Night settles over Republic City in soft layers, dimming the windows and turning the rooftops silver beneath the moon. By the time the lanterns outside your room have burned low, the house has gone quiet in that way it only does after a long day,quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of your own breathing, quiet enough that even your thoughts seem to move more slowly.
You sit on the bed with your feet tucked beneath you and one hand resting on the curve of your stomach. The baby has been restless all evening, shifting with little nudges that make you smile despite the tired ache in your back.
Aang is still in the doorway, half inside and half out, as if he has just come from another world and is trying to decide how gently to return to yours.
“You should be lying down,” he says for the third time in ten minutes.
You lift your eyes to him. “I am lying down.”
He glances pointedly at the very upright way you are sitting. “That is not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
He sighs, but the expression on his face is soft. He sets aside the basket he brought in from the kitchen and crosses the room in a few quiet steps, his bare feet soundless against the floorboards. Even now, after all these years, there is something almost unreal about how easily he moves, how the world seems to part for him.
He kneels beside the bed and rests a hand over yours on your stomach.
“Any movement?” he asks.
You smile. “A little. Mostly earlier.”
Aang leans closer, as though listening to the shape of your answer. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he says, “Well. I would like to file a formal complaint.”
You laugh under your breath. “Against whom?”
“The baby. I am trying very hard to be interesting, and they keep ignoring me.”
You arch a brow. “Maybe they are sleeping.”
Aang’s mouth twitches. “That’s impossible. They always wake up when I talk.”
“You say that like it isn’t one of your favorite things.”
“It is one of my favorite things,” he admits, entirely unapologetic.
He looks so earnest saying it that your heart gives one of those small, helpless aches it has been doing more and more lately. You reach up and brush your thumb lightly over his cheek.
“Then talk to them,” you say.
His face shifts,just a little. Not nervous exactly. More thoughtful. More careful. Since the pregnancy began, Aang has carried himself differently around you, not because he fears you are fragile, but because he is constantly aware that every small action now matters to more than just the two of you. He has become gentler in the sweetest, most natural way.
He glances at your stomach, then back at your face, as if asking permission without words.
When you nod, he settles more comfortably on the floor beside the bed and lets one hand rest low against the curve of you. The baby answers almost at once with a slow little nudge, and Aang’s face lights up in surprise every single time, as though he cannot believe he still gets to witness this.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
Another movement follows, firmer this time.
Aang’s eyes widen. “Did you feel that?”
“I felt that,” you say, smiling.
He grins like he has just won a great and secret victory. “They heard me.”
You give him a look. “They also heard me telling them to stop kicking my ribs an hour ago, and that did not help.”
“Maybe they like my voice better.”
You laugh. “That is a dangerous level of confidence for a man talking to a bump.”
He leans in and kisses your knee through the blanket. “I have earned this confidence. Every time I speak, they move.”
“Maybe they are just reacting to your endless monologues.”
Aang places a hand over his chest in mock injury. “These are not monologues. These are lessons.”
“Lessons in what?”
He lifts one shoulder. “In life.”
You groan softly and lay back against the pillows, though your smile never fades. Aang watches you settle, then reaches to adjust the blanket over your legs with meticulous care before looking back at your stomach as if it is the most important audience in the world.
“All right,” he says quietly. “Lesson number one.”
The baby shifts almost immediately.
You blink. “Well, that is unfair.”
He flashes you a small, victorious smile and begins.
“When I was your age,” he says, his voice warm and low in the hush of the room, “I liked to climb anything I wasn’t supposed to. Roofs. Temple walls. Trees. One time I climbed the highest storage shelf in the kitchen at the Southern Air Temple because Monk Gyatso said I needed to learn patience.”
You hear the fondness in his voice instantly.
Aang looks down, smiling to himself as if the memory has become visible there. “I thought I was being very clever. I got all the way up there and found a whole stack of dried pears. I was so happy I nearly fell off.”
The baby gives a soft, definite nudge.
Aang’s eyes brighten. “See? They approve.”
You snort. “Or they already know you were a menace.”
“I was a charming menace.”
“Debatable.”
He turns to you with an offended little huff, but the look is ruined by the grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on the baby’s side.”
His expression turns scandalized. “My own family has been turned against me.”
You laugh, and he smiles at the sound before looking back toward your stomach.
“Anyway,” he says, gentler now, “Monk Gyatso found me up there and didn’t even look angry. He just asked if I was going to share.”
The room quiets around the memory.
Aang’s hand remains steady on your stomach as his thumb traces absent circles there. “That was Gyatso,” he continues. “He never made me feel bad for wanting to explore. He just made sure I learned how to do it safely.”
The baby moves again, slower this time, as if settling into the sound of his voice.
Aang notices it too. He always does.
“I think they like stories,” he says.
“They like your stories,” you correct.
His eyes flick up to yours. “Even better.”
He takes a breath and continues, “When the Air Nomads were celebrating, they used to hang streamers from the temple courtyards and ring bells all through sunset. Not loud bells. Soft ones. The kind that sounded like the wind touching metal.”
His voice becomes almost reverent. “Everything smelled like tea and incense and warm bread. The monks would let us run around with painted faces if it was a festival. My friends and I used to race through the cloisters pretending we were sky bison crossing the clouds.”
You can see it as he speaks,the old temples, bright and alive, full of laughter and movement. You have heard stories from him before, of course, but never like this. Not with the same quiet intention. Not with this tender certainty, as if he is trying to pass pieces of a lost world to the smallest person he knows.
“What were they like?” you ask softly.
He glances up. “My friends?”
You nod.
Aang smiles in a way that makes him look younger. “Sokka would have called them all ‘little air weirdos’ within five minutes, and I would have defended them with my life.”
That makes you laugh.
Aang’s smile widens. “Katara would have been patient with everyone, which would have made her terrifying in a completely different way. Toph would have hated the robes and then insisted on climbing the tallest building in the temple just because she could.”
You hum. “And Zuko?”
Aang pretends to think. “Zuko would say he wasn’t impressed, then get very invested in the history anyway.”
You laugh again, more quietly this time, and Aang’s expression softens as he watches you. He keeps speaking after that, voice easy and low.
“There was this one boy named Meelo,”
You snort so suddenly that Aang breaks off mid-sentence.
“What?” he asks.
You cover your mouth, eyes wide with amusement. “You said that like you just made up a future nickname.”
He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “No, no, he was real. Well, not that Meelo. Different Meelo.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“It’s not worse.” He grins. “It’s just confusing.”
“You are about to confuse your child in the womb.”
“That child is going to be brilliant.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of us,” he says, immediately and sincerely, and the answer makes something warm bloom in your chest.
The baby moves again, more insistently this time, and Aang places both hands over your stomach now as if he wants to hold the whole moment still.
“There,” he whispers. “I know. I’m still talking.”
His expression shifts as he thinks, and when he speaks again, his voice changes subtly,lighter, more playful.
“Appa, of course, was the best of all of us. He was patient when none of the monks were, and he always knew when someone needed comfort.”
At the mention of Appa, the baby gives another unmistakable kick.
You gasp softly. “Oh.”
Aang freezes, then beams. “Did you feel that?”
“I definitely felt that.”
His eyes are suddenly wide with delighted disbelief. “They like Appa.”
“I mean, who doesn’t?”
Aang leans down and kisses your stomach through the blanket. “Exactly.”
He is smiling so much now that it almost hurts to look at him.
