Miuwa

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[miuwa-miu]

YOUR ACCOUNT IS SUPER CUTEEEEEE I LOVE ITTT

THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!! (❤️ ω ❤️)

[miuwa-miu]

By day, looking at the sea.

[miuwa-miu]

[miuwa-miu]

Kris Dreemurr Relationship Headcanons 🎔 (Using they/them pronouns for Kris)

Original content translated into English using a translator.

They’re really quiet, but they always listen to you — trust me when I say they listen, because later they’ll remember things you didn’t even realize you told them.

Kris has this very calming presence. Silence doesn’t bother them; for them, shared silence is also a form of affection.

They have a hard time opening up emotionally — they don’t usually talk about their deeper feelings or pain. Sometimes they won’t tell you what’s going on and will hide things “for your own good.” They tend to keep or withhold information to protect you. And yes, they might tell you the truth… but only half of it. Like I said, they hide things to protect you — and if something ever happened to you because of that, they would never forgive themself. (They’d never forgive themself, and that thought would haunt them for the rest of their life.)

They’re very observant. Very observant. Kris notices when something’s bothering you, even if you don’t say a word.

They appreciate peaceful, cozy moments. They like things calm and domestic — walking together, reading, sharing a meal, or just sitting down to watch the sky.

When it comes to dates, Kris isn’t into loud or flashy plans. They’d rather walk around Hometown, spend time together in their room, share a pair of headphones while reading or drawing.

They have this very recognizable apple shampoo scent — you’ll notice it when you hug them or lean close enough to smell their hair.

Kris isn’t boring at all. They can be quite playful, though their idea of fun is… unique. They’ll probably play harmless pranks on you — like hiding in dark corners to scare you, adding weird sauces to your food, or telling you creepy stories or unsettling facts that’ll stick in your head for hours. Kris has a weird, sometimes dark sense of humor. They might pull off a completely absurd joke with the straightest face, waiting for your reaction without blinking.

Sometimes they scare you without meaning to — just by being… them. (They’ll appear right next to you out of nowhere, like a ghost. They just show up in the most unexpected way.)

They’re the type to give you small, meaningless gifts — like a rock shaped like an egg. (Well… it’s just a normal rock, but they insist it looks like an egg, so now it’s an “egg-shaped rock.”)

If you visit their house, they’ll offer you tea or hot chocolate with an almost ridiculous level of seriousness.

They never forget important dates — they even mark them on their calendar.

They usually play the piano beautifully, really well — but sometimes they get nervous if they know you’re listening. Maybe they’ll miss a note, then quietly get up and leave without saying anything.

And, finally, Kris gets so embarrassed just thinking about the fact that the two of you are something romantic. The mere thought of it makes them blush as red as a tomato.

(Drawings made by me, I hope you like them)

[miuwa-miu]

hello I'm not really use to request so sorry if I'm not wording thing right (To T)

But l was wondering if you can do a bill fic where he is a stay at home dad to a little girl in no way is he a good father but he tries his best and I feel like it will kind of change the way he views women

Hi, it’s been 2 months since I last posted anything, but here I am again. Procrastination and my studies delayed the release of this one-shot a lot, so I sincerely apologize in advance. I’d like to remind you that the translation of this one-shot was done from its original language into English with the help of artificial intelligence, so if there are any inconsistencies, it’s due to that. Honestly, I’d love to master English so that my translations could stick more closely to my writing style.

If this translation makes you uncomfortable, please let me know.

⚠️ Warning: This is a long one-shot (~8.8k words).

Imagined Memories

...

The clock struck seven in the evening. For most people, that was the hour to get home from work, but for Bill Dickey, it was just another hour in his routine as a hardcore geek: spending hours reading comics, watching series and movies, and picking fights with people on internet forums. Around him, in the basement he had turned into his sanctuary dedicated to the cult of comics and geekdom, action figures were carefully lined up, shelves were packed with collectible comics, and accessories and movie memorabilia filled every corner.

Bill was focused on his computer, playing EverQuest, controlling the mouse and keyboard with one hand while sipping soda with the other. He let out a laugh. “The idiot didn’t even notice I stole from him,” he muttered, taking a sip of his soda. Everything was calm—until his mom’s voice shattered the peace, prompting Bill to sigh in frustration.

“BILL, YOUR EX IS CALLING!” his mother shouted from upstairs.

Bill frowned. “TELL HER I’M BUSY WITH SOMETHING SUPER IMPORTANT!” he yelled back from his spot.

But his mother replied again, “SHE DOESN’T CARE! COME TO THE PHONE!” she added impatiently, holding up the phone for him to see.

Bill let out a resigned sigh and begrudgingly got up from his chair. “That bitch calling again…” he muttered, venom dripping from his voice.

He climbed the stairs to the first floor of his mother’s house. When he arrived, she was waiting, phone in hand, one eyebrow raised.

“Here,” Mrs. Dickey said, pushing the phone toward him.

He grabbed the phone and held it to his ear. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

A voice on the other end said, “Bill, you need to take care of your daughter for two weeks. She’ll be with you starting tomorrow. Yes, two weeks. Do it right.”

“WHAT!? H-HOLD ON, I’M NOT EVEN READY TO—”

“I’ll drop her off tomorrow morning.”

Bill was about to protest, but before he could, he heard the classic beep of a disconnected call. He stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds before looking at his mother, who gave him a look that said, ‘About time you took responsibility,’ and went to the kitchen.

Bill stood there, alone, thinking to himself, “Not now… I’m way too busy this week to take care of… a kid.”

From the kitchen, his mother called out, “Bill, enough with the excuses. You’ve never taken care of her. Besides, it’ll help you get to know her.”

There was no escape. Reality had crept into his failed little routine, and Bill Dickey was about to face something he had never imagined: becoming a father.

…

The morning started badly even before the doorbell rang. Bill was still in his pajamas, his shirt covered in pizza stains from the night before, surrounded by open comics and empty soda cans. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, hadn’t thought about showering that day, and honestly, he didn’t plan to. The idea of facing the real world made him nauseous… until he heard the doorbell.

Bill saw his mom approach the door and open it. He listened to the brief exchange between his mother and his ex for a few moments. He stayed put, unsure of what to do, until he heard his mother call: “Bill, it’s (Name), come greet her.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, got up, and walked to the front door, where his ex, his mom, and a little girl hiding behind her legs were waiting (you can be the ex). The girl looked at Bill with curiosity and a hint of shyness.

“Bill,” his ex said, her patience clearly worn thin from repeating this a thousand times, “it’s time.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Yeah… sure… Fantastic. Really sounds like the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.” His tone was dry and sarcastic as he stepped aside to let them in.

They entered, and the little girl walked cautiously, eyes wide as she scanned the house. Then she looked at her father… disheveled, overweight, clearly neglected. She looked away and clung tightly to her mom.

Bill decided to speak. “Uh… hi… you’re… Lucy, right? Uh… cute… I guess.”

His ex sighed and handed him Lucy’s backpack. “Here’s everything she’ll need. Please, Bill… try to behave.”

Bill awkwardly took the backpack, nearly dropping it. “Don’t tell me what to do. I know how to behave,” he muttered under his breath as Lucy watched him.

“I’m leaving now. Take care of my girl,” she said. But as she tried to leave, her daughter clung to her coat, starting to cry.

“Mom…” the six-year-old clung to her mother’s jacket.

The younger woman crouched down to the child’s level and hugged her. Lucy hugged back, her mom stroking her hair and whispering sweet things in her ear. Bill watched all this, uncomfortable. They were worlds apart from him. At that moment, all he wanted was to retreat to his geek cave and hide for a week.

“Well, that’s… it. See you,” his ex added, finally leaving Lucy calmer. She turned and walked out the door, leaving Bill and his daughter face to face. Bill closed the door slowly, feeling his personal space invaded by an anomaly.

…

That afternoon, Bill tried to distract himself. He had opened a browser tab with a forum thread debating who would win in a fight: Galactus or Darkseid. But the words seemed to swim in front of his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate.

The reason was in the hallway: soft little footsteps echoing on the floor, a tiny voice humming a children’s song, a background noise drilling into his head. Bill shifted in his gaming chair, uncomfortable, muttering to himself, “Shouldn’t she… I don’t know, be drawing unicorns or whatever kids do?”

The footsteps got closer. Bill spun in his chair and there she was: the little girl, standing in the doorway of his sanctuary, her big curious eyes fixed on him. Lucy kept a cautious distance, like a tiny animal aware that the monster could growl at any moment.

“What’s up?” Bill said, sharper than he intended.

Lucy stared at the action figures with wide eyes. “Are these toys?”

Arrogance took over Bill. “These aren’t toys. They’re museum pieces. One day, they’ll be worth more than everything your mom has in her crappy apartment.”

Lucy took a few steps and focused on one figure on the shelf: a limited-edition Batman, still covered in protective plastic. The girl reached out, mesmerized by the shine of the suit.

“HEY, don’t you even think about touching that!” Bill jumped up.

The shout startled her; Lucy jumped, and in her clumsy movement, knocked the figure. Batman fell to the floor, his head rolling under the table, and an arm snapped off with a dry clack.

“NOOO!” Bill bent down as if he’d just witnessed a war crime. He picked up the pieces, glared at his daughter, and growled, “Do you have any idea how much this is worth? How many hours of my life I spent getting it?” (Hours spent stealing it from a store.)

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to break it…”

“You can’t touch that! Do you know what it’s worth? More than all your clothes combined! Now. Go.”

Lucy, eyes glassy, took a step back and pressed her lips together. She didn’t cry, but her silence was worse than any tantrum: she looked at him as if she already knew she was dealing with an adult who didn’t get it.

Bill froze, holding the broken figure. For a second, he felt he’d overreacted, yelled too loud. But instead of apologizing, he just thought:

“Great. Perfect. First afternoon, and you already ruined my collection.”

…

In the days that followed, communication between Bill and Lucy was practically nonexistent. He avoided her on purpose, retreating into his world of comics, movies, and endless debates on forums under his username Greedo318. When he was home, he rarely left the basement, and if Lucy came near, he would grunt or respond sharply:

“What do you want now?” he said one day, barely looking up.

“Just… wanted to draw with you…” Lucy whispered, her small voice hesitant.

Bill didn’t lift his eyes from the comic. “I’m busy. Go play by yourself.”

Lucy withdrew and sat in the corner of the room, her sketchbook on her lap, starting to scribble. Every now and then, her eyes drifted toward her father.

Every attempt at connection from Lucy ended in silence or a grunt from Bill, and with each passing day, she seemed more and more discouraged.

Bill, meanwhile, was flipping through a comic when he lingered on a particular page: a scene of a father and his children. He stayed silent, analyzing the image for a moment… Then he thought of his own daughter, who was nearby. On an impulse, he decided to get up and go see her.

Bill decided it was time to “educate” his daughter.

“Lucy,” he called, peeking through the doorframe. He saw her kneeling on the floor, staring at a hole in the wall, fully absorbed in whatever was hiding there.

“I saw a spider peek out here… it was black and had long legs,” she said, absorbed in the hole.

“Yeah, well… forget that. I’m going to show you something way more interesting than that. Much more interesting.”

The girl turned her head curiously, got up clumsily, and approached her father. “Really? What is it?” she asked timidly, a shy, curious smile on her face.

“You’ll see. It’s going to change your life for the better.”

And together, they went down to the basement, which was full of collectible figures, comics, and more.

“I thought you had kicked me out of here… because of your Batman figure from… um… Marvel?” Lucy whispered.

Bill’s eyes nearly popped out. Marvel and Batman together?! NEVER! This kid doesn’t even know how to tell characters from different publishers apart! He restrained himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Look, Lucy, if you don’t learn the difference between Marvel and DC before you turn seven… you’re basically failing me as a daughter.”

He paused for a moment to calm down before speaking again. “Have you seen the Star Wars trilogy?”

“What’s Star Wars?”

“Y-YOU DON’T KNOW IT??! …I mean, of course. Obviously, you don’t know it, you weren’t raised with this cultural knowledge. I’m sure your mom is teaching you to hate Star Wars. Why does everything in my life have to end up ruined…?”

Bill decided then and there to change that. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you what’s good. Now, make yourself comfortable.”

…

Lucy, sitting on the couch with her little legs dangling, looked at him, not really understanding what he meant. Bill opened an old DVD case and held the disc up like a priest showing the host.

He slid the disc into the player and plopped down next to his daughter, crossing his arms with satisfaction. In his head, he could already picture the moment: Lucy, mouth wide with awe, asking him to tell her more, calling him “the best dad in the world.”

Minutes passed. Bill glanced at his daughter, waiting for a reaction. But Lucy fidgeted, staring at the ceiling, then the window. At one point, she even started playing with the hem of her dress, not paying attention.

“Hey, don’t get distracted! We’re at the best part!” he exclaimed, annoyed.

Lucy looked back at the TV, but her attention lasted no more than five minutes before drifting to something else again.

Bill let out a sigh, seeing that his daughter didn’t grasp the masterpiece in front of her. Lucy simply wasn’t interested in what was on the screen, and it hit Bill in his psyche—a generational blow he hadn’t expected. “Great. Just what I needed: an NPC in my own house,” he thought.

Bill cleared his throat, irritated by her lack of enthusiasm.

“What’s wrong? Look, it’s Darth Vader! One of the most iconic villains in cinema history. Doesn’t it impress you?”

Lucy tilted her head, glanced at the screen for a second, and asked, “Why do they all look so weird?”

“Because it’s science fiction!” Bill answered, arms flailing. “It’s… another galaxy, with different rules, spaceships, and… this is basic culture!”

“Can we watch Shrek?” Lucy asked.

“No, Lucy. Shrek is not cinema. Blade Runner is cinema. The Crow is cinema. Robocop is cinema. The rest is marketing for fools.”

Lucy looked at him, not quite understanding. Then she yawned, small and genuine, and leaned back on the couch, hugging her teddy bear. “I like it more when Mom tells me stories… Could you… read me a story?” she murmured softly, her eyelids already heavy.

Bill froze. His “cool dad” smile vanished, and what he felt in his chest was a strange emptiness, like someone had popped his bubble. He tried not to show it and muttered, “I don’t read princess stories… How about a comic where Spider-Man becomes widowed and miserable? Now that’s culture. Also… do you want to know why your mom never gets anything? Because she never read a single Watchmen or X-Men comic. Not one. And she still thinks she’s deep.”

But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. Her little eyes were closing slowly, lulled by the distant sounds of explosions on the screen, completely oblivious to the universe that, for Bill, was the most important thing in the world.

He glanced at her, a knot forming in his stomach. He didn’t know whether to feel offended or… hurt. For the first time, the idea that his world didn’t mean anything to anyone else—and especially not to his daughter—felt unbearable.

Bill got up from the couch and watched his daughter sleep, curled up with her teddy bear as if the Star Wars galaxy didn’t exist.

“Not even my own daughter is safe from ignorance…” he murmured, but his voice sounded more tired than angry, as if even he didn’t fully believe what he was saying.

He stood there for a moment, arms hanging, observing the contrast: him, surrounded by shelves, stacked boxes, collectible figures… and her, small, lost in a much simpler world, with a cheap stuffed toy as her only treasure.

Bill looked away. Suddenly, everything in that basement felt a little empty, as if the figures, comics, and posters couldn’t fill the void in his stomach.

