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synity · 28 days ago

Note

I just had a dream about this and please consider writing about it haha

Woozi (idol//svt woozi) suddenly gets a red string tug while at a concert/event. Y/n is like a fan and it was their first time attending an event. Woozi doesn’t do anything about it at first but he suddenly sees her EVERYWHERE HAHAAHAH u can do whatever u want with it..thank you❤️‍🩹⚡️

RED THREAT

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Fate, Romance, Slice of Life Soulmate AU*

Y/N’s POV

The screen blinked again.

That same cursed blinking cursor at the top of my Google Doc. The blinking mocked me a reminder that I hadn’t typed a single word in over forty-five minutes. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I couldn’t feel my brain anymore. Everything inside me was heavy, like molasses had been poured through my skull and was slowly dripping down into my spine.

It was 3:07 a.m. again. Another night that bled into morning without permission.

My office was technically my apartment, but the line between the two had long disappeared. My desk was littered with empty mugs and sticky notes full of passive-aggressive reminders to eat. I hadn’t touched my paints in a month. My house plants were turning gray. Even the playlist I usually loved filled with SEVENTEEN’s songs that once felt like warm sun through glass had begun to feel distant, like music from another lifetime.

I loved my job. Or… I used to. I worked in design. Logos, branding, pitch decks, ad campaigns clean lines, color psychology, subtle messages. I was good at it too. That’s what made it worse. Because being good meant people kept asking. Deadlines kept piling. And somewhere along the way, being good became more important than being okay.

I blinked again, staring at my laptop. My to-do list had bullet points so long they needed sub-bullets.

Client proposal

Fix formatting

Adjust color scheme

Make it “pop” whatever that means

Call with team lead at 10 a.m.

Email Sophia back

Try not to cry before lunch

That last one had been added half as a joke and half because I wasn’t sure I’d make it otherwise.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. My knees cracked. When did I last move?

My eyes scanned the apartment. It looked like someone had moved out halfway and never came back. The easel near the window stood bare, canvas untouched. My coat still hung on the door from a week ago. The mirror across the room showed a girl in an oversized hoodie with hair shoved into a messy bun and dark circles that looked like shadows under her eyes.

I didn’t recognize her.

I sighed and grabbed my phone. I scrolled without looking, out of habit, not intention. Just numb thumbs moving. Doomscrolling. Nothing new.

Until I paused.

SEVENTEEN WORLD TOUR: SEOUL FINAL NIGHT – TICKET RELEASE (LIMITED QUANTITY)

The header burned like neon into my dry eyes.

I’d been a fan since college. Lee Jihoon Woozi was a name I used to whisper into the night with awe. His songs made me feel understood in a world that often moved too fast. His lyrics reminded me I could still create beauty when I was tired. But concerts were always too far, too expensive, too risky to plan. Until now.

I stared at the post. My finger hovered over the link.

“You need to sleep,” I muttered to myself.

But I didn’t move.

I thought about the endless Zoom meetings, the moments where my chest hurt from holding my breath. I thought about how I hadn’t painted in weeks. I thought about how much I missed... feeling something.

What if I just went?

I blinked again. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Just one night,” I whispered. “You can work around it.”

It felt like madness. Like buying a parachute before checking if the plane had crashed.

But something deep in me something that still had color was whispering: Go. Please, just go.

I bought the ticket before I could change my mind.

The next day, I didn’t tell anyone. I just sent in my work, rescheduled one meeting, and packed a bag.

I took the train to Seoul, sat with my forehead pressed against the window. The city rushed past, buildings like blurs, light and metal and motion. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my emails.

When I arrived, the air felt different. Not freer, not magical. Just… clearer. The kind of air that reminded you you’re still alive.

At the hotel, I let myself take the longest shower of my life. I curled my hair loosely, put on light makeup, wore the SEVENTEEN shirt I bought two years ago and never had a reason to wear.

I still wasn’t sure what I was doing. I felt stupid for running away like this.

But when I looked in the mirror again, there was a flicker of someone I remembered.

I looked… a little more like myself.

And somewhere in Seoul that night, a red thread waited in silence, ready to pull.

I hadn’t realized how loud a concert could be. The bass shook my ribs in time with my heartbeat, the crowd’s cheers layering like crashing waves. It was almost overwhelming almost. But there was a strange comfort in being surrounded by people who felt the same rush of adrenaline and joy. People whose eyes sparkled at the same melody. Whose voices lifted in the same chant.

"SAY THE NAME!"

"SEVENTEEN!"

The stadium roared.

My seat wasn’t too close somewhere in the middle rows. But honestly, it didn’t matter. Even from here, the members looked like stars dipped in light. The screens gave glimpses of their sweat-soaked dedication, the way their eyes scanned the crowd, and how their bodies moved like music was born in their bones.

And then there was him.

Woozi.

Lee Jihoon.

His dark black hair was slicked back just slightly, revealing his forehead. His face was flushed, skin glowing beneath the lights, eyes sharp and focused as he sang his verse with that voice that had once saved me without knowing. A voice that felt like a hug around my tired heart.

Every time the camera zoomed in on him, I found myself breathless. Not in the silly fangirl way I thought I’d grown out of, but something quieter. Something deeper. Like looking at a lighthouse you’ve seen in your dreams.

It had only been two songs, but I already felt myself loosening. The tight, brittle shell I had been dragging around for months was cracking in the best way. I let myself scream, sing, wave my lightstick. For once, I wasn’t the girl behind the screen or the project. I was just a person here, alive, overwhelmed, free.

They started “Don’t Wanna Cry.”

My heart squeezed.

This was the song I played when deadlines piled up, when my breath caught in my chest and I didn’t know why I was crying at 2 a.m. It wasn’t just the lyrics it was how it sounded like someone else knew that same quiet ache.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt it: warm tears rolling down my cheeks.

I laughed softly and wiped them, embarrassed even though no one around me noticed.

Then came the bridge. And for a moment, the stage lights dimmed.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up just as Woozi’s eyes swept across the crowd—and stopped.

Because for the briefest moment in this world, I swore he looked right at me.

I froze.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even doing anything dramatic. He just… paused.

His gaze slowed.

Sharp, aware eyes.

And somehow, my heart knew.

He sees me.

We were so far apart. There was no way he could truly make out my face. I told myself it was just a coincidence. A flicker in the lights. My imagination reaching for fantasy in a place designed for dreams.

But something told me it wasn’t.

Because his stare lingered just a second longer than it should have.

And then he blinked. Just once.

Almost like

Recognition.

My lips parted.

And then the music swelled again, and the moment passed.

But I couldn’t move.

The crowd jumped, lights flashed, chants continued and I stayed frozen, clutching my lightstick like it anchored me to earth.

My chest rose and fell too fast. My ears buzzed. I didn’t understand it. There was no logic here. No reason for my soul to stir like that.

Unless…

Unless there was more to this night than I had expected.

The song ended. The members bowed. Woozi turned away.

But I could still feel it.

Like an invisible thread had tugged at my chest, unspooling from somewhere deep within and reaching across the stage. Wrapping around him. Wrapping around me.

Tying something neither of us could see.

I took a shaky breath and pressed my hand against my heart.

And for the first time in months, I smiled without effort.

Woozi’s POV

I’ve always said the stage feels like a dream.

The lights blur. The voices of thousands melt into one long, echoing ocean of sound. Everything becomes rhythmic: the beat, the steps, the inhale before a note leaves your throat. Time doesn’t pass normally here. You don’t think you just perform. You move. You feel.

But then it happened.

Right in the middle of Don’t Wanna Cry.

I looked into the crowd like I always do. We’re trained to. Engage with the fans. Make them feel seen. Keep your eyes moving, let them believe you're looking just at them. And sometimes you are.

But this time

This time, I stopped.

A flash of a lightstick. A girl with tired eyes. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that goes bone-deep. A sadness that felt hauntingly familiar.

Her gaze was soft, but full of something I couldn’t name. Something real.

It was her.

I didn’t know how I knew that. I just did.

For a moment, the song faded behind me. The crowd fell away. And there was only this stranger whose soul looked like it had lived through the same kind of silence I carry. Who looked like she didn’t expect to be seen.

But I saw her.

And then the tug came.

Not literal not like some ghost hand yanking my shirt but inside. A tug in the center of my chest. Sharp. Sudden. Unignorable.

My brows knit together slightly before I caught myself. I blinked once. I moved on. I had to. There were still verses to sing, cameras trained on me, fans watching.

But the feeling remained.

Even after we left the stage for a quick break, I couldn’t shake it. I tried to distract myself joking with Seungkwan, drinking water, adjusting my in-ears. But my head kept turning toward the crowd, scanning, searching.

I didn’t even know who I was looking for.

Just that I needed to find her again.

Was she really there? Was I making it up?

But no. That look. That feeling. The way my heartbeat stuttered when our eyes met that wasn’t nothing.

I’ve never believed in fate.

I’m a realist. A skeptic. I make music because I trust structure, not signs. I believe in effort, not destiny.

But now?

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I’ve looked out at the crowd a million times. Every night, it’s a sea of lights, signs, and faces all blurring together in flashes of color and sound.

But tonight, it’s different.

Because somewhere in that crowd… she’s still there.

I’m supposed to focus on the stage, on the fans, on the performance. But my eyes keep drifting. Searching. Yearning. For what who I don’t even fully understand.

“Hyung, you okay?” Dino’s voice cuts into the darkness backstage as we get ready for the next set.

I nod, almost too quickly. “Yeah.”

But I’m not.

I’m off tempo. My heart is drumming too fast. My thoughts won’t settle. It’s like I’m being pulled from the inside as if someone tied a thread around my ribs and is gently tugging, asking me to come closer.

A red string of fate.

That old legend I never believed in it. But now? With how my entire body tensed when our eyes locked, how her face keeps replaying in my head like a looping melody i’m starting to wonder if the universe is trying to write something I can’t read yet.

I step back on stage, microphone in hand.

The next song is slower. More vulnerable. And when the music starts, my eyes instinctively search the crowd again.

Please be there.

A flash of silver. A movement in the middle row.

There she is.

She’s standing still not waving a lightstick like the others. Her hands are by her sides, clutching the edge of her sleeves, her eyes wide as if she’s just as startled as I am. I can tell she’s trying not to blink, like if she does, I’ll disappear.

And I’m doing the same.

There’s a second where we just stare.

A second where I forget how to breathe.

I sing, but I don’t remember the lyrics. I move, but my feet feel heavy.

Because something’s happening.

Something important.

And I can’t ignore it anymore.

When the concert ends, the others are buzzing with energy laughing, wiping sweat, taking selfies in the dressing room. I’m quiet. Distant.

“Yah, Woozi! We did great!” Hoshi claps my shoulder.

I smile or try to. “Yeah. It felt good.”

But my head’s somewhere else. Out there. Still on her.

Who is she?

Was she alone? Did she come for us, for me? Or was she just a face I was meant to find today?

I grip the towel tighter in my hands.

This shouldn’t be happening. I don’t know her. And yet it feels like I’ve always known her.

Like her soul knocked on mine and it finally answered.

I look back toward the stadium one last time before leaving for the car.

She’s gone.

But I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see her.

The thread’s been tied.

And I’m going to find out where it leads.

I didn’t sleep well last night.

My body was exhausted from the concert, but my mind was wide awake trapped in that moment where her eyes met mine. I replayed it in my head over and over again. The stillness in the chaos. The way her gaze softened, even from a distance. Like she recognized me first.

Like she’s been waiting too.

I wake up before my alarm. The sky is still tinted with early morning blue. I rub my eyes, drag myself out of bed, and brew coffee, trying to shake the fog in my chest.

It doesn’t work.

She’s still there in my head.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but what if…?

No. I need to get out.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when my phone buzzes.

From: Hoshi Bro come out. I’m near the river. Let’s walk.

He’s one of the few people who won’t accept “no” for an answer, so I toss on a hoodie, sunglasses, and head out the door.

The Han River’s quiet at this hour. Runners, a few people walking their dogs, a couple teenagers with takeout sprawled on a bench. I spot Hoshi ahead and start walking toward him

And stop in my tracks.

No way.

There. Sitting under a tree. A small sketchpad in her lap, headphones on, eyes focused like she’s capturing something nobody else sees.

It’s her.

I almost laugh or scream. What are the chances? How?

Hoshi calls out to me, waving. I raise a hand, but my eyes are stuck on her.

Maybe she feels it. The weight of my gaze. She turns slowly.

And for the second time in two days, our eyes meet.

This time it’s closer. Sharper.

I swear my heart drops into my stomach.

She blinks. Her lips part. She knows.

She knows me too.

I force myself to keep walking past, my pulse hammering in my ears. I hear Hoshi say something, but I barely catch it.

“Hyung, you okay?”

I nod.

But I’m not.

Because now I’m sure this isn’t coincidence.

Later that day, I decide to stop by a café I used to go to when I needed peace. One that doesn’t play my music. Where the ahjumma behind the counter always adds extra honey to my tea without asking.

The bell chimes as I step in. It’s quiet thank God.

I place my order and walk toward my usual booth.

And nearly trip over my own feet.

Because she’s here.

Again.

This time sitting by the window, stirring something in her cup absentmindedly, notebook open, pen tucked behind her ear. The sun paints a warm halo around her.

I freeze.

She hasn’t seen me yet.

What are the odds?

I sit down in a booth across the café, out of her sight. My tea comes. I don’t touch it.

Instead, I keep watching.

She hums something. A melody. Barely audible, but familiar.

My own song.

She was there for me.

And now she’s everywhere.

Over the next few days, it keeps happening.

I walk into a convenience store late at night she’s standing in front of the ramyeon aisle, biting her lip in concentration.

I pass a bookstore I haven’t visited in months she steps out with a tote bag full of art books, looking up at the sky like she’s wishing something would fall from it.

I run into her again in a quiet alley near the company when I’m coming back from practice. She’s crouched beside a stray cat, offering it her sandwich. When she hears me approach, she looks up startled. But not afraid.

Just… confused. Like I am.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she’s not sure if I’ll hear.

I do.

But I can’t speak. I just nod and keep walking my throat full of words I can’t say.

Yet.

Back in the studio, I can't focus.

I try mixing a new track can’t get the layers right. I open lyrics I’ve been working on for weeks every line starts to sound like her. Everything I create feels tangled up in her presence.

It’s not just obsession.

It’s recognition.

I take a deep breath and look down at my wrist.

Invisible. But undeniable.

The thread is still pulling.

And I’m not going to fight it anymore.

YN'S POV

The morning after the concert, I woke up sore. Not just from standing on my feet for hours, but from… something else. Something deeper.

Something had shifted last night.

I couldn’t explain it not even to myself but the moment our eyes met, something ancient in me stirred. Like I had known him before. Like the universe had whispered his name into my soul long before I’d ever heard it.

Lee Jihoon.

Woozi. The name so many knew him by. But last night, in that split second when our gazes locked, it didn’t feel like I was seeing an idol.

It felt like I was seeing him.

Still, life had to go on.

Or at least, I tried to pretend it did.

I was back in my studio that morning, surrounded by canvases, brushes, and the faint smell of coffee and oil paint. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds. My manager had texted me three times, reminding me about commissions I hadn’t finished.

I needed to work.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I shook my head and dipped a brush into crimson.

Focus.

I painted in silence for hours, only moving when my stomach grumbled or my hands started to cramp. I must’ve been hunched over for too long, because when I finally stood up, the entire room spun for a moment. My shoulders ached. My vision blurred a bit.

You need fresh air, I told myself.

So I grabbed my sketchpad and headed to the riverside.

It was quiet just the way I liked it. The wind brushed against my cheeks, cool and gentle, a stark contrast to the sticky summer nights that had been weighing the city down. I found a tree I liked, tucked myself beneath it, and began sketching whatever came to mind.

At some point, the pencil in my hand started drawing him.

I frowned at the realization trying to erase it but the outline remained.

His side profile. The delicate curve of his nose. His brows, knit in thought. His lips, slightly parted.

I groaned and leaned back against the tree, covering my face with my hands.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I muttered.

But then…

That feeling again.

That static in the air. That tug in my chest.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Again.

Walking. Hoodie pulled low. Sunglasses on. But I knew.

I knew.

His eyes found mine like magnets unmissable, inevitable.

And this time, it wasn’t a concert. It wasn’t a crowd.

It was just us. Him. Me. The tree. The wind. The silence.

Time didn’t freeze, but something inside me did.

Then he passed. Just a nod.

But that one second unraveled me for hours.

Later that afternoon, I decided to stop by my favorite café a tiny place near my old art college. The owner, an older woman with dyed red hair and endless gossip, always made me laugh. I needed normalcy. Something grounding.

I walked in, ordered a chamomile latte, and picked a sunny seat by the window.

The bell chimed again shortly after.

I didn’t look up at first.

But then I felt it.

That same weight in the air. That thread tightening around my ribs.

I lifted my gaze, and sure enough there he was.

Again.

This time sitting at the far end, barely moving, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. But I could feel his presence like a fire in the room.

I looked away quickly, heart pounding.

What was happening?

Why did I keep seeing him?

Was I just noticing him more now?

Or was the universe playing some strange trick?

The next few days were… eerie.

I saw him everywhere.

At the bookstore near the station standing a few shelves down.

At the boba place I swore no idol would ever set foot in waiting quietly with his cap low.

