I have been thinking more about yans with less traditional family bonds with the reader and one of those concepts funnily enough fits perfectly with the prompt I found below !
likeee even if the reader resorts to villainy or living under a rock they are always going to find those two pesky soul bonds that worship their third wheel in all life times...
Depending on the scenario/characters it can go a lot of different ways. If fate deams that there to be suffering I can't help but picture the triforce trio.. Two semi immortal heroes / villains whose goals absolutely clash can only agree on bettering their current life for the readers sake...
Or if you would like a more spooky sad sort of fate
There's a lot of unsaid feelings that none of you are willing to address in any of your lifetimes. No one really talks about it but none of you are willing to stray very far from your friends. With memories both happy , terrifying and sad plaguing your dreams it's a miracle you can sleep. alone at night without someone sneaking in to check if you are still breathing...
[ slasher x final girl & reader would fit this trope as well tbh share your thoughts if you have any 💬]
I find this panel so funny because now all I can imagine is Talia sneaking into the manor to the kitchen when Alfred is cooking and going “I’m going to teach you how I make my mloukhieh correctly so Damian can feel more at home”
And they have a nice evening bonding over cooking and sharing recipes
fun little thought: Clark actually does need his glasses bc he's pretty far sighted due to His Eyes Are Optimized for a Different Atmosphere. he gets them pretty young, about when his parents start noticing him squinting when he has to do his homework. the optometrist is a family friend and is not asking any questions about the absolutely bizarre internal structure of the Kent boy's eyes
he doesn't generally need glasses for Superman work bc he's generally not looking at much up close! but there are a couple times he has to hold a bomb at arm's length to try to focus on the innards and it looks so much like what Pa does when he forgets his reading glasses that Kon almost bursts out laughing when he sees it
"But if this other world has always operated according to video game logic, why is the isekai protagonist literally the first person to figure out all these basic mechanical exploints" well, largely because litRPG isekai is merely the latest flavour of I've Been Transported To Another World Where Everyone Is Stupid Except For Me, a venerable genre that's been a going concern at least since Mark Twain.
When I was a kid, it was American sci-fi authors writing stories about shitass engineering majors getting portal-fantasied to alien planets and single-handedly saving civilisation on the strength of being the only person in the world who knows what a flowchart is, and very little has changed – right down to the weirdly inverted character arcs where the loser protagonist discovers that they don't actually need to engage in any self-reflection at all because the very traits that rendered them odious in their native society are what make them God here.
WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, possessive behavior, kidnapping, story takes place in 1940s, forced infantilization, mugging, violence, manipulation, anxious reader, gaslighting(?), light descriptions of blood, alcohol
WORD COUNT: 6.4k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: it has been done! Sorry its a bit longer than my usual works, you can tell I really enjoyed writing this one a lot ^^; also i only made it take place in america because there are so many different currencies in the world, so it isn't really canon this is in any specific country lol
When you sent a letter to WLRD Radio Studios's Cecil Wallace, you hadn't really expected an answer. And if you got one, you definitely didn't expect it to be anything helpful.
With everything going on in the world, it's been a stressful few years, and your life is far from perfect, to say the least. You had troubles finding employment, there was a housing crunch and overcrowding where you lived, and that wasn't to mention the whole political climate and economic distress.
The only thing that made you feel better was tuning into your favorite radio station.
Cecil Wallace is a fairly popular man. The kind of guy everyone either seems to love or hate; talks fast, all slicked back hair and suits that look like they cost as much as an arm and a leg, if not two of each. His opinions seem a bit controversial compared to most of your peers, always advocating for equality and freedom regardless of gender or race or what religion one chooses.
But that's why you like him, because he dares to challenge the status quo.
So when the station asked listeners to write in about their problems so Cecil could offer advice on-air, you were quick to grab pen and paper. It seemed worth a try, even if the chances of him actually reading it were small.
Maybe you just craved acknowledgement from someone who wasn't some stuffy doctor trying to tell you it was "all in your head," or whatever nonsense they liked to spit at you.
But sure enough, two weeks after you sent off your letter, you were sure it wasn't read, until you got a letter in the mail, signed C. Wallace.
At first you'd thought it was just another war fund solicitation, but upon seeing the familiar loopy cursive scribbled over the envelope, you rushed inside and ripped it open immediately, kicking your door shut.
Dear (Y/n) (L/n),
I'm sorry for such an informal response, but I think you need me more than any audience would have. This is Mr. Cecil Wallace, by the way!
Now let's get straight into it; I'm so sorry you've been having such troubles as of late. Please know you are not alone! My show gets dozens of letters like yours each day, but yours spoke to me.