He reluctantly turned off the TV. Silence filled the room, and all that remained was Lucy’s peaceful breathing. Bill rubbed his face with both hands, trying to convince himself the problem was her—that she was too young to “understand.” But deep down, though he wouldn’t admit it, something was pricking at him: the suspicion that maybe everything he held sacred… meant nothing to the one person who should matter the most.

…

Bill had placed Lucy on the couch as if she were about to attend a lecture. In front of them, the TV displayed a series of images necessary for… her education. He held a remote in one hand and a soda can in the other, with the fervor of a preacher.

“Listen carefully, Lucy… This is the most important thing you’ll ever learn in your life. The original Star Wars trilogy is superior to the prequels. Superior. Got it?”

Lucy tilted her head, hugging her teddy bear. “I want juice.”

Bill raised a finger as if shushing an impatient disciple. “The juice can wait! Look, point number one: the original trilogy has Harrison Ford at his absolute best. Did you know Han Solo is the mold for every sarcastic hero that came after him?”

Lucy blinked. “…juice.”

Bill ignored the plea and continued, growing more passionate. “Point number two—” He pressed a button, and the screen switched to a scene from The Phantom Menace. His tone turned grave, almost outraged. “And this… this is what ruined an entire generation. Jar Jar Binks. An insult. An offense. George Lucas spat in our faces and charged admission for it… to see that creature.”

(Jar Jar Binks is a Star Wars character infamous for being irritating and annoying—a failed attempt at a funny character.)

Lucy started swinging her little legs against the couch. “Is there orange juice?”

“Point two: the prequels ruined the mythology with those damn midichlorians! They turned the Force into… a blood test!”

(Midichlorians are microscopic life forms living in all cells, connecting living beings to the Force. Without them, the Force wouldn’t exist. The more you have, the more powerful you are—a genetic predisposition for Force mastery.)

“I want juice…” Lucy remained on the couch, legs dangling, clutching her teddy bear. She looked at him blankly, like a kid waiting for a sermon to end so she could go play.

“Point three! The original Star Wars trilogy shaped all of modern culture. Without it, movies wouldn’t be what they are today, and neither would video games! Do you understand the magnitude? This is history.”

He paused, looking at his daughter, hoping for a sign of comprehension, a spark of enlightenment. Lucy stared back seriously and said:

“I like puppies.”

Bill buried his face in his hands, desperate. “God! I have someone in my own blood who doesn’t understand the difference between A New Hope and The Phantom Menace!”

Lucy lowered her head, barely whispering, “But I’m thirsty…”

Bill went silent for a moment, gritting his teeth. He didn’t want to give in—not after twenty minutes of nonstop Star Wars lectures. But seeing her little feet wiggle impatiently shook him a bit.

Lucy got off the couch and went to the kitchen. “I’m going to get my juice.”

She opened the fridge, took out a juice box, inserted the straw, and drank peacefully, completely ignoring her father’s existential tragedy.

Bill watched her, defeated, and murmured to himself, “My own daughter has joined the dark side… of indifference. She’d rather have juice than hear why Han Solo shot first…”

…

It was Saturday at noon. Snow fell in lazy flakes over the city, turning the streets white. Bill walked with clumsy steps, slipping every now and then, carrying bags full of comics and figures he had bought at the convention. For him, it had been a productive day: he had argued with three strangers about continuity in X-Men, gotten an artist to sign a volume for him, and, in general, felt like a conqueror.

Beside him, Lucy walked in her little boots, leaving tiny footprints that quickly disappeared in the fresh snow. Hanging around her neck was a little pin that a vendor had given her—a simple button with Spider-Man’s face. For her, that was the true treasure of the day.

When they passed a park, Lucy stopped. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the snow-covered slide and the empty swing gently swaying in the wind. She gently tugged on Bill’s sleeve.

“Daddy… can we go to the park?” she asked, pointing at the swings across the street. Her voice was timid, almost hopeful.

Bill didn’t even turn his head.

“The park? Now? No way! In an hour, the Aliens marathon starts on cable. Do you know how hard it is to catch that without commercial breaks? Besides, what are you going to do at a park? Waste your time on a rusty swing?”

Lucy lowered her hand. She didn’t protest. She just nodded softly, “Okay,” and followed him in silence.

She didn’t say another word. She just walked beside him, her small figure swallowed by the oversized coat she was wearing. Bill, satisfied with her response, kept walking and talking to himself, planning which snacks to pull out for the movie, what to post later on the forum about his purchases, and how to show off the exclusive figure without taking it out of the box. His mind was on everything—except the little girl walking behind him.

Then he heard something. At first, he thought it was street noise, but no—it was a small, stifled sob. He stopped and glanced back. Lucy was a few steps behind, head down, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand so he wouldn’t see her cry. She made no noise, didn’t complain, didn’t blame him. She just let out small sobs that tried to hide in the cold air.

“Come on, don’t start! Just because I didn’t let you spend half an hour on a rusty swing doesn’t mean the world is ending.”

But seeing that Lucy didn’t protest and only cried quietly hit him hard.

Bill opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words got stuck. He clenched the bags in his hands, uncomfortable, caught between pride and a pang of guilt he didn’t want to admit.

So he cleared his throat awkwardly and said the only thing he knew to say: “…Come on, Lucy. I don’t want our pizza to get cold.”

She nodded silently, not looking at him, and kept walking.

Bill swallowed hard. He looked at his comic bags, squeezed the plastic, and for the first time wondered whether he was really carrying treasures… or just dead weight.

…

The room was almost silent, except for the sound of the Aliens movie playing on the TV. Bill sat on the couch, a bag of chips at his side and an almost-empty soda on the armrest. The screen’s light illuminated his face.

Lucy slept in the guest room where she was staying, wrapped in blankets, hugging her teddy bear. Bill could hear her calm breathing, so different from the restless quiet that had accompanied him all day as they walked home.

…

Bill woke up late, with midday light streaming through the window. The house was quiet. For a few minutes, he thought about retreating to the basement and letting the day pass among comics and forums, as he always did… but the memories of the night before made him uneasy: Lucy sobbing on the street, Lucy sleeping alone in her room, and him, sitting in front of a screen, unable to enjoy even his favorite movie—all because of Lucy.

With a grunt, he got up, scratched his beard, and muttered, “Alright… I guess today I can… spend some time with her.”

When Lucy came out of her room, hair messy and teddy bear in arms, Bill was waiting with an awkward smile. “Do you want to go out for a bit? I don’t know… take a walk, whatever.”

The little girl’s eyes lit up. She said nothing, just ran to put on her jacket. Bill cleared his throat awkwardly, but deep down, he felt a little better seeing her excitement.

…

They walked together down the snowy street. Without thinking too much, Lucy took her father’s hand. Bill stiffened instantly; he felt as if everyone on the street was watching, as if it were ridiculous for someone like him—a disheveled forty-something with dark circles and extra weight—to walk hand-in-hand with a little girl. But when he looked at her, he saw that Lucy did it naturally, as if there were no safer place than by her dad’s side. And it was obvious that she didn’t care—she was a child, not a teenager worried about appearances.

Bill didn’t know what to say. He just let her small hand squeeze his, and though he thought about how awkward and ridiculous it was, deep down, something warm ignited in his chest.

Later, they arrived at a park. Lucy immediately ran to the playground, blending in with other kids her age. Bill sat on a bench, observing. He felt out of place, like an intruder in a world he had never understood—he didn’t get society or normal everyday life, only used to locking himself in his own world of comics.

He rested his face in his hand and sighed, watching the others, when suddenly a memory hit him… his ex’s words before leaving him: “You never grew up, Bill. You live trapped in your stuff because it’s easier than facing real life.”

He bit his lip. Watching his daughter climb the slide, surrounded by improvised friends, he began to wonder if she might think the same someday.

And with that thought in his head, Bill spent the day watching his daughter play with the other kids, until it got late and they had to return home.

Back at home, the phone rang. It was his mother.

“Bill, I’m going on a trip with your aunt. I’ll be gone for about three days.”

“Three days? And what am I supposed to do with the girl?”

“The obvious. Take care of her. You’re her father, Bill. Nothing’s going to happen if you, for once, do things right.”

Bill pressed the phone to his ear, feeling the world crashing down on him. He hung up without answering. In the living room, Lucy was waiting on the couch, hugging her teddy bear, with an expectant look.

Bill huffed and flopped down beside her. “Great… three full days. Just you and me.” He paused, trying to sound indifferent, but the truth was that he felt a knot in his stomach.

Lucy, saying nothing, rested her head on his arm. Bill froze, surprised by the gesture, and stayed silent.

…

That afternoon, Bill had tried to cook something more ambitious than the instant food he had in the fridge. The result was a disaster. The pan was covered in burnt remnants, and the kitchen smelled of smoke.

“Forget it. Let’s order pizza,” he said with a resigned sigh, tossing the pan and spatula into the sink.

Lucy, sitting at the table with her sketchbook, watched him silently. She turned a page and, with a chewed-up pencil, began tracing figures. Bill, bored while waiting for the pizza place to answer, leaned over the table.

“What are you drawing?”

“You and me at the park,” Lucy shrugged.

Bill raised an eyebrow. He leaned in closer, resting an arm on the table. The drawing was clumsy, with crooked lines, but you could make out two figures holding hands next to a swing. The man in the drawing, the larger figure, had a beard and a round belly, and the little one wore a bow in her hair.

Bill opened his mouth to say something like, “You made me fatter than I am” or “That fat guy isn’t me, he looks more like Josh,” but the words didn’t come out. Instead, he said nothing and just looked at the drawing.

Lucy looked up. “That’s you.”

…

The pizza box was open on the table, the aroma filling the kitchen as Bill and Lucy devoured each slice quickly. Bill had decided this was the only way to make up for his recent clumsiness: food, simple and effective.

Lucy looked at her father, curious. “Daddy… do you know a lot about comics?”

Bill almost choked on a slice of pizza. His eyes widened, and for a moment, the lifelong geek inside him surged to the surface. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice taking on the tone he used in forum debates—a mix of pedantry, fervor, and a touch of contempt for ignorance.

“I was the president of the Eltingville Club and the secretary of comics. I know more than all those idiots who think they’re experts just because they watched a Marvel movie. Do I know a lot about comics? You have no idea of the depth of my knowledge!” He leaned toward her, hands outstretched as if giving a lecture. “I’m talking decades of history, entire intertwined universes, epic battles that defined generations.”

Lucy blinked, impressed but not fully understanding. “Like… what?”

Bill rubbed his chin, mentally organizing the thirty-minute lesson he was about to give.

“Like Spider-Man facing the Green Goblin, the death of Gwen Stacy in The Amazing Spider-Man from 1973!” he exclaimed, gently tapping the table with a finger.

(The story, known as “The Night Gwen Stacy Died,” was written by Gerry Conway and is considered one of the darkest moments in Spider-Man’s life at the time.)

Lucy listened attentively while chewing her pizza. Bill was already lost in his own narrative. He pointed to a copy of Spider-Man on the table. “Look at this one, one of the most important because… it defines Peter Parker’s personality. You can’t understand it without knowing the author’s evolution, the historical context… and how it impacted an entire generation.”

“Daddy?” Lucy asked. “And that… is important to you?”

Bill blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the question. He paused for a few seconds, looking at his pizza and then at his daughter, trying to organize his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Yes… very important. It’s… it’s part of who I am. And someday, if you want, I can teach you everything. But you have to promise me you’ll respect it, okay?”

Lucy nodded with a small smile. Bill wasn’t sure she fully understood, but that simple gesture made him feel less clumsy, less lost in his own inability to be a father.

“I want… to watch a movie with you, Daddy,” Lucy said.

As they continued eating in silence, the pizza and the comics coexisted on the table, and for the first time, Bill realized that maybe… just maybe, they could start to understand each other very well.

…

The living room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the colors of the television screen. Bill sat comfortably in the armchair. Beside him, Lucy snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

On the TV screen, a Marvel movie played. Bill followed every scene with sharp attention, quietly commenting on the mistakes, the fight choreography, and the little nods only a seasoned fan would notice. But unlike other times, his attention was now divided; sometimes he watched the screen, and other times he looked at Lucy, observing her wide eyes as she watched the movie or the micro-expressions of surprise she made at an action scene.

Seeing this made Bill smile—seeing his daughter enjoy, for the first time, the things that fascinated him, the things that had shaped his life. He didn’t care that Lucy didn’t catch every reference. There was something in watching her enjoy it, fully absorbed in her own way, that warmed his chest in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Time seemed to blur. The room was quiet except for the sounds of the movie, and Bill, even with his rigid posture and usual skeptical expression, allowed himself to relax. A fleeting smile appeared on his lips, barely noticeable, as he leaned slightly toward Lucy to make sure she was comfortable.

For a moment, the world of action figures, comics, and forums was forgotten. There was only the movie, the glow of the screen, and the company shared between a father and his daughter.

When the credits began to roll, Bill remained still, enjoying the quiet and the simple fact that Lucy was there, smiling softly, without him having to say a word.

…

It was morning, and the basement was lit by the artificial light of a single bulb. Bill and Lucy were sitting on the floor, surrounded by open comics. Bill held a copy of Spider-Man, while Lucy looked at the comic in her hands, trying to understand the story in her own way. Occasionally, she pointed at a panel and asked innocent questions, and Bill would respond enthusiastically, pointing out details only a die-hard fan would notice.

It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed to fit: Lucy’s light laughter at an exaggerated line, Bill’s sarcastic comments that, while absurd, still made her smile, and the feeling that, for a few hours, Bill’s geeky world and Lucy’s curiosity could coexist in peace.

Lucy dropped her comic aside and stood up, saying sweetly, “I’m going to get my sketchbook, Daddy. I want to draw Spider-Man.”

Bill nodded without looking up, absorbed in his reading. Lucy took a few steps, but suddenly her movement stopped. Her legs seemed to give out, and her body slumped to the floor. Bill reacted instantly, dropping the comic and running to her.

The girl was on the floor, her eyes tired and gaze distant, her breathing shallow and weak. Bill leaned over her, feeling her forehead. It was hot—too hot. Her face was pale with a reddish tint, and the playful, childish energy that usually defined her had vanished in an instant.

Bill murmured, his voice breaking with fear, “I told you to bundle up… silly.”

Lucy muttered something barely audible, just a thread of a voice, and Bill felt a knot form in his chest. The fever and fatigue had overtaken his daughter in seconds, as if everything they had shared that morning had evaporated. He carefully picked her up, sitting her on a chair and rubbing her back gently.

He ran to the kitchen to fetch a thermometer and some water, muttering under his breath and cursing himself.

Why did this have to happen now? Just when he was connecting with his daughter, just when they were bonding as father and daughter, just when he was finally enjoying her company.

Bill rummaged through the kitchen drawers, searching for the thermometer, moving and shuffling things, letting out a frustrated sound when he couldn’t find it. From the kitchen, he could hear the small noises Lucy made, and his heart tightened like never before.

In his whole life, he had never felt worry this close (not since his mother once called two men to “intervene” and end his geekiness). When he finally found the thermometer, he hurried back to the basement, ran down the stairs, and saw his daughter sitting on the couch, head down, cheeks flushed.

Bill approached her with the thermometer, placed it under Lucy’s arm, and asked her to lie back on the couch. As he waited for the reading, he tried to call his mother for help, but the line was busy.

The full weight of responsibility hit him: he had to keep Lucy safe, comfortable, bring down her fever… and he had no idea how.

