#Gender Neutral reader

[heartfullofleeches]

"N-no!.... Don't go in, p-please? No... please?..."

Hot mist sprays across your exposed flesh, coupling with the sweat accumulated from a particularly warm winter's eve. Baking in your nightly attire, your skin breathes for the first time in what feels like ages as you unzip your clothing - bathroom door flung open as the zipper's teeth part pass your collar. Through the vapor, you could already see the ears building in their eyes as they leapt at your patted legs.

"Carnis, sweetheart, I like wearing the cow onesie as much as you like seeing me in it, but this thing is burning me up!"

Like quicksand, attempting to squirm free of his iron clad grip on your waist strengthens their hold.

"B-but...but..." Whimpers replace the words the hybrid cannot find on their own. "Cute.... You always look nice... c-cute, but this...it's different."

Their large, sad eyes dart between the faux tail dangling from your backside to the nubby horns stitched into the spotted hood adorned atop your head.

"Cow Y/n.... I-I'll miss cow Y/n... already do..."

"Carnis, just because I'm taking off now doesn't mean I'll never wear it again." Resting your palm on Carnis' head, you search through his fluffy nest of hair for the base of his right horn - scratching gently. "Tell you what, I'll put it in the wash so then I can wear it again when it gets colder again. Is that okay with you?"

Sniffling, the cow dips their head in agreement. "Kay..."

"Would joining me in the shower cheer you up more?"

"Shower?... With you?"

The millisecond those magic words leave your mouth, Carnis's arms detach from your waist - hooking to the side of the bathtub as they kick their leg over, gearing up to climb in.

"Wait, wait- Take your clothes off before you get in! Carnis!"

[reinersredemption]

Stay-at-home Dates | Batboys x Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

masterlist

Bruce Wayne One thing about Bruce: He is a tired man, he’s days are exhausting, to say the least. With managing Wayne Enterprises to being Gotham’s dark knight — he rarely has time to relax, so when he gets the rare opportunity to be home with you, his first instinct is to rest. He’s a fan of old-school romance, and a candlelit dinner or a cozy fondue night is his idea of the perfect evening.

Dick Grayson Dick loves the intimacy of cooking together and enjoys indoor picnics. The quiet moments shared over food make for some of his best memories. He’s also all about living room karaoke, turning a simple night in into an impromptu concert.

Jason Todd You and Jason started a mini book club, just for the two of you. With you in his life, he also discovered a love for pampering himself—something he never allowed himself to do before, hiding behind tough exteriors and emotional walls. Now, you’ve dedicated entire days to treating him with the love he deserves: think robes, scented candles, face masks, foot massages, and bubble baths.

Tim Drake Tim is also a fan of naps, especially when he can curl up next to you. When he’s awake, he enjoys when the both of you watch random documentaries together. He’s also into building complex Lego sets with you, he created a collection of all the ones you finish together, and it’s become one of your favorite bonding activities.

Damian Wayne Pottery nights have become a staple in you and Damian’s date nights, and he’s (not surprisingly) skilled at it. He keeps the pieces you both create, even using them in his daily life. You often catch him sipping from a mug you made him, even if it’s a little lopsided. Painting nights have also found a soft spot in his heart—they’re a quiet way for him to enjoy his day with you.

Duke Thomas Duke is all about board and card games for a cozy night in. He also secretly loves your reality and drama TV marathons, accompanied by lots of snacks. At first, he pretended to be uninterested in it due to it being drama-filled, but now it’s your shared guilty pleasure, and he’ll get genuinely upset if you watch an episode without him.

[yichi-is-a-bitch]

TWST Incorrect quote #85

MC: "can we talk? One 10 to another?"

Vil: "I’m an 11, but continue."

MC: "facts, but anyway as I was saying"

Vil: *smiles*

[leighsartworks216]

could you write for #17 on the prompt list? any character would be great <3

Mud Masks

Sylus x gn!Reader

Prompt from this list

17 - holding the other's chin up

Warnings: fluff, silly, established relationship, kissing, implied height difference, slightly suggestive, banter

Word Count: 804

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

"Just a little more."

"You already said that."

"Yeah, well, I mean it this time."

Sylus chuckles softly as you tsk, focused on not messing up all your hard work. For what it's worth, he's been nothing but compliant so far, even after your weird request.

He opens his eyes as you gather more of the mud mask onto the little silicone applicator. You're ethereal - in your pajamas, disheveled from the work day, frowning with concentration. He doesn't think he could fall more in love, but you always manage to prove him wrong.

You look back up at him and roll your eyes. "Close 'em, mister."

"Don't I deserve a reward for staying so still, kitten?" he teases. His eyes shamelessly glance at your lips as he steps closer between your legs, hands sliding from the marble countertop to hold your waist.

"You'll get a reward as soon as I'm done." You don't bother waiting for him to close his eyes. He ends up closing them anyway when you carefully put the mud between his eyebrows and down his nose. "And you have to do me, too, remember?"

"Bad choice of words."

"Down boy."

He sighs, low and playful. "I do so love when you're cruel."

You don't dignify him with a response. Instead, you finish smoothing the last bit of mud over his face. He looks silly - cutesy animal-ear headband holding his bangs back, sharp features slathered in a dark clay mask, white eyebrows breaking through. Still, despite all the teasing, you're all too happy to have a partner willing to go through all this trouble for you. He clearly enjoys it just as much, if only to have all your attention on him.

"There! Now it's my turn." You hold out the applicator to him and nod to the jar of mud on the counter.

He lets you go. The warmth of his hands lingers on your clothes. It looks strange to see such a big, imposing man with that little applicator in one hand and the jar held in the other, both dwarfed by their size. "I thought I was promised a reward," he says as he gathers clay on the silicone and sets the jar aside. He glares without any malice down at you. "After I was being so good."

You smile, amused by his antics after the day you had. Self-care like this was a rare occurrence, and absolutely necessary tonight. "Fine. Don't let it be said I'm someone who goes back on their deals."

"I'm glad you understand, sweetie."

He takes his time, after all that. He brushes hair from your face, though it's securely held back just like his is. His knuckles caress your cheek softly, trailing down to your jaw. Calloused fingertips trace the angle of it, where his index finger curls just under your chin, and his thumb graces your lower lip.

Chills run down your spine in anticipation. The hairs on your arms stand on end, waiting eagerly. He knows it, too. He knows you, the damn bastard. Knows just how much this effects you.

With his hold on your chin, he gently tilts it up, lifting your head to be the perfect angle, as he finally leans down. Your eyes flutter shut. Your heart races so loud in your ears.

Something cold touches your cheek, startling you out of the moment with wide eyes. The applicator hangs just in your periphery.

"Hey!"

He catches your mouth suddenly, silencing whatever insults you were prepared to throw his way. All of them are forgotten as his tongue licks into your mouth. Thoughts dissipating in the wind as he lifts your chin just slightly higher to give him even more access. And if that wasn't enough, the appreciative groan he breathes into your mouth makes you forget about the mud masks entirely.

He pulls away slowly. You're chasing after his lips for more without thinking about it; you can feel his grin as he grants you one more. His thumb brushes soft circles into your chin, coaxing you back to him. When your eyes flutter open, he guides your head to the side and begins spreading the dollop he left on your cheek around.

"Don't worry, kitten," he hums. "When I'm done, you'll get a reward, too."

You look at him from the corner of your eye, praying he can't feel how warm your cheeks have become. You're sure he already knows. "A reward like that?"

Red eyes flicker to yours with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. "You can be greedy. Ask and it's all yours."

"Including you?"

The drying clay cracks at the corners of his mouth as he smiles. He guides your face back toward him, leaning down until his every breath ghosts over your lips. "I'm always at your disposal, my beloved."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[creamecafe]

Making Out Sessions with Seong Gi-Hun

Pairing: Seong Gi-Hun x GN!Reader

Warnings: kissing, little slight spicy tension, making out ofc, mentions of grinding, age gap but that depends on your preference, lime (iykyk)

Requested: Yes or No

During Season 1, I like to imagine he would be a bit shy making out with someone else other than his wife

It's been years since he had intimacy with someone else ever since he's been divorced from his wife

He would take things nice and slow, then as the relationship would progress, he would go a bit faster

Doesn't mind being slowly dominated

Season 2 of him is totally different

If you were a bit inexperienced or a bit younger than him, he still would take things slow but still keep the tension there.

He would be so yearning while kissing you, grabbing your hips and grinding you on his lap

Smiling while kissing into your neck and hearing you gasp is the highlight of doing it with you

Things may or may not lead to more

Taglist:

@hobinistaworld, @ineedsmootching, @magicalconnoisseurcoffee, @vampiregirlxoxoxo, @idontreallyexistyet, @hollxe1, @ill-loveyouthroughthestars, @sackgirl666, @61f1mazx, @creepyp.mp4, @nyx2021, @ennathewriter

Navigation | Main Masterlist | Squid Game Masterlist | Squid Game Men Masterlist | Seong Gi Hun Masterlist | Join my taglist!

[springismss]

ᱬ ࣪𖤐 thoughts of tattoo artist! satoru who ended up tattooing his childhood crush one day. because after seeing a video on tiktok a few weeks ago, this wouldn’t go away.

g/n! reader and sfw

as always, reblogs/likes are always appreciated! enjoy ᱬ ࣪𖤐

links: jjk masterlist | masterlist

tattoo artist! satoru who is the most sought after artists of his generation, who’s booked for months in advance because everyone wants at least one piece from him, but who always has spaces for his regulars who supported him since he started out.

tattoo artist! satoru who specialises in neo traditional, new school and minimalist tattoos but will exceed at any type of tattoo his client wants. he didn’t become the best tattoo artist of his age for no reason.

tattoo artist! satoru who has his very own studio alongside some other artists who he trusts and a couple of body piercers because why not? he’s a very social person when he wants to be. Also, did anybody say discounts/free body modifications?

tattoo artist! satoru who loves nothing more than chatting away and popping in on his co-workers when he has nothing to do in between clients or scheduling appointments in his dairy.

tattoo artist! satoru who has a whole other phone purely for his work otherwise he’d hate being on his own personal phone for so long - that way he can take breaks as and when needed.

tattoo artist! satoru who ended up with a cancellation one day and posts to his insta story asking if anyone wants to take the space for a discount - ends up with what felt like a million inboxes asking if they could take it, finally choosing someone with the help of his best friend suguru.

tattoo artist! satoru who starts to get the design ready while he waits for the person to come along, having had what they wanted sent across within minutes of receiving the message they’d been chosen, the sound of choso’s voice alerting him to his client being in the reception area ten minutes later.

tattoo artist! satoru who walks out and tilts his head when he sees said person with their back to him, offering a quick hello before the person turns to face him, only to suck in a breath when he sees that the person is you, someone who he hasn’t seen in quite a long time - you kept yourself hidden in your profile, not caring to show your face.

tattoo artist! satoru who’s suddenly nervous for the first time in a while, trying his best to keep his composure while he leads you back to his private room, away from the gaze of curious eyes who want to know who you are.

tattoo artist! satoru who closes the door behind you both once you enter, watching you as you take off your coat and walk over to where he is, watching as he adds the final details to the piece you wanted.

tattoo artist! satoru who’s takes in a shaky breath before he turns around to face you, signature smile pulling at his lips as he places the stencil on the area you want, checking everything is okay before waiting for the ink to dry as he sets everything else up, asking you to take get onto the tattoo bed.

tattoo artist! satoru who begins to get to work on permanently branding the design on your skin, who can feel your gaze follow his hands as best you can as he continues to work, checking in on your now and then to see how you were feeling, noticing the subtle ways the area you were getting tattoo moving to the needle.

