#IT SURE HURT AND BLED AND FADED WITH TIME

[galpalkirk]

state of grace is an early nickistat song

[glassrowboat]

Selfess. Kim Dokja.

Summary: The irony, to be a reader's reader. To view his story in between breaks at work, between sick days and vacations, as words flickered before you the same way they did for him on the subway. Digital words trying to break down every little aspect of a man you know hurts inside with a raw passion. Like scraped skin meeting air for the first time. It made you want to hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him, but Dokja always held you at arms length in some way, even if it was so subtle no one but you could sense it.

Author's Note: This has no spoilers for the manhwa readers but was written for those who have gone through the entire novel

Word Count: 3500+

Written for 'Help Me, Hold Me' a collab by @tomuras

Selfishness. A human trait. One bled into society to the point it has been ingrained in every sidewalk; every ruined shop with shelves toppled over from those searching desperately for food, only to find nothing; every hand held out waiting to be held; and every moment that passes by while you're selfish enough to dare to take another breath. Possibly robbing another of their own air to fill their lungs.

Should you stop and risk apologizing?

No, there was never the time to spare.

Too selfish to stop and give those few precious seconds to another person as they cry for aid or in pure, unbridled wrath as you kill the person next to them. Throat squeezed between your bare hands even after their pulse faded away. Only letting go because you were pushed off. Having, at the time, been shoved to the ground as a murderer just like you rose a pipe so high you couldn't imagine it doing anything other than crashing into your skull as it fell.

Whenever that memory comes up, it somehow always leaves a dull ache in your head, like you're remembering the times that metal became one with your bones and brain. Shattering on impact with a sickening thud that left you feeling sick before it all went black.

That would make sense, after all, wouldn’t it? That man having been the one to end it all for you time and time again, so you never end up making it past that first scenario. (Much like a certain someone.)

The first challenge that faced everyone in this dome.

The one that made everyone in it a murderer.

Self-serving.

Self-centered.

Self-regarding.

That's what you all were.

Even him, having dared to make a request of you.

Even as Dokja rested in your lap, black hair tickling your thighs that had you wondering if shorts really were a good idea for sleepwear even if it was the dead of summer and it's annoyingly high temps that left you sweating even when a sword wasn't grasped in hand. Calluses you never thought you'd have carding through the sleeping man's tresses. Absent-minded as you kept your blurred gaze on him.

It was decided the lot of you would hole up here for the night even with the cracks in the foundation that had you second-guessing the structural integrity, but you had been assured it's fine. Like an office worker had any right to assure you of that, but you still shut your mouth at that and nodded along.

“Sure, Ugly,” on your lips. A teasing smile meeting his grimace at the moniker Dokja never failed to show his hatred for.

Good for him. He can be pissy all he wants. If anything, it just makes you tempted to take your phone out and snatch a picture. That is, if it wasn't shattered to a thousand pieces by now and tossed into the waters below. Fish food now, much like Dokja was after Yoo Joonghyuk dropped him off the bridge.

He doesn't appreciate that joke either.

You had insisted on being the one to stay up, to keep watch even as he fought you the entire way as you and the kids wrangled him into laying down. Gilyoung had kicked your shin for pointing out Dokja's eye bags as he finally laid down. White coat folded up in a bundle, far from neatly at that, and tucked under his head in place of a pillow.

This time, you chose to hold your tongue from joking about his mother never teaching him how to do laundry.

So you sat and waited, brushing off the dirt from the assault the evil little creature (or as you liked to call the kid as you pinched his cheeks) left on you. Footprint easily blending in with all the other layers of dirt you have accrued over the past few days without a proper bath. Wet wipes only proved to be a decent substitution for so long. The sun slowly dipped behind concrete towers until being swallowed away by the waters to come back tomorrow, the moon rising in its stead.

Glowing brighter than you could ever recall it doing before this world turned to shit. The lack of street lamps probably helped. Even if the stars were out, almost so close you could reach out and touch them. Card your fingers through the Milky Way like it was a pot of glitter from an arts and crafts project.

“I know you're still awake.” You finally said after you were one hundred percent certain the kids were passed out. Blankets no longer stirred from trying to get comfortable on the hard floor, and Yoosung's mutterings flowed into her habit of talking into her sleep.

Oftentimes, she would cry for someone to come hold her; even in the dead of night.

“I'm sore from that fight earlier today. And it's taking longer to get used to the concrete than I thought it would.”

“Liar. You just need to make sure for yourself that we'll all be okay.”