He let out a stressed sigh and leaned toward Lucy as he heard the thermometer beep, indicating it was ready. He lifted it and saw: 39.1°C.

“It’s okay, it’s nothing, it’ll pass,” he said, but more than words to calm Lucy, they sounded like words to calm himself.

Bill watched his daughter, sitting on the couch with the thermometer still under her arm, breathing with difficulty and wrinkling her nose from the heat. He sat beside her, legs spread, as if his mere presence could contain the situation. He tried to recall every little detail of how his mother had cared for him as a child: how she applied cold compresses, brought him water, spoke calmly even when he cried. But all of it seemed to fade from his mind. He had never had to take care of anyone like this, never been fully responsible.

He leaned toward Lucy and gently placed a hand on her forehead. The heat was overwhelming. His eyes watered for a moment, and for the first time, he allowed himself to acknowledge a fear he had always avoided: he didn’t know how to protect her, and he wasn’t sure he could. The geeky routines, comics, petty arguments… all of it suddenly felt empty. Everything that mattered was right in front of him.

He grabbed the thickest blanket he could find and draped it over Lucy’s shoulders. The girl snuggled a little closer, letting out a weak sigh, and he felt a pang of guilt, a knot that made it hard to breathe normally.

“Great! Just what I needed! A girl dying on my couch. If your mother finds out, she’ll tear my head off. Please don’t die… Breathe, damn it, breathe!” Bill thought. He felt weak, but he didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself.

Time passed slowly; each minute felt eternal. Bill offered her water in small sips, made sure the blanket covered her feet, adjusted her head on the couch back, and between each movement, murmured absurd reminders of things he “had to do right”: give medicine, monitor the fever, keep her calm, don’t let her get scared… but he did all of it clumsily.

Lucy, eyes closed and breathing more calmly, rested her head against his chest. Bill, feeling the rapid beat of her heart, understood something: for the first time in his life, someone depended on him completely, and there was no escape or refuge in fantasy or comics. There was only him… and her.

…

The day had passed slowly. Bill spent his time between reading comics and checking on Lucy, though “checking” for him meant clumsily adjusting her blanket and lightly brushing her forehead with a finger.

By the afternoon, her fever had slightly subsided, and Bill decided to move Lucy to the bedroom where she was staying (the guest room). He carried her with extreme care.

As he placed her on the warm sheets and tucked her in, he couldn’t help but stay a moment by her side, watching her settle in. His hard, cynical gaze softened for an instant as he thought: “Damn… I can’t believe this is so complicated…” he muttered while covering her, making sure she wasn’t cold.

From time to time, he leaned in to lightly touch her forehead and check her temperature, and though he would never admit it aloud, he was surprised to notice she felt warmer than usual.

For a few seconds, he let his mind wander, thinking that it was temporary, that the fever would pass, and that soon, when Lucy left, he could return to his absurd routines of comics, movies, and games. But as soon as he began to relax, a thread of anxiety reminded him how fragile Lucy was and how completely dependent she was on him.

Hours passed. Night fell, and the sounds and activity in the house decreased significantly. Lucy slept deeply in her bed, curled under the blankets, while Bill sat beside her with a tired gaze, reading a comic, unable to concentrate fully. From time to time, he would lift his gaze and place a hand on his daughter’s forehead, checking that her fever hadn’t risen beyond normal.

The truth was, Bill was nervous to the extreme. He had never cared for anyone, never had to take full responsibility for a human being, especially one as fragile as a child. For a moment, he considered calling his ex, but he remembered the last time he had done that and preferred to face the situation alone. Finally, exhausted and tormented by anxiety in a way he didn’t want to admit, he decided to retreat to his own room to sleep, leaving Lucy under the watch of a hyper-vigilant subconscious that gave him no rest.

Lying in his bed, Bill stared at the ceiling. “I never wanted this… I never wanted a daughter, but now I have to take care of one. It’s not that I dislike it, it’s just… uncomfortable,” he thought.

It wasn’t long before a sound woke him: dragging footsteps and a wet noise hitting the hallway floor. He jumped out of bed, nearly tripping, and rushed to the hallway, finding Lucy standing, disoriented, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and vomit spread across the floor and her pajamas. The girl tried to stay upright, but soon began to cry, trembling sobs that broke the silence of the house at dawn.

Without thinking, Bill leaned down, hugged her clumsily, and held her against his chest, not caring about the vomit staining him. Lucy sobbed and leaned against him, crying as he murmured incoherently, mixing words of comfort, apologies, and curses that barely formed coherently in his mind.

…

The early morning had been long, but the night finally gave way to a gray, cold morning. Snow continued falling outside, covering every surface, while inside the house, everything was relatively calm in a strange way. Bill remained seated beside Lucy’s bed. The blankets carefully covered her, trying to maintain her body heat and comfort. Lucy’s eyes were tired, and she seemed subdued due to her unusual health condition.

“Dad… you said we were going to watch Star Trek,” Lucy whispered, her voice tired and dragging.

Bill tilted his head, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, trying to maintain his composure.

“How are you feeling?”

Lucy barely opened her eyes, and with a weak smile, said, “My commander… I’ve switched to emergency energy mode. Are you injured?” she said, pretending to be a fictional character.

Bill tensed and let out a sigh, a mixture of frustration, worry, and tenderness.

“I told you to stop playing like that… why are you still acting this way?” he asked, adjusting a strand of Lucy’s hair.

Lucy just settled into the soft sheets. “Considering how worried and sad you look, I decided it’s better to keep playing so I don’t make you more upset. I already felt bad before, but I thought it was better not to be a bother…”

Bill swallowed hard, his throat tight. All the feelings and emotions overwhelmed him; he wasn’t used to being a parent.

Lucy continued, her voice weak and trembling, “Let’s keep watching those movies… I’m sorry I didn’t have the strength to keep playing. We were having so much fun. Dad… it’s my fault, I ruined the fun.”

Tears slid down Lucy’s cheeks. She tried to wipe them away with the sleeves of her pajamas, and Bill watched helplessly, not knowing what to say, unable to organize the right words in his head.

“Lucy… stop, if you keep acting like this, I…”

“Sorry… it seems I always cause trouble. You were better off without me, but I wanted to see you,” murmured Lucy.

“Goddammit! I can’t… I can’t keep listening to you say that nonsense. Did you hear me? Stop apologizing as if everything is your fault!”

After saying that, silence lingered for a few seconds. Bill looked at his daughter again, and something struck him seeing her so weak. All the barriers he had built over decades of isolation and cynicism crumbled for a moment. The fragility of his daughter, her attempt to protect him even while sick, made Bill realize what he had ignored his entire life: responsibility, vulnerability, and the love he never knew how to express.

He leaned closer to Lucy, wrapping her awkwardly and uncomfortably in his arms, and she, exhausted, rested her head on his chest. Bill remained seated on Lucy’s bed, his daughter’s fever finally stabilized, but his mind was far from the immediate reality. He stared at the ceiling, motionless, while his heart pounded with a weight he had never felt before. The calm of the morning contradicted the storm raging inside him. For the first time in his life, the responsibility for someone else had reached him, and he couldn’t escape it.

His gaze drifted into emptiness, and memories hit him hard: he had never seen his daughter, had never been present. In the past, he had retreated into comics, movies, and internet forums, ignoring the life unfolding outside his world. His ex had cared for Lucy alone, enduring months of pregnancy, work, and sleepless nights, while he remained trapped in his geeky routine.

He had never been in the hospital when Lucy was born. He didn’t hear her cry, didn’t hold her tiny body in his arms, didn’t feel the tremble of her body, nor the soft weight of a newborn, never felt Lucy’s little fingers wrap around his, never cradled her in his arms, never gently rocked her to hear her calm breathing as a baby. He didn’t know her exact birth date, nor the time, nor her weight. Nothing.

He thought about Lucy’s first steps, a chubby baby taking clumsy steps on the floor, falling and getting up again. He wondered if there was a chance her first words had been “Daddy…”

Bill’s head tormented him with the absence of those memories he never had; with each detail he hadn’t lived, each moment he had missed, he felt a deeper knot of guilt in his chest.

One memory struck him particularly hard. The scene unfolded years ago, in a narrow, dim apartment. Bill and his ex were arguing heatedly, their words cruel and unnecessarily painful.

She, hand on her abdomen, looked at him with disbelief and anger. “I can’t believe you won’t take responsibility! It’s yours!”

“And how am I supposed to know it’s mine and not some other man’s!? Surely you slept with someone else. Bitch!” Bill looked at her with disgust and spat out the words with hatred and venom.

The silence that followed was immediate, icy. A second later, the sharp sound of a slap broke the tense quiet of the room. Bill felt stunned by the blow, staggering slightly. He brought his hand to his cheek, furious, ready to shout. But then he saw her: her face showing pure pain and anguish. Before he could react, she pushed him forcefully.

“You’re an idiot, Bill! A damn coward!” she yelled, her broken voice etched into his memory.

Bill’s thoughts, heavy with guilt and memories, were interrupted by a sound. He turned his head and saw Lucy, her face pale, bringing a hand to her mouth. Bill realized instantly that she was about to vomit. He leaned down, held her by the back, and helped her rise carefully. The girl leaned on him as he guided her toward the bathroom. Her steps were unsteady, her body trembling. Bill could feel each of his daughter’s movements slowing.

Lucy’s breathing grew heavy. Her eyes barely stayed open, shining with fever. Sweat covered her forehead and hands. She tried to keep walking, but her little legs no longer responded; her steps became short, dragging, until her body wavered.

Lucy lost control of her body from exhaustion and fell, but before she hit the floor, Bill caught her, holding her securely in his arms.

“Dad… are we going to watch another movie?” she asked in a faint voice.

Bill pressed his lips together, holding back the tremor in his throat. “Of course… when you feel better, we’ll watch all the movies and read all the comics you want.”

Lucy blinked slowly, almost without strength. “Will Mom be there too?” she asked, each word a painful effort.

Bill’s heart ached. He swallowed and stroked her damp, sweat-clinging hair. “Yes… yes, and we’ll watch the movies together.”

“Like a family?” she murmured, letting herself fall onto his chest. Her body relaxed, her little eyes closing gently, trusting his answer.

Bill held her in his arms, and his gaze inadvertently shifted to the nearby shelf. There was a Fantastic Four comic, the cover showing Reed Richards fighting for his loved ones. Above it, a Superman poster with the classic pose, fist raised against an impossible sky.

Bill looked at it and thought, “Shit… Reed Richards would do it. Superman would do it without a second thought. I wonder if I could…”

That was enough to break any limits he still had. Bill understood, with terrifying clarity, that he couldn’t just sit there waiting for her to get better.

He lifted her carefully and carried her back to her room. He laid her down just enough to search through drawers and closets, tossing everything aside until he found a thick, warm coat. With clumsy hands, he dressed her, adjusted the scarf around her neck, and covered her little hands with gloves.

Minutes later, Bill and his daughter were already stepping out the front door.

…

Bill ran through the snowy streets with Lucy in his arms, each step a struggle. Snow clung to his soaked clothes, the cold cutting to his bones, and his breathing was heavy and labored. Every step reminded him of his past: countless nights in front of the computer, ignoring the life happening around him, avoiding thoughts of his ex and his daughter at all costs, yet those thoughts always returned, and somehow he would end up obsessively checking his ex’s social media.

As he ran, his mind couldn’t help but imagine comic book superheroes—saving people, fighting villains, saving the day, sacrificing themselves for the ones they love… and this thought became his main drive in that moment. Imagining that he was doing something a superhero would do filled him with determination. “Look at me… Bill Dickey, carrying my daughter like Superman. I’m sure the League would handle this crap,” he thought. Yet with every meter, guilt hit him harder: he had never been there for Lucy, never held his newborn daughter, never heard her first cry, never celebrated her first steps. All those memories he never had chased him as the snow crunched beneath his feet.

Finally, he reached a clear street where a taxi miraculously stopped in front of him. The driver looked surprised as Bill approached, gasping, “Yes! Take me to the hospital. Fast, damn it!” The relief was momentary; Bill held Lucy closer. During the ride, the little girl whispered occasionally, asking if her mom would be there or assuring Bill that she was okay.

At the hospital, the nurses quickly took Lucy to the emergency room, while Bill stayed outside, trembling from the cold and adrenaline. For the first time in his life, the responsibility completely crushed him, and the weight of not having been there before felt unbearable. Bill’s phone rang. It was his ex. He sighed before answering, dreading the inevitable argument.

As he picked up, he immediately heard her voice: “How is Lucy? I feel like something’s wrong…” she asked, her voice tinged with noticeable concern.

“She’s in the ER,” Bill said directly. “Yes, she was sick. Yes, I brought her.”

“What do you mean by that?!” she shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

“Because I’m not one of those guys who calls every five minutes to make themselves look good,” Bill took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “But she’s not dead. Happy now?”

“Bill… God, I knew I shouldn’t have left my little girl in your care,” she said, softer now, frustrated and sad. “You care about your daughter, right?”

“Yes, of course I care. It’s just… I never imagined I’d do so much for another human being,” Bill said impatiently. “Now, can we stop fighting or do you want to continue?”

The argument went on for a couple more minutes until she finally hung up and arrived at the hospital minutes later. Bill, exhausted and still drained from everything that had happened, faced a brief flare-up of tension with her upon arrival—harsh words and crossed reproaches, two adults frustrated with each other’s existence.

His ex blamed herself for leaving Lucy with Bill, for thinking it would be a good idea. She had never wanted to leave her daughter with him, but Lucy’s insistence had been relentless for weeks: she wanted to meet her father.

Bill, for his part, felt insulted to see that his ex didn’t trust him. Anger and wounded pride burned inside him. After caring for Lucy, enduring her fever, vomiting, the incomprehension of a child just starting to trust him, and trying to connect with her as he never had before, now he saw his ex doubting his abilities.

“Hypocrite!” Bill exclaimed, his voice trembling with contained anger and frustration. “You hate me for not being a good father… and yet you leave me to take care of a child we only share by blood!”

“Don’t talk like that again, don’t belittle this… She wanted to meet you! She spent a month insisting every day to meet you and you… and y-you…” Her voice broke, and tears slid down her cheeks. “You’re bad,” she said, looking away.

“Hey, I’m not saying you hate her or that her presence was unpleasant…” Bill was struggling hard with his ego and pride. He wanted to say so many things to make the situation better, but… he couldn’t even manage himself.

Bill watched his ex cry and did nothing to understand her, only himself. His mind, recalling moments with her, seemed to erase every happy memory, incinerating that happiness along with the suffering.

Hours passed, and both waited in the hospital for Lucy to get better, keeping their distance and not speaking to each other.

When the time came to discharge Lucy and say goodbye, she, now recovered, approached Bill and hugged him. Bill felt a strange emptiness in his chest. Holding her, seeing her safe, hearing her laugh again… and then having to leave—after everything they had gone through together over these two weeks—hit him harder than he expected.

…

Days later, in the basement of his house, Bill found Lucy’s stuffed bear, left behind in the same basement where they had spent hours reading comics and watching movies.

Bill approached the plush toy and held it in his hands, feeling the texture of the fur, the soft stuffing, and the gentle touch. Compared to an action figure Bill might have on his shelves, this had a special weight in his memory, reminding him of past moments with his daughter. It wasn’t just any object; it was a tangible memory, a memory she had left in his space and in his heart.