Even in a quiet alley near my building, where a stray cat always waited for me because I usually brought it leftovers.

I was crouched beside it, tearing off pieces of a sandwich when I felt someone approach.

I looked up.

And there he was.

He looked just as surprised.

I said hi, unsure if I imagined the whole thing. He just nodded lips tight, eyes unreadable.

Then he walked away.

And I was left there, surrounded by silence, a half-eaten sandwich, and a cat that meowed like I owed it answers.

That night, I lay in bed, eyes wide open.

I didn’t believe in soulmates. In fate. In red threads.

But now I was starting to wonder.

What if something really was pulling us together?

What if this was more than coincidence?

What if for once I wasn’t imagining things?

Woozi’s POV

He saw her again.

Fourth time in less than a week. It couldn’t be coincidence anymore.

She was crouched next to a stray cat, feeding it bits of her sandwich with a gentle smile. Her coat was too thin for the late evening breeze, but she didn’t seem to care. The wind tugged at her hair, and he caught the softest hum in her voice. She was talking to the cat like an old friend.

Jihoon stood frozen just around the corner.

He wasn’t wearing anything that would scream "idol" today. Hoodie. Beanie. Mask. Even so, she recognized him he could tell. Just like at the concert. Just like at the riverside. At the café. At the bookstore. It was always the same:

Her eyes would meet his.

His chest would tighten.

That damned invisible thread would pull.

And he’d walk away.

But not this time.

He stepped out.

She looked up, startled. Her lips parted in surprise.

They didn’t say anything for a second. The cat meowed and pawed at her knee, breaking the stillness.

“Hi,” she finally whispered, almost as if unsure whether he’d speak back.

Jihoon swallowed.

He wanted to say something smooth. Collected. Something that didn’t sound like his heart was clawing its way out of his chest.

But instead, he muttered, “We keep meeting.”

Her brows knit together in a small, amused frown. “Yeah… I noticed.”

He smiled slightly beneath his mask, then pulled it down just enough so she could see his face see that he wasn’t here as Woozi the artist, but as Jihoon the man. The stranger who felt inexplicably drawn to her.

“Listen,” he began, walking closer, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but… are you feeling it too?”

She blinked. “Feeling what?”

He paused. Looked up at the moonlit sky. “That pull. Like… there’s something connecting us.”

There. He’d said it.

She stared at him, silent. He could see the hesitation in her eyes — the same hesitation he’d been wrestling with all week.

Then she nodded, slow and careful. “I thought I was going insane.”

His heart skipped.

For the first time in days, the confusion in his head settled. He wasn’t imagining this. She felt it too.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked softly, standing up and brushing off her coat. “All those times?”

“I didn’t know if it was real,” Jihoon admitted. “And I didn’t want to scare you. I’m… not used to this kind of thing.”

She smiled a little, tugging her coat tighter around her. “Neither am I.”

They stood there, under the orange halo of a streetlamp, neither quite sure what to say next.

So Jihoon just blurted it out.

“I want to get to know you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I don’t know how this works,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just because I’ve seen you everywhere. It’s something else. Like… I already know you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly flustered. “I’m just a regular person.”

“Maybe that’s what I need,” he said, smiling.

The cat meowed again, circling their feet.

Jihoon looked down at it, then back up at her. “You want to walk for a bit?”

“…Sure,” she said, smiling and he could tell it wasn’t forced.

They walked slowly through quiet streets, the cat trailing behind for a block or two before giving up. Jihoon listened to her talk about painting, about overworking, about chamomile lattes and messy deadlines and getting yelled at by her manager.

He found himself laughing more than he had in weeks.

And when she teased him gently for being nothing like his stage persona, Jihoon flushed.

“I get that a lot,” he mumbled.

“Because on stage, you’re intense,” she grinned. “But off-stage? You’re kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

“…Adorably awkward.”

Jihoon groaned. “Don’t say that.”

She laughed, that soft, bell-like sound he already knew he’d chase if she ever walked away.

When they stopped at a vending machine, he bought them each a warm drink. She got milk tea. He got black coffee.

As they stood there sipping, Jihoon looked at her profile again.

The way her lashes curled naturally.

The smudge of graphite still on her fingertips.

She wasn’t just pretty.

She was real.

And for once, he didn’t want to walk away.

As they reached her building, Jihoon hesitated.

“I want to see you again,” he said.

“You will,” she answered, smiling.

“But not just by chance.”

She looked at him.

“Let me make it intentional this time.”

She bit her lip, eyes flickering with something soft. Hopeful.

“…Okay.”

That night, back in his apartment, Jihoon stared at the ceiling long after the city fell asleep.

The red thread tugged again.

And this time, he tugged back.

Y/N’s POV

Jihoon asked her out the next morning.

Not a fancy, over-the-top plan like she might’ve expected from someone famous. It was simple quiet.

“Would you… want to go somewhere? Just us?” “Anywhere in mind?” “Somewhere you don’t have to think.”

So that’s how she ended up in a small corner of Seoul hidden away from the main streets wearing her softest cardigan and sneakers, hair loosely tied. Her phone buzzed.

Jihoon: I’m two blocks away. Stay warm.

A smile slipped onto her face. She hadn’t stopped smiling since last night, honestly.

She tugged her coat tighter and waited on the bench, heart jittery. This wasn’t like the casual cafe sightings or shared glances. This was a real moment. Something that had intention. Choice.

And when he finally turned the corner hood up, mask on, hands in pockets she recognized him instantly. Not because he was famous. But because that invisible thread between them practically glowed.

“Hi,” she greeted, standing up.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice quiet.

They stared at each other for a second before both laughing. A little awkward. A little nervous. But it felt good.

“Ready?” he asked, nudging his head toward the sidewalk.

“Yeah.”

They walked.

No crowds. No managers. No schedules.

Just them.

Jihoon led her through narrow alleys and tiny shops she’d never even noticed before. They stopped at a bookstore so cramped it barely had space to turn, and she caught him watching her run fingers along the spines of old novels.

“You read romance?” she teased, holding up a worn-out paperback.

He made a face. “Only if someone forces me.”

“Oh no, you’re one of those.”

“Hey,” he chuckled. “Mystery and sci-fi have feelings too.”

She giggled, slipping the book back onto the shelf.

Then they stumbled into a vintage vinyl shop, and she caught him humming along to something under his breath.

“Is that your own song?”

Jihoon froze, then looked mortified. “Maybe.”

She grinned. “Cute.”

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, cheeks pink.

“Why?”

“Because I never let anyone see this side of me.”

She looked at him then. Not Woozi the producer. But Jihoon the man who hid behind beanies and sarcasm and long working nights. The man who felt like home.

“Maybe that’s the side I like best.”

By afternoon, they ended up at a rooftop café tucked above an old building. The sky had turned soft with sunset, spilling orange light across Jihoon’s face as he sipped a caramel latte she’d made him order.

“You like caramel,” she said.

He blinked. “I do?”

“You made a face when you saw it on the menu. The good kind of face.”

He looked down at the drink, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re observant.”

She shrugged. “Only with people who matter.”

Jihoon grew quiet.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in tissue careful, like it was breakable.

She tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“It’s… nothing huge,” he muttered, handing it to her. “Just thought of you.”

Inside was a tiny charm. A silver paintbrush.

Her breath caught.

“It’s silly,” Jihoon added, nervous now. “I saw it while walking past a craft store. Reminded me of you.”

She stared at it this small, thoughtful token and felt her heart twist.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” she whispered.

Jihoon reached across the table, brushing his fingers against hers.

“You deserve it,” he said.

They didn’t rush the day.

They let the silence breathe. Let the tension settle between shy glances and nervous laughter.

And when they got back to her apartment, the sky already dusted with stars, she hesitated at the front door.

Jihoon did too.

“Thanks for today,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I’m glad you said yes.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but he stepped forward suddenly.

Not too close. Just… enough.

His hand gently brushed her cheek, and for a moment, he looked like he was thinking too much again. Always overthinking.

So she leaned in first.

Just a little.

And that was all it took.

His lips met hers soft, warm, unsure. Not urgent. Just enough to whisper I’m here.

When they pulled back, he didn’t speak.

He just rested his forehead against hers and exhaled.

“I’m really glad I followed that thread.”

She smiled, heart racing.

“Me too.”

4 days later

The city felt different today.

Less rushed, softer somehow.

Maybe it was because Jihoon had asked her out again.

Not for a fancy dinner or a show, but something more low-key a quiet picnic by the Han River. Just the two of them, away from the noise, the cameras, the crowds.

She had spent the morning preparing snacks in her tiny kitchen. Nothing complicated, just sandwiches, venoiseries, juices, some fresh fruit, and her favorite iced tea. As she packed the basket, her hands trembled just a bit nervous anticipation fluttering like butterflies in her stomach.

When Jihoon arrived, he was carrying a folded blanket and a small portable speaker. He smiled at her, that same shy warmth she was starting to recognize.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, slipping her hand into his as they walked to the subway station.

The riverbank was peaceful when they arrived, soft breezes playing with the autumn leaves. Jihoon spread the blanket carefully, and they sat side by side, sharing food and stories.

“Do you ever get tired of all the attention?” she asked quietly.

He looked out over the water, thoughtful.

“Sometimes. But it’s not the attention. It’s the expectations. The pressure to always be... perfect.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

He turned to her, eyes sincere.

“Really?”

“Really.”

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, the rustling leaves, and the golden sunlight.

Jihoon pulled out his phone and played a soft melody one of his unreleased songs. She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her.

“I wrote this for you,” he confessed.

Her heart skipped.

“Me?”

He nodded, cheeks pink.

“Every note is a promise.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled and brushed a stray hair behind her ear.

“You make me want to be better.”

They spent hours talking about fears, dreams, and the little things that made them who they were. Jihoon told her about his childhood, the loneliness he’d felt despite the crowds, and how music had been his only refuge.

She shared her own stories how painting saved her on dark days, how she sometimes felt lost in her own kindness, like the world was too harsh for someone like her.

Jihoon listened. Really listened.

And that made all the difference.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting pink and purple hues across the sky, Jihoon reached into his pocket again.

“Wait,” he said, pulling out a small box.

Her breath caught.

“Open it.”

Inside was a delicate bracelet silver, with a tiny charm shaped like a music note intertwined with a paintbrush.

“It’s for you,” he said softly. “A reminder that we’re connected, even when we’re apart.”

She slid it onto her wrist, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

“I love it.”

He smiled, eyes shining.

“So... about that kiss last time.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Me too.”

Jihoon leaned in slowly.

This time, the kiss was deeper full of the promise of more moments like this, more days spent discovering each other.

Later, as they packed up to leave, Y/N felt a warmth she hadn’t known she was missing. Maybe fate really did pull strings, and maybe, just maybe, those strings were leading her somewhere worth going.

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heartfullofleeches · 4 months ago

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Pretty Crooked Teeth

Fem Creep Yan + Creepy Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death and gore.

She'd be numb to it by now if anyone else said it. Those four haunting words.

“You should smile more.”

She was only six years old when she first caught ear of the phrase. A permanent stain on her self image before she could even button her sweater properly. The holes were aligned correspondingly to their clasps yet her small, tear eyes were useless to guide her through the thickened wool of her sweater. Her hands weren't of much use either, bandaged thumbs mistaking splits in the fibers as their true goal.

After that day she questioned whether people saw her the same. A pretty sweater with too many holes.

“I heard your parents left work early to see you perform in the play today, Callie. Why don't you show them a big smile to show how happy you are to see them?”

The worst part was she was already smiling. A tight lipped fraction of the cheesy grin common for girls her age,but a smile nonetheless.

It was her teeth they wanted to see. It was her teeth that ruined any chance of finding her place in a new world.

“Oh… Calliope. Maybe it's better if you showed a little less teeth.”

And the cycle began.

When her permanent set grew in she thought she had second hope. Away from the neglect and abandonment of her birth family, she had the proper resources and the firm, yet patient hand of her new parents to start her on the right path. If there's one thing that people will do, it's pointing out flaws you never knew you had.

“They're a bit crooked don't you think?”

“What happened to your front tooth? You'd look so much prettier if you got that fixed.”

And the list went on. She was used to it by the time she began high school, made new friends, met you. To call herself your friend felt like misjudgment of whatever was going on between you, but when you spoke she clung onto every word. It was a relief to know she wasn't the only freak there. It was comforting to have someone listen to her even if they never replied to a word of her suffering.

Then why….

“Because you want to.”

Does she?...

“I saw it. Back when that guy who spilled cola all over me tripped and broke his nose. You were laughing along with everyone else- until you saw me staring at you. You always hide your smile when I look at you.”

After hearing the same crap for the bulk of her life, her mouth has become her biggest insecurity. So much so her happiness is an afterthought in the presence of the person she cares for most in the world.

“Smile more, or don't. Are you even living if you allow people to dictate every action you make for the rest of your life? If I acted on my impulses, I'd likely be in a padded cell somewhere, but if one of us can have what they want then take it.... If it helps, I think your teeth are cute. They'd leave an interesting bite wound.”

Smile more, huh….

Calliope shifts anxiously on her feet, knees burning with anguish and the fading rush of adrenaline. Her nose crinkles as she levels herself with the potent stench of her sweat, fusing with the aroma of death.

Hooking her arms beneath the body's armpits, Calliope props their limp weight against her chest - grabbing a fistful of what remains of their hair as she positions her phone on the window above her. Slicked fingers tamper her progress. The woman cleans her blood drenched fingers on the front her first, before finally setting the timer on her phone.

Calliope yanks back on their hair, angling the mangled head so that its shattered jaw welds itself close. This is her time. Though there aren't many teeth left, their pearly shine might take away from her moment. Had she brought pliers it would've been another story. Bashing their skull in any future might leave you stumped as to who this person was. And she doesn't want that.

Posing two fingers up with her thumb and remaining thumbs clumsily gripping her prized possession, brain matter drips from the head of the hammer like butter off a hot knife.

“C-cheese!”

It's after midnight when you receive her text. Crimson blooms along the back wall of your darkened bedroom as the photo loads in full. Your single word reply gives Calliope the key to the shackles that have chained her to an existence filled with misery and torment.

“Cute. ♡”

#calliope my oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere oc #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #female yandere #yandere drabble

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gold-onthe-inside · 5 months ago

Text

pair programming - part ii

navigator

who? spencer reid (s3) x analyst!reader summary: what happens after your roommate and better half is shot on the doorstep of your building by her date. turns out, your support network seems to have more nodes that you'd thought. content warnings: reference to guns + gunshot injury, surgery, blood word count: 2.1k a/n: realised after writing this that reader has more interactions with everyone on the team than she does with penelope oops

Spencer handed you a cup of tea, sitting down beside you in the hospital waiting room, the rest of the team milling around, waiting for news on Penelope’s surgery. You hadn’t said a word about what happened, the team relying on a police officer and a paramedic’s account while you sat there in catatonic shock, blood staining your white shirt, your hoodie doing more work in hiding it. You could still feel the blood on your hands, stained from pressing down on Penelope’s gunshot wound.

Spencer didn’t know what to do or say, just pressing the warm beverage into your hands, Emily and JJ murmuring in the corner.

“Has anyone told Morgan yet?”

“He isn’t answering the phone.”

“Is she?”

“Still in shock. Hasn’t said a word.”

“And Penelope?”

“All we know is a gunshot wound to the chest, and that they’re operating now.”

Spencer’s eyes are still on you, a shell of yourself, unable to reconcile the person he sees with the person he knows. He knows you deal with threats far greater than the ones they do — they’ve just come back from arresting a cannibal, you prevent military secrets getting out and uncover espionage attempts. But it’s from the safety of a digital interface, the day to day of it so mundane that it makes him want to pull his eyeballs out. Your job doesn’t get you shot. Technically, Penelope’s job shouldn’t have gotten her shot either.

No-one was paying attention to him, or to you, which is why he’s on his knees in front of you, aligning his gaze with yours, and does one of the few things he knows how to do; explaining. He put the tea down on the floor, taking hold of your hands, your eyes distant, your fingers cold. If he couldn’t do anything for Penelope, maybe there was something he could do for you.

“When the brain experiences trauma it has an affect on the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system.” He said the words quietly, a distraction technique to bring your focus to something, even if it was nothing. “The physiological response is a fight or flight response. When your brain is unable to process the situation, it freezes in an effort to protect your mind and body. You might feel numb, or cry, or rage. You might just sit there, emotionally unable to move. You might dissociate, and feel like nothing around you is real, or that it‘s actually happening to someone else.” He squeezed your hands, hoping for a response. It felt like you weren’t even there.

“I can’t imagine how scared you must be, and I’m not going to try and tell you that everything will be okay, because it may not-,” and he hated saying the words, they felt like a lie in his mouth, but it was the truth “-but whatever happens next, I am here. I won’t leave, not unless you ask me to.”

“I can’t lose her,” you whispered. Thank god, Spencer thought as he looked at you again, and while he knew there wasn’t anything he could say that would make it all better, he also knew that the fact that you were finally verbal was probably a positive. You hadn’t said a word in hours.

“I know,” he said quietly. The team still milled around, waiting, the hospital buzzing with activity, but he felt like the words were just his and yours, the intimacy of the two of you cocooned away from the world.