You waved off the messages appearing beside you at his reply. Notifications came so often that you had learned to tune them out.

“I'll take over from here. You should get some rest yourself.”

It was surprising he didn't punctuate the sentence with your sponsor's title, or worse, your name. He had a habit of doing that at the worst of times, making himself all cozy by disregarding your last name entirely and simply calling you by ... .Well, by the word that makes you turn your head on instinct the second it's called out.

By now, it was far too fuzzy in your brain to remember that first time you truly met him to recall if you gave it to him or he simply knew it.

Were you, too, a character in his eyes?

The thought had struck you many times, what Dokja saw when he looked at you. Especially now as he turned over in his spot, head propped up on his hand to look at you. Scrutinizing. Like he was reading a blue box perched right under your profile that read out:

Your name.

Your age.

Supporting constellation: Arrow-shooting cherub.

And all that other drabble that came with it.

Or were you a selfish person that he chooses to see as an ally despite having no place in his heart before the world fell?

Honestly, you had no clue which was better. At least with the latter he wouldn't know the times you cried late at night in your room, of the times you blearily made it through the day only to let the worlds between pages be your comfort as soon as the front door locked behind you, of how you would see a character so broken, so damaged and-

“No.” You huffed.

Both to his words and your own mind's ramblings. If you could bury that away the same way the Ugly King was atop that hill as wails filled your ears, you would.

“You're human like the rest of us, whether you like it or not. Got that, bubba?”

Such a different way of calling him ahjussi. Definitely a lot less respectful, but something tells you he doesn't mind as much as some other stubborn men in this world would.

“Here I thought I was a Supernatural character. That's what you like to call me with the others, right?”

At least not enough to roll his eyes at, anyway.

“I think the name suits you well. You're just missing some plaid. We can get you a shirt…or a kilt?”

“Not happening.”

A huff of a laugh escaped him, somewhere between breath of air pushing out of his lungs and the chuckles you can get from him after telling a particularly bad pun.

You two stayed like that for a minute, Dokja laying down with his eyes on you. Somehow, even with the intrusive feeling of him staring through you rather than at you, it was comforting.

Dark eyes shone in the light of the fire keeping the four of you warm. Crackling firewood as it tumbled into a new shape, a new little tent of sticks a better background noise to listen to than the mutterings as they finally slowed down for the time being.

“They care about you.”

To the point Yoosung and Gilyoung were nearly attached to him at the hip. If someone had told you those two were stuck to him on those backpacks with leashes parents used before the fall, you wouldn't have even batted an eye. Maybe even believed it for a moment there.

“Which is why you need to get some rest. The first step in letting someone care about you is letting them force you to sleep, to eat, to sit back and let them…”

Hug you.

“Help you.”

‘Don't think about yourself here’ is a great reminder as to why you pressed your lips together in a thin, impossibly straight line. Refusing to say the words lurking in your mind.

“You mean to tell me I'm not supposed to do everything myself?”

The sarcasm in his voice made you want to snatch that makeshift pillow out from under him. So, of course, that's what you do. A call of your name filling the air as he tried to wrangle it back. Something about how it's too cool to end up ruined and how he went through a lot of effort to get that.

“Last I checked, you wanted it in black!”

He was still tugging it from your hands when you heard a murmured call of Dokja's name over the ruckus you were both causing when you froze. He did, too, looking back at the kids for a moment before sighing in relief.

Just Yoosung. As normal.

“I can't rest if I don't have something to sleep on,” he whispered to you. Tone harsh, but never filled with as much contempt as when speaking to a certain regressor. That, and every other emotion he held for the man.

“But I'm cold.” You dared to say, like it wasn't sweltering hot only hours before.

Well, some did say that the summer nights are the ones that make you truly feel like you're freezing.

“Are you?”

Before you could even nod he had pulled the jacket from your hands, with enough force you couldn't help but wonder if his petty ass stacked a few coins up and pushed them into the starstreams vaults, or however that worked, to up his strength stat. Not even your grippy little fingers helped at all. Your attempts to hold onto it a forgotten cause.

Or not.

Not as he wrapped it around your shoulders with a boyish grin. Something so nice to see, his ability to smile, even if it is only to comfort you.

It would be so easy to let your head fall to the clouds and pretend he's not forcing it. But after what happened recently, another scenario passed you by like a bullet train that whooshed up your scarf and had it flying up and away to follow it even as you desperately reached out to grasp onto it with all you had, you knew that simply wasn't the case.

“It smells like male B.O.”