[miuwa-miu]

[Fanfic]

[miuwa-miu]

I saw the fic you made with my ask and I LOVE It! It’s kind like a TSRK story but with the reader as the main character. Actually, I kinda want a sequel that shows us the torture the stalker is subjected to. Think you could make one?

Here is the second part of the previous One-shot of Yandere Rohan x Yandere Reader. I apologize for the delay, but I’ve had a very busy week with trips to other cities and events, which haven’t left me much time or energy to write. Still, here is the second part, and I hope you enjoy it. And as always, I give you the warning that this content was translated from its original language into English using applications.

...

Mannequin (Yan Rohan x Yan reader)

[Part 1]

...

The air was heavy, yet intensely cold. In the background, the ragged breaths of a man could be heard. He was sitting in a chair, bound, slowly waking from unconsciousness. Seconds later, dazed, he began to open his eyes and look around. The room was completely dark, and he could see nothing—only a vast black void.

He shifted slightly in the chair, tied by hands and feet, making it creak with the movement. Then, an intense pain shot through every joint and muscle, a sharp ache that ran rapidly down his spine.

There was no other sound; all he could hear was himself. The silence was so overwhelming that he could clearly hear his racing heartbeat and every movement he made.

“Hggmm! S-shit…” His breathing became shaky and heavy. His heart pounded in his ears. “That bastard Rohan…” he whispered in anger.

Suddenly, a door opened. The man lifted his head toward the source of the light. He saw a figure descend and close the door. Then, a small lamp lit up right above him, illuminating only what was necessary.

The figure approached, and his face became partially visible under the light. It was Rohan.

“I set up this scene with my wife to draw inspiration for our stories… I don’t usually write as much horror as she does, but I wanted to do you the favor for capturing you,” Rohan said.

The man remained silent, not even lifting his head to look him directly in the face, merely following him with his eyes. He watched as Rohan calmly walked around him.

In his hands, Rohan held a manga drawing pen. “You have to be very careful using a fountain pen. One wrong press… and the paper ends up cut.”

The man’s heart raced as he saw Rohan approach with the pen in hand. Bound to the armrest, he couldn’t move his arms.

“Don’t even think about it…” he growled through gritted teeth. “The only one who can cut me and do whatever she wants with me is my beloved (Name).”

He began to struggle violently in the chair, trying to free himself. But the more he moved, the tighter the ropes dug into his skin, causing pain.

Rohan ignored him and firmly grabbed his arm. “Skin and paper share history. Centuries ago, animal skin was used by some tribes to write messages or create drawings. They turned the skin into parchment.”

He brought the pen close to the man’s arm. The sharp tip brushed against the skin, raising hairs with its cold, metallic touch. It glided with mechanical precision, piercing less than half a centimeter. A clean cut opened, tearing the surface.

The man clenched his teeth. The initial discomfort quickly turned into a corrosive burn. Blood began to flow in a thin stream, sliding down his arm to drip onto the floor with a sticky sound mingling with his ragged breathing.

Rohan held the arm firmly, pinning it against the wooden armrest. “The skin… opens like damp parchment. The line is clean, but if I press hard enough…” He pressed again with the pen, extending the cut. The flesh tore and gave way with a morbid sound, revealing the yellowish fat beneath. “See? Here’s your hypodermis. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

The man screamed, thrashing in desperation, but the ropes dug even deeper into his wrists, cutting into the skin. Blood was already staining the chair’s wood, turning it a deep red.

Rohan barely smiled, tilting his head as he studied the cut he had just made. “I could go deeper, down to the muscle. Do you know how flesh sounds when you pierce it? I suppose you do,” he added with a sly grin.

The man frowned, growled in pain, and looked at Rohan with disgust. “You’re unpleasant. Boring. Dull. So… empty that I can’t even describe you.”

“I want you to answer a question,” Rohan said, tracing a finger along the tip of the pen. “How long have you been stalking her?”

The man let out a tired laugh. “Long before you set your eyes on her… long before YOU even knew her.” He lowered his gaze to the floor, lost in memories. “I’ve known her since before… since her first book, her first project… Ah, I’ve known her since she was in school.” He looked back at Rohan. “Do you want me to tell you something, Rohan? You’ll never know her. Never like I do. I’ve known her since the beginning!”

Rohan put the pen back in his pocket. “But even so… she came to me anyway. You’re a nobody, and she’ll never look at you.” Rohan let out a brief chuckle. “Did you really think she’d have the choice to pick me… or leave me?” he whispered, his voice low and sharp as a scalpel. “What an adorable mistake to think that… How pathetic.”

He approached the man again, his face barely lit by the flickering lamp. “I’m going to tell you a secret…” he said, leaning his face close to the stalker’s ear. “I modified her memories and feelings.”

The stalker squinted, confused.

“Yes,” Rohan continued calmly. “That’s right. I read all her memories, from the most recent to the oldest… her thoughts, her personality traits, I erased memories and added new ones and commands… what she should feel, what she should love, what she could never abandon.”

The stalker squinted, not understanding.

Rohan added, “‘You will love Rohan Kishibe until your last breath… and you will never leave him’…” he whispered. “I rewrote all the imperfect parts that risked her dependence on me.”

The stalker swallowed hard, feeling rage boiling in his stomach as if something sacred had been desecrated.

“What the hell, Rohan?! Damn it… once (Name) finds out who you really are…” His breathing was heavy, furious. “All your effort and work will go to hell.”

Rohan ignored him, as if the man were nothing. “So… do you understand now?” He leaned over him with a slow, deadly smile. “No matter how much you plead… she never belonged to you. She never will, because she has no choice.”

The silence ended with Rohan’s soft laugh. And before the man could respond, Rohan struck him sharply in the back of the neck. The sound echoed in the room; the man felt a high-pitched ringing in his ears and, in an instant, collapsed unconscious.

…

Hours later, the man woke with the sensation of eyes piercing into him. When he finally managed to focus his vision, he saw her: (Name). She looked serene and calm, watching him from her place. The lamp’s light illuminated her faintly, revealing only an incomplete image of her figure.

The man looked exhausted. His breathing was irregular, but he remained conscious despite the pain. The skin on his arm was opened in uneven lines, swollen and reddened, the edges raised and dried from the coagulated blood. Between his flesh peeked the yellowish fat, gleaming under the lamp, and in certain spots the exposed red muscle twitched slightly with each involuntary tremor. The rope that bound him had left deep marks, cutting into his flesh; the blood-soaked rope mixed with the dark, sticky liquid that still dripped slowly onto the floor.

(Name) approached him. “I was waiting for you to wake up,” she said calmly, as if speaking of something trivial.

The man looked at her with a weak smile. “(Name)… we finally meet. It’s good to have you here.” He coughed, interrupting his words. “I don’t remember well why I ended up here. Everything was blurry… from the third minute we saw each other. But…” He tried to sit up, but the pain in his back knocked him down again.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him without blinking. “I see you trying to analyze all of this logically,” she said with icy softness. “But you don’t need to understand it.”

The man stayed silent for a few seconds, then looked at her seriously. “Hey, (Name). You have to leave here.”

He continued, “I’m not the only one trapped by Rohan. We both are… Only you’ve been here longer, trapped with him, much longer than I… Maybe what you feel… maybe that love you think you have for him… is false.”

“Say another word about my husband,” she responded coldly, “or I’ll make you suffer twice as much. What I feel for him is genuine.”

“Genuine?” he whispered, as if the air itself mocked him. “How can you be sure? How do you know your feelings are real and not something Rohan wrote into your memory?”

“That’s not true. I truly love him…”

The man felt a nauseating rage. Helplessness, frustration, and jealousy mingled in his throat. “And how do you know!? How do you know your feelings are real and not something he wrote?!” He stared at her defiantly. “How can you be so sure! He can… he can get into your head, into your memories. He knows everything you love, everything you fear… and he can change it at will.”

Her eyes shone with unyielding hardness. “If you think you can question my love, if you believe your words can take it from me, you are mistaken.” Her voice became a deadly whisper. “Every fiber of my being, every thought, every heartbeat… belongs to him. And if even a single doubt crosses your mind, you will regret it.”

The man looked at her in horror. “No… no, no, no… I can’t believe what he did to you,” he murmured to himself. “He brainwashed you… he’s a damned lunatic. Ha…” He let out a dry laugh. “Kira Yoshikage is nothing compared to him.”

He lowered his head. “What did they do to my muse?” he added, his tone full of lament. “You should fear… I just told you the truth.”

(Name) watched him with an unchanging expression. “I do not fear him,” she whispered. “I only fear that your idiocy will ruin what is mine… And you are the perfect example of what happens when someone dares to challenge us.”

“He used his Stand! Heaven’s Door on you! Maybe you don’t realize because you’re already under its effects…” His voice broke, pleading. “If only you could look inside yourself… Listen to me, please, please… He wrote something in you, a command.”

She ignored him and interrupted calmly. “Remember this: no matter how much you scream, how much you try to convince me of what is ‘real,’ my heart is already bound to him.”

“No!” The man collapsed against the back of the chair, defeated by the intensity of the situation. “You don’t know what he did! He… he told me things… he told me what he could do to you. How he could rewrite your memories, your desires… everything you love. Everything you feel for him could be false!” His voice broke into sobs. “You could hate him and not even realize it…”

Silence fell suddenly, like a suffocating blanket. Not a creak, not a murmur, not even the hum of the lamp seemed to exist anymore. Only his broken, harsh breathing filled the air.

His eyes scanned the shadows: the table, the chair that trapped him, her motionless figure before him. Everything seemed placed with purpose, like pieces in a play where he was the fool, the clown—and for a moment, he believed the universe was mocking him.

His face contorted with a mixture of pathetic emotions he couldn’t even express. It wasn’t the pain from the ropes or the fatigue of his muscles; it was something deeper. The certainty that nothing happening there was solely his own. That woman in front of him, expressionless, was as much a prisoner as he was, though she would never admit it. Her eyes shone with a devotion born not from freedom, but from invisible chains, heavier than those that had cut his skin.

For a second, he thought he heard a faint scratching, like a pen on paper, somewhere in the darkness. He closed his eyes and was overtaken by a bitter certainty: it had all already been written. He wasn’t the only one trapped here, and the worst part was, for him, it was with the person he admired most and… loved in his own way.

…

That day became unbearable, nauseating. The air was saturated with a thick, metallic smell that clung to his throat like rust: blood, exposed flesh, sweat. The stench had already begun attracting insects; he saw them circling ever tighter, drawn toward his wounds.

The dense darkness accompanied him into the present with an unbearable silence. He didn’t know whether it was day or night, nor how many hours had passed. He existed only in an infinite present: bound, waiting. His gaze moved from the insects to the ropes, and from the ropes to his torn flesh, punished again and again until pus oozed around his wrists. The cuts, the blows, the bruises were the perfect example of the grotesque treatment he had endured.

For a moment, he laughed—a broken, hollow laugh—remembering that he was missing an eye. The pain, the confinement, the continuous torture had made him forget that detail, as if the mutilation had become a natural part of his body. The worst part was that he couldn’t remember exactly how he had ended up like this, only blurred memories. Only a void: the night he asked to meet with (Name), the argument, his words… and then nothing. A black hole in his memory and a leap straight into the present.

Now he was there, with his arm torn, the skin of his neck marked, his limbs swollen, and an empty eye burning in its socket. Trapped. No way out. His life had been reduced to waiting for the next wound, the next sting of pain that would confirm he was still alive.

He felt like a broken toy; his attempt to be close to his beloved had ended horribly.

At one point, tears began sliding down his face, falling to the floor in mournful drops. He clenched his jaw, humiliated, used, violated… his lip trembling, feeling vulnerable.

Soon, the sounds of his stifled crying filled the dead silence of the room. His ragged, repetitive breathing became constant as his body trembled softly.

Minutes later, the sound ceased, and the man fell asleep in his chair.

…

A boy’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the teacher scolding him for falling asleep in class. The boy lowered his head, embarrassed, feeling the gaze of all his classmates fixed on him.

“I didn’t mean to… it’s just that I was finishing the homework yesterday,” the words died in his mouth from shame.

“The homework I gave you a week ago,” the teacher said, keeping his eyes fixed on him.

The boy said nothing more, and the class continued.

Jakuto remembered those first days clearly. The first time he saw (Name). That day, she was sitting in the corner of the classroom, notebook open on her lap, trying not to be noticed, until he heard her voice talking with her friends, describing stories, horror tales she had created herself.

Jakuto listened silently, attentive to every tale. Each story brightened his gray day, awakening in him a feeling he didn’t know could exist. The way her voice fluctuated between calm and passionate, the emotion she poured into each narration, made him feel… alive. For the first time, loneliness didn’t feel so suffocating. There was something in that moment that made him breathe differently, that made him want to approach, to speak, to be part of her world.

But he never dared. The mere idea that she could reject him paralyzed him. Jakuto had always felt inferior, clumsy, strange, as if the world were full of people better than him. Every attempt to get close seemed doomed before it even began.

When (Name) joined the school newspaper and started publishing her mini horror stories, Jakuto never missed a single one. Each of her tales was a breath of life in his gray routine. He read them over and over again, but this led him to a painful conclusion: although he was obsessed with her stories and longed to speak to her, she would never look at him the same way, never give him genuine attention.

So he devised a plan to get her attention.

It began almost innocently, recreating scenes from her stories. At first, just simple games, small dramatizations meant to attract her without harming anyone. But as he grew, the obsession transformed, and the reenactments became more intense and brutal, reflecting the desperation of someone who felt the only way to be noticed was to replicate the darkness she herself created.

Everything—every macabre act that would later define his adult life—arose from that silence, from that inability to approach, from the combination of admiration, fear, and the desire to belong. Because (Name) never sought him out, never gave him a look that said, “You are here with me,” and he, unable to get close in any other way, decided to bring her stories into the real world.

…

The warm light of the sunset filled the couple’s home, carrying a soft scent of caramel and cinnamon in the air, the result of (Name)’s preparations earlier that day. Rohan sat in a dining chair, a notebook on his lap, but he wasn’t drawing. He was simply observing his surroundings, analyzing the room with lost thoughts.

(Name) approached and stood by his side. Rohan said nothing. Instead, his gaze settled on her face, studying every feature.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

Rohan snapped the notebook shut and turned his head toward her, raising an eyebrow with a slight smile. “I’m thinking it would be a waste not to use that expression of yours,” he said, gesturing briefly with his hand. “That mix of curiosity and patience… no one could replicate it in a drawing. Except me.”

His words weren’t a confession, but an arrogant statement, full of the confidence that defined him. Yet the intensity in his eyes revealed there was more than mere inspiration behind them.

She let out a soft laugh. “You always think of your manga first.”

“Of course.” Rohan interlaced his fingers with hers casually, as if the gesture needed no explanation. “Manga is my life. But you… you are the only exception I won’t put in panels. I don’t need to draw you to remember you.”

She understood immediately: that was his way of admitting something he would never express sweetly.

“Always so melodramatic,” she replied with a giggle.

Rohan clicked his tongue, averting his gaze. “It’s not melodrama. It’s the truth. And the truth is never melodramatic, it’s… absolute.”

He stood up suddenly, with that abruptness that made him seem impatient even when he wasn’t. He walked toward the adjoining room and murmured, “I’m going to take a look. Don’t wait up.”

She nodded, unbothered. With Rohan, that kind of declaration was the closest thing to affection.

