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rafecameronssl4t · 10 months ago

Note

Could you do reader and rafes reaction to when they found out easer is first pregnant for the force’s marriage au? LOVED the first part!!

First pregnancy || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: this fic is a 100% how i think rafe and reader would react in this situation

Warnings: mention of pregnancy, angst if there's anything else lmk

Word count: 1,457

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

You flip over the pregnancy test, your heart sinking as you see two lines. Of course. It was inevitable, given the life you’ve been cornered into. You sigh, throwing the test into the bin with a mixture of resignation and dread.

Leaning against the cool marble sink, you catch your reflection in the mirror—your eyes heavy with a sense of inevitability that’s become all too familiar. The pristine bathroom feels suffocating, its sterile white tiles and polished fixtures reflecting the stark reality you’re trapped in.

Leaving the bathroom, you make your way downstairs to the living room, each step heavy with the weight of what this means. Rafe had left for work a few hours earlier, leaving you alone in the house. It’s been this way for a while—his absence during these crucial moments only magnifies the distance between you.

The quiet of the house, broken only by the soft footfalls of the servants, feels more isolating than comforting. In the corner of your eye, you notice Anita descending the stairs. She’s one of the few people who’ve been with you since you were young, a steady presence in the chaos of your life.

You assume she’s just finished cleaning your room, making everything perfect as always. “Anita?” you call out, your voice softer than intended. She stops, turning to you with a gentle smile that’s both comforting and bittersweet. “Yes, Miss?” she replies, her tone warm and familiar. You look up from your phone, hesitating for a moment.

“Not a word to Rafe, please,” you say, your voice firmer this time, carrying the weight of the secret you now bear. Anita’s eyes soften with understanding. She doesn’t need any more explanation. “Of course, congratulations to you both. Your parents will be overjoyed, they’ve been waiting for this,” she says before continuing on her way.

Her words hit you like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from your lungs. Of course, your parents would be thrilled. This is all they ever wanted from you and Rafe—a continuation of the family bloodline, a legacy to carry forward. They didn’t care if the two of you were unhappy, if this marriage was more a prison than a partnership. As long as the family name persisted, nothing else mattered.

"Where is she?" Rafe's voice echoes through the quiet house, sharp and impatient. Anita’s calm response cuts through the tension. "She isn’t feeling well, Mr. Cameron," she says, her tone polite and soothing. Rafe grunts in acknowledgment and takes his seat at the dining table, his eyes scanning the empty chair opposite him—usually filled by you each morning.

Later that day, as you and Rafe drive to your parents' house for lunch, a wave of nausea washes over you. You place one hand protectively on your lower stomach, the other coming up to cover your mouth as you close your eyes and focus on steadying your breath. Morning sickness has been relentless lately, more intense and persistent than before. While you’ve managed to keep it hidden from Rafe up until now, the strain is starting to show.

Rafe’s gaze flickers to you briefly, his eyes narrowing with concern. Without a word, he reaches into the console and retrieves a bottle of water, handing it to you with an absent-minded flick of his wrist. He doesn’t even glance at you as he passes it over. "Thanks," you murmur, your voice barely audible as you unscrew the lid and take a slow sip, your eyes fixed out the window.

As the car rolls to a stop in front of your family estate, Rafe is already unbuckling his seatbelt, eager to get this over with. But before he can move, you reach out, your hand covering his, halting his actions. He glances at you, confusion etched across his features. You swallow hard, struggling to find the words, your eyes searching his before you turn away, staring blankly out the windshield.

You feel his gaze on your side profile, waiting, perhaps sensing the gravity of what you’re about to say. "I'm pregnant," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unyielding. You feel Rafe tense beside you, the atmosphere in the car growing thick with unspoken emotions. His reaction is immediate and sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

"Are you seriously telling me this right now? Just before we see your parents?" His voice is laced with anger, catching you completely off guard. You turn to face him, your expression one of disbelief. Is he seriously getting mad right now? Of all the reactions you had braced yourself for, this wasn’t one of them.

"I just told you we're having a child, and this is how you react?" you snap, incredulous. Your disbelief quickly morphs into anger as you watch him look away, his jaw clenched in frustration. His silence only fuels your rage. "Fucking unbelievable," you mutter under your breath as you unbuckle your seatbelt and shove the car door open.

The door slams shut behind you with a resounding thud as you storm toward the front entrance, your emotions boiling over. You’re only a few steps away when you hear Rafe’s car door fly open, followed by the sound of his voice, sharp and laced with frustration.

"What do you expect me to say when you just laid that out on me?" he calls out, his anger evident in every word. You whirl around, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your eyes narrowed as they lock onto his. His expression is a mix of confusion and fury, as if he’s grappling with the enormity of your news and how it collided with the timing.

For a moment, neither of you speak, the tension between you crackling in the crisp air. "I expected you to care!" you finally snap back, your voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. Rafe’s eyes widen, caught between defensiveness and something that almost resembles guilt. "I do care," he retorts, his voice softer now but still edged with frustration. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you.

"But you couldn’t have picked a worse time to tell me. We’re about to walk into your parents’ house, and you drop this on me like it’s nothing?" You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes your lips. "You think I planned this? That I wanted to tell you in the driveway? I’ve been dealing with this alone, trying to figure out how to break it to you. But every time, you’re either too busy or too angry for me to even get a word in."

His expression falters, and for a split second, you think you see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. "And you thought now was the best time?" he asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What do you want me to say, Rafe?" you ask, your voice raw with emotion. "That I should’ve kept it to myself? Pretended everything was fine until it wasn’t? We’re having a child, and I needed you to know before we walked in there and pretended to be the perfect couple again."

Rafe looks away, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to process the situation. You watch the conflict play out in his eyes, the tug-of-war between the emotions he’s expected to feel and the reality of what he actually feels. His frustration is palpable, and after a tense moment, he sighs heavily, bringing his hands up to massage his temples.

"Can we just get through this lunch, please?" he finally says, his voice soft, almost pleading. His tone catches you off guard—there’s a vulnerability there that you’re not used to hearing from him. You stare at him, torn between wanting to push the conversation further and knowing that now isn’t the time.

His request isn’t unreasonable, but it stings nonetheless, a reminder of the emotional distance that still exists between you. "Fine," you reply after a moment, your voice tinged with resignation. "But this doesn’t change anything. We still need to talk about this—really talk about it."

Rafe nods, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he looks away again. "I know," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the unspoken hangs heavy between you as you both turn toward the imposing front door of your family estate, ready to face the charade of normalcy that awaits inside.

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certaimromance · 2 months ago

Text

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child II.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

part one | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Words: 3,3k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime and the reader's old shoulder injury. angst WITH open ending. hotch being a father figure. the reader having bad thoughts and the team not being a good team with her. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Helloo Tall Child lovers, I hope you like this and that it will be a sequel according to your expectations. I'm sorry for the delay, but the complexity of this relationship made my job difficult, as I never thought of writing more with this reader in the first place, and I was very surprised that you liked it so much.

So I'm pleased to tell you that I've made an exclusive list with this reader because I'd love to explore more of this through other seasons and situations not necessarily canon, feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader!

Six weeks later.

The air in the BAU was colder than you remembered, not just in temperature but in feeling; it was a sterile, impersonal chill that clung to your skin like mist. Every echoing footstep in the polished corridors seemed louder, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t just the recycled air hissing through the vents or the fluorescent lighting that buzzed too harshly overhead. No, this cold ran deeper. It had taken root inside you during those long, suffocating weeks locked away in your apartment, when the silence had pressed in on all sides and the world had narrowed to four walls and the weight of your own thoughts. This was the cold of absence. Of isolation. Of walking back into a life that had kept moving without you.

You stood at the entrance, your badge clipped to your belt, your go-bag slung over one shoulder. From the outside, it looked like you were fine. Recovered. Rested. As focused and willing to work as ever. But on the inside, you were still picking up pieces.

The place hadn’t changed, but you hadn’t expected it to. Reid’s desk was just as you remembered: clean, almost painfully so, every file color-coded and aligned with obsessive precision. The chessboard still sat in its usual spot off to the side, pieces mid-game, like he was still chasing the perfect strategy that might finally let him beat Gideon. Across the bullpen, the computer screens all flickered in perfect rhythm, except for Morgan’s, which pulsed in shades of bright pink. You didn’t need to see her to know Garcia was up to something again, probably testing out some new system or just trying to annoy him in that way only she could pull off. The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the background, steady and familiar, its bitter scent weaving through the air like it never left.

And then, your gaze landed on the far wall: Hotch’s office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. The same as always, and yet now it felt heavier somehow. Imposing. Like, just the sight of it pulled your shoulders tighter. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing you could walk in without that cold knot twisting in your stomach.

Damn, you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him now.

A few heads turned when you stepped in. The room didn’t go silent, but it shifted. You felt it, eyes lingering just a second too long, hushed words dying mid-sentence. And then JJ was there, walking toward you with that soft, careful smile people wore around broken things like you.

“Hey,” she said gently, arms opening without hesitation.

You let her pull you into a hug. Her perfume was the same as always. So floral and grounding. You closed your eyes for a second, just enough to feel the safety in it. But it passed quickly.

“You look better,” she added softly. You didn’t say thank you.

She said better, not good.

Morgan and Elle came next, their footsteps steady, familiar, grounding in a way that almost made your throat tighten. “There’s the prodigal agent,” one of them said with a crooked smile—maybe him, maybe her—you weren’t paying close enough attention to tell. Your focus was locked on their faces, not their voices. Their smiles were genuine, warm even, but just behind them, something else flickered. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was there in the brief glance they exchanged when they thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way Elle’s arms crossed just a little too tightly over her chest, in how Morgan’s usual swagger was tempered by something quieter.

But Reid was the hardest to face. He hovered, hesitating, unsure if he should say something or just let it go. In the end, he gave you a small, tentative smile and an awkward “Hi,” as if six weeks hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t been the reason your stomach still twisted with guilt every time you closed your eyes.

You nodded and whispered, “Hey.” That was all you could manage.

But then came the moment you had been both dreading and aching for so long it had carved itself into the rhythm of your days. The soft creak of the door swinging open sliced through the low hum of conversation like a knife. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The measured, deliberate sound of his polished shoes crossing the bullpen floor was unmistakable, as familiar as it was unsettling. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the room itself tensed in his presence.

And there he was. Aaron Hotchner. As composed and unreadable as ever, every inch of him radiated quiet authority. His presence hit like a pressure drop in the atmosphere, pressing down on your chest and making the space around you feel impossibly large and impossibly small all at once. Like suddenly, you didn’t know where to stand. Like suddenly, you weren’t sure if you even belonged in that space anymore. Like suddenly, you were a child who had been punished for bad behavior.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times.

None of them felt like this.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, just a few feet away, arms folded, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his face like a mask. The same one that used to make your pulse quicken, that used to leave you guessing, second-guessing yourself.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t flinch. You met his stare head-on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat—but you refused to shrink. Not again. You’d spent too long folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, twisting and bleeding just to fit into the narrow mold of what he expected, of what he trusted. And for what? For this? For distance and doubt? No more. That part of you—the desperate part—was dead and buried. Or if it wasn’t yet, you were damn sure going to kill it. You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your chest like a second heartbeat, daring him to look at you and still pretend you were invisible.

“I’m back,” you said, voice low but steady. “Just like the paperwork says.”

Your boss studied you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze flicking to your shoulder—the one that still bore the memory of your injury, the phantom weight of everything you’d lost—before settling back into that cold, distant mask of his. That unreadable expression he wore so well, the one that used to make you feel safe because it meant he was in control. Now, it just made you feel small. Disposable.

And for a moment—just one cruel, flickering moment—you almost believed that he’d step forward. That he’d close the distance. That he’d reach out and gently touch your shoulder, like he used to when things were too heavy, too hard. You almost believed he would look you in the eye, say your name like it meant something, and tell you he was sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the coldness. Sorry for the suspension. Sorry for treating you like a child.

You almost believed he would say he trusted you. That he still saw you, still believed in you, even if it was a little. That he understood why you did what you did. That you weren’t broken. That he didn’t think of you as a liability or a ticking clock counting down to another failure.

You almost believed he would tell you it was going to be okay.

But it didn’t happen.

He just looked away. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with distance. Like someone turning from a photograph that had faded in time. And you felt the sting of it—quiet, precise, brutal. Not just the rejection of your role, but the absence of something far deeper.

It wasn’t the pain of being forgotten.

It was the pain of never being seen.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he said, his voice the same steady, measured cadence it had always been.

But it wasn’t the words that stung; it was the way they landed. Clinical. Safe. Like a statement recited for formality’s sake rather than spoken from any real feeling.

Not I’m glad.

We’re glad.

That single word change twisted like a knife in your chest.

“Right,” you said, the word escaping before you could hold it back. Your eyes burned with something you refused to let spill over. “Glad to be back, I guess.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

There was a long silence between you two. He studied you, just like before, but this time it felt colder. Like he was looking for something you didn’t have anymore.

You couldn’t stand it. You turned away quickly, your body betraying you as your chest tightened and your breath quickened. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

The case came in shortly after: a triple homicide in Maryland. The kind of case that had all the hallmarks of a nightmare: brutal, violent, unsolved. You didn’t think you were ready for fieldwork. In fact, you didn’t think you could even look at another case without feeling like an imposter, like a stranger in your own skin. The idea of diving back into it, back into the chaos, felt overwhelming. But you didn’t have a choice. There were no other options. And Aaron was too careful now to give you the responsibility of leading your partner again. Not after everything that had happened.

“Morgan leads. JJ, handle media. Reid, consult with the coroner. Elle, talk to the families.”

And then, without a single glance in your direction, he turned to you and said, “You’ll assist.”

No lead. No profile. No responsibility. Just…observe.

Support.

The word echoed in your head, bruising you in places you hadn’t even realized were tender. Support. As if that was all you were good for now. The sharp ache of betrayal twisted inside your chest, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it show. You didn’t argue. Not out loud. But it burned. Every cell in your body screamed in protest, but you held it in, forced it back down where no one could see.

On the jet, the silence between you and Hotch was like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. You sat across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes glued to the window as the world outside blurred by. But you could feel him. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, though he didn’t meet your gaze directly. He kept glancing at your shoulder, the one that still bore the ugly scar of your injury. His eyes flicked there so many times, and each time they quickly darted away, as if caught between something you couldn’t tell.

And it wasn't just him. The whole team had noticed it, the little looks they gave you when they thought you weren't looking, the way their conversations were interrupted when you walked into a room, and they automatically faked their best smile at you. You could feel the tension in the air, like they were all waiting for you to sink or swim, to show you still had something to give.

In the field, you did your job. You fell into the motions like muscle memory: keeping your voice calm, your observations sharp, and your hands steady. You kept your face neutral, even when the case began to grind you down, piece by piece. But every decision Hotch or Gideon made went through Morgan. Every suggestion you made was quietly nodded at but never acted upon. You could almost hear the quiet hum of judgment in the air every time you tried to assert yourself. You were invisible.

It was like walking through fog. You were there, but no one could see you. No one really saw you.

You were present but unseen. You were nothing more than a shadow, drifting through the motions.

And, of course, back at the hotel it was the same. You kept to yourself, retreated into the quiet of your room, away from their pitying stares. The team trickled in, chatting amongst themselves, but you didn’t join them. They didn’t expect you to. Instead, you made a lie about being tired and about having a headache, and you hid behind it.

So you sat on your bed instead, the room dimly lit by the glow of a muted TV. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the electronics and the occasional shuffle of your own restless thoughts. The takeout boxes sat untouched on the desk, still sealed in their flimsy plastic containers. Your service weapon rested next to your badge on the nightstand, a weightless echo of a dream that no longer seemed to matter.

The knock came at 10:43 p.m.

You hesitated, fingers frozen over the blanket, eyes flicking to the door. Part of you considered ignoring it, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending the world outside wasn’t so close. But something in your gut told you who it was.

With a sigh that felt too heavy for such a small sound, you stood up and moved toward the door, your movements stiff and reluctant. You opened it, and there he was: your lovely boss. Standing there, holding a white takeout bag with the same purposeful, composed demeanor he always had.

“I figured you didn’t eat,” he said, his voice soft, as if offering something much bigger than just food. His hand extended toward you, the scent of it wafting up with the slight steam still rising from the dish. “Chicken teriyaki. No onions.”

Your heart clenched, hard and sudden. Of course he remembered.

He always remembered.

It was the smallest things, the details he’d tucked away in his mind, that made your chest tighten like this, like a dam about to crack. You took the food from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, his posture stiff, his eyes avoiding yours in that way that felt both respectful and…uncomfortably distant.

It felt less like your boss checking in and more like a parent standing awkwardly outside a teenager’s door, unsure if they were about to be let in or shut out.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, voice almost a whisper, as if you were apologizing for the inconvenience. You weren’t sure why it came out that way, it wasn’t him you were apologizing to. Not really.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, careful, as though he were trying to measure every word. He stood there for a long moment, looking at you but not really seeing you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the ground.

Then he shifted slightly, glancing at the takeout bag in his hand. “There’s also a dessert, but you should eat the real food first.”

His words felt like they were layered with more than just concern for your well-being. It was the way he said it, like he was directing you, guiding you—not as a colleague, not as a boss, but as someone who felt responsible for making sure you didn’t fall apart.

And then, you knew it.

You weren’t a grown adult in his eyes right now. You were someone he had to take care of, like a child who didn’t know how to care for themselves anymore.