“Well, I do happen to be a man.” Before you could even protest, Dokja said: “despite what you may say.”

“You got laundry soap in that fancy Dokkaebi Shop of yours?”

“Actually, I might.”

You could see his hand twitching to pull up the menu to check, something you're not even sure of if Dokja is allowed to do in front of you despite the many times he has. Little to no shame about it now that he had become a constellation.

“Later. Or I'll make fun of the fact that your eyebags are so big you can carry all my trauma in there.”

“You literally just did.”

Your hand was on his face before you could even think about it, thumb brushing along the bluish skin as it became more and more tinted the longer this world stayed like this. He would stay up most nights insisting to keep watch even if he was the one to suggest everyone stopped to rest, biting at his thumb as endless possibilities swirled in that stubborn mind of his.

Does he not know it's rude to make others see him wearing himself down like that every day?

“Don't know what you're talking about, bubba.”

And this position is extremely awkward now that you think about it. Hand snapping back to your side to grab at that stupid coat to pull it tighter around you despite not truly needing its warmth. However, it did smell nice. Like him. Despite, well, the gross layer to it.

“Right…”

“You could use some eye cream. Too bad your ugly self never heard of makeup before the dome came up. Otherwise, you might have actually had a social life.”

Beyond just pretending the one he admired with all his heart was real in those moments of weakness when the feeling of being alone truly etched itself into his heart. Was a solid human being who could pat him on the shoulder as they did that awkward man hug.

“Why are you like this?” Dokja asked in the flattest tone he could manage.

“You see, it all started when my parents had sex-”

Dokja shook his head at that. His stupid bowl cut waving back and forth in just the right way that had it slightly tousled up when he stopped.

And we all had problems in this world that made us what we are now.

That's what you didn't say.

“Rest. Please.” Not a request, not a demand, but a plea. One that had your voice cracking in protest at opening up that tiniest bit without the doors to your heart being pried open with a crowbar. Of course, they'd have to get through the chains and boards nailed to the frame first.

Selfishly, you wanted him to be the one to pull those nails from the rotting wood.

In a way, he already has. (The same you know he will never fully free you of them).

And you wanted to be the one to hold the lock over his own, to cradle it, and open it not with a pick or some other cheap tool meant to get to the treasure within so easily, but with a key he willingly gives you.

To know what it's like for him, for once, to be honest with you. Even if that means to stop lying to himself in the process.

“Or I'll get a marker and really draw attention to those bags of yours. Maybe I'll even start calling you an old man and insisting they're a sign of aging. Those stories catching up with you, oldy?

“I never thought I would have missed being called ‘Ugly King.’” He groaned.

But for now, all you can do is watch it dangle before you as it shines in the light of another's hands. Dangling from a black cord. Yoo Joonghyuk. How Dokja looks at the regressor the same way you did him.

“Then I'll be nice for once and keep that nickname to myself if you lay down, shut your eyes, and fall the fuck to sleep.” Before he could ask with what pillow, because, yes, you were already expecting that question, you pat your lap. Far too used to his sarcasm to not see it coming a mile away. “Sleep.”

There was no fight, no bite back as Dokja just sighed and let himself fall down even as he was clearly embarrassed over this. Refusing to look at you like that would do anything to stop the tiniest flush you could see in his skin if you simply stopped to look. Just like you always have. But still, no fight was a good thing. Hopefully, that meant he was too exhausted to even bother because then he would have no choice but to slip away into dream land as your fingers slid through his hair. Easing him into the wakeless world.

“I'll keep watch. I promise.”

You soaked in his time, in him, as you watched those eyes drift shut.

“Last time I heard you singing Gilyoung a song.” The words were particularly muffled by your thigh, the skin growing goosebumps as you felt his breath fanning over you. Somehow, you're too hot and too cold all at the same time as you replied back with a confirmation.

“Are you asking me to sing for you, too? Does little Dokja need a lullaby?”

“Nevermind.”

“Hey, hey, no.” Your hand stopped in his hair for a moment, the dirt under your nails from earlier today so easily spotted as your eyes flicked between him and the calloused hand that has dared to take lives, but still treat him so softly. “I just don't really remember all the words. I can't look them up without wifi and all that so…”

“What do you remember?” He dared to ask.

So, for him, you answered: “enough.”

Enough for you to hum to the parts you're missing and sing the rest as that moon that had risen up into the sky slowly started to drop again. It's much like a video game where you're messing with the time settings just to continue on your quest. Your next adventure. Your next task.

But selfishly, you wanted this moment to last forever as you sang about a little baby moon shining in the sky with his funny little toes in the air.