"I don't..." You struggled to get the words out. "She's all I have." He watched as the tears welled in your eyes, watched as they fell down your cheeks. He wanted to reach out, to brush them away, and he hesitated, wondering what he possibly could do to comfort you.

Instead he pulled you towards him, wrapping you in his arms, a hug, and hoped that he wasn’t being too forward, and you crushed yourself against his chest, hugging him back. He ran a hand up and down your back as he held you to him, his cheek against the side of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he didn’t know if he was apologising for Penelope’s injuries, or the fact that he couldn’t save her, or that he hadn’t been there, or because there was nothing he could do to make it better. He was just sorry.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to background check this guy?” you asked, offering Penelope your eyeliner as she finished curling her hair and she rolled her eyes.

“God, you sound like Derek,” she retorted spitefully and you frowned. It was unlike her to be say his name with such anger, when it was usually said with love, fondness, occasional lust, and just in an overall dreamy fashion. A part of you had always wondered if there was more to their relationship than just platonic friendship.

“Alright,” you replied, letting it go. Penelope was a grown woman, she could make her own decisions… and was also equally capable of running a background check as, if not more, thorough as you would have. You tried not to look at the mess that your shared bathroom had turned into, make-up supplied and jewellery scattered over the counter, leaving her to do her thing. “And I better not get a text saying you’re bringing him upstairs,” you called out as you leave.

“This is just wrong,” you murmured, looking at Penelope’s pale, all but lifeless body, tubes running from her nose and arms, wires strapped to her chest, the suite silent but for the steady beep of the heart monitor. You still hadn’t moved from the foot of the bed, willing yourself not to cry. You were not going to be one of those family members who couldn’t get a grip of themselves. You especially refused to become a blubbering mess in front of her co-workers.

“I know,” Spencer said softly, wanting to take your hand again, but holding himself back. He still never knew where he stood with you. Hell, he didn’t know how to process what was going on for him — the only thing he knew he had to do was stabilise you, never mind himself.

You finally manage to put one step in front of the other, going towards Penelope and Spencer could see your hand shaking as you gingerly took hers, the way you blinked back tears, almost refusing to breathe because you were convinced the only thing that would come out would be a sob. Spencer swallowed, moving to draw the curtains over the windows, closing the doors so it was only the three of you in the room, and kept his back turned as you finally gave in to the squeezing grip your lungs had on your heart, sinking into the chair as you cried, gripping the hand that wouldn’t squeeze back.

You started awake when you felt a large hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently, and it’s Aaron standing over you. “Sorry,” you mustered, wiping away dried tear tracks and he simply pulled up a chair beside you.

“I know it’s been a long night,” he said softly, leaning on his knees, looking at you kindly. “But we need your help.” He watches you nod, taking in a deep breath.

“Anything,” you said, a lot calmer now.

“We need to get some kind of identification on this guy,” Aaron told you, his voice measured and even and a part of you was jealous you couldn’t be as calm as he was, and partly angry that he could be this calm with Penelope this way.

“She said his name was Colby,” you said, remembering the joke you had made when she told you.

“Like the cheese?” you asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically and she scoffed.

“Do not ruin this for me,” she retorted, pointing her laptop charger at you like a wand. “He’s cute and he actually likes me. Do you even remember the last time I’ve been asked out?”

“That doesn’t mean you should go out with anyone who asks,” you replied. “I mean, what kind of person doesn’t turn on auto-save?” It earns you a glare from her and you quieten, turning back to your book.

You shook your head, trying to focus on your screen, set up right beside Penelope, refusing to leave her side even as she slept, and neither did Derek or Spencer, the former practically breathing down your neck. You glanced up at Spencer, a plea in your eyes to get him off your back, and he makes a pitiful attempt of asking Derek if he wants to go get a coffee with him, which he denies and so Spencer shrugged, so you let out a breath, focusing on what you were doing.

“There’s nothing on a James Colby Baylor,” you said, sounding tired, running a hand through your hair, then settling it back on your keyboard.

“If he knew Penelope was FBI, then maybe he used a pseudonym,” Spencer offered, his hands in his pockets, standing across from you. “Try using the same combination of letters, JCB.”

“I’m gonna need more parameters than just three letters,” you retorted, looking up at him.

“Check anyone who rented a white sedan in the last 24 hours,” Derek said, still leaning over you and you desperately wanted to hit the both of them. Repeatedly. Instead, you check car rentals across the city matching the description, matching the restaurant that they had gone to, adding your facial recognition program to look for blonde men with blue eyes. “Plus some kind of job in the justice department. Try law enforcement, former military, stuff like that,” Derek added. “He knew enough to use legal terms, but not enough to know city attorneys don’t try criminal cases. Law school dropout, failed the bar exam—”

“Jason Clark Battle,” you told him, pulling up the picture of him and you swallowed. That was him. The guy you’d seen run away from the front of your building after you heard the gunshot. Your hands curled into fists, oblivious to Derek calling Aaron about it, charging out the door. Spencer didn’t particularly want to leave either of you, but he muttered a quick, ‘Be right back’ before disappearing.

You handed Derek a mug of coffee while Penelope slept in her own bed, the door left open in case she needed either of them. He’s set up on your couch, a blanket and pillows, his gun set on the coffee table, a single light left on so he can read the file. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he asked you and you shrugged, taking a seat on the corner of the coffee table.

“He shot her on the doorstep, Morgan,” you said quietly. “If I hadn’t been at home…”

Morgan placed his hand on your knee, warm and comforting, and even though you had made fun of him being here, calling him Penelope’s ‘guard dog’, deep down, you were glad he was here. “There’s a lot that went wrong that night,” he said smoothly, his voice low. “Don’t eat at yourself worrying about how it could have been worse.”

You huffed a little. “You mean like you’ve been doing?” you asked, looking at him pointedly and he narrowed his eyes at you.

“You sure you aren’t a profiler?” he asked, noticing the slight hint of a smile on your face as you shrug.

“I guess we’re both wired the same way,” you said, instead of the retort you had lined up in your head. “Protecting the people we care about, blaming ourselves when they get hurt.” You glanced at Penelope’s room, her open door. “She’s all I have, Morgan.” And maybe it’s the late night, the anxiety coursing through your body, the thing that makes it impossible to sleep, that starts in your head and works its way to your chest, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “She’s everything. My emergency contact, my medical proxy… Hell, if I died tomorrow, everything I own goes to her. She’s my family. If I lose her, I have no-one.”

Derek lets a beat pass, watching you, and you can tell he knows something you don’t, because he said, “You have people. Even if you can’t see them.” You frowned a little as he went back to his file, clearly unwilling to say more, and you’ve never been one to push into personal space. Instead, you go back to your room, left with his cryptic words.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x analyst!reader #analyst!reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #penelope garcia #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #my fics

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emdeerm · 2 years ago

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Past saves Present

Og fic ig

In some cultures, it is believed that children are able to remember bits of their past lives till the ages of 3-5.

For Danny, the opposite was true. He got his memories at exactly the second he turned 5.

And he had to promptly dodge the blade of the boy in front of him.

His brother, his mind supplied. His twin.

Danny stopped swinging his own sword, focusing on dodging and avoiding the fate of being a slashed pillow. His new/earned skills especially helped with that greatly as his head was seriously trying to re-kill him.

"I yield," he rasped as he jumped away from his brother and looked at their Mother. "My head hurts, Mother," he added pitifully.

His twin looked slightly concerned for a second, before schooling his face in a way Grandfather has been teaching them.

"Tch." But he did put away the blade before their Mother, said a word.

"Dynial, Damian, you are not to stop until you have received permission in the future."

The boys nodded. Mother took their hands and led them out of the private training ground back to their rooms.

Danny spent the rest of the day lying down, slightly feverish and miserable as his brain was processing and acclimating the new set of memories. Clockwork said it wouldn't be too bad. We'll, the clock bustard has been wrong. It fucking sucked.

His brother was hovering. Their Mother was always around, not letting anyone into their space. Ra's is being kept in the dark.

A peaceful rest was all he needed for his brain to finish sorting out new information. And Danny was stuck in a bit of a dilemma.

You see, Damian and Dynial love their Mother, strive to be the best Demon Twins, and see nothing wrong with their life so far.

Their hands are still clean.

Danny, on the other hand, has many MANY choice words for his current situation and one Clock Ghost.

You want to try reincarnation ONE time! No wonder others don't really do that.

-------

Their days continued like they did before he got his memory back. It wasn't hard to be Dynial when he actually was him.

The nights were filled with planning. And a personally assigned mission: get Damian to be interested in normal things.

Stars weren't much of a hit. Uncultured child.

Animals were a little intriguing.

Simple art and craft projects seemed to hit the spot.

Keeping their little meetings and activities hidden wasn't as hard as one would think. Mother still had her missions. The two of them were often left alone in their wing of the place, the supervisors being allowed only till the doors. Ra's was the Head. He didn't check in on them all the time. The two of them weren't slacking in their training either and were considered prodigies.

Danny wanted out of this Cult.

A many months after feeding different information, facts, crafts and so on to his brother, Damian was curious. He was suspicious about the sudden knowledge but he was also 5. He only had to reference the Lazarus Pit (unfiltered and dirty ectoplasm? Seriously? Clockwork, you can't expect him to work on his vocation) once to convince the child.

They snooped around and found out that they had a father out in the world.

Danny got a plan.

It was super stupid. And dangerous as hell. As well as literally (half)suicidal. But he felt it in his chest and knew he'd succeed.

His Core was here. But it was sleeping. And if he wanted to be safe and away from here, he needed to start it up again.

The big pool of Ecto would do just fine. His Core would filter out the impurities.

He didn't want to stay here until his hands no longer protected. He didn't want such life for his brother either.

---

Damian infiltrated the Lazarus Room just in time to see his brother jump into the Pit.

He ran to the edge.

He was sinking.

The green was too bright. The smell around them was too much. His ears rang.

He reached towards the water, eyes unseeing and hands numb. His heartbeat was too loud.

His brother's wasn't loud enough.

"Don't touch the puddles, Dami, you'll get sick," a gentle, cold hand stopped him from diving.

The child looked up. His brother was floating above the water. He looked all wrong. But he was there.

"I didn't want you to see this part..." his brother laughed awkwardly as he landed next to him. A bright ring of light blinded Damian for a second.

And his brother was back.

-----

Getting used to his powers again felt nice but tedious. Soothing his twin was heartbreaking. He didn't think this through hard enough.

Their Mother was none the wiser to the fact that one of her children died and came back. Nore was she privy to the escape being planned by both.

On one moonless night, when Mother wasn't there, the shift was changing and the world was asleep; two boys phased through the walls and flew. Small bags of stuff were strapped onto them as they traveled to their father.

Mother's notes called him Bruce Wayne, Batman, Beloved and Detective.

It wasn't hard to find him when they arrived.

Though, Danny didn't expect a furless furry and a pantless child to be their new family.

Can he ever get a normal Family???

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pinguwrites · 9 months ago

Text

The Doll's Burial ⸻ Jonathan Crane

READ DISCLAIMER

pairing | jonathan crane x reader

summary | You knew Jonathan Crane was meant for you from the moment you laid your eyes on him — a brilliant man, filled with wit and curiosity and youth. So perfect, in fact, that you have to take him away from the rest of the world and make him yours, your darling doll. He’ll like it, won’t he?

word count | 9k

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON, dark!reader, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, reader’s delusional and sick and sadistic but sweet ig, religious (specifically Christian) disdain from Jon , murder/torture towards jon/in general, jon isn’t scarecrow au, slightly ooc jon, p in v sex, househusband!jonathan, PROCEED WITH CAUTION - DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE

Disclaimer: This is part of my unfinished works. I don't write anymore, but I still wanted to publish what I have. I'll use bullet points to explain what I planned to happen at the end. Also note that this is heavily unedited, there will be a lot of mistakes.

You didn’t know what beauty was until you met Jonathan Crane that fateful winter’s night, a night where the season’s gentle touch had left windows glazed with frost, and the late evening coated in a thick, gloomy darkness. Crystal flakes were falling from the sky onto your body like specks of dust, but it was nothing compared to the way it looked on him, his dark hair contrasting with the white, the snow melting upon the touch of his skin. His breath was coming out in puffs of smoke before dissipating into the bitter air, his square glasses glinting in the light of the street lamps.

Time had frozen still at that moment, as though your brain had gone numb, much like the cold was numbing your ears and toes and the tips of your fingers. Licking your lips, you observed as the man — whose name you did not know then — glanced at the slim watch on his wrist, shivering ever so slightly as a breeze brushed him by. He was wearing an elegant suit, colored charcoal, the dress shirt underneath thinly striped, and his shoes polished and new, no doubt recently bought. He seemed to be an educated man with wealth, maybe a doctor or lawyer, but you guessed doctor, because he struck you as a scientific mind, curious but practical.

He wasn’t married, as he had no ring, which led you to believe that his profession took up a lot of his time and effort. After all, how could a man as gorgeous as him not be desired? Even the thought of him in bed with you set your loins alight, not to mention the slightest notion of him being yours until death do us part.

“Silly,” you had murmured to yourself, though there was a soft smile playing on your lips. “You’re thinking too far ahead, like always.”

But it really wasn’t your fault. He was so delightful to look at. Almost like a doll, with his plump pink lips and blush-dusted cheeks. You could imagine it already: a domestic life. He needn’t not lift a finger, not think a single thought, as long as he allowed you to hold him in his arms. How was it that someone who had not done anything at all to warrant such attraction, found himself at the center of your obsessiveness?

There’s something about him. Something different I cannot deny. He was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, anyone you would ever see in the future. It was strange how humans worked, heart so easily manipulated. What was it that caught your attention in the first place? you wondered. The aesthetic of the scene? His simple presence in the emptiness of the street? Did it even matter anymore, now that you were so hopelessly captured by him?

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!”

Heart thumping against your chest at the sudden noise, you answered hesitantly, “Yes?”

The man, who was raising his voice so he could be heard across the street, gave you a wary look. “Do you know when the bus will arrive? I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” you lied. You hadn’t expected him to talk to you. The event felt out of control, like you weren’t sure what was going to happen next. It bothered you, but if anything, this was a sign. A sign that perhaps he was the one. “I’m waiting for it as well,” you continued. “Do you mind if I cross?”

“I don’t.”

After you made sure there were no cars nearby, you walked across the road and finally got your first view of the man, finding his features, his mannerisms, his everything to be just as breathtaking as it was from a distance. He had a relatively low voice, around a medium pitch, and it was grated, almost like a vocal fry. He had these little freckles scattered across his face like distant stars in the sky. If it was possible, you would have plucked out every single one of them to store in a jar.

“I usually don’t take the bus,” you said smoothly, trying to start a conversation, though all you could focus on the way he was looking at you, his gaze piercing and icy, “but my car’s in a workshop. I thought I’d try my luck here before heading to the subway.”

Your car wasn’t in a workshop. It was in the garage parking lot just diagonal of his view. You had only gotten out because you wanted a quick coffee at the local café. Eternally grateful that you spotted him along the way, you weren’t sure what you would have done if you hadn’t. It had only been a few minutes, and you were already in love.

The man hummed in response, not seeming to take much of an interest. “I’m in a similar situation myself . . . I’ll be on my way, then,” he said, clearing his throat.

He started walking down the sidewalk to the nearest subway station, a walk you knew was going to take about a while. And in those clothes? He was most certainly going to catch a cold. If it was proper to do so, you would have offered him your own coat, but in a city like this, where no one trusted, you didn’t need to make him suspicious of your kindness. People were like animals, small critters. Approaching them too fast would scare them off. You had to be subtle, ease into it before you did anything too rash.

“Are you coming?” he asked, turning around, waiting for you to follow him. His tone was expectant, and almost humorous, like the thought of you continuing to wait for the bus was amusing to him. It made you amused. There would be work to do with his arrogance when you finally take him away, you made a mental note of that.

“No,” you responded. “I’ve changed my mind, I’ll have a friend come pick me up.”

“. . . Are you sure?” he pressed, concerned. He was concerned for you. It was so sweet.

“I’m sure,” you repeated. If you were with him for a second longer you would have gotten down on your knees and proposed.

He considered your words, then nodded. “Well, have a nice day, ma’am.”

“You as well . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

“Jonathan,” you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue with ease. Jon-ah-thun, meaning God has given, gift of God. A gift to you, surely, or why else would he be here, standing in your presence if he wasn’t meant to be taken away? To be polite, you gave him your own name, hoping he liked it as much as you liked his, and simply said, “Have a nice day,” hiding the butterflies inside your stomach that flew around like hail in a blizzard.

Jonathan Crane, my very own doll.

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against the skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then the noises stopped, and a defeated sigh left your doll’s lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped, as though he had given up. It was a shame, too. The sight of him struggling was exhilarating. It filled you with such excitement and arousal that you wished he kept going.

Currently, you were working, with your laptop placed out in front of you on your desk, some oatmeal to your right. The camera system was hooked up to the large monitor, so from here you could watch Jonathan’s movements. He had been awake since the break of dawn, the time he usually got up for work, except he wasn’t at his house today, he was in your basement, body against the cold floor, trembling like a scared bunny.

The planning was the most difficult part of this endevour. You had never actually kidnapped someone before. When you were a child, the local police suspected you in the mutilation of a few small critters in your apartment complex, and in college you were involved in the accidental death of one of your fellow students (he fell down the stairs and hit his head, nothing that anyone could prove was your fault), but to actually kidnap someone was entirely different.

