You know how walker (is that her name? I only saw clips of the show) Got DNA of batman from around Gotham. What if someone else did the same but instead of batman, they got DNA of dick, Jason and Tim to create the ultimate soldier with their best qualities and danny is the result. He had Dicks acrobatics, Jason's deadness and ruthlessness and Tim's smarts.( ・∀・)
The one thing that tied all three DNA donors was their role as Robin. Or so the government sector (with no name, in case they were ever exposed, so they could never be tied to the United States) thought that was all that was tying them together.
He was to have the First's acrobatics and his leadership.
The Second's sharp shooting and his ruthlessness.
The Third's hacking and smarts.
Everything that made those human vigilantes a force to fear would be poured into this clone. Hours and hours of combat, strategy, and American propaganda downloaded into his brain. The clone would be the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon.
None of them were expecting this.
"You will follow commands."
"Why?"
"You will be activated by the phrase The Shadow over the Flag"
"Why?"
"You are a weapon," Waller hissed at the clone who was staring at her evenly from the chair they had strapped him to.
"Why?" The darn thing repeated, tilting his head much like the bird his donors called themselves.
"You don't need to know why." She spat, nodding her head at one of the scientists. They took that as a sign to turn on the electricity, listening to the boy scream as it ran amok through his body. She counted to twelve before raising her hand to signal the electricity to end. "You are a weapon of the United States."
The clone gasps through his pain before raising his head and grinning at her. Almost as if he wasn't just about to pass out from the mental training they were attempting to put him through.
"Why?"
Scowling, she turned away, throwing a command over her shoulder. "Break him."
The clone's voice yelled back. It's eerily cheerful, much like the first Robin had been whenever he attacked goons or the second Robin when he set a building on fire or even the third Robin when he outsmarted adults. "I'll catch up to you later. I'll catch up to everyone involved with my creation, and I'll teach you what happens when you attempt to make a living weapon."
She didn't care. Waller had been threatened her entire life by beings far stronger than the experiment they had created. She doubted that it could fine her or her team. It was a mystery where the clone had developed a personality—one that took nothing seriously and seemed almost happy in the chaos that brought it pain—but she had broken many people before.
One she helped create would be just as simple to break.
A week later, Waller found out that everyone in that unnamed government sector had been hunted down and killed by the clone that had escaped with none the wiser. She found out because it was waiting for her, wearing the wedding rings of those on her team and the badges of those who were unmarried.
Waller had found it sitting comfortably on her desk in her home office, flipping through her laptop and sending files to random emails.
"I wonder how many Americans are going to die with that information out." A wide, wicked grin rested on its lips as it released files and files of government secrets. She stood there, frozen in the doorway, unsure of what to say as it raised its head and stared her down with borrowed eyes. "I wonder how quickly the country you love so much will turn on you for a few files."
Waller responded by raising her gun and firing. But the clone bent in a way that spoke of the First, dodging the bullets with a gentle laugh. As if she wasn't trying to shoot it, but instead they were having a little pillow fight at a sleepover. Then, in the next second, her right hand was gone, nothing more than an explosion of blood.
Like a water spray bottle that had squirted out a stream.
She stared at it, more confused than in pain, watching the blood leak down her arm. The gun clattered against the ground as the Clone giggled. "Oopsie, mother had a little spill~!"
"Protocol Alpha-ten!" She shouted, twisting on her heel and running down the hall as her security system automatically started destroying files and locking down the building.
"Overright: Omega-four-four-three," A voice calmly called out. Her voice. Waller realized with horror that the clone was skipping after her, mimicking her speech so well that the security system halted all movement. It believed the clone.
But they had tested it against the Martians' shapeshifting. And not even taking her form could trick her system!
"Are we playing tag?" The clone called out, and suddenly, bam- her left leg from the knee down was gone. She stumbled, grabbing onto the wall, with a cry as the clone laughed more. "Am I it?"
"Protocol: Nine-Pitch Black!" She screams, praying the message gets out —if only as a warning to the rest of the world —but even before she finishes speaking, another voice overlaps hers.
"Override: White Fall five-nine-eight-twelve." The clone walked up behind her, kicking out her good knee. Waller tumbled to the ground, breathing heavily, trying to think through the pain. It crouched down to her fallen form, tsking. "Calling for help? From the Justice League? After all the grief you've given them? A new low even for you."
"What...what are you?" She gasps, watching his blue eyes shimmer to green and his teeth sharpen. The DNA was human, not even meta-human. None of the Bats were. So, how was this clone changing? Did someone on the team mess with its DNA strand when they were making it?
"Shhhh shhhhhh." The clone cooed, pressing his finger against her trembling lips as a terrible pressure filled the air. A chill broke across her body as frost slowly crept along the walls, and the lights burst one by one. The clone's glowing grin looked more and more haunting by the second.
"My dead Amanda Waller." It purred, leaning in and letting its human features melt away to reveal a monster. "You know what I am. All living things know what I am. They can't escape me."
"Death," The word feels punched out of her, and its green eyes seem to dance with amusement.
"Your death."
No one heard her scream, and no one noticed when she was silenced for good.
Bruce Wayne gets a knock on his door at three in the morning just as the team is coming back from patrol. He wants to tell his kids to go get it, but everyone is half dead on their feet from the latest fight, so after getting out of his suit and throwing on his best bed robe, he makes the trek to the front door.
He doesn't even have to pretend to be exhausted. Bruce is getting up there in age, and hero work was a young man's job.
He rubs at his eyes while swinging the large front door open, a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, but it dies the second he sees what's standing on his doorstep.
A child, the perfect blend of all his sons, that it was almost like he was looking at one of those holographic posters of his children's child school photos, beams up at him.
In his hands, dripping blood onto the steps of Wayne Manor, is the head of Amanda Waller, frozen in a permanent petrified scream for all eternity.
"Hi," the child chirps, eyes crinkling like Dick's, lips pulled into a half-smirk like Tim's, and nose scrunched up like Jason's. Bruce was struck dumb by how adorable he seemed despite more heads of unknown victims resting at his feet. "My name is Danny Phantom. I was told this was where my DNA came from, and that makes it my home, doesn't it? Do you like games?"
What none of the unnamed government sector workers knew was that the blood they collected around Gotham had been contaminated. It was filled with the curse that made even the gentlest souls mad.