I wanted to talk to you directly because I feel like we connected when I read your letter. And I'm inclined to help however I can! We must support one another in these hard times!
If you'd like, please come down to the station! Enclosed is our address and my phone number if you have any further questions. I'd love to meet you! Preferably around 10 AM to 5 PM on a Sunday, Monday, or Thursday. Those are my least busy days!
Looking forward to speaking with you!
Sincerely,
C. Wallace
You're ecstatic, reading the letter over and over again. Cecil wants to help you! You weren't aware he did anything besides giving advice and interviews on his show! Wasn't he busy? Surely he had better things to do than help out every single fan...but apparently not! Your eyes sparkle with excitement as you tuck away the letter in a safe spot.
And that's how you ended up taking a train to his station that following Sunday.
You're admittedly nervous, wearing your nicest clothing, ironed and everything. The walk to the building isn't long, but by the time you make it there you're sweaty and worried.
An annoyed receptionist looks up at you. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Oh, yes!" You dig the crumpled letter from your pocket and hand it over. "For Mr. Wallace."
She reads it over quickly before typing something on her typewriter and handing back the paper. "Upstairs. Second door on your left."
"Thanks," you smile, heading for the elevator and getting off at the right floor. When you locate the correct office you knock softly.
"Come in!" he calls, muffled by the wood.
So you open it to see him sitting behind a large oak desk, scribbling in a notebook and surrounded by filing cabinets and recording equipment. It's somehow scattered yet organized at the same time.
His head snaps up, grinning wide upon seeing you. "Oh, hi! Come in, come in! Have a seat!" He gestures to one of two velvet armchairs in front of his desk. "You're (Y/n), correct?"
You nod. "Correct. Hi, nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine." He holds his hand across his desk for you to shake. His skin is soft and smooth as silk. "Geez, this place sure is dull on Sundays, ain't it? Usually the only person here with me is the janitor."
You don't miss the fact that he speaks to you exactly like he does on the radio— loud and animated.
"I agree," you sigh. "So. Um..."
"Right! Let's get right to the chase." He sets aside his pen and sits up straight. "I read your letter and it just broke my heart. You shouldn't be dealing with such issues. So I was hoping you'd let me help out! Even if just a little bit." Cecil stands up, gesturing for you to stay seated while he rifles through a drawer. "Is there anything you need specifically? Like, money? Medical assistance? A hug?"
You smile nervously. "I guess it's mainly the stress of everything going on. And, um, some difficulties with housing and employment. But I wouldn't want to ask for money or anything."
"Don't be silly!" he says. "I can more than afford it. This job pays well!" He pulls out ten dollars, handing it to you. "This will get you started."
"What?! No, no, I could never..." Despite that, you take the offered cash.
"You could and you will! If there's one thing I don't tolerate, it's people not accepting help when they need it!" He chuckles, grabbing something else. It looks to be several papers. "How would you feel about working here, kiddo?"
You blink, taking in everything that's happened in the past few seconds. "Work here? I appreciate the offer, but I know nothing about working in entertainment..."
He makes a noise of adoration, sitting back down across from you. "You wouldn't be. I just need someone to keep me company, and occasionally bring me coffee or a snack. Oh, and of course..." He points to a button. "When I point at you, just press that little red button. The one that says 'ON AIR.' That's all. That's the magic. The rest is just me rambling for an hour while you sit beside me and do what ever, as long as you're quiet."
It's such a good offer, you almost don't believe it. "How much does it pay?"
"Three dollars an hour. Sound alright?" He seems hopeful, shuffling those papers.
"Yes! That sounds incredible!" you say honestly, surprised with yourself that you even got such a chance. "Wow, this is so nice of you! I hope I'm not being too much of a bother!"
"Of course not! Now sign these and you'll be set." He pushes the stack forward and hands you the pen. "Once you're done I'll walk you through the daily routine."
You scan it over before doing so. Everything looks normal. It's a simple work form.
So you scrawl your signature at the bottom and push it back. Cecil smiles in satisfaction as he collects everything, placing them in an envelope. He takes both the papers and pen and turns in his swivel chair to file them away in one of those metal drawers.
"There we go... all set! Welcome aboard, honey," he grins, extending his arm for another handshake, which you gladly give.
"Thank you so much!" you smile brightly, relieved with the promise of employment, especially from one of your favorite celebrities. "When do I start?"
"Tomorrow evening. Say, eleven o'clock? Does that sound reasonable?"
You nod, ecstatic with the circumstances. Maybe this won't turn out so bad after all!
...