“And he's all alone in that big blue sky.”

The lyrics had you aching to stop and to bite at your lip as Dokja drifted off to sleep, but still you continued on, because for him, It didn't matter if your throat burned or you legs went numb. Not even when you'd surely have trouble walking the next day as they struggled to pump blood back through them properly, not if it meant he got a moment of reprieve from what you knew was going to happen next.

Is this what it felt like for him watching Yoo Joonghyuk during their encounters? Each passing day went by like a sweet song that you wished to play in your head again and again until you remembered every lyric, every pitch, every note, until the ability to play it through memory alone graced you.

The same way you did the pages of his book. Quote after quote of his assurances to others that he never dared give himself still so fresh even after reading through them for the nth time.

How you wanted to be the one to tell Dokja he'd be able to get through it all.

If he only allowed it.

Only allowed you in to give him more than a moment of reprieve to sleep. To hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him. To cradle Dokja the same way you did your phone after reading translations of the novel in the dead of the night.

It's complicated to hold someone this dear, to look at them and only wish for them to have the best yet know they have been robbed of that. Know they will be robbed of even more.

But this is the choice he wanted.

And who are you to disrespect that?

Even as it has tears falling from your cheeks as you sang that stupid song again, words coming out broken between sobs you hoped wouldn't wake the children and the man you loved in a way that went beyond mere friendship, beyond mere passion for another, beyond mere familial ties.

No, it went beyond that.

That's why you couldn't be selfish, not with him, not even after all those fix it fics you relished in because at least then you'd see him happy. See that boyish grin full of pure joy and nothing else.

So you would stand on the side lines, let him view you as another character to save if he must, and hold your sword tight as it's raised to protect him.

Because, and the words came out like a croak as you whispered them to yourself, a confession between only you and the constellations above. “I love you.”

‘In lieu of loving myself.’

The fate of a reader's reader. Your precious main character.

For your selfishness, for your own broken and guarded heart, for him, this can only be said knowing he can't hear your deepest secret. No, Dokja had other things he needed to do, better, more important things than to worry about you. So you would give it all to him, no matter if it meant shattering yourself too.

[chilschuck]

Can i request for chilchuck react to reader who like to daydream and after he tell the reader he is married, the reader keep spacing out more often out of sadness and they also try to avoid interacting with him much so she can move on. But laios and the other think it's normal since she always avoid interacting with people ( the reader interact with chilchuck more after falling in love with him )

Do you think he will notice? (ಥ﹏ಥ) (ಡ‸ಡ)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ WAHHHH ANON this is such a good concept and made my heart hurt…… i ended up adding some comfort to it because if you’re like me, you need it after reading angst!! :”)))

— OF COURSE: chilchuck x gn!reader.

꒰ warnings: ꒱ sfw + hurt/comfort! might be a lil ooc, lol.

꒰ wc: ꒱ 941

✦ i hope this turned out okay!! i made it shorter than my other drabbles by accident but it felt good to end it where it did. i kind of changed the prompt a lil but only because i wanted to give you guys some love from chil still. (;;;w;;;) i’m honestly worried this turned out bad…. hhhhh. i’m so sorry if it’s not what you wanted. ;;; i still hope you enjoy!!! <333

He knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t difficult to see that you had started avoiding him. Even your gaze refused to meet his own for longer than it had to. Your constant spacing out and stares at the floor said all he needed to hear: you were upset.

It only seemed to get worse when you overheard his talk about reconciling with his wife, any hope you had shattering into a thousand pieces in front of you. From then on, you didn’t smile unless you felt you had to. The thick silence you left in your wake was suffocating, and Chilchuck wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

The other members in the party took it as if you were being your usual spacey self, and didn’t draw any attention to the issue. This only made Chilchuck feel worse; he definitely noticed the change.

You used to hang back with Chilchuck and talk with him constantly, sharing little tidbits about yourselves or chatting mindlessly. Things seemed to come easily when it came to you... Too bad he only realized this now.

The smiles you gave him, the eyes full of affection, the lingering touches… It stung that they were no longer a part of his everyday life. Instead, the sadness that ate at you only bled through to your face, into your actions, and into your silence. It was unfamiliar and unbearable at the same time… Especially with the way you’d closed up further.

Chilchuck wasn’t stupid; he knew you harbored some sort of feelings for him. He wasn’t sure if that made this hurt more than it would otherwise. You were obviously distancing yourself from him, further proving his point that inner party relationships were trouble. Yet, there wasn’t any anger or resentment in his chest towards you. If anything, this was a misunderstanding between the two of you.

