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ryuzakemo128 · 11 days ago

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How Did You Find Me?

Pairing: Duke!Poly!141 x female reader/ you cw: drug use, protestation, smut, sexual tension, your ex shows up, hinting at possible opium repeat use. Words: 627 Masterlist Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics Summary: How did they find you there?

John interrupted your time with your ex, he noticed you were blindfolded and your ex’s cock was about to slide into your wet, sopping warmth when John decided to walk into your bedroom. You didn’t think he’d find out so quickly. You were mistaken when you thought you could hide this from him.

What were you doing with your pathetic excuse of an ex? You should have gone to them instead if you were this desperate.

What are you doing getting all hot and bothered, squirming around for a guy who would pretend your relationship wasn’t real to satisfy his mother’s concern?

Eyes burning with a fury you could feel despite the pastel pink silk blindfold covering your eyes. You picked it out, thinking it would be a fun time to spend separating yourself from the four dukes whomst thought were losing a lover a month ago.

You never thought they’d find you this fast. As you were always careful about who was looking at you, who saw what part of you and where. How did they know to find you in some dingy little brothel on the coast of Somalia?

The thought of you getting yourself caught in such a compromising position. Both terrified you and aroused you at the same time.

But the voice cutting through the fog is unmistakable. High from the opium you took to take the edge off. Thinking, ‘They’re not going to know. They won’t find me down here’ and ‘I’ve done a little prostitution work for the guy. Who says I can’t do it again?’.

It wasn’t until you were carried off the bed by someone else completely, it wasn’t until the blindfold is ripped from your face that you see someone other than John. Simon’s glare through the bright sunlight, sun rays spilling through from outside peering through the windows. The sudden bright light making you squint your eyes.

Was your ship that recognisable in the dark, gloomy skies? What urged them to find you like this? Who told them to look for you? Why did they look for you?

The low groan from the depths of your throat as the room spiral, just enough to make you sick if you opened your eyes again. The nausea building inside your stomach. The combination of gin and opium.

A dreadful idea on your part. One could also say it was a godawful one. A careless action to undertake.

“Who do you think you are? Recklessly endangering yourself in a…..place like this?” Simon hissed into your ear.

You tried opening up your eyes again, “I can explain everything.”

The four dukes weren’t having any of it. They spotted you after months of trying to find you again. “I’d rather not hear your excuses right now.” John wiped the opium from your nose, his anger palpable, clearly appalled with the state they found you in.

Your creamy nectar all over the centre of your thighs like a begotten, exiled son, a symbol of your lost innocence to a man who didn’t even bother to remember your name after he’d had his fill.

The desperation mixed in with the opium, the sex, the lust and the carnal need to be taken like you were some kind of thrill seeker. Seeking out new tastes only to forget them as soon as you have taken the first bite.

It wasn’t the first time you tried opium. As you so drunkenly state on the way to your lovely Defiant. Leaving your ex behind. Right inside the brothel’s room, heart pounding inside his chest. Fuming with rage at their interference.

By the time you were awake again or conscious again, you were inside your bedroom heaving, vomiting into your bucket.

How did they find you there?

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accursedvoid · 2 years ago

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I don't even play Dead Space and I'd be furious what the FUCK is this

#THATS NOT ISAAC CLARKE #'oh but he looks like the VA now!' and??? how is that a good thing? is every character played by a VA gotta look like the VA now?#does sam fisher look like irons? does chief look like steve downes? does jker look like mark hamil? NO #why you gotta change the face of character we already know thats already established wtf #dead space remake #gaming

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cloud9v · 12 days ago

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thinking of a crackfic idea of sap!siffrin, isat!siffrin, and comic!siffrin swapping places and all the shenanigans that would ensue

comic!siffrin waking up in either in stars and time or start again, seeing the party and being like "WHOMST THE FUCK-"

man it would be funny if start again!siff got sent to in stars and time and then loop being like "excuse me nani the fucc-"

either isat!siff or sap!siff being thrown into the comics and being like "wait where'd the party go where are they what-"