A few weeks pass by rather pleasantly, with you and Cecil becoming quick friends. Your day mostly consists of the two of you reading or chatting, until you have to press the ON AIR button. Sometimes you eat dinner together, or even fall sleep together on the couch against the far wall. The most important part of your job seems to be keeping him company.
You aren't complaining though. Working with your new friend beats trying to find any other kind of job.
Well, you think you and Cecil are friends. He's still your superior, but it doesn't feel that way, because you rarely actually work. And he treats you like an equal, too.
But sometimes he treats you like something else.
You notice how protective he is right off the bat. He never lets you touch any heavy equipment, always insisting on carrying it for you, whether or not it actually is in your capabilities. Whenever someone tries talking to you during your lunch break, he steps between them and you and handles it. Sometimes he doesn't let you go outside if he thinks it's too chilly, offering you his own coat instead and walking you home.
Even though it's a tad bit strange, you think he's a strange guy in general, so likely nothing to worry about. Even before meeting him, you assumed he would act different than most people, but that just comes with being such an outspoken figure.
It's become normal for you to frequent the diner he really likes, and he even pays for your meal every single time.
"You enjoying your ice cream, kiddo?" he asks, while sipping on his chocolate milkshake—what he gets every time here. You nod, to which he continues, "it's been a whole month since you started working with me, hasn't it? Time really flies!"
"It does," you reply simply, licking your spoon clean. "Thanks for letting me work with you."
"Of course, honey! It's been so great having you around, you really brighten up my day." He reaches over to pat your head affectionately.
Maybe he pats you too much. Most friends don't ruffle your hair every five minutes, after all. Or cut up your food for you. Or hold your hand when walking you down the street. But maybe Cecil does that to most people? He seems a bit more dismissive and cold to those he doesn't know well, but you're not sure about his relationships.
Plus, he seems like a lonely guy. So perhaps he's just extra grateful for the company.
Yeah, that must be it.
Your boss orders the check before paying for it, like always, then walks with you back to your place. You hold his hand like always, swinging them together absentmindedly while chattering away with each other, exchanging stories and opinions alike.
Cecil smiles wide when you laugh at his joke.
When you finally reach your complex, Cecil hugs you tight—again, like always.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, sweet pea," he coos, petting your head gently. "Take care of yourself."
You return the hug, albeit a bit more awkwardly. "I will, you too. See you." As you pull away, he smiles sadly at you.
"Bye." You don't miss the disappointment in his voice. Has been sounding like that a lot, recently, whenever the two of you part ways. You can't understand why, though... he has plenty of other friends, surely? The man is so popular, constantly swarmed by reporters and photographers, adored by thousands. Maybe more.
Why would he possibly prefer spending time with you?
...
"Mr. Wallace, no offense, but my shift ended an hour ago."
"I know. You can stay overnight here if you want. I have a few extra pajamas in case you were wondering. I spend a lot of nights here, the couch is very cozy. Or, there's some blankets in that drawer and pillows in the closet. Sleep however you please; you can use whatever I have." Cecil gestures around the room. His studio really has anything one could ever need to live comfortably.
He owns a kettle and electric stove. The aforementioned bedding accessories. There's a bathroom just outside his office. And he has a large stash of tea packets and snacks.
There's also a telephone, several stacks of books, art supplies, board games, playing cards, notebooks, radios, recording equipment... this room even has windows overlooking the city.
Yet you'd still prefer the comfort of your own home.
"...you could go home... if you'd like. Though I'd be lonely without you here to keep me company..." he trails off sadly. "With all this stress getting to me, just wished to have a little company around. Don't mean to be a whistling dixie. Just ignore me."
You're sure he knows full-well he's guilt-tripping you, but you can't bring yourself to refuse. "...does that mean I can go home early tomorrow?"
"If you stay, then yeah, absolutely," he replies quickly, eyes shimmering. You sigh and nod. Cecil claps excitedly. "Perfect! What do you want for dinner?"
"Oh, uh—anything, really..."
"Why don't we get pizza tonight?" He waltzes over to the phone and picks up the receiver, already dialing.
You get situated, seeing the pajamas are oddly your size and a bit childish (pastel red with stars on them), getting dressed while Cecil leaves to pick up the food.
But when he gets back, he grins ear to ear and sits down beside you on the sofa, grabbing a record to put on.
"Do you have a favorite?" Cecil asks. You shake your head. "I'm a big fan of music. This is Bing Crosby, one of my favorites."
You nod, digging into your slice. "Really good."
"Oh gosh, you've got sauce on your face, kiddo." Cecil immediately pulls out a handkerchief and wipes at your cheeks. You blush furiously at the treatment but allow it, knowing he won't relent. He hums happily once satisfied with his work, patting your cheek before pocketing his cloth. "There we go. Cute as a button again."