…

The door creaked open and the air suddenly grew thick. Rohan Kishibe entered, his tall, upright figure exuding the unsettling calm that always surrounded him.

From the chair, Jakuto watched him, his body bound and marked by time and suffering. The ropes holding him in place seemed more like an extension of his being than a prison. His gaze, though tired, did not lose the intensity of his desperation.

Rohan stopped in front of him, his expression impassive. “Nice try, nice try. I see you tried to tell her the truth,” he said, his voice a mix of mockery and indifference.

Jakuto, jaw clenched, replied in a raspy voice, “I’m just trying to open her eyes.”

“Open her eyes?” Rohan retorted, tone dripping with disdain. “I merely perfected what she already felt for me.”

“And how do I know what she felt for you was real, or that you wrote it?” Jakuto stared at him intensely. “You’re just saying that to lie to yourself. You’re incompetent, Rohan Kishibe.”

A flash of irritation crossed Rohan’s face, but it quickly faded, replaced by his usual calm. “I… just rewrote what she already felt for me. I only improved it, that’s all. No other changes, nothing extra, just perfected it.”

Jakuto responded with a bitter laugh. “Someday she’ll realize.”

“Realize what?” Rohan asked, in a low, cutting voice. “What she already feels?”

“Stop denying it, Rohan. You know what you wrote there… She’s being manipulated by you.”

Rohan leaned slightly forward, his face just inches from Jakuto’s.

“She’s not being manipulated. She’s smart enough to realize something like that. And if she allowed it… then fine.”

Jakuto, feeling a mix of helplessness and rage, lowered his head. Rohan’s words echoed in his mind, but something inside him refused to accept them. He knew the truth was more complex, darker.

Rohan stepped back, observing Jakuto with a gaze that mixed curiosity and disdain. “You know, Jakuto? Sometimes I wonder if you really understand what it means to be an artist. It’s not just about creating, it’s about owning, controlling the narrative. And you, with your clumsy attempts, only demonstrate your mediocrity.”

The conversation died in a heavy silence when the door opened. (Name) entered the room and walked to stand beside Rohan. From there, she observed Jakuto’s deplorable state. He looked at both of them, a mix of despair and restrained fear in his eyes.

“(Name)…” Jakuto began weakly, a whisper trembling from the effort to stay upright. “Do you remember that day on the road… the dog?”

She looked at him with curiosity, silent, letting him continue.

Jakuto continued, his voice broken by anxiety and a strange sense of nostalgia.

“That dog wasn’t there by chance. I left it there. I knew… I knew you would stop, that you couldn’t ignore it. And I was right. You stopped, you picked it up, and for a moment… for a moment I felt part of you, you touched something that was mine. Even if you didn’t look at me, even if you didn’t know my name… that dog was… like me.”

A sad smile formed on his bloodied lips. “That was my gift to you. My way of getting close, even if you didn’t know it. Everything I did… I did so you’d notice me. So that, at least once in your life, you’d think of me, even if just as a stranger who left behind an abandoned dog.”

His voice broke and his breathing grew labored, fighting back the tears burning his face. “I… I just wanted to be in your world. That’s all. In the past, when we were children, when I saw you didn’t look at me… that you never would… I recreated your stories. It was the only way to be close to you, for our imaginations to intersect.”

Rohan spoke, his voice cold and controlled. “Enough. It will do no good.”

He leaned toward (Name) and, with a subtle gesture, asked her to leave the room. She obeyed silently, closing the door behind her. In her hands, a soft purple glow shimmered; luminous, beautiful threads emanated from her fingers.

Inside the room, silence fell again. Jakuto broke the void with a broken, tired laugh, sounding more like an echo than a human sound. His eyes fixed on Rohan:

“Why…?” he asked, with a trembling smile.

“Because that’s how I wrote it,” said Rohan, with no further explanation.

Jakuto looked at him helplessly. He didn’t even try to get angry; he just listened, exhausted.

“No matter how much you try to convince her, the command says she cannot leave me. She’s bound to me… she’s mine,” Rohan said.

Jakuto ignored his words. Even though (Name) had already left the room, he spoke loudly enough for her to hear:

“(Name), listen to me. In Italy, there’s a Stand user who can perform a chronological replay, reproducing events from the past… ask him to go to the exact date you met Rohan.”

Silence.

An electric buzz. Nothing.

And then.

Suddenly, a gunshot shattered Jakuto’s eardrums. He fell to the floor along with the chair he was tied to, the cold ground clashing against his wounded skin. In Rohan’s hands was a pistol, still hot from the shot. Thick blood gushed from his head, slowly spreading across the floor in a hot, dark puddle.

The purple threads connecting to Jakuto’s hands vanished.

Flies, drawn by the stench of blood, began to land on him. Gradually, the body lost its warmth, while the room was engulfed in absolute, oppressive silence.

(...)

For the rest of the time, Rohan and his wife carefully cleaned the room, making sure to erase every trace, and moved the body to a vacant lot where no one usually passed.

The afternoon was heavy, the wind stirring the tall grass, and the sun dipping behind the horizon.

Koichi, wandering aimlessly after an argument with Yukako, passed by almost by chance. In the distance, he saw (Name) kneeling, burying what appeared to be a human body. Panic froze his blood; his eyes widened so much he could barely blink. For a moment, he doubted whether he was dreaming, if it was an illusion of his tired mind… or if he was witnessing something all too real.

Fear overcame him. He ran without looking back, straight to Josuke’s house. He pounded on the door in desperation.

“Josuke!”

Josuke opened the door.

“What’s going on, Koichi? I was busy… don’t you see I was trying to break my record?” In the background, the sound of a video game came from the TV speakers.

Koichi could barely form words. “I-I saw something… strange. I think… (Name) was burying a corpse!”

“What!?” Josuke was stunned. “That’s impossible! …Are you sure?”

“Yes, come quickly!” Koichi insisted.

Josuke frowned. The tension was contagious, and Crazy Diamond, his Stand, manifested. The two ran toward the spot.

Upon arrival, Koichi, still trembling, pointed to the exact location. “There!”

Without wasting time, Josuke began digging with Crazy Diamond. The earth, still soft, gave way easily. After a few minutes, they uncovered something…

A mannequin.

“What…? Koichi! You brought me here for this?” Josuke looked at him, incredulous and annoyed.

Koichi stepped back, confusion written across his face. “B-but… I saw it… it was a body, I swear!”

At that moment, Koichi felt a presence behind him… a calm voice broke the silence. “Koichi, what a pleasure to see you. What’s happening?”

It was (Name), approaching with a relaxed smile. Koichi turned, pale as plaster.

“I… I saw… a… corpse…” Koichi stammered, unable to hold her gaze.

(Name) looked at the partially unearthed mannequin and laughed softly. “Ah, that. It was supposed to be promotional material for my next book. A bit of atmosphere… but it seems you got here early and spoiled the surprise for yourself.”

“So it wasn’t… ha, ha, ha!” Koichi felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders and began to laugh with relief. “It was fake!”

(Name) looked at him amused. “I see all that time with Yukako has made you a little paranoid.”

Koichi nodded, still sweating from his forehead. “Yes… I guess it has.”

At that moment, Rohan appeared, walking calmly as if nothing strange had happened. “Koichi, I was just looking for you. I need your opinion on some panels… I’m undecided about the narrative pacing.”

“Eh… sure…”

“Josuke, what do you think?” Rohan added, almost reluctantly.

Josuke huffed, crossing his arms. “All good… I guess.”

The conversation continued with an awkwardly ordinary air. But just a kilometer away, in a dark pigsty, the truth writhed in silence: a real corpse decomposed among grunts, devoured voraciously by the hungry animals. The torn flesh gradually vanished, erasing all evidence of what had occurred that night.

The mannequin had been nothing more than a distraction.

That’s all for now, I’m going to sleep. Take care and sleep well if it’s night, and if it’s daytime… have a great day.

[miuwa-miu]

Hii, I wanted to see if I could please request a Berdly x flirty!fem reader?

Maybe she usually does that sort of thing with her friends to tease them, but later on she gets nervous when they become closer because it's the first time she's flirting with someone she actually likes romantically

You got me… Berdly is one of my favorite Deltarune characters XD. Over the weekend I got the rest I needed after the tough week before. I’m currently in my last months of my technical degree, and I’ve only got a little bit left before starting my professional internship hahaha. Anyway, here’s the fanfic. Just a reminder: I don’t know English, so what I do is translate what I’ve already written in my original language into English. OKAY, NOW FOR REAL, HERE IT IS:

Shyness (Berdly x reader)

...

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the first rays of sunlight streamed through the classroom windows, casting a warm glow over everything. (Name) walked in, her hair slightly tousled by the breeze, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

Spotting her friend at her desk, she made her way over, clearly planning to get a playful reaction.“Good morning, princess!” she said, her tone teasing.

Her friend looked up, surprised but pleased, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Hi, (Name)… How did you sleep?” she asked shyly, a gentle smile appearing on her face.

“At first, everything was fine… but now that I see those eyes, I think my day just got a whole lot better,” (Name) replied, leaning in slightly, her voice teasing. She knew exactly how to make her friend smile—and it was working perfectly.

Without waiting for an answer, she wrapped her arms around her friend from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder. “Wow, you smell amazing… Did you change your shampoo? Your scent is… intoxicating,” she murmured, taking a deep breath.

Her friend laughed, used to these dramatic little antics, feeling a touch flattered. “Yeah? Do you like it?” she asked, playful and sweet.

“It’s lovely,” (Name) said, smiling.

...

Gradually, the classroom filled with students. The lesson moved forward with its usual monotony, but for (Name) and her group of friends, their attention was already partially lost—they had decided to play “Truth or Truth,” skipping the dares to avoid drawing the teacher’s attention.

“Okay, your turn,” said one of her friends, resting her elbow on the desk. 

“And you have to tell the truth, obviously.”

“Yeah! Don’t be evasive like a politician,” added another.

“Who do you like?”

(Name)’s heart skipped a beat. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of her notebook, a mix of fear and excitement churning inside her. She took a deep breath and murmured, barely audible, “…Berdly.”

A second of silence stretched, feeling like an eternity, until a collective scream shattered the calm.

“WHAT??? BERDLY?!”

Every eye in the classroom turned toward them. (Name) felt her face heat up with a blush and, on impulse, lunged at her friend, covering her mouth with her hand. “SHUT UP!!” she whispered, frustrated, fearing her confession would turn into a scandal.

When the class resumed, her friend whispered dramatically, raising her hands: “Are you crazy?! He’s… well, he’s Berdly!”

Another friend, observing the scene, frowned. “He’s way too confident… and always acts so narcissistic. Do you really like someone like that?”

For a moment, (Name) looked away, nervous, feeling a warmth that wasn’t just from blushing. Yes, it was awkward… but also kind of comforting. “It’s… different once you get to know him,” she murmured, defending her choice. “Not everything is what it seems.”

(...)

…And indeed, she liked Berdly. It wasn’t just a simple attraction; it was the way he made her feel… the passion with which he threw himself into his own interests, and above all, the curiosity he sparked in her.

They met on a very windy day.

That day, (Name) was feeling down because of everything that had happened. She had had a streak of bad luck, and she had distanced herself from her friends, heading to a quiet spot to think.

Berdly was walking, carrying a large stack of papers that Professor Alphys had entrusted to him. His eyes were fixed ahead, imagining the admiration he would receive for his diligence and efficiency.

Everything was going fine—until he passed by an open window, and the wind played a cruel trick. The papers he had been holding so carefully flew into the air as if they had a life of their own, first striking the girl standing in the hallway. Berdly’s eyes widened in shock as he watched the papers scatter everywhere.

“W-what the hell…?!?!” Berdly exclaimed, trying to catch them, but only managing to send more flying. “This is impossible! Totally impossible!” His words tumbled out, a mix of frustration and panic, as his ego took a small hit from the chaos.

The girl, though still feeling down, couldn’t help but laugh at the scene. Her eyes met Berdly’s as he chased the papers that danced along the hallway. His frantic, exaggerated reaction was so… absurd that it sparked an unexpected, ridiculous joy in her.

“Oh no, no, no… this can’t be happening…” Berdly muttered, his tone a mix of indignation and panic. “J-just bad luck! That’s it!! A miscalculation…”

“Here, let me help,” she said, still laughing softly. She bent down to pick up a paper that had fallen at her feet.

Berdly hesitated for a moment, surprised by her offer. “No, no, no! This… this is my responsibility. I… I am fully capable of… handling this situation with absolute perfection!”

She couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. “You seem… a little nervous.”

“Nervous? Me?! Never! I’m just… just demonstrating my extreme efficiency under pressure.” Berdly leaned down to grab another paper, trying to reclaim his dignity. His voice was a little louder than necessary.

She smiled as she picked up another sheet. “Well… it seems the wind has other plans today.”

Berdly swallowed and nodded vigorously. “Yes… the treacherous wind… But it doesn’t matter. Nothing can defeat my diligence!” He paused for a second, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, then added in a softer tone, almost unwillingly, “I suppose… having help isn’t so bad.”

They continued gathering the papers, one by one, until at one point their hands (your hand and Berdly’s hand XD) touched. Berdly’s eyes went wide; for a moment, he felt like the protagonist of an anime scene. For him, this was a special moment—perhaps… romance was finally blooming in his life. It was about time, and Berdly would take it with the dignity of a gentleman.

He blushed and looked at her; she looked at him at the same time… an awkward moment hung between them.

Then Berdly cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Well… uh… thanks for… helping me. Even though… technically you shouldn’t have to, because… I’m quite capable… but… thanks.” His hesitation was almost charming.

(...)

That was one of the many curious interactions they had. To most people, Berdly seemed like an arrogant idiot, but to (Name), he was funny, sweet, and clumsy. It didn’t take long for her to feel a strange attraction and start liking him.

(Name) usually had no problem flirting with people in jest, but with Berdly, it was different. Every time she did, she couldn’t help but feel intimidated; her nerves would get the better of her, and Berdly didn’t make it any easier.

And while Berdly did enjoy that kind of attention, deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder if those feelings were real. Sometimes it made him nervous, and that arrogant shell of his would crack just a little. Even though he liked the attention, he carried a bit of insecurity—after all, he considered himself a fool. Who would notice a fool like him?

But despite that, he couldn’t help enjoying spending time with (Name). She made him feel things he didn’t feel with anyone else, not even Noelle or Susie.

Inside, when he saw her smile or act sweetly, Berdly melted. On the outside, though, he masked it with grandiose phrases like: “Naturally, someone as elegant as I deserves the company of a lady as… radiant as (Name)!” In other words, he didn’t know how to admit he truly liked her without sounding conceited.

Unlike how he treated Susie or Kris, with (Name) he didn’t feel the need to “put her down.” On the contrary, he felt flattered that someone so amazing would look at him with interest. For Berdly, it validated his ego: “Even the purest of souls can recognize my greatness!”

At the same time, he began to respect her more seriously, as someone who listened and made him feel accepted. And at the end of the day, even if he hid it behind pompous phrases, Berdly felt something very real—that (Name) saw him the way he never imagined anyone could. Not as the “arrogant genius,” but as a clumsy, nervous boy who could be adorable without trying. That made him feel… loved. And that feeling was entirely new to him.

Today, he decided it would be excellent to invite (Name) to the library for a study session—to enlighten her with his brilliant mind and show her just how capable he was.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon in the library.