It would be an ongoing investigation until the case was classified as cold, and even then some cold cases were picked up again after years; you had to make sure no could connect a link, because some people were too narrow-minded to understand how true and unconditional your adoration for him was; and not only that, but the amount of research — or stalking, as some might call it — that you had to do was exhaustive; but really, it was worth it, and Jonathan would fall for you just as you did for him within a few months, maybe a year at most. He would come to realize just how much you cared about him, and just how wonderful your life could be together. Once you arrived at that point, things would flow seamlessly. You had all the precautions in place. Even if he did try and escape, you always had a sedative in your pocket, and all the doors to your house was just as secure on the inside as it was on the outside.

The only thing you worried about was witnesses. See, Jonathan was usually very careful not to go into secluded alleyways or dingy locations on his own, which made it difficult to take him. So, you had to bump into him in a coffee shop — a coincidence, you had told him — and from there lure him out.

You sighed lovingly and gazed at Jonathan through the screen, deciding that it was time to bring him breakfast and lay out the ground rules.

After a few more minutes, you crept down the stairs with some food and water, careful not to step on any of the parts that would cause a creaking sound, and unlocked the basement with the passcode. When you opened the door, Jonathan raised his head, scooting his body away from your figure until he backed into a corner.

It was a dingy little place. It used to have carpet, but you removed that in favor of plastic tarp on the floor, nothing that could indefinitely stain the cement underneath. The walls were covered in that as well, and there was no window or clock to let him know the time. There were blankets to the side, and a small toilet to the other corner of the room. It was a good enough place for now. You hated seeing him in these conditions, but only once he proved responsible would you update him to a secured bedroom. At this point in time, he wasn’t capable of understanding things, and would only try to run away if you gave him more freedom.

Jonathan stayed quiet for a long while, and so did you, but then he scoffed. “I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. You placed the bowl in front of him, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and honey filling the stale air. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him. There needn’t be a conversation over this. He didn’t reach for the bowl yet, but you knew he would when you left. Eventually, hunger would get to him.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

Yes, yes I am. I love you as true as the air you breathe, as blue as your eyes gleam, and as certain as the beat of your heart.

“Why do you ask?” you said instead.

“Your eyes are always dilated, you can’t keep them off of me. Not at the bus station, the coffee shop.” He paused. “You’re sick. I’m not in love with you. Whatever fantasy you have is not real.”

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

There was no point in hiding your intentions.

He scoffed again, head down. “Realize this, I have nothing. Whatever you want from me, I can’t give you.”

Reaching out to him, you rubbed your thumb against his skin. He was cold. Again.

“You need to learn how to keep warm,” you said, concerned. “There’s some blankets. Use them.”

Jonathan pulled away, though you could tell he wanted you to keep doing that, because for a brief moment he almost leaned into your touch and warmth. So, you did just that. You gripped his chin and forced him to look at you. He put up a bit of a struggle, but in the end, he relented, and let you caress his skin. Letting your fingers trail up his cheek to his nose, you quickly made your way to his eyelashes, his long, thick eyelashes that fluttered like a black bird’s feathers.

“I did a bit of research on you,” you said. “Just enough to make sure no one would come looking for you right away, to learn your patterns and your habits, or any other important bits of information . . . like the fact that you have a therapist.”

Jonathan looked straight into your eyes. It was almost as if, at the moment, he was more concerned about what you might have read about him than his current predicament. He didn’t want anyone to know his past, his secrets, his weaknesses. It was embarrassing, and you knew that because you read in his file — which took atrociously long to obtain — how ashamed he was of himself, how conscious.

He shoved you away, and you backed off.

“Don’t be mean,” you frowned, hurt. “It was necessary. Watching you through your window wasn’t enough to truly know you. And even now, I’m sure there’s so much I’ve missed. It’ll be nice. As long as you listen and don’t cause trouble, everything will be okay.”

“You’re delusional,” he scowled. “I’ve known enough people like you in my life to understand how you work. Once you’re tired of me, you’ll dump me and get someone new to torment.”

“That’s not true, and you’ll see that,” you protested. It broke you to know that he thought of himself as expendable. “. . . I know you need some time to think. I’ll come down in a few hours with lunch, alright?”

You took his silence as a ‘yes’.

“Good boy.��

+++

A few weeks had passed by. The snow was beginning to melt, turning into a mushy, brown sludge that you had to trudge through every morning to get to work. Admittedly, you were quite busy with your job, but you made as much time as you could for Jonathan. Your doll was in a sour mood the entire time, and after calling you a bitch and a unintelligent, perverted whore — such colorful language — he started begging you to let him go.

I won’t tell anyone. I’ll give you money. Please, I’m begging you. All clearly signs of emotional distress.

It hurt you a lot when Jonathan rejected your affection. More than you thought it would. He should be grateful that you took such an interest in him, but instead he was disgusted. Of course, he would fall for you soon, but it made you wish that he had already done so, and that too on the night you two met.

Wouldn’t it have been romantic? Love at first sight. Did you not deserve something like that? For someone to look into your eyes the way you did his and think, This is the one I want to marry. Again, you knew it would take time, but the wound still cut deep.

He was eating, which was good. One less thing to worry about. But when you checked his wrists to see if the cuffs were still locked you found them red with marks. It worried you a bit, so you applied some cream to them — or at least, tried to, with the way he was struggling and all. You did other things like bathe him, but despite how desperate you were to see his pretty cock, you never went beyond the waistline, and encouraged him to clean himself down there instead. You hoped it established some sense of trust between you two, because at least Jonathan would realize that you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable.

When you were researching Jonathan Crane — before you took him — you learned that he was a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. A professor at Gotham University first, but either way, it seemed that his heart lied with the sciences. You did a little internet digging and tracked his book orders, then picked something you thought he would like and was sure he hadn’t read yet.

One book on chemistry and its applications on brain science, and another on psychology, a look into real-world examples written by a doctor from the late twentieth century.

Carefully wrapping it up in light blue paper, you tied it with a navy-colored ribbon and made a bow. Your fingers lingered on the box, a little nervous about handing it over to Jonathan, but you walked downstairs with it anyways, opening the basement door and watching with satisfaction as he scurried away once again.

“It’s just a gift,” you laughed, setting it down in front of him. He watched it warily. “I want you to open it. I hope you’ll like it.”

Jonathan’s lower lip quivered, and you had a sudden desire to kiss him. Lips upon lips, heavy and sweet. Sometimes, you felt as though the only way to get close to him — truly close — was to peel off his skin and wrap it around you. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? He would die, which you didn’t want, but to think about it was enough. It was so intimate it made you hot all over.

“Please,” Jonathan muttered. “Please let me go. I’ll do anything.”

You sighed. “I don’t want to hear this again. I’ve been really patient with you. Can’t you just . . . be normal?”

“Normal?”

Oh, dear. He’s about to go into another one of his fits.

“How can you expect me to be normal when you’ve got me locked in chains?” he frowned. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t getting upset, but rather more submissive. He wasn’t scowling or spitting in your face, but rather his head was downturned and his body language more open. Was this it? Was this the point of breaking?

“I have nothing,” he continued. “No bed to sleep in, no touch . . .”

Touch. Well, he had you, didn’t he?

“You don’t like it when I touch you,” you said.

He looked away, almost embarrassed. This doll of a man had you completely enamored, fooled, like a hopeless soul waiting for the heavens. Anything he did, anything he said, would make you fold in a heartbeat. If he asked you to go get the moon, you would die, frozen in the vastness of space just trying. He could make you do anything, except perhaps let you go, but only because you knew that deep down, he didn’t really want it.

Jonathan didn’t make an effort to come closer to you, and you didn’t either. Despite your devotion, you wanted to see him make the first move. You had waited long enough. All you wanted was to be loved by him, and you knew that he had it in him to show his affection. He just feared you, feared that you would hurt him.

. . . Maybe a few more days. A few more days of waiting until you would take drastic action.

+++

Laying on the couch, you turned on the TV, opening up the Gotham news channel as background noise while you dozed off. There were a few errands to be done, but you decided to put them off until tomorrow as the weather had gotten worse. It wasn’t raining anymore, and the snow was still brown and mushy, but it was freezing, and you made the stupid mistake of leaving your car outside.

After ten minutes of just lazing around, you were abruptly woken up by the ring of your doorbell. With a groan, you got up off the couch and unlocked the door, only for your nerves to jump and a nervous chuckle escape your lips.

“I — well, hi. Can I help you, officer?” you asked, looking the man in front of you up and down. He had wispy brown hair that was covered by a fur hoodie and a kind smile painted on his face. He didn’t look like he meant any harm, but perhaps this was just a facade to get your guard down. For all you knew there could be police officers stationed all around your house. Or were you being too paranoid? Yes. You probably were.

“You can,” he said, voice a little gruff. “My name is Peter Wright, I just wanna ask you a few questions. May I come inside?”

You hesitated. “What's this about?”

Wright chuckled, but didn’t answer. “Do you know a man named Jonathan Crane? You may have just passed him on the street — he had dark hair, glasses, clean-cut . . .”

Your mind ran through all the possibilities. There was absolutely no way this man could know you two even met. You were so careful — so unbelievably careful. Was there something you had overlooked? Something you had missed? Maybe someone saw you with Jonathan and reported it to the police once they realized he was missing.

“. . . No.”

Wright smiled. “No need to be so tense. We just wanna know where he is.”

You smiled, trying to be friendly. “I’m sorry, sir, I have no clue who that is. You probably have the wrong person — ”

“ — yeah, figured,” Wright interrupted, flashing another smile. “He’s been missing for a while. You’re not in trouble, we just have to check every lead.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” you said. “May I ask, why have I become a . . . lead?”

“Just some security footage on a date of interest. You had crossed the street at a bus station.” Wright paused for a moment, seeing if you remembered anything. You did, but you kept your face blank. It was better to pretend. It made you relieved, however. This was nothing serious, and nothing that was your fault. “He wrote it down in one of his journal entries, that’s why we checked.”

“Journal entries?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yes. That’s how all these smart people are like, or so I’ve been told. Methodical, pattern-orientated.”

Was he even supposed to be telling you this? It seemed like this man was more loose-lipped than he first appeared. Perhaps you could pull some information out of him, turn on your charm.

“You know what? Come inside. It’s cold, and I can make you some hot coffee.”

“Really?” Wright raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re getting let me in?”

You gave a playful glare. “I’m not gonna ask again, sir.”

Wright obliged, and for the rest of the evening, he divulged information about the case, a little too flirtatious for your taste, but it got the work done, and by the end of the day, you learned that they had nothing on you, and nothing on this case.

+++

“Jonathan,” you cooed as you entered the basement with a plate of mashed potatoes and steak. You immediately noticed that his knuckles were bloody, and realized what he was trying to do — he must have heard another person upstairs and banged against the concrete walls in the hopes that he would’ve been heard.

What a stupid boy!

“Hold on,” you muttered, annoyed, placing the food down. “I’ll get you some bandages — ”

“ — Can’t you just be here?” Jonathan said shakily, his voice hoarse. “You said you loved me but you never spend time with me, you’re always upstairs . . . I’m going insane.”

Your heart leaped. Finally. Finally! It was happening. He was beginning to see, to truly see the connection you both had. You could envision it already — a wedding, with only an eficator there to make things legitimate, with flowers and a beautiful background, perhaps a sunset or beach, or maybe some mountains — topped with snow. That would be perfect, absolutely wonderful. Oh, you would have to start making the plans now!

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” You snapped out of your thoughts. “Oh, no. No, darling. I’m just so excited, I’ve been waiting so long . . . Here, can I hold you?”

Jonathan nodded with a sniffle.

Not wasting a single moment, you wrapped him up in your arms, watching as he delicately snuggled his head in the crook of your neck. The feeling of his hair brushing up against your skin was exhilarating, making you shudder and shake like you were about to lose it. About to lose it and take him right then and there, all romantic like, with nice words and the scent of rose petals . . . Maybe your first time could be in a bath, with lit candles, cleaning each other off. It was —

Hold on. Where was his chain?

Jonathan’s arms were around your waist, but you couldn’t feel the metal. You looked to the hook on the wall and saw that it had broken off, next to it the psychology book you gave to him, heavily dented.

Chasting yourself, you felt Jonathan tighten his grip around your body. You should have checked — you should have checked for the chain like you did every time you came down. What was wrong with you? This one simple mistake could ruin everything . . .

Trying to think as quickly as you could, you looked around the room for the other book, but couldn’t find it anywhere. You had a sedative syringe in your pocket, but you couldn’t get to it without alerting him. Alas, you finally felt something poking you in the side, something sharp like an edge, and within seconds you had been tossed to the floor and hit over the head.

+++

When you finally woke up, your head was reeling. You had a massive headache, and everytime you tried to sit up your vision would go a little dark and you would give up. Before you could try again, you had a hand against your throat. You felt a horrible surge of anger, and in the midst of your emotions, a slight sense of arousal.

“After everything I’ve done for you?” you cried out, voice choked. You could feel a shift in movement, because after Jonathan realized he was hurting you, he loosened his grip, but it still wasn’t enough to get out of his grasp. He probably tried to open the basement door but couldn’t, so waited until you came to give him the passcode. You couldn’t rely on the hope that he wouldn’t hurt you. He was desperate. But so were you.

“Everything you’ve done,” he repeated with a low murmur. “You know how humiliating it is to be trapped in a basement for a month, forced to bathe in front of you because I can’t even be trusted with a flow of water? Have to piss with chains on? I’m a doctor, I shouldn’t have to submit to your delusion.”

“You should and you will!” you screeched, squirming. “You finally have someone to love you, to adore you, someone who would do anything for you, and it’s still not enough. Or you know what? Maybe you like that. Being sad all the time, not having anyone to care for you. Probably used to it, huh? Distant parents, bitch grandmother, no friends, no lovers . . .”

Jonathan tossed you to the floor and pinned you down, his nose close to yours, breathing heavy, eyes a little glossy. Then, without warning, he slapped you. The sting was both painful and pleasurable. The little whimper you let out was more of a light sigh, but you didn’t let that distract you. All you needed to do was reach into your pocket for the syringe, which he clearly hadn’t noticed was there. If you could drug him just a little, you would be able to get your power back, your control.

“I want the code. That’s it.”

“I want a kiss.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just one kiss. A nice, long one.”

Jonathan thought for a moment. His breath tickled your skin. Then, he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, and brushed his perfect, pink lips against yours. He was so easily manipulated, so eager. Even when he had all the power, he still fell for your little antic. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to kiss you.

While he was distracted, you swiftly took the syringe out and stabbed him with it, pushing half the liquid in. He pulled away and gasped, but then his eyes started drooping, and his movements became more wobbly, and he fell into your arms, disorientated and dizzy.

“Mm . . . what did you do?” he asked.

You grabbed his hair, making him wince in pain. “You know, I’ve been trying so hard to be patient, not rushing you, making you feel as safe as possible” You paused. “But sometimes people aren’t grateful for what they have. That’s okay, it happens. You just have to learn. I’ll be patient again, just for you.”

You laid him on his back and started unbuckling his pants belt. He tried to stop you, but his movements were too weak and groggy.

“Don’t — don’t,” he pleaded.

You stopped, but only for the time being. You lifted him up onto his feet and let him lean against you. His feet were dragging a little against the floor, but he managed to walk. He pulled himself away from you when you made it to the top of the stairs but stumbled. He just wasn’t strong enough. You unlocked the passcode.

You led him over to the bathroom on your first floor, where you opened the tub’s tap and let the water flow. Jonathan’s eyelids drooped slightly, but you could see — smell — the fear in them. He knew what you were going to do, and he was helpless to stop it.

Taking off the rest of his belt, you pulled his cock out. White, soft, a little big, but other than that it was perfect, just like every other part of him. You brushed your finger across it, watching the way it twitched in your hands. Unable to stop yourself, you leaned down and gave the head a small kiss, but that was the last bit of kindness Jonathan was going to receive today. In fact, receive for a long while.

You dipped your hand in the tub, which was steadily flowing with water, and gave his cock a hard squeeze, making him whimper in pain. “That’s the closest to lube you’ll get,” you said. “Now come on, don’t fight me. Dip your face in.”

Pushing his head down into the tub wasn’t much of a struggle, but Jonathan wasn’t making it easy. Your doll, your poor doll. He didn’t want to be hurt, but that was what had to happen. And it would keep happening until he finally admitted that he loved you.

When Jonathan’s nose touched the water, he groaned, his head dizzy. It was cold, but by the time he could even register the temperature, his entire head was in, held by your hand as your other stroked his cock. A few air bubbles came up, but you didn’t give in. You wanted him to struggle, you wanted him to be in pain. He was like a fragile mouse caught in a trap. Only you could let him go. Only you had the power to.

After a few more seconds, you lifted his head up, watching with glee as he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering when he could spare it.

“Aw, baby boy. You don’t like that very much, do you?”

He shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him. You just shoved him down into the tub again, feeling your body tingle. You swiped your finger over that little hole where you would soon force cum to shoot out of, and pressed down on it hard. Then, you found your way to his balls, slightly pulling at the small hairs there. Pinching and squeezing. His thighs shook, so you slapped them. They were another beautiful part of his body.

You continued pumping, up and down, steadily, then pulled him out. You could feel some pre-cum on your hands . . . even when you were torturing him he couldn’t control his biological reactions.