tattoo artist! satoru who gives a hum when he’s added the final few bits to your design, giving it a clean and taking some photos/videos before placing a second skin over it to make sure it’s protected. going through his aftercare with you, not taking his eyes off you as you listen closely, nodding along and asking questions where needed.

tattoo artist! satoru who walks you out of the studio all the while shooting daggers at sukuna, who came out of his room after finishing a piercing for his own client asking you for your phone number because he may or may not want to spite the man stood beside you.

tattoo artist! satoru who uploads your piece to his insta, watching the number of likes and comments at the top corner increase before he turned his attention to his personal phone and starts to doom scroll for a while, needing to give his brain a break for a bit.

tattoo artist! satoru who see’s a repost, a mention, a like and a comment from the account you messaged him on - tapping to scroll through your feed, getting lost for a while before noticing a new unread message in his inbox, much to his delight and surprise it’s you.

tattoo artist! satoru who reads your message, goofy smile on his face as you thank him for the session, wanting to book in for your next one with him as soon as you’re healed and he has free space - nearly missing the last few words of your message before doing a double take.

tattoo artist! satoru who finds himself feeling like a child again at the words you wrote - “you really haven’t changed at all, toru, it was nice to see you again”. he can’t help but feel all giddy inside when you call him that nickname you used for him before feeling his heart beat heavily in his chest.

tattoo artist! satoru who’s always happy to make time for you when you want a new piece of art - especially a custom piece you’ve begged him for for weeks now, proud to show off how he’s marking your skin in a way other tattoo artists wish they could - you’re not allowed to go anywhere else for a tattoo, that’s the rule now. the same also applies to piercings - he makes sure to keep his eyes trained carefully on his pink-haired piercer just in case he tries anything.

tattoo artist! satoru comes to realise he hadn’t gotten over the childhood crush, he just never thought he’d see you again after you moved away - much to his delight, you moved back to Tokyo a year before you first messaged him. who’s delighted that you’re spending more time around the shop when you’ve got free time, helping him with new ideas for flashes and giveaways, because getting to spend a moment with you feels so damn right.

tattoo artist! satoru who, one day, tattoos a special design on you, only to get a matching one as well - he had to be the one to do them both as he didn’t want the moment to be ruined, everything had to be perfect. so what if it didn’t match the rest of his tattoos or yours?

tattoo artist! satoru who’s always been secret with his personal life, especially to the public, until he makes an insta post about his biggest muse and how he’s never letting them go ever - you. who finally posts your face for the world to see, happy smiles appearing on both your faces in the photo as he looks at you with pure love, you on the other hand offering a wink to whoever looks at the picture.

tattoo artist! satoru who may mark your skin with pieces of art but is also extremely good at leaving other marks littering over pieces of bare and inked flesh. he’s such an insatiable lover, he can’t get enough and he’ll be damned if he lets you go again for as long as you both live.

did anybody ever mention to you how hot he is covered in tattoos and piercings?

[zweetpea]

You know... with how many people this has happened to as well, I'm starting to think that my dumb cracktheory has a a lot more weight to it than I originally gave it credit for

A dragon's jealously

(A large blurb based on my experience playing genshin and cause I lost my 50-50. However this is a raceless, bodyless, genderless post so anyone can read and all are encouraged to read.)

Well here it was! They could finally claim his C1 after so long! He could finally be close to them! No longer would he sit on the sidelines while they played with Ganyu and Kokomi or Ayato... Cyno... Diluc... Scaramouche... Kaeya! NO! None of them would be of any use to her anymore! She'd never have to take him out of her team.

Of course They'd have to build him a team... But They already had everyone they need for a hyperbloom team! Nahida, Shinobu, and to his Chagrin... Kazuha... though he couldn't fuss too much as they've had Kazuha long before he was even released into the game. Though if that didn't work they could always use fridge... But he'd want her to use Ganyu for that! No way was he about to let Kaeya onto his team to steal his players attention away!

They'd stroll through the lush mountainside of Fontaine together... visit Catherine in the court of Fontaine after their daily run... He'd even get to eat their delectable cooking! And maybe... maybe They'd even put him in their serenitea pot! Oh how he longed for that moment!

But there they were pulling on Zhongli's banner. At first he reasoned that they were going to put Zhongli on his team as there were a few team comps with the two of them together and it wouldn't be out of the question for them to have a mostly 5 star team... they have had one before... but then he remembered that one of those teams needs furina which they unfortunetly didn't have. What was going on?

Were they... trying to replace him? WHY? He was- He IS the best unit in the game! He's SS ranked! He has complex lore! He was drop dead gorgeous (their words, not his)! They've said he was their favorite on multiple occasions! He figured it out as they were doing some stealth and let me tell you, it started to pour. Attempt after attempt it rained, and rained. It splashed onto the ground like there was no tomorrow. Some NPC's started to whisper and worry that his tears would singlehandedly flood Teyvat.

The player was nearing they're 10 pull and he knew what he needed to do. He was sure they were about to pull a 5 star and he would make sure it wasn't Zhongli. He looked at the 7 standard five stars when his gaze fell on Mona. PERFECT! This would surely send them a message. After all Mona was Hydro too so he knew they'd obviously get the message that a certain someone wasn't happy with them.

He sauntered over there with a fire in his eyes. "Miss Mona," He put on a calm voice, "how would you like an all expenses paid trip to Fontaine?" He smiled politely at her.

"Monsieur Neuvillette! How generous of you to offer! I-I couldn't though..."

"Nonsense! Of course you can! A five star hotel and penthouse suite, private Michelin chef, I'll even take care of your rent for you for however long you decide to stay." He sweetened the pot more and more; circling her like a hungry vulture sizing up it's prey.

"Wow... okay then!" She grabs his hands in thanks.

He reeled back. "Not so fast. I need you to do something for me first."

He face fell in shock. "Oh! Yes of course..." She knew it was too good to be true.

His voice dropped into a sinister husk. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards the golden star that would soon be falling down into the players hands. "All I need you to do is ruin our players 50-50 pull on Zhongli..." He whispered into her ear.

"That's it?" She looked up at him skeptically.

"That's it." He nodded, pushing her toward the star a bit.

"OKAY!!" She nodded excitedly and hopped on right as the player pulled.

He looked longingly at their crushed face and smiled symapthetically. "Sorry darling... but you're only allowed to have one dragon Daddy in your life."

[unacknowledgeable]

Hello! I love your serial Killer reader work, I just have one question would the reader pursue a romantic relationship with an oc or someone just to avoid suspension like some other serial killers. Or would they be likely to pick/ find someone at a bar or club pick them up there and may be murder some of them and let the others go. I hope your doing well!

Reader has a string of exes thanks to their ‘Gotham Elite’ persona, just to keep up general appearances, but otherwise having a partner has never been necessary to dissuade suspicions.

Most of SK!Readers' murders are ambushes in the street, they don't like talking to their victims at all if they can help it, to risky, but now I’m imagining some poor gothamite almost getting gutted by the reader, somehow getting away, only to come back asking “so what are we” and just…. Not leaving the reader alone 

atleast, that's one of the ways I've thought of adding a love interest lol ~v~ I have quite a few hehe

~Masterlist~

[m1d-45]

post-mortem

summary: war was not a gentle affair; not to the land, the civilians, the soldiers, or their captain.

word count: 1.1k

-> warnings: major spoilers for natlan aq, very very brief mention of canon-typical violence

-> gn reader (you/yours) and unspecified traveller

taglist: @samarill || @sarienic || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

harbingers were not meant to be kind. they were meant to carry out the tsaritsa’s will, and while they were allowed some level of leniency within their methods of doing so, their goal remained firm: fetch the gnosis. if they could manage that, then it was to return home in more or less one piece.

capitano was not in natlan for fun. he had a mission to complete. anything that stopped him was an obstacle to be immediately removed. anything that slowed him was to be brushed off and cut away. for hundreds of years, he had had no problem with this goal, and no problem for what would come after it.

he stationed himself just within natlan’s borders, gathering as much information on the ley lines as he could without stepping on too many toes. he had bided his time patiently, tending to his mechanical heart and the souls within, his plan ready to go as soon as the traveller arrived. carefully reviewed and edited millions of times, paperwork he no longer needed to read to remember the words of. it was the pinnacle of his years on teyvat, his will and testament to the nation he once served.

he held no reservations. he had no doubt, no fear for what was to come. il capitano did not linger.

the captain sat behind his desk, the plain wood empty and unoffensive. there was neither pen nor paper across its surface, all reports having been reviewed just as midnight struck. the only light in the cramped tent was from a lamp in the corner, the flame’s light flickering over the walls and everything held within. outside, the wind whined through the stone of tezcatepetonco range, keeping all words far from listening ears. had he wanted to, he would feel comfortable even listing out his plan to someone he trusted enough to tell it to.

that had been his plan, initially. his tent was nestled deep within the heart of the camp, and he doubted neither his soldiers’ fealty nor their ability to alert him should something go wrong. in the wilds of the land of war, he had forged a sliver of true privacy. any day now, he would receive word that the traveller had finally left fontaine, and his plan would fall into place. every possible failure and fault had long been accounted for; all that was left was to secure that his affairs would be in order after he died.

and with that, you had been called into his office, the summons delivered by an agent with a deep red mask and a voice permanently roughened by illness.

you had been hired young by the fatui, like so many others in their ranks. you were a remarkably ordinary person, in fact; at least by snezhnayan standards. you were born, you starved, you joined the cause. and because the captain made a point of caring after those put under his banner, he let you try to forget the things that happened in between. you came when called and struck when commanded, carrying the same loyalty that marked the rest of his division. you were entirely unassuming, if not for the fact that for some inexplicable reason, it was you that he had called.

there were soldiers with more experience than you. there were soldiers with a more precise control over the elements than you, with a higher kill count, with a broader stature or quicker strikes. you were perhaps not average, but assuredly not him, nor someone fit to manage every loose string.

the only thing you were, for certain, was slumped over his desk, leaning rather uncomfortably on your arm in a way that you’d certainly regret in the morning. normally, he’d never allow such disrespect—this was his tent, after all—but given that you were the one he’d chosen to step alongside him for the past few days, he supposed he could cut you some slack. regular people needed sleep, after all, and the captain was in the habit of protecting those under his banner. as a reward for trekking with him across the country and back and dealing with the combat in between, he would allow you to rest with him as your guard for one more night.

no one person could handle every consequence of the power vacuum that would be left in his stead, and he was not stupid enough to think so. he had informed both the jester and her majesty, but their business was not with inter-platoon affairs. while he may not have to worry about anyone striking when they thought the harbingers were weak, he did have to worry about who would upkeep all of his contacts, monitor the ley and those that resided within them, who would coordinate his troops while they either filtered to the other harbingers or were reassigned to whomever would take his place. it was for this reason that he had spent his tentatively “free” time developing and editing a second plan for when news of his death reached fatui ears. it sat in his pocket, a thin weight he was never meant to hold on to.

he was meant to give it to you. ordinary you, as plain as the uniform over your shoulders, tasked with filling his shoes until the storm passed. you, who he should not be fond of because captains did not have time for such childish things as favorites, and yet your name had refused to leave his mind. no, he was not forced to give command to you in particular, and neither was he made to leave it at all. but war was cruel, and a soldier without a cause was as good as a cart without wheels. he was to reduce his people’s suffering, not impart more upon others. you just happened to be better suited for the job, and he had happened to tell you more about natlan’s ley lines than anyone else. it only made sense that he kept calling on you rather than anyone else, as he could handle any combat anyway. informing you would make your transition to stand-in all the more easier, that was all. there was no place for “kindness” in his crowded heart. “kindness” implied a level of sympathy he did not show, not to any of his troops and assuredly not to you. it was not “kind” to mark you with his death.

he waited until the sun crept above the horizon to move, letting you sleep uninterrupted. you would need a much of it as you could get. he let his chair slide against the floor as he stood, letting that wake you instead of his gauntlets on your shoulders. you snapped to sitting up, but just as fast winced at the knot in your shoulder. “get moving,” he ordered, and you hurriedly apologized, thanked him, and turned to comply. as the wind swept in behind you, he watched you shiver at the sudden drop in temperature, hunching your shoulders high and walking quickly.

for just a moment, his mind briefly drew the idea of giving you his coat. he discarded the idea as soon as it came, pushing his chair back into place and following you out, running through today’s agenda.

his last wishes would be dealt with another day.