“Appa used to let me fall asleep on his saddle when I was too tired to make it back to my room,” he says. “Sometimes he’d even lay down just a little lower so I wouldn’t tumble off.”
You watch him with quiet affection. “You miss him.”
His smile softens. “Every day.”
The room settles into a stillness again. Outside, the city hums faintly in the distance, but here the world feels small and private, made entirely of lamplight and breathing and the space between the two of you. Aang’s fingers move in slow circles over your stomach, and the baby, as if lulled by the rhythm, begins to quiet.
“Do they calm down when I’m here?” he asks.
“You seem to think that’s always about you.”
He gives you an innocent look. “It often is.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, glancing down at your stomach, “they seem to agree with me.”
You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.
He falls silent for a while after that, as if listening not only to the baby but to something deeper in himself. When he speaks again, the softness in his voice makes you turn your head.
“I used to wonder,” he says, “when I was young, whether I’d ever be able to give someone stories like that.”
You study him. “What do you mean?”
He looks down at his hands. “The Air Nomads were gone. My childhood was gone. So much of what I remembered felt like it might disappear if I didn’t keep saying it out loud.”
His thumb stops moving for a moment, then starts again.
“I think that’s why I keep talking to them,” he admits. “Because I want them to know where they come from. I want them to know there was once a whole world of people who loved the sky, and movement, and laughter, and sharing. I want them to know that I remember.”
Your chest tightens.
You reach for him, and he takes your hand without hesitation, turning it palm-up and kissing your knuckles before resting it over his heart.
“They’ll know,” you say quietly.
He looks up.
“They’ll know because you’ll tell them. Because I’ll tell them. Because every piece of it you carry is still alive if someone loves it enough to speak it.”
Aang’s eyes shine in the dim light.
For a moment he says nothing at all. Then he smiles with that tender, slightly disbelieving look he gets when something too beautiful has just been said to him.
“You always know what to say,” he murmurs.
You snort softly. “I spent the first half of this pregnancy being sick and crying at bread commercials. Don’t give me too much credit.”
That makes him laugh, and the sound loosens the ache in your chest just enough for you to breathe.
Then his face shifts again as he looks toward your stomach.
“Do you know what else I want to tell them?” he asks.
“Dangerous question.”
He ignores that with a grin. “I want to tell them about the sky.”
You settle back against the pillows and listen.
“When I was little,” he says, “I thought the sky was endless because that made me feel less small. Then I grew up and realized that it was endless because it had room for everything. Wind. Clouds. Storms. Birds. Airships. Appa.” He glances up at you briefly. “Us.”
The baby stirs once, as if responding to the word.
Aang continues, “Whenever I’m overwhelmed, I still look up. It helps. The sky doesn’t ask me to be perfect. It just is. It keeps going.”
His voice turns softer still, threaded through with affection. “I want our child to know that. I want them to know they can always look up and remember there’s room for them in the world.”
You feel tears prick the corners of your eyes, sudden and unwelcome and impossible to fight. Aang notices at once.
“Hey,” he says gently, shifting closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you manage, laughing a little through the emotion. “You’re just being painfully sweet.”
He smiles, relieved and embarrassed in equal measure. “Oh.”
“You should be warned,” you say, wiping at one eye, “your child is going to be unbearable if they inherit this.”
Aang chuckles and presses a kiss to your temple. “I hope they inherit your stubbornness too.”
“Why?”
“Because then they’ll survive me.”
You make a disbelieving noise. “Aang, you are not difficult to survive.”
He gives you a look. “I have been difficult my entire life.”
“You were a temple problem as a child, and now you’re a public menace as an adult.”
He looks scandalized again. “Public menace?”
“You kiss me in courtyards.”
He smiles, not even pretending not to be pleased. “That was a very good kiss.”
You cannot argue with that, so you do not try.
A small movement ripples under his hand, then another. He goes completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach with such fierce gentleness that it nearly undoes you. The baby nudges again, and this time Aang lets out a soft, stunned laugh.
“There you are,” he whispers.
He bends lower, almost as if he wants to press his forehead against you and the baby at once.
“I think they know I’m here,” he says.
“I think they probably do by now.”
Aang smiles, then lifts his gaze to yours. “I’m glad.”
The quiet between you stretches, full instead of empty. He stays there for a long time, one hand over your stomach, the other tangled with yours, simply breathing with you. The baby settles at last, little movements fading beneath his palm.
At some point, he begins to hum.
The melody is simple,something old and airy, half remembered, half made up in the moment. It drifts through the room like a breeze through reeds, soft enough that you almost think it belongs to the night itself.
You close your eyes.
It is a lullaby without words, and yet it carries everything words cannot.
When you open them again, Aang is watching you.
“What?” you whisper.
He smiles, sheepish. “Nothing.”
“You were staring.”
“I like looking at you.”
You shake your head fondly. “You are hopeless.”
“And you love me anyway.”
That draws a quiet laugh from you, and the baby moves just once more, as if answering the sound.
Aang notices immediately. “Did they just react to your laugh?”
You smile sleepily now, the weight of the day finally catching up with you. “Maybe.”
He turns his head to kiss your hand. “They really do like it when I talk.”
“I told you that weeks ago.”
“I know.” His eyes soften. “I just like being right.”
You let out a tired sigh and settle deeper into the pillows. Aang watches you for a moment, then carefully shifts to stand.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
“Nowhere,” he says at once. “Just getting you water.”
You roll your eyes. “There it is again.”
“What?”
“That thing where you become a very competent worrywart whenever I’m carrying our child.”
He gives you a look as he reaches for the water on the bedside table. “You make it sound like a flaw.”
“It is a little bit of a flaw.”
He hands you the cup, then leans down to kiss your forehead. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night.”
You laugh softly, and he smiles as if that sound is worth every ounce of effort he’s ever given you.
When he settles beside you again, he does not speak right away. Instead, he lays one hand on your stomach and the other against your side, as though trying to hold both of you in place against time itself.
After a while, he says quietly, “Tomorrow I’ll tell them about the kite festival.”
You turn your head toward him. “There’s more?”
His grin returns, small and bright. “There’s always more.”
And so he keeps talking.
About a boyhood game that ended in a broken vase and three hours of apologies. About monks who laughed too easily and elders who pretended not to smile. About Appa’s snoring, and the first time he tried to impress Katara with a fire flower that instead singed his own sleeve. About the smell of rain on old temple stones. About the shape of the sky before dawn.
He talks until your eyelids grow heavy.
He talks until the baby stirs once, then quiets.
He talks until your breathing deepens and his own becomes slow and steady beside you.
And long after your eyes close, his voice remains the last thing you hear,soft and loving and full of a world he is determined to pass on.
A world that will begin, for your child, in the sound of their father’s voice.
The craving arrived with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.
One minute you were stretched out on the couch in your shared home, one hand resting over your pregnant stomach while Aang read a council report beside you, and the next you were sitting bolt upright with a single, impossible thought burning through your mind.
“Lychee tarts,” you said.
Aang looked up. “What?”
“I need lychee tarts.”
He blinked. “Need?”
“Now.”
He set the report down carefully. “Okay. That sounds important.”
“It is important.”
His expression shifted at once into the calm seriousness he reserved for emergencies, nightmares, and Appa sneezing near a candle. “How important are we talking?”
You gave him a grave look. “Three hours away important.”
Aang stared.