And Danny Phantom had once been the gentlest being in the universe before his soul had been accidentally used in a cloning experiment. One that involved using the strange, unknown green goo as a link between three different DNAs, and now housed the very force of death, all cramped into the body of a five-year-old monster.
In which a princess born of a hidden kingdom and inherited magic,is forced to flee after a dark sorcerer massacres her family in pursuit of her bloodline, her crown and a binding contract that would make her his. Believed dead by the world and unrecognisable to those who hunt her, she disguises herself as a servant and takes refuge beneath the roof of Uther Pendragon, guarded by secrets, protected by Merlin, and surviving in silence. In Camelot, she hides her name, her grief, and her power, while Arthur Pendragon comes to know her as a nobody. Not realising he is falling in love with a princess who was never meant to be found.
(Enemiesish to lovers, violence, major character death (past), grief, trauma, dark magic, manipulation, threats of forced marriage, emotional distress, slow burn, angst, mutual pining, eventual smut, hidden royalty, loss of home, found family.)
Summary: You wish you met Steve under different circumstances.
Word Count: 300
Warnings: Dark AU, dubcon/noncon elements, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), forced breeding, angst, captive, mention of Bucky and his own reader, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Still on Day 1 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: Slower. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You wished Steve was fucking you because he loved you. Closing your eyes, you imagined meeting him outside of these walls. Maybe he would've bumped into you at an art festival, the tips of his ears turning pink when you smiled at him. Or maybe you would've met at the library, reaching for the same book.
But fate had other plans.
“Look at me,” Steve demanded, the sharp drive of his hips making you gasp despite yourself.
Opening your eyes, you stared up at him and tried not to give anything away. Beneath the ecstasy in his eyes, there was sorrow… an apology. He looked like he wanted to kiss you, to whisper that everything was going to be okay. But he didn't.
“Slower.”
Your teeth snapped together at the sound of the doctor. Turning your head a fraction, you glared at the double-sided mirror. You and Steve were the stars of this freak show and the cruel doctor was on the other side taking notes. Down the hall, Bucky and his assigned partner had their own viewer.
If only you could get your hands on your tormentors…
“Why?” Steve gritted, sounding just as angry as you felt.
“Your pace is making her look… detached,” the doctor’s voice rang out. “Go slower. Please her. Bringing her to orgasm should increase the chances of pregnancy.”
It was your turn to look apologetic. You didn't ask to be a breeder for super soldiers, but Steve hadn't wanted to participate either. He was a good man. You were all trapped.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, cupping your cheek.
I’ll get us out of here.
It was an unspoken promise between you, and you tentatively brushed your lips together. “So am I,” you whispered back.
You. Steve. Bucky. His girl. You had to escape.
Somehow.
Could be interesting to explore more of. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
pairing; Mechanic!Andy Barber x Doctor!male reader
☬— nsfw. obsession/stalking. use of drugs. mentions of self-harm. praising. mental disorder (Sociopathy). murder. descriptions of violence. delusions. pet names (angel / sweetheart). mature // dark themes.
Summary; Andy Barber has an accident at his shop, which forces him to visit the hospital. There, he meets you. What begins as gratitude for your care slowly spirals into an unhealthy obsession. As his obsession deepens, Andy's behavior becomes increasingly erratic, all while becoming consumed by the fantasy of a relationship with the doctor who unknowingly holds his heart captive.
THE sound of metallic silver tools echoes throughout the—shaggy and dirty—garage that Andy Barber works in. It is a late night; the crickets outside are loud, and the wretched smell of grease and oil thickens the atmosphere. He loved that smell...
Andy lays under a car that was recently brought into the garage as he hums a rhythmic sound under his breath. The sound of the engine was comforting. He felt a sense of peace even.
His rough palm gripped the tool as he controlled it with ease. Tools were always something Andy could rely on. They came in handy in many ways—specifically in Andy's past. That's something he would like to bury deep inside.
Tools fixed things.
They tightened what was loose.
They silenced what was broken.
They ended the everlasting problems.
A rough exhale leaves Andy's pursed lips as he pushes himself further under the wrecked car he was currently working on. The cold metal gave him a sense of comfort—a safe place even. The wrench in his rough hand worked with him as he twisted screws left and right, allowing him to enter a trance. That trance came to an end when Andy felt a sharp pain shoot through his hand. The cold metal glided across his rough skin with ease and caused a pool of blood to form on his palm.
"Damn it." He mutters to himself as he pushes from under the car. He looks over at his grubby toolbox and grabs a mucky, stained washcloth to apply pressure to the wound. The cut was too deep. Too deep to shrug off. Andy knew that.
He mentally battled himself from the thought of having to go to that wretched place again. The hospital. hospitals made him shiver. His stomach turned due to the intense disinfectant smell, the chilling white walls, and the antiseptic fragrance. It had been years since his father's last hospital stay that he had set foot in one, and he had vowed never to return.
But that promise was cut short.
Reluctantly, Andy wrapped the wound with the dirty washcloth, grabbed his keys, and entered his—rugged red—pickup truck. "Fuck me," Andy spoke under his breath as he started the truck.
The engine roared, and smoke found its way to come out of its exhaust. He drove off, the only thought to haunt and fog his memory as he drove to the one place he promised never to return.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
THE waiting room smelled exactly how he remembered it—too tense, too quiet. The disgusting smell of disinfectant supplies filled the air, feeling toxic to Andy's heart. His stocky back sat against the—extremely uncomfortable—chair as his foot nervously tapped against the daunting tiled floor that haunted his memories.
He needed to get out.
Andy's tongue glides against his lips as he mentally debates with himself a second time. 'I can clean it myself. I don't need to be here. I fucking hate the hospital' were constant thoughts that lingered his brain.
As he's about to get up from the chair and exit the wretched environment, a nurse calls out, "Andy Barber."
"Fuck." He whispers roughly under his breath as he walks his way towards the nurse standing at the entence.
Hospitals were full of unworthy people who pretended to fix things.
Nurses especially.
As if it meant something, they grasped hands, offered condolences, and strolled around with soft voices and fake smiles. Acting as though compassion could heal. As though kind words could mend harm. They made too much of an effort to "be good." People still died, nevertheless.