“You still don’t trust me,” you said finally, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a sharp edge, not a challenge.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to yours, then dropped again—quick, involuntary. Like the words hurt to hear, even if he’d been expecting them.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“Then why am I stuck on the sidelines?” you asked, and this time the question came harsher, more bitter than you intended. You didn’t mean to sound wounded, but the words carried it anyway. “Why am I the one just…watching? Observing, while everyone else is doing the job I’ve trained my whole damn life to do?”

His silence came fast and thick, and it stretched too long, long enough to confirm what you already suspected. The answer, when it came, landed like a blow.

“Because I need to know you’re okay,” he said, quiet but firm. “Before I put someone else’s life in your hands again.”

Ouch.

You flinched. Not dramatically, just enough for him to see it. Just enough for you to feel it ripple through your spine like heat. The air in the room shifted, charged and sharp, like an old scab torn open.

“I thought you said this wasn’t personal,” you said, hating the way your voice cracked around the edges.

“It’s not,” Hotch said, voice tight.

You stared at him. Really stared. The lines around his eyes are deeper now. The tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, was like this conversation was another weight he didn’t know how to carry.

“Sure feels personal.”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it passed too fast to name. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to spin it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You scared me that day.”

You froze.

He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking past you, somewhere far away. Like he was remembering it. The day it all went sideways. The weight of the call he had to make to the ambulance. The fallout. The blood and your tears.

“You scared all of us,” he added, softer now. “But me the most.”

The confession hit harder than you expected. Not because he was admitting fear, but because he still couldn’t look at you when he said it. Because even after all this time, all this effort, it still felt like he hadn’t let go of that fear.

“I know I made mistakes,” you said, your voice quieter now. Controlled. Trying to be steady, even as your throat tightened. “I know I lost control. I know I…crossed lines.”

You stopped. Breathed. Tried to gather the rest of it.

“But I’m not—” You hesitated. The word was right there. Lodged between your teeth.

Not broken.

You weren’t even sure you believed it anymore.

Hotch finally looked at you, really looked, and when he spoke, it was softer than before. “I know. That’s why I approved your return.”

You searched his face, looking for judgment or disappointment. But what you saw instead surprised you.

Tiredness. Not just the kind that came from stress or long nights of cases but the kind that came from caring too much and not knowing how to show it without screwing everything up.

It disarmed you.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you murmured, almost ashamed. “About Reid. About your kid. Or you.”

He nodded, just once. Small. Measured.

“I know,” he said. “But it still touched a nerve.”

That landed harder than any reprimand. No raised voice. No lecture. Just the simple truth of it, that what you said had stuck to him like shrapnel.

The silence that followed was quieter now, less tense, less heavy. Something between you was shifting. Mending, maybe.

“I’m not broken,” you said suddenly, with more force than you expected. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been…off. But I’m not broken.”

Hotch looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I never said you were.”

“You acted like it.”

He sighed, eyes dropping again. “Maybe I was afraid.”

Your brow furrowed. “Of what?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “That if I pushed you harder, I’d be the one who broke you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t think you were weak,” he added. “I just didn’t want to watch you fall apart.”

Your chest ached.

“I already did,” you said.

“I know.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally, without looking at you. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Just in case you needed to follow.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch angst #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotch x you #thomas gibson #father figure!hotch x bau!reader

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hanjisick · 1 year ago

Text

chemical infatuation

genre. yandere au. patient!jisung x researcher!reader

desc. jisung takes part in a high-paying yet sketchy study with seemingly no risks, but the injection causes him to quickly grow obsessed with the daytime staff member assigned to his study.

warnings. needles. vomit. murder.

wc. 3.5k

“is it a bad time to tell you that i’m a little claustrophobic?” your patient, han jisung, nervously shifted in his seat, fiddling with the hem of his sweater.

“we have to keep you in this containment during our research.“

the containment room, with its dim lighting and cushioned walls, seemed to close in on him. the dimensions felt constricting, heightening the anxiety surging through his veins.

every inch of the space was under surveillance, every move to be meticulously scrutinized by the watchful eyes of researchers.

what a sketchy situation. but it was better than he had expected from a craigslist ad that he had chanced upon.

the snap of your rubber gloves pulled him away from his thoughts, “it isn’t too late to back out, we have a few more candidates willing to take your place.”

500 million won. that was enough for him to do anything.

“i’m fine. i’m ready.”

“alright then, pull your arm out of your sweater for me.”

“i have a tank top underneath.” the boy shuffled out of the sweater and placed it onto his lap.

“and as the paperwork says, you have no allergies, anaphylaxis, or any history of mental illness?”

“nope.”

he flinched as the cool alcohol pad met his bicep.

“the medication we are testing for you should not hurt you much as far as we are concerned,” you began prepping the needle and syringe, “the only side effects that we predict could be a minor headache for a couple of days. it is not dangerous.”

jisung closed his eyes as you squeezed his arm slightly, pushing the needle through his skin.

you gently placed the gauze onto his arm, “finished. how do you feel immediately?”

“normal. a little shaken up from nerves, but no problems. what do i do now?”

“you’ll be watched for a month. the only restrictions are that you aren’t allowed to leave this room or use any devices.”

the idea of isolation and confinement weighed a bit heavily on him, but he was determined to see it through.

you motion towards the mattress in the corner, “we will change your bedding twice throughout the month. let us know if you are uncomfortable with the temperature of the room, need extra bedding, or anything else.”

jisung nodded.

“let us know if you need to use the bathroom and we will temporarily disable the cameras for your privacy. but we will take urine samples if we deem it necessary.”

“and what about food?”

“you’ll be fed three meals per day, with two snacks.”

“thank you. that’s all i need to know,” he paused for a moment, “other than your name. what’s your name?”

“y/n l/n,” you gather your paperwork, “your personal belongings will be returned once we go through to make sure there is nothing that could alter our research.”

the door had closed and locked, leaving jisung alone in the room with just his thoughts to keep him company until his stuff was given back to him.

Beginning Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, no known medical problems

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung feels nervous about receiving the injection. Administered at 16:38 with no noted side effects.

you watched the boy through the array of cameras placed strategically throughout the room as he lay on the mattress. his sweater was haphazardly discarded across the room, a seemingly small attempt to make himself more comfortable in the sterile, plain environment.

despite the initial nerves of a new medication, nothing had seemed to happen. at the fifteen-minute mark, you stepped away from the cameras for a moment— if there were to be a severe sudden reaction, it would have manifested by now, you reasoned.

throughout your shift, your attention continued to drift back to the screens displaying jisung’s every move. with each glance, you found him engaged in various activities—doodling, writing in a journal, or simply staring off into space, lost in thought.

nothing seemed to go wrong. perhaps this medication would be approved.

Overnight Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, no known medical problems

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung ate all of dinner and requested night snacks. He had slept well. No side effects were recorded.

you press the bright red button, lowering your mouth to the microphone.

“how is everything down there? any side effects?”

“y/n? is that you speaking?”

“yes,” you were surprised that the boy had remembered your name, “what are your symptoms?”

“you should come into the room to speak with me. i’m lonely here.”

“i have to record your symptoms. i can’t come down there unless i know that you’re stable.”

the microphone had only barely picked up his sigh. “i’m normal.”

“any headaches? dizziness? dry throat?”

“nope. nothing. everything’s fine. just lonely.”

you sigh. he seemed normal. he was lying in bed, staring up at one of the cameras.

so it was fine, right?

you push open the door, greeted by the grinning patient on his mattress.

“you smell nice. what products do you use?”

what an odd conversation starter. “nothing special. just a lavender-scented body wash.”

he nods. “the overnight staff were fine, but i think that i prefer you. i can’t put my finger on it quite yet.”

was jisung naturally this blunt with his words? or was he flirting with you?

“what do you plan to do during your stay here?”

he leans back against the cushioned wall, “i compose songs for artists. i figured that it would be easy to get a lot of work done in here.”

“i see. is that your songwriting journal then?” you eye the small black book and pen next to him.

he takes the pen into his hand, “yup. it’s one of the few things that i brought here.”

“you’ll have to show me some of your work sometime throughout the month.”

“you can look at my work now,” he grins, clicking the pen, “my name is HAN. look me up.”

the name stays in your mind as you exit the room and lock the door. you find your way back to your seat at the cameras to supervise the man, pulling your lunch out of your back.

one hand holds a sandwich as the other browses through safari, looking at the songs that your patient had composed.

you hadn’t heard any of them, but perhaps it would be a good idea to look into the lyrics. it would give you things to talk about with him for the following month.

the rest of the shift was boring. you watched as he wrote in his notebook, ate his food, hummed to himself— nothing interesting.

the most intriguing thing that you experienced was the occasional ‘help!’ button being pressed, only for the man to announce that he needed to take a piss.

your misery was ended once your coworker entered the room, placing his keys and bag down on the table.

a sigh of relief left you, “thank god. it’s so boring.”

“thanks for the warning.”

Overnight Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, no known medical problems

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung ate all of dinner and requested no night snack. Awoke at 01:00 and 03:00. Specified no reason for waking. Special request for morning staff: Deliver lavender-scented body wash.

your eyes stared down at the note with slightly widened eyes.

perhaps he had good intentions, perhaps your defenses were just too high. after all, he might just like the scent of lavender like you did.

“good morning. any headaches? dizziness? dry throat?”

“my arm is a little sore, and i’m a bit restless, but that is all.”

you record his answers— finally something to write down.

“i saw your request from last night. i’ll get a staff member to deliver your body wash. did you run out? i’m sure we gave you enough.”

“i still have some. i just wanted to try yours out.”

how strange.

“you’re coming down to see me today, right?”

“not today. i want to see if your symptoms worsen throughout the day. it’s best to be careful.”

you watch through the camera as he slumps back, visibly disappointed.

today, the boy had begun to act a little bit differently. every couple of minutes, he would stop his writing to look up at the camera.

you would hold eye contact with him for a few moments, even though he couldn’t see you before he would look back down again with a large grin that wasn’t on his face before.

soon, the bottle of body wash was delivered to his room.

“y/n! is that you?” he jumped out of bed as the lock clicked, only to be disappointed to see a man in a mask and gloves leave it right inside of the door.

he crept towards the bottle, snapping the lid off, holding it up to his nose, then inhaling deeply.

“it smells like you.”

you clenched your teeth, writing down the reactions.

walking over towards the center of the room, he peeled his t-shirt off his frame, then pulled down his sweatpants and boxers in one go.

you shrieked, slamming the buttons to disable the camera.

he was supposed to tell you when he needed privacy.

with shaky hands, you began to jot down his behaviors.

once ten minutes had passed, you turned the camera back on in hopes that he was decent again. this time, you had enabled the camera with caution, only to see that he was showering.

you disable it once again and decide that this would be a good time to have lunch.

the image of the naked man was etched into your mind as you tried to force the salad down your throat.

it was a good thirty minutes until you got the courage to turn the camera back on, sighing in relief as you saw him on his bed with sweatpants on once again.

jisung stared up at the ceiling with hooded eyes, chest rising and falling— you weren’t sure what was going through his mind.

you press the button. “everything alright in there?”

he perked up, “y/n, everything is just fine. i wish you were in here, though, instead of behind that stupid camera.”

you bite your lip uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond.

changing the subject would be best.

“lunch will be delivered soon.”

“good. i’m a bit hungry.”

you take your finger off of the button, sitting back in your seat, waiting for your shift to be over.

Overnight Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, no known medical problems

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung ate most of dinner and requested no night snack. Had difficulty falling and staying asleep. Awoke many times to journal. Refused conversation about his symptoms.

“y/n? you’re here, right? right?”

you had only just opened the door to the surveillance room, met with his muffled voice through the speakers.

“y/n? y/n? baby? my beautiful doll?”

the nickname caught you off guard, breath caught in your throat.

before answering, you grabbed the pen off the desk to jot down the behavior. this was not normal.

he stared directly into the camera. “i know you’re here. i journaled the minutes until he would leave and you would replace him.”

your legs shook as you took a seat.

why were you so nervous? it wasn’t like you were in danger. the door was locked. his body language did not seem hostile.

but his eyes told a different story. they were dark, crazed, restless.

“doll? can you hear me? can you hear me?”

your voice stuttered, “what are your symptoms?”

“i missed your voice, y/n.”

“any headaches? dizziness? dry throat?”

“none,” jisung answered quickly, “so you can come down and see me, right?”

you lied through your teeth. “not today. we are still a bit worried about yesterday’s symptoms.”

“fuck!” his forehead hit against the wall.

you took your finger away from the button.

he balled his hand into a fist before hurling it towards the same wall.

jisung crumbles to the floor. “i can’t take it anymore.”

“are you alright? are you in pain? do you need help?” you grasp your pen with an unsteady hand, “tell me what’s going on. talk to me.”

“i need to see you again, i waited all night just for you to tell me no.”

“it’s for the safety of you and myself.”

his voice was barely above a raspy whisper, “i promise i won’t hurt you, i’d never hurt you. i couldn’t hurt you.”

“jisung,” you started sternly, “i’m unable to see you. please abide by the rules of the study.”

“can’t i quit?”

“you signed a form stating that unless there is a medical emergency, you aren’t to leave this room. i’m quite not sure that you’re in your right state of mind right now.”

“i would be fine if you’d let me see you again.”

it was pointless to argue with the man, so you let go of the button, jotting down the conversation.

jisung did not eat, speak, or move from his spot that day.

Overnight Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, no known medical problems

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung ate no dinner and requested no night snack. Did not sleep through the night. Refused conversation.

“doll, you’re back.” his raspy voice announced your presence just as you opened the door as if he was in the room with you.

on the camera, he was spread out in the middle of the floor like a starfish. his blonde hair covered his face, but you could still see the eye bags forming under his sunken eyes.

“i have a bit of a headache. i’m dizzy. my throat is dry,” he answered your questions for you, “will i get to see you today, doll?”

you were a bit afraid to answer, hesitating as you pressed the button, “i’m sorry. no.”

“but i will be able to see you after the study, right? after the study you’ll marry me, right?”

your heart dropped into your stomach at the words.

“i have a partner, jisung.”

“i know,” he smiled lightly, “it’s me. but soon i’ll be your husband, right?”

this was too much. you felt sick. you needed to alert the rest of the team and let someone else take over this case. hell, you might even quit your job.

“imagine you as han y/n. it sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?”

his crazed voice rang through your ears as you stood up from your seat.

“nobody else has ever made me feel this way, do you know that? all i want is you. and i’ve only seen you twice. isn’t that absurd? love is just so beautiful.”

his words caused you to still. you felt like a deer in headlights.

“do you think the shot is what made me crazy? because ever since we met eyes after you gave it to me, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. about your touch, even through the gloves. all of my songs have been about you. i even drew you.”

waves of nausea came crashing down on you.

“i can’t wait until i’m finally out of here. i can finally have you all to myself. i’ll kill that night staff for taking you away from me.”

jisung scoffed at the thought of him, “and he’s the one who gets the pleasure of passing by you every day? do you like him? i’ll gouge his eyes out and wear his skin if you like him more than me, hm?”

you raced towards the trash can in the corner of the room, stomach churning as your breakfast came right out of your mouth.

the smell was putrid, acidic, disgusting. but not as disgusting as the words of the sick man behind the camera.

“did you watch me shower, my love? i don’t mind if you did. your lavender body wash felt so good on my body, i imagined it was you in there with me, washing my body yourself—“

you ran out of the room, slamming the door behind you.

“he’s crazy! he’s gone mad!” you point towards the surveillance room, tears streaming down your face as you try to explain the situation to the nearest person that you can find.

“calm down. go to the break room. i’ll alert the rest and we’ll handle it.”

“you’ll be okay,” a staff member reassures, handing you a much-needed drink from the vending machine, “he won’t be able to escape. we will detain him and try to get him any help that we can.”

“even aside from how creepy he was, i just feel terrible, you know? i gave him that shot.”

“it isn’t your fault. he knew what he was getting into. we tried our best to determine the effects. there was no way of knowing.”

although he was right, guilt and horror still ate you up as you rested your head in your hands.

“this is why our job is important, so that only one person gets hurt instead of an entire population of people.”

“what a shitty job.”

he laughed as he got up, “tell me about it. i’m gonna go see what i can do to help. let us know if you need anything.”

the door closes and you lay your head down on the table, closing your eyes.

all you could think about was the man and his words.

‘i can’t wait until i’m finally out of here. i can finally have you all to myself. i’ll kill that night staff for taking you away from me.’

would he be able to leave? would he be able to get over this love sickness? is it reversible? nobody knew anything about it. the only thing that could be done is watching him.

it only seemed to get worse over the days, and you didn’t want to know what he would be like at the end of the month.

Overnight Notes

Han Jisung (Male)

23 years old, psychosis

Acterenol, Administered 16:38, 5/17/25.

Intramuscular, Upper Arm

Notes: Jisung ate no dinner and requested no night snack. Did not sleep through the night. Refused conversation aside from asking for previous staff, Y/N L/N.

you no longer worked with jisung. instead, you had been assigned to a new case.

“it isn’t too late to back out, we have a few more candidates willing to take your place.”

“i’m not nervous. go ahead and inject me, doctor,” the patient joked, pulling her sleeve up.

“and as the paperwork says, your only allergy is mild reaction to shellfish, but no anaphylaxis or any history of mental illness?”

“all correct.”

you were wiping her bicep with alcohol when the door had opened, screams piercing your ears from outside of the soundproof room.