When he came up for the second time, he begged, “Please — I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . Mercy, I can’t!”

His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and water was running down from his chin to his chest underneath the plain white shirt you had given him. His nipples were perked, probably from all the adrenaline, but you liked to think that it was because he was aroused.

“You can and you will,” you growled. “Take it. Take it!”

+++

When you were finished with him, you took him back down to the basement, his cock hanging limp through the zipper area of his pants, and tossed him to the floor. Noticing one of the books you gifted him on the ground, you picked it up and threw it at him. It hit his leg, and within seconds, he passed out.

You locked the door and left him like that for the next few days. No food, no water, no nothing. Through the camera you could see that he was barely moving. He only got up to use the toilet, but other than that, he was like a slug. It was on the third day that you decided to go down again and nourish him, otherwise he might die, and you didn't want that, not after all this hard work.

ii.

Jonathan Crane was respected throughout the city of Gotham, a known and reputable psychiatrist amongst others in his field, as well as connected with higher elites who often funded his projects, his small passions. Never did he think he would ever end up in someone’s basement, that too the basement of a beauty.

He had gotten into a car accident while pulling out of Akrham’s parking lot. It was a stupid mistake, not even his fault, really. The curb was so narrow and it was difficult to see past the line of trees whether another car was coming or not, and in his rush to get home, he went ahead without thinking and collided with a red Sedan.

No one was injured, but his car was beat up, and after getting it towed, he had to walk all the way to the nearest bus station (which was very far away, as the aslyum was rather secluded). It was cold, and he wasn’t dressed for this weather at all. He tried to take his mind off the temperature by looking at his watch, the tick-tick ticking, but when he finally got there, he found that the bus was not coming at all. It had been fifteen minutes, and nothing was there. The entire street was surprisingly empty for a city as busy as Gotham, with only the occasional patrol car driving past.

He was about ready to head to the subway — another long trek — when he saw someone else standing across the street. It was a woman, he could tell from the figure, but she was shrouded in darkness . . . Maybe she was waiting for the bus as well.

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!” he shouted out, hoping not to startle her. He knew how women could get, all scared and skittish when they were alone. He understood. Crime rates were high, rape and theft were common. Even he was on his guard right now.

“Yes?” the woman answered hesitantly.

“Do you know when the bus will arrive?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m waiting for it as well. Do you mind if I cross?”

Jonathan hadn’t expected that, but agreed nonetheless. He found it a bit odd that she was waiting on the other side of the road, but figured that she might have only just arrived. When she crossed, the light of the street lamps hit her face and he was taken aback. She was awfully pretty — beautiful, in fact. She was looking at him with almost dazed eyes, a nervous expression upon her face. He couldn’t tell if she found him attractive, or if she was intimidated by him. Most people were.

They had a short conversation that eventually ended. Jonathan would head down to the subway station, and the woman had opted to call her friend to pick her up. He was a little disappointed. She seemed interesting, and there was no harm in continuing their conversation, but he was also tired and in no mood to convince her to come along with him.

He was about to leave when she asked him for his name. “Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane,” he clarified.

“Jonathan,” she repeated. For a moment, he felt ill at ease. Maybe it was the reminder that he was in the middle of an empty street at night, or the way she looked at him as she repeated his name. He shook it off, he was just being silly.

The woman gave him her name — your name, a nice name. He didn’t know what it was about you, but for the rest of the day you were on his mind. It was enough to make him mention you in his journal, mention with a flow of compliments that ranged from beautiful to almost sinister.

+++

Jonathan had always had a bit of a problem when it came to people. As a child he was ostracized and bullied for his gangly body, and in his adulthood, he had always come off as too unnerving for others. It probably didn’t help that he was arrogant and assuming, too. When it came to lovers, he could get quite obsessive, a problem that broke most of his relationships. Apparently no one liked it when their boyfriends were possessive.

He’d had a few affairs before, but nothing ever serious. He could never find someone he liked enough to marry. On the surface, he semed like the kind of guy that was more interested in his work than anything romantic, but in the end he had been raised with typical values, and as much as he tried to shake it off, he really felt like his path in life was to work, marry, have children, and then die.

When he was a kid his grandmother, Keeny, stressed upon him the importance of finding a good Christian wife. She must be a virgin, submissive, good-natured, and so on. He was sure she had already picked someone from their small town for him, because she was oddly pushy towards this one Church girl who liked to have ribbons in her braids (that was all he really remembered of her). Jonathan wondered what his grandmother thought of him now. Despite all the bad memories associated with her, he still sent letters with money every once in a while. She responded sometimes, mostly with pleas for him to come back, but he never paid them any mind. He was done with her and Georgia.

In his mind, his ideal wife would be an intellectual just like him. Preferably smart, but not as smart as him, who was just as clingy as he was, who understood and could care for him, and who was perhaps a little more on the dominant side. He was always embarrassed with the fact that he liked dominant women, but wasn’t going to let that stop him from finding one, or at least, hoping one would find him.

“So, you’re opening yourself up to new relationships,” his therapist, Dr. Taylor Smith said, an encouraging smile on her face. Jonathan had been with her for years, and while they were strictly professional, Jonathan couldn’t help but be slightly attached to her. It was what happened when someone gave him even the slightest ounce of affection.

“I suppose so,” Jonathan responded, not knowing what else to say.

“If you’re ready for it, I think you should go out and start talking to people,” Smith suggested. “You have a lot of colleagues, you could start there.”

Jonathan frowned. “They’ve stopped asking me to lunches.”

“Because you decline all the time?”

“Probably.”

“Then why don’t you ask them first?”

Jonathan frowned again. “I’d rather not.”

Smith gave a knowing look. “And how do you suppose to meet people, then?”

Jonathan didn’t want to answer. He knew he was being silly, but he just didn’t want to be the one to make the first move. Eventually someone would come along and ask him out, right? He just had to wait a little . . . Perhaps he could loiter around some bookstores or near the lectures he attended so he could meet a woman who was like-minded.

“Look,” Smith said, intertwining her hands. “Before we meet again next week, I want you to have made an effort towards a relationship. Friendship would be a good start.”

“I have friends. Harleen is — fine,” Jonathan relented, after seeing the glare his therapist was giving. “I’ll do that. It’ll be my homework,” he joked, but on the inside he was thoroughly annoyed.

+++

Jonathan’s first idea was to go to a coffee shop. He had been starved for some caffeine and decided that instead of making one at home he could go out and get one. He parked his car in a nearby garage and walked over to a local shop. It had a long line of impatient-looking people, moody, too, at that.

He took his place in line, inhaling the sweet aroma of the atmosphere. A few people were working, typing away at their laptops, while others were with their friends or family or partners. He tried to look as casual as possible, sweeping his hair over his forehead every once in a while, but then he stopped, feeling stupid.

He felt like a kid back in highschool trying to get a girl’s attention. Everyone here was either already with someone or rushing to get out. It was a dumb idea. He’d just get his coffee and leave.

Maybe he could just ask his coworkers at the asylum. They were nice enough, and it would probably do good on his work relationships if he made an effort on them.

When he got to the counter he ordered a small latte and went on his way, but after turning the corner he bumped into someone. They were holding a cup of coffee — from the same cafe he just went to. The cap, which must not have been applied properly, fell to the ground, and all the hot, brown liquid splashed onto both him and . . . and . . . the lady from the bus station?

Jonathan hissed at the burning sensation, but restrained himself from letting out a small scream. A few people stopped and turned to look at them. A few of them in pity, others stifling their giggles, while one man offered to go get some napkins.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman — you — said, grabbing some napkins from the man and wiping your blouse off.

Jonathan glared.

“What is wrong with you?” he sneered, his face contorted in controlled disgust. “Are you stalking me?”

“What? I don’t — look, I’m really sorry, sir,” you fervently apologized, which made Jonathan feel a bit bad. “Here — some napkins — ”

“ — Don’t bother,” Jonathan said, looking down at his suit, though his tone was a bit softer.

There was a moment of silence. Jonathan admired your features for those few moments, and thought back to how he wrote about you in his journal. His cheeks flushed a light pink at the memory. Imagine what would happen if you found out . . .

“Aren’t you going to say sorry, too?”

Jonathan sighed, getting annoyed again. “I’m sorry,” but it was sarcastic.

“I want to hear a genuine apology,” you said, but before Jonathan could say anything, you continued, “That or . . . you buy me another cup of coffee and we go our separate ways.”

Jonathan was caught off guard, but he realized that it was the perfect opportunity to do what he came here for: make a friend. And she was so obviously flirting.

“Alright. But we’ll be quick. I have to change.”

You chuckled. “Okay, okay.”

You both walked back to the coffee shop, standing in line as you looked over the menu. Jonathan wondered what to say.

“It’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” he said, feeling sticky as his dress shirt stuck to his skin. “We meet at the bus station, then here . . .”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Jonathan couldn’t believe that you didn’t remember. “I introduced myself to you. Dr. Jonathan Crane. And you told me your name.”

You thought for a moment, eyes dazed for a few seconds, but when you looked back at him you shook your head. “I-I suppose you look familiar, but I don’t really remember . . . I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright.”

Eventually, you both got up to the front. You ordered another coffee and Jonathan paid with his card. This time, he made sure your lid was secured on properly. When he got out of the cafe for the second time that day, he felt disappointed that he had to leave you again.

At the bus station he had let you go, and was he about to do the same thing here? No. He would try, shoot his chance. If it didn't work, so what? He would get over it.

“I can walk you back to your car,” Jonathan offered, taking a sip of his coffee, which thankfully he didn’t drop when he bumped into you.

“I don’t want to bother you,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s all the way down the road.”

“I insist,” he said.

You smiled. It was such a sweet smile, Jonathan wished he could igraine the memory into his mind forever.

“What do you do for work?” he asked, trying to make light conversation.

“Real estate,” you responded. “You?”

“I’m a psychiatrist . . .”

He didn’t mention the fact that he worked at Arkham. It was infamous in Gotham, and not that great of a conversation starter. Jonathan didn’t want this to turn into an interview about what it’s like to work there, how the patients were, and so on.

When you and Jonathan reached your car, he felt that odd sense of dread again. He was near a closed-off area behind a shop. It was one of those places that had parking lots for behind a store, and was shaped almost like a square. The shop was closed, and there was only one car in the area — presumably yours.

“Sorry,” you apologized with a laugh after seeing the look on his face. “There was no parking nearby. I’m actually kind of glad you walked me . . . it’s a little scary all by myself.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” Jonathan said with a shrug, ignoring his instincts. He walked you to the car, and before he knew what was happening, he was knocked out.

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against Jonathan Crane’s skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then he stopped, and let a defeated sigh escape his lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped. Since he woke up he had been trying to get out of this place — out of this basement, it looked to be. His thoughts flooded his head a million times, and it was impossible for him to produce a semblance of coherent thinking. He begged his brain to stop working, to just be quiet for a moment so he could control his emotions and focus, but it wouldn’t. It left him tired and confused and scared.

What happened to me?

Why am I here?

Was that woman responsible for this? Did she kidnap me? Oh god, she kidnapped me.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

People are going to notice I’m missing. The police will come for me, I’ll be fine.

No they won’t. It’s Gotham, no one will do anything about it.

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it. Stop thinking.

After a while, he got his thoughts to quiet, but before he could be rational, the padlock clicked and the door opened. He backed into a corner — well, as far as his binding would let him, and his suspicions were confirmed.

It was you. You were his captor. His doom.

You placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Cinnamon and honey filled the air. It had little pieces of apple cut up, and even some chocolate chips on the side. It was absolutely heavenly, and Jonathan could feel his mouth water at just the sight of it. He restrained himself, however. He was not that hungry, at least not yet, and he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t poisioned.

“I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

“Why do you ask?” you said instead. Avoiding the question.

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

Was it wrong that for a moment Jonathan felt nice? In all his life, he never had someone care for him, but here, someone had gone through the effort of kidnapping him just to be with him. He felt stupid for thinking like that. This wasn’t some story, it was reality, and in reality, you didn’t actually love him. You were obsessed. Obsessed . . . Was he that incapable of being loved that people had to either hate him or obsess over him like an object? Was there no in-between?

There were a few more words exchanged. You brushed your fingers against his skin, and though he pulled away, he couldn’t deny the affection rising within him. No one had ever touched him this gently before, this kindly.

You left, leaving Jonathan alone in the cold, dark room. After a few moments of hesitation, he reached for the bowl, and began eating.

+++

A few weeks had passed by. Jonathan couldn’t tell if the weather outside had begun to turn warm, or if it was still as cold as the last time he saw it. He never knew what time it was unless you came down with food, and even then, he was probably a couple of hours off. As he spent time in that basement, searching for a way out, he felt a sense of desperate hopelessness creep onto him. Would he ever make it out alive?

He couldn’t believe that he was even in this situation. After insulting you and calling you names, he resorted to fervent begging, but even that wasn’t enough to make you let him go. In your delusion you had made his life a misery. He couldn’t keep living in your basement like some sort of pet, forced to bathe in front of you and constantly monitored by cameras.

Maybe Jonathan would have liked you better if you actually gave him a nice room to sleep in. Or if you made something other than acai bowls and fruit smoothies all the time.

He could see it in your eyes that you truly believed you loved him, and it made him feel scared. While he overviewed cases like this and met people with the same mentality to kidnap and stalk, he still didn’t know what to do. In a part of his brain, he thought that maybe you weren’t so bad and that you could have been torturing him right now, but instead was being kind and thoughtful.

You tried to apply cream to his bruised wrists, and you didn’t even scold him for trying to get out of the handcuffs. He made it a difficult process, but it was because he was afraid. He had never been touched like that before. You were making him feel all sorts of things — anger, confusion, fear.

It didn’t help when you brought down a present for him. A book on chemistry, and another on psychology. It was wrapped in a box, which was wrapped in a light-blue color. Why were you so sweet? In all his years, he had never gotten a present as meaningful as this. His heart had wrenched uncomfortably, and he had to remind himself who you were, what type of person you were.

Maybe if he used this book to hit you over the head with, it would knock you out and he could escape. He could use it to break the chains, too. They were hardcover, and th

———

(I stopped writing here.)

The rest of this section was just going to be through Jonathan’s perspective.

iii.

You opened the door hesitantly, a wave of guilt flooding your body. Jonathan lay there on the floor, beaten and bruised, shivering in a corner even though he had a blanket around him. He didn’t smell good, but you expected it to be worse, so you took it as a sign that things could still be salvaged.

———

(I stopped writing here).

Jonathan is passed out, barely able to move. For the next few days, you nurse him back to health. You clean him, feed him, and give him better clothing. He doesn’t fight back. Slowly, he starts to accept his new environment and you upgrade him to a guest bedroom, but you still lock the doors and windows so he can’t escape.

The police officer comes back to flirt. You’re annoyed, but you know you need him for info. The police officer starts to get suspicious, and out of fear he’ll do something, you murder him. The murder is sort of the climax of the story.

After that whole ordeal, Jonathan has been completely conditioned by you, but the ending is open-ended. “The Doll’s Burial” is meant to represent a burial of his true self, replaced by a version you created, or, his actual death. It depends on you — do you get bored of him, is it truly an obsession? Or do you truly love him, and are willing to spend your whole life as his wife?

Tagging in case ya'll are still interested: @shroombloom-rry @madnessandobsession @henrywintersdearestgirl @hllywdwhre @your-nanas-house @ellebelleshelby @Meetmeatyourworst @hanawrites404 @Emimurphy2008

@nela-cutie

@slut4thebroken

@wild-rose-35

@madeinuk

@flwrs4aust

@httpxgray

#Jonathan Crane #Jonathan Crane x reader #Jonathan Crane x y/n #Jonathan Crane x you #the dark knight trilogy #fanfiction #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x y/n #scarecrow x you #cillian murphy #pinguwrites

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therpistlr · 4 months ago

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"Ghost in My Own Body: A Raw Vent About Dissociation"

I’m so tired of feeling like a passenger in my own fucking life.

One minute I’m here. The next, I’m floating somewhere behind my eyes, watching my hands move like they belong to a stranger. The world goes flat—colors muted, sounds muffled, like someone turned down the volume on reality. This isn’t “zoning out.” This is dissociation: a prison where my mind checks out to survive, but leaves me stranded in the wreckage.

What People Don’t Get

“Just stay present!” Wow, thanks! Let me just un-detach from my body like it’s a fucking Wi-Fi connection. Grounding techniques? I’ve inhaled enough lavender oil to drown a yoga studio. Still here, still gone.

“But you look fine!” Yeah, because I’ve mastered autopilot. Smiling on cue, laughing at jokes I don’t hear, nodding like I’m not screaming inside a glass box.

The shame of forgetting: Lost hours. Conversations I can’t recall. Did I eat? Shower? Text someone? My memory’s a sieve, and I’m the idiot shaking it for crumbs.

A Day in the Fog

Morning: Wake up feeling like my soul’s stuffed with cotton. Stare at the ceiling. “Is this my room? Is this my skin?” Shower in cold water to feel something. It doesn’t work. Work: Nod through a meeting. My voice echoes, like I’m lip-syncing to a bad recording. Coworker asks, “You okay?” I say, “Tired.” Truth: “I don’t know who ‘I’ am right now.” Night: Scroll TikTok for hours, brain numb. Find a video I liked yesterday. No memory of it. Cry because I can’t even trust my own fucking thumbs.