But regardless, things broke.
They were worthless.
His jaw tightens as his dark blue eyes settles on another nurse who is laughing with their co-worker. Their scrubs too bright. Their tone too kind. They didn't understand how to fix things like Andy. They cleaned blood from wounds, and he knew how to cause them. They don't understand control. He forces his broad shoulders to relax and allows his face to become blank.
"Right this way, Mr. Barber." She smiles.
He hides the sheer look of disgust at the rehearsed smile and kind act. 'I wonder how many people she failed today.' Were his last thoughts before being instructed into a room.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
THE room becomes quiet when the nurse walks out.
Andy rolls his shoulder back against the patient bed, his jaw still tight from the vile interaction he had earlier with the "too perfect" nurse. His fingers tapped against the metal arm rest, trying to distract himself from the unappealing room.
His eyes scan the room slowly. Clean tan walls, perfect scenery paintings pinned against the wall, and silver instruments that laid flat on the tray for stitches—which is what he needed.
The handle clicks softly.
His eyes still painted towards the ground, he didn't bother looking up. He assumed it was another nurse to say once again a rehearsed act of kindness. But the air shifts. The footsteps are different. They're more heavier—measured. He looks up, his blue eyes connects to yours and everything inside of him stops.
Your white coat hangs loosely on your frame. A soft smile makes its way on your lips. "I hear you've had quite the accident, Mr. Barber," you said with a warm, but professional tone.
Andy feels something different.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't hatred or anxiety.
It was alignment. Comfortability.
"I'm Doctor y/n. Let's take a look at your hand." You say calmly. Andy hesitated at first. Not from fear or disgust. It's because he questioned if he was ready... ready to let such an angel's delicate skin connect to his rough, corrupted one. He slowly extends his hand, and you gently wrap your fingers around his wrist—making his breath hitch.
Your thumb lightly caresses the would to access the depth of it, and you realize that he will need stitches. "You'll need stitches." You say calmly, not to want to scare your patient.
But Andy wasn't scared. He felt safe.
All he can feel is the pressure of the your soft grip on the wound. The weight of your palm, and the way your touch is controlled, but not careless.
Intentional.
Andy studies your face while you work with his wound. The slight furrow in your brow. The way your jaw tightens in thought.
'He’s beautiful when he’s focused.' Andy thinks to himself.
"You're handling this well." You say as you guide the needle and thread through his skin. Andy doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've had worse." You glance up and look into his eyes quickly before returning your focus back onto the wound.
"Oh? Have you now."
Your tone isn't teasing. It isn't that fake softness everyone tries to have that Andy absolutely despised. You didn't fake pity him like he was a child. You were observational. Andy swallows the lump growing in his throat before he talks. "It comes with the job.. being a mechanic." His rough voice deeper than before.
"Well, don't let it happen again." You say and nod slightly.
God, he loved that you were "worried" for him. He felt like a fuel was igniting this growing spark between the two of you. His heart thumped louder by the second, goosebumps grew all over his broad back.
You pay close attention. Together, your brows furrow. Jaw set. You had no idea how meticulously he examines every aspect of your face. You don't appear weak. You don't appear fragile.
You appear in control.
Andy has always respected control.
"Alright, done. You will heal just fine. The nurse will give you further instructions regarding check-up and the healing process." You slightly smiled at the man in front of you, and you removed your soft hands from his skin. Suddenly, all Andy felt was cold air. Your warmth was gone. 'No.. come back, please.' Andy's thoughts run as the absence of your touch feels like his heart is being stabbed.
"All set, Mr. Barber. You're free to go."
Free.
That word felt so wrong for him to hear. He didn't want you to leave. He wanted you to connect your skin to his once more. He wanted your e/c eyes to gaze upon him as you focused on his wound. He loved that he was something worth your focus.
You're writing something on the chart, having that focused look on. His eyes never left your presence. This was nothing but a routine appointment to you, but to Andy? This was everything. His heart stopped completely when his eyes fell on you. Your touch, your smile, your maturity. He loved everything about you.
"Take care of yourself, Andy." You dismiss him as you exit the room and close the door behind you. Distance and coldness were all Andy felt in his stoned heart. The room felt smaller—emptier.
You're gone.. for now.
He'll be back for you, and next time—you won't dismiss him so early. You're his angel, and he needed you like no other.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY looks at himself in the dingy bathroom mirror. A lost, broken man was all that he could see. Someone who lacked empathy. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting a pale glow against the white tiles that surrounded him.
His jaw tightens.
Slowly, his stitched hand emerges into view. Your work: tidy, exact, intentional. He studies the fine threading on his rough flesh as he slowly rotates his wrist. Even though you were only holding this hand a few hours ago, it seemed like an eternity.
'You'll heal just fine.' But he didn't want to heal. Evidently, healing meant he wouldn't be able to see you.
The thought settles heavily in his chest.
He presses the sewn-up wound against the cold edge of the sink. At first, he couldn't grasp the thought of what he was doing. He needed a reason to see your beautiful face again. You were like a drug that couldn't leave his system. He slowly tests the thread on his rough skin—pressing harder.
Slight pain lingers through his body as a small red pool of blood starts to seep out of the delicate work you did. 'I need to see you, angel.' Andy watches it carefully in the mirror, his expression not changing whatsoever.
He presses harder.
He bites his lip roughly as the pain he felt under the—carefully wrapped—bandage starts to leak more crimson blood. He unwraps it, exposing the stitched wound, and with careful movement, he flexes his hand. 'Pop.' The thread comes undone.
Blood starts to leak down his hand.
Now he has a reason to see you again. Some might say that what he's doing is crazy, but this was all strategic to him; it was love. He grabs a paper towel and applies pressure on the wound. Not enough to stop it, but enough to control it. His dark blue eyes meet his reflection again. He was calm... certain.
You'll have to touch him again.
Next time, Andy won't allow you to dismiss him so easily. He craved you, needed to feel your soft skin connect with his corrupted, rough skin. He exits the bathroom, already planning his next visit.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY returned the next day.
And the day after that.
At first, the injuries were quite small. Reopened stitches, split knuckles, a burn from an engine that “slipped.” Each one was believable. "Accidental." Each one just enough to earn your touch again. To hear your calm, concerned voice again.
