★ Yaz Andrade ★

Demencia didn’t like quiet.

Quiet meant thinking.

And thinking was… annoying.

So when the Black Hat Organization went unusually still — no alarms, no explosions, no Flug yelling — she got restless fast. She paced the hallway outside the lab, claws clicking against the metal floor.

You leaned against the wall nearby, watching her with mild concern.

She’d been like this all day.

“You’re gonna wear a groove into the floor,” you said, accompanied by an awkward chuckle.

Demencia stopped mid-step and shot you a look. Her grin was there — sharp, automatic — but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Maybe I want to,” she snapped lightly. “What’s it to you?”

You didn’t rise to it. You never did.

Instead, you pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You haven’t picked a fight with anyone in hours. That’s… new.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t need to punch stuff all the time.”

“That’s not what Flug says.”

“Flug lies.”

You smiled a little. Then, quieter: “You okay?”

That did it.

Her shoulders stiffened. She looked away, jaw tightening, like the question itself had teeth.

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly.

You didn’t argue. You just waited.

After a few seconds, she huffed and stalked past you, throwing open the door to one of the unused briefing rooms. You followed without asking — she didn’t tell you to stop.

The room was dim, lit only by the low red glow of some of the old-fashioned lamps resting on various surfaces. Demencia flopped into a chair backward, straddling it, chin resting on her arms over the backrest. She stared at the wall with an empty gaze.

You took the chair across from her and sat sideways, legs tucked up, body open but non-threatening.

Silence stretched.

Finally, she muttered, “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Because you’re being weird.”

She snorted. “Wow. Supportive.”

“You love it.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it.

Another pause.

Then, very quietly — almost lost under the hum of the lights — she said, “Everyone expects me to be… on all the time.”

You blinked, surprised.

She kept going, words tumbling out faster now, like she’d lose them if she didn’t.

“Crazy, loud, biting things, breaking things, laughing — like if I stop, even for a second, something bad’ll happen. Like they’ll get bored. Or annoyed.”

Her fingers dug into the chair.

You leaned forward slightly. “Is that what you think?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she picked at a scratch on the metal, eyes flicking everywhere except you.

“…Black Hat doesn’t like it when things slow down,” she added. “Neither do most people.”

You swallowed. “I do.”

That made her look at you.

Really look at you.

Her expression flickered — confusion, suspicion, something softer she didn’t quite recognize. Her usual grin tried to surface, failed, and faded again.

“You don’t count,” she said.

“Why not?”

“…Because you stay.”

The words landed heavier than she seemed to expect. She stiffened immediately,

“I mean—” she rushed, baring her teeth in a forced snarl as she looked away. “You’re just bad at leaving.”

You stood and crossed the room slowly, stopping right in front of her.

“Demencia,” you said gently. “Hey.”

She tensed as you reached out — not pulling away, but clearly bracing.

You rested your hand over hers on the chair.

She froze.

For once, she didn’t bite. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t shove you away.

Her breathing went uneven.

“…I don’t know how to be quiet,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “When it’s quiet, I start thinking stupid stuff.”

“Like what?”

“That maybe I’m only fun because I’m… like this,” she gestured vaguely at herself, “and if I wasn’t, you’d get tired of me.”

Your chest tightened.

You squeezed her hand. “Demencia, I like you like this. And when you’re loud. And when you’re feral. And when you’re annoying.”

She snorted weakly. “Wow.”

“But,” you continued, softer, “I also like this you. The one who’s scared people won’t stay.”

She stared at your joined hands, eyes wide and unblinking.

“…You’re really bad for me,” she said hoarsely.

You smiled. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

Something snapped — or maybe melted.

She surged forward suddenly, grip tightening as she pulled you closer, forehead knocking lightly against yours. Her breath was warm, shaky, familiar.

“Say it again,” she demanded. “Say you’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m not,” you said instantly. “I’m here.”

Her eyes searched your face like she was looking for a lie. When she didn’t find one, her expression twisted — too many feelings, too close together.

“Idiot,” she whispered.

Then she kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t practiced.

It was desperate and clumsy and very Demencia — teeth knocking, lips crashing into yours with enough strength to knock you over if she hadn’t wrapped her hands around your back to keep you steady.

You gasped in surprise, then melted into it, hands coming up to her shoulders instinctively. She made a low, almost startled sound at that, she hadn’t expected you to kiss back.

She deepened it immediately.

Her hands slid to your waist, fingers gripping like anchors as she pulled you against her. The chair scraped back with a loud screech as she stood, pressing you against the table behind you.

The kiss broke only when you both needed air.

She rested her forehead against yours, breathing hard, eyes wide.

“…Oh,” she said faintly.

You laughed softly, brushing your nose against hers. “You okay?”

She swallowed. “…I think I might explode.”

“Fair.”