Calling your name, he approached you almost apprehensively. The recoil you gave made that familiar sharp pain in his chest reappear. Blurting out an excuse, you made your presence scarce. And just like that, you left him alone again.

Of course he noticed. If anything, he hoped that it was all some sort of miscommunication. Sure, he wanted to reconnect with his estranged wife, but… That’s what they were: estranged childhood sweethearts that grew apart. Along with their love, their relationship changed. Things weren’t something he could fix, and his old flame knew that too. But he hoped more than anything they could sort through their differences and still be at least friends.

Of course you didn’t know. There was no way for you to know, or have known his true intentions. Like everything else he tried to bury deep down, you were fading from his life. Chilchuck couldn’t seem to let this one go, to let you go.

So he chased after you. For once in his life, he decided to not swallow these feelings down. He knew there was only so much he could bury, only so much he’d want to bury. You didn’t deserve that, and he needed you to give him those smiles again. To give him those gazes full of adoration and those tender but fleeting touches…

You didn’t pull your hand out of his immediately. Instead, when he called your name again this time, you turned. Chilchuck swallowed.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Surely there was a better thing to ask at this moment, but your lip quivered nonetheless. A deep sigh leaving you, your gaze met with the floor again.

“…So it’d stop hurting.” Was all you replied, the weight of those words knocking the air out of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but you raised a hand to silence him.

“This is for the best... I hope you understand.” Your voice used to never sound so broken. It was soft in a way that he’d never heard before. You had truly given up on this, and he can’t say he blames you. He’d have given up on himself, too.

But he can’t let himself fall into that same cycle of self-pity. Not again, he assured himself, reaching up to grab a fist full of your top and pulling you down to meet his eyes. “Let me explain this to you. Please. I… I’m not going back to her because of the reason you think.” Chilchuck hadn’t heard himself this pleading in so long. He felt pitiful, and he suddenly remembered why he doesn’t like being vulnerable.

You couldn’t stop your head from nodding a yes to his request, that spark of hope trying to ignite once again in your chest. Trying to snuff it out, you waited patiently for him to continue.

And so he did. Baring it all to you, he decided this would be another step towards being more open with himself. Maybe you’d see him as pathetic for this, but he tried to piece the words together as congruent as possible. The feelings he had for her distinguished with the years spent apart and even some of the time spent together. This whole time he’s been sure that he just wanted to right the wrongs he did, and move on. Hopefully with you, when all this was over.

Of course you said yes. You listened, and with every word that left him, the flame within you rekindled. You weren’t sure what to say for a moment, besides giving a light laugh in relief. Even Chilchuck exhaled a brisk chuckle, scratching the back of his head in nervous habit. He’s not sure he could ever get used to this whole “telling your true feelings” thing.

But for you, he’d try.

— dividers by @/cafekitsune!! <333

[hypewinter]

He laid there on the ground, letting the cold sink into his bones as he bled out. Deep down, Danny had known for a long time this was coming. He was the Shadow, the Spare. The Inferior. He'd always been the shame of his family. After all, what good was an assassin that didn't kill?

That's why he knew it'd only be a matter of time before Grandfather got rid of him. He just never expected it to be like this. Struck down by his own brother. In hindsight, it made sense. It was a way for Damian to be completely initiated before his first mission and to cut off the rotted rope of the Al Ghul line.

It made sense, Danny repeated to himself, but it didn't stop the hurt. The pain that cut deeper than the sword to his gut. Damian hadn't even hesitated. He'd picked up his weapon and charged as soon as Grandfather had told them to begin the duel. Sure, he'd known Damian was never too fond of him. And maybe sometimes he'd thrown knives at Danny whenever he called him "Dami". But he always thought there was at least some form of affection between them. After all, they were twins. Yet Damian had ran him through as easily as breathing. He hadn't even spared a glance back as he left with Grandfather and Mother. None of them had.

Danny couldn't help but weakly chuckle. To think this was how his second death would go. Being stabbed by his own brother.

As his consciousness began to fail him, Danny distantly heard was sounded like a plane. Maybe a jet. He heard once that people can hallucinate before they died. Funny, he always figured he'd hear a train or something. Maybe a family member calling his name sweetly. Instead Danny heard heavy footsteps charging towards him. Gloved hands picked him up and held him close to a chest as an unknown voice whispered, "I've got you."