#not art #rambling about nothing #in stars and time #in stars and time spoilers #start again: a prologue #start again start again start again #idk if the comic has its own tag probably not #isat shitpost #isat two hats spoilers #isat two hats #isat 2 hats #isat 2 hats spoilers #isat spoiler

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batsplat · 3 months ago

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breaking a blog policy of non-engagement with active discourse unless explicitly asked about it,, below the cut,, I intend this to be a one-off thing, look away

seen some snarking about this article on the race dot com about where marc fits into the current title fight, and specifically this paragraph:

because ofc it's some kind of grievous sin to equate the current two title contenders with the two title contenders in 2015, one of whomst was well past his prime and the other who in many ways had a deeply untidy season. the argument might be that the current spec ducati has a bike advantage over marc, which. you'll never guess how the 2015 yamaha measured up against the 2015 honda. and yeah, it sure is embarrassing how the current title contenders chuck away bucket loads of points through sheer stupidity. after all, when racing in the wet in misano, it's unforgivable to pit at the wrong time and emerge with only one point - why not simply crash and emerge from that weekend with zero points instead? imagine finishing second behind marc in those conditions, when you could instead swap bikes far too late and finish a lowly fifth

it's worth putting that paragraph in context of what the piece was actually saying:

all of this is categorically true. it doesn't mean marc might not still win this year's championship if both jorge and pecco make enough mistakes, but quite obviously those two are closer to the 2015 title contenders than 2017. in the former, marc could not bank on a consistent pace advantage, in the latter he could; this feels like quite a straightforward point to be making. dovi's phillip island stinker did kill his championship momentum - and given the sheer consistency of performances jorge and pecco have put in when it comes to their pace, it would be very surprising to see an equivalent from those two. don't even get me started on whatever the fuck maverick vinales was doing that year after like,, the first five races, which lack of a dominant bike is quite frankly not enough to excuse. the rest of the article assesses marc's chances entirely fairly, essentially expanding on the argument that you just wouldn't expect that kind of consistent performance edge that he would need to overturn the points deficit. (I personally think marc is a little more likely to be a title threat than the author of the article does, though I also don't fundamentally disagree with anything specific being said; mainly I just feel vibes-wise that sprint races have made title fights insanely volatile.) he could still win - but in terms of how he compares to the opposition, there is no argument whatsoever to be made that this is not closer to 2015 than 2017. even if you believe this is only due to bike difference, in which case I think you are possibly giving 2017 dovi and vinales a little too much credit, the points raised in the article still stand up to scrutiny

it is perhaps inevitable that people will deify the greats of the past - even more so if they dislike the top riders of the present and feel that they are undeserving of their current success. it does, however, seem to come along with a skewed understanding of the actual greats in question, of where they were strong and where they faltered. valentino and lorenzo had two title fights, both of which were error-strewn affairs and hardly their best seasons. sprints have helped further distort perceptions of how error-prone these current riders really are, because at the end of the day neither martin nor pecco are on course for a radically different error rate than the title contenders in 2009. lorenzo lost his head in jerez when he was the pre-race favourite and ended up crashing trying to overcompensate for his surprisingly poor pace, valentino had an absolute howler at le mans that makes misano this year from martin look like a paragon of good decision-making and composure under pressure, jorge practically handed the championship to valentino with back-to-back dnf's at donington and brno, valentino incidentally also crashed at donington and got extremely lucky to have a bike that was still rideable to fifth, then proceeded to just chuck it for absolutely no reason at indy with a mistake that was so obviously stupid and needless he showed up to misano with a donkey helmet. valentino followed up misano with a poor fourth in estoril because he got lost with the set-up that weekend - and buddy, if you think the gp24 bike advantage is bad, let me tell you a story about how yamaha/ducati/honda were doing back in the day compared to the field. fourth might as well have been last. (I don't love single manufacturer domination either, but let's not pretend like the gaps between bikes aren't way, way, way smaller than they were in '09.) then jorge, with momentum and opportunity on his side, gets so spooked by valentino's pace in practise he bins it on the very first lap of phillip island, essentially ending the championship fight then and there. neither of them deliver a particularly dignified performance in sepang. during this title fight, there were three instances of crashing out of the lead and one from a very close second. jorge martin and pecco bagnaia eat your hearts out