Then he glanced at the clock. Then at you. Then back at the clock.
“Three hours,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“At night.”
“Yes.”
“In a village on the other side of the river.”
You nodded. “Correct.”
He was quiet for one long second. Then, with complete sincerity, he stood up and reached for his coat.
“Okay.”
You frowned. “Okay?”
“Of course okay.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Aang.”
He turned, confused. “What?”
“You are not seriously leaving right now.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”
You stared at him. “Because it’s the middle of the night.”
“And?”
“And it’s three hours away.”
He smiled in that maddeningly gentle way of his. “Then I’ll go faster.”
“Aang.”
He crossed the room, knelt in front of you, and placed both hands over yours on your stomach. “You want lychee tarts.”
“Yes.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“You should have lychee tarts.”
You were trying very hard not to smile. “That is not a reason to fly across the country.”
He kissed your knuckles. “It is for me.”
Before you could protest again, he was already calling for Appa.
You sat there half shocked, half amused, watching him move through the room with determined efficiency. He was back in minutes, carrying a blanket, two lanterns, and enough spare food to survive an expedition.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You say that now, but in four hours you’ll be very pleased with me.”
“You’re going to wake up half the city.”
“I know.”
“Aang.”
He paused at the doorway and gave you a look of absolute certainty. “I’m getting the tarts.”
And then he was gone.
You leaned back against the couch, shaking your head in disbelief and laughter, and tried not to imagine the chaos he was already causing somewhere above the rooftops.
He came back just before dawn.
You were half-asleep, wrapped in blankets and stubbornness, when you heard the familiar sound of Appa landing in the courtyard. A few moments later the door opened, and Aang stepped inside carrying a paper box tied with string and looking far too pleased with himself.
“There were six left,” he said proudly. “I bought them all.”
You sat up. “You flew three hours for six tarts?”
He set the box in your lap like a sacred offering. “You said lychee tarts.”
You stared at him.
Then you opened the box.
The smell alone nearly made you emotional.
Aang sat beside you instantly, watching with cautious satisfaction as you took the first bite. Your eyes closed involuntarily.
“Well?” he asked.
You swallowed and looked at him.
“They’re perfect.”
His face lit up like you had just handed him the moon.
“I knew it,” he said.
You took another bite, then glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re far too proud of this.”
“I am exactly the right amount of proud.”
“You could have brought back one box.”
“But then what if you wanted more later?”
Your heart gave a soft, inconvenient squeeze.
He was watching you with that same steady tenderness he had shown since the moment your pregnancy had been confirmed, as if your every discomfort were suddenly his personal mission.
You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Thank you.”
Aang smiled. “Anytime.”
That became true in more ways than one.
He fetched food when you craved it.
He rubbed your back when your spine ached.
He learned to guess the difference between “I’m hungry” and “I want something strange and specific immediately.”
And every time you looked at him with disbelief, he only shrugged and said, “You’re carrying our baby. Of course I’m going to get the tarts.”
The baby, as it turned out, did not even wait for the second tart before kicking.
Aang froze, then burst into delighted laughter. “See? They agree with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too.
Because he had gone to the other side of the river in the middle of the night for a craving that made no sense.
And because somehow, impossibly, that had never seemed strange at all.
Jill valentine x fem reader. Just a really soft cuddle fic if that's something you're comfortable writing 💖
Cuddlebug
.𖥔 ݁ Jill Valentine x reader! Fluff .𖥔 ݁ M.list
"You're literally crushing me!" You whine dramatically to your girlfriend. She decided to spend the morning laying directly on top of you.
You could just push her off to get out of bed.. but why would you do that?
It's noon, which is far longer than Jill usually sleeps in. When she's not having a lazy, clingy morning, she is usually the first one up and making breakfast for the both of you.
"It's not my fault, you're the perfect pillow." She mumbles into the crook of your neck and shoulder.
Occasionally, she pushes through her usual discipline to keep you trapped with her until she sees fit.
It's probably to make up for the missed time when she's on a mission but no matter the reason, it's nice to have her like this. Even if you spend the whole time being dramatic.
You both sit in a comfortable silence as you trace your fingers along her back, her warm breath a comfort on your neck.
"It's noon, we have to get up soon." You whisper.
"Ugh says who."
"My stomach says. I'm surprised you can't feel it growling." A breathy laugh hits your ears.
"That's why Doordash exists. So we can stay in the comfort of our bed."
"We're not going to eat in bed." She lets out a groan of displeasure. "Okay fine but we're at least going to sit up."
"That might be acceptable."
"Great, up we go."
You start to sit up but she pushes back down, making herself comfortable on you again.
"Twenty more minutes."
"I'm gonna die of starvation."
"Then I can keep you in better forever.." She mumbles quietly.
"Jill!" You feel her smile against your skin.
"Alrightttt, let's get you some food."
She finally sits up to give you a kiss. You smile against her, excited to finally have food and move your limbs..
↳ Requests are open <3 Feel free to ask for any character and I will let you know whether or not I will write for them (9/10 times I will)
↳ I cannot stress this enough! Stay the fuck away from me and my blog if you choose to be hateful. Whether it is transphobia, homophobia, racism, zionism, misogyny, or anything else, you will be blocked and reported.
↳ Never feel bad about spam liking/reblogging!! You guys make my heart so happy <3
Disclaimer: is based on RE3 Jill, meaning the estimated year is around the late 90s to early 2000s where gay marriage was yet to be legalised countrywide in the US
In all ways except governable, Jill Valentine is your wife.
Every morning you wake up in the same bed. You shower together. You cook each other breakfast and dinner. You steal each other’s clothes. You even make love like a married couple. Soft, intimate and loving.
You lay in her arms, listening to her steady heartbeat as she strokes your hair. “I’m going to marry you someday.” She says softly. “Some time in the future, I know it… Someday they’ll allow it.” She sighs. “The world is changing, I can feel it.”
She’s sick of hiding your relationship. She’s sick of hiding who she loves. The world expects you to find a husband and bring children into this world. It expects you to stay at home, cook, clean and do everything for your husband.
“The world is shit”, your girlfriend wife says. “The world needs to wake up.”
She may lose her job, she may ruin her relationship with friends and family. But she would risk the entire world just to live a normal life with you. Nothing else matters but you.
Jill is so sick of people assuming her “partner” is a man. Or when people interpret her “girlfriend” as a friend that is a girl.
You may not be able to legally marry yet, but that doesn’t stop Jill from calling you her wife. It confuses people, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jill’s assigned extra work at the office? “Sorry, no can do. I gotta get home on time tonight. My wife is making roast.”
At a restaurant? “I’ve reserved a table under Valentine. No, our husbands won’t be coming. It’s just my wife and I tonight.” She squeezes her arm around your waist, smiling at the slightly shocked waiter.
A man flirting with her at the bar? “Yes this shirt does look nice! It’s one of my wife’s favourites.” She says loudly.
This little habit of hers, (if you could call it that) amuses you immensely. The amount of times it’s stunned or confused people never fails to make you laugh at the way they question the legality of your “marriage.”
Jill stands in the kitchen, tending to curry on the stove as she gushes about how she finally has the weekend off, and how she can spend it with her “pretty little wife.”
“If I’m your wife, where’s my ring?” You tease, holding up your left hand and showing off your bare ring finger.
“I’m saving that for when we can get married, darling.” She whispers, taking your hand and bringing it to her lips as she places a gentle kiss to your ring finger.