Ah, he realized what was happening. This was his mind's desperate attempt to give him some comfort in his final moments. It was nice, feeling cared for like this. He couldn't remember the last time he had been. Danny quietly thanked his mind for the blissful illusion, before his consciousness fully faded away.

(Bruce finds out he has a son and goes to rescue him. He gets there just in time to stop Danny from bleeding out and leaves, not knowing he's leaving his other son behind.)

[practicalgauntlet]

~You're still my person. Even if I'm not yours.~

"To love in silence is to ache with the hope of being seen, yet fearing the pain of remaining unseen."

Synopsis- You attend J.J.'s wedding. The reception is beautiful except for one thing: watching the love of your life pine for another.

Category- Angst (unhappy ending)

Notes - This is meant to be one part, but I can add a happy ending if you need it, unrequited love, one-sided pining, angst without a happy ending, this one is going to hurt, this was all I could think of when watching the episode, self-loathing, self-hating language.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You were happy for J.J., you really were. She had almost lost Will and Henery in the span of a day. It was unsurprising that she bit the bullet and decided to marry the father of her son.

The reception was just as beautiful as the bride herself as she walked down the aisle in her mother's wedding gown. It was a surprise, the wedding, thrown together by both Will and Rossi.

But it was bittersweet. Despite the thrumming, electric air of the night, you felt empty.

You had known for quite a while that Spencer was in love with J.J. It was apparent and frankly quite obvious, from the prolonged, yearning glances he tossed her way. The frantic worry he would give her if she was hurt or in danger. He didn't show that type of worry to anyone else, not even you.

Yes, he cared deeply for his team - it would take a bullet for them - but not to the point of almost wild, feral paranoia.

You weren't sure if anyone else noticed the way he acted around J.J. or the way he would look at her when she wasn't looking. Maybe it was because you were in love with him as much as he was in love with her.

You focused on the minute details of his behavior, hoping to gleam a fraction of the affection that was directed at her. Most of the time, you saw things you knew you didn't, making quick glances and friendly smiles into something they weren't just to save yourself the heartache.

But now she was getting married. And you could see he was miserable.

He hid it well, timing his smiles and laughter with everyone else's, patting Will on the back in congratulations while keeping that deep-set look of anguish off his face.

But when no one was paying attention, no one but you, his face fell, and that tight-lipped smile faded into misery.

He watched her every second, admiring her from afar as she walked down the aisle. As she kissed Henery before looking up at Will on the altar. He winced and closed his eyes when the couple leaned in to seal their marriage with a kiss.

Penelope had asked if you were okay, wondering why you were so quiet on such a momentous occasion. But if Spencer could hide his feelings for J.J. from the team, then you could remain undetected as well.

When the afternoon bled into a beautiful moon lit night, the glittering lanterns lighting up the yard in which Rossi hosted, you felt hopeless.

Both because you desperately wanted to wipe that sad look off of Spencer's face and because your bubble of delusion was popped.

For years, you secretly hoped he felt the same for you. From the brief glances of adoration, he would throw at you to the blinding smiles he would greet you with. There was not a moment you hoped you weren't overthinking every little reaction, every little touch or laugh.

Turns out you were just as delusional as the monsters you hunted. To think you were good enough to possibly become the object of Spencer's affection. To think you were brilliant enough to even gain his attention, to interest him beyond friendship.

You sat at the table, sandwiched between Penelope and Derek and across the table from Spencer, knee deep in self-loathing. It felt like you were wading through sludge, the world around you moving slow like dripping honey.

You caught Spencer's eye, and he offered you that same tight-lipped, polite, 'I'm definitely not okay if you look past my quickly crumbling mask of normalcy!' smile. You offered one back.

It was safe to assume he was feeling just as broken as you were at that moment, watching the love of his life look at someone else with such adoration and love.

And it broke your heart. Made you feel like a self-absorbed pile of human shit because here you were, wallowing in your own internal battle while Spencer was shattering before you.

You look at him, trying to subtly ask him if he is okay with your eyes. You hoped he wasn't so out of it with sorrow that his profiling skills were rendered useless.

He simply looked away as Rossi stood and tapped his fork against his glass. David gave a heartwarming speech about timing and happiness, pointing a loving hand towards the grinning couple at the head of the table.

Everyone was clapping and smiling, congratulating the newlyweds and their wishing their future the best. Even Spencer was participating, his manurisms and expression genuine for the first time that night.

When they kissed again, Spencer stood and excused himself. No one was really paying attention to him, more focused on each other and the joy that filled the air. No one even thought of sadness being present at a time like this.