[stinkysam]

Choi Subong “Thanos” - Help player 230.

Warning : canon divergence, violence, guns

Genre : fluff ?

Synopsis : “thanos x triangle guard male reader where after the fight in the bathrooms the guard helps thanos with his injury” - anon

Reader : gender neutral (you/yours)

A/N : Bold is in English

You were sitting on your bed, reading, when you received an order in your earpiece. You didn’t really understand the reasons behind it, but obeyed nonetheless, placing your book away and putting on your mask, then your hood.

Locking your small room, you then went to your locker, getting your MP5, your revolver and some ammunition before walking down the long corridor to find another guard who was coming to you with a small first aid kit. You took it, placing it around your waist before resuming walking toward the men’s bathroom at a faster pace, going up and down the multiple stairs.

You had to protect player 230, not kill. Save, just this once. You had heard of him, more than just in the games. Rising rapper, known to be annoying, was about to win a rap contest but forgot his own bars. You even saw a few -a lot- memes about it. You mostly felt pity for him, and even though he ended second, you could tell he felt like he had ended last.

Though it meant you knew his name, you preferred to distance yourself, using 230 instead.

As you arrived, you saw player 125 run toward you, you moved to the side, letting him pass by, barely acknowledging you. You continued your way up the stairs, the two triangle soldiers guarding the door.

You stopped, opened the door, looked at the chaos and sighed before entering.

It took you a few seconds to spot your target.

Player 230 was trying to strangle 333 with one hand while the other tried to take his fork away, without much success as it planted repeatedly in his left shoulder, arm and ribs.

You went toward them, a few people noticed you as you took your MP5 in your hands and swiftly hit 333 on the head with it, knocking him out.

The fight had died down by now, all looking at you. You kept your hands on your gun, ready to use it if necessary, the tension still palpable and growing even more with the silence.

“Everyone out.” You said, putting your foot on 230’s back to keep him in place as he grabbed 333’s fork.

The other players didn’t need you to speak twice, already moving away from each other as the two soldiers by the door came in, telling each group to follow them.

“Take him.” You pointed with your gun to 333 on the floor, pushing 230 away from him with your foot, as two Os approached cautiously to help the unconscious man up.

Within a minute, the bathroom was empty.

Or almost.

“124, out.” You said and quickly you heard the door open, 124 slowly coming out with an awkward smile.

“Sorry.” He replied, walking past you before flipping you off behind you as if you couldn’t guess what he was doing, and then, he left.

230, tightly holding 333’s fork, tried to attack you, attempting to stab your leg. You moved your MP5 so it was against his forehead, stopping him instantly, looking at you with wide eyes. Shit.

“Give me the fork.” You said, holding one hand out, but he threw it behind you, hoping you’d give him an opening by going after it.

“Fuck you.” He said with a proud smile.

Fucker. You rolled your eyes, though he did not see it.

You bent down, pushing your MP5 on your back, and grabbed him by the collar, his hands going to your gloved ones to stop you as you forced him to sit against the toilet stall.

“Wh-”

“Player 230, I’m not here to kill you, you can calm down.” You kneeled at his level.

The way he stared at you told you his mind was racing, not understanding but still wanting to curse you out.

“You want me to believe you’re here to help me ? You think I’m stupid ?” He scoffed, crossing his arms though his left one had struggled to move, a wince on his face.

You ignored him, pushing his arms out of the way, opening his vest and pulled his shirt up. His hands went to your wrists, trying to stop you, not understanding what you were doing.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing ?!” He said. God, you understood why he was described as annoying. But again, how do you interact with a man who thinks you’re gonna shoot his brains out.

“Checking your wounds.” You replied, snatching your hands away from his grip to hold his shirt up again.

You noticed the tattoo on his neck was also going down his sides. And there, around the 6th or 7th rib, stab wounds, blood seeping out.

“Remove them.” You said, pointing at his clothes. He raised an eyebrow, visibly confused.

“What ? Why the fuck would I do that ? Perv.”

You ignored him again, taking out the first aid kit from around your waist and showed it to him, hoping he’ll finally get it.

He stared at it, confused before slowly complying, glaring at you as he struggled to get rid of his shirt because of his arm, cursing you under his breath. If only you didn’t have your fucking guns.

By his shoulder and biceps, along the thick line of his tattoo, more stab wounds bleeding abundantly. He looked away, visibly not pleased to be seen hurt.

You came in at the right time, or his wounds would’ve been worse if not deadly. A little more and he would’ve been stabbed in the neck by that fork. Although they were small and weren’t as deep as it would’ve been with a knife, they were still around 4 centimeters deep, stinging and hurting sharply, throbbing.

You opened the first aid kit, placing the different items on 230’s legs except for the scissors and tweezers, keeping them in the bag.

You grabbed the small bottle of painkillers and stood up. He won’t need that, isn’t it more entertaining if they’re struggling ?

“Stay.” You said before walking away and emptying the bottle in the toilet before going to the sink, pouring some water in it.

“Bitch, I’m not a fucking dog.” He said under his breath. Out of spite, he moved, trying to grab the fork. You heard his grunts and turned around with a sigh. You walked to the fork and took it, placing it in your pocket before grabbing him and putting him back where he was. You kneeled down again, replacing what had fallen from his legs.

You emptied the small bottle on his ribs slowly as you cleaned the wounds. Water mixed with blood dripping down his skin, getting rid of the mix of sweat and partially dried blood as he stared at you.

You stood up again to put more water in the small bottle, 230 staying still as you came back and emptied it on his shoulder, wiping it. You did it once more, cleaning up his biceps last.

He continued staring at you, still not understanding why you were helping him. You too weren’t understanding it. Maybe they wanted to keep the disruptive element longer ? Though the most disruptive one could be 456.

His hand moved toward you, trying to reach for your mask, but you moved your head away and swatted his hand.

“Come on, who are you ?” He finally asked. “You piqued my interest.” He smiled cockily.

You gave him an annoyed stare he could not see before returning to your task, taking some gauze and wrapping it around his arm and shoulder, squeezing enough so it wouldn’t fall and stay in place.

Then you leaned closer, wrapping the gauze around his ribs, making sure it was tight and thick enough again.

You looked at your work before turning toward the camera on the ceiling and moving slightly to the side, showing your job was done.

“You can put your clothes back on and go.” You said, standing up, waiting for him to move.

“Seriously, who are you ? You know me ? That’s why you’re helping ?” He chuckled, his confidence growing despite struggling to put his shirt back on, putting his jacket with more ease. You said nothing, watching him slowly stand up before escorting him to the exit.

The door opened, a group of workers entered with 5 human sized black boxes. 230 watched them as they opened them and placed the dead inside before closing it.

“Player 230.” You said, gaining his attention, he looked at you with wide eyes. Did he just notice the corpses ? You reached into your pocket and gave him the fork. “I hope you’re enjoying the games.”

[strzxrin]

bae i need wei zhong with a cuddly lover. like… just someone who drops into his arms the second they are in private and remain smashed against his chest while dozing off. and like in public they hold his hand, and also give him some small kisses here and there, their favorite kisses to give him being kisses under his jawline. (i need to cuddle this man you don’t understand how much i need to do that and to also suck his—)

. . . just wanna touch you for a minute !

in which . . . you hold him in your arms and he can’t help but latch onto you even more. even as you make a mess out of him.

cw. it was cute until it wasn’t, dom!reader, bottom!character, overstimulation, bondage, dacryphilia, teasing, edging

pairings . wei zhong x gn!reader

bunny hybrid x reader , nerd x reader , bottom!character x reader , pathetic!character x reader

notes . i kinda went a little overboard on him… (can you tell who’s my favourite to write?) i did make it a little sweet at the start though but i hope that you devoured this

masterlist . character list

he completely melts into it. he’s very physically affectionate himself but when you reciprocate? he believes that he transcended into the heavens because by the gods you’re so soft to him.

the feel of your skin and the way how you drape yourself over him? he’s almost whimpering from it. your fingers intertwining with his? he finds his heart exploding, and he can’t help himself to just pepper your face with kisses.

he thinks that you’re so so cute, but you? you think that he’s the cuter one here.

especially when he stops functioning entirely when you start to kiss his jawline, your hands on his chest as you lay on top of him in his bed. he doesn’t remember how it got to this — no. he does. you were coming over for a movie night.

yet here you were, kissing his jaw and trailing it further down as he lets out little mewls and whimpers “waitwaitwait—! mngh!” his back arched as he felt your teeth gently grazing his nipples. he was a mess, a puddle in your hands, quite literally too. his cock was leaking as you circled your thumb on his tip, softly chuckling on his cute sounds.

you moved back up again as you smiled “awwh.. you’re so cute, baby..” you cooed softly into his ears, and he swears his bunny ears twitched and flopped by the sheer closeness of it all. he was tied on the bed due to your little sneaky act and frankly the bondage was making him even more sensitive.

“( name )—! anh!” he stuttered out your name, almost babbling as he can’t remember the amount of times you denied him from cumming. he has tears in his eyes as he sobs a bit but you kissed away the tears, shushing him gently as you continued to tease his aching cock.

“what’s wrong, baby? wanna cum?”

“oh pleasepleaseplease!! please wanna cum! please i’ll be such a good boy just lemme cum!” his words were beginning to slur as you hummed. your fingers went further and now you were fully stroking him. it made his back arch even further as he struggled from the restraints. he was whining and shaking as you chuckled before going to his ears and nibbling it gently.

“go ahead, pretty boy.. cum” and he did. he was a whimpering and sobbing mess, shaking as he shoots his load all over your hand. his eyes rolled back from the sheer pleasure relief of it all and when he gained his consciousness again, he sees you putting your hand up to your lips and licking off his cum.

ah.. he’s not going to be walking tomorrow it seems.

[trippygalaxy]

Hey hi hellooooo and congrats on 400 followers Trippy!!! That is a LOT of people cbkwhxiwhfkdh

Now can I request legend x reader where the reader can sing?

Like, they remind him of Marin at first because they only sang quietly and softly around the Chain at first, but eventually when they get comfortable and finally sing something that's actually in their range (im thinking the reader's an alto), and suddenly Legend has hearts in his eyes because of their actual singing voice!!!

Thank you! And yes it tis a lot a of people- which is semi concerning considering the weird shit i used to say /lh

Also wild how this is like my fourth legend request? ((like you're the first one to ask for legend but after there was like a flood of people)) and Second one of Reader similar to Marin??? Are yall like, conspiring together before requesting? /j

Also I hope you don't mind this as a headcanon-

Characters: Legend x Gn!Reader Words: 600+ Warning: Voice Insecurity, Legend being OOC??, Hyrule and The Chain vaguely mentioned/brought up

To say you had a good relationship with Legend was...wrong-

You had joined The Chain as a guide throughout this new hyrule they've found themselves in, and though you were a kind and sweet person, there was something that just had the pink haired vet keeping his distance from you

Maybe he found your nature too clean? Or perhaps he found your voice annoying- you were told by too many how 'squeaky' you sounded when you spoke and even more so when you sung

But thats why you sung so lowly, your voice above a whisper that moved with the late night campfire. You made sure to keep that part to yourself when you first joined the group- you were just a guide, not a bard, but even when you were overheard, you didnt hear any complaints.