You began to notice the unusual behavior.
Your brows would furrow deeper each visit. Worry began to linger in your mind every time Andy visited your office. Your questions lingered longer. “You need to be more careful.” “This isn’t normal.” “Are you distracted at work?" The more you questioned him, the more it meant you were paying attention.
He would nod, give you half answers, and blame long hours.
But inside, He was thriving.
Soon, the wounds grew worse.
A deeper cut along his forearm from a razor blade. A gash across his thigh that required more than simple stitching. You prescribed him painkillers to ease the pain. But, he didn’t take them to heal. No, Andy took them to endure. To continue his obsession with you.
Since each injury demanded a new appointment. One more private space. Another opportunity for him to be with you. Your eyes, your smile, and your inherent scent. He loved every aspect of you, and this was just the beginning of it. Routine became ritual somewhere along the line. He memorized your schedule.
The days you worked late.
The nights you left exhausted.
The way you rubbed your temples before getting into your car.
You didn’t know it.
But he did.
✰ -- --- --- -- ✰
ANDY has already been spiraling. He’s sleep-deprived, mixing painkillers and alcohol. His obsession is getting stronger by the day. He’s convinced that you're just “confused” about your feelings for him.
One evening, he parks outside the hospital near the end of your shift. He tells himself he’s just making sure you're safe. Making sure that his angel gets home without any trouble. He's doing it out of love, not control.
Then he sees you.
You're currently standing outside in the cloudless, serene weather with a male coworker—maybe another doctor or a nurse. This gets Andy's attention immediately, 'What the fuck?' Thoughts running through his sick and twisted mind as you guys were laughing. The coworker lightly touches your arm, and you don't pull away like you should have. How dare you let another man touch you? You were Andy's everything. No one is able to lay a pinky on you.
That small touch feels catastrophic to Andy.
As he stares from inside his truck, the dim glow of the parking lot lights reflecting against the windshield, his hands tighten around the steering wheel. Everything seems a little warped because of the amount of alcohol and drugs in his system, as if he were watching something unfold underwater. Slow, warped. Incomprehensible.
But the anger is real.
You’re standing beneath the soft yellow light near the entrance of the hospital, your white coat catching the breeze. You look relaxed. Comfortable. Laughing at something the man beside you said.
Laughing.
The coworker stands too close. His posture is too familiar. His hand brushes your arm again—something he'll regret. Fingers lingering there as if he belongs.
As if he has permission.
Andy’s jaw tightens until it aches. His breathing heavily from anger.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t look disgusted.
You don’t look confused.
You look warm... comfortable.
His mind scrambles to correct it.
You don’t understand what you’re doing. You’re tired. Overworked. Vulnerable. You don’t see what that man is trying to take from you.
He does.
He always sees.
The coworker walks you to your car like it’s natural, like it’s expected. He opens the door for you, leaning down to say something else that makes you smile again. Andy’s breathing becomes heavier, fogging the inside of his window.
When you finally slide into your car and pull away, your headlights disappear down the quiet road, leaving the coworker alone in the lot.
Alone with Andy.
The coworker checks his phone casually, unaware, careless. Andy opens his truck door slowly, the hinges creaking softly in the still night air. His heavy boots hit the rough pavement with steady weight as he makes his way across the lot. Each step is deliberate—Measured.
The coworker looks up when Andy stops in front of him.
“Can I help you?” he asks, already irritated.
Andy stares at the sorry-looking man for a moment before speaking. His jaw still tight from the anger that travels through his blood.
“You shouldn’t touch him,” Andy says casually.
The coworker frowns slightly. “What?”
“You were touching him,” Andy repeats, his voice even. Controlled. “You don’t get to do that.” A short laugh escapes the man, disbelieving. “Okay… I think you’ve got the wrong idea here.” Andy steps his broad body closer. Close enough to see the annoyance harden into mockery on the man’s face.
“He’s not yours to touch,” Andy says quietly.
The coworker shakes his head. “Man, you’re acting crazy.”
Crazy.
The word lands heavier than it should.
The worker dismisses him completely, turning as though to brush past him. The movement is reckless. Confident. As though Andy is merely an inconvenience. Andy doesn't have time to completely digest it before his hand lunges forward. He pushes the man backward with more force than he meant when his palm slams hard against his chest.
The coworker stumbles, heel catching against the uneven concrete. His arms flail for balance, but it’s too late. His body hits the pavement hard, and his head strikes the ground with a dull, unforgiving sound.
The parking lot goes silent.
Andy freezes for a second, staring down.
The coworker doesn’t move.
A dark crimson pool of blood begins to spread beneath his head, slow and steady against the pale concrete. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring past the night sky... dead.
Andy’s breathing steadies as he takes a step closer.
He hadn’t planned it like this.
But it needed to happen.
The man had crossed a line. Touched something that didn’t belong to him. Andy stands over the body for a long moment, studying the stillness the same way he studies broken machinery in his shop. Something snapped. Something ended, and there wasn't an ounce of guilt in his chest.
Only relief.
You will no longer be misled.
You won’t be confused by men who don’t understand you like he does. He wipes his hand slowly against his jeans before turning toward his truck. The night feels quieter now. Safer.
This was only the beginning of his love for you.
He pauses before opening the door, his dark blue eyes glancing back once more at the deceased body lying beneath the lights.
“You’re safe now, angel.”
A/N: Hey guys.. Decided to write this because I felt a spark come back with writing. I hope you guys enjoy this long story as much as I enjoyed writing it. SIDE NOTE: I did't proof read, so please excuse all the typos and errors. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated
synopsis: the holy prince is a liar- and one that you know all too well, wanting to imitate the divine in the most mundane, he has chosen you. mdni.
wc: 3.3k
tw: force feeding, blasphemous notes, yandere-ish tamsy, slightly ooc cause im figuring him out, non con undertones.
a/n: this is an experimental piece that may or may not be considered for a future long fic/chaptered series. not proofread. mdni or get blocked.
The palace doors yawned open like the mouth of a cathedral, spilling the villagers into the marbled hall. Their footsteps echoed in uneven rhythm, a shuffle of boots and bare feet across stone polished so bright it reflected the glow of hundreds of candles. Smoke from braziers curled toward the vaulted ceiling, thick with frankincense and myrrh, choking the air sweet and heavy until every breath felt like inhaling prayer itself.