and 2015? the season that was actually being referenced in the championship? valentino was only in that championship fight due to his relentless consistency, a handful of starring performances and an ability to not completely fuck it when a few rain drops started falling. his pace was flat-out not good enough to be a title contender - if anything, on raw pace he was more competitive for a big chunk of 2016 than he had been the year before. he was qualifying abysmally in an era where the gaps between bikes were considerably larger, reflecting a far poorer performance than equivalent grid positions would nowadays, and certainly would have nothing to counter the consistency in qualifying the two title contenders this year have demonstrated. jorge had to work hard to come as close to losing that championship as he did, going through a bizarre and borderline embarrassing set of helmet visor issues early on in the season that he should never have allowed to happen. he was peak metronome that year, able to dominate and win from the front but otherwise rife with limitations, repeatedly performing poorly when he was put ever so slightly off-balance. in many ways, he got very lucky to not be penalised more for his horrendous silverstone performance. he was also helped by the gap between the factory yamahas and hondas to the field being so large, because otherwise some of his inconsistency would have cost him a hell of a lot more. both of their seasons had laughably obvious flaws that just about managed to offset each other's enough to make a title decider possible - but if you ever so slightly change the formula, if the qualifying format had still been different or the bike disparities larger or smaller or any of that, it would have probably tipped it quite strongly one way or the other. a battle of the titans it was not

none of this is to say that valentino or jorge are shit riders, or that marc is a fraud for letting himself be so thoroughly beaten by them in 2015 on what was ultimately still a competitive bike. at a certain point, however, you are comparing the current athletes with versions of the past greats who quite frankly did not exist 90% of the time. if you are sufficiently motivated, you can come up with pretty decent slander for anyone. it is also presenting an idealised version of the sport in the past that, again, did not exist. while the gp24's advantage over the field is substantial, if we are talking in terms of raw lap times, it is substantially less so than the gap the top few factory teams had in the past. the aliens did not dominate from 2007 to 2015 to the extent that they did because they were just so brilliant - they were performing at a high level, yes, but also nobody else really stood a chance. as hard as it may be to accept, when you have riders who so consistently have a pace advantage as pecco and martin do, including over the fellow riders on the same machinery, it is possible they may simply be doing an actual good job. and the more pecco adds to his resume, the more difficult it will become to not consider him in the same tier of rider as at least some of the aliens. yes, I am talking about lorenzo here - a man who incidentally did not convincingly pass the 'only good with one manufacturer' test that's already being dangled in front of pecco. if we really want to go into the weeds, it's worth pointing out that pecco's luck has also not been particularly fantastic this year, from mechanical gremlins at the le mans sprint to being wiped out by binder at the jerez sprint to the qualifying position at aragon working against him and losing out quite severely in what are at worst 60:40 racing incidents twice this season - sometimes, you do get punished a lot for relatively minor missteps. so yeah, if you want to compare the current trio of title contenders with anyone, then 2015 feels as good a place as any. sometimes the greats of the past did suck, idk what to tell you. they would be a hell of a lot more boring if they hadn't

#been very disciplined about this. will make one exception and then not post about it again #edited to hopefully tone it down a bit lol #//#brr brr #current tag #mayhaps a dumb thing to care about but. is it really fair to just cut one paragraph that's meant to be read as part of an argument #whether you agree with said point or not #having to preemptively guard every sentence against the worst faith interpretation is the enemy of good writing #the other rough one is posting out of context crash dot net headlines that are peddling three month old clickbait #all fun and games but it's just bad media hygiene. take the 2 minutes to hunt down the original interview and the context of the responses

