Hello, I really like the way you are writing! So what would you think of yandere Frank, Jake, David, the doctor and the spirit (together or seperate, you decide),with an obsession (survivor) that is very sarcastic, always fighting back and always doing the opposite thing they want from her/him, just to annoy them? If you don't have time or don't want to write about this, it's ok. Just ignore this request then. Have a good night/day!
It’s truly fascinating how predictable you are. How defiant you can be. And yet, you still captivate him.
Most survivors break or start to crumble under fear. They scramble. They beg. They cry. They always end up submitting to him.
Not you. At least, not in any trial he’s ever seen you in.
You stopped fearing him long ago. Stopped treating him as the incomprehensible terror that others do. Instead, you regard him with nothing but seething defiance, as if he were some insufferable nuisance rather than the very monster that dictates your suffering. A beast whose authority you refuse to acknowledge. A force you meet head-on, teeth bared, unyielding even in the face of certain death.
He learned that quickly. Herman Carter is a man who thrives on absolute control.
And yet, here you are. Still running. Still fighting.
Still making his pulse thunder with every sharp glance, every scathing retort, every reckless refusal to submit to him. How infuriating. How utterly delightful.
His shoes slam against the frozen earth, crushing brittle ice beneath his relentless pursuit. Snow scatters in his wake, the cold biting into his skin, though he hardly notices. Not when he’s so singularly focused. The crackle of electricity hums at his temples, a steady, pulsing rhythm that casts erratic shadows along the decayed walls of Ormond Lodge.
But he doesn’t need to rush. Not this time. Not when he knows you.
He has studied you. Mapped every instinct, memorized every habit, every desperate maneuver. Others are mere test subjects, their fates inconsequential, but you… you are something else entirely. Something infinitely more precious.
Which is why, when he catches you, he’ll be gentle. A rare kindness. A mercy reserved for you alone. Because he’s long since decided he’ll be keeping you.
You feel him before you hear him.
That low, insidious hum. The telltale whisper of something unnatural lurking just beyond your senses.
But then… The unmistakable thunder of shoes, pounding against the frostbitten ground, closing in like a death knell.
Your muscles coil, but not with fear. No, something much hotter surges through you, igniting in your chest, curling in your gut. Fury.
“Damn it, you son of a bitch! You ever take a day off?!”
The words rip from your throat, sharp and scathing, slicing through the frozen air with all the venom you can muster.
You should be focused on escape. Should be calculating every possible route, should be maneuvering, strategizing, weaving your way toward safety.
And the moment you hear that sound. That scrambled laugh… Something in your core twists. Warped and guttural, his amusement is fractured and distorted, bleeding through the static-laced air like the death rattle of something far beyond human. The charged atmosphere crackles against your skin, tiny jolts prickling along your spine.
Your instincts scream at you to run faster.
But instinct alone isn’t what drives you.
You hate him. With every fiber of your being, with every ragged breath, every aching muscle. With a fury so visceral it borders on something vicious, something that dares to eclipse mere survival.
And that’s why you refuse… Refuse, to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes.
Sadly, it’s amusing to him.
Most survivors, when they know they’re cornered, when they feel the predator breathing down their necks… They scream.
You? You snarl. Like a caged animal, he managed to corner you. Wild and untamed. Teeth bared, hackles raised, rage burning in your glare, nearly daring him to take one step closer.
And Herman? He simply laughs. A low, indulgent chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound distorted, fractured, like static slithering between radio frequencies. His massive frame looms over you. A monolith of raw strength and something far more insidious. An intelligence that does not simply craves, but calculates.
The wires threading through his scarred, muscular arms pulse with restrained energy, casting eerie, flickering light over the snow-laden ground. The dim glow accentuates every ridge and contour of his form. To the broad expanse of his shoulders, the brutal scars that mar his flesh, the twisted remnants of past experiments etched into him like a morbid masterpiece.
And you… You’re trapped. Caught between him and the rusted remains of a snow-covered trash container, your breath clouding in the frigid air. But you refuse to cower.
He sees it in your stance, in the way your fingers twitch, flexing with anticipation. Ready to shove him, strike him, even try and fight him.
But he doesn’t want a struggle. Not this time.
Not when he’s spent so long learning your little habits, your little games and your little weaknesses. He’s mapped you down to the finest details. The quickening of your pulse, the shift of your weight when you prepare to run, the fire that ignites in your glare just before you lash out.
No, he wants you perfectly intact, he reminds himself.
His rough, cracked hands move with uncharacteristic care. Calloused fingers reaching, not to strike, not to seize, but to touch.