They came with bundles clutched to their chests — jars of oil, coins scraped from the bottom of chests, crusts of bread still warm from their hearths — all meager offerings for one they believed divine. Mothers with hollow cheeks carried sick children pressed against their shoulders. Old men limped forward, clutching staves, whispering pleas. Young women kept their eyes down, trembling as though even to meet his gaze would burn.
And there he was.
Prince Tamsy sat high upon the dais, framed in candlelight and veils of white silk that drifted from the rafters like the wings of angels. His hair was a crown of gold, heavy braids pinned and gleaming; and beneath, when he shifted, the shadows of navy caught the light like hidden oceans. His lashes, pale and feathered, brushed his cheeks when he lowered his eyes, only to rise again and reveal that molten gaze — gold and unyielding, as if a god had set fire into mortal irises.
The people knelt in waves before him, heads bowing to the marble floor. Their voices rose in a low tide of murmurs, prayers tangled with sobs: Heal us. Bless us. Save us.
You stood at his side, your plain garb stark against the gilt and velvet of his throne. Your duty was simple: pass him the relics, polish his chains, pour his wine. Yet every movement felt like a knife. You knew his sanctity was nothing but smoke and mirrors, yet you were forced to hold the illusion steady.
He raised his hand, and the chamber fell silent.
You catch the flicker in his gaze as he leaned down, murmuring under his breath for your ears alone. “Watch them tremble. It never gets old.”
He straightened, laying his palm upon the head of a weeping man, murmuring words of blessing. The man’s sobs cracked against the marble as he pressed his forehead to Tamsy’s hand. To the villagers, it was a vision of grace: the radiant prince blessing his people, golden hair aglow in candlelight, voice like balm over raw wounds.
But you were close enough to see the curl of his lip when the man’s tears smeared his skin.
“Pathetic,” Tamsy murmured beneath his breath, lips still curved in saintly benevolence. Only you could hear it. He wiped his hand on his robe the instant the villager moved on, eyes glinting like polished metal. The next petitioner was a woman with a child burning with fever, wrapped in rags. She collapsed to her knees, pressing forward until her head struck the steps of the dais. “Please, your holiness,” she begged, her voice scraping raw, “save my son. He has not slept, he does not eat—”
The crowd rose and fell like waves before him, each desperate soul pressing forward for a glimpse, a touch, a blessing. Tamsy played his part to perfection. His hand lingered on a child’s forehead as though grace flowed from his palm; his voice cooed soft absolutions, lips curved in patient serenity. Every gesture was measured, divine.
And the people believed.
You could see it in their trembling eyes, the way they clutched each other as if they stood in the presence of a god. Mothers wept as their children were “blessed,” farmers knelt as if their crops might flourish under his golden gaze. The chamber swelled with faith so thick you could almost drown in it.
At last, the last supplicant stumbled out, bowing low, leaving only the faint echo of prayer hanging in the air. The doors slammed shut. Silence fell.
The moment it did, Tamsy’s shoulders slumped as though the weight of divinity itself disgusted him. His smile evaporated. He gave a sharp exhale — not relief, but irritation, like a man finally spitting out something sour he’d been forced to hold on his tongue.
“Pathetic,” he hissed under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe the remnants of their touch away. His braid shifted, strands slipping loose, and he sneered at the wine goblet waiting beside his throne. “They come crawling like insects. Begging, sniveling. As if their whining voices will change the rot in their bones.”
He turned toward you, gold eyes lidded with contempt, his lashes casting shadows that looked far too soft for the venom in his tone. “Did you see the one with the boils on his arms? Expecting me to heal him, as if I’d sully myself for that filth.” He leaned back in the throne, one hand draping carelessly over the armrest, the picture of a bored monarch rather than a holy savior.
A cruel laugh rolled from his throat, low and bitter. “They would drink piss from my hand and call it holy water.”
The veils of incense smoke curled around him, catching in the light, but no longer did he appear angelic. Stripped of the crowd, stripped of their worshipful eyes, Tamsy was just a man with gold-fire eyes and a smile full of teeth — and the disgust curling his mouth was reserved for everyone beyond the palace walls.
He caught you staring, fingers still curled around the relic you hadn’t yet put away. His lip twitched, amused at your silence. “What? Don’t look at me like that, maid. You know better than anyone.” His smirk deepened, sharp as glass. “Holiness is nothing more than theater.”
The incense smoke swirled lazily in the silence, veils of white fabric shifting faintly in the rafters. You bit down hard on your cheek, keeping your eyes lowered, willing your tongue to still. But he noticed — of course he noticed.
Tamsy leaned back further into his throne, his expression sharpening into something cruelly amused. Gold eyes gleamed like coins tossed in the sun, catching every twitch of your restraint.
“Have I insulted your god?” His voice was silk, threaded with mockery.
Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out, steady despite the pulse thundering in your ears. “…No, Your Highness. Only yourself.”
For a beat, silence. Then his lips parted around a soft, incredulous laugh — the kind that never reached his eyes. He tilted his head, blonde-and-navy hair shifting like molten sunlight spilling over shadow, his lashes lowering to half-lid as if appraising a toy.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice languid, curling around the syllable like smoke. “So the maid does have a tongue sharp enough to cut.”
The laughter bled away, leaving a thin smile, unreadable and dangerous. He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair, gaze lingering on you as if deciding whether your defiance amused him… or demanded punishment.
The door locked with a heavy click.
You’d been caught again with bread. Just a crust from the servant’s table, nothing more. You’d meant only to quiet the gnawing in your stomach after working all day, scrubbing tapestries and polishing candelabras until your arms burned.
The door slammed shut behind him before you could hide it. Tamsy’s shadow fell long across the floor, stretching until it swallowed you.
He crossed the room quickly, his boots striking the stone like a death knell.
“You still eat their swill?” His voice was low, edged with disbelief and disgust. He pried the crust from your hand and flung it against the wall where it fell, crumbling to dust. “You’re not one of them anymore.”
You startled, the half-eaten heel of bread falling from your hand to the floor. Before you could bend to snatch it, his boots crossed the room in two strides. When you tried to stammer an excuse, his hand shot out, fingers clamping tight around your jaw. He squeezed until your cheeks bulged, lips puckering against your will. The pressure made your eyes water.