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loserlvrss · 10 months ago

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꒰ 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 ꒱ 이민호

summary : it's coming up on your boyfriends' death anniversary, and something's finally telling you to let go

genre : angst, minho x afab!reader tws : angst, death, grief, depression, various substance abuse, mentioned suicide, various suicidal thoughts, very slight reference to religion author notes : maybe i cried idk word count : 3.4k

skin to skin. it’s what most humans crave. the contact and warmth of someone; romantically, familiar, platonically. all humans are the same. we are designed to crave a comfort since birth, to form connections beyond intellect. we look for anyone and everyone who could fill that desire… and when abandoned, nothing will ever feel like enough.

“you’d never leave me, right?” you said, tracing small circles on the tan skin of your boyfriend, whomst you love with your entire heart. he was everything to you, and you him, “you’ll stay with me forever, right?”

you bounced lightly as he chuckled, “of course,” you felt his hand grip your bare side harder, “forever.”

“promise me.” you held up a pinky, and his eye cracked open at the shade behind his lids.

he stroked your side gently as he brought his other hand up, locking his smallest finger with yours, “i promise, y/n.”

the bitter reality hit as your eyes opened. you couldn't figure out the time, and honestly you didn't want to check. the void of color in your room — life — was enough to always put a dampen on your spirit, and ultimately, day. you turned over, and for it being a relatively good dream, you were drenched in sweat. you reached across the bed, the sheets wrinkled where you hadn't been sleeping. but, you were alone, and it sunk whatever was left of your heart.

you grumbled, borderline whined as you turned over. you don't know why there was an actual pain shooting throughout your body. you don't know why the impending desire to just lay there until the end of time consumed you. you don't know why your eyes teared up, creating a watercolor painting against the dimmed colors of your room.

you don't know why you were always questioning what was real and fake nowadays. you could've been caught up in a nightmare — you figured you could wake up any moment and not feel this jaded in your everyday life — but it never subsided.

you didn't want people to tell you that everything would all be okay. you didn't want people to tell you that depression passes. you didn't need anyone to know that what you felt right now was less than human. you didn't need the memories to remind you of what can't be washed away; of what you can't get back. you didn't want to lose those moments in time though, like you had lost the real thing, because it was all you had left, but knowing that you couldn't make any more felt like ripping stitches.

it was acid on a never healing wound knowing that peace was something you only felt when asleep. and the only way you got to sleep nowadays was with the aid of various drugs.

it was an unhealthy habit. a struggle you knew shouldn't feel as good as it did. but a vice is still a vice whether it has that name or not.

your hand reached to the side table, finding your phone and ultimately leaving it face down. you continued to search until your hand found a rattling bottle — an orange pill bottle — that peers would say you practically lived off of. and you did. only ever feeling remotely like yourself when a couple were thrown to the back of your throat to dissolve into your bloodstream.

you truthfully didn't know the dose you were supposed to be taking, everything dulled down by your seemingly never ending high — you never being sober because it was too hard to — and you definitely didn't know why your psychologist kept prescribing them. maybe she had no idea that you were on the edge of a cliff, just desperate for an excuse to topple off it, but you found it hard to believe that she was that bad at her job.

you felt like you were just a lifeless vessel being controlled by the fumes clouding your brain. yet, if you wanted to stop, you would, right? it wasn't an addiction if it was willing, was it?

maybe. but truthfully your secondhand high was too strong for you to care. so, you lit up another carelessly thrown about blunt, inhaling the smoke until you were completely numb. until you couldn't feel your fingertips. until you couldn't form a coherent thought.

until you couldn't remember why you wanted to die, too.