“y/n?”

blood dripped onto the floor from his heaving form, eyes bloodshot and locked right on your form. in his hand, he held a loaded handgun, the smell of gun powder seeping into the room.

the patient in front of you screeched, immediately making a run for it before her brains were splattered across the room.

your ears rung from the shot, standing stalk still as jisung approached you.

everything was moving too quickly. you couldn’t process a single thing. your head was spinning. you needed to survive.

“please, i’ll do anything, don’t hurt me.”

“i told you. i won’t hurt you, i’d never hurt you. i couldn’t hurt you.” a bloody hand ran through your hair, taking advantage of your frozen figure.

“i can’t believe i’m so close to you right now.” his nose buried into your neck and you could feel the cold metal of the gun pressing against your back.

“they’re all dead. and you’re back.”

he dropped the gun to the floor, fishing through his pocket.

before you could register what was happening, jisung had already lodged a needle into your arm.

“sleep tight, my doll, i’ll get us out of here.”

1K notes · View notes

animeyanderelover · 8 days ago

Text

Do you remember last year when I had my Tomie obsession going on and made this post? I have recently gotten back into that obsession and I have decided to expand this concept to characters who aren’t just in Anime. As recently my fixation on Soldier Boy has returned too, I have been thinking about a concept with him and a reader inspired by Tomie. For everyone who doesn't know what Tomie is, she is basically an immortal girl who triggers obsession in all men around her who end up murdering for her and eventually murder her in violent ways. But Tomie always comes back. If body parts of her get cut off a new Tomie grows from them eventually. Her only real weakness is fire as that seems to kill her permanently. Big trigger warning because this is intense.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, paranoia, jealousy, controlling behavior, isolation, violence, some hints of misogyny, abuse, sexual exploitation, harassment, sexual harassment, dub-con, non-con, Soldier Boy technically cheats on Crimson Countess, gore typical for both The Boys and Tomie, toxic, toxic and more toxic, cannibalism, body horror, dismemberment, death

Tomie-like s/o

✮A failed Vought experiment. That’s what you are. Sure, dreams of being a superhero have probably crossed everyone’s mind at least once, especially with Payback being monetised and talked about anywhere. You might be a woman yet so is Crimson Countess, a hero by all account back then in your eyes. That isn’t why you agree to that sketchy offer though. It is something much more pathetic yet deeply human. You need money. They offer it to you. That’s why you accept and agree to become their lab rat. You don’t get a lot of explanations from anyone. You’re just told to do as they say. So you do exactly that. You stay calm when you’re injected with the stuff that apparently makes anyone into a superhero. No one told you about the pain that it would cause. Your body feels like it is tearing itself apart. Bones rattle and shift, muscles tear and rebuild themself, tears of blood run down your cheeks. Yet your screams and pleas for help are ignored by the scientists who do nothing but watch you. Cold, cruel and heartless. Monsters. All of them. At least in your eyes. You don’t know how long that pain lasts. It could have been hours. It could have been only minutes.

✮ Does it matter in the end though? Whilst you are shaking and sobbing on the sterile floor, one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you up, demanding from you in an unfriendly way to walk. Rest is not an option. Tests have to be run. Don’t you want to be a hero? Don’t you want the money? His touch lingers a beat too long before he lets go. All you can do is force yourself with trembling legs down the hallway, catching your reflection in the windows. Dried blood tears cover your cheeks, giving you an eerie look more reminiscent of a ghost. It looks horrifying. Yet despite what you think, people cannot stop staring at you. The following days you’re observed closely. They want to know what powers you have. Yet you don’t feel anything. For many who were injected with Compund V, their powers came immediately. They instinctively knew what to do. But you don’t. You don’t know what to do. Anxiety quickly chews its way through all of your defenses. What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working? You expect sneers. Disappointed glares. Whispers behind your back. Yet the people are oddly friendly to you. You don’t understand the change of heart. But you accept it in that moment.

✮ With the kind words the touches follow quickly. Fingers sliding down your arms. Hands cradling your cheeks. Touching your hair without your permission. It’s disturbing and uncomfortable yet the few times you voice it, you’re given a too warm grin and are ignored. And quickly it becomes apparent that something is wrong. They stare too long with forlorn eyes that look too in love. The touches grow too intimate and they claim that it is for scientific purposes when you know it isn’t. Some even start murmuring that you’re the most beautiful woman they have ever laid eyes on. Is this the aftermath of the Vought injection. What even is that supposed to be? What kind of superpower is this? You thought you’d be able to fly or gain super strength. Not whatever this is. You start asking if you can leave. That you want to be let out. That’s when violence erupts for the first time when you’re too persistent. You’re grabbed by the throat and choked as the man in front of you screams at you, telling you that he’ll never let you go and that you’re his. When your tears hit his hands he snaps partially out of it. No comforting words can help you anymore though. You fear it’ll get even worse.

✮ You don’t have to wait for long in that cell though. Not long at all. One day a doctor opens the door and without giving you an explanation grabs you by your wrists and drags you outside. He mutters something under his breath how he won’t let anyone else have you and how you’re only his. He’s far too impulsive. He hasn’t thought it through. When the others discover the both of you, all hell breaks loose. You’re torn apart and they brutally assault him. You can only watch with horror as they beat and kick him. Screams and sickening cracks of breaking bones fill the air yet they don’t stop. Their eyes scream murder and violent grins are on their faces, making you sick to your stomach. They don’t stop even after the body has stopped shaking. They only stop once there is only a bloody pulp of flesh and bones left. Only then do they stop. Only then do they turn their attention to you. Their eyes have changed. Crazed. Unhinged. Terrifying. They start chanting that you nearly left them. That you aren't allowed to leave. That perhaps they have to remove a limb or two to guarantee that you can never run away from them. They close in on you. They hold you down. Then there is blood.

✮ Your screams aren't ignored. They're heard. They're desired. As they hold you down and start cutting into your flesh, they relish in your pain. Not because they're sadists. The emotion in their eyes tells you something different. It's like your very voice is addicting and they need to hear it scream more. Blood spills onto the floor, hands rip your clothes off and start touching you. It's all too much. Emotionally and physically. No one will help you. When one of them shoves his fingers into your mouth, your first instinct is biting. And perhaps it is the fear pulsing through your body or something else, but you cleanly tear his digit off. Suddenly his screams fill the room as he stumbles back, clutching the spot where once his index finger used to be and now nothing remains. Some ignore him. Others laugh when they see him. But you? All you can suddenly think about is the taste of blood on your tongue. It's... delicious. It's nothing like you have ever tasted. That's when your senses sharpen. You can small their blood. Hear their pulse. Hear those racing hearts of theirs which beat in ecstasy as they cut your legs off. A primal desire rises. In the next moment you launch. You don't remember much after that.

✮Once you come back to your senses, your naked and covered from head to toe in blood. Not yours. Theirs. Their corpses are scattered around you. Chests torn open, hearts no longer within them. No, they're in your stomach. You can still taste them on your tongue. Those legs that they cut off? They're clutched within the arms of one of the doctors as if they are precious enough to hold on to even in death. You don't need them anymore though. New ones have grown. Yet you still hear two heartbeats even though only death and carnage surrounds you. You instinctively know where they come from though. From your removed legs. Burn it. Immediately. All of it. It's unclear where this knowledge suddenly comes from. But you obey. Because if you leave any traces, especially those legs of yours, something horrible will happen. So you start a fire. You destroy everything and watch it all burn down from a safe distance. You don't leave until those two heartbeats have vanished. Only then do you turn your back on the place that killed and rebirthed you and walk off. You don't know where you need to go now. You don't even know what you even are now. You just know that you need to leave.

✮Only a few days later fate smiles upon you. You find a young woman late at night nervously stumbling around the empty streets. She has a similar build as you do though she is obviously not as pretty as you are. A good victim. Sure, it's not good to murder people but you need clothes and some money. You're starving too. It's almost too easy to lure her to you. She seems lost and you offer her help, trying to ignore that spark of guilt. At least you make it quick though. You crush her throat before she can scream and snap her neck in half with a strength you only recently discovered you had. As you strip her of her clothes, your attention turns to her back. Her wallet must be in there. Right you certainly are. But you also find so much more. Car keys, a hotel key and some make-up. But what you didn't expect to find was a letter. Not just any letter. A letter inviting her over to a job interview. Not just any job interview though. The letter has been signed by no one but Vought. The very company who did this to you. This woman named Mary Joanne Starkling has that job interview tomorrow. No one knows what she looks like yet. This is your chance for answers and information. Now, how to get rid of that body?

✮Luckily this Mary has everything written down in a notebook. She's remarkably structured. No wonder considering that her possible future job is that of an archivist. Structure is needed in that case. You manage to find her car as well as the address of the hotel she's staying in. You spend the night there, for the first time able to sleep in a proper bed and take a long and hot shower. You order food from the room service but don't open the doors for them. Seeing you seems to have a strange effect on people so you wait until they have left it in front of your door and are gone before you open it. Tehnically you aren't hungry as you just recently had a very meaty feast but you need to know if human food still tastes good for you. To your relief it does although you know that it most likely won't ever fulfill all your hunger anymore. That's something you will have to accept. After one amazing night in the hotel the next day you drive to the facility where you will have your job interview. You have all the needed documents. But most importantly, you have what it takes to seduce the one guy interviewing you to get him to give you the job without asking too detailed questions. You officially work for Vought now.

✮It's one year before Operation Charly where America loses its greatest hero that you meet them. Payback, and most importantly Soldier Boy. The last few months you have managed to keep your head down and avoid people as good as you can. If you do that whatever happened to those doctors doesn't seem to happen to the people around you. Most of the time you spend locked away in the archives, going through files and documents and keeping them sorted. Then you are assigned to work closer to Payback and to make sure to sort away their 'mistakes and accidents' as others call it. Initially you feel a spark of excitement. Those are America's heroes after all. In a way they are your idols too. But you also fear too much what your influence might do to them which is why you try to make yourself small when the entire team is introduced to them. There are a lot of people. You hide on purpose behind them. But somehow when you eventually look up after everything seems to be over, you find his eyes somehow on you. Soldier Boy. It startles you. It even makes your heart flutter stupidly for one moment. Then you flee and hope that he'll turn his attention to another woman.

✮Yet as if fate intends to mess with you, you bump into him the same night after hours of sorting documents. He spots you. You spot him and turn into the other direction. Only for him to call you out and quickly catch up to you, one hand on your shoulder. Touch is never good so you quickly shake his hand off. There's no choice but to turn around now. He's as handsome as you always knew he would be, a smug and attractive grin on his face as he asks you if you're new here. He doesn't remember having seen you around before and believe him, he'd remember a pretty face like you. Your answers are short and straight to the point as you try to speed up the conversation. Too much exposure is dangerous. His eyes land on your name tag and he reads the name out loud as if testing it on his tongue. Not your name. The name of the woman you have murdered. He really tries to get you to talk to him more, joking that he won't bite a pretty lady like you but you feel stressed quickly. Eventually you manage to shake him off but only after you have been forced to specifically tell him where you work and how long you work there depending on the day of the week. Even as you walk quickly away, you feel those green eyes on you.

✮You're not easy to swoon. That's how Ben views it at the very least. But by God, are you a charming one. Shy and sweet but so charming. You don't get rid of him easily after. In fact he drops by as often as he can with that infuriating smile of his. He starts calling you "sweetheart" and "doll". Nicknames that would have other girls swoon. To you it merely means that your powers are working on him and you cannot afford that to happen. For whatever reason you try to reason with him only a mere week after he has been introduced to you. Hurriedly walking through the shelves and sorting different files, reminding him that he has a girlfriend already. Not that it matters. Deep down you know that Soldier Boy doesn't care. You've heard it from others. You are seeing it yourself too. It is still such a shocking thing to hear when he walks over to you and stops right in front of you, telling you with the utmost sincerity that he doesn't give a shit about Crimson Countess. She isn't you. It would be flattering but you know better. This isn't love. It is something else. And whilst Soldier Boy so far has dealt better with it than other men, you aren't optimistic enough to believe he can resist.

✮Praline, bouquets of red roses, charming words. Soldier Boy quickly pulls out all the cards to charm you. You try to reject his presents. He doesn't let you. Initially you don't put the flowers in any vases and showcase them on your desk. He gets worked up over it quickly and confronts you. Not violently. Not yet. But he spells it out clearly that he expects you to show more appreciation for the gifts he gives to you. He doesn't just do that for every woman so show some gratitude. You never do it again afterwards, the tight grip on your chin a strong reminder that you should not test Soldier Boy of all people. It doesn't just stop there. The possessive attributes reveal their ugly heads pretty soon. He starts asking you if you talk to other people. You really don't unless they need something within the archive. Otherwise you spend your time alone. Or with him because he really doesn't care whether you want him there or not. It pleases him somewhat but he still tells you that he doesn't ever want to catch you talking to someone else for any other purpose than your job. It's a threat hidden behind a mere warning and you don't intend to test Soldier Boy.

✮The unwanted touches start to get excessive. What were for a short period of time only hands resting on your shoulders or caressing your face escalate. Whenever you attempt to put some distance between the two of you, Soldier Boy grabs you by your waist and pulls you right back to his side. He never lets you get away from him. He doesn't allow it. The kisses follow soon. Never initiated from you. Always forced from him. To you it doesn't matter that he is the most desired man by the nation. You see a dangerous man spiraling all because something was done to you and you know deep down that you won't be able to kill someone like him as easily as you have other people. You don't want to kill either because you fear the more you'll do it, the more you'll lose hold on your humanity. Those combined fears hold you down and allow Soldier Boy to pull you in for long and harsh kisses where he doesn't allow you to tear yourself away even an inch. The relationship happens because you don't dare to protest. Even if you were to speak up though, of what use would it be? Soldier Boy and Payback aren't as heroic as everyone always believes them to be. You know better by now. All of them are corrupt and selfish.

✮One late night when you're just about to finish work, he storms into your workplace. You know immediately that something is wrong. He's trembling. His breath leaves his lips in sharp and agitated huffs. Green eyes glare at you as if you have stabbed him in his back. Before you even get the chance to ask him what happened he grabs you by your wrists. It's painful and tears fill your eyes instantly. But Soldier Boy? He doesn't care. His voice is harsh as he barks at you that he told you to not talk to anyone else. Yet here Gunpowder was earlier dreamily talking about you because you helped patch up a minor wound he got. Even fucking Black Noir was daydreaming about you. Do you just like having the attention of other men on you? Are you that much of a whore? It's the first time you see Soldier Boy snap violently. All because you helped Gunpowder who is still a teenager. In the face of irrational violence you don't know what to say to defend yourself. Is there even something you could say? Perhaps not. That's why you end up being thrown to the ground harshly with Ben above you immediately, hands tearing your skirt and your blouse apart. That's the only time that night you beg. He doesn't listen.

✮He isn't gentle. He isn't nice. He's aggressive and possessive. His thrusts are brutal and fast, his body mounting yours and his hips slapping against yours until your pelvis aches. If anyone walks in they are going to get a nice view of him fucking you like an animal. Soldier Boy doesn't care. He'll murder anyone if they do. No one is allowed to look at you. No one is allowed to talk to you. And if anyone sees you naked like he does right now he will beat them until there won't be any body left to identify. He doesn't even once say that he loves you. That would imply the existence of normal love. But it doesn't. Not for you. "You're mine." That's the only thing that you get to hear from him. Almost growled in a deep and guttural tone, always spoken in sync with his brutal thrusts. You just silently take it with tears staining your cheeks. Until your orgasm hits you and you hug him as he is the only support you have, your own walls fluttering around his cock. He lets out a string of grunted curses when he cums, filling you up. Only after does he end up holding you too. You dare to call his hero name out shakily. He tells you in a softer tone that he wants you to call him "Ben" from now on. He doesn't allow many people to do that.

✮There is no turning back from that point on though. You know that. You aren't surprised either when the next day Ben informs you that you will stop working here. He has talked something out with Vought. You'll be able to move into a nice house with him. That's not the life you want. Truthfully speaking, you don't know what you want anymore. But it isn't this. However, you have seen Gunpowder and what Ben has done to him. You have seen Black Noir limp. You have seen the bruises on Crimson Countess after she apparently vented out bitterly about you as it has been obvious for a while now that Ben is cheating on her with you. Violence has always been the way to solve problems for Ben but he is using it increasingly often when someone does as much as use the fake name of yours. So you agree. To protect others and to protect yourself as good as possible. It pleases Ben to see you accept so quickly. You simply draw too much attention. He notices people staring at you when you pass by. You are a woman easily desired. But you are his. And he will never let anyone oogle at his woman. Not if they want their face punched in that is. That happened a few times but Vought always covers it up.

✮For a while things always appear to be normal. You move into a house provided by Vought. It's nice and cozy and you are provided with everything that you need. But you are forbidden to leave the estate. Rules that you obey by. You clean, you cook and you tend to the gardens. You are lonely and that's for the best but you almost feel somewhat normal again now that there are no other people around to remind you that you aren't ordinary anymore. Ben adores it. You're like his shy and sweet housewife whenever he returns. It feeds very much into his belief that this is how things are just naturally meant to be. Him as the strong husband and provider and you as his docile wife. He doesn't know that you're a Supe though. He believes that you are a normal citizen whose life will be shorter than his. That's why he ends up stealing a few doses of Compound V to inject them into you so that you won't age faster than he does. He tries to inject that stuff into your veins. You don't know what another injection will do to you and manage to convince him to wait for a bit longer. It's the only time he listens to you. But it is going to happen soon. He will not have you die on him that easily.