Tamsy’s fingers closed around your face, iron-hard, thumb digging into the hinge of your jaw while the rest squeezed your cheeks until your lips puckered. His eyes—bright, feverish—burned as though you’d spat on his devotion.
His voice cracked with fury and something more desperate, more wounded. “You dare pollute yourself with that… peasant fodder?”
You whimpered, tried to shake your head, but his grip held you still.
“Do you think I don’t see?” he hissed. His breath was hot, close, sick with the sharp sweetness of wine. “Do you think I don’t know every morsel you put in that mouth?”
You shook your head as much as you could with his grip locked on you, but that only made his hold tighter.
He bent close, mouth nearly brushing yours, his breath steeped in wine and spice. “How many times must I tell you? Their food rots you from the inside. You’ll ruin yourself with scraps fit for pigs.”
Your stomach churned as he produced a silver dish from behind his back, its lid gleaming faintly in the candlelight. The rich scent of roasted meat and spiced fruit rolled out- a plate of rich venison, its juices staining the silver, accompanied by figs glazed with honey. The scent was so thick it made you gag. He held it beneath your chin.
When you tried to turn your face, he pressed harder, forcing your mouth open with an almost reverent cruelty. He scooped a bite with his fingers and shoved it between your lips, smearing the sweet syrup against your tongue.
“Swallow.” His command was soft, coaxing, but his grip made refusal impossible. You obeyed, choking slightly, tears stinging your eyes. He groaned low at the sight, a sound far too intimate.
“That’s it,” he murmured, stroking your throat now as though guiding the food down. His thumb lingered against the hollow of your neck, feeling your swallow, his expression rapturous. “Do you feel it? My gift inside you? You don’t need their crumbs. You need only me.”
When you coughed, gagging faintly, he watched for a moment before forcing another bite past your lips, letting the juices drip down your chin.
He takes a step back, deciding to sit like a figure painted for devotion, reclined in a velvet-backed chair, golden robe loose enough to bare the slope of one shoulder. The light flickered across his skin, turning it to pale fire, gilding the edges of his lashes — impossibly thick and feathered, each blink casting a shadow over those molten eyes. He could have been mistaken for angelic. Until he smiled.
“Fix me for bed.”
You stood behind him, undoing his hair. The braids gave way beneath your fingers, silk-blonde strands spilling like sunlit threads. Beneath, the underside glimmered navy — secret, seditious, like the deep sea hiding under gold. He hummed low as you worked, a sound that made your chest tighten. Not a hymn, but a purr.
“Careful,” he drawled, voice curling like smoke. “You realize what this looks like, don’t you? My holy maid, hands in my hair. The people would kneel for the sight alone.”
You tugged a little harder at the next braid, enough to make him tilt his head back. He only chuckled, lashes lowering as if savoring the sting.
His hand shot up suddenly, catching your wrist mid-motion. He turned it, slow and deliberate, bringing your palm to hover just above his lips. His breath spilled warm against your skin.
“Do you know what they see when I let you touch me like this?” His eyes slanted up, gold catching the light. “They think you are blessed. That you are chosen.” His tongue traced a deliberate line across your palm before pressing a kiss there, obscene in its reverence. “But only we know better. It isn’t devotion that binds you. It’s… debt.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You tried to pull back, but his grip tightened — not crushing, but commanding. The last of the braids slipped free, and his hair tumbled down in a curtain of gold over navy. He rose slightly from the chair, forcing you closer, his voice dropping.
“Look at me.”
You did — unwilling, yet caught. His lashes brushed his cheekbones, his pale eyes gleaming like twin halos, too bright, too wrong. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, grazing the softness as if testing its shape.
“They worship a saint,” he whispered, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted your mouth. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, firm, possessive. “But you…” his smile sharpened, wicked,
“…you kneel for a liar.”
His hand shot out before you could retreat, a sudden force against your shoulder that shoved you downward. The marble floor was cold as it bit into your knees.
“You kneel for a liar,” he repeats, voice low and cutting, echoing with a mockery that filled the gilded chamber. His palm pressed firmly against the crown of your head until your neck strained, forcing your body into a position of prayer—not to the gods, but to him.
He shoved down with a strength that brooked no refusal, forcing your knees to crack against the cold marble floor. The stone bit through your skirts, chilling bone, and you hissed at the sting.
Your palms caught yourself against the ground, the polished surface gleaming like black water under torchlight. It felt wrong, humiliating—like a mockery of reverence.
“You pray to gods that do not hear you,” he said, circling, his shadow cutting across your bowed frame like the sweep of a scythe. “Yet here you are, kneeling—finally—for something real.”
The silence in the chamber swallowed his words, amplifying them until they pressed against your skull. The scent of incense still clung from earlier rituals, sweet and suffocating.
You clenched your jaw until the muscle ticked, biting your cheek to keep words from spilling.
He crouched low, his lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me again. Does this offend you? To kneel where you should?”
“…No, your highness,” you forced through gritted teeth. “Only yourself.”
He laughed, sharp and hollow. Not the laughter of a man, but the brittle crack of something already fractured.
“Good,” he murmured. His hand lingered at the back of your neck, pressing down until your forehead nearly touched the stone. “Then pray.”
His hand anchored the back of your neck, hot despite the cold marble seeping into your skin. The stone smelled faintly of wax and smoke, the remnants of rituals performed for gods that never answered.
“Go on,” he coaxed, voice dripping with derision. “Pray. Say the words you’ve mouthed your whole life. But this time—” his grip tightened, forcing your head to bow lower, “—say them to me.”
The silence between you stretched taut. You could feel his breath close, too close, fanning the fine hairs at your temple. The humiliation crawled hot under your skin, shame prickling, yet he lingered as though savoring your resistance.
“I…” the words stuck, dry in your throat. Your tongue felt too heavy.
He chuckled low, a sound vibrating against you. “What is it? Do the words not come so easily when your ‘god’ has a face?” He bent nearer, his lips a ghost hovering by your ear. “Or is it because I am not divine enough for your pious little tongue?”
You shut your eyes, jaw trembling. His tone was cruel, but beneath it simmered something else—something intent, probing, as if he wanted not just to humiliate, but to hear you yield.
