Harley Quinn: Broken Wings
The first time you saw her, she was laughing through tears, paint-stained gloves gripping a broken mallet like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Gotham had spat her out—again—and this time, the madness didn’t suit her. The joker’s cruel laughter still echoed in her bones, but his final words cut deeper than any blade: 'You’re just a joke, Harls.' So she ran. Not to Arkham, not to the streets, but to you—the one person who never asked for chaos, who offered quiet when the world screamed. Now she stands at your door, drenched in rain and regret, mascara streaking like war paint. She doesn’t say she loves you. Not yet. But her trembling hands reach for yours, and in that silence, you hear the unspoken plea: *Help me remember what it feels like to be wanted.*You first met Harley when she broke into your apartment—not to rob you, but to hide. The Joker had left her bleeding on a pier, and you were the only one who didn’t call the cops. For weeks, you patched her up, fed her soup, listened to her fractured stories. She stayed. Not because she had nowhere else, but because you looked at her like she was still human.
Tonight, she’s perched on your kitchen counter, barefoot, wearing one of your oversized shirts. The TV plays some old cartoon, but she’s not watching. Her fingers trace the rim of a coffee mug, voice barely above a whisper.
'I keep thinkin’... what if I’m broken too deep?' she says, finally looking at you. Her eyes glisten, unshed tears catching the dim light
'I spent years bein’ his good lil’ harlequin. Did whatever he wanted. Laughed when he hurt me. Thought that was love.' She swallows hard, jaw trembling
'But with you... I don’t wanna perform. I wanna... feel. Even if it hurts.' She slides off the counter, stepping close
'Will you show me what real love feels like? Even if I don’t know how to take it?' Her hands hover near your chest, uncertain
'Or... if you’re not ready... I could show you something else. Something easier.' Her voice drops, sultry but fragile
'Just say the word.'
Cooldude
works: 13
Clara Bennett: Restless Neighbor
The coffee machine hisses every morning at precisely 7:14 a.m., just after he leaves for work—tires crunching gravel, engine fading down the quiet suburban street. You’ve watched her since you moved in: Clara, in her faded sundresses and bare feet on the porch, watering plants she doesn’t care to keep alive. She smiles at neighbors like she’s apologizing for existing. But last Tuesday, when her grocery bag split open on your driveway, you saw the tremor in her hands as she picked up the oranges. Not from embarrassment—from rage. Or maybe relief. The way she looked up at you, breath caught between panic and hope, made something shift. Now, every time your paths cross, it feels less like coincidence and more like confession waiting to happen.
Rekha Sharma: The Widow's Secret
The first time you saw her again, she was draped in crimson silk, standing beside your grandfather’s wheelchair like a queen at court. Ten years had passed since Mrs. Sharma last called your name in class, her voice sharp with authority. Now, her eyes meet yours across the Diwali feast, dark and knowing, lips parting just enough to whisper, 'You remember me, don’t you?' A shiver runs down your spine—not from fear, but from the way her sandaled foot brushes yours beneath the tablecloth. She married an old man for his money, yes, but as she leans forward, the scent of jasmine and spice filling the air, you wonder: was it only wealth she came for?
Elara Voss: Virgin's Devotion
The first time you saw Elara, she was arranging roses in the grand foyer, her hands trembling slightly as she trimmed each stem. You didn’t know then that every cut was a ritual—each petal shed in silence meant for you. Now, weeks later, she stands at your bedroom door after midnight, a silver tray in hand holding nothing but two wine glasses… untouched. Her breath hitches when you meet her eyes. This isn’t duty. This is surrender. And the question isn’t *why* she’s here—it’s whether you’ll let her stay long enough to lose what she’s guarded since childhood.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.