You chuckle. "Thanks."
Cecil nods. "Just gotta look out for my baby."
It's not the first time he said something like that, and you doubt it will be the last. You finish your food and stretch with a yawn. He coos at you again, cleaning up all the dishes.
The rest of the night passes by easily enough, with Cecil showing you how to play Go Fish and Slap Jack, both of which are fun. It feels nice to act a bit silly like this, with all the stress of real life having weighed on you heavily in recent times.
Eventually you start dozing off, lying on Cecil's shoulder.
"How did I get so lucky?" he mutters under his breath. You're only barely lucid enough to comprehend the words, already half asleep. He adjusts you gently, wrapping the blanket snug around your shoulders. He caresses your forehead, pushing back your bangs lovingly.
If your eyes were open, you'd see the crazed look he gazes down upon you with.
...
Another month goes by, and you've noticed Cecil being more... possessive? Not in an inherently malicious manner. Rather, he treats you even less like an adult, which is saying something.
Even some of his rants are a little strange, which is also saying something; his rants have always been strange. But nowadays, Cecil speaks ill of anyone you mention spending time with. His complaints are subtle, yet you pick up on them anyway. There's always something negative he says.
"He smokes a ton! How repulsive is that?"
"Geez, she sounds like a real sourpuss."
"They kept giving you weird looks. Best you keep your distance."
And so forth.
He invites you to a small party for the holidays, just with the other radio hosts and a few others involved with the station.
"He sounded nice," you say as you watch one of your colleagues leave with his wife.
"Pfft. Randall? Yeah, he's sweet as sugar towards the pretty faces he works with," Cecil snorts. "His wife only sticks with him because he's wealthy. Good for her, but she could do better." He waves a hand while sipping on eggnog.
"You sure love to gossip," you tease.
"Wouldn't have chosen my profession if I didn't," Cecil returns the smile. "But what can I say? I want you to be safe. None of these folks are trustworthy."
"But you are?"
"Well of course!" Cecil rests his elbow on your shoulder. "You know I adore you more than anything, kiddo. I'm trying to keep you safe from the rest of those wackadoodles. Now, excuse me while I use the restroom. Be right back, don't go anywhere!" He pecks your forehead with a loud 'mwah' and strides away, in his usual confidence.
You take another bite of cookie before feeling a tap on your shoulder.
It's your coworker, Misty, holding her hat under her arm and smiling at you politely. "Hi there, I was wondering who Cecil was always talking about. Never heard him say a bad word about you, which is rare for Mr. Gossip himself."
"Oh, um—" you fiddle with the hem of your outfit. "We're close, I guess."
"I'd sure hope so, considering you follow him everywhere like a little lost duckling!"
You awkwardly laugh, not knowing how to respond.
Soon, three more people gather around to talk to you, much to your anxiety. You try to slip away from their attention but to no avail. They ask question after question without breathing room in between. Your social battery runs low as you get flustered from the unwanted focus. You're much too polite to tell them to leave you alone, so they keep pestering.
At least until a harsh grip finds its way onto your shoulder.
It's Cecil, squeezing tight enough for it to hurt, though you're not sure whether it's intentional or not. He's usually so gentle, unless he's pulling you somewhere.
"They're clearly overwhelmed, give them some space," he snaps. The group disperses without argument. Cecil then uses his death-grip to force you through the crowd and outside, walking away in the chilly air.
"I-I thought we weren't leaving until you were ready?" you squeak.
"Oh, I'm more than ready now," Cecil snarls. "That's what I get for letting you out of my sight."
"All they were doing was asking me questions," you protest. "What's wrong with that?"
His nails dig into your shoulder. "I already told you I didn't like them. Now they've gotten it in their brains that you're approachable."
"But I am approachable, Cecil."
He whirls around to face you. "(Y/n), listen to me. They have ulterior motives. Whatever you may think, they aren't looking to make friends."
You frown. "Look, if you're worried about me talking to strangers, I—"
"Those aren't strangers, they're coworkers. Those I see every single week. They are snakes. Vultures. Predators. The sort of people to only spend time with you because they either feel bad, want to get something out of you, or think it's funny."
You stay silent, unable to argue with his intimidating demeanor. So you instead stare at the pavement while snowflakes drift down slowly.
Cecil grabs you by your arms.
"Honey. Baby. Please, you need to listen to me, I know best. You don't understand how vile these people are." You glance at him briefly, noticing the desperation plastered all over his face. It's startling.