✮It's shortly before Operation Charly that Ben proposes. He's gotten some nice wine and bought some nice steak and dessert. You still end up preparing and cooking it for him as that is a woman's job but he has gotten it for you. It's the most textbook proposal. He goes down on one knee and presents you with a small box containing a golden ring embedded with a green gem. It fits his eye colour. You wonder if that was intentional or not. However, he doesn't ask you to marry him. No, he says: "Marry me." It's a lenient warning that you know will turn into a demand if you deny or hesitate. So all you can really do is accept. It's genuinely the happiest you have seen Ben. He lifts you up in his arms, he showers you in kisses and he has a sincere smile on his face. You're used to possession and obsession. Not to that happiness. Especially not from someone like Ben. It's a memory that sticks with you and that perhaps for the smallest moment has you hoping that you can elicit more than just infatuated obsession out of people. Be more than just an object of carnal desire. Thinking back on it later, you really were a naive thing back in the days. One cannot escape their fate after all.

✮Ben never returns from that mission. His own team turns on him and attacks him. Sick and tired of his abuse that has only increased since he got together with you. Black Noir specifically targets him, provokes Ben by telling him that as soon as he is gone he will take his space and become your new lover. That's when Ben goes for him specifically. Targets him. Beats him up. Leaves him with a ruined face and permanent brain damage which will never allow Black Noir to ever speak again or show his face again. Forever doomed to wear a mask. Ultimately he ends up being overpowered and is handed over to the Russians. Never once does he forget about you though. Even as he is put through hell on earth and is used as a lab rat, his thoughts stay on you. Time doesn't really tick by as much as it warps during the centuries. Ben doesn't know how long he is stuck in different labs with needles and syringes, unable to die but able to feel the pain of it all. Until one day he is freed. He doesn't recognise who those people are. He doesn't even bother listening. He merely lashes out before he runs away. There are two things on his mind. Revenge on his former team and to get back to you.

✮He seeks out The Legend to retrieve some of his belongings as well as information. However, what The Legend tells him Ben refuses to believe at first. When he specifically demands information about Mary Joanne Starkling he receives a file of that person. Only that the picture of the woman is not you. He barely holds back his anger, grabs the other man by the collar. He's not in the mood for little games. Only that The Legend tells him that he isn't joking. This woman there is Mary. She was last seen by her family before making her way to a job interview. Only that by now they know that Mary never arrived. It was you who arrived at the job interview and you who received the job. Your real name is unknown. In fact nothing about you is known. The only thing that is known for sure is that you are a Supe and that you most likely were already one when Ben met you for the first time. No one has seen you though for decades. The last time you were seen was shortly after his supposed death when some agents of Vought came to inform you about it. They were found a few days later dead in the house. Chests torn open. Hearts missing. No traces of you whatsoever.

✮The Legend gives it straight to Ben. He was in love with a lie. An illusion. It could very well be that you never truly loved him. Ben very nearly breaks his neck but ultimately refrains from it. He has already been betrayed by his own fucking team. If his own fiancée turns out to have turned her back on him as well, he doesn't know what he will end up doing. Because he loves you. You're the only thing that kept him sane whilst those people in Russia poked around his body to find weak spots ans pump him full of something that essentially turned him into a ticking time bomb. He hasn't treated you badly. At least not in his mind. Yes, he has made you cry a few times but you were just way too sensitive back then and he made it more than up to you every time. All he wants is to have is future-wife back. Yet you have vanished as if you were never real. Do you seriously think that it'll be that easy? He thought he could just return and things would go back to how he always wanted them to be. But if he has to hunt you down, he will do that. He will find you. He will have you tell him the truth even if he has to get a bit rough. And he will remind you that first and foremost you are his. A woman is nothing without her man.

#yandere x reader #the boys x reader #soldier boy x reader #yandere the boys #yandere soldier boy

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gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 23 days ago

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I'm asking so many questions but finals are coming up and I'm terrified- can I get a rundown on who Omega is???

Who is Omega?

Welcome to the very sad story of Omega. Okay, he's tried to destroy the Universe a few times, but we at GIL are big fans of the deeply misunderstood Omega.

👶 From Peylix to Problematic Hero

Peylix was a Shobogan, born on ancient Gallifrey—still dominated by mysticism, prophecy, and a matriarchal theocracy ruled by soothsayer-queens known as the Pythias. He spent his early life attending school on time, sharpening pencils, and learning absolutely everything he could about stellar engineering and quantum theory. He was especially interested in time travel.

At one point in his school days, he wrote an enthusiastic paper on time travel theory based on Genefrenian models. For this paper, he earned the lowest academic mark in Gallifreyan history: Omega. He kept the name.

As Omega grew, he befriended Rassilon and became part of the Neo-Technologist movement—those who sought to depose the Pythia and replace her priesthood with science and rationality. Arguably, Omega was never particularly interested in politics. But Rassilon and the Neo-Technologists' rise offered him one thing: more space to do his science.

While Omega was busy in the labs doing science and being oblivious to brewing civil war, on a dark night in the Capitol, the Neo-Technologists stormed the Temple and violently overthrew the Pythian regime. Blood ran in the streets. The Pythia cursed Gallifrey with sterility and hurled herself into a prophetic abyss.

Omega was, notably, the only person who looked at the aftermath and said, 'Hmm. I don't think I like how violent this is.'

Still, the revolution had happened. With Rassilon and a third figure known only as the Other, Omega formed the new ruling Triumvirate. But make no mistake—he didn't want power. He just wanted to finish his equations.

🖐️ The Hand of Omega

While Rassilon was busy farting around with politics and naming things after himself, Omega was designing the Hand of Omega—a stellar manipulator capable of collapsing stars into controlled singularities. This was Gallifrey's golden ticket: the power source needed to make time travel a reality.

But during a test of the Hand, something went catastrophically wrong (whether by accident or subterfuge). The star collapsed into a black hole, and Omega vanished, presumed dead.

🕳️ The Anti-Matter Exile

Shocker! Omega wasn't dead. He had fallen into a universe of pure antimatter. There, he made two chilling discoveries:

His physical body no longer existed.

No one was coming to help.

Trapped in a realm of unreality, with no mass, no matter, and no tea, Omega's consciousness endured. But so did his bitterness. Over time, isolation twisted into rage. Gallifrey had abandoned him, stolen his legacy, and left him to decay.

And, well... be fair. That is what happened.

⚔️ Showdowns with the Doctor

📍 First Contact (…Sort Of)

Millennia later, Omega attempted to break back into the real universe, draining Time Lord energy to fuel his return. The Time Lords responded with their best emergency measure: summoning three incarnations of the Doctor and giving them the vague instruction 'please fix this'.

The Doctors discovered Omega's body no longer existed. The Doctor (specifically, the Second) accidentally left behind a recorder—a physical object—which destabilised Omega's anti-matter realm and collapsed it around him.

He was not amused, but he did survive.

📍 Return Visit

Still very much not dead, Omega later hacked into the Matrix with the help of the Toymaker (or rather, someone with the same face), hijacked the Doctor's biodata, and built himself a new body using said biodata as a template. He materialised briefly on Earth, looking suspiciously Doctor-like.

Unfortunately, matter-based flesh doesn't sit well with anti-matter souls, and somehow, the genius Omega hadn't caught onto that idea yet. His body decayed rapidly, and the Doctor used an anti-matter converter to fling him back into the void. Again.

Since then, Omega has attempted multiple methods to return from the antimatter universe, but he has never succeeded.

➕Though Also...

According to some accounts, after his original encounters with Omega, the Sixth Doctor learned that there was evidence suggesting Omega might be his grandpappy. Whether or not that's true is anyone's guess, though the Doctor was notably a bit of an Omega fan in his youth.

💕We Love Omega!

Yes, he's tried to destroy Earth/the Universe/a few timelines. But let's recap:

He invented the technology that powers Gallifrey.

He enabled time travel.

He was abandoned by his society.

And then he got blamed for being upset about it.

Omega is Gallifrey's greatest genius, and its greatest loss. He is also the universe's most powerful introvert, and possibly the single most compelling argument for robust anti-matter mental health services.

We love Omega. We can't wait to see what he does next.

📺|🏺The Long and Complicated History of the Time Lords: Part III – The Rise of the Time Lords

📺|🏺The Long and Complicated History of the Time Lords: Part IV – The Birth of the Time Lords

💬|👤👑Why is Rassilon everywhere?: Who Rassilon is and why you should care.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

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doctrined · 4 months ago

Text

⠀⠀FIGHTER PILOT

chapter one;

synopsis; You had dreamed of this moment for years—joining the fleet force, flying among the best, and proving yourself in a world where only the strongest survived. Being stationed under Caleb, the renowned ace pilot, was an honor. He was sharp, disciplined, and impossibly skilled, A legend in his own right. everything about him demanded respect. But the moment lessons began, reality shifted. the excruciating world of fleet training was nothing compared to what lurked beneath the surface. Caleb wasn’t just a pilot. he was something else entirely—something darker, something that watched you too closely, spoke too softly, and tested your limits in ways you never expected. You knew Caleb as the perfect soldier, the controlled instructor. But perfection is a mask, and you were about to see what lay beneath. In the cockpit, there’s no escape. and in his hands, neither is there mercy.

cw; This chapter contains sexual themes, power imbalance, manipulation, and psychological tension. Please read at your own risk. MDNI. 🔞

&. tags: @mariojins @dummiebunny @tenmaabnesti @starkdarya @darkx143 @rcvcgers @justpassingdontworry @icedoatlatte29 @spacenott @marina27826

word count: 3.16k

If anyone wants to be tagged in the upcoming chapters of this fic or Lucid Dreams, just comment below, and I’ll make sure to tag you. Only if you’d like to be tagged, of course!

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ┈┈┈┈

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ CHAPTER TWO

The mass hall aboard the fleet was a hive of activity, the air thick with the clatter of trays, low murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter. The overhead lights hummed with the same dull thrum of the ship’s engines, casting long shadows over the worn metal walls. Crew members, soldiers, and officers alike filled the space, sitting in groups, their voices rising and falling in casual chatter as they ate. The smell of synthetic food and fresh-brewed coffee clung to the air, a reminder of the sterile, yet strangely comforting, routine of life on board. You could hear the soft scrape of utensils against the metal trays, the clink of glasses being set down, and the rhythm of feet shuffling against the floor. It was a world of its own, disconnected from the vastness of space outside, but still thick with the weight of shared purpose.

As you walked into the hall, the noise shifted. It wasn’t a sudden silence, but a subtle lull in the conversations as eyes turned in your direction. You’d learned to tune it out, the constant awareness of being watched, but tonight, there was something different about the way the room felt. It was as if everyone knew something had shifted—you had shifted—and for a brief moment, it felt as though the whole mess hall had become a stage for a play that only the crew could understand. You made your way to the officer’s table, where a few familiar faces were already settled, deep in conversation. Your seat was toward the far end of the table, where the harsh light of the overheads didn’t quite reach. A sliver of the endless black of space was visible through the windows, distant stars twinkling like forgotten promises. It was the perfect spot—quiet enough to retreat into your own thoughts, but not so isolated as to feel like you were a stranger here.

“Glad you could join us,” said the gruff officer sitting next to you, his weathered face crinkling into a grin that didn’t quite touch his calculating eyes. He waved you in, a gesture that felt more formal than welcoming. You nodded, taking your seat, but you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off. The conversation around the table flowed easily enough—mostly idle chatter, a mix of war talk and the usual gripes about ration packs and ship repairs. But beneath the surface, something simmered. You could feel the weight of his presence across the table.

Caleb.

His eyes were on you—- always on you—like he was trying to pull the answers from the very air around you. Every so often, you caught him glancing in your direction, his gaze lingering a second too long before he quickly turned his attention back to his plate, as though he hadn’t been caught. It wasn’t new. Caleb had always been a master of subtlety. But tonight, the tension felt palpable, as if every stolen glance was a thread slowly pulling between you, stitching you both into something neither of you could quite name. You tried to ignore it. You tried to focus on your meal, on the conversation at the table, but it was impossible. Every time your eyes flickered over to him, you saw it—his smirk, the flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it would vanish behind the mask of the officer he was, the soldier in him that had been honed in years of service. But you knew him better than that.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, reaching for your drink. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—under the table, his fingers brushing against your leg just enough to send a shock through your body. It was barely there, a whisper of contact, but it felt like an electric current running between you, undeniable and dangerous.

“Something on your mind?” The younger officer beside you leaned in slightly, a teasing edge to her voice. She’d noticed the way you tensed, how your attention had drifted from the conversation. But her gaze lingered on Caleb as well, as if she too was aware of the quiet war being waged between you two.

You forced a smile, your fingers curling around your drink. “Just… distracted,” you muttered, your voice tight. But you couldn’t stop the way your eyes flicked back to Caleb once more.

He was still watching you. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the edge of his plate, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the pull of his gaze, like gravity drawing you closer with every passing second. The moment his hand brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine, you couldn’t breathe. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t look at him—- but the intensity of the moment hit you like a freight train. His fingers lingered there, just a second too long, and when you finally did glance up at him, he was already looking away, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck flexing as if he were holding himself back.

You stood abruptly, pushing your chair back, a stammering apology slipping past your lips as heat crawled up your neck. Every head at the table turned toward you, but none of them mattered—only his hand, now gone from your thigh as if it had never been there at all. The absence of his touch was humiliating, not because of the audacity he possessed, but because of the way your body still burned where his fingers had been. Your hurried steps faltered slightly as you left the table, your heart racing, the ache between your legs unbearable. It had been two weeks of this—of Caleb’s relentless teasing, of stolen touches when no one was looking, of lingering glances during lessons in the cockpit. You had hoped tonight would be different, that you could sit through dinner without feeling like your sanity was slipping. But he had other plans. And worse? You had let him. Again.

The deep murmur of conversation and laughter faded the further you got from the mess hall, and relief flooded through you at the thought of finally being alone, of catching your breath and piecing together the reckless, crumbling thoughts swirling in your head. But just as you rounded a corner, a cold hand gripped the nape of your neck and yanked you back. A quiet yelp tore from your lips as you were pulled into a shadowed alcove between two bulkheads. The cool metal of the ship pressed against your spine, and before you could react, Caleb was there—towering, close, his fingers firm against your skin.

“Relax, pipsqueak,” he mused, voice low, almost amused as he squeezed the back of your neck. “It’s just me.”

Your pulse was a frantic staccato beneath his fingers. The dim lighting cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the dangerous smirk that curled at his lips.

“Let me go.” You hated the way your voice trembled, hated that it wasn’t conviction but anticipation that made your breath hitch.

Caleb didn’t move. If anything, his grip softened just slightly, fingers grazing over your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You keep saying that.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “But then you run.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let him see how your knees nearly buckled when he spoke like that—like he knew exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed, even before you did.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” you muttered, though it was a flimsy excuse at best.

He hummed, tilting his head. “Is that right?”

Before you could respond, he was already moving—gripping your wrist, guiding you down the hall like he had every right to do so. The corridor was empty, the hum of the ship the only sound as he led you past a row of locked doors, each step sending your pulse higher. Your boots barely made a sound against the metal floor as he finally stopped, pressing a code into a panel beside a door. It slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a small maintenance room—dimly lit, empty except for a few storage crates and a workbench pushed against the far wall. Before you could question it, Caleb pulled you inside, the door sliding shut behind him. And then you were against it, the cool metal biting into your back, his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest.

His eyes darkened, the smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. “Giving you that break you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists at your sides. “This—this has to stop.”

Caleb tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking over your face, reading every unspoken word, every inch of hesitation. “Then stop me.”

Your breath caught.

The worst part was, you knew you wouldn’t.

You should push him away, remind him of the rules, of the lines he kept crossing, of the danger in whatever this was becoming. But instead, when his fingers ghosted down your arm, when his body pressed just enough to make you feel the heat of him, your resolve cracked.

This was a mistake.

A reckless, intoxicating mistake.

And you were letting it happen all over again. A shudder racked through you, spine straightening as heat prickled along your skin, your nipples pebbling underneath the light fabric of your dress. It was soft, delicate—completely at odds with the sharp hunger in Caleb’s gaze as he leaned in, eyes dark and lidded. He dragged his lower lip between his teeth, exhaling a quiet chuckle as his stare dropped to your chest.

“No bra, huh?” His voice was a purr of amusement, thick with something deeper, something that made your breath hitch. His knuckle lifted, grazing over the curve of your right breast, barely a touch—so light it should have meant nothing, but it sent fire licking through your veins. Instinctively, your back arched, your hips shifting ever so slightly toward him, seeking more. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to keep still, to resist the pull of his touch.

But Caleb saw everything. He always did.

A slow smirk stretched across his lips, lazy and knowing. “You always do this, you know.”

Your breath was uneven. “Do what?”

His fingers trailed down, barely brushing the underside of your breast before retreating, leaving you aching, restless. “Pretend you don’t want me to touch you.” His voice dipped lower, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “But you do.”

You shuddered, gripping his forearm, unsure whether it was to push him away or keep him close. “Caleb, we’re going to get caught.”

That only seemed to amuse him more. His hand dipped lower, skimming down your waist, fingers pressing, teasing—each touch featherlight but devastating. His free hand reached up, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Then you’d better be quiet,” he murmured.

Your heart pounded as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your dress, dragging up the inside of your thigh with agonizing slowness. Heat pooled deep in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat.

