start out as; characters evolve over time, and you may find yourself changing their "base" character to suit your story or to suit your tastes as you get more experienced with writing and world building!

[some-pers0n]

How to explain to everyone that I feel a lack of drive and motivation and general apathy to my future because I don't feel generally excited and have a complete lack of interest in anything