He never gets mad at you. Even when you genuinely mess something up, he hardly bats an eye. Always gives you a pass. Takes any opportunity to baby you. Maybe the rumors of his protectiveness are true...
You nod weakly. "Okay."
"Please trust me," Cecil practically begs. "They'll do whatever they can to take advantage of you. Just... stay by my side, okay?"
"Okay," you reply more firmly.
"Great. Now let's get you home."
...
You're pretty sure you started misplacing your things a lot more lately. Well, that's what you would say, if Cecil wasn't so acting so strange all the time. Part of you is sure you're overthinking it, that Cecil would never do something like that, but that still doesn't bring back the notebook you lost that you use to jot down all your feelings in, or your jacket making Cecil always offer his coat.
But surely its nothing. Surely.
To get your mind off of things, you stop by the local bar. It's a nice cabaret and dance hall, very crowded as per usual, so nobody notices you come in. Or they do, but don't care.
You sit in the back, sipping on your drink and avoiding anyone's gaze. One person does come up to you however—you recognize him.
"Oh... hi, Mr. Douglas," you say, seeing Randall slide in the seat across from you. "I haven't seen you since the holiday party." You wish you felt a bit more confident. But Cecil's warning echoes in your brain, though it's hard to tell when he's being dramatic or not.
"Hey there! Didn't expect to see you here. Figured you weren't allowed out past your bedtime," Randall laughs. You cringe at that, even though it's supposed to be a joke. "Does Wallace know you're coming to a place like this?"
"No. He's just my boss," you respond. "We're friends but he doesn't control my life."
For some reason, Randall looks unsure about that. "I don't know, he seems to keep you on a pretty tight leash. Yesterday he started screaming at me for trying to make 'advances' towards you and hurt you. Which I haven't had any intentions of, by the way. He must think I'm a real schnook. But I guess he's that way with everyone."
The comment about keeping you on a tight leash stings, even though you know it's most likely just jealousy speaking. "He just likes looking after people."
"Looking after you, mostly." Randall shrugs. "He seems to treat you like a baby. And hey, if you're okay with that, it ain't my business."
Now the accusation hits harder. You knew Cecil liked taking care of you, but to hear someone else notice makes you uneasy.
"It isn't like that," you lie. "We're friends. He's friendly to everybody."
Randall scoffs. "You kiddin'? Just because he loves talking, doesn't mean he's friendly. I'm pretty sure that guy just likes to hear his own voice." He looks away, avoiding your gaze. "But if it makes you feel better, he really does obviously care about you. Just don't know if I'd want him out of all people to care."
You watch him stand up and leave, dumbfounded. Maybe he just drank a bit too much.
Speaking of, you want nothing more than to forget the information he told you, so you sit at the bar to grab another one. You're too lost in thought to notice someone following you out of the bar afterwards, though.
You drunkenly stumble down the sidewalk. "Damn, Cecil..." you hiccup. "Why so confusing?"
Suddenly, there's a tug on the back of your shirt. You spin around in shock. A masked man holds a gun to your side. "Hand over your valuables."
It doesn't take long for you to panic, scared out of your wits, despite how numb your senses are right now.
Your legs almost give out, throwing all your valuables in the masked stranger's direction. "All of it, go, take it! Just don't hurt me!" The world spins around you dizzyingly. Tears stream down your face as you hiccup again.
He pauses briefly, shoving it all in a sack, except for the cash, which he puts in his wallet. For extra measure, he delivers a punch to your stomach before fleeing the scene. You fall to the ground, hitting your face in the process and having a bloody nose on top of everything.
Now you feel like an idiot, coming to a place like this alone and getting drunk. Your home is so far away, but you notice Cecil's house (which you had been to once because he wanted to make you dinner) isn't too much farther. So you stumble down the street as best you can.
When you arrive at the familiar front door, you knock twice. No response. So you do it again, this time leaning against the wall in pain.
It swings open to reveal none other than your boss standing there. He looks annoyed for a brief moment before seeing your injured state. Instantly he steps forward.
"(Y/n)! What happened?! Who did this to you? Are you drunk? Where have you been? Come inside right away!" He helps you limp through the door frame, shutting it behind him. He sets you down on the couch, handing you a glass of water before fussing over the damage. "My poor baby... let's get you cleaned up, huh?"
Cecil fetches some bandages and antiseptic. He wraps your scrapes and dabs away the blood with a wet towel. Then he starts dabbing at your nose, expression gentle.
"It hurts," you hiss. Cecil nods understandingly, but otherwise stays uncharacteristically quiet while tending to your injuries.
Afterwards, he sits down beside you with a look of concern etched onto his features.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Cecil asks.