you trudged the scene your bedroom was in: clothes, packages, bottles and other miscellaneous things littering the hardwood. despite being alive, you felt like you were drowning. a physical sting in your chest. a deep sigh that never escaped your lips. you were walking on broken glass with every step, but the pain would never be comparable to the turmoil you already find yourself in.

if this wasn't hell, you didn't want to know what was.

you never turned on any lights, the windows being covered by curtains 24/7. you could see through the flimsy fabric that the sun was barely still up, or maybe it was just gracing the sky with its' presence. you didn't know, and if you didn't have to make a living in a capitalist society, you wouldn't care either.

you would be contempt living (more like going about) your day inside the confines of your home. sure, you hated being alone, especially with your thoughts, but you were never truly alone; haunted by the ghosts that paint your walls in a dark shade of red; and you were never sober enough to think anymore.

never letting yourself feel the gravity of grief, quoted from your therapist, is not allowing you to receive closure, to heal from the loss of someone you gave your entire heart too.

however, closure, in your fucked up mind, meant forgetting. and as much as it pained you, chained you down in the depths, you couldn't let go of the memories. even if you ended up dead because of them. at least, you thought there was a chance you'd be able to meet again that way.

you weren't in denial, like your all-knowing doctor seems to think. no, you knew what happened. you remember it clearly despite trying your hardest to cloud it out. you couldn't be going through the stages of grief if they never changed — they couldn't even be considered stages if they've turned into your despised lifestyle.

you loved, but hated the never changing facial expression. you loved, but hated the liquid that made you so slurred. you loved, but hated the fact that someone you couldn't have left you with the door wide open. you loved, but hated knowing that maybe you weren't good enough to make him want to stay. you loved, but hated that you are still so in love with him when he's, where? if he could see you in this state, would he be able to say that he once loved you too? if he could see you crying every night, dressed in the clothes of his that you have yet to wash, would he still think that out was the only way in?

he was your everything, even after everything had ended.

so, why weren't you his last thought? why didn't he even have the decency to write you a letter in embodiment of his dying wish? why couldn't he just give you the answers you used to so desperately yearn for? even in death, he had to be the selfish one. wasn't leaving enough? you didn't know.

but, it's been 12 months.

those answers never came, and now you didn't expect them to magically appear. not after you tore apart your entire apartment, inch by inch, crevice by crevice, coming up empty like it was a cruel fucking joke. like you were a rat trapped in a cage, on the hunt for cheese that was behind an unreachable wall.

you used to wonder if you had done something differently, complained less, listened more, would he not just be the rain that splotched your skin.

it's as if the sky was mocking you. as if it's asking if you really had the audacity to be upset with something you couldn't control.

but you were only half alive, barely half a mind to think of anything rational when your stability was ripped from under you like it was just a flimsy rug to being with.

you were free falling, and you never learned how to fly.

“y/n,” your eyes tried focusing as best they could, but the flashing lights were making your head spin more than it should, “we have to check inventory before opening. the boss said someone’s been stealing — and we’re not accusing you because we know what you take.”

the woman in front of you, your coworker of a couple years brought her hand to rest against your forehead. “are you okay? you seems worse than normal.”

“u-uh, yeah.” she eyed you in disbelief, “i’m good.”

you weren’t, but you still followed her behind the bar to crouch down and count the bottles. you’d probably use most of them anyways, as tonight was always the busiest of the week.

truth is, you weren’t even sure what number you were on when you fell onto your butt, catching your coworkers attention. the booming music making your chest bounce with the bass, and the in-time lights spinning and flashing and changing was throwing you off.

even if you were crossed, you’ve never had a problem getting your work done. you could even fight back the nausea, the discomfort and dizziness that it caused your body — but today, today was different.

you weren’t in-tune with anything. not being able to beat the funk. even when you tried to stand back up, you put your hand on a bunch of napkins, slipping and falling right back to the ground. it was frustrating, borderline humiliating. even as she tried to help you up out of the good in her heart.