At first you didn't pay too much mind to it -the distance from the rough hoarder, that is- some heroes reassuring you that the vet wasn't one to trust easily and you couldn't blame him!

But the longer you stayed in the party, it was growing more and more easier to see that there was not malice in his distance but...an odd somberness to it? You had tried to as the Traveler- the hero who had known him the longest- but all you got was a meek shrug and a hasty retreat

That was...strange, but you did not want to pry, if the veteran was having issues with you then he needed to grow up a little and talk to you about it instead of sulking. Plus, you were just a guide! So if he truly couldn't do such a thing, then he just needed to wait until your job was done

But a mopey hero wasn't going to keep you from enjoying you're time traveling!

And it didn't! ((for the most part)) So much so that you even grew more comfortable with the ragtag team of heroes, allowing your inner self to heal little by little as you found your voice once more.

Yet this growing confidence didn't go unnoticed.

No, your rich, low harmonies did not pass by the ever listening ears of a certain hero. And that was the moment that changed quite a bit between you and the stern hero.

No longer did he avoid you, finding any excuse or none to simply leave you to your lonesome- no, now you can always see him out of the corner of your eye, his ears twitching as your voice hit every note so beautifully.

No longer did a somberness follow him like a growing rain cloud, if anything, it seemed like his skies were growing clearer with everyday that passed- and if you were bold enough to say- with every song that passed.

No longer did the Traveler play messenger when the Vet had a question, no, now the once standoffish boy strides up to you with a walk that screamed 'faux indifference' with a question that eager slips off his tongue.

Slowly, your lonely night shifts turned into quiet company, then to 'private concerts' as you would tease, but Legend did not meet your teasing's with his signature silver tongue.

It was...sweet, how he would quietly give you song recommendations with quick reassurance that you; "Really don't have to do them! I- I don't care...really."

Yet you did them anyways, happy the darkness covered your darkened cheeks as you watched the harden hero simply melt from the melody flowing from your lips.

The change wasnt an instant, if anything, it was as slow as the growth of a plant- but you didn't mind, happy to see the hero finally warm up to you and maybe, just maybe, finally learn why this new change has happened.

@yourlocaltreesimp

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Guess, who forget to post this from their Drafts...

BSD Cast take the consept of miraculous and powers well. They already have people with powers and godlike entities (Lovecraft, Arahabaki, Demonic Beast Guivre), so, miraculous are nothing new to them. But, they aren't happy, that most miraculous users are teens, who risk their lives.

The Wish is scaring them. While there are similarities with The Book, there is the major difference. The Book requires narrative consistency and a lot of preparation. While Wish are more straight forward with an equal exchange. And, if it reshapes the universe, what will it do with them? Will they return to BSD World, loosing their self-awareness? Or will they loose their powers and won't be able to aid Adrien and [Y/N]? Will Sigma and Elise disappear? And there are a lot more questions. BSD Cast will make sure, that The Wish is never used. When BEAST Group join Original Group, BEAST! Dazai will do anything to make sure The Wish won't be used. Because he understands the burden of reshaping the universe for someone dear. He didn't want anyone to experience it.

(Anticipating questions, no, after The Wish nothing is going to happen with BSD Cast. They will remain in reality with powers and memories.)

BSD Cast will be worried about akumas. It is a disturbing consept. BSD Cast will be careful with their emotions and will try to keep an eye on Adrien's and [Y/N]'s emotions (and their friends'). Because they don't want them get hurt.

However, BSD Cast can stop worrying about getting akumatized. Gabriel, salty after his kids were adopted, take a look into BSD Media. He saw, what Lovecraft, Atsushi, Shibusawa, Bram, Chuuya and Verlaine can do. No wanting to have Paris, if not whole France destroyed, Gabriel swear to keep akumas away from BSD Cast.

____

Ask your question about Season 5, I am extremely chill about spoilers. Fun fact, I didn't watch BSD Season 5 Finale during premier, and, before watching the episode, I spent 30 minutes reading Reddit posts about the finale and watching videos of moments from last episode on YouTube.

____

The love square will go like this:

BSD Cast's place. Adrien is having a photoshoot, so he isn't home right now

[Y/N]: I must say, my brother really like Ladybug. Poor Marinette, she is clearly like Adrien, but he is chasing after Ladybug.

Mori: exchanging looks with Fukuzawa, Fitzgerald and Fukuchi Is that so? And how Ladybug reacts to your brother's feelings?

You: shrug She isn't interested. I am trying not to get involved, they can figure it out by themselves.

Aya: from other room [Y/N]! Bram and I are doing a vampire castle diorama for Halloween! Do you want to help?

You: Sure! leaving the room

Fukuzawa, Fukuchi, Fitzgerald and Mori, after a moment of silence, burst into laughter

Fukuchi: It's cute, precious and fun in its own way, don't you think?

Fukuzawa: nodding Yes, it's... adorable. Make me feel bad for hiding the secret about Ladybug's true identity.

Fitzgerald: But, as [Y/N] said, they will deal with it by themselves. Not our business to share girl's secret.

Same VA idea.

Keith Silverstein not only voiced Mori Ougai. He is also a voice of Gabriel Agreste/Hawk Moth from Miraculous Ladybug.

Just, imagine...

You and Mori: *sitting on a couch, having a conversation *

Elise: *sitting not far away from you, browsing through YouTube. Suddenly, she finds this video *

[Room became silent, exept for the Hawk Moth singing]

You and Elise: *looking at each other. Elise gave you a puppy dog eyes. You are hesitant, but, still, you nod*

You: *to Mori* Um, Ougai, I was wondering... Can you sing?

Mori: *not amused* [Y/N], I do love you, but no. Don't even think about it.

You and Elise: *giving him a puppy dog eyes*

Mori: I said "no"!

[Three hours later]

You, Mori and Elise: *singing in unison*

I will win and I will rise!

All of Paris akumatized!

[yichi-is-a-bitch]

TWST Incorrect quote #84

Idia: "my favorite outdoor activity is going back inside"

MC: "agree, but I'm hungry so we need to get food"

Idia: "...no"

MC: "..."

*time skip to a hangry Mc struggling to drag Idia out of his room as he holds onto a wall for dear life*

MC: "LET GO!!"

Idia: "NEVER!"

I'm BACKKKK‼️ hope y'all had a good Christmas and new year :>

[livelovelaughgeto]

tsukishima is a petty bitch. he wasn’t born male or female, he was born a fucking drama queen. and he’s your boyfriend too? yeah, good luck solider.

you took the last slice of his stupid strawberry shortcake. you weren’t thinking, you told yourself. you didn’t even think about it! it was a moment of temptation, a unbearable craving late at night while drafting an unreasonably long essay that you procrastinated. but kei ain’t having any of it. you ate his sweet treat, so here the two of you are, kei on the other side of the small living room space, glaring down at his book with crossed lanky legs and a mess of blonde locks. you just finished the dishes and your approaching him for the millionth time, in an attempt for redemption for your crimes. “kei, baby—

he grimaces at the nickname. he likes the endearment but as of now he knows the tricks up your sleeves. “don’t pull that out now.” he grumbles back, clicking his tongue in annoyance and flipping the next page of his book with his long fingers. you groan in annoyance, getting on your knees, next to the couch and intertwining your hands together in mock prayer. “oh come on kei! please? i did not have evil intentions! i was fucking hungry and suffering!” you cried out with furrowed brows, as if you were pleading your innocence in goddamn court. he looks down with disdain, rolling his eyes and places a hand on your forehead in an attempt to shove you fully away but you simply laugh and push his rather large veiny hand away. you let out an exaggerated sigh, scooting across the carpet and generously placing your head on his lap. you smile up at him, soft and tender, nuzzling close and reaching for his hand before he pulls away, flipping you off but with a quick and reluctant sigh grabs it in his hand and mingles his hand into yours.

“sooo do you forgive me?” you drawl out, low and conspiratorially, looking up at with big eyes and a hopeful smile.

“no.” he remarks, adjusting his glasses sliding down his nose. but he’s what you call a, “liar, liar, pants on fire.” he lets go of your shared intertwined hands, his hands finding their way to your hair. gently grazing through and playing with the fine strands tenderly.

your smirk, all knowing and satisfied with your success of a plan. but it doesn’t last long, because he interrupts that celebration with a flick to your forehead.

“so when are we going to the cafe, huh? your paying.” he mutters, putting down his book and arching a brow.

he always pays, liar.

[cloudss-space]

You were special

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... angst & slight hurt/comfort ... 12k word count

author note: thank you all for 50 follows !! i appreciate all of your guys love and support. i appreciate you all who read my works and i can't wait to write even more for you guys <3

trigger/content warning: gore / blood, skin picking, suicide, self harm, anxiety/panic attacks

Growing up, you felt the weight of eyes on you from every corner of the room. It wasn't the warm gaze of approval or the gentle encouragement of someone who wanted you to thrive. These eyes were sharp, like knives, dissecting you piece by piece, carving out the parts that didn't fit their expectations. You were a canvas they demanded to be perfect, but their tools weren't brushes—they were scalpels, precise and ruthless. Every glance was a silent demand, every word an unspoken expectation. You had to be something, you had to create something, you had to prove that you were more than just skin and bone. Your worth was measured in accomplishments, in trophies, in how brightly you could shine under their unyielding scrutiny. But even the brightest stars burn out, don't they?

You learned early that being still was dangerous. Stillness meant inadequacy, a failure to meet the standards etched into you like scars. They pushed you into classes: piano, ballet, painting, debate—anything to ensure you were never idle. Each lesson felt like a blade against your skin, shaping you into something they could display. Your fingers bled against the piano keys, your toes blistered and cracked in ballet shoes, and your voice turned hoarse from endless rehearsals. But you never stopped, never faltered, because stopping meant disappointing them. Disappointing them was unforgivable. Your successes were their triumphs, and your failures? They were unforgivable and unforgettable.

You remember how their words cut deeper than any knife. "Not good enough," they'd say, their voices dripping with disappointment. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, even as the taste of copper filled your mouth from biting your tongue too hard. Your skin felt too tight, your body too fragile under the weight of their expectations. There were days when you looked in the mirror and saw something unrecognisable staring back. The reflection was cracked, fractured by their demands and your inability to meet them. But you'd still smile, because showing weakness was another sin you couldn't afford to commit.

The world outside was no better. Strangers saw only the polished version of you, the mask you wore so diligently. They marveled at your talent, praised your dedication, and envied your supposed perfection. But they didn't see the blood beneath your fingernails or the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. They didn't see the sleepless nights spent practising until your body screamed for rest. They only saw the results, the shiny, glittering facade you presented. And isn't that all that matters? They believed the lie, even if it was killing you.

You started to resent the things you once loved. The piano keys felt like ice beneath your fingertips, their melody now a dirge. The ballet studio smelled of sweat and despair; the mirrors reflected your exhaustion rather than grace. Even your own voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of forced enthusiasm. But you kept going because stopping wasn't an option. You wouldn't let them. You didn't want to stop, you didn't think you deserved to. You were grateful for their attention and investment in you.

The pressure was intense, squeezing your chest with every passing day. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage. You know you will never be able to let it all go, to collapse under the weight of their expectations. Would they even notice if you shattered? Or would they sweep up the pieces and demand you put yourself back together? You didn't know the answer, and you were too afraid to find out. So you kept moving, kept performing, even as your soul screamed for release.