His fingers dragged from your neck to your chin, lifting your face just enough that you were forced to meet his gaze. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, fever-bright, searching you with almost hungry patience.
“Say it,” he whispered. The command was soft, but the weight of it left no air in your lungs. “Pray to me. Ask me for what you want. Isn’t that what all the rest of them do?”
You bit your cheek harder until you tasted iron, refusing the words.
And he smiled—slow, cruel, amused. “Good. Resist. It makes the moment you break… that much sweeter.”
His thumb brushed across your lower lip—just once, deliberate—as though testing the edge of something unsaid. The gesture was wrong, mocking, intimate, and for a heartbeat you forgot if you were meant to feel disgust, fury, or a pull you couldn’t name.
And before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours — slow at first, deceptively tender, then deepening, demanding, as if he were sealing the sacrament he’d written for the two of you alone. Tamsy pulled you to your feet, his grip harsh, your feet staggering.
His kiss burned, tasting of incense and something sharper, something like triumph. For a moment, you were caught — lips moving against his before you realized what you were doing. You tore yourself away, stumbling back just enough to put air between you.
Your hand shot up, wiping your mouth as if you could scrub away the weight of it. “Your highness, please,” you rasped, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it even. “Enough of this.”
The words rang in the chamber, swallowed by the smoke-heavy silence.
Tamsy leaned back in his chair, head tipping lazily as his hair — undone and radiant — cascaded over his shoulders like some gilded veil. His smile was slow, deliberate, cruel.
“Enough?” he echoed, as though tasting the word. His lashes dipped, then rose again, catching the candlelight in those unholy gold eyes. He speaks indifferently. “Do you think saints hear ‘enough’? Do you think gods are asked to stop?”
He rose from the chair with unhurried grace, every step toward you purposeful. The incense veils shifted in his wake, as though the air itself bent around him. You backed away instinctively, until your spine brushed the cool stone wall.
Tamsy placed his palm beside your head, leaning close. His hair brushed your cheek, strands of gold and navy threading into your breath. “You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice silk wrapped around steel. “From fear? Or from wanting?” His thumb swept the corner of your mouth, where his kiss had lingered.
Your breath hitched. You tried to form words, but his nearness suffocated them.
He clicked his tongue, the sound dark and amused. “Don’t hide behind that ‘please,’ maid. You wear it like prayer, but you may as well be more blasphemous than I.”
His hand slid down from the wall to your wrist, pinning it to the stone, his body a cage of velvet and smoke. “You beg for mercy like a sinner, but…” His mouth brushed close to your ear, heat ghosting over your skin.
For a heartbeat, you thought he would press closer, would push until you broke. But then — as if a switch had flipped — his expression shifted. The fire in his eyes dulled, replaced with something flat, almost lazy.
He released your wrist, stepping back as though you were suddenly beneath his notice. His gaze drifted over you, detached, his lip curling.
“Disgusting.”
The single word landed harder than a blow. His tone wasn’t furious or mocking — it was bored. Empty. You were no longer entertainment, just something soiled and unworthy of touch.
Tamsy turned from you without ceremony, golden hair spilling in waves down his back as he sank into his chair again. He reached for the goblet at his side, swirling the wine as if your presence was already forgotten.
“You may go,” he said carelessly, lifting the cup to his lips. A pause — then, almost as an afterthought, his eyes cut toward you, sharp and glowing once more. “But do try not to bore me next time, yes?”
He smiled faintly, sipping as though he’d just delivered a blessing.
And you, with your lips still burning and your chest tight, had no choice but to bow and retreat, the word disgusting echoing in your ears like a curse.
They Told Him the Outside World Was Poison — Gotham Proves Them Wrong (Mostly)
Danny Fenton didn’t grow up in Amity Park.
He grew up in a compound.
Not the “hippie commune” kind. Not the “off-the-grid survivalist” kind either. This was quieter. Colder. Controlled.
A place where the adults spoke in hushed, reverent tones about the Veil.
Where children were taught that the world beyond the gates was corrupted, dangerous—infected by something unseen.
Danny never questioned it.
Not when they made him sit through “cleansing” rituals.
Not when they told him his strange sensitivity to cold and electricity was a gift.
Not even when they started calling him the Bridge.
Because in the cult, that meant he was special.
It meant he had a purpose.
It meant one day, he would open the way.
He was thirteen when everything went wrong.
Or right.
Depending on who you ask.
The ritual wasn’t supposed to work yet.
They said he wasn’t ready. That the Veil would reject him. That he needed more time, more training, more obedience.
But Danny had always been… different.
So when they locked him in that chamber, surrounded by symbols carved too deep into stone, chanting words older than language—
The Veil didn’t reject him.
It answered.
The adults called it ascension.
Danny remembers it as pain.
Cold, endless, consuming pain.
And then—
Silence.
When he woke up, the compound was gone.
Burned. Broken. Empty.
No bodies.
No survivors.
Just ash, and echoes.
And the faint, whispering hum of something inside him that hadn’t been there before.
He walked for days.
No one came looking for him.
No one ever had.
Eventually, he found a city.
Or maybe the city found him.
Gotham isn’t subtle like that.
At first, Danny thinks this is what they warned him about.
The crime. The darkness. The way people look over their shoulders even in daylight.
He expects corruption to feel… different.
More supernatural.
More like the thing inside him.
But Gotham?
Gotham is just… human.
Broken, sure. Dangerous, definitely. But not poisoned in the way the cult described.
Which raises a question Danny doesn’t know how to answer:
If the outside world isn’t what they said it was—
Then what was the cult protecting?
And more importantly…
What did they turn him into?
It doesn’t take long before Gotham notices him.
A kid who doesn’t feel the cold.
Who disappears when cornered.
Who glitches when the streetlights flicker.
Batman notices.
Of course he does.
Danny isn’t scared of Batman.
Not really.
He’s seen worse.
Been through worse.
But there’s something unsettling about the way Batman looks at him—
Not like he’s dangerous.
Not like he’s broken.
But like he’s a mystery that needs solving.
And Danny hates that.
Because if Batman starts digging…
He might find the truth.
About the Veil.
About the ritual.
About what’s still whispering inside Danny’s head when the city goes quiet.