“Caleb—”

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he found exactly what he was looking for. His fingers traced over the damp heat between your thighs, slow, lazy strokes that sent a violent shiver through you. Your head tipped back against the cold wall, the need to breathe suddenly a battle you were losing.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice just as wrecked as you felt. His forehead pressed to yours, his fingers never stopping, never relenting. “You’re so wet for me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulder, your body betraying you as your hips rolled forward, desperate for more.

But then—footsteps. Close. Too close.

Your stomach twisted with panic, but before you could pull away, Caleb was already moving. His hand clamped over your mouth, silencing the helpless sound that slipped from your lips as he pressed you back into the shadows. Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts against his palm, your body trembling.

Someone was looking for you. A voice called out, distant but searching.

Your wide eyes snapped to Caleb’s, your hands gripping at his jacket, as if anchoring yourself. You shook your head at him, silently pleading. Not now. Not like this.

But Caleb—fucking Caleb—- just watched you. Watched every little tremor, every ragged breath, his own mouth parted, his eyes dark with something primal.

His fingers curled ever so slightly inside you. There.

White-hot pleasure slammed through you so suddenly you nearly cried out, but his hand was still over your mouth, trapping every broken sound. You clenched down around his fingers, your entire body seizing as the pleasure crested, your mind blanking. The sensation was unbearable, overwhelming—pleasure mixed with terror, the risk of getting caught heightening every pulse of sensation. You clung to him, burying your whimpers against his palm, gripping the back of his neck so tightly your fingers ached. Your entire body shook, the high dragging out endlessly because he wouldn’t stop—his fingers continued their slow torment, pushing you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were nothing but a trembling mess against him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, in awe, watching the way your body shuddered with aftershocks. His hand finally dropped from your mouth, and your ragged breaths filled the space between you.

The footsteps were gone.

The world returned slowly, your vision swimming as you blinked up at him, chest rising and falling erratically.

Caleb smirked, his face impossibly close. His breath fanned across your lips as he murmured, “I told you to be quiet.”

You barely had time to register the words before his mouth was on yours—soft, deliberate. A claiming.

No tongue. Just a bite. Just his lips pressing against yours, taking, savoring. Breathing you in.

By the time he pulled away, you were still trembling, your mind still catching up to what had just happened.

And Caleb? He just smirked.

“You really should be more careful,” he teased, wiping his fingers off on the hem of your dress. “Someone might notice how wrecked you look.”

Your body burned at his words, but you didn’t have the strength to fight back.

You’d lost.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

Caleb watched you for a moment longer, his dark eyes tracing the tremors still rippling through your body. His lips curled into a dark look, something dangerous lurking beneath the casual facade. Without another word, he pulled his hand away from your trembling form and stepped back, the distance between you now palpable. His gaze never wavered as he studied you, like a predator appraising his prey, savoring the aftermath.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, his voice low and commanding. “I expect you to be ready. Piloting lesson. No distractions.”

His words hung in the air like a promise, heavy with the weight of unspoken tension. There was no warmth in his tone—only the cold, calculated authority that had defined him from the start. It was as if the moment between you two had never happened, as if his touch had been nothing more than an inconvenient detour. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your body was still shaking, your breath ragged in your chest, struggling to catch up with the storm he’d unleashed in you. Caleb seemed to relish the silence, his expression never faltering, even as you remained frozen against the wall, your hands still gripping the edges of his jacket in desperation. He gave you one last look, a glance that was both possessive and dismissive, before turning toward the door. His boots clicked against the cold floor, each step a reminder of the power he held over you, and the power he was so determined to maintain.

“Don’t make me wait,” he added, almost like an afterthought, his words cutting through the thick silence. “You know what’s at stake.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you in the stillness of the room, the sound of his footsteps fading away. You leaned back against the cold wall, your heart still racing, your mind reeling from the moment he’d stolen from you. It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But still, there was a pull, a craving deep within you that refused to be ignored. A part of you wanted to scream, to throw yourself into something—anything—to escape the suffocating grip he had on you. But the other part, the part you hated, craved more. More of him. More of the control. More of the tension that twisted inside you every time you thought of him.

You finally pushed yourself off the wall, taking a few unsteady steps forward, the weight of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Caleb’s words echoed in your mind, a reminder of tomorrow’s lesson, tomorrow’s inevitable confrontation. The idea of facing him again sent another jolt of excitement through you, mixed with a sharp pang of fear.

One thing was clear: this was far from over.

You took a deep breath, forced your hands to steady, and nodded to yourself. Tomorrow, you would be ready. For whatever he threw at you.

And somehow, you knew that wasn’t the last of him.

#caleb x reader #caleb #love and deepspace #caleb x mc #possesive love #secret desires #teasing #lads mc angst #smutty fanfiction #smut #hot as hell #yearning hours #hatred #push and pull #caleb x y/n #caleb x you #ongoing #to be continued

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pascalmybeloved · 9 days ago

Text

CHAPTER 3: FIRST, DO NO HARM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterpost | Read on AO3

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Doctor OC | Enemies to Lovers

Word Count: 2.2k words

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI - Graphic medical and surgical discussion, medical non-consent, physical assault, head trauma, PTSD symptoms, mild body horror, mentions and use of firearms

Age 24 — Salt Lake City, Day of the Surgery

It was late when Marlene came to her.

Past midnight. The halls of the hospital were quiet—too quiet—buzzing with the low, fluorescent hum of half-dead lights. Blood had dried in streaks on the stairwell. The walls still smelled like gunpowder and iodine.

Ris sat curled in a plastic chair outside the makeshift lab, half-reading a medical journal with her feet tucked beneath her, pen tapping nervously against the spine.

Marlene stepped into the light like she had always belonged there.

“You’re up,” she said casually, like they weren’t both sleepless and worn down to their bones.

Ris sat up, wary. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Marlene sat across from her, arms folded over her knees.

“We found her,” she said.

Ris blinked. “Found who?”

“The girl. The immune one.” A pause. “We ran tests. It’s real.”

A beat passed. Ris’s pen stilled.

“And?” she asked.

“We think we can extract the cordyceps growth. It’s mutated—localized to the brain. If we remove it, isolate the site... we might reverse-engineer immunity.”

Ris frowned. “Where in the brain?”

“Midbrain. Possibly brain stem.”

Her stomach turned. “You’ll never get that out clean.”

“You could,” Marlene replied. “You’re a surgeon.”

Ris gave a dry laugh. “I’m a trauma surgeon. You want a miracle, not me.”

Marlene leaned in. “I’m asking you to help save the world.”

Ris looked at her—really looked.

“At what cost?”

The silence was louder than anything Marlene could have said.

Ris’s voice dropped. “You’re talking about brain stem resection. That’s… breathing. Heartbeat. Autonomic function. You cut there, you kill the patient.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“I do,” Ris snapped. “You’d need a neurosurgical team, an MRI suite, robotics, tools we don’t have. Hell, even if we did, it’s still an execution dressed up in a lab coat.”

Marlene’s jaw locked. “We’re out of time. This is our shot.”

“Does the patient know what you’re planning?”

A pause.

“She’s under sedation. For safety.”

Ris stared at her. “She didn’t consent.”

Marlene’s eyes hardened. “You don’t need her name, Ris. You need her immunity.”

And that—that’s what cracked something.

—

Ris didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. She locked herself in the storage wing with her notebook and a flickering lantern, her fingers ink-stained and frantic.

Page after page: Cross-sections of the brain.

Medulla → controls respiration.

Pons → relays signals to the cerebellum.

Hippocampus → memory storage.

Brain stem = DEATH if disrupted.

No anesthesia. No consent. No viable survival.

"Hippocampal resection = memory loss."

She circled the same word again and again until the page bled ink:

“THIS ISN’T MEDICINE.”

And then she heard it. Voices. From the OR staging wing. Familiar ones.

—

The hallway to the OR was too bright. Too still. Every step Ris took echoed like a warning. She pushed through the double doors into the prep corridor, notebook still clenched in her hand.

Marlene was there. So was Dr. Anderson. And a few others—faces Ris didn’t care to remember.

“You can’t do this,” Ris said, voice sharp.

They turned.

“You know this will kill her,” she went on. “You don’t even have sterile fields. You’re using a busted trauma suite with cracked scalpels and rusted equipment. This isn’t science. It’s slaughter.”

Dr. Anderson stepped forward, calm. “It’s our only option.”

“She’s a child,” Ris snapped. “Does she even know?”

Marlene’s voice came flat. “She’s unconscious.”

“You sedated her without consent.”

Anderson’s mouth tightened. “She’s the only viable source of immunity we’ve ever seen. We’re making the call.”

Ris felt her pulse spike. “You’re killing her.”

Marlene didn’t blink. “We’re saving everyone else.”

Ris turned to Anderson—her mentor, the man who taught her battlefield triage at sixteen. Who called her “magic hands.” Who told her she was meant for more.

“You have a daughter,” she said, voice cracking. “Abby. She’s barely older than this girl. If it were her on that table… would you do it?”

The question hung in the air like a noose.

And he didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Just looked away.

“LOOK AT ME! Would you do it?!” Ris shouted through a constricted throat, fist slamming against the surgical tray. Tears pricking behind her eyes.

Marlene’s nod was small. Almost imperceptible.

But the guards stepped forward anyway.

“Get her out,” someone said.

Ris turned to run.

She didn’t make it two steps before the butt of a rifle caught her skull.

The last thing she saw was the edge of her notebook hitting the tile. Pages fluttering like wings. Like something desperate trying to fly.

Age 25 — Jackson, WY, Winter — One Month in Jackson

Ris woke with her jaw clenched and her fists tangled in the hem of her shirt.

The sheets were damp. Her skin too—sweat cooling across her collarbone like meltwater after a storm. She sat up slowly, heart still sprinting, as if she’d run for miles inside her head.

The room was quiet, but not still. The radiator hissed unevenly. Her medical journal lay open on the dresser where she’d left it—pages fanned like a mouth mid-scream. The old pine floor creaked beneath her heels when she stood.

She crossed to the sink, bare feet numb against the boards. Turned the faucet. Cold, slow water dripped into her cupped palms, and she splashed it over her face.

Her reflection in the cracked mirror looked pale. Hollow. A ghost pretending to be alive.

She traced the edge of her temple. No bruise anymore. Just the memory of impact.

You did everything you could.

But it hadn’t been enough.

She toweled off, threw on a sweater, and braided her hair quickly, fingers catching on a snarl she didn’t bother to fix. The sky outside the window was overcast, the kind of dull that promised more snow but never delivered. She grabbed her coat, tucked her scalpel into the inside pocket, and stepped out into the street before she could talk herself out of it.

—

The clinic was half-empty, the kind of lull that always felt more dangerous than busy. Ris moved through the back storage shelves with a quiet rhythm—checking expiration dates, repackaging gauze, organizing iodine in straight rows like it mattered.

She’d always liked doing things with her hands. Hands were honest. They didn’t hesitate the way voices did.

Outside the thin partition curtain, footsteps paused.

Then voices.

Two of them. Men. Not whispering—but not quite loud either. That middle volume people used when they wanted to be overheard but needed deniability.

“…just saying, you let one in, others follow.”

A shuffle of boots. The sound of a flask opening.

“She’s been quiet, but quiet ain’t innocent. Firefly’s a Firefly.”

Ris froze, hand resting on a bottle of antiseptic. Her heart didn’t race. It just… slowed. Like it was listening too.

“You think Joel knows?”

A short laugh. “Joel always knows.”

Another beat.

“I heard she was one of the medics from Salt Lake. The ones who—”

“Hey,” the second man cut in, quick. “That’s not confirmed.”

“Still. You’d think Tommy would’ve run background.”

“Think Tommy wants to believe people can change.”

A snort.

Ris didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe until their voices drifted down the hall and out the front door with the bell chime.

Then—slowly—she stepped out from behind the curtain.

The light in the clinic had turned cold. Gray.

She looked down at her hands. Still steady.

But her stomach felt like it was sitting in a puddle of battery acid.

You’re not one of them.

You’re not one of us either.

She turned off the overhead light, grabbed her satchel, and left through the back entrance.

—

Ris learned quickly that the community hall always smelled like old wood, canned food, and too many people pretending to get along. She stood near the supply ledger table, arms folded, coat still damp with the melt of the morning frost.

Maria was pacing behind the desk, a clipboard in one hand, the other pinching the bridge of her nose like a headache had set up permanent residence there.

“Clinic’s low on antibiotics. Supplies are locked up in a storage shed off Route 14, past the water tower.”

Ris waited.

Maria didn’t look up right away.

Then she said it. Flat. Tired.

“You’ll be going with Joel.”

Ris blinked once. “I’m sorry?”

Maria finally met her eyes. “He knows the roads. The shed’s old Firefly territory—we don’t send people out there solo. You know what we need, what it looks like. And no one else is available.”

“You’re sending me with the man who threatened to kill me in the library?”

Maria’s jaw twitched. “He didn’t threaten you.”

“He took his gun off safety.”

“He does that for everyone,” Maria said.

Ris raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”

Maria exhaled through her nose. “I don’t like it either. But this isn’t about feelings. It’s medicine. It’s logistics. And unless you want a kid to lose a limb over an infected scrape—”

“I’ll go,” Ris said.

Maria blinked. “That easy?”

“No,” Ris muttered. “Not easy. Just necessary.”

She grabbed the supply list off the table and turned for the door. Maria’s voice caught her just before she left.

“You two don’t have to talk.”

Ris gave her a dry smile over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m counting on it.”

—

They didn’t speak when they met at the gate.

Joel stood already saddled, one hand on the reins of a thick-coated bay mare, the other in his jacket pocket. He didn’t look at Ris when she approached. Didn’t offer a greeting. Just handed her the list Maria had already given her.

“I already have it,” she said, tucking it into her coat.

He said nothing.

The ride started in silence. The wind whistled between snow-heavy pines, branches bowed like they were holding their breath. Ris’s mare kicked up a small spray of powder with each step, and the leather of her saddle creaked under her thighs.

For the first mile, there was only the sound of hooves and breathing.

Then Joel said, flat and low, “You really think anyone cares if you’re good at medicine?”

Ris didn’t look at him. She didn’t even blink.

“No,” she said. “But they’ll care if you bleed out one day and I’m the only one left.”

The corner of Joel’s jaw twitched. Not a smirk. Not a smile. Just an acknowledgment.

They kept riding.

Eventually, the woods grew denser. Less traveled. The sun fell behind a bank of thick gray cloud and the light turned sickly, shadowed. A rusted-out truck lay half-swallowed in the snow beside a frozen ditch, its hood peeled back like a torn ribcage.

They crossed the river at a shallow bend, hooves sloshing through half-frozen water. Joel didn’t offer to help her dismount. Not that Ris would’ve taken it.

He stayed a pace ahead. Not quite leading—just always in front. Like he didn’t trust her behind him.

After another quarter-mile, Ris cleared her throat. “You always this chatty on runs, or am I just lucky?”

Joel didn’t glance back. “Don’t talk when there’s nothin’ worth sayin’.”

“Huh,” Ris said. “Then I guess you’ve had a really quiet life.”

He didn’t rise to it. Of course he didn’t.

They rode on, branches cracking overhead. Ris could feel his silence like a second rider beside her—watchful, rigid, like a guard dog someone forgot to muzzle.

Eventually, he muttered, “You always gotta run your mouth, firefly?”

He meant for the name to hurt. Ris knew that. So she didn’t let it.

“Only when I’m around people who think grunting counts as conversation.”

That earned her a look. Brief. Like a flick of a match.

She met it. Didn’t blink.

Joel turned back toward the path, and for a moment—just a moment—his grip on the reins tightened like he’d wanted to say something else but didn’t trust himself to do it.

They hit a narrow bend where the snow climbed higher on either side. Joel’s horse stumbled a little on the incline, and Ris instinctively leaned forward to assess his footing.

Joel caught her watching.

She looked away first.

But not fast enough.

“You got somethin’ to say?” he asked.

Ris forced a breath through her nose. “No. Just wondering how someone so emotionally constipated manages to function in a leadership role.”

Joel let that hang there.

Then: “Fine by me if we ride the rest of the way in silence.”

“Finally,” Ris snapped. “Something we agree on.”

But the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was coiled. Hot beneath the frost.

Every few minutes, one of them would steal a glance at the other—just long enough to register the set of a jaw, the flex of a gloved hand, the weight of breath hanging in cold air. And every time, they’d look away too quickly.

Like being caught staring would be some kind of surrender.

They didn’t speak again until the sound hit them—low and sick and not human.

Joel held up a fist. Ris’s horse stopped with barely a command.

A moan. Wet. Wrong.

Joel drew his rifle with practiced ease, scanning the treeline. Ris leaned forward in her saddle, heart thumping in her throat.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Joel’s jaw worked. “Clicker,” he muttered.

Another sound joined the first. Closer.

“Make that two.”

A third shuffle. Barely a silhouette in the snow.

“Three,” Ris said, breath shallow.

Joel didn’t answer.

He just stepped down from his horse, slow and quiet.

The rifle came up. Safety clicked off.

And just like that, the disdain between them was replaced by something colder.

#joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou hbo #joel and ellie #the last of us hbo #joel miller x oc #joel miller x original character #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel the last of us #ellie williams #tommy miller #joel miller series #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader

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lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Note

HEYYY just wondering if I can do a request of an experimented reader? (They can be any animal or anything)

❀*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Patient 001 // 141 Mini Drabbles

Warning(s): FailedExperiment!reader, gn!reader, medical procedures, drugging mention, kidnapping, blood, injury, death, animal testing mention, angst, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n Word Count: 2.6k ꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX ˎˊ˗

A/N: I hope this isn't too dark for what the anon requested. If it is, I apologize. I've been interested in this plot line for a bit, and wanted to write something for it!