His fingertips graze your cheek, the contact featherlight, and yet… electric. A faint, tingling charge lingers in his wake, sending shivers racing down your spine. Your breath hitches, unbidden, and his amusement hums through the air like an unstable current.
A little gift from him. A reminder.
That he is here. Inside your skin. Inside your head. Inside of everything.
He drops his weapon, and his other hand finds your wrist, curling around it. Not restraining. Just keeping you. Holding onto what is his.
"Still so stubborn," he muses, his voice a low, distorted murmur, warped through the device prying his mouth into an unrelenting grin. "So resilient."
He tilts his head, ever so slightly, his gaze unwavering as he watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest. Your breath warm against the frozen air, your heartbeat hammering just beneath his fingertips.
You are furious. Fuming. Every muscle in your body is tight, locked, poised for a strike.
And yet… He knows you’re resisting the shiver.
His breath hitches. Sharp, measured and absolutely predatory.
"I wonder, dear girl… would you still fight if you knew I wouldn’t hurt you?"
Your glare sharpens, unflinching, a firestorm of rage and defiance.
"Shut up. I know you will. Don’t fucking lie to me, you freak."
A slow drag of his finger down the warm curve of your clavicle, his touch a contradiction. Gentle, yet injected with something far more wicked.
"Amusing," he murmurs, voice dropping to something darker, richer, threaded with something too close for comfort. His lips strain against the cruel device forcing his mouth open, his fingers lingering at the dip of your collarbone, pressing down ever so softly against it. Just enough to feel the way your pulse jumps.
"Well, I believe you’d bite and claw until your very last breath."
His head dips lower, impossibly close, his voice threading into something quiet. Something intimate. "And still… I’d be delighted if you did."
His unblinking eyes widen further, reveling in the way your body betrays you, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the rush of your pulse beneath his touch.
Your pulse, thrumming beneath his fingers. The fire in your eyes, burning even as the cold air licks at your skin. The way you refuse to bow, refuse to break, refuse to be his.
His mind drinks in every flicker of defiance, every breath, every tremor, savoring the moment as though he could carve it into permanence.
The sound rips through the frozen air, shrill and unrelenting. Self-explanatory. The exit gates.
Herman’s fluorescent eyes snap upward, his entire form going rigid. A flicker of darkness ignites in his gaze, clearly ugly and inconvenienced.
You feel it before you see it. The subtle shift in his grip, the tightening of his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. He would never break his most important test subject.
But enough to send a very, very clear message.
The words slither past his teeth, low and vibrating with something dangerous and final. His voice, even warped and distorted, drips with quiet promise.
You steal that moment right from underneath him.
That fraction of a second where his mind, sharp as it is, is not completely focused on keeping you still.
Your body moves before your mind can fully process it, instincts roaring to life. With one violent, wrenching twist, your wrist slips free, burning against the friction of his grip.
The frozen ground is slippery beneath your feet, each breath a ragged, desperate heave. Your legs scream, muscles searing with exertion, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.
Because you know he’s behind you. Of course he is.
Shoes slam against the earth, snow scattering as his towering frame cuts through the fog, relentless and determined. Electricity crackles, the very air warping around him in unstable pulses of static-laced hunger.
But you don’t dare look back.
Not until your trembling hands slam against the control panel, then pressing down, activating it.
And then you squeeze right through, your body twisting as you throw yourself through the opening, the icy air slicing against your skin.
The Entity’s fog curls around you. Safety at last.
Herman stops in his tracks, his weapon left behind.
His form stills, his sharp, manic grin frozen in place, his breath halting in his chest.
He watches as you vanish out of his sight.
The static around him pulses almost wild and erratic, before crackling out in an abrupt, deafening silence.
His body shudders, fingers twitching, his jaw flexing ever so slightly. A low, near-silent chuckle bubbles up from his chest, crawling past his teeth like the remnants of some dark, twisted amusement.
His head tilts, electrodes sparking faintly, his ever-gaping grin twitching as his unblinking eyes remain fixated on the space where you once stood.
His tongue drags across the inward-facing side of his bottom teeth, his breath slow, measured.
The laugh starts as a small, fractured sound, then grows, unraveling into a series of quiet, warbling giggles, his shoulders quaking with the force of it.
Because, deep down, he knows.
Knows you belong to him, whether you realize it yet or not.
Next time, there won’t be an exit.
The Legion (Frank Morrison)
It’s almost unfair how much fun he’s having.
You can hear him before you see him. Quick, eager footsteps crunching against damp grass, weaving between broken fences and half-rotted wood with a kind of purpose that sets your nerves alight. And then…
"Wow, for a guy who thinks he’s terrifying, you sure are easy to outrun. Need a head start?"