Ugh, my obsession with Sandman is back 😔 sad that it's the last season! So can I request yandere Morpheus with 💔 and 🖤? I think it suits him a lot!!
❝💔❞ - ‘’You can't leave me. You will not leave me.’’
❝🖤❞ - ‘’I don't want to force you to be mine, but I will if I have to.’’
❝tw: kidnapping, yandere behavior and threats.
Maybe it was all his fault.
He knew, he knew from the beginning, that he shouldn't let himself get carried away again, that he shouldn't make the same mistake he had before: falling in love with a mortal. A human. So ephemeral, so fragile, so... You.
Maybe Desire was right after all. Maybe his sibiling knew something that he, proud and stubborn, refused to accept: that love and eternity rarely coexist without pain.
But it was no use. As much as he was the master of many things, as much as he could shape dreams and nightmares with a simple thought, he couldn't contain what blossomed inside him when he looked at you.
It was inevitable. Uncontrollable. A feeling that burned like an ancient fire, the kind that consumes not only the skin but also the soul. It was overwhelming. It was magnificent. It was... Beautiful.
And you...
You didn't want it.
You didn't see what he saw. You didn't feel what he felt. You didn't desire what he had to offer, not his power, not the silent realms at the edge of the Dreaming, not eternity with him. Not even his love.
You rejected him. You refused everything.
But Morpheus had never handled rejection well.
He was too old, too proud, and, above all, too lonely. He had had affairs before — brief, intense loves, and they had all, invariably, ended in ruin. Some, he knew, had been ruined by his fault, by his coldness, by his rigidity. He was not a gentle or a caring creature. Never had been.
Still, he had hoped that with you it would be different.
He had hoped that the sweetness he saw in your smile and the curiosity in your eyes would break the cycle. That you, unlike the others, would choose to stay. You would choose him. But he was wrong.
Once again.
The pain of rejection was something that not even the King of Dreams could dispel with words, nor hide behind silence. And then, one night, while you slept, innocent, vulnerable, dreaming, Morpheus made a decision.
He took you.
He took you to the Dreaming, where everything was made of unspoken thoughts and desires. There, he trapped you in a golden and calm dream, where time did not pass and the body never woke.
You would never open your eyes again in the waking world.
You would stay with him. Forever.
He knew it wasn't right. He, more than anyone, knew what it meant to be trapped. He knew what it was like to be caged, silenced and reduced to a captive. He had spent a hundred years like this, and yet…
Still, Morpheus looked at you sleeping and told himself it was different.
That this was for love.
He loved you. He loved you with the intensity of a thousand storms, with the pain of a thousand centuries of solitude. He wanted to protect you from the world, from the dangers, from the pain of living, and most of all, from the possibility of losing you.
"It's love," He repeated. To himself. To Lucienne. To Matthew. To anyone who dared question him.
"I'm just... Keeping the one I love safe."
Morpheus found you where he had left you: in your quarters in the Dreaming.
The room was filled with silence and soft light, with furniture that seemed carved from ancient memories and scents that came from your childhood memories, lavender, old paper, and damp earth. Everything there was shaped to be familiar, to comfort you. To sustain you.
You had freedom.
You could roam the Dreaming as you pleased. The hanging gardens, the endless corridors of glass and mist, the islands floating in constellation-filled skies, all were yours. Everything was within your reach.
But deep down, Morpheus knew it wasn't freedom.
It was a gilded enclosure.
Because there was nowhere to run.
The Dreaming is him. And he is the Dreaming.
Even if you ran, hid, or kept quiet... He would always know where you were. Where would you go. What did you dream about that night. It was the price of living in a world woven from the mind of someone who loves you dearly, or at least believes they do.
And there you were.
Beautiful. Ethereal.
His.
Sitting peacefully on your bed, your legs curled up on the side and your eyes focused on a book you'd checked out from the library.
"Are you enjoying the reading?" Morpheus asked, his voice echoing softly.
You didn't answer right away.
There was no need. The silence between you was full enough.
He took a few steps closer, but kept his distance. He always did. Not out of respect. But out of fear. Fear that if he touched you, even in your dreams... You would hate him. He didn't want you to hate him, that much he knew.
"I brought this book to you when I noticed you dreaming about it, weeks ago." He said calmly. "A lost edition. Never published in the waking world. But I kept it. For moments like this."
You just turned another page. Slowly. Precisely. Impeccably. Ignoring him completely.
He took a deep breath. Or at least something close to it.
"I want you to be happy here," Morpheus continued, almost pleading — which is ridiculous because he doesn't plead — though his voice remained firm. "I want this place to be a home. I want to be... Something good for you."
But the Dreaming trembled, for a brief second, as if it knew the truth he was trying to hide even from himself.
You weren't happy.
And he... Wasn't good for you. But he refused to accept that.
You finally looked at him.
And in that instant, an instant that felt eternal, what Morpheus saw in your eyes struck him like no sword ever could. There was anguish there. Fear. But also something even worse: a silent, restrained, aching fury.
You didn't cry. You didn't beg. You didn't scream.
You spoke clearly. With harshness. With cutting honesty.
"I want to leave here. I want to return to the waking world." You said, each word like a thin knife piercing straight to his core. "If you want me to be happy, send me back!"
The room fell silent.
Morpheus just stared at you. His eyes were as black as the void between the stars, as cold as the absence of sound in a vacuum. On the outside, he was expressionless. Motionless. A living statue of everything he refused to feel.
But outside… The sky of the Dreaming reacted.
The sky was beginning to darken, clouds laden with rain and lightning danced in a possible and devastating storm, a mirror of Morpheus's negative emotions.
The kingdom felt what he felt.
And then, he spoke. Slowly. With a calm that sounded almost like a threat.
"You can't leave me." He paused. "You won't leave me."
"I don't want to force you to be mine…" Morpheus began, his voice low, almost a whisper that seemed to reverberate in every corner of that room that was also a disguised prison. "But I will, if I have to."
The words came out with the coldness of a sentence. There was no scream, no visible anger. Only the shadow of something deeper, more ancient, an uncontrollable need to hold on to what he loves, even at the cost of the other's freedom.
Morpheus walked to the exit of his chambers, but stopped to look at you, turning his head slightly.
"I will give you some time alone to consider my words."
It was not a choice, not an option but an ultimatum.