There were moments when you felt like you were drowning, gasping for air in a sea of demands. The water was dark and cold, and every time you surfaced, another wave crashed over you, dragging you back under. You reached for lifelines that weren't there, your hands clawing at the emptiness, nails breaking and bleeding. But you never screamed. Admitting defeat was not an option. You let the waves take you, let them pull you deeper, until the only thing you could feel was the crushing pressure of their expectations.

And yet, despite everything, you kept going. You did it not because you wanted to, but because you had to. The fear of their disapproval was greater than the pain of their demands. You became a machine, operating on autopilot, your emotions buried so deep you almost forgot they existed. But sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world was asleep, you'd feel the cracks in your armour. Tears would come unbidden, hot and angry, carving trails down your cheeks like rivers of molten glass. You wiped them away quickly, ashamed of your weakness, and promised yourself you'd try harder the next day.

But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Their eyes never stopped following you, unblinking and unforgiving, always expecting more. You could win every competition, master every skill, and still, they'd find something to critique. They weren't interested in your talent; they wanted perfection. And perfection is a moving target, always just out of reach. But you kept chasing it, even as it tore you apart, because what else was there? What were you, if not their perfect little masterpiece?

Now, as you stand on the edge of adulthood, you wonder what it was all for. The trophies gather dust, the skills they forced upon you now feel like chains rather than gifts. You look at your reflection and see the scars of their expectations etched into your skin, visible only to you. But beneath the cracks, beneath the layers of performance and pretence, you see something else: a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. And for the first time, you dare to believe that you can rewrite your story.

The flicker of defiance you saw in the mirror is extinguished by the weight of expectations pressing down on you. The walls close in, their pristine white surfaces streaked with the red of your efforts, the rawness of your exhaustion. Every movement is a reminder of how much you've given. The hollow ache in your chest grows louder, echoing like a drumbeat in a cavern, but you drown it out with the rhythmic grind of repetition. Practice. Perfect. Repeat. The cycle sharpens like broken glass, slicing into your resolve, but you won't stop. Stopping would mean failure, and failure is unthinkable.

You feel the toll of always being "on" and always having to perform. Your joints crack and protest, your muscles tremble under the strain of endless hours. Your hands, once steady and graceful, now shake uncontrollably, fingertips raw and split from the relentless grind. You notice the blood smearing the piano keys, dark crimson seeping into the grooves, but you keep playing. The melody is disjointed, discordant, but no one's listening closely enough to care. Your audience only sees the performance, not the cost, and that's what matters. You keep telling yourself it's worth it, even as your vision blurs and your pulse thrums erratically in your ears.

The whispers of doubt grow louder, turning into screams in the quiet moments you can no longer avoid. They claw at the edges of your mind, their voices overlapping, accusing, demanding. Not enough. Never enough. The words feel like needles beneath your skin, burrowing deeper until they reach your core. Sleep offers no reprieve. It is fractured and restless, punctuated by dreams of endless auditions and faceless judges with mouths like voids. You wake up gasping, choking on the reality that it's not just a dream. The nightmare is real, and there's no escape.

Your body betrays you in more obvious ways. You catch glimpses of your reflection, pale and gaunt, eyes sunken into shadowed hollows. Your bruises don't heal; they bloom like dark flowers, reminders of your inadequacies. Your nails are chipped and bloody, and when you wash your hands, the water runs pink, swirling down the drain like a mockery of the effort you've poured out. You try to hide the signs, but you can't hide the exhaustion etched into every part of you. Even the air feels heavy, pressing down on your chest until every breath is a battle.

People notice, but their concern is superficial and short-lived. They say, "You're pushing yourself too hard," their words laced with a tepid sympathy. But their empathy is superficial. They don't understand the true depth of your exhaustion. They still expect the same performance, the same perfection, even as your body and mind crumble. Their smiles are masks, hiding the insatiable hunger for what you can give, for the show you've built your life around. You're foolishly loyal to their expectations, nodding and smiling, while all the while you know it's not fine. Pretending you're fine.

Your mind fractures under the strain. Thoughts splinter and loop, chaotic fragments you can't piece together. The world tilts, a dizzying whirl of colours and sounds that blur at the edges. You shake uncontrollably, gripping the edge of a countertop with knuckles white from force. Your heart pounds erratically, as if it wants to escape your ribcage. Panic surges, a wave that crashes over you, dragging you under. You gasp for air, clawing at your chest as if you can force the anxiety out. But it doesn't leave—it festers, a parasitic force feeding on your every weakness.

The pain is constant, a constant, nagging thrum. Your muscles ache, your joints burn, and your head pounds relentlessly, the pressure building like a storm. You feel as though your skin can barely contain you, as if you're moments away from tearing yourself apart. You catch yourself scratching at your arms absentmindedly, nails digging into flesh until you break the surface. The sting provides momentary respite, but it is fleeting. The blood that pools in the shallow crescent marks is a constant reminder of your lack of control.

You start to resent everyone around you—not just for their demands, but for their ignorance. They don't see the destruction inside you, don't care to look past the surface. They clap and cheer, oblivious to the rot spreading through you, the slow decay of your spirit. You know they will notice, you know what you'd have to lose before they'd finally see you. The thought is dark, a shadow curling around your mind, whispering temptations you're too afraid to name. But you push it away, because giving in would mean they've won. You will not let them win, even if it kills you.

By the time you realise how far you've fallen, it's too late to crawl back. The person you were—the child who dreamed of love and warmth—is a distant memory, a ghost haunting the halls of your mind. You don't know who you are anymore. You're not enough. You are a hollow shell, a performer with no audience, a masterpiece no one truly wants to admire. The storm inside you rages on, unrelenting, tearing through the ruins of what once made you whole. But you press on, driven by hope. But deep down, you know the truth: the eyes on you will never let you rest.

The storm inside intensifies, devouring every shred of hope you attempt to salvage. It is relentless, a gnawing ache that burrows into your chest and festers like an open wound. Those expectations are chains now, dragging you down with every step, their weight pulling you closer to the ground. You know that if you let go, you'll fall. But you don't dare consider it, not even for a second. Will they pull you back to your feet, or will they step over your broken body, whispering, "I knew they couldn't handle it"?

Your days blur together. You move through routines on autopilot, hands trembling as you perfect the same motions over and over again. The blood on the piano keys is darker now, nearly black, crusted into the grooves like dried ink. Your fingertips are numb, calloused and raw, but you play anyway. Each note is a scream, echoing in the room. You wonder if anyone hears your desperation, but no one says a word. When you finish, the silence is cold, more intense than the applause you used to fear.

The cracks in your mind grow wider, splitting into jagged chasms you can't navigate. Voices echo in those dark spaces, some familiar, others foreign, all of them cruel. They whisper your failures back to you, their words crawling under your skin like insects. You catch yourself whispering back, arguing with the ghosts that have taken residence in your head. It doesn't help. Their accusations grow louder, overlapping, turning into a cacophony of shame and guilt. You press your hands to your ears, nails biting into your scalp, but there's no silencing them. They're part of you now, ingrained like the scars you hide.

Sleep becomes a distant memory, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that aren't there. The darkness feels alive, suffocating, pressing against you until you can't breathe. You see shapes moving in the shadows, their forms indistinct but menacing. You know they're figments of your imagination, born from exhaustion and fear, but that doesn't make them any less terrifying. Your heart races, your chest tightens, and you are overwhelmed by panic. By the time the sun rises, you're too spent to face the day, but you force yourself out of bed anyway. There's no room for weakness, not in their eyes.

The physical toll worsens. Your body feels alien, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who has been battered and broken beyond recognition. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, your face drained of all emotion, your skin pallid and your hands shaking with fear. You barely recognise yourself. The bruises that once bloomed like flowers are now dark, sunken craters, permanent marks of your failure to keep up. The cuts on your arms sting as they reopen, your nails unconsciously scratching at them in moments of stress. You hide them, but they're always there, a constant reminder of your failure.

The world outside feels distant and unreachable. It's as though you're watching it through a pane of shattered glass. People pass you by, their faces blurred, their voices muffled. You are unable to connect with them, and you do not care about their shallow conversations and trivial concerns. The isolation is a double-edged sword: you crave connection, yet the thought of anyone truly seeing you fills you with dread. What would they think if they knew the truth? If they saw the cracks, the blood, the ruin beneath the surface? You shudder at the thought, clutching your secrets closer, even as they poison you from within.

The whispers in your mind grow more potent with every passing day. They don't just accuse you of failure anymore – they urge you toward something worse. Give up, they say. End it. You are already broken. Why persist? Their voices are persuasive, almost soothing in their promise of release. You push them away, reminding yourself of the reasons you've held on this long. Those reasons feel so small now, so fragile. The weight of the whispers presses against your chest and for the first time, you consider listening to them.

One night, the storm inside you mirrors the one outside. The thunder shakes the walls, lightning streaking through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating your hollow reflection in the glass. You sit by the window, knees pulled to your chest, nails digging into your arms as the voices scream louder than the storm. You want to reach out, to scream for help, but your voice feels trapped in your throat. You try to text someone—anyone—but your fingers tremble too much to type. The words you want to say are too heavy, too sharp, cutting you from the inside out. The phone falls from your hand with a dull thud.

The storm continues, unrelenting, as you sit there, paralyzed by the weight of it all. The lightning flashes, illuminating the tears streaming down your face. Their warmth is a cruel contrast to the cold consuming you. Your mind spirals, the voices weaving a tapestry of despair that feels inescapable. You close your eyes, but the darkness offers no solace; only more shadows. Yet, a tiny part of you clings to hope, faint and flickering like a dying candle. This tiny flame of hope is all that keeps you breathing, keeps you connected to this world even as the storm rages on.

The storm inside you swells, consuming everything in its path. It is heavy, oppressive, and curls through your veins like smoke, dark and suffocating. It presses against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a serpent, squeezing until your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps. Your heart races, a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out every other sound. The world blurs at the edges, the lines between reality and the chaos in your head growing indistinct. You feel as though you are crumbling from the inside out, the fragile framework of your mind buckling under a weight it was never meant to bear.

Time loses meaning in this state. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into an eternity of unrelenting torment. The voices in your mind grow sharper, their words cutting you to the bone. You are not enough. You will never be enough. Why are you even trying? Every phrase is a dagger, a deepening wound that you thought was healed. You want to fight back, to scream at the ghosts haunting your thoughts, but the words catch in your throat, choking you. It's as if your very being is unravelling, thread by thread, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

The emptiness is the worst part. It's a hollow ache that echoes through every part of you, a void that no amount of effort or achievement can fill. You feel like a brittle, fragile shell, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable, each step forward requiring every ounce of strength you have left. You feel the weight of your body, the pull of gravity dragging you down, and for a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to just let it take you. To stop resisting. To let go. But you cannot hold onto this thought for long.

The constant fear vibrates beneath your skin, never letting you forget its presence. It's not just fear of failure or disappointment; it's fear of yourself, of the spiralling darkness that threatens to consume you. The storm outside mirrors the one within, the thunder rumbling like a beast in the distance, the flashes of lightning stark and violent. You feel the universe is mocking you, its chaos reflecting your own in a cruel, unrelenting dance. Each clap of thunder strikes your fragile armour, each bolt of lightning exposing your vulnerability.

Your hands shake as you try to steady yourself, clutching at your clothes, the chair, anything you can grab hold of. The texture beneath your fingers feels unreal, disconnected, as though your senses are betraying you. The air in the room is thick with the static charge of the storm, and you feel it prickling against your skin like needles. Your breaths come faster and faster, shallow and panicked, as though the world is spinning around you in dizzying circles. You close your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids is alive, shifting and writhing, offering no solace.