What you don’t know is that far in the back of her side of the closet, lies a little box, nestled amongst dusty old clothes. In that box, is the perfect diamond ring. Waiting for the day it can finally see the light. Jill bought this a few months ago, and is keeping it for when the right day comes.
A short, low effort fic for today. Not super proud of this one but I thought the concept was cute so I’m posting it anyway to build my confidence. Sorry if there’s some mistakes or if shit doesn’t make sense, I’m super tired but I wanted to post this on time
Summary: During RPD’s annual Christmas party, you slip outside to get some air. Your coworker Jill follows to check up on you
TW: Fluff, mentions of alcohol, confessions, a smidge of spice, introvert reader, negative self talk
WC: 1.5k
—
It’s Christmas Eve and the RPD is throwing its annual Christmas party. You didn’t really want to go this evening but you’d been told there would be free alcohol, cake and shitty karaoke.
You don’t really connect with many of the folks at work. Most of the guys are honestly kind of assholes and there aren’t many ladies in the department to talk to either. Most of them either staying home or doing nothing to include you whatsoever. So you prepare yourself for a night of people watching and drinking by yourself. Maybe you’ll get a round of karaoke in if you’re brave enough.
At least Jill is going. The other day she practically begged you to come along, promising it would be worth your time, that she’d stick with you and keep you company. You hesitantly agreed and now whenever you pass her in the halls, she won’t stop talking about how she can’t wait to see you there.
Truth be told, you probably wouldn’t have agreed to go if she wasn’t going.
“At least Jill is going to be there.” You repeat to yourself as you get dressed.
“I’ll just stay with her.” You huff as you put on some old earrings shaped like candy canes.
Maybe she’ll let you leave early. Maybe you can convince her that you’ve come down with a sudden cold. You’d much rather stay in and watch a Christmas movie by yourself. That’s what you’ve done the past few years anyway. It’s not that you want to spend Christmas alone, it’s just hard living so far away from home and spending the holidays without a partner.
It’s been an hour and a half since you’ve gotten here and all your predictions had been right. It’s too loud, nobody is talking to you and karaoke isn’t even the fun kind of bad. It’s just… bad bad.
All of the Christmas lights, music and shitty singing start to give you a headache, so you grab your coat and slip outside to the courtyard.
You walk down the steps of the building to a bench under a nearby tree. Your boots crunch on the icy bricks.
It’s so much nicer outside. The moon is peeking through the clouds as it snows slightly. It’s quiet, although you can hear the muffled chatter and music from the party inside as you wipe some snow off a bench and sit down.
You tuck your hands in your pockets and look up into the sky. Your breath fogs up the air in front of your face, your nose waters slightly in the cold and your cheeks tingle from the frosty air. You should’ve brought a thicker coat, or a scarf at least.
“Maybe I should go home.” You mumble to yourself as you kick the snow around your boot. It’s not like anyone would miss you. You doubt anyone even noticed you leave. Jill didn’t even stick with you like she said she would. She’s too busy mingling with everyone else at the party to spend time with you anyway.
Just as you start to think about heading home, you hear footsteps in the snow from behind you.
“Hey.” A familiar voice calls. “What’cha doing out here by yourself? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
You turn around to see Jill walking towards you. She smiles, though her eyes show hints of concern.
“Oh hey,” You force a smile as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… wanted some air.”
Jill sighs as she walks up to your bench. “Not having a good time?” She asks as she sits down next to you.
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.” You look down, noticing the way her thigh presses up against your own. You can feel the warmth of her body deep through your clothes and into your very soul. You find yourself wanting to lean into her warmth, to savour the feeling as if she were to disappear at any moment.
“Why are you out here?” You turn to her, finding her already looking into your eyes.
“Couldn’t find you.” She shrugs.
Jill is silent for a minute as she looks up to the snow falling from the sky. “You’re kinda the only reason I came tonight anyway.”
That takes you off guard. “Really?” You scoff. “And not to mingle with all your friends in there?” You laugh, waving your hand to the building behind you.
“Nope.” She says, popping the p and looking back at the station. “Chris is just arm wrestling everyone like he does every year and I’d rather hang out with you anyway.”
“Why? I’m not that special.” You laugh awkwardly. “No one even noticed me leave.” You look down to your lap, embarrassed for yourself.
“Well, I did.” Jill nudges you with her elbow. You feel your face heat up as you look to her. Her relaxed eyes and lazy smirk cause your heart to skip a beat. You can’t help but turn away to shield your flustered expression.
You sit in silence together for a few minutes, simply existing in each other’s presence.
“Oh hey, I got you something!” Jill finally pipes up, breaking the silence. She rummages through her coat pockets and pulls out a small jewellery box.
“Oh, Jill. No, you didn’t have to-“
“Shh. Just take it.” She forces it into your hands. “You do so much for me and everyone at the station, I thought you deserved it.” She smiles, waiting for you to open it.
You stare at her in disbelief. Jill blinks at you slowly, with calm, half lidded eyes. God, she looks so beautiful right now. You huff a laugh and look down to open the box.
Inside is a beautiful necklace with a delicate chain and a small pendant that holds a little gem. It glistens under the moonlight as you pick it up and turn it, inspecting it.
“Oh, Jill, this is gorgeous. That’s my birth stone.” You giggle, pointing at the little gem.
“Is it? I had no idea.” Jill lies.
You stare at it for a minute, becoming lost in the way it shines. Such a small thing, but oh so beautiful.
“Here, let me put it on you.” Jill says softly, gently taking the necklace from your hands.
You watch as she leans in, hooking the small chain around your neck with great care as her warm hands brush against your skin. You suppress a shiver at the sensation, exhaling and forming a cloud with your breath.
You look down to see Jill’s hands hovering over your chest.
“There.”
You look up to see her staring into your eyes. She’s so close as she’s not yet pulled away from you. Your eyes flicker back and forth between hers, watching the way the moonlight reflects off her irises.
You can see the way she scans your face, her eyes lingering on your lips for just a second too long.
“You look so beautiful.” She breathes, not even sparing a glance at the necklace.
You blink, huffing out a small breathy laugh as her warm hand snakes up to your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“God, you don’t even know what you do to me.” She murmurs, cupping your cheek.
“Jill…”
“Fuck, can I…” She breathes, unable to finish her words as her thumb strokes your lips. You can see the anxiety and anticipation on her face.
“Please.” The word leave your lips in an eager whisper.
Jill scans your face for a second longer, searching for any signs of uncertainty. When she finds none, she closes her eyes and presses her lips against your own.
Your eyes flutter closes as your body melts into the kiss. Your right hand cups her cheek while your left rests on her shoulder.
Jill giggles into your mouth, you can feel her smile against your lips.
“W-what?” You panic. Fuck, did you do something wrong?
“Nothing! It’s just, you taste like gingerbread.” She laughs, her nose scrunched up as she smiles.
“You taste like champagne.” You murmur, kissing back into her mouth as your body curls into hers.
She’s so soft. She kisses you slowly, gently as her hand snakes its way into the opening of your coat and holds your waist.
A soft moan involuntarily leaves your lips when she pulls you closer. The kiss quickly deepens as Jill’s tongue swipes and parts your lips, licking into your mouth. She swallows your whines as her hand slowly travels up, resting just below your breast. She pulls back, panting softly for air.
“You- you said you wanted to go home right?”