She kissed you again — slower this time, more intentional. Less chaos, more heat. Her thumb brushed along your jaw, almost reverent, maybe affectionate, you’re too in the moment to care.

When she finally pulled back, she didn’t let go.

Her voice dropped, uncharacteristically quiet.

“…If I freak out and pretend this didn’t mean anything tomorrow,” she said, “you’re allowed to punch me.”

You smiled, resting your forehead against hers. “Deal.”

She smirked weakly. “Good.”

Then she kissed you once more, quick and fierce, with more confidence this time around.

Afterward, she stayed close, arms loosely around you, body curled protectively around your own.

“…Hey,” she murmured.

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks for liking the quiet parts too.”

You squeezed her gently. “Anytime.”

She huffed, hiding her face against your shoulder.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered. “I’m still biting you later.”

You laughed, heart warm.

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

Dr. Flug stands in the doorway, clutching a tray of food in his gloved hands, watching you with an unreadable expression. The bed you lay in is pristine, perfectly made—except for the small indent where your body curls, unmoving, eyes empty as you stare at nothing.

You haven’t moved in hours.

You haven’t spoken in days.

You barely even react when he steps closer, setting the tray on the nightstand.

"I made you your favorite," he says softly. Too softly. His voice holds the kind of forced cheerfulness that doesn’t match the dark bags under his eyes, the way his fingers twitch as he carefully arranges the utensils.

Silence.

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. His entire body trembles, and for a moment, he looks like he might snap—but then he lets out a slow, controlled breath. No. He can’t lose his patience. Not with you.

He kneels beside the bed, his face close to yours, his head tilting as he studies your expression—or rather, the lack of one.

"I know you’re upset, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I know… this has been hard for you."

Nothing. No reaction. Not even a flicker of emotion in your dull, lifeless eyes.

His gloved hand brushes your hair back gently, his fingers trembling. His darling, his precious darling, reduced to this fragile, unresponsive doll. It makes something inside him ache, twist in ways he doesn’t know how to fix.

But he will fix it.

Because you’re his. And he won’t allow you to waste away like this.

At first, Flug hoped you’d adjust on your own. That you’d talk to him, cry to him, beg him to hold you—anything but this silence.

But as the days stretched on, it became clear: you weren’t going to do anything.

So now, he does everything for you.

Brushing your hair—his fingers carefully working through knots as he hums under his breath, pretending this is normal. Pretending that you aren’t staring at the wall like a ghost.

Dressing you—slipping clothes over your limbs, treating you with the tenderness of something fragile, breakable. He kisses your forehead afterward, whispering:

"There. Perfect, just like always."

Feeding you—spoon pressed to your lips, voice coaxing, gentle, pleading:

"Come on, my love. Just one bite. For me?"

Some days, you refuse. And some days, you listen—and those are his favorite days. When your lips part, and you allow him to care for you. Even if you’re still empty inside, even if your eyes still don’t shine the way they used to, at least you’re letting him in.

But then there are the other days. The ones where you don’t move at all, don’t even react when he tries to coax you out of bed.

And those days? Those are the ones where he has no choice.

Where he carefully picks you up, places you in your wheelchair, and rolls you into the bathroom.

Where he undresses you piece by piece, whispering sweet reassurances as he lowers you into warm water.

"I know you don’t want this, sweetheart," he murmurs, gently cupping water over your bare shoulders, washing you with slow, careful strokes. "But you have to take care of yourself. And if you won’t… then I’ll do it for you."

He massages shampoo into your scalp, watching your face for any kind of reaction. A sigh, a blink, a sign that you’re still in there. But you’re still so quiet.

Too quiet.

He grips your chin suddenly, forcing your empty gaze to meet his.

"I miss you, you know." His voice is strained, almost desperate. "I miss your smile. Your voice. The way you used to look at me."

Nothing.

His grip tightens.

"You love me, don’t you?" he whispers, voice trembling. Begging.

And for the first time in weeks, you speak—your voice small, hoarse from disuse.

"I don’t know."

A sharp intake of breath. His whole body stiffens.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—his grip loosens, and he exhales a shaky laugh.

"That’s okay," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering. "I can wait."

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, pressing you against his chest as though he can mold you back into the person you used to be.

"You’ll feel better soon, my love."

A promise. A warning. A certainty.

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

Dr. Flug stands in the doorway, clutching a tray of food in his gloved hands, watching you with an unreadable expression. The bed you lay in is pristine, perfectly made—except for the small indent where your body curls, unmoving, eyes empty as you stare at nothing.

You haven’t moved in hours.

You haven’t spoken in days.

You barely even react when he steps closer, setting the tray on the nightstand.

"I made you your favorite," he says softly. Too softly. His voice holds the kind of forced cheerfulness that doesn’t match the dark bags under his eyes, the way his fingers twitch as he carefully arranges the utensils.