You feel isolated, alone, and your mind is consumed by a relentless sense of despair. You are alone, unreachable, as though you're screaming into a void that swallows every sound. You long for someone to pull you from this abyss, to anchor you, to tell you that you'll be okay. Yet the very idea of reaching out feels impossible. What would you say? How can you even begin to explain the chaos in your mind, the storm raging inside you? Words feel inadequate, clumsy, incapable of capturing the depth of your despair. You stay silent, drowning in your own thoughts.

The physical pain merges seamlessly with the emotional, becoming indistinguishable. Your body aches in ways that feel unnatural, every muscle tight and trembling, every joint stiff and unyielding. Your skin feels too tight, too fragile, as though it could split open at any moment. The scars you hide burn with a phantom heat, their presence a constant reminder of battles you thought you'd won. They are proof that you are fighting a war you can't win. The thought feels heavy in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark.

There is clarity in the midst of this chaos; the pain is sharp and almost tangible. The world narrows to a single point: your suffering. Every sound, every sensation, every thought is amplified, reverberating through you like the toll of a bell. The storm outside rages on, its fury a cruel echo of your own, and you feel as though it's trying to drown you. Each crack of thunder, each flash of lightning, is a judgment, a condemnation of your inability to keep it together.

Yet, even in the depths of this despair, a part of you refuses to let go completely. It's small, faint, barely more than a whisper, but it's there. It reminds you of the moments when the storm quieted, when the weight lifted, if only for a little while. It reminds you that you've survived this before and that you can survive it again. It's not a promise, but it's enough to keep you holding on. For now, at least. In the midst of chaos, that thread of hope is a lifeline; fragile but unbreakable.

The thread of hope you cling to is thin. It will snap under the weight of your despair. It quivers with the same unsteady rhythm as your breaths, a fragile tether keeping you from slipping completely into the void. The storm rages on, louder and more ferocious, its booming thunder reverberating through your bones. Each strike is a reminder that the world outside is chaotic and unforgiving. You are at war with yourself, torn between the storm and the calm.

Your skin is electric, hypersensitive to every tiny sensation. The hum of the air conditioner sounds like a roar; the texture of your clothes scratches against your skin, rough and unbearable. You press your hands against your ears, but it's useless. The noise is inside you: a relentless cacophony of thunder and whispers, and the grinding weight of your own thoughts. You press harder, fingernails digging into your scalp, desperate to silence it all. The sharp sting is momentarily grounding, but it's fleeting. The storm inside continues. It never stops.

The room warps around you, its edges bending and twisting in ways that make your stomach churn. The walls feel close, suffocating, and yet impossibly distant. You reach out to steady yourself, but your hands tremble too much to find purchase. The floor ripples beneath you, like water disturbed by the storm. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the illusion, but the disorientation only worsens. You are trapped in a dream where nothing makes sense, but the pain is too sharp, too real, to be anything but reality.

Your heart races. It pounds against your ribs. It's trying to break free. The rhythm is frantic and erratic, each beat hammering into your chest with brutal force. Your throat tightens and your breath catches as panic takes hold. You try to breathe deeply, to calm yourself, but you can't. It feels like the storm has stolen even that from you. The more you fight it, the worse it gets. You gasp for air, tears streaming down your face as you claw at your throat in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Time stretches, each second dragging on for what feels like an eternity. Outside, the storm rages without pause, its thunder rolling incessantly, its lightning cutting through the darkness with blinding precision. Each flash illuminates the room in harsh, stark light, casting jagged shadows that seem to reach for you. You feel a primal fear in your chest, an all-consuming urge to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. You want to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. The storm is everywhere, inside and out, a force you can't outrun or hide from. You curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight, as though you can shield yourself from the onslaught.

Your mind spirals deeper, the whispers in your head growing louder, their accusations sharper. This is your fault, they hiss. You're weak. You will never be free of this. The words sting like acid, eating away at your strength. You try to push them away, to drown them out with your own voice, but your throat is raw, your words faltering and broken. The whispers laugh cruelly, mocking your desperation. They know your weaknesses, every flaw and failure, and they weaponise them with ruthless precision.

The lightning outside is intense. It feels like it's tearing through you, its brightness exposing every raw, vulnerable part of you. Each flash is a spotlight, a searing judgment that leaves you trembling and exposed. You cannot hide from it, nor escape the way it lays you bare. The thunder rumbles, shaking the foundations of the house, and you feel like it could collapse under its force. You almost wish it would. Then the storm would finally end. You'll find peace, buried in the rubble, but it won't be long.

But closing your eyes only amplifies the chaos inside you. The darkness behind your lids is alive, a swirling mass of shadows and shapes you can't decipher. You feel like you're falling, spiralling deeper into a void that has no bottom. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can anchor yourself, but there's nothing solid to hold onto. You feel weightless yet heavy, suspended in the storm's relentless grip.

And then, in the midst of the chaos, there's a flicker—a faint, wavering pulse of light. It is not the storm's lightning, but something quieter, gentler. It's almost imperceptible, a whisper against the roar, but you feel it. It's small and fragile, easily drowned out by the thunder, but it's there. You can't say for sure if it's real or just an illusion, but you hold on to it. It's the only thing that feels even remotely like hope, and in this moment, hope is all you have.

The tipping point comes quietly, sneaking up on you like a shadow at your back. It's not a single moment, but a series of cracks, each one deeper than the last, until you finally shatter. You wake up one morning unable to move, your body leaden, every joint screaming as though it's been filled with shards of glass. Your chest feels hollow and impossibly heavy, as though something vital has been scooped out and replaced with a stone. You try to rise, but the room tilts violently, the world spinning in chaotic circles that send bile rushing up your throat. You collapse back onto the bed, trembling. Your breaths are shallow and uneven. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can claw your way out of this suffocating panic. There is no escape: only the steady, crushing weight that presses down on you, dragging you deeper into yourself.

The days blur together after that, indistinct and shapeless, each one bleeding into the next. You can barely eat; food tastes like ash in your mouth, and your stomach twists violently at the thought of it. Sleep eludes you; your nights are spent staring at the ceiling as shadows twist and writhe, whispering to you in voices you can't block out. The darkness behind your eyes feels alive, pulsing with the rhythm of your frenzied heartbeat. Your skin feels wrong – too tight, too thin – every nerve ending exposed and raw. Even the slightest touch feels like fire, like needles piercing your skin, and you flinch away from anyone who comes too close. The storm inside you has grown into a hurricane, a relentless force that tears through every part of you, leaving only destruction in its wake.

The self-destruction is ritualistic, an instinctive response to the chaos. You catch yourself scratching at your arms until the skin breaks, until crimson blossoms under your nails, stark against your pale, trembling flesh. The sight of it is horrifying, yet strangely soothing, as though the pain grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the void. But it never lasts. The relief is fleeting, replaced almost instantly by shame, by the weight of what you've done. You hide the marks beneath long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat, the fabric sticking to your skin and rubbing against the wounds. It's a small price to pay for keeping your secret and maintaining the fragile facade that everything is fine. But you know the truth: you're falling apart, and there's no way to stop it.

The hospital visits begin after you faint for the first time, your body giving in to the relentless strain. You wake up on the floor, the cold tile pressed against your cheek, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Your lip is split, a deep red line that throbs with each beat of your heart. Someone finds you there, their voice distant and muffled, as though you're hearing it through water. You don't remember much after that—flashes of fluorescent lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the beeping of machines. When you finally come to, you're in a hospital bed, the harsh whiteness of the room making your head throb. Your arms are bandaged and your body aches in ways you don't understand. A nurse explains what happened, her voice gentle but laced with concern, and you feel the weight of her words settle over you like a shroud.

The doctors ask questions you can't answer. Their words blur together into a monotonous drone. They demand details on how long you've been suffering, the onset of symptoms, and the triggering factors. You try to explain, but the words stick in your throat, choking you. How can you put into words the chaos in your mind, the storm that never ceases? They run tests, their hands cold and clinical as they poke and prod, their faces carefully neutral. But you can see the pity in their eyes, the way they look at you like you're broken. It makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat as you clench your fists beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. You want to scream, to tell them you're fine, but you know they wouldn't believe you. You don't even believe it yourself.

The therapy sessions are the hardest, each one peeling back layers you've spent years trying to bury. The therapist's questions cut deeper than any blade, their words prying into the darkest corners of your mind. You hate it. You hate how they make you feel exposed and vulnerable. You hate the way they strip away every defence you've built. You lash out, your voice rising in anger and frustration, but it only makes you feel worse. The therapist's calm demeanor is infuriating and disarming. They tell you it's okay to feel this way, that healing takes time, but the words feel hollow, meaningless. Time is a luxury you don't think you have, not with the storm raging as fiercely as ever.

The medication they give you may dull the edges of your pain, but it does not make it go away. You will feel numb and detached, as though watching your life from a distance. The storm is still there, quieter now but still very much still threatening, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. You are in a liminal space between pain and nothingness. It's not the relief you hoped for, but it's better than the suffocating weight that threatened to crush you. But you know you've lost something in the process. The medication has stolen a part of you you'll never get back.

The hospital becomes a second home, its sterile walls and fluorescent lights constantly reminding you of your fragility. You hate it there; you hate how time seems to stand still, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of monotony. The other patients are quiet, their faces pale and haunted, their eyes reflecting the same emptiness you feel. You deliberately avoid meeting their gazes, because you are afraid of what you might see in them, and what they might see in you. The nurses are kind but distant, their smiles professional and practised. You can tell they care, but their concern feels impersonal, like they're trying to keep you at arm's length. This only deepens your sense of isolation.

The days outside the hospital are devoid of purpose. Your life is reduced to a series of appointments and routines designed to keep you afloat. You go through the motions, your body on autopilot while your mind remains distant, detached. The scars on your arms fade, but new ones emerge, invisible to the naked eye but no less painful. You wear long sleeves out of habit now, the fabric a barrier between you and the world. People ask how you're doing, their voices cautious and hesitant, and you force a smile, tell them you're fine. The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's easier than the truth.

Even now, as you sit in the quiet of your room, the storm lingers, a distant rumble that never fully fades. You know it's only a matter of time before it returns, stronger and more destructive than before. But for now, you cling to the fragile peace you've found. You trace the faint scars on your arms, reminders of where you've been, of how far you've come. The journey is far from over, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to hope. It's small and fragile, but it'll keep you going.

When you first met Ronin, you immediately felt an unshakeable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him in some distant corner of your life. He strode into the room with an unmistakable confidence, his eyes scanning the space with a sharpness that made you feel seen in a way no one else had. His smile was wry, lips tugging upward in a way that was both cocky and knowing, as though he understood the unspoken depths of the world, the secrets buried in the shadows. You felt an instant connection, as though his presence anchored you. There was a quiet strength in him, a ruggedness that spoke to scars you couldn't see. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel alone. The pain that had been strangling you eased in his presence, his brokenness mirroring your own in a way that wasn't about winning or losing, but understanding.

As time passed, you noticed the cracks in his armour. His humour was sharp, biting, and there was an edge to his words, a layer of bitterness that he'd wrapped around himself like a protective shield. You realised quickly that Ronin had been through things – things that had torn into him, carved out pieces of his soul. He kept these hidden beneath layers of deflection. He was not like the others who wore their pain like a mask, unable or unwilling to show anything more. There was something about the way he carried it, as though he had learned to live with it, to make it a part of him instead of allowing it to consume him. This instilled a sense of safety. He wasn't perfect. He was deeply flawed, just like you, and that was comforting.