“Yeah?” You breathe out, staring into her eyes as she rests her forehead on yours.
“Let’s go back to mine.” She places small, quick kisses down your cheek and neck. “You’ll have my full attention.” She rubs her nose against your jaw, letting her hot breath fan over your racing pulse point.
“I’d really, really like that.” You giggle.
Jill laughs breathlessly as she pulls you into another kiss. You feel her smile against your lips, you can’t help but laugh back as you just feel her toothy grin.
——
(Happy holidays everyone! I’m sorry if I got details about the snow wrong. It’s Christmas Day in Australia and it’s fucking HOT. I’m sitting in bed under a fan on full blast wishing I could be in the snow rn. Again, not super proud of this one so sorry it’s a bit mid, but I wanted to post something for Christmas so this is what you get)
omg could u write smth w jill teaching reader how to defend themselves and theyre all like playful and its all like fluffy and cute… ITS TOTALLY OK IF NOT!! the jill brainrot is rly bad 🤕🤕
Tricking your girlfriend Jill during a spar
Anon you’re literally so valid for this. I’ve had this exact same idea for a while but I wasn’t exactly sure how to write it 🫠🫠
“You’re not taking this seriously!” Jill grunts, knocking you to the ground before swinging a leg over you, straddling you.
“I’m- I’m trying!” You laugh, trying to wrestle Jill’s hands off you. She’s got you pinned to the carpet, her hands holding your shoulders down while you squirm underneath her. You can tell she’s trying not to laugh with you, biting her lip to stop the smile that grows at your silly position and contagious laughter.
“You’re not trying hard enough. C’mon, baby. Up.” She sighs as she gets off you, holding out her hand to help you up again.
Jill has become increasingly concerned with the amount of robberies and assaults in your area. She promised to teach you some simple self defence techniques when she had time. Though before she teaches you anything, she wants to gauge what you already know. Which is how you find yourself wrestling in the living room.
“Okay, I’m going to try and pin you again. Remember what I told you about blocking.” She taps your arm affectionately.
“Got it.”
She surges forward, reaching to grab your arms. You quickly block her, swinging her arms and stepping out of the way.
“There we go!“ She laughs, quickly moving behind you and grabbing you from behind, keeping the momentum of the spar going.
“Use your elbows, babe.” She reminds you as you wiggle in her strong arms, struggling to break away from her grasp.
You jerk your elbow back into her rib, gentle enough not to do permanent damage, but hard enough to show her you know what you’re doing.
Jill stumbles back, holding a hand to her ribs as she beams at you. “Well done!” She laughs, slightly winded as she straightens her back.
You catch your breath, taking a second to bask in her praise. It only lasts for a minute before Jill is back on you.
She grabs your wrist, pulling you against her. You can tell by her loose grip that she’s trying not to hurt you. You know just how to take advantage of this.
You yelp in pain, grabbing your wrist as Jill immediately stops what she was doing.
“Oh shit.” She freezes. “Did I hurt you? Fuck- I’msosorrybaby-“ She panics, gently grabbing you, inspecting your arm with wide, frantic eyes. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m so sorry.”
You dip your head and hunch your shoulders, avoiding her eyes as you make a show of rubbing your wrist.
“Baby, look at me.” She reaches to cup your cheek, deep regret and concern in her voice.
“Are you oka-“
You pounce on her. Jill yelps in surprise as you catch her while her guard is down. You throw the both of you down to the floor with a thump, quickly jumping on top of her and pinning her arms above her head.
Jill is shocked. Not that you got her pinned, no. She knew you could do that eventually. But by the fact that you tricked her by playing with her own feelings. You played dirty and you won because she didn’t even have time to think while you wrestled her to the ground.
“You!-“ Jill cuts herself off, laughing in astonishment. You laugh with her, and what a sight she is. Messy short hair splayed on the floor, sweat slicked skin, crinkled eyes and wide smile as her chest heaves in laughter. “You cheated!”
“I did.” You laugh triumphantly.
“God, you scared the shit out of me! I thought I hurt you!” Her laugher turns into softer giggles. You smile down at her apologetically.
“Sorry to say, that’s not going to work with a stranger.” Jill chuckles. “Still, you got me. You won. What’re you gonna do now?” She raises her eyebrows in question, clearly hinting at something involving the position you have over her.
“I don’t know…” You lean down, your noses brushing against each other. “Take my prize maybe?” You lower your voice to a whisper that ghosts across her open lips.
You slowly press your lips together as you slide your palms into hers, interlocking your fingers.
“Mmm-“ She chuckles against your lips, her toothy smile against yours. “Sounds like a great idea. We’ll pick this up another time, huh?”
older!jill, modern day, age gap wlw relationship, slight spoilers, smut (suggestive cunnilingus) — headcanons about older jill valentine being the bestest lady ever <333
— OLDER!JILL didn’t know if she’d be able to handle a woman so much younger than her. something about taking on the responsibility of a younger woman’s emotions made her a little fearful of committing to you. but then she talked to you. truly. she got to know what makes you tick, what makes you happy and what you want to do to and with her. she admires your persistent, youthful nature, coaxing her out of that stubborn personality that she’s trying to avoid at least for another ten years. you still remain her favorite person.
sometimes she still feels like a deer in headlights watching some twenty something year old thing tell her about pop culture references or offering to pay for drinks that are too fruity for her (but she loves anyways). she used to take a couple of seconds before responding when you flirted with her but she never denied your advances. you were so delicate compared to her, she wanted to hold out on her verdict before shutting you down or feeding into you. jill at first used to allow you to take the lead, finding out what you were and weren’t comfortable with. though, the longer time you spend together, she finds her footing with you. now she’s quick to take the lead with confidence and a shit ton of dominance. in fact, she likes to say she enables you with how spoiled you are now.
at this age, she’s not into the becoming your friend first thing, thinking she can pursue you and get to know you at the same time. besides, you were so forward before, it wouldn’t make sense. while the bridge from acquaintances to romantic interests stutters a bit, she still becomes your best friend anyways. you could say she’s an intentional dater, but that’d be false. after your effort, she’s intentional about you.
— OLDER!JILL is an absolute silencer.
she walks slow, talks slow and carries a no nonsense look on her face. everything she says has a worn out edge. all of the time. you tell her about it, but she always scoffs at your concern, saying, “can’t be a pussy if ya need sumthin’ from me,” in a groveled, low tone. she’s never directing this advice to you specifically (she’d never) like she would a random person. jill’s much more mature, calloused and if her S.T.A.R.S counterparts thought she was a force to be reckoned with before, no one can compete with her now. the only thing she wants is peace, a shot and her girl.
jill can easily swoop in and change the optics of a situation. if someone is talking to you, she becomes a fly on the wall. if someone is flirting with you? they’re not anymore, not after seeing jill stand behind you without saying a word. it’s not what she does, but how she does it.
— OLDER!JILL is only a little gray, with tired eyes and developing crows feet, but she’s still a powerhouse on her toes. she’s not as achy as leon, not as wrinkled despite being older. thanks, wesker. you don’t take it for granted. you admire every part of her you see— especially when she’s naked; curvier, stronger figure, stretch marks, battle scars, moles and wrinkles. sometimes she catches you staring at her in the mirror. it warms her heart that her girl looks at her with stars in her eyes, but when you lock gazes in the reflection— you both share a hungry look that can (and almost always) influences your next moments.
with all of that passion brewing in her, she’s particularly protective over you. she can only assume how it feels to be around a gang of super cops for her sake, but she loves how you talk with them. sometimes she’ll hover her eyes over a mug she’s nursing to hide the fact she’s watching you. particularly when you’re bickering with chris over who knows her better. he knew her longer, but you’re hers. major difference. you still haven’t caught onto her hawk eye. she checks for any conflict, chuckling at corny jokes being thrown out into the pile. but when she wants your attention again, she loves to sneak behind you, tucking an arm around your waist.