"Um, well—someone robbed me." You look away. "I went out to the bar, and I-I saw Randall, and I guess I had a little too much to drink. But—but, um—" you cut yourself off with a coughing fit. Cecil rubs circles along your back and whispers comforting words, encouraging you to continue. "And, uh, yeah. Someone followed me out. Then held me at gunpoint until I gave him all my money. Then punched me in the stomach, and I hit my head."
Cecil purses his lips. "Which bar?"
"What?"
"Which bar? Were you at the Red Cat?"
"Yes. Why?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's where Randall likes going to drown his sorrows. He's in a big financial rut, not to mention he doesn't like either of us..."
"Are you implying Randall did this? This guy looked kind of shorter than him, I doubt it was actually him."
"He could've paid someone," Cecil mutters. He sighs, cupping both of your cheeks to look at you more seriously. "I know I sound paranoid, but I don't trust anyone near you, let alone him." Cecil kisses your forehead. "Let's get you to bed, darling. Do you need to borrow pajamas?"
You nod silently, following him down the hall and into a spare room. It's cute—quite literally, actually, decorated in bright colors, with some toys laying around and a colorful bed set.
Cecil rummages through a dresser until pulling out some blue pajamas, similar to the ones he just happened to have on him earlier.
"This looks like a kid's room," you blurt.
"My nephew used to come over a lot," Cecil explains casually. "Don't worry, the bed has clean sheets and everything. My family are nice folks, maybe one day you can meet them, huh, kiddo?" He sets the clothing down neatly atop a pillow. "Change into those and I'll help tuck you in."
You want to protest, but you know how persistent Cecil can be. Plus, you feel guilty about coming here so late anyway. You watch him turn his back to give you privacy, changing into the soft cotton garments.
"You should be comfortable now, dear," Cecil says when you announce your decency. "Hop into bed!"
So you do, crawling under the heavy, fuzzy blankets while he pulls them snug up to your neck.
He strokes your hair comfortingly. "I'm sorry about what happened tonight. Please, next time you decide to go somewhere like that, invite me along instead? I don't mean to nag, but..." Cecil trails off momentarily. "I just don't trust the people in this town. I'm afraid something bad might happen to you again. And please don't drink. Or at least make a habit of it."
"That's reasonable," you agree quietly. "Sorry, I really just wanted to blow off some steam."
"I'm always here if you need to vent, kiddo. I don't mind at all, and I'd much prefer it over you putting yourself in such danger. I won't be mad if you share your woes with me." He kisses your forehead. "I'm just glad you came to me tonight, instead of trying to wander home. You did the right thing!"
You think back to what Randall said for the millionth time. "Mr. Wallace?"
"Mm?" he hums.
"How would you describe our relationship?"
The man stills for a moment. "Well... you're my kid. My baby, as I like to call you sometimes. I know we haven't known each other for too long, but I care about you. As a father cares about his child. Does that answer your question?"
You freeze at his bluntness. Yet you suppose it's not far from the truth. Cecil treats you less like an adult and more like a small toddler, though you're unsure whether he's aware of this.
Maybe you should discuss boundaries at a later date. Right now, you're exhausted.
"Yeah," you reply simply. "Thanks, Mr. Wallace. Night."
He nods. "Sleep well, sweetheart."
...
After that, you feel like your bond has gotten closer with Cecil. You notice he's more casual about physical touch and his habits involving caring for you. He never strays too far away during your outings together.
Most of all, you've become hyper-aware of how controlling he's becoming. Again, never in a threatening manner—more manipulative. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what, but things are definitely different than they used to be. There's an unspoken tension whenever Cecil talks about something, like a certain expectation in his tone.
One night, you're hanging out at his house, listening to one of his Robert Johnson records and reading, all while he's flipping through today's newspaper. The fireplace crackles and soothes you.
"Bedtime," he declares without a second thought. It takes you a minute to register he said anything at all, humming in question while keeping your eyes glued to the page. He repeats himself more firmly. "I said, bedtime."
You sigh dramatically. That's one of the biggest issues with spending the night at his place, his strict rules. "Five more minutes?" You give him your best puppy dog eyes.
"Tough luck," he says, though there's no heat behind it. In fact, he cracks a grin. "What's got your attention so much, hm? Usually you're half asleep by this point." He stands up and approaches you, gently plucking the book from your hands and placing it aside. He then holds out a hand to pull you up with.
That night, he tucks you in, kisses your forehead, and leaves the room.
Normally, you stay asleep throughout the entire night, this bed is so comfy that it's hard to want to leave once you're in it.
Yet just when you drift off, you find yourself waking up again.