But as you spent more time with him, something else started to creep in: a gnawing feeling that began to fester in your chest. It was subtle at first, an undercurrent that tugged at the back of your mind. It wasn't his fault. You felt small in his presence, as if the things you had once prided yourself on—the talents you had worked so hard to cultivate—were starting to wither. Your mind wandered to the past, to the years spent building something, only to watch it slip away as Ronin's effortless charisma and confidence seemed to eclipse your efforts. He didn't even need to try, and yet he was good at everything: making people laugh, being the life of the room, or picking up skills with the ease of someone who had been born with them. Despite your own efforts, you felt like you were always running to catch up.

The feeling gnawed at you, hollowing out the space inside you where your pride used to live. It felt like your efforts had been in vain, as though everything you had worked for was being overshadowed by his natural ease and ability to succeed without struggle. You tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away. Every time he succeeded, every time someone praised him, it was a reminder of how much you were lacking, how far behind you seemed in comparison. The stark contrast between your hard-earned skills and his innate abilities made you question everything. Was all your time spent honing your talent just an illusion? Did it mean nothing in the end?

The self-doubt began to seep into everything, making your accomplishments feel meaningless. It wasn't just his success that triggered this—no, it was the ease with which he embraced his own flaws, the way he wore them like battle scars rather than something to be ashamed of. You, on the other hand, were still trying to patch up the gaping wounds inside you, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. You couldn't help but feel that, despite all the work you had done, you would never measure up to someone like him. The pressure to be something, to live up to expectations you had set for yourself, felt suffocating, like an iron vise tightening around your chest. The more you tried to escape it, the worse it got, until it felt like you were choking on the weight of it all.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls pressing in as that familiar suffocating panic rose again. You caught yourself staring at Ronin in moments of silence, watching him move through life effortlessly, never stumbling, always confident, always so much more than you. The comparison became unbearable, your chest heavy with the weight of your inadequacy. You had to push those thoughts aside and tell yourself that you were enough. But it was hard to believe when the person you loved seemed so effortlessly perfect in ways you could never be. The jarring dissonance between your self-image and reality was like a song out of tune, every note grating against your soul.

The ache in your chest deepened and you retreated into yourself, withdrawing into the darkness that had once felt like home. Ronin noticed, of course – he always did – but his responses were different. His words were sharp again, tinged with the same cocky bravado that had first drawn you to him, but there was something underneath them, a vulnerability that he wasn't ready to show. He didn't ask what was wrong, not directly, but he would brush against you when you least expected it, a gentle reminder that he was still there. It made you feel torn, torn between wanting to pull away and needing to stay close. You didn't want to admit that you were slipping into the same dark hole that had threatened to swallow you before, but you could feel it – a familiar, suffocating sensation, creeping at the edges of your mind, just waiting to pull you under.

There were nights when the darkness felt unbearable, when the weight of it threatened to consume you entirely. Ronin was always there, sitting by your side, making sassy remarks that revealed an unspoken understanding. But even his presence, which once felt like a balm, started to feel distant, like something that was too far out of reach for you to hold onto. You wanted to push him away, to shut down, but the silence between you both grew louder. Every word, every gesture, reminded you of the gap between who you were and who you wished you could be. The talent you had once cultivated with such devotion felt irrelevant, like it didn't matter anymore. Ronin had a way of making everything feel effortless, and it made you wonder if your hard work and struggle had been pointless.

Ronin was a constant presence, and while his presence seemed to magnify your insecurities, he also offered something else: a quiet kind of solace. His cocky smile, his sassy remarks, his way of being both broken and whole at once, reminded you that you weren't alone in your mess. You had never realised you needed this: not perfection, not skill, but someone who could see the pieces of you that were still broken and love you anyway. It may not have erased the storm within, but it certainly made it more manageable. Perhaps that was all you needed: someone who understood what it felt like to fall apart and could help you put the pieces back together, one by one.

As the days blurred into one another, the discomfort of your self-doubt lingered, like a lingering bruise: tender to the touch yet always there, always raw. Ronin was a constant presence, never forcing you to confront the swirling chaos inside your mind, but offering quiet support in his own sassy, cocky way. His laughter was a challenge, daring the world to oppose him, daring you to find joy in the midst of your darkness. But each time he flashed that grin, that unrelenting confidence, it was a sharp reminder of your own fragility. You appreciated him, no doubt about it, but the more he thrived in his untouchable confidence, the more you felt like you were crumbling beneath the weight of your own expectations.

You could see him moving through the world, unfazed, unaffected by the storms you fought within yourself. This was in stark contrast to your own ongoing battle, which felt never-ending. No matter how hard you tried to claw your way out, you simply couldn't break free. Your hard-earned triumphs felt small in the light of his effortless ability to navigate life. You couldn't help but wonder: had you missed something? Was there something more you could've done, something you could've been? As Ronin's life burst into vivid colours, yours became just another shadow in his radiance. Every moment of achievement that should have filled you with pride felt like an echo of something lost. You had cultivated talent, but it was slipping through your fingers and dissolving in the void that had taken hold of your heart.

Even when you were alone, you could feel his presence—like an electric pulse beneath your skin, reminding you of the unspoken distance between you two. You tried to silence the voices in your head, the ones that said you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough. They echoed louder when he was around, when his laughter vibrated in the air and his confidence bled into every space he entered. You hated it. You hated that he made you feel like you were drowning in the sea of your own insecurities, every wave of his presence pulling you under further. You couldn't keep up with him. His ease and effortless charm left you feeling like you were gasping for air in a world that was constantly moving faster than you could manage.

You felt isolated and lonely, as if you were drowning in your own insecurities. You withdrew, retreating into your own world, afraid of what might happen if you showed him just how much you were hurting. You wanted to tell him, to scream at him that everything felt like it was falling apart, that you felt like you were losing the very essence of yourself. But you never found the right words. They lingered in your throat, held back by the fear that if you let them slip, if you revealed just how broken you felt, he would leave, just like everyone else. It wasn't his fault, but every day you spent with him felt like a silent contest, a competition you could never win, no matter how hard you tried.

There were days when the storm inside you would quiet, just long enough for you to catch your breath. You laughed with him, got lost in the banter, and for a brief moment, you felt whole. But then, without warning, the doubt would creep back in, twisting its fingers around your heart, tightening until you couldn't breathe. It was in the way he talked about the future, how he spoke of his dreams and ambitions with such certainty. It was in the way he would glide through the world, effortlessly charming and full of life. And you would wonder—where did that leave you? You, the person who had spent so much time moulding and shaping yourself, only to watch it all fade into the background of his brilliance. It felt like you were constantly scrambling to catch up, but you were always two steps behind, chasing something that was just out of reach.

Ronin could sense the distance between you. His sharp eyes noticed the way you pulled away and the way your smiles faltered. He would always call you out on it, teasing you with that cocky smirk, trying to coax the real you out of hiding. "What's wrong?" he'd say, voice dripping with a challenge. "Afraid I'm gonna outshine you?" His words were always followed by that glint in his eyes, the kind that dared you to answer, dared you to admit that you felt small in the shadow of his light. You never answered him. How could you? How could you say that you were afraid of losing yourself in the midst of his brilliance? The fear settled deeper in your chest, a weight that seemed impossible to shake.

There were nights when the battle inside you raged hardest, when you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a cacophony of self-loathing and doubt. Ronin would call you, his voice warm and comforting, and for a moment, you'd feel the sharpness of your isolation fade. But even then, you knew he was out of reach. You knew the gap between you two was widening. His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of something more. You couldn't quite grasp what it was, but it made you feel like you were standing in his shadow, forever. You didn't want to admit it to him, or anyone else, but you were terrified of losing him. It wasn't because of what he might do, but because you didn't know how to be yourself in the space he occupied.

The longer you stayed in this space, the more fractured you felt. It wasn't just the obvious difference in your talents and lives; it was everything, every little piece of yourself that you'd spent so long trying to put together. In his presence, they fell apart, crumbling like sand beneath your fingers. You had to stop pretending you were whole and fine. Ronin embodied everything you weren't, and it terrified you. You loved him, but it felt like you were drowning in the space between you, caught in the wake of someone who had everything you lacked. Every time you tried to reach out, to bridge the gap, it only made the distance feel that much greater.

Ronin remained. He would never stop being himself, never stop teasing you, never stop pushing you to confront the parts of yourself you didn't want to face. In a twisted way, he was helping you. But deep down, you knew this wasn't the help you needed. You wanted to be enough for him, to stand beside him without feeling like you were less. But the more you tried, the more you realised that the gap wasn't between you and him – it was between who you thought you should be and who you truly were. You weren't sure how to fix it.

Ronin was initially perplexed. He had always been confident and charismatic, never breaking under pressure. He was certain you'd overcome your struggles and find a way to handle the inner chaos. But then he noticed the cracks appearing: flinches to the smallest comments, smiles that no longer reached your eyes. It was as if you were disappearing right in front of him, your laughter hollow and your movements stiff and distant. For the first time, Ronin felt frustrated, not with you, but with the world and the circumstances that had brought you to this point. He didn't know how to fix it, didn't know how to reach you when you had built walls so high that even he couldn't climb them.

The tension between you both became suffocating. Ronin could see it, but every time he tried to approach you, to offer a hand, the distance between you seemed to grow. You didn't outright reject him, but you stopped letting him in. He sensed a coldness in your touch, a look of apology in your eyes, a sign that you were no longer the person he had fallen for. His resentment grew, not toward you, but toward the reality that you weren't the person you used to be, that the vibrant spirit he had fallen for was slipping away. He hated seeing you struggle, but he didn't know how to help. He had never been used to feeling helpless, and yet here he was, watching the person he loved unravel.

One night, it all boiled over. You were sitting together, the silence between you so thick it was suffocating. Ronin had always been the one to fill the silence with his cocky comments and playful teasing, but tonight he just watched you. His eyes were different; softer, as if he could see right through the facade you had put up. You stared at the floor, refused to look up, and it was like a mirror of his own struggle. Then he realised that your silence wasn't about him, it was about you—it was about the battle you fought inside every day, the war that had taken its toll on your soul. It broke something inside him, a crack that spread, deep and jagged.

Without warning, Ronin moved closer, his body warmth radiating against yours. You could feel his presence, the way he hovered near you, almost hesitant, as if unsure how to breach the wall you had built between you. His hand reached for yours, and for a moment, you tensed, the coldness of the world rushing back in. But then, something in his grip steadied you. It wasn't firm or commanding, but there was a tenderness in his grip that caught you off guard. Ronin didn't say anything at first—he didn't have to. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and vulnerable, the cocky bravado replaced with something deeper, something real. The silence hung thick and heavy, and then Ronin's voice broke through, thick with emotion.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said. His words felt like a slap in the face, not because they were harsh, but because they revealed a truth you had been denying for so long. You had convinced yourself that you were stronger alone, that relying on someone else would only lead to disappointment. But Ronin didn't see you as weak. He saw you as a person, as someone worth fighting for, someone who didn't have to hide their pain to be loved. His words hit you like a wave, crashing over your defences, and for the first time in a long while, you felt something shift. His eyes never left yours, not even when you tried to look away, not even when your breath hitched in your throat.

"I'm not going anywhere," he declared, his voice soft but firm. "You can push me away if you want, but I'm staying." His tone was direct and unyielding, devoid of any teasing or smugness. It was as if he had finally seen the real you, the broken parts of you that you tried so hard to hide, and he didn't turn away. His fingers gently brushed against your skin, the touch so light, yet he was reaching inside of you, pulling out the pieces you thought you had buried too deep to ever see the light again. The vulnerability in him was a mirror of your own, and it terrified you, but it also gave you something you hadn't realised you were missing – a reason to stay, a reason to fight.