The Worst Part?

I don’t know why this happens. Trauma? Anxiety? My brain’s just broken? Therapists toss terms like “depersonalization” and “window of tolerance,” but none of it stitches me back into my body. Meds turn me into a zombie. Mindfulness feels like gaslighting. “Breathe and come back!” Bitch, where is back?!

To the People Who Say “It’s a Coping Mechanism”:

Cool. Thanks, brain, for “protecting” me by making me feel dead inside. A+ job.

To Anyone Else Floating in This Void:

I see you. The way you pinch your skin to feel real. The dread of mirrors. The guilt of “checking out” during your kid’s birthday. You’re not a ghost. You’re not crazy. This is your survival mode—clumsy, cruel, but temporary. We’ll find the volume knob someday.

Vent Over. If you’ve ever dissociated so hard you forgot your own name, drop a 🌫️ or scream into the comments. Sometimes existing is exhausting.

Edit: To whoever reported this to Reddit Cares—thanks, but I’m not suicidal. Just… not here.

Comments (Example Engagement):

“Once dissociated through my own graduation. Family thinks I’m ungrateful. They don’t know I wasn’t even IN the room.”

“The mirror thing??? I avoid them like they’re cursed. Solidarity.”

“Told my therapist I feel like a Sims character. She didn’t laugh. I died inside (again).”

Throwaway because I don’t trust myself to remember this password tomorrow. The DID Workbook is a Therapeutic Tool for Managing your Dissociation System . __ Credit : S.VT

#did system #did osdd #did community #actually did #did alter #osdd system #actually osdd #dissociative identity disorder #actually dissociative #dissociative system #dissociation #complex dissociative disorder #depersonalisation tw #depersonalisation and derealisation #depersonalisation disorder #depersonalization #osdd #osddid

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helpallthenamesaretaken · 3 months ago

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(tw: mild violence)

"[Ganymede] looked like a classmate of mine in freshman year who’d gotten mugged on his way to school: eyes like empty windows, a face that had forgotten how to make expressions." - Chalice of the Gods.

"Liam!" I heard a hopeful voice bounce off the walls of the cheap one-bedroom flat. "I finally got enough to pay for that robotics workshop you've wanted to go to!" And with a sigh, her knees buckled.

"Mom!" I cried out, running to help her up. "I told you to not to go for work today."

She cupped my face gently. "I know how much you wanted to go to that workshop. You said it yourself, the head of MIT will be there. The college of your dreams! They deserve to know your genius, and see that robot you've been designing."

"I'm not having that at the cost of you out cold each night." I supported her as she stumbled to the bed, and lay down tiredly. She looked at me with weary eyes.

"When you finally prove to the world what a smart, wonderful boy you are and become successful," she mumbled, dozing off. "Then you can buy me a break."

Her words echoed in my mind as I was slammed to the cement floor of the dark alley. My glasses were broken in the corner. I clung to my school bag tightly.

A voice growled, "Hey, redhead! What do you have there in that bag?" I looked up at their ugly faces, with remorseless eyes and an evil smirk on their faces. "Hey, Joe. Check his bag."

I clutched on to it tightly, as I desperately cried out, "PLEASE! NO!" Suddenly, I felt Joe's sneaker slam into my side, and I gasped in pain. I held on to my bag tighter, refusing to let go, and then one of his other goons kicked me in the head. My head reeled as I screamed and they took away my bag.

"DUDE! There's money in here." Joe cackled to his boss. His boss had an evil grin plastered on his face.

My eyes widened. "N-No, NO!" I yelled, sobbing with desperation. "My mom worked hard for that, please, we're poor and I need the money for school, PLEASE--" I was knocked to the ground by Joe's fist. I screamed for help.

Out of panic that someone would hear me, the group of boys started kicking me with even more force. I started tasting blood in my mouth.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed in the corner. I was already dizzy from the pain but as I looked at the figure closer, I realised I recognised him: the black hair, the scary green eyes.

Moms whispered about the bad influence that he was. Students were scared to go near him, unless they wanted to start a fight. Teachers warned us about him. He was a rumoured terrorist, a gangster, a criminal.

I closed my eyes immediately, waiting for the infamous Percy Jackson to deliver the final blow. Instead...

"HEY!" he barked. "LEAVE. HIM. ALONE" The boss of the boys smirked. "What are you going to do? Joe, take care of him."

Joe launched forward, only to get punched in the face. He fell backward, his nose bleeding. Percy growled. "Anyone else wants to take care of me?"

The boys gasped and their eyes widened. The boss narrowed his eyes and started to run away with the money, dropping my school bag. Joe jumped to his feet and ran away too, with the money in hand. I was too numb, and I just flailed my finger at his direction, pointing desperately.

Percy sprinted behind them, leaving me shell shocked. The money was gone. My mom would have to work again for a whole month to make up for the lost money that we could've used to at least buy us a month of groceries. But then it'd be too late. I would probably never get to go to the robotics workshop.

I stared at the wall for what seemed like forever, and heard Percy walk back to where I was on the ground.

"Liam from school, right? Dude, I am so so sorry," he said, speaking to me for the first time. "I couldn't find them. Are...are you okay.."

The dam broke. I felt my heart beating fast, as tears rolled out of my eyes as I sobbed loudly. A pit formed in my stomach, filled with shame and anger at myself. The evil faces of the boys carved itself into my brain, haunting me. My fists pounded the side of my forehead, frustrated. I couldn't face myself for letting my mother's hard work go to waste like that. I couldn't face her again.

Suddenly, I felt a hand grasp my wrists tightly. A gentle voice calmly whispered, "Breathe, Liam. You're safe now. It's going to be all right. Just focus on my voice, yeah? Breathe." My sobs got slower and slower, and my vision cleared for the next fifteen minutes as Percy kept whispering in the dark. Suddenly the black of the alleyway didn't seem to close in on me, rather it seemed comforting.

"Have some water. Are you able to walk?" He took his water bottle and raised it gently to my lips.

I coughed as water washed down my dry throat. "I have to be," my scratchy voice groaned. "I can't miss school today. Math test." I got to my feet, only for my knees to buckle. Like mother, like son.

I was a complete stranger to Percy, yet he frowned at me, annoyed, as if he knew my shenanigans all too well. "Yeah, no you're not." he declared. "I'm not letting you go to school."

"No, please." I begged. Percy rolled his eyes. "I know all about nerds like you. I know you're not able to see either. Your glasses are broken in that corner there. I'm not blind, you are." He took the glasses and carefully slipped them back on my face.

I felt empty on the inside. I locked my eyes with him, my face blank, unable to form any expressions. I couldn't feel anything.

Percy's eyes immediately softened and for a moment. His guard was down. "I-I'll walk you to the clinic. It's just a few minutes away. Come on, I'm sorry." He held out his hand.

Moms whispered about the bad influence that he was. Students were scared to go near him, unless they wanted to start a fight. Teachers warned us about him. And yet here he was, gently supporting me as I shuffled weakly down the street.

In a daze, I told him everything--how my mom was the most hardworking person I knew, how close she had gotten to death by exhaustion many times from her night shifts at the hospital, about my robot, how excited I was to go to the workshop, how happy she was last night when she could finally let me go.

And he listened. He watched intensely, quiet and understanding, as I stammered slow and steady, and tried to not to cry again.

"...And I've heard the head of MIT is going to be there, and I wanted to show him the plans of the--"

"The robot." Percy gave a small smile. "That sounds really amazing. You're like a genius." It felt genuine. As I blushed, I realised that I never had someone who cared about me, even if caring meant just finding me the slightest bit interesting.

When we reached the staircase of the small clinic, I gently removed myself from his support.

"Thanks, man." I said, weak. "I think I can handle myself from here on out. Is there still time for you to get to school or...?"

"If I was Usain Bolt, then there'd be time." he snorted. "It's fine though. I wasn't feeling like coming to school today. But I'm glad I tried. I stopped anything really bad happening to you."

He awkwardly smiled at me. I was still feeling extremely numb, but I felt my lips twitching upwards. "Take care, Liam." After giving me some money from his pocket to pay for the treatment, he walked away casually. I stared after him until his figure disappeared down the turn of the street.

I got patched up and headed to my tiny flat. I remembered my Mom telling me that she had to work a night shift today, and that she would only come back the next evening. Just as well, there was still a void in my stomach dreading telling her about the money. Oh, gosh, the money.

Trying to take my mind off of things, I fixed up a cup of instant ramen, and opened up my half-broken computer and searched up, Percy Jackson.

I expected to find an Instagram page, instead my screen was filled with articles.

Missing at twelve years old, seen at a gun fight with a grown man, blew up the St. Louis arch, accused of murdering his mother. Expelled from more than eight schools in eight years. The cup of ramen fell out of my hand.

Look, I knew Percy was a troublemaker to an extent. I knew he made a mess and ran away from school on the first day. I knew that bullies would get into fights with him and get beaten up. But then again, I couldn't forget his smile and his gentle voice, telling me it would be all right.

Something inside me wanted to know who the real Percy Jackson was. Yet I felt unsettled. Me and my Mom were already a poverty-stricken family of two. I didn't know who he was, apart from that one interaction.

Could I afford to take a risk to get closer to a person like him? What if I got into trouble too? What if I got expelled from school too? What if he was just leading me on today?

As I buried myself under the covers that night, my mind started eating away at me. I closed my eyes, and dreamed of those evil guys, the taste of blood in my mouth, and kind green eyes.

The next day, I managed to attend school. After lunch was my science class, which I knew was the time where my teacher would collect the money to attend the workshop. I tried to not think about his reaction to his favourite student not being able to come.

At lunch, I sat at a lonely table in the corner, blinking back tears. My mind was plagued with my Mom and my teacher's face, disappointed and shocked. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. "Liam? You okay?"

I turned back, and gasped. It was Percy, but his cheek and nose had bandages on them, as if he had gotten hurt. "Yeah, why?" I stammered.

He sheepishly dug into his pocket and brought out a familiar stack of cash. He started rambling, "I-was-still-thinking-about-what-happened-so-after-dropping-you-at-the-clinic-I might have--"

"Sorry, what?"

"I tracked down those boys and threatened them to give back your money," he blurted out. "I...know how it feels like to have a single and struggling Mom. I just wanted to help in some way."

I felt stunned. No one had ever done such a thing for me. "How...did you...?"

"Umm..." he stuttered. "My dog, uh, she's a good tracker." He sat next to me. He took my hand in his and placed the stack of cash in my palm. "Anyways. You deserve to get the attention of the MIT head and impress him. He'd be missing out if you didn't. The world would be missing out on an inventor like you." My heart skipped a beat.

I sat there in silence. The unsettling feeling started growing again in my gut. "I know this sounds weird but," I whispered, "There are articles about you online, saying that you're a criminal. But you're here helping me. Why?"

Percy fell silent for a minute. He shuffled in his seat next to me. "I...can't tell you anything about the articles or the rumours or the accusations or whatever." His eyes were averted, and his voice was stiff.

"Is there....anything I can do to help?" I asked, softly. "You're just in freshman year. You don't deserve to be involved in dangerous things like this. You don't seem like that type of a person." Percy suddenly looked up and locked eyes with me, and his eyes were filled with a deep misery.

"Not if you want to get in trouble too," he warned. His eyes morphed from misery to something deeper; the air turned cold and there was something about his gaze that seemed almost powerful, primordial even. I felt freaked out and asked, "Who are you, Percy Jackson?"

He got up to leave. "What do you think?"

Before I could react, the bell rang and it was time to go to class. I turned back to Percy, and said, "I don't know who you are. But no one's ever done anything like this for me. I don't know how to thank you. I don't know about what's going on, but you deserve to have a normal life."

His eyes turned sad. He didn't reply.

After that day, things didn't get better for Percy. He started skipping school more often, his grades were slipping. His eyes were always red as if they'd either been crying or not sleeping. His only friend, a girl named Rachel, was bullied on the daily. At lunchtime, I heard him quietly chatting with her, and I regularly overheard words like 'war' and 'death'. He was regularly yelled at, and was constantly on the edge of being expelled.

I kept away from him, but a part of my heart still ached everytime I remembered how he saved my life and how I could never return the favour. "Not if you want to get into trouble too" he had said.

The next year, he went missing. His picture was all over the news. Theories exploded in our school, ranging from him being kidnapped by a mafia boss to being a mafia boss himself, and running away from the police. Teachers used him as an example for what would happen if we didn't listen to our parents. Parents who waited to pick their kids up would sneer about his mother and stepfather.

The commotion died after a while, and if Percy ever was found again, there was no official news about it except a few gossiping mouths in the streets of New York.

Me? The head of MIT was so impressed by my robotics skills the day of the workshop that he made sure I got a scholarship. I graduated school with the highest honours. I got admission into this incredible institution, and learned so much. And here I am today, in front of all of you, batch of 20XX, with this degree I have worked hard for by your side for the past few academic years.

So who was Percy Jackson? Was he a terrorist? A juvenile misfit beyond all hope? Was he a mafia boss, a gangster, a criminal? Or was he the gentle-hearted fourteen year old boy who saw me, bruised and bloody on the cement ground all those years ago, and decided to help a poor boy achieve his dreams?

I could never tell you. That's how humans are. We aren't open two dimensional displays of artworks. Within our colours hide layers of character and woven stories of the past. Neither the moms who whispered about him, the teachers who used him as an example, the bullies who were beaten up by him could never see Percy for who he was. But I got a glimpse that day all those years ago.

So as I stand here today at this prestigious graduation ceremony, with the highest honours of my class, I'd like to thank my Mom for supporting me throughout this journey. I love you so much. I'd like to thank all my professors and fellow students.

And, I'd like to thank Percy Jackson. And I'd like to use his example to beg all of you to be kind and do kind. His simple act of kindness helped me achieve my dreams, and I will forever carry that on and help other underprivileged kids like me.

Percy, I hope you're somewhere out there, happy. And single. Because I am. Just for the record.

*********************************************

this is probably my longest fic i've written, and if you've finished reading, thank you so much. thank you for the few people who were excited for this fic, and kept me from deleting it (I swear, I had to rewrite this so many times ugh) as always, constructive criticism is appreciated <3

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peggyao3 · 11 months ago

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Relic - Pt. 5 "Prometheus"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Giedi Prime, 2 years later - 10,190 BG

He feels so-

hopeless,

broken.

One should think he has long accepted that there is no one up there in the universe to come and save him.

No one to soothe him at night, in his dreams, after he threw up upon being summoned to quench the Baron's appetite for power, even though Feyd-Rautha's physical appearance no longer meets his tastes.

But Feyd still goes to sleep every night with childish, foolish, laughable hope, only for regular nightmares to taunt him with their sticky embrace.

When he first stopped dreaming, he threw a tantrum, not telling anyone what riddled him. He was given slave warriors to kill and new blades to blunt on human bones. Under the pretense of a training injury, Feyd had ordered the Suk Doctor to examine him, pointing him towards his brain, secretly expecting a hole there, thinking his brain might have devoured itself because he doesn't deserve goodness.

But the Suk declared, there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing aside from the usual, all the invisible things that made him rot from inside.

After a week of lonely nights, he started taking spice before sleeping, knowing that the drug opens the mind, if to prescience then maybe to shared dreams as well. And it worked! Or so he thought the first night when he found a soft hand in his and the kindest voice among all of the stars whispering: "Look, doesn't this remind you of something?"

Every time he tries to speak then, he wakes up screaming, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets that smelled like cinnamon, before he can ask any of the burning questions or say what's been tearing his heart apart. His greatest regret is that he never said I love you back.

Eventually, he comes to a numbing conclusion. That is not his beloved. That is just a memory of her.

He had to stop ingesting when his sclerae became sullied with a tint of blue that bleeds into the irises. That was one year ago.

After the spice came a phase of intense studies in the bowels of Giedi Prime's archives, ignoring the admittedly quite interesting fact that centuries of his own House's history are obliterated and nowhere to be found.

Feyd learned that 23,500 years ago, in the year 13,402 BG, a strike by an asteroid devastated Old Earth, the birthplace of humankind, making it uninhabitable until it was re-seeded with plant and animal life 42 years later and became a natural park, for humans too.

In 200 BG, 10,400 years ago, Earth was once again rendered uninhabitable for centuries by atomics during the Butlerian Jihad which obliterated all thinking machines.

The first Zensunni wanderers, nowadays known as Fremen, are said to have originated from Old Earth and at some point fled in a grand exodus from planet to planet.

How does this information still exist, but not the location of the cradle of mankind among the stars? There are no more recent records. Humankind has spread itself so thin across the universe, the world of their origin has become naught but a fairytale.

Tonight, Feyd smiles at himself in the mirror in his room, trying to curl up the corners of his mouth like he used to, when a bed of white marble with blue pillows occupied by his woman was waiting for him and a fern was rustling in a terracotta pot. But his cheeks won't grow as round as they used to and Feyd despises how he looks and how his eyes stare back at him like frosty marbles, how his face looks like a gaunt skull with no life in it.

The lonely, demonic creature who stares back at him in the bleak mirror is denied access to the dream land and left to rot in his body, in his flesh prison.

Why does he still look at himself in the mirror every night and go to sleep with a tummy ache, only to wake up hollow and like his soul has been carved out of his chest and wonder:

Is she dead?