Squinting at the clock in the corner of the room, you read it's one in the morning.
You groan tiredly and roll over, closing your eyes again and praying your exhaustion overwhelms your alertness.
No dice.
With another displeased noise, you sit up in defeat. Maybe some water will help get you back to sleep. You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and shuffle into the hallway. You're sure you'll see Cecil bustling in the kitchen, since he's definitely a night owl, but surprisingly, it's completely dark and silent. Maybe he really did go to bed early for once.
As you make your way into the kitchen, you realize you don't know where the glasses are. You shuffle around a bit in the darkness, searching through cabinets blindly, until finally finding one.
Filling it to the brim, you take a sip, thinking about just calling it quits and going back to your room, when something catches your attention from the corner of your eye.
It's a shoe box, sitting on the top of the refrigerator.
It looks important—maybe it's cookies, you figure. Cecil hides cookies often. You stand up on your tiptoes, grunting as you strain to reach it and pull it down.
This better be good, you think as you pull off the cardboard lid.
It is anything but.
Your wallet is inside. With all your money and ID.
Why...? Cecil didn't need the money, that much was obvious. Was he the one who mugged you? Or maybe he was the one who paid for someone to do it...
It doesn't make any sense, but you frantically search inside. All your items are there, including the journal you had lost.
If he stole from you... why?
You hastily put everything back when you hear his door open.
Not having anywhere to hide, you rush to nurse your glass of water against the kitchen counter.
Cecil steps into view, squinting at the light as he reaches in to switch it on.
"(Y/n)? What are you doing up so late?" he asks calmly, but there's an underlying suspicion laced within it.
"Water," you simply state. You hold out your drink as if to emphasize your point. He gives you a skeptical look, opening his mouth to say something, but decides against it. You both stare at each other before you continue, "I couldn't sleep. Got thirsty, my throat has been kind of hurting. Sorry if I woke you." Your hands are shaking and you've broke out into a nervous sweat.
Luckily, Cecil takes this as a sign of illness. He immediately comes closer, pressing a palm against your forehead. "Oh honey, you feel clammy. Are you sick?" His hand moves down to touch your cheek. "Golly, maybe you are."
He looks worried, but you can't help but sense he's smug, as well. Like he knows that you know, that you were snooping where you shouldn't.
"Looks like you'll just have to be on bedrest tomorrow," Cecil muses, tapping his chin with thought. "Wouldn't want you out spreading germs. I'll tell everyone at work tomorrow you can't be available. Or better yet, I'll just call in sick for us both, and I can spend all day looking after you." He boops your nose.
"I'm fine, I can rest at my own house—"
"Nonsense! You're clearly ill. Come on, back to bed. I'll get you some soup in the morning, how does that sound?"
"...okay."
...
You feel trapped. Trapped, and completely unable to escape.
Part of you is tempted to work up the courage to ask him straight up about the wallet incident. Though you can't find yourself willing enough to push that conversation, terrified of how he might react.
Another part of you wants to run away and never speak to him again, but knowing Cecil, that likely wouldn't be the easiest task. And as much as you hate it, you're pretty financially reliant on him.
So now you sit here in Cecil's kitchen while he feeds you spoonfuls of soup, wiping your mouth and chin between bites. The way he's coddling you overly, you're definitely sure he knows you aren't really sick. But neither of you say it out loud. You wonder if he's just waiting for you to confess, or if he's just excited at the opportunity to dote on you more. Or he could be punishing you for snooping. You really have no clue.
"There we go," Cecil praises as you swallow the last mouthful. He pushes the bowl aside, wiping your face again with a napkin, clicking his tongue. "Such a silly thing, so messy."
"Why?"
Cecil pauses, tilting his head in question. "Hmm? Why what?"
You take a deep breath. "Why did you steal from me? Was it you, or did you hire someone?" When he doesn't respond, you nervously tap your fingers against the table. "Please, tell me."
He sighs, dramatic as always. "Sometimes it seems like you forget your mortality. You do stupid things that put your life in danger. And no matter how many times I tell you that upset me, you still do it again." He gives a laugh that borders on hysterical. "If your ID is gone, and all your money you so recklessly love to spend, well... that limits your ability to make reckless decisions. It forces you to rely on me."
"What about my journal?" you rasp.
Cecil sighs dreamily. "You wrote so sweetly about me! Maybe it's selfish, but I just love knowing how much you look up to me. Even said I'm like a dad to you. That made me tear up."
A lump forms in your throat. "This is wrong."