SYNOPSIS; You're a failed scientific experiment. Once a civilian, now a half-human that had gone through hell. Your other half, now a mutated creature.

To no longer be human would be a blessing. But that part of you stayed, partially. Still terrorized from the experiments, the tests, the documentation of your transformation.

Then came the day you were found.

MISSION BRIEFING; Their orders were simple.

Evacuate innocent technicians — and most importantly — find the location of the catastrophic chemical component, before it ends up in the wrong hands.

What was behind the doors, they'd certainly never forget.

Ghost

His rifle remained raised in front of him as he swept each room. It was obvious the enemy knew they were coming. All he'd found so far were empty sterile spaces, understimulating exam rooms, or numbing cubicles filled to the brim with charts.

Until he heard it.

A sickening screech, like that of a person possessed by a demon. Echoing off the tile walls, much too loud for the lung capacity of a human - and in deep anguish.

Simon's heart stopped when he pushed through the double doors, seeing a huddled figure left behind bars. Not a scientist left behind. Not a prisoner of war. Something.

The glow of your eyes reflected off the blinding white fluorescents, irises matching that of crimson. Your flesh, once human-like, is now sunken and riddled with healed slashes. Most of them self-inflicted, from when you thrashed against your restraints.

When you saw the figure, looming and dormant, it reminded you of the scientists that spent hours observing your changes. How you shrieked when touched when something as small as a pin dropped. Every noise was heightened, making your ears ring painfully. Your hearing could track the sound of potential prey for miles. And your tender skin? Only soothed when you weren't lucid enough to remember the pokes and prods.

Every week, it was a new serum, a new component. Something they would give you to study its effects on your body. Whatever you were, it was a mystery. All you did know was that you craved the metallic taste of blood.

Similar to that of a hungry hound, or that of urban legends that hunt unsuspecting hikers. But you weren't cruel. You weren't a cold-blooded beast that wanted to rip their throats out. That's what kept you around so long.

Your empathy never subsided, like it was supposed to. Your feedings were only that of animal blood or the human samples they gave you in the hope that it would progress the experiment. It never did. It only left you in that cell longer; fearsome and isolated.

"Christ..." Simon muttered to himself, eyes wide. The figure approached the enclosure, his rifle lowered when he observed your fear. He wasn't holding a syringe, not a clipboard, not a video camera, not even a vile of blood for you to choke down. Your vermillion gaze inspected the man with uncertainty, who looked like that of a soldier.

Your fatigued limps crawled across the scuffed cement until you could use the bars to find your feet. Something you couldn't do when the scientists were monitoring you. After so long huddled on the ground or writhing on the cot, it was a relief, if that was possible anymore.

Despite his best judgment, his fingers reached through the bars until they found your fingers. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, his British rasp ringing through your overly-sensitive ears. For the first time in months, you touched the warm flesh of a human hand, not an unempathetic gloved one.

It was a natural reaction to flinch; that primal side of you overshadowing the human one. But you still had the ability to find genuine empathy in his amber eyes. Your hand wrapped tightly around his through the gap in the bars, savoring the once-deprived human contact. "Do you remember your name?"

Price

Price took the riskiest route; the one he wouldn't dare send his team into head-first. The pathway that took him through each of the hidden laboratories — the one only countless hours of digging for intel made him aware of.

It was more chilling than he foresaw.

Rows of exam rooms, shelves of unknown components, countless cages of small animals. All that is expected in a covert scientific compound.

That is... until he stumbled upon a sealed room different from the others. One that could only be inhabited by a human being. He stared in each direction of the hallway, finding a keycard left on one of the bodies.

It was his duty to clear every room, no matter how disturbing the contents would be. Behind the plate glass room that resembled that of an enclosure. A small table and two chairs, a video camera, and most shockingly — the trembling figure in restraints on a thin foam mattress. One who has clearly been poked and prodded for months straight, littered with scars and an almost inhuman appearance.

The man approaching you wasn't a threat, but that didn't stop your body's natural reaction to hide. After months of enduring tests and experiments, being monitored like some sort of creature — it was hard to trust anyone. "My God... What have they done to you?" Price murmured as he approached the cot, fingers finding each tube and removing them one by one.

His expression was one of pity and disgust as his mind imagined all the awful things they put you and your body through. Countless months of research and injecting new components into you clearly didn't turn you into some monster.

You were frightened and in agony — still human underneath it all.

"Can you move your fingers for me? Your legs?" He asked softly, bent down next to your bed. Your shaky fingers finally gained some movement, after he had cut off the constant drip of sedatives. Next, you hesitantly untucked your legs, feeling your bare feet touch the icy tile for the first time in months. It was like learning how to walk all over again, except now you weren't the same you.

Your senses were heightened — smell, eyesight, hearing, and most of all touch. His palm found the small of your back as he led you to the door of your cell, using the keycard he swiped to unlock it from the inside.

As he led you through the corridors, he grabbed a spare lab coat off one of the racks, placing it over your shivering shoulders. No scrubs, no sweats, only a loose white gown. If he wasn't so focused on keeping his eyes peeled for hostiles, he would've given you his own jacket. The entire building had to be kept cool and they hadn't bothered to give you something warmer to wear.

He spoke into his radio, alerting the rest of his team as they combed through the rest of the compound. Right now, his priority was making sure you ended up somewhere safe tonight. "You're safe now, alright? Nobody will put their hands on you again."

Not a place with sterile white walls, a bed to sleep in with more than a thin foam pad, a place where your every move wasn't monitored. A place where the human part of you could feel safe again.

Soap

The power to the compound was cut off when Soap's team breached the tight security system. It was a faulty system — unlocking all the electronically sealed doors instead of the opposite. And the lights, instead of a blinding white, were dim and flickered repeatedly. Most likely the emergency ones.

Enough light to guide you through the corridors, but not enough for his trained eyes to be entirely sure of no threats.

He was using his instincts, his sensory training; all he had to rely on as he crept through the halls. Eerily silent halls. The only sound is the hum of all the technology littering this place and his boots hitting the smooth tile.

Eventually, he found one of the testing rooms; a place that is bound to have some chemical components stored.

Through the glass viewing window, he could see that this space was heavily used. Video cameras, viewing chairs, viles and IV bags stored on refrigerators shelves. Most chilling - the chair with restraints. The one you’d been bound to so many times, poked and prodded by medical tools.

The longer it went on, you felt it more. You weren’t lucky enough to go numb to the pain. It had the opposite effect. Every ache, every stab, every head-splitting migraine.

Soap’s brows knitted together in focus as he maintained his stealth, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of actionable intel. Though this room was dimmer than the rest, with emergency lights even more faulty than the ones in the rest of the building. He had to squint to clear the space in front of him, which hindered the rest of his senses.

Perhaps that's the reason he didn't hear the enemy behind him, or why he got a few stabs into Johnny's abdomen before he managed to fight him off. He slumped against the wall of the lab, comms jammed and unintelligible. Soap had convinced himself this was it, the moment he began seeing double from blood loss.

This was your long-awaited opportunity to escape - the electronic lock on your room failed when the compound was breached. You glided down the corridors, eyes trained ahead of you. What would the world out there be like? Would you ever have a semi-normal life again? This wasn't something you just move on from.

A sharp pain in your abdomen made you wince. But it wasn't pain from a true injury; it was a phantom ache. Someone nearby was hurt — someone deserving of your help.

It was a heavy debate; make your escape now, leave the maimed individual to fend for themselves. But your empathy outweighed your selfishness. The faint distressed prayers got louder as you crept inside one of the testing rooms.

The figure, one of a soldier, clutching his stomach in the same spot you had just felt the pain. Soap's eyes could barely adjust to the person approaching him, only managing a mumble. From his perspective, it must've been terrifying. A gowned, sickly patient with shaky hands outstretched to him.

He made his best attempt to fight you — which wasn't much of a fight at all. You lifted the crimson-soaked tee, wincing as the phantom pain kicked into high gear. The closer you got to a person in pain, the more intensity there was. It was time to use your new abilities by choice. Not one of the scientist's papercuts, not a wound they intentionally inflicted on a lab animal.

Your hands hovered over his inflamed stab wounds, teeth gritted in focus as you knelt next to him. One moment, Soap was delirious from blood loss, sputtering out incomprehensible phrases. The next, the searing in his abdomen reduced to a mild ache.

Then a tickle. And then nothing except the warmth radiating off your fingertips. The stab wounds faded from his flesh right before his eyes.

You had taken away his pain; somehow, in some way.

For a moment, he imagined this was heaven. An angel of mercy escorting him to the high place, though he was always convinced he'd end up in the fiery one. When not blinded by pain, he could finally muster the ability to speak again. "Who are you?" He wanted to ask what you were, but the empathy bleeding from your eyes pulled at his heartstrings. Those eyes; cloudy on the irises. And your sickly features, now filled with more life after healing him.

You were much too drained to answer. It was your first time saving a human in such a critical condition. Healing drained every ounce of energy from you. Before you could answer, he rose to his feet, wrapping one of the stray quilts around your trembling shoulders. "Ye saved my life, it's the least I can do."

Gaz

The raid was by no means straightforward. Nonetheless, it was strange to Gaz how few intel pieces he found. A few files he skimmed, some compelling blueprints — but nothing actionable. Once again, the rules of engagement prevented him from pushing the bounds of the code he followed. Another catastrophe is around the corner with an aloof public, yet there's nothing he can do but follow orders.

But there was more to this facility than met his eyes. Kyle knew it, and his instinct was rarely wrong.

There was a rattle on one of the lower levels, like that of a chair scraping against the floor. A faint scream. Then silence. No gunshots, no explosions, no enemies making callouts, not even his comms alerting him to check that level. It was obvious he was the only one who heard it.

He kept his sidearm raised ahead of him, eyes dancing around the motionless halls of the place. Whatever it was, he was going to find it; with or without following orders. "Anybody down here?" Gaz's own voice echoed off the walls. Still, no sound followed, not while he crept down the flight of stairs. Down the hall, he swept every room, finding nothing and no one once again.

Get out of there, Garrick. There's nothing here.

Price's comm almost swayed him — almost made his shaking hand that was hovering over the last door knob lower. Then he heard another clatter inside the room, one he couldn't ignore, despite his Captain's firm orders to evac.

He could take a serious hit for this, he knew that.

It wouldn't be his first time pushing the limits. Every time he did, he saved someone or something. If he didn't do that this time; he wasn't sure he could handle that weighing on his conscience.

It wasn't an enemy, he would've attacked the Sergeant's weak points by now. Kyle opened the door labeled Observation — his last hope of making this treacherous move worth it. Another shuffle sounded from inside. "If you're in here, show yourself!" The door creaked open as his sidearm remained at the ready, though it quickly dropped to his side when he caught a glimpse of the gruesome scene.

You curled into a ball and let out gasps and whimpers. Around you, a blood trail led up to the body of one of the technicians. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision; you heard the shots, and his hands were on you. You acted on mere impulse, which seemed to be more common after all the experimentations.

Gaz felt like he had dry-swallowed a big pill. You weren't a hostile, not even a scientist. You were some form of maltreated lab rat — one that had finally snapped and didn't know what to do with themselves.

You raised your head from your hands, showing him your face wrinkled with both fright and shock. An obvious adrenaline high, from what he was seeing. Kyle held out a hand, holstering his weapon as he approached slowly. "I'm here to help, alright?" He spoke cautiously, kneeling beside you to meet your crouched level. His hand found your forearm, tracing a hand over the number tattooed on your skin.

The thought was sickening — a human being meddled with, imprisoned in this place for testing. His instincts were proven right again, yet another person he could still save. It was tempting to act on that instinct again, to put up your walls. But this soldier was your last chance at freedom, and whatever half-normal life you might be able to salvage after all this.

His hands found your waist next, guiding you to a standing position. "You stay behind me and you'll get out of here. I promise you." Kyle spoke to you softly, before leading the way out of there. You'd never seen the outside of the observation room, not once in all the time you had been kept there.

He allowed you to cling to him as he retraced his steps, ascending the staircase. Gaz had saved you — point blank. Any longer, and you would've been an abandoned trial by the scientists, or wrongfully executed during the siege.

No amount of paperwork would make this choice any less worth it.

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helloanime · 3 months ago

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(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ OC FOR TWISTED WONDERLAND ♥

This is cringy asf 😭

Akima Akari Meaning: Demon Light Age: 1700 (In human years he is 17) Dorm: Ignihyde

Inspired by: Pain and Panic

Appearance: Akima has soft, tousled pink hair that falls messily around his face, its gentle hue contrasting sharply with the stark environment of STYX. His eyes, a muted grayish-blue, hold an almost distant, sleepy quality, as if perpetually lost in thought or exhaustion. Dark eye bags linger beneath them, a testament to countless sleepless nights and the weight of his circumstances. Despite his youthful appearance, there is an underlying weariness in his gaze—subtle but impossible to miss, as though he has seen far more than he should at his age.

Lore: Akima Akari met Idia Shroud when they were younger at STYX, before Ortho’s death. Akima was a demon specimen discovered in Chiconahuatl, found in the midst of a brutal civil war between the flame and glacial demons. Taken by STYX for research, he was transported to their facility, stripped of his past, and labeled as just another test subject.

Idia first saw Akima through the reinforced glass of an observation room—a pale, sterile space devoid of warmth or comfort. Akima sat on the cold floor, dressed in standard STYX experiment clothes, a restrictive collar fastened around his neck, marking him as an asset rather than a person. His eyes held a quiet defiance, yet there was an unmistakable exhaustion in his posture. Each specimen had their own isolated chamber, but something about Akima felt different—something that made Idia hesitate longer than usual.

Despite his usual reluctance to interact with others, Idia found himself drawn to the demon boy. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps it was the way Akima’s presence disrupted the rigid order of STYX. Whatever the reason, that moment was the beginning of something neither of them could have predicted.

As time passed, Idia began sneaking out of his room late at night to visit Akima. The walls between them slowly started to fade as they spent more time together in secret. Idia introduced Akima to the things that brought him comfort in his own isolated world—anime, manga, and his favorite music group, Premo, inspired by the Three Fates. He shared his passions with Akima, showing him the freedom and creativity that existed outside of their cold, controlled environment.

What began as stolen moments in the dead of night blossomed into a deep, inseparable bond. They became best friends, relying on each other in ways that neither could have anticipated. In a world where trust was rare, Akima found a safe space in Idia, and Idia found someone who understood the quiet pain of being trapped.

When Ortho, Idia’s beloved little brother, died, the weight of the loss nearly broke him. But Akima was there, a constant presence by his side, offering comfort in the only way he knew how—through shared silence and understanding. He didn’t need to say much; he just stayed close, offering a shoulder to lean on during the darkest days. Akima’s quiet support helped Idia carry the burden of grief, and through it, their bond only grew stronger.

In the aftermath of Ortho’s death, Idia and Akima’s friendship evolved into something more—something that transcended the walls of STYX. It was a connection built not on words, but on the unspoken understanding of two souls who had both suffered, yet had found solace in one another.

Signature Spell: "Pandemonium's Veil"

Incantation: “Chaos reigns, shadows swirl, let pandemonium unfurl.”

Effect: Aki summons a cloud of dark, swirling mist that disorients and confuses his enemies, much like how Pain and Panic's antics often caused chaos. The mist distorts reality, making it difficult for others to discern friend from foe or to act with clarity. Enemies caught within it may experience heightened anxiety, fear, or even hallucinations, throwing them into a state of confusion or panic. This chaotic energy can also interfere with their magical abilities, disrupting spells or weakening their power temporarily.

The spell plays into Aki’s ability to manipulate shadows and create an atmosphere of confusion and fear, reflecting the chaotic duo’s role in Hercules. It’s not only a tool for disorienting enemies but also a way for Aki to take control of a situation where confusion reigns supreme.

#twst #twisted wonderland #oc #idia shroud #disney twisted wonderland #ignihyde #male oc #ortho shroud #twst oc #disney twst

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thecrowskitten · 4 months ago

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Kitten

Pairing: Sylus/OC (Ameris)

Summary:

Sylus can't hold back anymore, he needs Ameris close to him.

Masterlist

Word count: 3,670

***

No sun greeted the N109 Zone, leaving time to slip through grasping fingers like sand. Shadows stretched endlessly, artificial lighting the only reprieve from the perpetual gloom. Ameris spent her days confined to the guest room, a space as lavish as it was suffocating. The silken sheets clung to her skin like a second layer, expensive and soft, yet foreign. Everything in the room was tailored to her, down to the pink and gold accents mirroring her apartment in Linkon City. Every detail whispered a truth she didn’t want to acknowledge—Sylus had been watching her for longer than she could have ever realized.

The poison had left her system within a day, but its aftermath lingered. Fatigue anchored her to the bed, pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. The butterfly rash faded under the steroid cream he had so conveniently placed on the nightstand, yet the stiffness in her joints remained, dull and persistent. At first, rest was a relief, but isolation soon became unbearable. She longed for the hum of city life, for real sunlight rather than the sterile glow of false illumination.

Sylus was a presence that hovered at the edge of her awareness, brief and unreadable. He entered only to ensure she ate and took her medication—a tray of food placed beside her, a book left for entertainment, a quiet insistence that she follow the routine. He lingered just long enough to watch her take the pills, his presence more obligation than comfort. She tested him, prodding at the boundary he had built between them, but he never gave her anything beyond necessity. Once satisfied, he settled into the armchair across from her, eyes scanning the pages of a novel titled Life After Becoming a Mafia Boss, avoiding her gaze. If she asked him something personal, he merely smirked, turned a page, and let the silence stretch. The moment she finished, he was gone.