If she's dead, then what's the point?

Unconsciously he knows what he keeps searching for in the mirror. For any signs that he was ever lovable, or if his worst fears are true, that she abandoned him by choice.

There is no proof that Old Earth is not still out there, still inhabited by humans who may be unaware of how mankind has branched out across the galaxies.

On the other hand, there is also no proof that Feyd's woman has ever been real.

Among the stars

Tell me where you are. Tell me where you are. Tell me where you are.

"I am… here!"

Wallach IX, 10,190 BG

Around a heavy, wooden roundtable are gathered the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, flanked by the Bene Gesserit sisters Miriam and Sylvia, the Princess Irulan in place of the Padishah Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV, a face dancer named Thomin to represent the Bene Tleilax and Gwyn from Ix.

"If you can't stop behaving like animals, this discussion will never find an end!" The Princess Irulan's voice bristles in a way that makes Miriam and Sylvia scoff internally at their fellow Bene Gesserit. Thomin and Gwyn are by Bene Gesserit definition, in fact, animals.

The sun on Wallach IX stands already low above the hills and cascades hazy slants of light into the private conference chamber.

"I simply don't trust gifts from the sisterhood," Thomin smiles coldly, spindly fingers folded on the table.

"She is surprisingly useless," the Reverend Mother replies with equal coldness, gazing through the dark mesh of veil. "Why would we keep her?"

"I must insist on the historical value!" Irulan chides.

"Useless for us, Irulan."

Irulan knows her former teacher doesn't actually intend to hand the woman over to the Bene Tleilax for genetic horrors, so it is really only between her and Gwyn from Ix.

"Well, as a historian, I have undoubtedly the biggest use for her among the honorable attendees."

"I strongly object," says Gwyn. "Her technological knowledge could prove invaluable to us!"

Thomin chimes in. "Her genetic information might give crucial clues as to-"

"You just said you don't trust gifts from the sisterhood, so why don't you let those who wear their real face talk," Gwyn jibes at the Tleilaxu face dancer.

Thomin deflects: "What I would like to know is why the Guild deemed it appropriate to hand over such an exceptional flotsam to the Bene Gesserit."

"Of course, they entrusted us with it," Gaius Helen Mohiam snaps. "Who else would have been capable of dealing with whatever could have been inside the sarcophagus?"

That makes the attendees grow quiet for a moment.

"What did you say her first words were?" Gwyn asks.

"I am here," Sylvia says. "Naturally, we only found what she said later."

"I'm sure she would like a friend," Irulan ponders. They're still talking about a human being after all.

"Or would you like a friend?" Miriam barbs.

"Enough of this shit," Thomin's chosen face twists into an unpleasant grimace. "I didn't come here to argue with children. Who gets the relic?!"

The woman sits in the school's relic chamber by herself, knees folded against her chest, staring up at Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night, or what's left of it, rich blues and swirly stars reduced to faded colors. She wonders if this is what will become of her too in this strange new world. Still, the painting is enough to stir her imagination.

She often thinks of her good friend and beloved Feyd and the many nights they've shared before she entered the long sleep and left him behind. She left him to die in the fires of earth from which only the cowardly could escape as pioneers aboard spaceships, venturing out to colonize the solar system when Earth suffocated beneath the smog of climate change and the rubble of bombs as starving nations tore each other apart.

Expensive suicide is what the people on Earth had mocked the cryogenic pods which would take the pioneers to Mars and Titan as sleepers to reawaken and colonize the solar system. A new home, but only for scientists and engineers.

Some cynics even called their cryo pods sarcophagi.

Often she wonders if Feyd was able to complete his life and escape from his vile uncle, if he found the happiness he so deserved. She can't bear the thought that her poor, hairless Feyd might have eventually died of the cancer she was sure he had. She had never asked him because he had never mentioned it. It had never felt right.

She had abandoned him to live with her family in a new world. Now she is here, 24,000 years late after drifting through space in her lonely sarcophagus, sending a distress signal every few days. And she has no one. Such fundamental loneliness can only be met with apathy and busying the mind.

After the war from which she had fled in the year 2100 as of her own calendar, eventually came what is now called the Butlerian Jihad, many many centuries later. Men had revolted against artificial intelligence and now there are no more computers, only human computers. Her first reaction to that had been: In this new age, no data is anonymous unless you are the mentat. No calculation can be conducted unless you own a mentat.

She pensively traces a spot above her right ear and finds herself mourning after the necklace that was taken from her after she had thawed.

She hasn't come much further with the history books yet. There is so much to catch up on and the language first had to be learned, which had consumed most of her first one and a half years on Wallach IX. Now, two years after her arrival, she feels somewhat solid in Galach, wistfully surprised to find relics from so many Earthen languages in it.

A subtle knock on the door pulls her out of her melancholic trance and her gown rustles around her legs that are used to wearing trousers as she stands. An acolyte has come to pick her up and parade her to the assembly of people who are anonymous strangers to her. In her head, a mean voice calls it an auction.

She has already cried her quiet fury and understood that autonomy is as real as daydreams in this new world. On a chess board full of intricate pieces, she is only a block being pushed here or there, but in truth she doesn't even belong on the board.

Outside, looking to the left, she finds a fern swaying softly in a bronze pot and the memories of loving nights cut through her with such unexpected vehemence, she can hardly breathe. Guilt suffocates her.

However their dreams had passed through space and time, they are no more, and she is all alone and that thought overwhelms her as she pads through the garden with its trimmed hedges and softly gurgling water. The size of the universe overwhelms her. The number of inhabited worlds overwhelms her. The amount of history to catch up on makes her feel like a mote in God's eye and the hostile kind of hospitality from the 'sisterhood' since her jarring awakening fills her chest with a numbing rage.

In a moment like this, this order of manipulative women would pledge to recite the litany against fear, but she refuses to condition her body in such a way. And with that mindset, she hasn't even made it to the rank of acolyte.

"To be completely honest, I don't like the fact that most of the great Houses have been purposely excluded from this," Thomin notes and that makes Irulan wonder too.

"And which Houses are you missing at this roundtable?" The Reverend mother coldly inquires, her patience running thin.

"If the Harkonnens find out that we-"

"Harkonnens?"

Five heads whip around to the new presence in the room, only the Reverend mother moves a bit more slowly and drones: "Good. You are here."

"She looks just like us," Gwyn is baffled.

"Of course, she looks just like us!" Gaius Helen Mohiam snaps. "What did you expect?"

"Something more primitive perhaps, I don't know."

"You're disgracing your own intelligence in front of our guest."

"Did you just say Harkonnens?" The guest in question inquires, her expression so blatantly haunted that it would make even the most untalented acolyte grow hot with shame, because anyone taught by the sisterhood should be able to mask that.

"Yes, child, what do you know about the Harkonnens?" Mohiam probes.

The sisterhood has let her pick her own studies after teaching her the basics of Galach. She had gone for science first, then art. The reverend mother had disapprovingly clicked her tongue, as contemporary politics and religion would have been the right choice. It proves unequivocally that the woman is of lesser intellect.

"Do you know someone named Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen?" Her voice trembles like the strings of an off-tune baliset.

"He is the na-Baron of Giedi Prime?" Gwyn replies as if the inquiry was a test for the attendees.

What no one expects is for the relic to break down crying so hard, she sounds like a wounded animal, primitive like Gwyn had suggested, producing gut-wrenching noise. The Bene Gesserit sisters turn away with disdain, except for Irulan whose face is painted by confused compassion.

The woman's legs give out and she unceremoniously squats down on the floor, covering her grimacing face with her arms. For the longest time, the attendees think she's merely sobbing, but after a while the sound warps into tearful but distinct laughter as she sways herself back and forth.

"He lives now?" She peeks at the blurry roundtable through the haze of tears. How could this be? Across not only space but time they've communicated simultaneously in their sleep. According to Einstein's theory of relativity, time is supposed to stretch and compress depending on relative motion, but never run backwards. Feyd should have never been able to talk to her.

Unless he really is her macroscopic, quantum-entangled twin, a phenomenon which Einstein himself had described as 'spooky action at a distance', though that was referring to microscopic particles.

"Speak plainly! Who is Feyd-Rautha to you?" Mohiam demands.

Too bad, Irulan catches herself thinking. The woman already has a friend.

"I saw him," she yells. "I've talked to him so many times, I dreamed about him every night back home, for months! He's my friend. I love him." It is ridiculously easy to admit that, even in front of a council of semi-hostile strangers.

"Hm. Tell me something about him, child."

She draws a quick and trembling breath. "Feyd is a-about this tall, blue eyes, pale skin, no hair, v-very sweet and kind, oh God, I miss him so much, please just bring me to him~"

"That could be a lot of people, but definitely not Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen." The reverend mother purses her lips under her veil. "Tell us something more distinct."

"He's being abused by his uncle," she snaps with such venom that even the old Bene Gesserit's fingers briefly clench in her lap. The roundtable grows still and only the woman's shoulders heave with hard breaths.

"Then he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen."

Upon that, the woman nearly bursts out laughing. How ridiculous, how cruel that this is what defines him in public and makes him recognizable, not all the sweet traits of his. People of power know of his abuse and no one deems it appropriate to take action against it?

The reverend mother continues. "Your dreams were visions of the future. This is what we call prescience. That you are prescient surprises me."

"They were dreams, not visions! We've talked about current events and each night we could remember the previous ones." She struggles to find the right words in Galach. "We had agency!"

But the reverend mother isn't listening to her anymore, coming to a staggering conclusion with her frighteningly sharp wit. If she speaks the truth, everything points towards their relic being a primordial Bene Gesserit, erratically skilled even without any training. Mohiam turns to her sisters and ponders: "If she was capable of prescience, perhaps her nervous system developed other abilities as well."

"You suggest she performed Prana Bindu while contained in the cryo pod?" Irulan concludes.

"It would explain how her cells survived it for 24,000 years," Sylvia muses. "Her cells should have degenerated irrevocably thousands of years ago."

The four Bene Gesserit in the room turn towards the woman and ogle her like a thing from a curiosity cabinet. If she weren't so emotionally frayed, she would feel flayed by the many scheming glances.

"This changes everything," Mohiam decides. "The guests may return to their guest rooms. I wish you a swift and safe departure tomorrow."

"I thought we had a deal," Thomin complains and kicks his chair back.

"We were far from having a deal," Mohiam says coldly.

Gwyn laments: "At least let me have a look at the cryo pod or the necklac-"

"A swift departure." The reverend mother repeats and tilts her head subtly towards Irulan, emphasizing that this includes her too. Irulan's lips quiver briefly before she straightens her back, casting a longing look at the disheveled woman before she leaves with the others.

As soon as it's only the three familiar faces from the sisterhood, the relic yells: "I refuse to stay here. I don't want your training or even your hospitality, I only want him! More than anything in the world."

To her surprise, the two younger ones flinch and glower, as if suspecting her voice might break out with new unforeseen powers.

"You love him?" Sylvia doubts but is swiftly silenced by the reverend mother with an acute sweep of the hand.

"Quiet," Mohiam addresses the relic "There's no need to throw a tantrum. You will be brought to him as soon as the circumstances allow."

"I- Oh." The woman stands helplessly like a lost child, hands clutched in front of her pelvis as fresh tears well and soon stream down her cheeks and quivering lips. She had expected more resistance, more cruelty.

"Go now. We will discuss more soon." Dumbstruck, she does as instructed and pads out of the conference room, mind caught in a limbo of disbelief and rejoicing.

The three Bene Gesserit remain.

"She must be controlled. I don't have to remind you that one of her first inquiries when she understood Galach was about computers and where to find one."

"She will be distracted, if she really loves Feyd-Rautha."

"Isn't that careless?" Miriam is baffled. Obviously, they shouldn't let the woman go to Giedi Prime and slip out of their immediate reach before conditioning her mind and body to a proper training.

"Her DNA is mysteriously rogue but powerful. That's all we need to know."

Miriam and Sylvia understand now. The reverend mother doesn't intend to train the wayward woman from Old Earth who is too obsessed with her old ways to indulge in the Bene Gesserit conditioning. She only means to breed her with Feyd-Rautha, so that the child may be trained. Since Lady Jessica disobeyed the sisterhood's order and denied them a daughter, there is currently no fitting prospect for the Harkonnen heir anyway.

"And if Feyd didn't share her visions?"

"We will soon find out. Even if he didn't, perhaps he can be warmed up to someone who is so... blatantly and bizarrely smitten with him." The reverend mother can't help the tiny twitch of her upper lip, betraying her disdain.

"So, we will contact House Harkonnen?"

"No," Mohiam declares. "The old Baron will deny their union if we are the ones who initiate. Let the rumors spread and let Feyd-Rautha do the work for us."

In Greek mythology, Prometheus (/prəˈmiːθiəs/; Ancient Greek: Προμηθεύς, [promɛːtʰéu̯s], possibly meaning "forethought") is one of the Titans and a god of fire. Prometheus is best known for defying the Olympian gods by taking fire from them and giving it to humanity in the form of technology, knowledge and, more generally, civilization. Prometheus is known for his intelligence and for being a champion of humankind and is also generally seen as the author of the human arts and sciences.

A/N: The time it took me to get my Dune lore sorted and throw around the dates from the confoozing BG/AG calendar was longer than it took me to write the actual chapter 😭 Also, Frank Herbert, please don't slap me, I tried to match the vibe of the secret meeting in the beginning of Dune Messiah, but I have nothing on thee, Frank Herbert 🧎

P.S. No breeding in this fic, but the Bene Gesserit sure do dream of it.

TAG LIST: @nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @charmingballoon, @sebastianswallows

Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

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redbullgirly · 1 year ago

Note

Hellooo 👋, can you write enemies to lovers with fernando alonso maybe with some angst? 🤭

It's totally alright if you don't want to! Thankssss :))

EL DESTINO [FA14 oneshot]

Fernando Alonso x reader

Masterlist

Summary: Y/N works for Alpine, and even though Fernando Alonso isn't part of the team anymore, they can't forget their distaste for each other. The driver seems to think she's just an irresponsible party girl and Y/N doesn't like him because he's, well... annoying and mean and doesn't care about anybody but himself. Though could they be both wrong in their prejudices?

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Not much, maybe they're kind of mean to each other and stupid at the start, but that's the point of enemies to lovers, right? XD

Author's Note: Hello Anon and thank you for the request! I didn't expect it to turn out so long, but hey XD. I hope you and everybody else will like it. Also I tried for a little bit of angst, but I'm not sure if I'm good at it... you can let me know :).

If anyone could read your thoughts at the moment, you’d probably end up locked behind bars and with the key from your cell thrown far away. Whoever's great idea was to allow the group of inexperienced interns to touch the important data and statistics deserved to rot seven feet underground. Chopped into small pieces. And doused in poison that eats their lifeless body until there's nothing left.

Okay, that's maybe a bit too violent, but still not far from the truth.

You rubbed your tired eyes, not caring about smudging the mascara anymore. There was basically no one left in the building, just a few mechanics desperately needing the cars to be in perfect condition tomorrow – or should we say today? And then there was you, who stupidly agreed to fix the disaster caused by too much excitement and not enough cautiousness. You knew the interns didn't do it on purpose, and blaming them wasn't going to help you, but still. It wasn't them who had to sit there long after their working hours ended, staring into a too bright computer screen.

When you finally managed to save all the damaged data, it was almost three in the morning, and before you made it back to the hotel, you weren't sure if it was even worth going to bed. Because of the emergency, you didn't have time to finish your usual duties. And even though it wouldn't be fair to want the analysis from you, that wasn't how the game was played in motorsport.

Legs almost giving out under you, you dragged yourself to the elevator. The poor lady sitting at the receptionist desk looked at you skeptically, but didn't say anything as you stepped in and pressed the button with the number of your floor on it. Generic music started playing, numbing your brain even more.

The metal door was about to close, but then a hand came between it. Before you blinked and processed what's happening, a man slipped into the elevator right next to you, pressing his own number.

You see, everything could have been fine. You could've just survived the thirty seconds of embarrassing silence, then mumble a polite goodbye and go to sleep in peace. But no. Fate apparently had other plans for you.

Because as the man turned to you and the bright light hit his face, you realized it wasn't just some stranger.

Suddenly, the silence shifted from the normal elevator weirdness to tension. You pressed your lips together, silently cursing the higher power that decided to mess with your life just today, when you looked like a zombie. With smudged mascara. Perfect.

For someone, maybe it would be a fulfilled dream to be in an elevator with Fernando Alonso. Two time World Champion, great driver, loved person. And a dickhead that almost ruined your whole career.

“You look like you had a wild night,” he murmured with a thick Spanish accent. You narrowed your brows, trying to control the anger bubbling inside of you. Was he trying to insult you? You wouldn't even be surprised.

“Perhaps I did, thank you very much.” Your voice lacked any signs of friendliness, clearly trying to provoke him. It was quite funny, really, how a minute ago you didn't have energy to think clearly, and now you were ready to argue with this man over anything. Almost like the magic of despising someone.

You noticed his jaw tensing and knew it wouldn't be good. But still, his words hurt: “Maybe if you focused more on doing your job instead of wild nights out, Alpine would do better.”

The sting in your chest was strong, but by some miracle the elevator finally stopped, and the robotic voice announced the twenty-sixth floor. Even life itself took pity on you, it seemed.