You cought Spencer's expression as he walked into the house and you were standing before you could even think.

"Where's the fire, sugar?"

Penelope asked, your studden movement gaining the attention of the technical analyst.

"Bathroom."

You murmured, more focused on reaching Spencer than drawing the curious eye of the infamous meddler.

You were in the house and wandering the halls before she could say anything else, your eyes peeled for any indication as to where Spencer went.

He wasn't on the first floor, nor the second, not in the garage or in the kitchen. You couldn't find him, no matter where you looked. Hell, you even looked in the linen closet.

When you pass the mud room, you see a tall, lanky silhouette in the stained glass of the front door.

You were twisting the knob not a moment later, heart racing a mile a minute. Spencer was standing on the porch, still as a statue. You could see the tension in his body, in the way he held his hands at his sides, the way his shoulders never seemed to relax.

You know he heard you open the door, knew his moment of peace was interrupted.

"Are you okay?"

You ask, testing the waters by gently closing the door and standing next to him. You didn't look at him, no matter how bad you wanted to.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice was carefully crafted, even, and steady. If you didn't know him, you would have thought everything was fine and dandy. But you did know him. You knew him like the back of your hand.

There was a strained layer to the way he spoke. It was the same tone he used on you and the team while he was addicted to Dilaudid, the same tone he used after Gideon left. Carefully hidden turmoil so he didn't have to burden anyone with his 'pathetic' emotions.

You knew him too well.

"You can talk to me, Spence."

"I'm fine, really. I just needed some air."

The lie was blatant on his face. He was begging you to drop it to leave him be so he could keep his composure until he was alone in his apartment. You didn't want to leave it alone, his pain bleeding into yours, amplifying all the hurt and hopelessness you'd felt all night.

"Spence-"

"Drop it."

That sadness, that misery that swirled beneath the surface, was replaced with ire. You knew he didn't mean to take it out on you but in your already fragile mental state the glare he pinned you with cut so deep you feared you'd never stop bleeding.

He left, shouldering past you and back into the house to most likely join the party with his fake fucking smile and his painfully obvious suffering.

You couldn't move, couldn't get your legs to take you back no matter how hard you tried. You were stuck, both emotionally and physically.

The next breath you took left you staggering. You had to sit, had to prevent the inevitable collapse you were destined to have. The cold, hard wood of the porch bit into your knees as you dropped, a broken sob wrenching its way out of your throat.

Another one clawed past that lump, building, and building until you couldn't hold back any longer. You bit your lip, tasting the blood that spilled into your mouth as you tried and failed to keep your sobs a bay.

The wails of agony had you hunched in on yourself, the power of them shaking your body and scratching your throat. Briefly, you thought of gaining the attention of any of the partygoers, your shattering drawing them to the porch so they could bear witness to your destruction.

You'd rather die than succumb someone to that, so you bit down on your knuckle. You were still so loud, your lip and knuckle aching from your teeth.

The door opened, and you froze, body still shaking with emotion as you lay there in a heap of pity.

"Oh my god, sugar plumb!" Penelope gasps, rushing to your side and leaving the door wide open. "What happened?"

You continued to sob uncontrollably, hands absently reaching for Penelope’s hand and drawing yourself into her comforting embrace.

Your words were broken by hiccuping wails, face wet with snot and tears.

"I love him, Pen."

"Will?"

She pulls back and looks at your broken face, holding you by the shoulders as she levels you with a confused face.

"No, Spencer."

You'd never said it out loud before, and now that it was out in the open, it felt as if your entire world was just tilted on its axis.

"Oh, honey pot,"

She draws you into her embrace again, smoothing your hair with gentle pets, cooing sweet nothings until you are numb. Quiet and calm, but numb. Void of the emotion that so fiercely burned within you just moments ago.

"He loves someone else."

You say pathetically, your voice monotone and as empty as you feel.

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

"I can't stand it anymore, Pen. Watching him yearn for her."

"Shhh." She coos, wrapping her arms tightly around you. "Everything will be okay."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Three months have passed since the wedding. Everything wasn't okay.

You walked the earth with that same, cold, unending nothingness that overtook you that night in Penelope’s arms.

She made it her mission to make you feel better. Making jokes, setting you up, hosting girls' night out, and slumber parties. Everything she could think of, she dragged you along with her. But it felt like your world ended that night.

Spencer wasn't the same either. He didn't ask you to go to the library with him, didn't try and pull you along with him and Penelope to their various conventions, and didn't smile at you when you greeted him.

He was numb too.