When Sylus was absent, Luke or Kieran took his place, their presence just as fleeting. It was a routine that became predictable, and Ameris despised it.

The day she was well enough to stand without feeling like her legs would give out, she dressed in the clothing left in the dresser—designer alternatives to her usual wardrobe, the fabric soft and expensive. The weight of the garments felt curated, as if he had personally ensured they would suit her. Pulling her curls into a ponytail, she stepped into the unknown halls of Onychinus’ base.

The corridors stretched before her, sleek marble underfoot, dim lighting casting elongated shadows against the walls. Expensive art lined the halls—vivid reds and deep blues clashing against the dark, refined aesthetic. Each brushstroke carried a story, some canvases filled with abstract chaos, others haunted by stark depictions of the N109 Zone’s decay. She paused in front of one, fingers ghosting over the gilded frame. The cityscape stared back, both as it once was and as it had become. No signatures marked the paintings, and thought took root—were these commissioned, or had Sylus himself captured these moments?

A murmur of voices cut through the stillness. One belonged to Sylus, his unmistakable baritone smooth and unwavering, amusement curling at the edges of his words. The other was unfamiliar, its tone clipped, used to command.

Curiosity won over caution. She approached the slightly ajar door where Luke and Kieran stood guard. They met her gaze, their masked faces revealing nothing, but they didn’t stop her. Silent permission. Ignoring their warning gestures, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The study was lined with towering bookshelves, the scent of aged pages mingling with whiskey and something distinctly Sylus. He lounged in a wine-red chair behind a sleek obsidian desk, posture relaxed yet calculated. The glass in his hand caught the dim light as he brought it to his lips, those ruby eyes finding her instantly. Across from him sat a man in a black suit, sharp gray eyes narrowing in displeasure at the intrusion.

Ameris felt the weight of scrutiny as the man’s gaze swept over her, lingering where the loose sweater draped over her frame, where the joggers hugged her form.

Sylus set down his glass and extended a hand toward her, an unspoken command she had no choice but to follow. The moment she reached him, he pulled her into his lap with practiced ease. A sharp inhale caught in her throat, but she masked her surprise, keeping her expression composed even as his grip settled firmly around her waist, his free hand trailing the curve of her jaw.

“Well,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement, “Kitten, you’re out of bed.”

Her glare was sharp, but he only smirked, his thumb brushing the hollow of her throat before sliding down to rest against her collarbone. His touch was possessive yet effortless as if he had always known the shape of her. She should have recoiled. Should have pushed him away. But there was something unnervingly familiar in the way he held her as if her body had already memorized the feel of him long before her mind could recall it.

“This is unexpected,” the suited guest observed, his gaze flickering between them, calculating. “I was under the impression she wasn’t—”

“She wasn’t,” Sylus interjected, voice light but edged with finality. “But you see, it would be cruel of me to keep my Kitten locked away when she’s been lost for so long.”

A side glance warned her to stay silent, and she obeyed. Instead, her eyes traced the sharp lines of Sylus’ profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the aristocratic refinement of his jaw, the way the dim lighting cast shifting shadows over his high cheekbones. His features were carved with an unnatural symmetry, something both human and not. Even in stillness, he exuded a quiet predatory grace, like a blade poised for the perfect strike.

Then, without warning, he leaned in.

His lips brushed against the curve of her neck, a whisper of warmth against her skin. The barest hint of pressure sent a ripple through her, but it wasn’t the present that consumed her—it was something else. Something old.

The air thickened. Heat wrapped around her, stifling and electric. The scent of smoke and ozone filled her lungs, firelight reflecting against polished obsidian scales. Massive wings unfurled, their shadow swallowing the chamber whole. Ruby eyes glowed from the darkness, watching her with a hunger that was not human.

Her fingers ghosted over hardened scales, black as the abyss yet gleaming with an unnatural sheen. The creature loomed over her, immense and powerful, its form both terrifying and achingly familiar. It had touched her before. Claimed her before.

You are mine, it had said, voice a deep rumble that resonated in her bones. You always have been.

Her vision snapped back. The study returned in a blink, Sylus’ breath still warm against her skin, his presence lingering like a shadow, his gaze fixed on the very spot where phantom fangs had once pressed.

Ameris swallowed, her pulse erratic. Her fingers barely brushed the fresh mark he had left, heat rising to her cheeks against her will. He had found her sweet spot with ease as if this was something they had done countless times before.

His grip on her knee tightened slightly, his voice a low murmur against her ear, lips ghosting over the cold metal of her piercings. “Something wrong, Kitten?”

“No, I’m alright.” The lie slipped easily, her tone calm even as her mind churned. Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge what had just happened.

Instead, she leaned into his touch, her head settling in the crook of his neck. She didn’t know who Sylus had been to her. She didn’t know what history existed between them. But right now, in this moment, she knew one thing with certainty—

He would keep her safe.

***

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Ameris inquired, her voice deceptively even as she stared at the empty chair where the suited man had sat moments before. Black smoke curled from the edges of the seat, Sylus’ Evol dissipating into the air as though it were ink dissolving in water.

“I killed him.” The words left Sylus’ mouth as easily as an exhale as if it were the most natural conclusion to the meeting.

His hand still rested at her waist, fingers splayed, an anchor that neither held her in place nor let her go. Ameris didn’t move. Instead, she reached up, brushing her fingers along the sharp cut of his jaw before gripping his chin and forcing him to look at her.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—surprise, amusement, something deeper that vanished behind careful detachment. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“You’re getting bold, Kitten,” Sylus murmured, his voice dropping into something indulgent. He didn’t resist her touch, allowing her to tilt his chin, ruby eyes locked onto hers, searching, daring.

“Just playing your game, Boss Man.” Her tone was smooth and effortless, but there was weight behind her words, an unspoken challenge between them.

He smirked. “You killed him. Just like that.”

The corner of Sylus’ lips curled, a ghost of satisfaction there. “Surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be,” she admitted. Her fingers slipped from his chin, and his grip at her waist tightened—not restraining, not stopping, just reminding. “I know the kind of person you are.”

His smirk deepened, amused. “Oh? Do tell.”

Ameris narrowed her eyes slightly, the shift in his demeanour was unmistakable. He was enjoying their little game, and Ameris’ ability to match his energy. The tension between them grew with each word, and each action, increasing the stakes every second.

She exhaled sharply, shifting in his lap, but he didn’t release her. Instead, his fingers traced absent patterns at her waist. The touch was light and deliberate, the soft fabric of her sweater the only barrier between her bare skin and his hand.

“You barely even spoke to him,” she pressed, willing herself to ignore how her pulse betrayed her. “Why was he here?”

Sylus leaned back against the chair, his posture still impossibly relaxed, but she wasn’t fooled. Every movement, every breath was calculated. “He was an Ever representative.”

Her gaze flickered to the whiskey glass he had abandoned, the ice melting into the amber liquid.

“They’re getting desperate,” he continued, watching her reaction closely. “They wanted to negotiate terms. Something about a peaceful arrangement—ensuring no further ‘unnecessary conflict’ between us.” He paused, deliberating what to say next before deciding it was better to say it: “Told me I’d be compensated handsomely if I handed you over.”

She had known Ever was circling, that their eyes were on her. But hearing it like this, from him, twisted something in her stomach. They weren’t just watching anymore, they were beginning to act.

“You didn’t take the deal.”

Sylus arched a brow, slow and unbothered. “We struck a deal, sweetie. You’re mine.”

His fingers spread slightly against her side, just enough for her to feel the weight of his words. He wasn’t holding her there, but he was making a point.

She swallowed back the heat curling low in her stomach, meeting his gaze with an even one of her own. “They won’t stop just because you killed their Envoy.”

“They won’t.” His fingers tapped idly against her side, a slow, steady rhythm. “But I sent a message.”

Sylus’ Evol still lingered in the air, faint yet present. It remained the only proof that man ever existed, his death a symbol of quiet, ruthless efficiency. It should have unsettled her, it did unsettle her, though beneath that unease was a sliver of relief.

Sylus eyed her carefully. “You’re not afraid.”

Ameris inhaled, slow and measured, feeling the weight of his gaze press into her like gravity. She had known fear before—had faced the unknown, the powerful, the unrelenting. Yet here, with him, there was no terror.

She shook her head. “Fear isn’t something I’ve been able to afford since the attack fourteen years ago. Besides, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you would do anything to keep me by your side.”

His breath hitched, so subtle that if she hadn’t been this close, she wouldn’t have noticed. Sylus found his resolve slipping with her this close to him. Ameris was as magnetic as she was when they first met, her sense of neutrality when first getting to know someone a refreshing change from the immediate judgement from the rest of the world. Already, Sylus could tell she saw him for who he was, not for the things he’s done. He was falling in love with her all over again.

A slow, pleased hum rumbled in his chest, deep enough that she felt it against her own. His grip on her waist loosened, fingertips sliding away, granting her space.

“I would burn the world down if it meant having you by my side forever,” he murmured.

She should have moved then. Should have put distance between them, and reclaimed the space that had been theirs before this moment. But something inside her told her to stay, another memory bubbling just below the surface

The memory earlier—flickering firelight, the scent of embers and something ancient, the brush of obsidian scales against bare skin—echoed at the edges of her mind, clawing for acknowledgment. Ameris wanted to know more. Wanted nothing more than to discover who Sylus was to her, and who she was to him.

Sylus exhaled through his nose, amused. “I wonder, Kitten…” He leaned in, voice brushing over her ear, low enough that only she could hear. “Would you have stopped me?”

Ameris pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“No.”

“Good,” Sylus said, eyes narrowing as his fingers brushed over the mark he’d left on her neck, his Evol causing it to form into a wyvern, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then get dressed.”

Ameris blinked, momentarily thrown off by the abrupt shift in tone. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back against the chair, retrieving his whiskey glass with a lazy grace. “We have somewhere to be.”

“Where?” Ameris raised an eyebrow, hating the idea of going in blind.

Sylus took a slow sip, savouring the taste before answering. “An auction. And before you protest—yes, you’re coming with me.”

Ameris narrowed her eyes, suspicion curling in her chest. “Wasn’t going to protest anything, but why?”

His gaze darkened, sharp and unreadable. “Because I want Ever to see exactly who they failed to take from me.”

She exhaled through her nose, frustration simmering beneath the surface. It wasn’t a request. It never was with him. Still, as she slid off his lap and turned toward the door, she felt the weight of his eyes following her, the ghost of his touch lingering against her skin.

***

Sitting at the vanity in the bedroom, Ameris struggled to pull her hair into a simple updo as she got ready for the auction. Sylus had given her an hour to get dressed, a prepared outfit neatly folded at the foot of her bed. She did a quick, yet elegant, makeup look before trying to figure out her hair. While she managed to keep her curls tamed, it was always difficult to keep them in place when tied back in more than just a simple ponytail. Her shaky hands didn’t help, the lack of grip strength and stability causing her to nearly give up.

“Sit still,” Sylus commanded, suddenly appearing behind her. His fingers raked through her hair, leading Ameris to settle hers in her lap. She didn’t want to admit it, but she loved the feeling of his hands in her hair—the way they worked with a precision she hadn’t expected, the warmth of his touch grounding her, despite the mounting pressure of the evening.

“I don’t recall asking for your help.” Ameris stared into the mirror, watching as Sylus worked her hair into two braids before settling the rest of her hair into a low bun, leaving the shorter strands at the front to frame her face.

“I’m just here to ensure you look perfect, sweetie,” Sylus let his hands trail down her neck, before settling onto her shoulders. He leaned down on the side where his mark lay clear as day – now resembling a tattoo in black ink. It looked as though it was flying up towards her ear, wanting to grab the simple ruby teardrop earrings Sylus had left for her to wear. “Come, it’s time we go.”

“What? No compliment?” Ameris arched her brow. She inspected his handiwork, impressed with how tight he managed to make the braids. His skill was unexpected, the style perfectly symmetrical without a single hair out of place. Sylus held a hand out to Ameris impatiently, leading her to take it and finally test the new shoes that adorned her feet. the heels were surprisingly comfortable and suited the dress well with the gold chain and red rubies to decorate it.

“It suits you,” He said with a straight face, looking her up and down. He involuntarily bit his lip as his gaze settled on her bust, pulling out a simple ruby brooch and fastening it onto the left side, near the dress’s strap. “No one can stay wary when there’s a beauty walking around.”

“Hmph,” Ameris looked at the two of them in the full-length mirror. “This beauty will bash your skull sooner or later.”

Sylus chuckled, inspecting every inch of her closely. She noticed how gentle his touch was, how he looked at her. Sylus’s lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile, but his eyes betrayed something more than just desire. There was something softer there, something deeper, almost like tenderness mixed with the heat of his want. He didn’t just want her, though that much was painfully clear. There was an intensity in his gaze that said more, something raw and powerful—a connection that, for a moment, felt like more than the game they played.

His hand brushed the side of her face, his fingers trailing slowly down her neck, lingering just above the mark he’d left on her skin. His touch was almost too tender, his thumb grazing the pulse point beneath her jaw. She could feel it—the warmth of his gaze, the burn of his touch—but she couldn’t allow herself to believe it.

“I don’t need to remind you, Ameris,” he murmured, his voice hushed, full of dark promise. “You belong to me.” His words were possessive, his lips barely touching her ear as they lingered in the silence between them.

Her chest tightened at the weight of his statement, but it was the look in his eyes that made her stomach flip, that made her heart beat just a little too fast. He was looking at her like no one ever had. Not just with lust, not just with the hunger of someone claiming what they wanted, but with a depth of feeling she wasn’t prepared to face. There was something else in his gaze. Something akin to love.

But no. She couldn’t believe it. Not from him. Not from Sylus. His lust was undeniable, and she understood it, recognized it, revelled in it—but he couldn’t be in love with her. Not when she was dying.

She shook her head imperceptibly, clenching her jaw as if to force herself to deny it, to push aside that feeling in her chest, the small, dangerous voice that whispered it might be real.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she said, her voice sharp, as she pulled away from him slightly, keeping her back straight, her expression cool. He chuckled, the sound low and dark, a breath of amusement that came too easily from him. But even as he smirked, the tenderness never left his eyes.

“You can tell yourself that all you want,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He chuckled, the sound low and dark, a breath of amusement that came too easily from him. But even as he smirked, the tenderness never left his eyes. “But I know you, Ameris. I see what you are trying to hide. You’ve always belonged to me, you just don’t remember it yet.”

His hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, the contact lingering, possessive in a way that sent a jolt through her. Ameris stiffened, her body reacting before she could force herself to stay calm. She met his gaze once more, trying to find something to counter his words, something to mask the truth of what she was feeling, but his eyes... those eyes full of lust, of longing, of that unspoken love... it all made her want to break away, run, but she couldn’t. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she forced the words out, trying to shove down the rising tide of emotions.

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice cold, her tone steady despite the chaos building inside her. Sylus’s smile widened, and there was something unshakably sure in his expression, a quiet certainty that unsettled her.

“Maybe not. But I will,” he said, stepping closer, his body only inches from hers now. “And one day, you’ll realize it too.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing just above her ear. “You’ll understand that you don’t have to fight it. You belong to me, as much as I belong to you.”

Ameris’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she could almost believe it—believe in the love behind those words, the way his touch was a promise, not just a demand. It scared her more than the danger they were about to enter, bringing Ameris to pull back sharply, breaking the connection, her eyes hardening as she looked at him with a practiced coldness.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, her voice firm. “We have an auction to attend.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #hades and persephone retelling #lads sylus

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scp-detector · 5 months ago

Note

good luck on the scp hunt, narcs

Thank you for the submission! Dr. Awad and myself enjoyed finding all the items in this picture. =D

MULTIPLE SCPs DETECTED! Safe, KETER

Object #'s: 335 (One Hundred and Fifty 3.5" Floppy Disks), 686 (Infectious Lactation), 1000 (Bigfoot), 2221 (Amicus), and possibly 2614 (Sometimes I Go Out In Pity For Myself)?

Item #: SCP-335

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-335 is to be kept in a secure location to prevent tampering.

Description: SCP-335 is a set of one hundred and fifty 3.5" floppy disks discovered in a cardboard box found in the attic of former Agent ███ shortly after her termination. Each disk is individually numbered in hand-written permanent marker. Disks are to be referred to by their number; SCP-335-001, SCP-335-002, etc. Each disk has also been labeled with a human name in the same writing as the numbering. 118 are male names and 30 are female. There is some speculation as to whether SCP-335-011 "Jackie" is meant to be male or female. The names have no identified pattern.

Read more on the SCP Wiki!

Item #: SCP-686

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Samples of SCP-686 are to be stored under standard protocols for class 2 biohazardous liquids in G2 facilities. SCP-686 is infectious but not virulent. It can only afflict a new host when taken orally, and is not motile or otherwise 'active'. The infectious agent's mechanism of operation is not known. SCP-686 does not contain appreciable amounts of nucleic acids and prion activity is not apparent.

Due to the large quantities of SCP-686 that are being produced by various test subjects, the principal requirement for this substance is not so much containment as it is disposal. While pasteurization has proven completely effective at sterilizing the infectious agent, whatever its nature, it is recommended that all unneeded stocks of SCP-686 should be incinerated. Human consumption is not recommended by anyone other than designated test subjects.