Ronin wasn't perfect. He wasn't the answer to everything. But in that moment, he was exactly what you needed. His cocky smirk had become a quieter, more genuine expression. His eyes, usually full of fire and challenge, now held only concern and a deep-seated desire to see you heal. He wasn't trying to fix you or save you. He was offering you something far more valuable: his presence, his belief in you. You didn't know how to accept it, but you felt the warmth of his hand against yours, the solidness of his touch anchoring you, grounding you in the moment.

Your insecurities didn't just disappear, but they were acknowledged. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. He didn't have all the answers, but he was there. He listened. He comforted. He reminded you that it was okay to be broken, to be flawed. His touch was a constant in a chaotic and uncertain world. He didn't try to fix you, but his presence alone was enough to start the slow, painful process of mending what had been shattered.

It wasn't easy. There were moments when the fear returned, when you felt like you were slipping again, when the urge to hide behind your walls was stronger than ever. But Ronin was always there – quiet, patient, his arms a refuge from the storm inside you. You never had to ask for it. His presence was a silent promise, his actions louder than any words. His cocky remarks were still there, but they had softened, edged with something kinder, something less about proving a point and more about showing you that it was okay to let go of the need to be perfect. He didn't need you to be anything but yourself, broken and whole all at once.

As time passed, the walls between you began to crumble, little by little. You began to believe that you didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Ronin had shown you that there is strength in vulnerability, that there is power in letting someone in, even when it feels terrifying. Though the scars were still there and the pain lingered, you felt something shift inside you. Ronin's quiet dedication to being there for you—without judgment, without trying to change you—made you start to believe that you might one day feel whole again. Maybe not perfect, but enough. And for now, that was all you needed.

The more Ronin stayed, the more you couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that everything you had worked for, everything you had fought to perfect, was slipping away. You couldn't silence it. It was relentless. It echoed in your mind with each passing day, a constant reminder that you weren't the person you once were. The burning need to be the best, to always have something to show, something to prove, had morphed into a weight, a pressure that threatened to crush you. The moment Ronin's easy laughter or his wild ambition brushed against your ear, the feeling in your chest grew heavier. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of it all pressed down harder, louder, like a hand on your throat, squeezing just enough to make every breath shallow and painful.

You had tried to escape the suffocating reality of your diminishing sense of self through distractions, through Ronin's presence, through fleeting moments of joy. But every time you let yourself feel just a little lighter, the darkness returned. It came in waves, relentless in its assault on your mind, feeding off your insecurity, your fear that you were no longer enough. You couldn't remember the last time you felt proud of what you had achieved. What you once deemed talent now felt like a hollow echo, a shell of its former self. Every skill, every accomplishment you had poured yourself into felt distant, like a faded photograph you could barely recognize. The more you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped from your reach.

Ronin noticed the change in you, though he never said anything directly. He didn't need to. He saw how you zoned out during conversations and how your shoulders sagged in defeat when you thought no one was watching. The way you spoke of your past achievements now sounded like a confession, like you were ashamed of them, as if you had no right to feel proud. It was clear to Ronin that this was bothering him. He wasn't subtle, not usually, but he didn't have to be. His eyes darkened with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line whenever you started to spiral, whenever the despair threatened to spill over. His concern was evident, but there was also a clear frustration at not knowing how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.

One night, as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window at the relentless rain, you felt that crushing sense of inadequacy settle in again, and this time, it felt like you were suffocating. Ronin had gone quiet after a playful remark had been met with your empty response. You had withdrawn so far into yourself that even his sharp words didn't have the usual effect. He noticed the shift, saw the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes seemed to turn inward, like you were battling something he couldn't see. The silence between you stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Talk to me," he said, not with his usual swagger, but with genuine concern. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

You hesitated. You wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it all out, but you couldn't. The words were lost somewhere in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, unwilling to speak. You didn't want to admit it, not even to him. The emptiness inside you was too much to ignore. It had been building for so long, too long, and now it felt like you were hollowing out from the inside. "I don't know how to keep up anymore," you muttered, barely above a whisper. "It's like everything I've worked for is slipping away, and I can't stop it."

Ronin's expression softened, his usual bravado faltering as he moved closer. His fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to ground you in the moment. "You don't have to be the best all the time," he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. "You're enough as you are. But you can't keep hiding from it. You don't have to run from it." His words were like a balm for your wounds, yet even as he spoke, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was wrong. You weren't enough. Not for him. Not for anyone.

As the words hung in the air, the weight of the past few months and your own disillusionment pressed down on you like a boulder. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt proud of what you had done. Your achievements felt like hollow ghosts, like fragments of a self you didn't even recognise anymore. Moments of success felt like distant memories, blurred by self-doubt. In Ronin's presence, the emptiness became deafeningly obvious, the silence in your chest a constant reminder that you couldn't keep up, that time was running out. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the frustration and helplessness there – the same helplessness you had been feeling.

You had kept your composure for so long, convinced yourself that the work you had done was enough, that the talent you had once honed so fiercely was still there. But the truth was that it wasn't. It was fading. You couldn't figure out how to stop it. Ronin's constant presence and unwavering belief in his own talents only made it harder. You couldn't compete with that, couldn't even keep up with your own life. In that moment, as his fingers grazed your skin, trying to comfort you in a way that felt too soft for your jagged reality, you felt yourself crack. The walls you had built around your brokenness crumbled, and a flood of despair and guilt surged through you: all the fears you had kept hidden for far too long.

"I'm not enough," you declared, the words tumbling out before you could halt them. "I can't do this anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn't stop the silent sobs shaking your body. Ronin's hands were on you then, not in the way he had been before—playful, teasing—but gentle, holding you as if he knew that you were breaking, that you were slipping further away from yourself with every passing second. You felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the chill that had taken root in your soul.

His lips pressed softly against your forehead. The gesture was so tender it made your chest ache. "You are enough," he whispered, and this time, his voice was different. It wasn't just an empty promise – it was an anchor, trying to pull you from the depths of your own despair. But even as his words rang in your ears, you couldn't quiet the voice inside that told you he was wrong, that you were never going to be enough. You wanted to believe him, but the pressure of losing yourself was too much to bear.

Ronin spoke, but you could barely hear him over the storm of emotions raging within you. You couldn't hear him. Not clearly. Not with the storm inside you so loud, so chaotic, drowning out everything else. The noise in your head, the constant screams of failure and inadequacy, overpowered anything he said. His attempts to pull you back, to remind you that you were more than this, more than the emptiness inside you, only pushed you further away. His voice became a distant echo, a reminder of something you had long since stopped believing. The more he tried, the more it felt like he was speaking to a stranger, like he couldn't reach the parts of you that were still intact.

You retreated into silence, creating a cocoon where the world outside didn't matter. The numbness became your refuge, your escape from the never-ending turmoil. You stopped engaging, stopped pretending, stopped trying to meet the expectations that had once driven you. Everything felt heavier, like the weight of the world pressing down on you, but you couldn't care. You felt the blood drain from your body, leaving you cold and hollow. The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last, as you drifted further into the void of your own mind.

You didn't want to see anyone. You couldn't face the world with the pieces of yourself you had discarded. The talent you clung to, the identity you built around it, was nothing more than a cruel joke. It was all a lie, a hollow construct you had worn like armour, hoping it would protect you from the inevitability of failure. But now that the armor was gone, all that was left was the raw, unprotected skin of who you were. It was as if the very essence of you had been peeled away, leaving only the jagged scars of past attempts to hide the truth. You couldn't bear to look at those scars or face the pain they represented.

You pushed Ronin away, not with words, but with the coldness of your silence. It was easier to turn inward, to shut yourself off from everything and everyone. His presence was a constant reminder of what you had lost, a painful reminder that you had failed to live up to the expectations that had once been your everything. You couldn't stand looking at him without feeling like you were drowning, like you were suffocating under the weight of your own inability to be what you thought you should be. His love and attempts to pull you back only deepened the sense of guilt, as if you were betraying him by being broken. The more he tried to hold you and comfort you, the more you wanted to pull away and disappear.

The darkness within you took on a physical form, consuming you from the inside out. The once comforting embrace of isolation became your prison, your cage. You felt trapped in your own skin, consumed by failure. Your limbs felt heavy, as if the blood in your veins was turning to stone, weighing you down and making every movement a chore. The world outside felt like it was moving at a pace you couldn't keep up with, and you didn't want to. It was easier to disappear into the shadows, to fade away into nothingness, than to confront the wreckage of who you used to be.

You couldn't stand to look in the mirror. Every time you looked, the reflection was a stranger, someone who had no place in this world, no reason to exist. You couldn't recognise yourself, couldn't see the person who had once fought so fiercely to be noticed, to be valued. All that was left was a shell, a broken vessel, empty and hollow. The eyes staring back at you were cold and lifeless, having seen too much, felt too much, and having nothing left to give. The rawness of your pain was reflected in the shattered glass, in the emptiness that you had become.

The numbness grew, becoming a suffocating fog that clung to you, making it harder to breathe, harder to feel. It was easier to sink into it, to let it consume you, than to fight against it. The idea of facing the world, of having to explain what was happening inside your head, felt impossible. You didn't have the words. You didn't have the strength. Every conversation felt like an assault on your fragile psyche, every interaction a reminder that you were failing at the most basic human connections. It was easier to retreat into silence, to close off every part of yourself that could be touched by someone else.

Your body felt alien. The sensations that used to ground you, the warmth of someone's hand, the softness of a hug, now felt like too much. Your skin burned with the discomfort of being alive, the rawness of the emotions you couldn't escape. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, not a sign of life, but a countdown, a reminder that you were reaching the end, running out of time. You were desperate to escape it all. You didn't want to feel anymore. You didn't want to be alive in a world that was too big, too bright, too loud for you to survive.

Ronin's presence, once a balm to your wounds, now felt suffocating. His attempts to reach you and pull you back from the abyss only deepened the sense of alienation. He was incapable of understanding. No one could. You had to have lived with this emptiness, this constant struggle to hold on to something that had never been real. You weren't even sure if you wanted to be saved anymore. You had accepted that you were beyond help and that the pieces of you that had once been whole were irreparably shattered. In the quiet moments, when everything else falls away, you can almost hear the final snap of the last thread that connects you to the world.

The remnants of your former self, the version of you who once held on to talent and ambition with white-knuckled desperation, began to fade into the background. Your former aspirations now dance like shadows, haunting you from the periphery, reminding you of something that was never truly yours. It was not just a loss of talent; it was a loss of identity, of the very foundation that had held you together for so long. In the silence that followed, as Ronin's presence faded into the distance, you felt nothing but the weight of your own emptiness. The world outside was loud, chaotic and unyielding, but in your mind, all that remained was silence.

The silence deepened, engulfing you completely. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy, oppressive stillness, a vacuum where sound, thought and feeling no longer dared to enter. You could feel the air thickening around you, pushing against your chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Ronin's presence, once a source of warmth and comfort, now felt like a shadow that lingered just out of reach, a reminder of a life you no longer had the strength to hold onto.

Then, the walls you had built around yourself tightened, closing in, locking you away from everything you had once known. You were no longer aware of the world outside, the frantic beating of your heart, the sounds of rain against the window. All of it fades, leaving you in silence. No words. No tears. No Ronin. There was nothing but the relentless gnawing of emptiness.

Deep down, you knew this was it, the final unravelling, the moment when you let go. The once fierce battle you fought, the desperate struggle to hold onto something, anything, had slipped away with the darkness that had consumed you. You realised you had given up. You had let the silence win.

Don't make any more attempts to reach out. You are not okay. You must not continue to struggle to find a reason to breathe, to feel, to exist. The weight was too much, the hollow spaces inside too deep. You simply let yourself fall. You let the quiet take you, like a tidal wave, drowning out the last of your thoughts, the last of your humanity.

And in that final, suffocating breath, you disappeared.