Berdly was arranging his social studies books on a shelf while humming the battle theme from Dragon Blazers. Every now and then, he checked his reflection in his phone’s glass to make sure his feathers were perfect and his volunteer library assistant badge was gleaming.

“A genius must always be presentable, even in front of the humble mortals who come to return overdue books…”

Suddenly, the door opened. The soft sound of footsteps echoed between the shelves. 

And there she was: (Name). 

“Ah, my dear (Name), what a pleasure to have you here,” Berdly said, striding toward her to greet her, and together they settled in to study.

…

At a table in the back, Berdly and (Name) had laid out several math books.

She was reviewing fraction problems while he, with all the airs of a “supreme academic master,” supervised.

“Very good, (Name). Now… a challenge worthy of our intellectual lineage!” He opened a book and pointed to a problem with dramatic flair.

“Solve this system of linear equations! Easy… for brilliant minds like ours.”

(Name) tilted her head, looked at the problem, and murmured, “Hmm… looks tricky.”

Berdly puffed out his chest and adjusted his glasses. “Tricky for the rest, perhaps! But I, the great Berdly, already have the answer in mind.” He grabbed a pencil and began writing quickly… only to get stuck on the second line, then erased it and started again… scratching his head with the pencil. After five minutes of tense effort, he just stared at the paper, a bead of sweat running down his cheek.

(Name) watched silently for a moment, then spoke. “Are you… sure that’s correct?”

Berdly cleared his throat. “O-of course! I’m just… verifying all possible solutions… like a true genius would.”

She leaned over, wrote a few steps in her notebook, and in less than a minute… had the correct answer. “I think… it’s like this.” She showed it to him with a shy little smile.

Berdly blinked, swallowed hard, and… “Ahem! Exactly what I was going to write! But I wanted to see if you could do it yourself! A pedagogical test, of course.”

(Name) covered her mouth to stifle a soft laugh. “So… does that mean I failed your test…? Because I solved it faster than you.”

Berdly froze, unsure whether to shout or hide under the table.

But before he could invent another excuse, (Name) timidly leaned a little closer, resting her chin on her hand, and whispered, “You know? I don’t mind if you don’t always have the answer… I-I like… how you look with glasses.”

Berdly, trying to maintain his genius composure, cleared his throat nervously. “A-aha! Well, naturally… sophisticated glasses highlight my… academic features!”

(Name) lowered her gaze with a small smile, twirling the pencil between her fingers. “No… really. They make you look… serious. And… cute.”

Berdly’s brain went into emergency mode. Did she just call me… CUTE? Me, Berdly, misunderstood genius?

He tried to play it cool. “Ah—yes, well! Cuteness, seriousness, intelligence… I suppose it all comes in one package when one is… a prodigy like me.”

(Name) looked at him, her eyes softly shining. “I like it when you talk like that… so confident.”

Berdly, desperate to regain control, quickly pointed to an exercise in the book. “A-aha! Here you go! An equation. L-let’s solve it.”

(Name) smiled, leaned closer, and took the pencil. As she wrote, her shoulder brushed against Berdly’s wing. He froze like a statue.

She looked up, still blushing, and whispered, “You know, I think I concentrate better… when I’m with you.”

Berdly felt like he was about to explode inside.

(...)

Berdly was still floating on an imaginary cloud after (Name)’s sweet visit.

He had settled behind the reception desk, crossing his wings as if he were the library’s very own director. He even adjusted his badge so it would highlight his “air of respectable intellect.”

Suddenly, the doorbell chimed, and Kris and Susie walked in. Kris, as always, wore his neutral expression, and Susie was chewing on something that was probably not allowed in the library.

Berdly saw them and immediately switched to “public enemy mode.”

“Ah… Kris and Susie. My two least favorite people.” He adjusted his glasses. “What are two of the least gifted people doing here, in this sanctuary of study?”

Susie stopped at the entrance, looking around, and snorted. “Relax, Berdly. I’m just accompanying Kris to return… uh…” She glanced at the book in his hands suspiciously. “…‘Calculus for Beginners’? Kris, you actually read this?”

Kris shrugged.

Berdly rose from his seat, striking his maximum superiority pose. “Of course he doesn’t read it! He barely stays awake in class. Although… perhaps I should be grateful he returned a book before racking up another late fee… like the one he hasn’t returned yet… Kris, I remind you, it’s been 2,583 days since you borrowed How to Draw Dragons.”

Susie raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to fly you out of this ‘sanctuary’ to see if your wings actually work?”

“Ggghh-!” Berdly stepped back, but quickly regained his composure.

“Ha! I appreciate your… uh… passionate joke, Susie. But my librarian professionalism prevents me from stooping to your level of primitive violence.”

(...)

Back at home, in his room, Berdly sat at his desk in front of the computer. But he wasn’t doing homework. He wasn’t on the Dragon Blazers forum.

He was typing in a document titled:

“Scientific-Emotional Observations on (Name)”

“(Name)… my dear and beloved (Name). How is it possible that someone could… eclipse even the glory of a nerd like me?

And without trying to draw attention! Just a single smile… and I was critically wounded. (Emotional wound, not physical, though my heart still beats irregularly.)

Her shyness! That reserved sweetness… it perfectly complements my natural confidence (well… sometimes I falter, but no one has to know).

She is the muse of my dreams!

Today she told me I look cute with glasses. With glasses! I never imagined that an accessory of my academic wisdom could… elevate me to romantic heights!

Could it be… that I am destined to become not only the class genius but also the protagonist of a romantic novel?”

In his mind, Berdly was already imagining the final scene of his “story”:

He, standing on an epic stage, with a cape billowing in the wind, looking EXTREMELY masculine and heroic, with (Name) by his side, hugging him and telling him how grand and handsome he is.

The audience (including Susie, Kris, Noelle… the entire town) gives him a standing ovation.

“Super Lord Berdly, the great wise conqueror and ruler of knowledge!”

Suddenly, his mom burst into the room. “Berdly, it’s two in the morning! Turn off that computer and go to bed right now!”

“M-mother! I was… researching advanced algebra, not writing a love essay about—!”

The door slammed shut.

Berdly sighed, removed his glasses, and stared at the ceiling, murmuring, “Ah… my (Name)… tender, sweet… one day… they will recognize our shared destiny.”

Then, literally, he hugged a pillow as if it were her, before drifting off to sleep.

...

I’m adding this drawing I made out of excitement. It’s from Berdly’s perspective (although it looks more like a drawing of Alphys).

The drawing lost a bit of quality, I’ll see later if I can improve it! But here you have the reader version with eyes or without eyes.

[miuwa-miu]

Today I won’t be able to handle requests due to a heavy workload and very little time. Time is breathing down my neck — I’ve been working all day and still have a lot left to do. I want to finish the pending tasks I have. My apologies for the inactivity, but I’m really busy.

From 7 pm to 3 am I work on my pending tasks.

From 7 am to 6 pm it’s my schedule of responsibilities (the ones every human has)...

4 hours of sleep.

Maybe... MAYBE tomorrow afternoon I’ll have some time...

[miuwa-miu]

berdly

[miuwa-miu]

Could you please make a Rohan x reader one where BOTH of them are mutual yanderes and are both complete freaks?

I actually got some specifics about the reader in the ficfic so here they are.

The reader is just as freaky and deranged as Rohan. The reader (who is also female) is also a famous writer who writes horror novels and Rohan once made a one-shot of her work.

She is also a stand user Who’s stand name is I Monster (named after the band, of course) who’s power allows her to possess people and objects and have them do whatever she wants. She can even possess other stands to have them fight against their own user. She eventually gets shot by the golden arrow but she was already a stand user at birth so it causes her stand to gain a new ability called “Who is She” (named after the I monster song, obviously) which allows her to copy the abilities of any stand she possesses, although she can only copy one ability at a time.

There are two types of possession that I Monster can do. Partial possession and full possession. Partial possession is is when the target is possessed but (if the target is a living being) is still conscious and still thinks that all of their actions actions are of their own will when in reality the reader is controlling them like a puppet. In fact, when the reader is Partially possessing something or someone, she actually makes hand movements that make her look like she’s puppeteering her target, and she actually kinda is, strings (that only other stand users can see) and all. She can actually partially possess multiple targets at once, although, she can currently only partially possess two targets and if she partially possesses any more then that she ends up getting exhausted. Fun fact, the reader actually used partial possession to kill Kira by partially possessing the ambulance driver into backing up onto Kira and running him over. Full possession is your classic type of possession where the reader basically enters the target’s body and takes full control of them. She can only fully possess one target at a time.

Not counting the strings, which glow a pretty violet color, I Monster doesn’t have a physical form, BTW.

The reader is EXTREMELY protective of Rohan (which Rohan doesn’t mind) and anyone who tries to harm him will HEAVILY pay the price. If it’s of of Rohan’s allies or “friends” (like Josuke or Koichi), she will let them live, but not without a severe beating (as with Josuke) or a good scolding (as with Koichi) but if the person would DARE try to hurt her Rohan was a complete stranger or an enemy, they will pay with their lives and would be killed in the most horrific and gruesome of ways. Rohan doesn’t mind this. In fact, he sometimes JOINS the reader in her vengeful, wrath fueled moments of carnage.

In terms of looks, the reader would have long, pointy nails and long, straight and silky, yet slightly messy hair with a slender build. She is also be on the taller side in terms of height and decently sized “front bumpers” [if you know what I mean (they’re medium large in a realistic way)] She’s very beautiful and attractive, but also incredibly creepy. Rohan considers the reader’s body proportions to be absolutely perfect and unlike anything he’s ever seen.

As said before, the reader is a famous writer who writes horror novels. The horror of these novels are usually gothic, yet also somehow Eldridge, psychological, and supernatural at the same time. It’s like a mix between World of Horror and Fear and Hunger (Those are both indie horror games and you can look them up if you don’t know what they are, just be prepared to see some really freaky sh*t, ESPECIALLY from Fear and Hunger) and these novels are NOT for the faint of heart. All her work is loved worldwide for its uniqueness, creativity, interesting tones, and overall quality. Rohan actually took some inspiration from one of the reader’s novels for a one-shot he made and even made a one-shot of one of the reader’s books itself.

In terms of personality, The reader is very intelligent and is incredibly hard to fool and outwit. Trying to play mind games with her would DEFINITELY end up backfiring HORRIBLY. She is also surprisingly kind and caring, unlike her lover, Rohan, although sometimes to an unnerving degree. She would DEFINITELY nurse any sick and/or injured baby bird she finds back to health. However, if that poor bird was already dead before she reaches it, that’s when things start getting a bit, disturbing.

The reader, obviously for the sake of her work, often dissects any dead animals she finds, whether they’re roadkill, victims of predation, or anything else. She would never kill or torture an animal or dissect them alive, that would be too cruel. THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE WHO HARMED HER DEAR ROHAN ARE FOR…

Talking with the reader, if one is even brave enough to do so, starts out surprisingly pleasant, but, eventually, and especially if you ask how she gets inspiration for her work (but it’s likely to happen with any conversation that’s had with her) things get really creepy as she starts talking about unsettling things and themes like human fear and it’s origins, lobotomy, insanity, torture, cannibalism, humanity’s lust for violence and the suffering of others, and other insane sh*t that would make anyone wonder how such a sweet and kind woman could be so messed up.

However, if you harm the reader’s beloved Rohan, her sweet and kind personality will disappear and she will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and she will see too it that the end of your existence by her hands will be a slow and excruciatingly painful. When in murder mode, the reader is extremely sadistic and unfeeling, only wanting to make you suffer the consequences of hurting her hunny bun. The reader’s victims are killed in extremely painful and horrifying ways and are GUARANTIED to leave a lot of blood and gore. In fact, some of the murders are ether from or end up appearing in the reader’s books (she’s a horror writer, remember?). Sometimes, and by I mean usually, she uses her stand, I Monster, to assist in the murder. Whether it’s possessing someone to kill the targeted victim (usually someone dear to the victim to add some extra emotional and psychological damage) or to possess the victim and/or the objects around the victim to have them die in a horrible “accident”. Sometimes, Rohan is allowed to join the reader in her “punishment servings”.

Due to her high intelligence, as well as her stand, the reader is always able to have the kills never be traced to her or Rohan and have no one ever suspect them, not even their closest friends.

In terms of ratings, for the ship relationship and romance, I prefer it to be G to T at highest. Rohan and the reader are implied to have had “intimate moments” before, but, other then that, I want most of their relationship to be SFW.

In terms of gore and violence, on the other hand, you can go as nuts as you want and don’t need to hold back, just as long as the gore doesn’t get sexual.

Also, bonus facts, the reader loves gardening and is AMAZING at housework, like cooking and cleaning. If the reader and Rohan are married (you don’t have to make them to), then the reader is DEFINITELY a housewife. The reader also loves sweet foods and desserts.

They’re both f*cked up psychopaths and they’re f*cked up psychopaths in love.

I want them to be in an established relationship but also briefly describing how they first met and when they fell in love and confessed to each other. Also, the reader was a novelist BEFORE they went, and later moved, to Morioh. The reader had originally planned on just going there to get some inspiration due to Morioh being supernatural phenomena central, but everything completely changed when she and Rohan met for the first time. It was freaky and f*cked up love at first sight. They have HEARD of each other and have seen each other’s works before, but it wasn’t until they physically met each other in the flesh that things started rolling along.

As for when the events of the fic take place, probably some time during or just a little bit after DiU.

Finally, after many problems, I managed to finish this. I really had a lot of complications (like having to rewrite it because I didn’t like the previous one-shot I made, and also my professional internship LOL). As always, the translation was done with external help, so if something doesn’t quite make sense in the text… phew, I’m just happy to have finished this. Without further ado, I leave you with the one-shot.

...

The Phone Stalker (yandere Kishibe Rohan x yandere Reader)

[Part 2]

...

The rain beat against the car’s glass, forming small streams that slowly slid down the windshield as the wipers brushed them away to keep the road in sight. The vehicle moved at a cautious speed along the wet highway, while the landscape glided past your eyes. The sky, meanwhile, was painted in shades of gray and blue; the wind shook the branches and leaves of the trees, making it clear that the weather was freezing. However, inside the car, the atmosphere was different: the warm air from the heater kept the interior at the perfect, comfortable temperature so that you wouldn’t worry about the cold. Beside you, focused on the steering wheel, was your husband: Rohan Kishibe.

The two of you were returning to Morioh once again, after your honeymoon. You could have stayed a few more days at the place where you had been lodging, but… the constant calls hadn’t let you enjoy your time together. The phone rang at least once a week. It was always you that he was after: a man with a heavy voice, spitting obscenities at you. No matter how many times you blocked him, he always found a way back, either with another number or through nearby phones.

....

As you gazed at the horizon, your thoughts drifted to the past, to that day when you first met him. The memory was so vivid that you could almost hear again the deep voice of the presenter, an elderly man who welcomed the audience from the stage. The crowd erupted into cheers, the excitement of people gathered there for one great reason: to meet their favorite creators. Yet, deep down, everyone knew who the true star of the event was—Rohan Kishibe, the most famous mangaka in the world.

However, there were also those who had come for you. Your gothic horror novels had caused quite a stir among readers. Dark, morbid, and fascinating, they had carved out a place in the hearts of the public—though not without controversy. You remembered the letters from outraged parents accusing you of corrupting the youth with your disturbing tales. You, on the other hand, had always answered calmly: it was not your responsibility to decide what other people’s children read.