“i missed you.”
“you did?” you always love to tease her vulnerability every time.
“can i get my girls attention? i need it.” she whispers the last part in your ear, staring at you like you’re the only ones in the room. the others never let her live it down. brownie points if you can say something that will make her bite her lip in front of everyone.
— OLDER!JILL loves to wake you up in the morning with her mouth latched to the inside of your thighs, but you know it’s because she wants you to join her for some sort of demanding errand. in this instance it’s the shooting range. if that’s how she likes to compromise, you’ll take it. besides, jill loves knowing you can protect yourself when she’s not around and— you holding a gun is really sexy to see. she loves to hold you close, guiding your grip and keeping you sturdy through any pushback the gun gives you. she loves to praise you when you hit important marks:
“that’s my girl.”
“good! that’s a good girl!”
“you’re gunna take my fuckin’ job from me,” or her personal favorite.
she likes to lean into your ear for this one, arm loose around your waist before saying, “teach me or use it on me, pretty girl,” and pressing a kiss to your jaw (maybe slapping your ass too).
— OLDER!JILL who is soft as mush for you. always wanting you in her lap, playing with her hair or telling her how much you love her while she has the smuggest smile on her face. she’s even more of a cuddle bug now that she’s older, nodding with every affirmation you give her and sinking kisses into your cheeks often.
“you’re so pretty,” you whisper against her small smile. her eyes are closed, clutching onto the plush of your hips to keep you locked on her thighs.
“yer so full of shit,” she scoffs, blue peeking out from low lids, cheeks burning red immediately.
“you’re so pretty,” you press, running the pads of your thumbs over the apples of her cheeks. you snipe a kiss at her lips, leaving her awestruck and amused. “say it to me,” you mutter, rose tinted shades on while looking at her.
jill rolls her eyes, “i tried the whole ‘seeking self’ thing, just because i say it doesn’t make it true.”
“will you please—“ you try before she cuts you off, whine suppressed by her quickness.
“okay— okay,” jill beams, “i’m… pretty.” it falls off her tongue like broken rocks. distasteful and crumbly.
“yes. you are.” you affirm, feeling her bring you in closer to her body.
— OLDER!JILL doesn’t let you go a single day thinking she doesn’t think about you. she leaves you worn hoodies that you can wear while she’s on missions. she always calls before and immediately after she makes it out safely. she could be on the road back, fighting sleep while the pain from new scars throb on her skin, but she feels better hearing your voice. it can be three in the morning, but you’ll still answer for her, too groggy to formulate sentences correctly.
she starts off so dejected, but you can hear her smile through the phone, “hey,” she coos.
“hi…” you voice breaks over the phone, riddle with sleep. she swears she can feel her heart break when you ask, “safe?”
jill chuckles, “—yeah.” jill somehow travels on the streets like a bullet after hearing your voice, face flushing, “yeah i‘m safe. you alright?” she hears the scoff in your tone, brattiness awake before you are.
“no—“ you bite, sheets ruffling over the line. “the government keeps taking my girlfriend from me.”
“never for long, sweetheart,” jill tries, heart beating faster, “they can never keep me from you.”
there’s a pause over the phone. luckily, she can’t see how the thought of it shifts you into something insecure, eyes open and heart pounding.
jill assumes you’ve fallen back asleep, so she tries to shake you with a gentle, “beautiful?”
“promise?”
now the one who’s stunned is jill. she honestly didn’t think she’d ever have to clarify, but something pushed her to double down. “i promise, sweet girl.”
— OLDER!JILL who likes to cling on to you for the nights she can’t sleep. she’s riddled with paranoia about the constant outbreaks, the constant threats to her life and even the regular worries a normal person should actually be worried about. not often, but when the night is too still, she’ll wake you up. she doesn’t want much. if she sees your back is facing her, she’ll spin you around to rest her face on your bosom, nails digging into your top.
she hums with your fingers in her hair, shallow breath covering your chest. as she holds you, you cradle her like she could shatter if you move. you stutter, trying to come up with something— anything to say, but she shuts you down. “please, don’t ask,” she quickly cuts off your stumbling.
“okay,” you dryly crack, kissing the top of her head. “i love you.”
Summary/Warnings: Reader possesses superhuman physical and mental abilities (strength, speed, agility, enhanced senses, genius intellect) as a result of a successful Lambda experiment. The trio believed she was dead for years. Emotional reunion, years of grief, revelation of experimentation, childhood memories. Yandere versions include possessive obsession, dark protectiveness, subtle manipulation, and intense emotional fixation. Reader does not initially recognize the trio during the rescue.
They called you a miracle. The scientists at Lambda, in their cold, clinical language, designated you as the only fully successful product of their enhancement program. Strength, speed, agility, intelligence, sensory perception — every metric exceeded their projections. They did not know what to do with you. So they sent you to Grace Field Plant 3, a high-quality farm where your intellect could be further cultivated before harvest.
You were four years old when you arrived. Mama Isabella was told you were a transfer from another plant. She was not told the truth. She simply noticed, over the years, that you were extraordinary. You never lost a game of tag. You found every hiding spot within seconds. You beat her at chess when you were seven years old, and the look she gave you that day was the first crack in your childhood innocence. You did not understand why her eyes went cold.
Emma, Ray, and Norman fell in love with you the way children fall in love with sunshine — naturally, completely, without question. You were their champion, their unbeatable rival, their best friend. They marveled at you. They adored you. And then, one day, you were gone. Shipped. Mama told them you had been taken to your new home. They knew the truth by then. They believed your brain had been devoured by demons, your brilliant mind consumed, your laughter silenced forever.
They grieved you for years.
They never knew you were simply transferred. To another Lambda. For further study. The scientists there were not as gentle as Grace Field. They pushed you to your limits and beyond, testing every enhancement, documenting every result. You endured. You survived. You escaped. And years later, when a group of human rebels found themselves surrounded and outnumbered by demons in a ruined city, you intervened. Not because you knew them. Because it was the right thing to do.
You took down twelve demons in under thirty seconds. You moved faster than their eyes could track, struck with enough force to crack demon bone, and landed silently in the center of the carnage without a single scratch. You did not look at their faces. You simply nodded, turned to leave, and heard a voice call a name you had not heard in years.
Your name. Your real name.
You turned. You looked. And you remembered.
EMMA — NORMAL VERSION
Emma's legs give out.
She does not even realize she has fallen until her knees hit the rubble-strewn ground, her hands trembling as they press against her mouth. The demon bodies are still dissolving around you, wisps of dark matter curling into the air, and Emma cannot breathe. She cannot think. She can only stare at you—at your face, your eyes, the way you tilt your head slightly, the way your lips part in dawning recognition.
"You're alive," she chokes. "You're alive. You're—how—we thought—you were shipped, they told us you were shipped, I saw your name on the list, I—"
She cannot finish. She is crying too hard, great heaving sobs that shake her entire body. Ray and Norman are frozen beside her, but Emma is already pushing herself upright, already stumbling toward you with the same reckless desperation she has brought to every impossible fight.