Silence.

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. His entire body trembles, and for a moment, he looks like he might snap—but then he lets out a slow, controlled breath. No. He can’t lose his patience. Not with you.

He kneels beside the bed, his face close to yours, his head tilting as he studies your expression—or rather, the lack of one.

"I know you’re upset, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I know… this has been hard for you."

Nothing. No reaction. Not even a flicker of emotion in your dull, lifeless eyes.

His gloved hand brushes your hair back gently, his fingers trembling. His darling, his precious darling, reduced to this fragile, unresponsive doll. It makes something inside him ache, twist in ways he doesn’t know how to fix.

But he will fix it.

Because you’re his. And he won’t allow you to waste away like this.

At first, Flug hoped you’d adjust on your own. That you’d talk to him, cry to him, beg him to hold you—anything but this silence.

But as the days stretched on, it became clear: you weren’t going to do anything.

So now, he does everything for you.

Brushing your hair—his fingers carefully working through knots as he hums under his breath, pretending this is normal. Pretending that you aren’t staring at the wall like a ghost.

Dressing you—slipping clothes over your limbs, treating you with the tenderness of something fragile, breakable. He kisses your forehead afterward, whispering:

"There. Perfect, just like always."

Feeding you—spoon pressed to your lips, voice coaxing, gentle, pleading:

"Come on, my love. Just one bite. For me?"

Some days, you refuse. And some days, you listen—and those are his favorite days. When your lips part, and you allow him to care for you. Even if you’re still empty inside, even if your eyes still don’t shine the way they used to, at least you’re letting him in.

But then there are the other days. The ones where you don’t move at all, don’t even react when he tries to coax you out of bed.

And those days? Those are the ones where he has no choice.

Where he carefully picks you up, places you in your wheelchair, and rolls you into the bathroom.

Where he undresses you piece by piece, whispering sweet reassurances as he lowers you into warm water.

"I know you don’t want this, sweetheart," he murmurs, gently cupping water over your bare shoulders, washing you with slow, careful strokes. "But you have to take care of yourself. And if you won’t… then I’ll do it for you."

He massages shampoo into your scalp, watching your face for any kind of reaction. A sigh, a blink, a sign that you’re still in there. But you’re still so quiet.

Too quiet.

He grips your chin suddenly, forcing your empty gaze to meet his.

"I miss you, you know." His voice is strained, almost desperate. "I miss your smile. Your voice. The way you used to look at me."

Nothing.

His grip tightens.

"You love me, don’t you?" he whispers, voice trembling. Begging.

And for the first time in weeks, you speak—your voice small, hoarse from disuse.

"I don’t know."

A sharp intake of breath. His whole body stiffens.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—his grip loosens, and he exhales a shaky laugh.

"That’s okay," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering. "I can wait."

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, pressing you against his chest as though he can mold you back into the person you used to be.

"You’ll feel better soon, my love."

A promise. A warning. A certainty.

So I got threatened to get kicked out again when I got into an argument with my mom. She fr said “you’re 18 now I could kick you out if I wanted to no problem”

She said I was just like my uncle and called me by his name sarcastically (he’s an alcoholic and has been on drugs a lot who has literally never once tried to get better regarding his mental health) and honestly that really hurts.

I honestly just don’t know anymore, most days we’re fine and there are some days when we’re not. I just wanna get out soon, preferably in my 20s at least since I still can’t drive at the moment and don’t have a job since I currently just wouldn’t be able to keep up with it with all the stuff I already struggle with.

My commissions are still open for Villainous, sfw and nsfw so i can just raise enough money to pay her back for my ER visits and then get outta here. At least until I can get a good side job or something. Even then I’ll probably still take commissions after I get a job to get extra money

I’m going to tag villainous and x reader so I can bring attention to the villainous fandom specifically. Since that’s the only fandom I write for at the moment.

So I got threatened to get kicked out again when I got into an argument with my mom. She fr said “you’re 18 now I could kick you out if I wanted to no problem”

She said I was just like my uncle and called me by his name sarcastically (he’s an alcoholic and has been on drugs a lot who has literally never once tried to get better regarding his mental health) and honestly that really hurts.

I honestly just don’t know anymore, most days we’re fine and there are some days when we’re not. I just wanna get out soon, preferably in my 20s at least since I still can’t drive at the moment and don’t have a job since I currently just wouldn’t be able to keep up with it with all the stuff I already struggle with.

My commissions are still open for Villainous, sfw and nsfw so i can just raise enough money to pay her back for my ER visits and then get outta here. At least until I can get a good side job or something. Even then I’ll probably still take commissions after I get a job to get extra money

I’m going to tag villainous and x reader so I can bring attention to the villainous fandom specifically. Since that’s the only fandom I write for at the moment.