Despite those controversies, your career had also given you good moments. Among them, the most important of all: meeting the man who now sat driving at your side—your beloved husband.

When you and Rohan first met, it was because he had taken the first step. After reading one of your novels, he was captivated. He could not bear the curiosity; he wanted to see you, to hear you, to confirm with his own eyes the existence of the person who had consumed his thoughts. Your stories had marked him in a strange, almost dangerous way. He had never read anything so alive. Your way of narrating, of dragging the reader into the tale, made anyone shudder and feel in their own flesh what your protagonists endured.

Suddenly, the sound of your phone shattered the steady murmur of the rain. The screen lit up the inside of the car, revealing a message from an unknown number: “When you get to Morioh, watch the local news.”

Before you could answer, the call ended abruptly, leaving behind a strange silence—almost uncomfortable.

“Such ridiculous persistence…” murmured Rohan, without taking his eyes off the road. His tone was calm, yet laced with that sharp irony so characteristic of him. “Do you think it deserves our attention… or am I just letting myself be carried away by boredom?”

You nodded slowly, still staring at the screen.

“Yes… but this time it was different. He asked us to watch the local news,” you said softly, sliding your finger across the screen before turning the phone off.

You lifted your gaze back to the road, and something caught your attention immediately. A dark, motionless shape stood out at the side of the road. The reflection of the headlights gave it a strange, almost unsettling outline.

“Rohan… wait,” you asked, your eyes fixed on the thing lying by the roadside. “Stop the car. There’s a bundle… right there.”

He slowed down without asking questions, with that controlled precision he always displayed, and pulled over to the side of the road. The rain drummed against the roof of the vehicle as you opened the door and stepped out, the cold air striking your face at once.

You walked toward the bundle, the wet pavement soaking the soles of your shoes. Your eyes fixed on the drenched figure. Behind you, you heard the driver’s door close softly. Rohan was following, though with less haste than you; he was pulling out his camera, as if he had already foreseen that this might become material worth capturing.

The bundle remained there, motionless, waiting under the rain.

A pitiful whimper broke the tension of the moment. The two of you exchanged a quick glance before stepping closer. When you lit it up with your phone’s flashlight, the truth revealed itself: it wasn’t trash, nor some discarded object… it was a puppy.

The little animal trembled, its leg twisted at an impossible angle. It breathed with difficulty, its tongue lolling between ragged pants, while small, heartbreaking cries slipped from its throat.

“Poor angel…” you whispered tenderly, leaning down to examine it with care. You extended your hand slowly, trying to soothe the creature that could barely move without trembling and howling in pain.

Rohan, on the other hand, didn’t share your instinct for immediate compassion. He had crouched down as well, but what he held in his hands wasn’t anything meant to help—it was his camera. The click of the shutter cut through the strained atmosphere.

“Interesting…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the wound. “The leg is broken at an impossible angle. This wasn’t a natural accident. It was dragged… or deliberately run over.”

You frowned, pressing your lips together. “Do you think someone abandoned it here? There’s nothing around… just trees and road.”

“It would seem so,” he replied with cold logic, adjusting the lens of his camera. “Move it a little. I need to capture the perspective of the wound. Every detail matters for my manga.”

“Of course.” With great care, you lifted the puppy and shifted it just enough for Rohan to take another shot. The camera’s flash briefly lit up the rain, like an artificial lightning bolt.

When the two of you were done, you didn’t hesitate to cradle the puppy in your arms. The animal whimpered softly, then nestled against your chest, seeking refuge in your warmth. Rohan put away his camera, returned to the car, and soon was back at the wheel, while you, in the passenger seat, held the little dog carefully, as if it were something fragile.

And yet, even as the tenderness of the moment occupied you, your mind inevitably drifted back to that call. That voice. That invisible intruder who had been haunting your life for the past two months. It wasn’t the first time, and you were certain it wouldn’t be the last.

You remembered clearly his obscene words, the disturbing comments in which he described, with sickening precision, what he would do to Rohan if he could have him in front of him. Each call was a poison seeping into your peace, a constant harassment that had become unbearable.

“I’ll lock you in a cage… and I’ll torture Rohan right in front of you, at least that way you’ll have inspiration for your next book.”

But you had sworn that would never happen. You had sworn to protect your husband, even if it meant getting your hands dirty to do it.

You knew the stalker was in the same town where Rohan had spent his childhood. Morioh—the same place where you had ended Kira Yoshikage’s life.

The violet ropes glinting, tightening between your fingers like puppet strings. The paramedic stepping back, confused, thinking he acted of his own volition. And then, the dull impact, the wet crunch. The ambulance reversing, crushing Kira’s head against the asphalt. No one ever knew it was you.

And just as it had been with Kira… it would be the same with this disgusting stalker, who dared to shatter the fragile peace you and Rohan had maintained.

That despicable being would learn the mistake of interfering in their lives. And when they finally caught him, he would regret having been born. That would be their promise, their sentence

(...)

Upon arriving at Rohan’s house, you followed to the letter what the mysterious voice on the phone had instructed: you turned on the television and put on the news. On the table, you improvised a small first-aid kit: disinfectant, gauze, bandages. With steady but careful hands, you cleaned the paw and immobilized it with a small homemade splint. The puppy trembled, but under your touch, it began to relax.

Just as you finished adjusting the bandage on its injured paw and placed it in a safe corner, a sound from the television in the room caught your attention. The presenter’s voice carried through the walls, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. You stood up, wiping your hands on a cloth, and walked toward the television.

The screen cast a bluish glow across the room, illuminating your face as you approached. There was the presenter, serious, his voice heavy with urgency:

“And in other breaking news… a body has been reported inside the storage area of a local school. So far, no suspects have been identified. Witnesses and experts suggest that this macabre incident may have been inspired by the famous psychological horror novel by author (Your Name) Kishibe, whose story is also set in a high school. What we can say with certainty is that this case is capturing the attention of the entire community, and investigations are ongoing…”

The rest of the sentence was lost to you. Everything around you began to fade. The presenter’s voice turned into a blurred murmur, as if coming from far away. Your vision narrowed into a dark tunnel, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway like the deck of a ship in the middle of the sea.

How did he know? With what intentions had he done this? What was he trying to do? Get your attention? This man knew what you were doing; he was watching you in some way. You thought there was a high probability that this man was a Stand user. What chilled you to the bone was the way he seemed to anticipate every single one of your steps.

A torrent of rage coursed through your body. You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your palms. You kept pressing until you felt the sharp pain, until the skin tore beneath your nails. Blood began to trickle slowly, sliding down your hands in thick drops that fell to the floor, staining it a dark red. Each drop was a silent vow of what you would do to him when you finally found him.

Your mind went to that chapter of your book—the scene where the killer stuffed the victim into the theater workshop storage to “hide” the crime, or rather, to mock the police. He passed the corpse off as a mere mannequin. The fiction you had once created now seemed to bleed into reality, and the world, all at once…

Strangely, the idea that someone was bringing your book to life did not terrify you. No, what truly ignited your thoughts was the intrusion into your territory, the direct threat to the safety and peace of Rohan… and yours. The thought of confronting anyone who dared to reproduce your story in flesh and bone did not fill you with fear; it sent a delicious, sadistic shiver down your spine.

If anyone thought they could threaten Rohan, they were playing with fire. And you already knew what to do. Because protecting him was not just instinct… it was a work of art in itself, perfect and as calculated as any plot from your darkest, most bizarre novels.

You startled as firm hands settled on your shoulders, but when you turned, the tension melted immediately: it was Rohan. You sighed with relief and wrapped your arms around him, resting your forehead against his chest.

Rohan tilted his face and buried his head in the hollow of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, as if he wanted to memorize it in silence. His warm breath brushed against your skin, while his hands touched your waist, pulling you closer. It was a possessive, intense embrace—so unmistakably his.

“When we catch that depraved man,” he murmured in a low voice, yet laden with a coldness that contrasted with the warmth of his touch, “believe me, when I catch him, there will be nowhere for him to hide from what’s waiting. Every disgusting word, every attempt to bother… I’ll make him pay. And I’m not talking about a simple scolding.”

It was the kind of declaration only Rohan could make: brutal in content, yet inexplicably reassuring coming from him.

Rohan didn’t respond with words. He simply tilted his face and sought your lips. The kiss started gentle but soon became more intense, a passionate surrender where every touch and every sigh proved how deeply connected you were.

But then Rohan noticed your wounded hands.

He took your hand and frowned at the sight of the injuries. “Tch… careless,” he muttered. “Wait a moment.”

He searched the room for a sheet of paper, and when he couldn’t find one at hand, he gently tugged you toward his study.

“Place your hand on the desk,” he ordered as he turned on the work lamp.

He retrieved a blank sheet and, without asking further permission, began moving his pencil across the paper swiftly.

“Before I treat this… I need to capture it. The texture of your injured skin, the contrast… it would be a waste not to record it.”

(...)

The sun barely filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting golden lines that sliced through the gloom in thin rays across the floor and walls of the house. The light delicately illuminated every corner, yet it failed to dispel the tension hanging in the air: a palpable, almost electric tension. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of the breakfast you had prepared, but neither the smell nor the routine could soothe the restlessness coursing through you from head to toe.

In the kitchen, you and Rohan were surrounded by stacks of papers, printed photographs, open folders, and a whiteboard propped on a chair, covered with notes and diagrams illegible to any casual observer.

All morning, you had worked without pause, trying to decipher the identity of that mysterious stalker. Every photograph, every news clipping, and every note on the whiteboard was a piece of a puzzle that seemed to shift shape as you assembled it.

And as your hands moved over the papers, a memory resurfaced, so vivid you could almost hear it: the calls. That perverse voice, describing with sickening precision what they would do to Rohan if they ever had him in front of them. Their words were filled with contempt, yet also carried an unsettling knowledge of your routine. They said disgusting things, insults aimed directly at you, as if they knew your mind as well as the palm of their hand.

You laughed, because you were not someone who feared. Quite the opposite: you felt a cold delight imagining what would await that miserable person if they ever dared to cross the line.

Rohan, meanwhile, maintained the calm characteristic of his personality, his sharp gaze analyzing every photograph, every corner of the apartment, while adjusting the angle of his camera or jotting notes on the whiteboard. Despite his apparent serenity, you could feel his contained tension. And that pleased you. Because while he planned with surgical precision how to unmask the stalker, you planned what you would do when you finally caught them.

And you, holding your cup of coffee and leaning against the table, couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Every move the stalker made, every disturbing call, every attempt at intimidation… only brought you closer to the catharsis you were destined to deliver.

(...)

A few days had passed. You were in the kitchen, preparing tea for yourself and Rohan. You picked up some chamomile sprigs between your delicate fingers; the sound of the water boiling in the kettle filled the room with a soft, rhythmic whistle. You carefully placed the sprigs in the infuser, and little by little, they began to release their fragrance, filling the kitchen with a warm, comforting aroma.

As the tea steeped, your mind wandered. On your way to the station, you had seen a dead bird; surely tomorrow you would collect it to dissect. It was a habit of yours: learning from every small corpse you found, opening it with surgical precision and studying it, analyzing its composition and anatomy. A routine that brought you peace while simultaneously awakening a curious fascination with the fragility of life.

When the tea was ready, you poured it at the table. Rohan was seated, absorbed in a geology book; according to him, the knowledge would be useful for his manga. You both held your cups carefully, inhaling the aroma before taking a sip, and briefly discussed the situation with the stalker who had been bothering you.

“I need to go to the library to find a specific book… will you come with me?” Rohan asked, without lifting his eyes from his reading.

You nodded, placing your cup on the table. It was then, as you took a sip, that you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. You pulled it out and saw it was an unknown number. Almost automatically, you answered, bringing it to your ear—and heard that voice again: a slow, heavy, deliberate breathing that ran along the line like a chill.

“Good afternoon, (Name). Are you alone?”

You excused yourself to Rohan, stood up from the table, and moved to a secluded spot. “Yes, I am.”

“Great… You see, I’d like to propose a deal. Look, I’ve been a fan of yours since you started publishing your books… I’ve bought every single one, followed you from the very beginning, even before you met… Kishibe Rohan.”

“My husband.”

“Yes…”

“Get to the point.”

“I propose to return peace to both of you, but in exchange… I want you to come with me somewhere, just to talk in person.”

“Can you tell me why?”

(...)

Both of you left the house, the afternoon breeze gently moving your hair as you walked toward the library. For a moment, everything seemed calm. Until you heard voices approaching on the sidewalk.

“Miss (your name), how are you? It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Okuyasu said with a casual smile, but his tone was far too familiar for your liking. You immediately felt the tension rise around you, but you stayed composed and gave him a smile. “Yes, very well, and yes, it is a lovely day.”

Rohan frowned as he saw him; it was clear he didn’t like their presence. He looked away. “Just great… that idiot Okuyasu and that brute Josuke…” he thought. “Good afternoon,” he said aloud.

“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Rohan. How’s the manga coming along?” said Okuyasu.

“Fine.” Rohan turned to look at Josuke, who was staring elsewhere, hands in his pockets, ignoring him as if he were a professional rival.

“Although I doubt you understand my work,” Rohan added in a contemptuous tone, still staring at Josuke. “It’s not exactly for simple minds.”

Rohan crossed his arms, watching Josuke, waiting for him to say something. “Aren’t you going to greet me?”

Josuke cleared his throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Higashikata… you know very well. But I don’t need details. I just hoped your courtesy wasn’t as dysfunctional as your sense of style.”

“Whatever you say, Rohan. Surely you’re too ‘deep’ for anyone normal to understand you, right?” Josuke looked at Rohan with a challenging smile.

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Higashikata? Is the hair salon closed? Your hairstyle looks even more ridiculous than usual.”

Josuke clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking under the pressure. For a moment, his Stand seemed to appear. “What did you just say…?”

The air turned tense. Okuyasu took a step back, not wanting to get involved in this charged moment, recognizing the dangerous aura that usually precedes a disaster he wanted to avoid today.

But then Josuke glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. A fleeting memory crossed his mind: your serene, icy smile, your fingers moving as if you were a puppeteer… and the burning pain of that beating he still couldn’t forget. It stayed in his mind as if it were a trauma—an unforgettable experience.

Josuke sighed, looking away. “…Forget it. I’m not getting into trouble with you today, Rohan.”

“Thought so. At least you have some sense,” Rohan replied.

Josuke spun around sharply and pulled Okuyasu along to continue on their way.

Okuyasu followed Josuke, somewhat confused and uncomfortable. “Uh… well, see you then. Goodbye, Miss (your name)!”

And so, with the tension still lingering in the air, the three went their separate ways.

(...)

After your visit to the library and returning home, you didn’t tell Rohan about the stalker; you didn’t want to worry him. That morning, you had already noticed him stressed: his editor had made changes to his manga without notifying him, and they had argued for a while before reaching an agreement. That meant he would have to review and edit the dialogues again.

You watched him for a few minutes before leaving the house, working in a hurry, scribbling endlessly. Nothing too serious, really. It’s not like the whole universe was going to restart or something.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t help Rohan for now. But it didn’t matter—you would pay a visit to the editor later…

…

A message arrived with an address on the outskirts of Morioh, almost at the edge of the forest. You arrived at exactly ten o'clock. Nothing in your expression betrayed nervousness; rather, there was a sickly calm.