Without any other word, you turned away from Alonso and walked into the empty hallway, hearing a quiet scoff and then the door sliding closed again behind you, leaving you all alone in the darkness. How poetic.

Every door you passed looked exactly the same, and you just hoped you remembered your room number correctly.

You didn't even remember taking out the card and entering your temporary home for the weekend. You didn't remember taking your clothes off, removing the remaining makeup with a tissue because you were too tired for your usual skin care routine. You didn't remember responsibly setting up your alarm and then falling into the soft mattress.

All you could remember before the exhaustion took over were his words that cut deeper than he thought, and deeper than you'd like to admit.

-----

You couldn't believe it.

As you walked out of the debrief, you could basically feel everybody's frustration crawling up your spine, mixing with your own. The team, all the mechanics and engineers, pit crew members and marketing, hundreds of people worked so hard the whole week. And for what?

It was already bad when both cars didn't finish the last Grand Prix in Silverstone. But for it to happen again? That was downright embarrassing. Not only did it bring exactly zero points in the Constructors' Championship, but the drivers were angry, disappointed. You could see that in the team, the motivation level decreased quickly. And honestly, you couldn't blame them.

Last year, Alpine was the fourth-best car on the grid. Best of the rest, as they'd call it. But this season, everything was going terribly. You honestly weren't far from crying.

To lighten up the mood, some of your colleagues decided to enjoy a night out in Budapest before you'd have to fly to Belgium tomorrow, to prepare for yet another racing weekend. At first, you declined the offer, insisting you needed to catch up on some work, do analysis for the car and figure out exactly what happened to it. But then, one of the mechanics you were friendlier with saw your drooping shoulders, and pulled you into the club despite all your weak protests.

Soon enough, you let loose and after an hour, you were a few drinks in. Your head was spinning, a big smile planted on your lips and giggles coming out of your mouth uncontrollably. Not that you had low alcohol tolerance, but the last time you got properly drunk was some time ago. Perhaps you just forgot how it felt. The freedom, the sweet mist of oblivion clouding your mind.

Currently, you were sitting at the bar, sipping on a cocktail. You already enjoyed your time on the dance floor, which tired you more than expected. Thank God you went to the club right from the paddock, so instead of high heels that'd kill your feet, you had comfortable sneakers on.

As you waved at the young barman to give you another round of whatever he mixed for you before, you felt someone's eyes on your back. You didn't bother to turn around, thinking it was just another drunken man checking out half of the women in the club.

Then, someone stood behind you. “The drink's on me, hermosa,” the man said, voice smooth like honey. You froze. You knew that deep, thick Spanish accent too well. What the hell was Alonso doing here?

He clearly mistook your silence for an impressed one, or so you thought when he came to sit down next to you, his hand gently brushing your back. That was the moment you turned your head towards him, eyes wide, and his face dropped. So did yours.

You hoped for a split second you could pretend you were total strangers randomly meeting in a bar for just a little longer when he instantly frowned and his demeanor changed from charming gentleman to pain in the ass.

“Y/L/N,” he uttered it in a way that made you wonder if there was something wrong with your last name. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here.”

And here it was — the instant wave of anger and hurt he managed to bring up by just a few poking words.

“Says the right person.” You rolled your eyes, the flowing feeling the alcohol gave you before now gone. You felt like you were going to be sick. “I bet if it wasn't me you tried to hit on, you'd bring the poor woman to your hotel room tonight.”

“Careful, or you might sound jealous.”

“Oh, you wish, Alonso,” you laughed humorlessly.

The bartender chose that moment to bring you the requested cocktail you already forgot about. You gave him the cash, though you had no intention of actually drinking it. As always, Alonso left a sour taste in your mouth.

“I see you're drinking the team problems away,” he pressed harder, knowing damn well it was a sensitive topic. You gritted your teeth, reminding yourself to be the better person.

Then you looked into his dark eyes, and your self-control was gone. For some reason, you couldn't stand the look he was giving you. It was full of something that was too similar to disappointment. You hated people being disappointed in you, even if you hated that very person.

Out of nowhere, the alcohol kicked in, and you remembered why you didn't drink in clubs too often — it made you emotional. So stupidly sensitive that you couldn't stop your eyes from tearing up. You shook your head, opened your mouth, wanting to tell him something. Anything that'd make him just as much hurt as you were.

Instead, you bit your trembling lip and abruptly stood up. You almost knocked over the bar stool, though at the moment, you didn't really care.

Was it cowardly to run away from him and his harsh words? Yes, you knew that. But you did it in the elevator, and so you could do it again.

In a rush, you got through other people enjoying their night out, oblivious to the lump forming in your throat. You needed to get out, breathe in the fresh air and just forget about everything.

It was probably nearing midnight, and even though it was late July, you still shivered when you stepped outside the club. Just then you remembered you left your jacket back in the paddock. And you also realized the mechanic and his group of friends drove you here, and you had no idea where you were or how to get to your hotel room.

“Great. Just fucking perfect,” you mumbled to yourself, a few tears running down your cheeks. You wiped them away, willing yourself to calm down. Budapest couldn't be too different from other European cities, so you'd just walk to the nearest public transport station and then see what you could do from there. Yes, that was exactly what you're going to do, and it's going to be okay.

Having a plan calmed you down, at least a little. You walked in a direction you hoped would get you to the center and took your phone out. The battery was low, and you cursed yourself for not charging it during the day.

“Where are you going?” You winced and nearly dropped the phone when you heard the loud voice calling after you.

When you turned around, you already knew exactly who was standing before the club entrance.

“That's not any of your business,” you tried to sound tough, but it came out tired and weak. So instead, you lifted your head, trying to save the remaining bits of your dignity.

Alonso tilted his head, brown eyes studying you for a moment before he made a step towards you. “Don't tell me you don't have anyone to take you back to your hotel?” The undertone of his voice was strange, and if you didn't know better, you'd think it was worry seeping out.

“Oh, then I won't tell you,” you fired back, satisfied with your own answer as you turned around and left him standing there.

You made it around the block when a strong hand suddenly grasped your hand, and you screamed, prepared to fight whoever attacked you.

“¡Ay dios mío!” Alonso cursed and held his red cheek, where there was a clear hand print now.

You stared at each other in shock. You wanted to kill him for scaring you to death, but at the same time, you were relieved it was just him and not a creepy kidnapper.

“I'd say I'm sorry… but I'm not,” you managed to mumble. A weak attempt, you knew that. But it still seemed to wake him from his trance and make him scoff at you in annoyance.

However, he didn't let go of your hand.

“Let's go,” Alonso urged you back towards the direction you came from.

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“Y/N, if you think I would let a drunk girl wander around a city she doesn't know, alone, at night… then you clearly don't know me at all.”

It took a few seconds for his words to hit you, and all there was left for you to do was to look up at him with surprise written all over your face. That seemed to annoy him for some reason, but with alcohol still very much present in your system, you didn't have the capacity to think about it too much.

“Let's go,” he repeated, though this time you didn't protest when he started walking towards what turned out to be his car. You knew it very well, from the years you used to work together, for the same team. Silently, you wondered how the hell did he get it to Hungary, but you soon forgot about that.

Fernando unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for you. Your mom would probably tell you to be more cautious about getting into the car of a man you didn't like and were sure he didn't like you as well. But hey, it's still better than being lost in a foreign city, right?

So you sat down, and before you could reach for the seatbelt, he took it and strapped you himself, mumbling something about safety hazards with drunk people. You were so surprised by that unexpected action you didn't even have time to feel offended.

You closed your eyes, the comfortable seat making you sleepy. You heard him get in the car as well and join the night traffic. For a moment, silence reigned and for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel horrible and tense.

“Isn't it illegal to drive with alcohol?” you whispered, eyes still closed.

“I didn't drink anything in the club. Too busy with you.”

Just then, you realized you actually asked the question out loud.

“Sorry for ruining your celebration night. Probably didn't want to leave it with me,” you laughed quietly. When he approached you in the club, he thought you were a random pretty woman with whom he could share a drink and take her to his bed for a fun night.

“Whatever.” You could hear him shrug his shoulders. “Sorry for ruining your night. Though you don't have much to celebrate.”

That made you open your eyes and gaze at him. He was looking straight ahead, concentrating on the road ahead. The lights of the other cars occasionally landed on his face, and you wondered if he was always so handsome, or it were the cocktails speaking for you.

“Wow, even in an apology there's a hidden insult,” you snickered, though there was a small grin on your lips now. Yes, definitely the alcohol speaking for you, you told yourself.

This time, Fernando actually looked at you before he averted his sight back to the traffic. “I wasn't insulting you, Y/N. I was insulting the team.”

You raised your eyebrows, but didn't comment on it. It was pointless to argue over this, he had his opinion about Alpine and given the fact both your cars didn't finish two races in a row, you didn't have exactly the best arguments to convince him otherwise. After all, he was part of the team last year. And the year before.

For the rest of your ride, there wasn't much more said between the both of you. You were tired — not just because of the night out and drinking, but from the whole week, from the whole season.

Finally, he parked the car before a building you recognized. You didn't ask him how he knew which hotel your team booked, perhaps he remembered it was the same one as the year before. Honestly, you were just glad he helped you get out of the car and walked you inside.

Then, you found yourself in an elevator alone with Fernando, again. Though unlike a month ago, he gently held your hand for support this time.

You told him your room number and somehow, he got you all the way in front of the door. You thanked all the saints in the world when you dug the keys out of your purse. After three unsuccessful tries at unlocking the room, Fernando's patience apparently ran out. He took the keys out of your hand and silently opened the lock.

“Thanks,” you muttered, and let him lead you inside your own hotel room.

When the light switch turned on and illuminated all the papers lying around, he looked at you, flabbergasted.

“What's all this?”

You shrug your shoulders and look at him like he was stupid. Which he was, at least in your humble opinion. “Work. What else?”

“Yes, yes. But why is it… here?” He motions towards the desk, nightstands, and bed.

“Because I don't have time to do it all in the office.”

“You work overtime?”

Now you were starting to get irritated.

“Yes, I work overtime. Maybe if you weren't so insistent in thinking I'm a dumb party girl ever since I made one stupid mistake in your car's analysis a year ago, you'd see I'm actually trying my best.” You hated how hurt you sounded, pathetic in your own ears.

But honestly, who was he to judge you? You never actually stood up to him before, defended yourself against his mean words. You always sucked it up, let him complain about you to your boss, who almost fired you because of the driver's obvious distaste for you. And when he left the team at the end of last year, you never tried to contact him, talk to him. Fix your non-existent relationship.

Today, though, you had enough. Maybe it was the alcohol giving you courage, maybe it was his shocked face when he realized you actually did your job.

“Y/N, I-”

“Get out,” you said in a tone that didn't allow for any objections. Fernando seemed to understand, but the pained expression didn't leave his face when he slowly walked to the door. Like he didn't really want to leave, like he desperately wanted to tell you something.

You didn't care about him. He never cared about you before as well, did he?

And so, with one last, regretful look in his dark eyes, Fernando Alonso left your hotel room. When tears ran down your cheeks, you weren't sure why you were even crying.

-----

You were avoiding him after that. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, but you managed and after surviving the Belgian Grand Prix in Spa, you were excited about the summer break as never before. Almost a whole month without races, which meant you wouldn't have to meet anyone from the other teams, including Fernando.

Usually, the team worked tirelessly through the summer break — it was a great chance to have a proper look into the car's engine and come up with new ideas and improvements. God knew you needed that. Typically, you were amongst those loyal employees, basically living in the Alpine headquarters.

However, this year you really wanted a break. So you used your vacation days and stayed in your flat, finally sleeping like a normal person for once, eating home-cooked meals instead of team catering and enjoying the summer, though the weather could be better in England.

It was the start of August when you started finding flower deliveries on the threshold of your door. First, you thought it's a mistake, though what woman would refuse a beautiful bouquet of her favorite flowers. When it happened a whole week in a row, you thought about having a secret admirer or, in the worse case scenario, a stalker. Though, you still took the flowers inside every morning, cherishing them.

And then, one day, there was an envelope attached to the bouquet, and you had to curse yourself for being so, so stupid. Of course it's him, Fernando. Begging you to talk to him, to let him explain. One dinner, he said. One dinner, and then he'll let you go on about your life.

When he tried to write a poem in the middle of August, you finally gave in. You found his old phone number saved amongst many other contacts and sent him a simple “okay”.

The next morning, there was a time and address of the restaurant in the envelope.

You didn't let yourself get too excited about any of it. It's Fernando Alonso, the man who almost caused you to get fired from your dream job, the one that was so mean to you after making wrong assumptions about you and your way of life. Yes, he was trying now, but was that enough?

When the taxi dropped you off in front of the fancy restaurant, you took a deep breath. You had a simple dress on, light makeup, and a few accessories.

You walked into the empty restaurant. The waitress smiled at you when you told her the name of the reservation and led you to the only set table. You could see the deep brown eyes looking directly at you from afar.

Suddenly, nervousness settled in your stomach. If you didn't know better, you'd think this was a date — it certainly felt like one.

Without a word, he helped you sit down on a chair across from him and the waitress handed you the menu. It was without prices, but you were certain this place was lavish and expensive. Perhaps Fernando didn't want you to worry about it and let you order anything you wanted. And you tried not to be too impressed by that.

“You look very beautiful, hermosa,” he spoke after a minute of tense silence while you pretended to be interested in the menu. You didn't miss the fact he used the same nickname like that night in the club, when he thought you were someone else.

“Compliments won't make it easier for you.” Maybe you lied, because you liked him calling you beautiful.

“I know, but I couldn't help myself.”

The waitress came back with a bottle of wine that Fernando must've ordered before you arrived. You took a sip and it tasted like heaven. It almost made you forget about everything, almost.

“Please, can we talk?” You never heard his voice sound so… unsure.

“Aren't we talking right now?”

“Y/N.” The way he said your name was so soft, so delicate.

“Fernando.” You saw him flinch, and you realized it was probably the first time you called him by his first name. Suddenly, the whole situation felt more intimate.

He gulped, but there was determination written all over his face. Fernando Alonso wasn't the type of man to give up, you knew that. His amazing racing career was proof of that.

“Listen to me, please. I know that you have the right to never speak to me again after how I treated you. But I want to fix it, Y/N.”

Those brown eyes were going to be the death of you, burying themselves into your soul, your heart.

“I want to fix all of it, Y/N,” he repeated with all seriousness. “If you let me,” Fernando added.

And how could you say no to him? Deep down, you always admired him. Liked him, even. Before that fuck up with his car's analysis, you thought he might like you back. You always wanted his approval, and that was one of the reasons why his words and insults hurt so much.

Sometimes, people deserved second chances. Especially when they were looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Slowly, you nodded. “I think I might let you, Fernando.” You smiled, liking how his name felt on your tongue. “But it's not going to be easy, I'm telling you that,” you warned him with a raised finger.

“I wouldn't dream of anything less,” he replied with a thick Spanish accent that was stronger when he felt emotions. Fernando returned your smile and clinked his glass with yours.

-----

Brazil was a good race. Both Alpine cars ended up in points and Fernando, your Fernando, got another podium. You clapped along with others during the podium ceremony, eyes just for him. A proud feeling settled in you, and as he accepted his trophy for well deserved third place, he looked down at the gathered crowd. Mostly people from Aston Martin, McLaren, and Red Bull.

And then there was you — in your Alpine t-shirt, clapping for the driver who scandalously left your team last year, without a care in the world. That was when he knew he loved you, and that he'll always will.

You knew you loved him too when, after all the celebrating around the circuit died down or moved to clubs and private parties, instead of going to his hotel room, he knocked on the door of yours. Checking on you.

“Hermosa, I hope you're not working.” He rolled his eyes as he stepped in, seeing you indeed staring into your notebook at some data he probably shouldn't see as a part of a rival team.

“But Nando, I need to finish these-”

He cut you off the best way he could — hugging you from behind, gently turning your head towards him and placing his lips on yours. You instantly melted into the kiss, giving up the fight before it could even start.

“I think you need to properly celebrate your boyfriend winning,” he smirked, biting your lip teasingly. You felt like a teenage girl when the butterflies took off in your stomach.

Fernando slowly walked you to the bed, never parting your lips, as if his life depended on kissing you. You sat on his lap, your hips grinding against his as you moaned into his mouth.

And he couldn't help himself. He wanted to take you out on a magical date and tell you there, but how could he keep it a secret when you were sitting on him, so beautiful that his heart clenched. Smart and pretty girl. His smart and pretty girl.

“Te amo,” he whispered into your sweet lips, and your breath caught.

You pulled back a little, looking at him, silently asking if you heard him correctly.

“Te amo, Y/N,” he repeated. You knew enough Spanish for your eyes to tear up. “I love you very much.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, probably the longest one in your whole life.

“I love you too. So much,” you whispered back. And then, for him: “Te amo, Fernando.”

Now it was his turn to tear up, hold your face in his hands and press your foreheads together.

Perhaps the fate and its plans for you weren't so horrible after all.

THE END

Author's Note: Wow, if you read it all to the end, thank you very much! I'll be glad for likes, comments, reblogs, follows and every other way of support. Let me know how you liked this story and if you'd maybe like another oneshot from this "universe" because I have to admit, this version of Fernando and Y/N kind of grew on me... Have a great day and see you at the next post! :)

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