You catch her before she trips on the debris. Your hands are gentle, impossibly gentle for hands that just tore through demons like paper. Emma clutches at your arms, your shoulders, your face, her green eyes wide and wet and terrified, as if you might dissolve like the demon corpses.
"I looked for you," she whispers. "Every shelter, every base, every record we found—I always checked for your name. I never found it. I thought—we all thought—"
"I know," you say quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were looking."
Emma laughs, a strangled, tear-soaked sound. "Of course we were looking. You're family. You're—you're—" She cannot finish. She pulls you into a hug so fierce that a normal person's ribs would have cracked.
Later, after the shock has settled and you have all found somewhere safe to talk, Emma sits as close to you as physically possible. Her knee presses against yours. Her hand keeps finding your sleeve, your wrist, your fingers, as if she needs constant proof that you are solid.
She listens with wide, horrified eyes as you explain the truth. Lambda. Not a farm, but an experimental facility. They made you what you are. Enhanced you. And when Grace Field was done cultivating your mind, they brought you back for more tests.
"They hurt you," Emma says. It is not a question. Her voice is low and trembling with barely contained fury. "They experimented on you. On a child. For years."
"Yes," you say. There is no point in lying.
Emma's jaw tightens. She looks down at her hands, clenched in her lap, and you see the war playing out behind her eyes—the part of her that wants to weep against the part of her that wants to find every scientist who ever touched you and make them pay.
But when she looks up again, her expression softens. She takes your hand in both of hers and holds it tightly.
"Thank you for saving us," she says. "And thank you for surviving. I know—I know it must have been horrible. I can't even imagine. But you're here now. You're alive. And I'm never, ever letting you go again."
Her smile is watery but real. The same smile you remember from childhood. The same smile that made you believe anything was possible.
EMMA — YANDERE VERSION
Warnings: Possessive obsession, emotional intensity, dark protectiveness, subtle threat toward anyone who hurt Reader, Emma's desperation manifesting as control.
Emma does not cry. Not at first.
She stares at you with an expression you have never seen on her before—something wide and hollow and hungry. The demons are dead. You are standing in the middle of the carnage, barely winded, and Emma looks at you like you are a ghost she has been chasing for her entire life.
Then she moves.
She crosses the distance between you in a blur of motion almost as fast as your own. Her hands grip your face, fingers pressing into your cheeks hard enough to hurt a normal person. She tilts your head this way and that, examining you with an intensity that borders on frantic.
"It's really you," she breathes. "Your eyes. Your face. You haven't changed at all. How—how is that possible? You look exactly the same. You look —"
Her voice cracks. The tears come then, but she does not sob. She does not collapse. She simply stands there, gripping your face, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, and smiles. It is not her usual bright smile. It is something sharper. Something that has been waiting for a very long time.
"You're alive," she says. "You were alive this whole time. They took you and I thought you were dead and you were alive and I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't come for you."
"Emma—"
"No." Her grip tightens. "No, listen to me. I thought I lost you. I thought you were gone forever. I mourned you. Every single day, for years, I carried that grief. And now you're here, and you're telling me they had you in some—some laboratory—" Her voice shakes with rage. "They hurt you. They experimented on you. They made you into this, and then they kept hurting you, and I wasn't there."
You try to speak, but Emma is not finished.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight again," she says, her voice dropping to something almost feral. "Never. You're coming with us. With me. Wherever we go, whatever we do, you stay right next to me. I don't care if you're invincible now. I don't care if you can tear demons apart with your bare hands. You're mine to protect. You always have been."
She pulls you into a hug then, her arms wrapped so tightly around you that you feel the tremors running through her body.
"I love you," she whispers against your shoulder. "I've always loved you. And I'm never losing you again. Never. Anyone who tries to take you away from me—demon, human, I don't care—I'll destroy them. I'll destroy everything."
She pulls back just enough to look at you, her green eyes dark with something that makes even your enhanced instincts prickle.
"You believe me, right?"
You do.
RAY — NORMAL VERSION
Ray does not speak your name. He just says, very quietly, "It's you."
You turn. The three strangers you just saved are staring at you with expressions ranging from shock to disbelief to something that looks almost like grief. The dark-haired one —Ray— is looking at you with an expression you cannot immediately read. His face is pale, his dark eyes wide, and his hands are shaking at his sides.
"I know you," you say slowly. The recognition is flickering at the edges of your memory, stirred by the sound of your name on his lips. "I… remember you."
Ray makes a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "You remember me. That's— that's good. That's more than I expected." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "We thought you were dead. All these years. We thought—I thought—"
He stops. Swallows. Collects himself with visible effort.
"We need to talk," he says. "Not here. Somewhere safe. There's a lot you don't know, and apparently a lot we don't know either."
Later, in a secure room with the door locked and the windows shuttered, Ray listens to your story in silence. He does not interrupt. He does not cry. He just watches you with those dark, analytical eyes, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
When you finish, he exhales slowly.
"So that's why you were always so strong," he says. "The speed, the agility, the way you could hear someone coming from three rooms away. It wasn't natural talent. They made you that way."
"Yes."
"And they sent you to Grace Field to develop your mind. To make you smarter. To make you a better product." His voice is steady, but there is a bitter edge to it. "And then they brought you back to Lambda to study what they'd created."
"Yes."
Ray is quiet for a long moment. Then he looks at you, and his expression shifts—something raw and vulnerable breaking through the calm facade.
"I looked for you," he says. "After we escaped. I went through every record I could find. Every shipping manifest, every transfer log. I never found your name. I thought maybe—maybe they'd destroyed the evidence. Maybe you were just gone."
"I was in a different Lambda," you say. "Not the one Norman was in. A smaller one. Off the records."
Ray nods slowly. "Of course. They wouldn't want anyone finding their perfect experiment." He pauses. "You beat Mama at chess when you were seven. Do you remember that?"
You blink. The memory surfaces— a chessboard, Isabella's cold eyes, the stunned silence of the other children. "Yes. I remember."
"She hated you for that," Ray says, and there is something almost like satisfaction in his voice. "She was afraid of you. That's why she shipped you so early. She knew you were dangerous."
He reaches out, hesitates, then takes your hand. His grip is firm and warm.
"I'm glad you're dangerous," he says quietly. "I'm glad you survived. And I'm glad you're here. We have a lot to catch up on."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, a gesture so gentle it makes your heart ache.
"Welcome back."
RAY — YANDERE VERSION
Warnings: Possessive obsession, dark protectiveness, calculated manipulation, emotional intensity hidden beneath calm exterior, Ray's grief transforming into something dangerous.
Ray does not react the way you expect. He does not cry. He does not run to embrace you. He does not even look particularly surprised.
He just looks at you with those dark, fathomless eyes, and says your name like it is a prayer he has been repeating every night for years.
"There you are," he says. "I've been waiting."
Emma and Norman are still frozen, still processing, but Ray is already moving. He walks toward you with the same deliberate, measured stride he used to use when approaching a problem he had finally solved. He stops inches away from you, close enough that you could count his eyelashes, and tilts his head.
"You're faster than you used to be," he observes. "Stronger, too. Those demons didn't stand a chance. That's not normal. That's not even close to normal."
"I can explain," you start.