you felt tears brimming, “y/n. it’s okay, let’s just get up. i can take inventory. you seem like you need to rest for a little bit before opening.”

stupid, useless, unbelievable.

why couldn’t today just go the way it was supposed to? you kept wondering if this was a cruel joke. today of all days had to be the worst on top of everything it stood for. it had to be someone’s doing. and whoever’s been controlling your life must’ve been one sick individual.

you, at least, hoped they were happy in your misery.

you huffed, forcing yourself onto your knees, hands splayed over them. you looked at the bones of your knuckles, wondering how hard one had to hit to get knocked out — you were always better unconscious than conscious.

then, your eyes set on a clear bottle. it was filled to the brim with a blue liquid that you didn’t even bother to read before pulling it off the shelf. you opened it and took a long swig. when you finally put it down, your coworker had a horrified look on her face.

you gave the bottle up easily when she reached for it, “y/n… what’s the matter with you today? you need help. seriously, i’m so sick of you fucking everything up!” she grabbed at your hands, trying to get you to stand up, but you were too heavy for her to even begin to move; a dead weight, if you will. “oh my god, get up! all you do is get high and throw a pity party! how long is this going to be? how do you even live like this?”

it was a question you heard often. how do you even live like this? but they didn’t know living would be such a painstakingly long journey. sure, maybe they were only asking because they cared, because they were genuinely curious, but you had no answer.

and you feared you never would.

was living truly worse than dying? all signs would point to yes. maybe he had the right idea after all…

you heard whispering above you, “it’s his death anniversary today, j-just — let’s just send her home. we can deal with it tonight, right? customers aren’t going to want to see her drinking their drinks. help me get her up. she’s miserable.”

you felt like you had lost all control — seemingly having none to begin with — you got up on your own, something within possessing you, and stumbled to the door.

maybe your coworker was right. maybe you do fuck everything up. maybe you were miserable. maybe that’s why you’re here and he’s not. maybe that’s why you can’t seem to grasp the sand that keeps slipping through your fingers. maybe you were better off with the same fate as the one you loved so dearly. maybe the depression would finally consume you, like your therapist said it would if you didn’t intervene, like you’ve been praying day and night for.

you wanted to die, but you always thought it would’ve been in his arms.

now, you were cold. a wondering spirit searching for the only thing that could set them free; and what you feared is knowing that that thing wasn’t something that you’d ever find.

you swear you could feel a hand on you. a grip on your shoulder that kept pulling you back. but maybe that was your diagnosis of trauma-induced hallucinations. because truthfully, your derealization and depersonalization had gotten so bad your doctor thought about prescribing you anti-psychotics.

however, you’d have to un-ghost your psychiatrist for that to ever happen.

your breathing was labored, the earth spinning too quickly for your liking. you tried to blink away the blurriness, but the sky was also too bright, despite the rain, making you squint.

it seemed everything was retaliating all at once. it’s said karma catches up with bad people, and were you finally falling victim to it?

no, you were just falling.

falling so hard that you can’t even remember what happened next. did you pass out after hitting your head on the concrete? did you die? you could only hope for so much.

your eyes opened, but the world seemed different, colorful once again; a dusty orange hue to the air. you looked around confused as to how you ended up back in your room.

did someone find you? so you hadn’t hit your head hard enough to die; maybe next time, you thought.

you looked to your feet as they left wet footprints behind on a clean floor. all of your boyfriend’s clothes were folded nicely on the bed, as if someone had just washed them. it no longer smelled of mildew and various rotting substances. you couldn’t even find the couple grams that were on your nightstand this morning. but there was also another smell wafting through the air; a smell of tea and cherry blossoms.

much like that night 12 months ago.

the night everything in your world had come crashing down upon you. the night you lost every part of yourself to the grim reaper. the night you lost the game you thought you were winning. the night you lost the only love of your life.

the night minho, your boyfriend of six years, committed suicide.