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Sharp, mocking and dripping with challenge. And they hit their mark.
For a moment, just a moment, there’s silence.
A shift in the air. The unmistakable hum of tension coiling tight. His head tilts slightly, the eerie, frozen grin of his mask staring back at you, his breathing even. Too even.
You always say things that make his fingers twitch, make his thoughts spiral, make him want to grab you and shake you and-
God, you don’t even know, do you?
Frank has been in love with you for longer than he’s willing to admit, tangled up in something sharp-edged and uncontrolled. Not because you fear him, no… Because you refuse to. Because you mock him behind his back, call him a melodramatic wannabe killer with no real bite. Because you fight him at every turn, spitting insults when others would scream, dodging his attacks when others would beg.
Because you never do what he wants. Even when he wants you to love him.
And then, with a sudden, breathless laugh, he bolts forward.
He’s fast. Too fast this time around. He’s already closing in before your mind even catches up.
“You really make this easy, y’know?” he muses, voice smooth, almost affectionate in its mocking. “The others run. They panic. But you?” A chuckle, deep and rough. “You get me fucking excited.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, your breath a frantic, uneven mess as you push forward, weaving between the abandoned fences and rotted garden beds.
You don’t remember seeing him move, but suddenly, he’s there.
The knife gleams as he swings, but you’re ready, twisting at the last second, the blade missing your ribs by inches. You crash against him, shoulder slamming into his torso. He barely stumbles, fingers grazing the edge of your sleeve as you tear yourself away, sprinting into the mansion.
The mansion is dark, moonlight slanting through fractured glass, casting eerie streaks across his mask. His breath is steady, unhurried, even as he steps forward, like he already knows you won’t escape him this time. Or so he believes.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping into something softer, something meant just for you, “I think I like you best like this.”
Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms. You should be thinking of an escape route, of a way to outmanoeuvre him, but something about him- his voice, his posture, the absolute ease in the way he moves, makes your blood boil.
“You’re out of your damn mind.”
His grin is evident, even beneath the mask. “Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”
There’s no time to answer. No time to plan. Because in the next second, he moves.
The knife whistles past your shoulder, slicing through the air just as you duck, heart pounding in your throat. You spin, barely catching sight of him lunging before you bolt again, tearing through the manor’s suffocating halls.
Your back hits the wooden frame of a door that won’t budge. You try again, rattling the handle, but it won’t give.
A hand slams against the wall beside your head.
The knife follows, embedding itself just inches from your throat, the force of it rattling the wood.
You barely have time to react before his free hand moves.
Not to stab. Not to strike.
Fingers glide along your cheek, slow, deliberate, mapping the shape of your face like a sculptor learning their craft. The mask tilts slightly as he leans in, so close that you can hear his breathing from behind the thin barrier of plastic, each inhale measured, calculated, like he’s savoring this moment.
“You keep running,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed, almost gentle. If not for the feral hunger laced beneath. “But it’s pointless. You’re fucking mine.”
His fingers trail down, following the curve of your jaw, pausing just below your ear. His touch lingers, feather-light yet possessive, as if he’s memorizing the very beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips.
“You always fight,” he muses, thumb dragging over the sensitive skin at the side of your throat, pressing down just enough for you to feel the weight of it. “I love that about you. But it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”
His other hand ghosts near the knife embedded in the wood, as if considering retrieving it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stays right there, drinking in every flicker of defiance in your eyes, every unsteady breath you take.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he continues, voice smooth, laced with something almost affectionate. “I don’t need to hurt you to fucking own you.”
“You were never gonna leave this trial.”
The words settle like lead in your lungs, heavy, suffocating.
For a second, his entire frame tenses, a flicker of something ugly flashing through his dark eyes behind the mask. His grip tightens on the knife, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched beneath the plastic. The air around him shifts, thickens, his entire presence coiling with something volatile, something barely contained.
A low and frustrated growl. Dangerous.
With a sharp jerk, you break free, shoving him back with every ounce of strength left in your body. He staggers, just slightly, just enough. His fingers graze your wrist as you rip yourself away.
And then you run back outside.
The ground is slick beneath your feet, each step a frantic, desperate push forward. Your breath tears from your lungs in ragged bursts, legs burning, every muscle screaming at you to keep going. You don’t dare look back.
Boots pounding against the earth, his pace relentless, the sound of his chase weaving into the frantic rhythm of your pulse. He’s close. So fucking close. You can feel him, that oppressive weight of his presence looming behind you, thick with something possessive, something hungry.
A snarl, half growled, half laughed.