"You don't have to," Ray interrupts. "I already figured it out. Lambda. Experimentation. Enhancement. They sent you to Grace Field as a test run, didn't they? To see how you'd develop in a controlled environment. And then they brought you back."
You stare at him. "How did you—"
"I've had years to think about you," Ray says flatly. "Years to analyze every memory, every detail, every inconsistency. You were always too fast, too strong, too smart. I told myself it was just you. That you were special. But after I learned about Lambda, I started putting the pieces together."
His hand lifts to touch your face, his fingers cool against your cheek. His expression is still eerily calm, but his eyes—his eyes are burning.
"Do you know what I did when you were shipped?" he asks quietly. "I was already planning the escape. I was already making notes, memorizing layouts, calculating routes. And when you disappeared, I almost burned it all. I almost set the house on fire and walked into the flames myself. Because what was the point? What was the point of escaping if you weren't there?"
"Ray—"
"I didn't do it," he continues, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "Norman talked me down. Emma needed me. The kids needed me. But I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped searching. Every record I found, every database I cracked, every demon I interrogated—I was looking for you. And I never found anything. Not a single trace."
He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. His voice drops to a whisper.
"And now you're here. Alive. Saving us. Like you were always meant to. And I'm never letting you go again."
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression is still calm, but there is something terrifying in its intensity.
"You're mine," he says simply. "You always have been. You always will be. I don't care if you can tear demons apart with your bare hands. I don't care if you're the most dangerous human on the planet. You're still the person I've loved since I was old enough to know what love is. And I am never losing you again."
His hand slips down to take yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that is gentle but unbreakable.
"Come on," he says, and his voice is almost normal again. "Let's go home."
NORMAN — NORMAL VERSION
Norman recognizes you instantly.
Even before you turn around, even before he calls your name, he knows. There is something about the way you move—that impossible speed, that fluid grace, that economy of motion that wastes nothing. He has watched you move like that a thousand times before, in a different life, in a different world. He would recognize it anywhere.
When you turn and your eyes meet his, Norman feels something inside him crack open.
"Hello, Norman," you say, and your voice is exactly the same. Exactly.
He does not collapse. He does not cry out. He simply takes a step toward you, then another, his blue eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that borders on reverent.
"I thought you were dead," he says. His voice is steady, but there is a tremor beneath it. "I thought—we all thought—Mama told us you were shipped. I saw your name on the list. I checked it myself. I—"
"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."
Norman shakes his head slowly. "I should have figured it out. I should have realized something was different about you. The way you always won. The way you could hear things no one else could hear. The way you beat Mama at chess when you were barely old enough to read. I should have known you weren't just gifted."
"I didn't know myself," you say. "Not back then. I didn't find out until later."
"Find out what?"
You explain. Lambda. The experiments. The enhancements. You were never a normal child. You were a weapon, cultivated in secret, sent to Grace Field to ripen before being returned for further study. Norman listens without interrupting, his expression growing grimmer with every word.
When you finish, he closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they are wet.
"You were alone," he says quietly. "All those years. You were alone, and they hurt you, and I didn't come for you. I was at Lambda myself, in a different facility, and I didn't even know you were there. I didn't even look."
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have," Norman insists. His voice cracks. "I should have torn every Lambda facility apart until I found you. I should have—"
You step forward and pull him into a hug. Norman goes rigid for a moment, then his arms wrap around you and he holds on like you are the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," you say. "I'm here now. We're all here."
Norman pulls back, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and manages a small, shaky smile.
"You saved us," he says. "You're still saving us. Even after everything they did to you, you're still—" He laughs, a soft, incredulous sound. "You're still the most incredible person I've ever known."
He takes your hand, his grip warm and steady.
"Let's go home," he says. "We have so much to tell you. And I want to hear everything. Every detail. Everything I missed. If you're willing to share it."
You squeeze his hand. "I am."
Norman's smile strengthens, and for a moment, he looks like the boy you remember—bright-eyed, brilliant, full of hope.
"Then let's not waste any more time."
NORMAN — YANDERE VERSION
Warnings: Possessive obsession, dark and calculated protectiveness, subtle manipulation, Norman's cold strategic mind applied to love, implied threats toward anyone who hurt Reader, intense emotional fixation.
Norman does not say your name. He just smiles.
It is not the warm smile you remember from childhood. It is something colder. Something sharper. The smile of a man who has spent years plotting the destruction of his enemies and has just been handed an unexpected gift.
"There you are," he says, his voice soft and almost fond. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
You stare at him. "Norman?"
"Yes." He steps toward you, his movements unhurried, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "It's been a long time. You look well. Better than well, actually—those demons didn't even touch you. That's not normal human capability. That's enhancement. Lambda enhancement, if I'm not mistaken."
Your eyes narrow. "How do you know about—"
"I was at Lambda," Norman says pleasantly. "Not the same one as you, obviously. I would have found you if we'd been in the same facility. But I know how their experiments work. I know what they were trying to achieve. And looking at you now, I'd say they succeeded."
He stops a few feet away from you, his blue eyes roving over your face with an expression of intense, analytical focus.
"All those years," he murmurs, almost to himself. "All those years I thought you were dead. I mourned you. I planned revenge in your name. I burned Lambda 7214 to the ground, and I told myself it was for you. And now here you are. Alive. Whole. Perfect."
The word perfect lands with a weight that makes your skin prickle.
"Norman—" Emma starts, but Norman raises a hand.
"Give us a moment, Emma. Please."
His tone is polite. It is also absolute. Emma hesitates, glances at Ray, and steps back.
Norman turns his attention back to you, and his smile softens into something almost tender.
"Do you remember the last conversation we had?" he asks. "Before you were shipped. You were sitting in the library, reading a book about chess strategies. I sat down next to you and you beat me in three games in a row. And I told you—" He pauses, his voice dropping. "I told you that I loved you. That I would always love you. Do you remember?"
You swallow. "I remember."
"Good." Norman's smile widens. "I meant it then. I mean it now. I have loved you since I was old enough to understand the concept. And for years, I thought that love had nowhere to go. That you were gone. That the only thing I could do for you was avenge you."
He steps closer, closing the remaining distance between you. His hand lifts to cup your cheek, his touch gentle but impossibly deliberate.
"But you're not gone," he says. "You're here. And you're more incredible than I ever imagined. Enhanced. Powerful. A weapon in human form. Do you know how useful that is? How perfectly you fit into everything I've been planning?"
You stiffen. "Norman, I'm not a weapon."
"No," he agrees, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "You're not. You're the person I love. The person I've always loved. But you're also the key to everything. With your abilities, we can end this war. We can destroy every farm, every demon, every threat to our family. We can do it together."
He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers.
"But even if you say no, even if you don't want any part of this, I'm not letting you go. I can't. I've spent too many years missing you. Too many years planning a world where you didn't exist. Now that you're here, I'm never letting you out of my sight again. Never."
He pulls back, his smile still in place, his blue eyes dark with something that makes even your enhanced survival instincts sit up and take notice.
"Do you understand?"
You meet his gaze. "Yes."
"Good." Norman takes your hand, his grip deceptively gentle. "Then let's go. We have so much to discuss. And I want to know everything—every experiment, every test, every scientist who ever laid a hand on you."
His smile does not waver, but his voice drops to something cold and lethal.
"I want their names. All of them. So I can make sure they never touch anyone else ever again."
He squeezes your hand.
"Welcome home, my love. I've been waiting for you."