You reached the agreed-upon location by car. The streetlight illuminated the entrance to a half-empty warehouse. Inside, the man waited, shifting nervously, wearing an uneasy smile.

“I’m glad you came…” he said, in a tone meant to sound confident but that faltered at times. “I thought you might be scared.”

You simply stared at him in silence. Your gaze was so cold that the stalker grew uncomfortable, swallowing hard.

“You’re not going to speak… huh?” he continued. “Look, I just want you to understand one thing. I love you and I could be better than Rohan in many ways, if you give me the chance to prove it… you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

You made a gesture with your hand, signaling him to shut up. “I’m not interested in what you’re capable of.” Your voice was soft but concealed a cold, deadly irritation. “I didn’t come here for that.”

The stalker blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

You stepped closer, and in that instant, the fine violet strands of your Stand began to manifest, barely visible in the darkness, like puppet strings.

“You called me, gave me this address, threatened me,” you pressed a finger against his chest with an almost delicate motion. “In reality, you just handed me the perfect stage.”

“Stage? What are you—”

The stalker hesitated as he saw the fine violet threads spreading around his body, barely visible in the shadows. He tried to move, but his feet felt glued to the ground, as if the strings held him firmly in place. And suddenly, he lost awareness of what he was doing…

Your voice rose, soft, calm, like a lethal whisper: “Remember when I said death could be an art?” You placed a finger on your chin and looked away thoughtfully. “I think I said it in an interview. You should know… you’re my biggest fan. Remember? Today, you’ll see one of my stories… live.”

As you spoke, one of the strings of your Stand, I Monster, wrapped around his wrist, another around his neck. You could feel the man’s racing pulse, his eyes wide, filled with terror, not understanding what was happening…

“Let’s see…” you murmured, “…how my favorite character ends.”

His movements became clumsy and grotesque. Your invisible threads forced him to lift a pencil that lay in the pocket of his coat. His hands, still believing they acted of their own volition, obeyed your commands. With a shuddering tremor, he brought the pencil toward his eye, his fingers shaking as the pain began.

“As I said in the book…” you continued, while his flesh yielded to the pressure of the sharp object, “…every heartbeat counts when life slowly fades away.”

The pencil pierced, penetrating the eyeball, and the man screamed instinctively in agony.

“Silence… listen to me.”

You silenced him with a single movement of your fingers. Your partial control prevented him from moving, leaving him only to writhe in indescribable pain. The muffled screams filled the warehouse, but there was no one to come to his aid. Every movement was dictated by your threads, torturing his body as if he were a puppet.

As the blood flowed, hot and thick, you observed every gesture of agony. His face contorted, his pale lips trembled, and the intact eye frantically followed you. Without stopping your observation, you narrated in detail: “…and so, on the last page, his bleeding eye reflected the betrayal of his own arrogance. Despair was his only gift, pain his eternity.”

The man finally collapsed to the ground, the pencil still embedded, groaning as his blood painted a crimson map across the concrete. His labored breathing and the metallic scent filled the space. There was no escape. I Monster maintained every muscle under your command, every spasm of pain, every groan of horror.

But you didn’t let him die… that would have been too easy, too indulgent for what he truly deserved. Your mind had already decided the next step. With a cold and precise movement, you dragged the trembling body to the car; the man could barely stay conscious, but his fear became part of your control. You threw him forcefully into the trunk, and the impact caused the vehicle to jerk, a metallic shudder echoing in your ears.

You got into the car and started the engine. As you drove home, his restrained breathing and weak pleas accompanied you, reminding you that the danger he posed to Rohan had been contained.

You already knew what to do… and you and Rohan could finally relax and put your new test subject to good use… your stalker had gone from a man to a test subject.

…

No one missed him, no one looked for him, no one thought of him… He had been a lonely man who had found a faint warm light in your novels, a sick obsession with understanding you, with wanting to be part of your world. And he did… but not in the way he expected. By attempting to threaten the stability you shared with your husband, he only brought about his own end.

Today, he could say goodbye to the world in the most painful way imaginable… or perhaps tomorrow—everything would depend on how long the torture he brought upon himself lasted.

This is the end. Honestly, I was already eager to finish it. It was tough having to redo everything I had — the sketches, the notes, the timelines. I ended up having to cut the story down a lot, otherwise I never would’ve finished it haha.

buenas noches cabros... me voy a dormir, cuidense... les doy un besito donde no les llega el sol CTM.

[miuwa-miu]

Hallo!! :3

i saw your request were open and this is my first time requesting so I'm kinda nervous.

I was wondering if you could do a Bill Dickey X Reader, Reader is his childhood friend and it's kinda a "I have everyone except you" thing?

Also if you could make it like a club reunion, they're playing DnD and Bill keeps being a baby about Reader HAVING to be his character's love interest?

Thanks in advance!!! Have a great day!!!

Hiya, Here’s the blessed creation, and don’t be nervous haha. This is actually my first time posting a fanfic on this platform too, so I totally get why you’re nervous. Sorry if some of my English sounds off—it’s not very good. I really had fun writing this, even though it was a bit tricky imagining Bill throwing a tantrum like a baby over the reader, but I did my best. I think I might’ve strayed a little from the original idea I had, but I hope you enjoy it!

...

I have everything except you.

Since you were very young, you stayed by Bill’s side and became his support, the person he trusted. That meant listening to him for hours as he vented, repeating over and over that everyone else was an idiot. Sometimes he even gave you little things he had stolen from stores; in fact, once he brought you a keychain of one of your favorite characters.

You saw how his mother treated him. Whenever you went to his house, you could hear her scolding him from outside, softening only slightly when she realized you had arrived. It’s true: she insulted him, and that hurt you. It hurt to see him go through that; maybe that’s why you never left his side. He was a broken person, though he hid it all beneath a mask of arrogance. Too much arrogance.

Aside from that, afternoons with him were fun. Sometimes, as children, you played in his room, other times in the basement. Some days you would just watch TV or read the comics he kept; on others, Bill would improvise reviews of movies. Like any kids, you also played hide and seek and other typical games.

You remember one time, while playing, you both accidentally broke one of his mother’s belongings. She got angry at you both, though it was him who bore the brunt of her scolding. Back then it was sad, but now you can only laugh at how ridiculous you both looked, with tears and snot running down your faces. Even now, recalling it makes you chuckle.

It’s true that, over the years, he changed: he became more narcissistic, arrogant, and bossy. What had once been the venting of an insecure child turned into constant attacks on others. He was no longer content just telling you that everyone was an idiot—now he shouted it, imposed it, and needed everyone to accept it as an undeniable truth.

And you were a witness to that change. Being one of the first and few people who ever approached him and stayed by his side, accepting him, you created in Bill a silent dependence. He would never admit it—his pride wouldn’t allow it—but he kept you close because you were his only refuge. You never belittled him, never treated him like a freak. To him, that meant more than he could ever put into words.

Bill was a coward: he only revealed his true self once he felt comfortable. With strangers he was reserved, almost shy, and with women even more so; he avoided talking to them, and when he did, he masked his nervousness with mockery or hurtful remarks. With you, however, sometimes—and only sometimes—he allowed glimpses of that broken boy, afraid of not being loved, who had learned to protect himself behind armor made of sarcasm and superiority.

Now you are in the basement, which today looks so different from how you remembered it. It’s filled with collectible figures, comics, and various items Bill had gathered over time—many of which you had contributed to with gifts and small details. You remember those arguments about where a poster would look better, or the time you both screamed after spotting a cockroach. You had never seen Bill so scared, and in the end it was you who had to take care of it.

[…]

Josh grabbed his head, frustrated “I’m stuck, Pete! NOOO! There are three demon wolves together here, damn it. PETE!!! NOOO!”

“Nah, no way. Dude, no, that can’t be. How the hell are there three of them together there, you idiot?” Pete replied.

“Come on, what do I do?” Josh shouted.

Bill, annoyed, crossed his arms “You guys can’t do anything, just a bunch of monkeys here.”

Josh shot back immediately “Shut up, dumbass. You’re worth nothing.” “But my character is superior. I carried you guys, you all owe me one.”

Josh cut him off “Give me a break, Bill. You can’t say your character’s the shit when it was your fault we ran into a dragon and wasted half our ammo, you damn rat.”

Bill raised his voice in defense “BUT THAT WAS JUST ONCE! At least I didn’t burn the horses last session.”

From his DM chair, Jerry gestured with his hand “Alright, Josh, describe your attempt to face them… and roll the dice.”

Josh made his attempt, rolled the dice, and… failed. That’s when you decided to step in, with a confident smile “Hold on a second, I’m not letting those wolves eat Josh.”

Jerry nodded “Alright then, state your action and roll.”

You chose to cast your spell to distract the wolves and give Josh time to retreat. You added your Charisma modifier, nervously grabbed the dice, rolled them, and… total success. The wolves howled in confusion and backed away, giving Josh the chance to escape. “Nice one, (Name), thanks for the save,” Josh said, wide-eyed.

Bill couldn’t help but butt in, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow “That was luck, literally just luck, Josh. Can we move on now?”

Jerry continued narrating the adventure until you reached an ancient ruined palace, its walls carved with prophecies. After some exploration and dice rolls, it turned out your character was a descendant of a powerful valkyrie, which gave both you and the group a huge advantage. Things were going relatively well… until, by the story’s nature, your character was forced to marry one of the knights in order to fight alongside him in battle.

Bill, arms crossed and wearing his usual authoritarian glare, broke the silence “Alright, listen up. My character can’t triumph without a competent, brave, and obviously perfect romantic partner. And since (Name) fits all of those requirements… exactly, (Name) has to marry my character. Period.”

Pete rolled his eyes “But Bill, your character already has other options in the story.”

Bill shot him a murderous glare, answering in a sharp, arrogant tone “You don’t understand the strategic complexity of the fucking story. If my character marries anyone else, I lose the secret +2 leadership bonus. Yes, I know, I’m a tactical genius and you’re all complete idiots for not seeing it.”

Josh threw up his hands in disbelief “And what if (Name) doesn’t want to?”

Bill grew dramatic, arms crossed as he huffed in disdain “Impossible! You don’t get it. My character needs this marriage. It’s for the good of the group, damn it! Besides, we all know my plan will bring glory, riches, and everything you’ll never achieve… and also… well, yeah, my character looks way more heroic, because obviously he’s the one who knows how to do things better than anyone.”

Pete sighed, exasperated “Enough, Bill… why are you so obsessed with marrying (Name)?”

Bill felt the blood rush to his face. His hands started sweating, and he stammered as he lowered his head for a moment “I-I’m not obsessed with it! Look… it’s just… since I’m the one who led you all here, I think it would be good… beneficial for everyone if I take that role. A-also… I knew (Name) first, and you wouldn’t have a damn clue how to treat her. You don’t even know how to play, so it’s better if I do it.”

For a long while, Bill tried to explain himself, but every word sounded clumsier than the last. He invented “strategic” reasons to justify what was clearly pure ego and stubbornness, insisting his choice was vital for the group’s success. As he spoke, a strange heat rose in his face; a blush he tried to disguise behind his usual frown. Feeling your eyes on him, he grew visibly uncomfortable but muttered under his breath that his blush was nothing more than “annoyance at being surrounded by such an incompetent group that doesn’t understand his perfect plan.”

“You don’t get it! My plan is perfect and none of you have the slightest clue what I’m doing! If anyone else makes this decision, everything falls apart!”

His voice rose, until in a burst of pure drama, he threatened to quit the game “If you don’t let me do this my way… I’m leaving. And you’ll see everything crumble without my leadership. You incompetent fools are useless without me.”

Deep down, Bill was convinced he was the only one worthy of you, and that you were the only one who truly understood him. The idea of one of his “monkey” friends getting close to you filled him with outrage: how dare they? You had always been there, his support, and no one else had the right to take that place.

Every word, every clumsy justification, was steeped in childish pride and possessiveness. Your trust in him made him feel both powerful and vulnerable at once. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking the role that, in his mind, belonged only to him. And as his dramatic monologue went on, arms crossed and jaw tight, Bill convinced himself more and more that only he had the perfect combination of courage, intelligence, and experience to guide and protect you. Everyone else was just an obstacle to his grand plan.

What began as a rivalry for your affection had turned into a battle for Bill’s emotional survival. Every word from his friends felt like an attack on his worth. When they questioned his “perfect plan” or suggested someone else might be more deserving of you, Bill didn’t see it just as romantic competition—he took it as a direct attack on his leadership and his very identity.

His face turned red with restrained rage, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. He suddenly stood up, slamming his fists on the table, making the action figures rattle. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW!? I’m the only one who understands how this works! Nobody else has the strategic vision I do!”

His voice echoed through the basement, charged with fury, as if he were about to explode. “If it weren’t for me, you’d all be dead in the first dungeon! I’m the leader here, and you’re just incompetent followers!”

His friends tried to respond, but Bill cut them off with disdain, ignoring their words like buzzing flies. “You talk about dignity? I’M the one with dignity! I’m the only one who deserves to be with (Name)! What do you know about sacrifice and strategy? NOTHING!”

The room fell silent, broken only by Bill’s ragged breathing. His chest rose and fell heavily as he searched for a way to justify his fury. “You don’t get it… nobody gets it… I’m the only one who can save you all…” he muttered, collapsing into his chair. “If it weren’t for me, you’d all be dead in the first dungeon…” he repeated, defeated.

But everything ended abruptly when Bill’s mother, with her usual thunderous voice, came down the stairs to scold him for the noise. “William! Tell your friends to shut up, I’m trying to meditate! Raise your voices one more time and you’re all out of here!”

The basement went dead silent. Everyone froze in their seats, trapped like prey in an invisible snare. The air grew dense and heavy.

Josh and Pete exchanged looks, suppressing their laughter and bewilderment. You, meanwhile, couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as you looked at Bill… petrified.

He lowered his head, face red with shame and bottled-up anger, stammering out rushed apologies “Y-yes, Mom… sorry… it won’t happen again…”

It was impossible to reconcile the haughty, dramatic Bill who had dominated the game with the fearful child in front of his mother. For a moment, everyone forgot about the wolves, the forced marriage, the valkyrie prophecy. The adventure, the dice, the game… all of it vanished.

All that was left was Bill: small and defeated, facing the relentless authority of his mother.

Sorry if there’s something you don’t understand, I translated it using specialized applications for that. Thanks for reading

[miuwa-miu]

¡Requests open!

ᓚᘏᗢ After years of reading character x reader fanfics on Tumblr, I finally decided to start writing myself. Since I’m new at this, I ask for your patience lol.

ᓚᘏᗢ These are the fandoms I’ll be writing for:

HxH

Tokyo Revengers

Shuumatsu no Valkyrie

Death Note

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure (up to Part 7)

Mystic Messenger

Deltarune/Undertale (and AUs)

Welcome to Eltingville / The Eltingville club

Creepypastas

ᓚᘏᗢ AUs/Special dynamics:

Omegaverse, alternate universes, non-human dynamics, monster x reader, hybrids, mermaids, vampires, selkies, werewolves, etc.

ᓚᘏᗢ Things I won’t write:

Adult x Minor

Incest (romantic/sexual family relationships)

Zoophilia (relationships with animals)

Extra fact: I’m not a native English speaker and I’m not very fluent in this language, so sometimes I’ll use apps to help translate into English (✿◡‿◡)