“Run, baby. Let’s see how far you’ll get.”
Your fingers slam against the control panel, almost fumbling, clearly trembling. The moment the mechanism clicks, you don’t hesitate. You twist your body and throw yourself through the opening, the icy air slicing against your skin like a blade.
The Entity’s fog curls around you. The overwhelming silence of safety.
Frank stops in his tracks.
His breath is heavy, shoulders rising and falling in deep, measured inhales. His fingers flex at his sides, grip tightening and loosening around the knife as his gaze locks onto the spot where you just stood.
Then, slowly, almost lazily, his hand drifts up to his mask.
With one slow, deliberate motion, he peels it off, revealing sharp, angular features twisted in something between amusement and frustration. His head tilts, tongue swiping across the inside of his cheek, the silver gleam of his tongue piercing catching the dim light.
His breath catches once, then twice. Halfway between a sigh and the beginning of a laugh.
And then, finally, it spills out.
Low. Soft. Amused. But laced with something deeper and darker.
“You really think you won, huh?”
His dark eyes gleam, tracking the last wisps of fog as they swallow you whole. His amusement lingers, curling at the edges of his mouth, but beneath it, something colder simmers. Something patient and almost cruel in nature.
Frank Morrison doesn’t need to scream his obsession. He doesn’t need to make it obvious. He’s smarter than that. More patient. Because love… Real love, in his mind, isn’t something rushed.
Because next time, he’ll make sure you never fucking run again.
The air in Autohaven Wreckers is thick with rust and oil, the scent clinging to your lungs like a brand. The scrapyard looms around you, jagged metal carcasses stacked high, their hollow frames whispering in the wind. The flickering glow of distant headlights casts eerie, elongated shadows against the wreckage. The world feels abandoned. Hollow. And yet…
A sharp breath. A shift in the air. A static hum reverberating against your skin, deep and raw, like something clawing at the fabric of existence itself.
A shape materializes in front of you. Tattered, trembling and wrong. Barely a woman. Her form fractured, as though the universe itself is unsure if she belongs. She fades in and out, her presence tethered to reality by something fragile, something desperate.
Her body, once whole, now hangs in tatters. Frayed bandages coil around her body in uneven strips, the only barrier between the remnants of what’s left of her humanity and the world that tore her apart. Jagged shards of glass remain embedded in her flesh, glinting under the faint light, half-buried wounds refusing to heal, locked in a state of eternal suffering. Her skin, blueish and streaked with deep, angry gashes, bears the remnants of a violence too cruel to name. Arms and a leg cleanly severed for a torso. A past that refuses to let her go.
And her hair, wild and unkempt, floating as if weightless, frames her face entirely, shifting in the air like something alive. The movement does little to hide the torment in her features, the sorrow carved into every twitching muscle. She is agony made manifest, her form trembling with pain too vast to express, her silence a wail that never finds release.
She watches you with milky eyes. Unblinking. Shuddering with something unseen, something barely contained.
Instead, your lips curl, a breathless laugh escaping before you can stop it. "Damn, you really need to work on your bedside manner. You know, if you actually want people to stick around."
The words linger between you like a challenge.
A soundless inhale, a tremor rolling through her body like a current. Her fingers twitch at her sides, jerking toward you, spasming in their hesitation. As if she wants to reach for you, but something in her is splintering apart at the thought.
Not in steps. Not in strides. But in glimpses.
One moment, she stands before you, her form flickering at the edges. The next, the world seems to warp, space bending around her as she vanishes, only to reappear inches from your side.
A sharp sound rattles in her throat. Her hand snaps up, just shy of your wrist. Trembling, grasping for something she does not dare to take.
You don’t see the heartbreak in her eyes. The way her expression fractures, the way her nails bite into her own palm instead, the sharp pain grounding her in the moment.
You only see the opportunity. Your body twists, muscles coiling tight before you bolt through the wreckage.
She doesn’t follow. Not at first. She stands there, frozen, as if trying to understand why you always do this. Why you always run. Why you never let her get close willingly.
The scrapyard hums with absence, with tension, with the sickening knowledge that she is near.
A gust of wind howls through the wreckage. Metal groans. A shadow shifts.
You barely have time to react before she is there. Only for you to spot the hatch.
Hope slams into your chest like a hammer, but there is no time for hesitation. You dive for it, breath catching in your throat as your fingers grasp the edge. The moment your body slips through, the world above disappears into nothingness.
A ragged breath rattles in her lungs, her body trembling with something awful, something aching. Her fingers twitch, curling toward the empty space where you had just been.
You always do this. Always fight. Always push her away.
You don’t even realize how much it destroys her.