he left you to relive every waking moment without him like life was a cruel fucking joke on you. left you with the pitiful looks friend and family would give you. left you with funeral preparations and arrangements. left you with heaps of chrysanthemums. left you to weep as the cherry blossoms fell from the trees and snow from the sky.

he left you in every season, and you never knew why.

you never knew why the radio static sounded like him. never knew why the smoke would bounce off his silhouette. never knew why you prayed to someone who clearly wasn’t real — who clearly didn’t care to hear your pleas — but, god did it bother you once you’d figured out you wasted all that time. you never knew the why of a lot of questions, and it left you feeling nothing but empty; numb; jaded; hallow; anything that spelled out that you were just a walking corpse with very low cognitive recognition.

you found it hard to believe he loved you as much as he did. but if face-to-face, you’d forget that thought ever crossed your mind, because at the end of the day you were beyond devoted to him. he was your soulmate, and you’d find him in any lifetime, you were sure of it.

so, why couldn’t you let go? why couldn’t you do yourself the favor and move on? whether that be in this or the next life. why couldn’t you follow his lead and find him once again.

maybe you would finally awake from this torturous nightmare —

“minho?” you all but shouted out against the gentle breeze of an opened window, “minho? are you there? is that you?”

you heard the pattern of steps on wood, soon met with the face you’d not grown to forget. he looked confused, concerned at your obvious state of disbelief, “are you okay, baby?”

you felt his hands on you, watching as they slowly followed the length of your arms, finally pulling you into his chest.

you wanted to ask how, but you know that you only ever see him when you’re high. but you didn’t feel high right now; and you obviously knew what it would feel like if you were, after abusing anything you could get your hands on for a year.

you wanted to come up with any excuse, but the very real scent of his cologne (that had faded from his hoodies after a couple months) filled your nostrils. you felt comforted, which hasn’t been something you felt for what seemed like decades. minho was the only one who brought you solace, but he had left you. so how was he — no, how were you here right now?

god, you must’ve finally hit your wall. you must’ve finally found the breaking point and flew past it. you had finally gone insane, that was the only real explanation you could come up with.

your therapist said it would happen if you didn’t quit, but why would you ever listen to her? hell, maybe you should’ve. but, if this was insane maybe you didn’t really mind being enclosed in his arms.

but it felt wrong. how could you spend months of your precious life grieving the fact that he was dead, if he’s hugging you right now? how could you spend all your time getting high enough to not feel sad if he was right here in front of you?

his flesh felt real, but so did the ache in your heart.

“h-how?” he hummed, not entirely hearing what you said. you pushed him back, but the grip on your forearms remained, “how are you he-here? how are you alive? y-you killed yourself, minho.”

he seemed confused, a slight smile still adorning his features though, like he couldn’t believe the prank you were playing on him. but to you, he looked so real, just as you couldn’t erase from your memory — a snapshot in time that you captured oh-so-long ago.

“you’re dead, i-i was there. i buried you!” the room seemed to lose all color — like it’d been splashed with arctic water, a shiver running up your spine — which once had an orange hue, was now a dark shade of blue, like the depths of the ocean.

his face lost the smile, ice lacing his fingertips almost like he had been deep in the dirt rotting away. “i found you minho. i-i tried to save you but it didn’t work! i tried, i swear i did, b-but,” tears brimmed your eyes, quickly making their way in valleys down your cheeks. your voice was weak, but you hadn’t used it much in the last year anyways, “you were dead, minho! the emt’s pronounced you dead at the scene. y-you’re not real. y-you left me. i watched them put you in the ground. i cried for hours, minho! i stayed with you for days. i prayed to a fucking god i don’t believe in to make you come back to me! i only ever saw you inside my head, when i wished upon every star it was real! minho, you’re gone.”

his words were a push to the knife that only ever danced upon your skin, never plunging and never drawing blood, “then, why won’t you let me go?”

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