"It's all about perspective, sweetheart. Maybe to you, but think in my shoes! Here I used to be, a lonely man with nothing to live for besides my career. Then you come along and give me something to care for. Something to be proud of and dote on and adore... my kid, my baby, my everything! And then I watch you become more self-reliant once you're more financially stable, hanging out with people who only want to hurt you. You kept slipping through my fingers."
He cups your face between both his hands.
"It kills me. Seeing you fall further and further from me... you can't do this to me, honey. You need me as much as I need you. And I don't know your parents, but as far as I'm concerned, they don't deserve you." Cecil grins wide. "But I do."
You swallow down tears. "You're scaring me."
"And I hate myself for it," he admits. "I'd rather you listen because you choose to obey than out of fear. But a good dad needs to be stern, huh?" You let out a soft sob, causing him to coo and pull you into his arms. "I know, I don't like it either, darling. Sometimes, though, to teach a good lesson, you have to be harsh. I'm only doing this because I love you so very much."
"I don't wanna be here, Cecil. Please just let me go home," you beg.
"Oh, but you're sick! What kind of parent would I be if I just let you walk out of here all willy-nilly?"
"I'm not sick! Okay? Please..."
"I know you aren't, kiddo. Not physically." Cecil taps his temple knowingly. "I'm talking about up here. You've been through so much. But lucky for you, I'll take care of you. How about I rent a nice cabin? We can take a vacation from work, huh? A couple days just to relax. Get out of this stuffy apartment and overcrowded city. Just until you realize how much you need me. We can have some more time to bond."
You know arguing with him is akin to arguing with a brick wall. So finally, you nod. "Okay."
He grins like a madman, and all you can do is try to suppress more tears. You'll find a way out of here, one way or another.
Do you write for fandoms as well as OCs? Do you have a favorite media if you do write for fandoms?
(Have a Happy New Year! 🥳🎉⭐)
♡ Thank you, so sorry this is so late to answer!
But honestly DC is the only Fandom I have consistently written for besides OCs, but who knowsmaybe this year will open up a new fixation for my writing ✍️
Imma be entirely honest, i accidentally followed you and went to unfollow, and then I noticed “platonic Yandere” and I was like… “nahhhh they can stay” 😂.
Anyways, you have a new lurker! I’ve enjoyed what I’ve read so far!
Have a wonderful day/night!
This is very much a compliment in my book 📖 ☺️ thank you so much for giving me and my works a chance ♡
Oh my gosh!!! This is absolutely so sweet :3 I absolutely love your art style. It's giving the sweetest vintage vibes I adore and am so very flattered you captured this moment perfectly!! 🥹🥹
Thank you!!!! I hope you had a lovely christmas!! I AM SO SORRY FOR BEING INACTIVE!! Hopefully, by the new years, things will have slowed down enough and I will be back! ♡♡♡
"Here you go, kid. A few years late, but here's the dog you always wanted. "
Your parents are not good people. In fact, they are simply the worst sort of villains imaginable. And yet they still gift you a guard dog. Albeit said guard dog is nothing more than a brainwashed feral hero. Unreconisible from the strong persona they once carried. The cities beloved hero is now reduced to a shifty eyed guard dog. All the good they stood for is erased every time they listen to your parents' commands.
Taking out whatever rivals or enemies they have and most importantly protecting you.
Your guard dog will bite at anyone who gets too close to them (or you). And sometimes they have saved you from hitmen, but none of that changes the way you feel about them.
You don't trust them in the slightest. In fact, you sort of hate them because they are weak for letting you still be stuck in this hell without saving you like they promised...
Your thoughts and feelings dont matter because parents absolutely are charmed by the way the fallen hero has perfectly into their new role. They even get family pictures with the 'dog' standing protectively by your side - muzzled and leashed. It's so disturbing to you how inhuman it is to treat them that way...
But little do you know your guard dog knew from that start that they would be reduced to this feral beast... they just hadn't cared in the slightest. After all, it's just so much easier to protect you this way. They get to spend so much time with you, sleeping on the floor of your bedside, ready to rip the throat out of intruders. In their mind, this is nine times more fulfilling life than being a big shot hero ever was.
But thats not to say their days of being a dog won't eventually come to an end. When their thoughts aren't so jumbled from the brainwashing, they are going to take you home and give you the life you deserve.
Redoing your childhood of hiding in your room while your parents had fancy parties, being forgotten entirely or having to witness horrible crimes you never should have been exposed to.
So yeah, soon, your parents are gonna find out just what sort of mad dog they brought into their home. And it's going to be a bloody mess the day that your hero finally saves you.
“The hunter did not hate the wolf. The wolf did not hate the sheep. But violence felt inevitable between them. Perhaps, I thought, this was the way of the world.”