Description: SCP-686 is an opaque white liquid consisting of a suspension of lipids and proteins that is indistinguishable from ordinary high-grade dairy milk without detailed analysis. At a biochemical level there are certain subtle differences: the protein content is much more complex, with most of the peptides so far proving difficult to sequence, and it contains a richer blend of vitamins and minerals than is typical of cow's milk.

Read more on the SCP Wiki!

Item #: SCP-1000

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: All media reports related to SCP-1000 are to be examined for potential verifiability. All organizations and individuals investigating SCP-1000's existence are to be kept under surveillance by Mobile Task Force Zeta-1000 and discredited or administered amnestics. All physical signs of SCP-1000's existence must be retrieved and kept in Foundation custody, and replaced with decoy items if necessary. Alleged sightings of SCP-1000 must always be investigated by MTF Zeta-1000, however trivial the claim.

Absolutely no contact with wild or captive instances of SCP-1000 is allowed without prior approval by Director Jones. Any interaction between SCP-1000 and humans, including Foundation personnel, must be reported to Director Jones immediately.

Description: SCP-1000 is a nocturnal, omnivorous ape, classified in the Hominini branch along with genera Pan and Homo. Adults range in size from 1.5 to 3 m (5 to 10 ft) in height, and weigh between 90 and 270 kg (200 - 600 lbs). They have grey, brown, black, red, and occasionally white fur. They possess large eyes with good vision, a pronounced brow ridge, and a sagittal crest on the forehead similar to that of the gorilla, but present in both sexes. Their intelligence is on par with that of Pan troglodytes (the common chimpanzee).

SCP-1000 is Bigfoot.

Item #: SCP-2221

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Websites believed to host instances of SCP-2221 are to be isolated for examination, and civilian users are to be blocked from such websites. A team of C-Class personnel are to maintain an ongoing search for websites and software that require the user to agree to an End User License Agreement, and thoroughly examine all such agreements for signs of SCP-2221.

Given the impossibility of containing all instances of 2221-A, field agents will instead focus on counteracting their effects. Agents should remain in contact with law enforcement agencies worldwide to monitor for sudden increases in extrajudicial violence. Agents are encouraged to share information about 2221-A affiliated groups with national security agencies in order to diminish their political and social impact. Foundation policies on political non-intervention have been temporarily waived in order to respond to this threat.

Description: An instance of SCP-2221 is an End User License Agreement (EULA), of the sort commonly agreed to by consumers in order to use software. Instances of SCP-2221 are typically found attached to free or inexpensive software available over the internet. They are unusually long for EULAs, presumably to deter consumers from reading to the end. Near the end of the contract are three clauses believed to bring about distinct but related anomalous effects.

Read more on the SCP Wiki!

Item #: SCP-2614

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-2614 is to be kept in a locked container in the personal office of Dr. Schmidt. Requests to research SCP-2614 must be forwarded to his office.

Description: SCP-2614 is a DVD copy of the fifth season of the television drama The Sopranos. The disc itself is moderately scratched, consistent with deterioration after heavy use. The object does not bear any marks of origin, although the word "BOOKSHELF" written in black marker obscures the title logo on the top face.

When played, SCP-2614 is non-anomalous unless an action is performed during a scene where a character is watching the film █████ ██████. If the Play button is pressed on any working remote device, the viewer is granted control of the camera view through the device's directional pad and the center button used for forward movement. The camera is free-moving and fully maneuverable. Upon the performance of this action, it is not possible to revert to the previous non-anomalous state without ejecting the object and thoroughly cleaning with isopropyl alcohol.

Read more on the SCP Wiki!

#scp foundation #scp possible #scp detector #scp detected #keter class #safe class #scp 335 #scp 686 #scp 1000 #scp 2221 #scp 2614

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helena-and-helena-meta · 9 days ago

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Part six of Canary Protocol, also, I am very sleep deprived :3

Kel found himself at his desk—but it wasn’t his desk.

Everything around him was sterile, colorless. A monochrome box encasing his workstation, the walls and ceiling closing in. His breath hitched.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t leave his seat. Every time he tried, his limbs felt locked in concrete. His eyes twitched from side to side, scanning for escape, but there was none.

This was it. This was hell.

Kel opened his mouth to scream—

But the walls crushed in before he could.

Kel jolted awake, gasping for air. His ribs ached from the sudden movement, his chest tight not just from pain but panic. His heart hammered as his eyes adjusted.

The room was orange—bright, almost painfully so. The smell of oil and metal clung to the air, with an odd undercurrent of something wet and electric. Like metallic vapor hanging in the nostrils.

This wasn’t the observatory.

He sat up slowly, groaning at the dull throb in his ribcage. Lifting his shirt revealed a bloom of dark bruising. His fingers gently pressed the area, testing his breath—no sharp pain, no crackling, no strange whistling in his lungs.

Not broken. Bruised, maybe. But he needed a real doctor.

He shifted on what he now realized was a metal table—or slab, really—and stiffened at the heavy metallic footfalls approaching. They were deep. Rhythmic. Familiar.

One of the Cybertronians. The red and white one?

Kel turned toward the sound. It was the red and white one but he wasn’t alone.

A second bot followed: mostly red with bright yellow panels and large buttons across his chassis. Like… a walking stereo?

Kel opened his mouth to speak, hesitated. He hadn’t expected company—especially not ones that might not understand him.

The moment they saw him awake, both Cybertronians moved closer—quickly, almost urgently. Concern?

“Where… am I?” Kel asked, voice scratchy. He didn’t expect an answer. These beings only understood him through emails, right?

The red and white one glanced to the stereo-bot, who smiled. Kel blinked. Could they smile?

“The Ark.”

The voice came from the yellow and red one. English. Fluent enough to stun Kel.

“You… you speak English?” Kel rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly through the soreness in his chest. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

The bot almost puffed up with pride.

“Your language is hard to decode, but the music helps.” He grinned wider, clearly proud of that detail.

Kel chuckled. “Yeah, well… music is kind of universal.”

He scratched at his wrist, suddenly self-conscious. “So… uh… what’s your name?”

“Name’s Blaster,” the yellow one replied, motioning to his companion. “And this grump here is Ratchet.”

Kel gave a tired nod. “Blaster and Ratchet…” His voice trailed off. Then—almost to himself—“Then the one I met first must’ve been…”

“The leader of the Autobots,” Blaster supplied, clearly catching the unfinished question. “Optimus Prime.”

Kel blinked. “I… thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, for saving me.”

Silence followed for a beat. Then—

“You think I could get back to the observatory?” Kel asked. “I probably left Kerfur unplugged… and I’ve missed work. A lot of it.”

Blaster looked at Ratchet and spoke something in Cybertronian. Kel watched as Ratchet pinched the bridge of his… nose? Did they have noses?

Ratchet muttered something back, gesturing toward Kel like someone gesturing at a reckless teenager. The tone was clear, even if the language wasn’t.

“Ratchet says you didn’t break anything,” Blaster translated, though he hesitated on the word “break,” as if searching for the right one.

“No broken ribs?” Kel confirmed, to which Blaster nodded. Ratchet still hovered, watching Kel with the same intensity Ena used when he got sick—equal parts annoyed and worried.

The slab was uncomfortable, the lights were bright, and while Kel appreciated not dying, he was ready to leave. The observatory might be isolating, but it was his isolation.

“So…” Kel eased off the table. “Mind taking me back?”

Blaster shrugged and said something to Ratchet, who grumbled but gave a stiff nod.

Being scooped up like a stray kitten by a thirty-foot robot wasn’t something Kel thought he’d ever get used to—even if that robot could carry a conversation.

The sky outside was dark. Night again.

Kel swallowed hard. He must’ve lost at least a full day, maybe two. He was probably going to get fired.

The observatory loomed ahead, cold and familiar. It looked like it always had—like a government punishment built to punish curiosity and bury loneliness under miles of static.

Blaster set him down at the door, waiting until Kel stepped inside before retreating into the dark.

The halls were too big. Too empty. Like walking through the inside of a memory you didn’t want to relive.

Each footstep echoed.

The signal room hissed open, and Kel dropped into his desk chair with a wince. His laptop booted up. Two new emails waited.

One from Dr. Bao.

One from Ena.

Bao’s was short, to the point: the Autobots had briefed him, Kel wasn’t fired—but he was warned. Strongly. The last paragraph was unsettling in its vagueness, worded like Bao knew something Kel didn’t.

Kel rubbed his face, exhaled hard, and clicked to reply to Ena.

For now, it was just a message to say he was alive.

#voices of the void #votv dr kel #transformers first contact au #ratchet #blaster

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emma23 · 8 months ago

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Shadow of her:

Nathan bateman x reader

————————————————————————

The low hum of Nathan’s estate reverberated through the walls, the steady thrum of machinery giving life to the cold, minimalist space. Everything here was perfect in its execution—sharp lines, sterile surfaces, and an emptiness that was mirrored in the silence that hung between Y/n and Nathan. The AI systems were always running, always watching, but it wasn’t them that made Y/n feel like she was suffocating.

It was him.

Nathan sat at the counter, his eyes glued to a tablet, the glow illuminating his hardened features. He wasn’t drunk tonight, but the glass of whiskey in his hand hinted that it wouldn’t be long until he reached that familiar state. Y/n watched him from the doorway, her fingers tight around the edge of the frame. She’d spent too many nights like this, standing on the fringes, waiting for him to notice her, to see her.

But it never happened.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, stepping into the room. “Nathan, we need to talk.”

He didn’t look up. “If this is about the AI testing, I told you it’s fine. Ava’s progress is—"

“It’s not about Ava,” Y/n interrupted, her voice harder than she intended. “It’s about us.”

That got his attention. Nathan’s gaze flickered to hers, but it was as though he was looking through her, not at her. He sighed, setting the tablet down with a heavy clink. “This again?”

The frustration in his voice lit a fuse inside her. “Yes, this again! Do you even care?”

Nathan stood, his full height and broad frame towering over her. “Care? Of course I care. But I’ve been busy, Y/n. I can’t just drop everything to—"

“Busy with your work or busy drinking?” she snapped, her heart pounding in her chest. “Because it seems like everything—everything—comes before me.”

Nathan’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I built this—this entire world! You think that’s easy? That it doesn’t require sacrifice?”

“Sacrifice?” Y/n let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’ve isolated yourself here, pushing everyone away, including me.”

She hadn’t meant to go this far. She hadn’t meant to let her emotions spill over, but now that they had, she couldn’t stop. The floodgates had opened, and all the anger, all the resentment she’d buried for so long came pouring out.

Nathan took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous. “I didn’t ask for this marriage, Y/n. Neither of us did. But we’re stuck with it. So why don’t you stop acting like you’re the only one who’s suffering?”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to scream, to cry, to hit him, but all she could do was stand there, trembling, her chest tight with the weight of everything she’d been holding in.

“You said you feel trapped in this marriage,” she began, her voice quieter now but filled with a deep, aching hurt. “But how do you think I feel? I was forced to marry someone I’ll never stand a chance with… someone who will never even be able to look at me without thinking of my sister.”

Nathan’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t—"

“No, listen to me!” she cut him off, her voice rising. “I’ll never be her. When given a choice between hurting either of us, it’s always me you’ll choose. I’ll never be your priority, not truly. I know that now.”

Nathan’s silence was deafening. He stood there, his hands at his sides, his gaze piercing through her like she was nothing more than another one of his machines, something he could study, dissect, and discard when it no longer served him.

“You’ll never see me as anything more than a replacement,” Y/n whispered, her voice breaking. “A placeholder for the one you truly wanted.”

The room was suffocating, the weight of their unspoken truths hanging in the air between them. Nathan’s face was unreadable, a mask of cold detachment. But behind it, Y/n could see the cracks—the flicker of something he refused to acknowledge.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nathan finally said, his voice tight. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” she asked, taking a step closer, her chest brushing against his as she looked up at him. “Tell me, Nathan. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that I matter to you. That I’m more than just… her shadow.”

Nathan’s silence was answer enough.

The sharp sting of rejection settled deep in her chest. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run, but instead, she stood there, waiting for a response she knew would never come.

Nathan’s hand reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek, and for a brief moment, Y/n closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, craving any scrap of affection he was willing to give. But the warmth was fleeting. His touch was cold, clinical. A reminder that this was all they would ever be—two people bound by circumstance, but never by love.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but even his apology felt empty.

Y/n opened her eyes, staring up at him, her heart breaking with every second that passed. “Sorry doesn’t change anything, Nathan. I’ll never be her.”

Nathan’s hand dropped to his side, his expression hardening again as if he’d already moved past the moment. He turned away, retreating back into the safety of his work, leaving Y/n standing in the middle of the room, alone once again.

The ache in her chest was unbearable, the realization that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, she would always come second. Always in the shadow of a woman she could never compete with.

She turned to leave, her hand lingering on the doorframe. “I hope your machines keep you warm at night, Nathan,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Because I won’t be here anymore.”

And with that, she walked away, the cold emptiness of the estate swallowing her whole

#nathan bateman #nathan bateman x reader #oscar isaac character #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #ex machina

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akagam1dracule · 9 months ago

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"What is the job of a first mate?"

She starts in an almost casual tone, as if repeating the question to herself for the hundredth time, but there's a spark in her eyes that reveals the depth of her feelings.

"To take care of the crew when the captain is unavailable? To calm the crew when it seems like the captain has lost their mind? To protect the weaker members of the crew?"

She pauses, crossing her arms and tilting her head slightly to the side.

"All of those answers are correct, but for me, it's always been so much more than that. It’s always been… personal."

Rouge’s eyes, normally filled with sharp confidence, soften as she lets the past rise to the surface of her mind.

"I guess it all started right after I was released from the capsule. I didn’t fully understand what I was… or what my purpose was. All I knew back then was that I was called by a number: 396. They said I was in 'good condition,' whatever that meant to them. It didn’t mean anything to me."

She sighs lightly, remembering the cold and calculated words of the scientists and guards.

"Right after they put me in a gray gown, they led me to another room. Inside that room, there was a girl. She had long hair that fell halfway down her back, and eyes that seemed… beautiful. Faded pink, I thought. And she had a smile—one of those soft, delicate smiles that didn’t fit in that cold, sterile place."

Rouge rubs her chin, thoughtful, as if trying to recapture the exact feeling of that moment.

"They were probably seeing if we’d attack each other, testing our reactions. Because fear and aggression were what they expected from us. And for a while, we just stood there, staring at each other, not knowing what the other was. I didn’t know what to say, but… somehow, I felt the need to break the silence. Maybe it was stupidity, or just curiosity."

She gives a slight smile, which quickly fades.

"I looked at her directly and said, ‘Your eyes are pretty, you know? Like a faded pink flower.’ Her expression changed immediately. I think she was surprised. But to me, it was just the truth. That’s when everything… fell apart."

Rouge closes her eyes for a moment, the pain of old memories still fresh.

"Because her eyes weren’t pink. They were golden. A bright, noble gold, like the shine of a coin. And I couldn’t see it. And they noticed. Right after they put me back in the cell, I was dragged into another round of needles and chemicals. They wanted to know what was 'wrong' with me. Color blindness. A defect… an imperfection, to them."

Her voice takes on a bitter tone, but her expression softens.

"After that, they isolated me even more, like I was a problem they wanted to get rid of. One night, after another long day of silence and solitude, I heard footsteps outside. They weren’t from anyone I knew. The guards walked with more force, the scientists with disdain. But these steps… were calm, almost hesitant."

Rouge looks upward, as if watching the scene play out in front of her again.

"And there she was. The same girl from before. The girl with the golden eyes. She had a small plate in her hands, with something simple—just enough to keep me from getting sick. She knelt down and placed the plate on the floor outside my door, without saying a word."

Rouge shakes her head slowly, as if she still can’t believe what happened next.

"But what really stuck with me was what she did after. She sat down outside my cell. Closed her eyes and stayed there, in silence, for hours. She didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything. But she… stayed. And I don’t know why, but that meant everything to me."

She laughs softly, the sound empty of humor, almost sad.

"That was the first step. Who would’ve thought that, in the future, my loyalty would belong entirely to her, right? Back then, I didn’t have a name. I didn’t know what it meant to fight for someone… but she showed me what it meant to be more than just a number."

Her gaze shifts to the present, her usual sternness returning, but with a glint of genuine emotion.

"And here we are, after all this time. I still follow her, even when she throws herself into battle like she has nothing to lose. I take care of her, because… who else would? Who else would stop the great Drácule Haruna from destroying herself before reaching the next port?"

She tilts her head, her smile now edged with a hint of challenge.

"I know she’s strong. I know she doesn’t need me the way I needed her. But even so, from that moment she simply… stayed with me, I decided that, no matter what happens, I’ll never leave her alone."

Rouge takes a step forward, as if reaffirming her silent vow.

"Because for me, being a first mate was never just about taking care of the crew or protecting the ship. It’s about ensuring that the heart of this ship—the person who gave me a sense of purpose, a dream, and a reason—never loses sight of who she truly is. I was the first to follow her, and if necessary, I’ll be the last to fall beside her."

She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with intensity.

"So, keep giving me work, Haruna. You might not need to admit it, but I know… I know that without me, you’d lose much more than the next battle."

" And finally after so long I met my parents and got a name, a real name. Nice to meet you readers, my name is... Backman D. Rouge in honor of my grandmother"

#one piece #anime #oc #fankid #op buggy #fictional characters #benn beckman #yaoi #experimental #dracule mihawk #mishanks #arte digital #one piece fankid #shipp yaoi

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