There was a loss of two loves that evening, a great love story missed. The paths of fate are so close yet they never converge, never collide.

You went on a blind date once.

Never again.

He was fine. He was smart, handsome, and funny. But not as smart, as handsome, as funny. He wasn't Spencer.

It felt like you missed your chance, that if you did something better, something right, he would have chosen you. You could have made him happy.

"The heart wants what it wants. There is no logic to these things. You meet someone, and you fall in love, and that's that." - Woody Allen.

[admiringlove]

persuasion. the way writing this was kind of hurting me too ugh. anyway here it is, another part of my @angstober event this year. again, sorry for the delay. and please watch out for some very slight nsfw themes. masterlist of the event can be found here.

you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself.

this endless teetering back and forth. like a newton’s cradle, every action meeting an equal and opposite reaction, but never any resolution.

the first time you left was harrowing. painful in ways you hadn’t thought possible. your chest had burned, your hands had trembled, and every step away from him felt like you were leaving parts of yourself behind. the arguments echoed in your head long after, looping endlessly, even though all you’d truly wanted was his arms around you.

toji’s arms.

but he never gave you that, not when it mattered most. he always seemed so far away during those moments, like his mind was locked in some impenetrable place you could never reach. and next to him, you felt small. you felt like a child fumbling for answers, even though there wasn’t much of an age difference between you.

when you left that first time, you’d told him you’d come back for your things later. you couldn’t bear to stay long enough to pack your life away from his. instead, you’d grabbed the clothes scattered across his apartment—an afterthought of intimacy you thought you’d had—and left.

your place wasn’t a home; it was a shell. the silence there was too loud, suffocating in its starkness, reminding you with every passing second what you’d walked away from, and who you hadn’t yet been able to let go.

your room had become a husk, hollowed out of the life it once held. the absence of him pressed against the walls like a shadow, suffocating and stark. his things weren’t strewn across the floor in that careless, maddening way he always managed, nor did that strange, musky scent linger in the air; the one that clung to his clothes and skin, a scent you once loathed but came to crave. he wasn’t sprawled on your bed, that half-smirk pulling at his lips, looking at you like you were the only thing worth devouring. he wasn’t there to drag you down with a grip that bordered on desperate, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

no, now the room was just a room. the furniture remained, untouched, like a stage after the curtain had fallen. the fake vines tangled along the walls, the band posters clung stubbornly to their place, and the photographs on the desk smiled back at no one. the bookshelves loomed overhead, brimming with stories you didn’t have the energy to revisit. everything was exactly where it should be, and yet, it all felt wrong. lifeless.

the man you loved wasn’t there. fushiguro toji wasn’t there.

that night, you sighed into the darkness, and when the weight in your chest became unbearable, the tears came. quiet at first, then relentless, soaking into your pillow until it felt like drowning. you woke up to the salt of it still clinging to your cheeks and the heavy dampness beneath your face. the idea of going back to his place—to face him, to gather the pieces of the life you’d left behind—was unbearable. a week passed. seven days of silence so loud it fractured you. no rough hand reaching for yours in the dark, no shared laughter echoing from your phone’s glow. no wild thrill of butterflies thrumming beneath your ribs.

without him, the world dulled, fading into muted shades of grey. the sharpness of living—the chaos of loving him—had bled out. and you were sure he was fine. you could give him that much credit. he was always good at holding you just far enough away that he wouldn’t feel the sting if you left. replaceable. that’s what you must’ve been to him.

but he wasn’t. he could never be.

he was a fever, an affliction, something that sank into your bloodstream and burned. without him, there was nothing but withdrawal. the ache, the longing, the torment of wanting something you knew would destroy you.

and so, after a week of circling the inevitable, you found yourself standing at his door again. he opened it halfway, leaning lazily against the frame, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face like it belonged there.

"finally came back, didn't ya?"

you didn’t rise to the bait, your expression deadened by days of sleepless nights and the hollow ache gnawing at your chest. "i came back to get my shit, loser," you muttered, rolling your eyes as you pushed past him. you kicked off your shoes at the door, out of habit more than anything else, and made a beeline for the bathroom with your bag in tow. he followed close behind, trailing after you like a shadow, until he propped himself against the bathroom doorframe. his arms crossed loosely over his chest, that insufferable smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you.

"yer really takin' everything, huh?" his voice was low, a little rough around the edges, as his gaze flickered to the toiletries you were gathering. you spared him a glance—brief, cautious, like looking at the sun too long might burn you—and quickly looked away. you couldn’t give him more than that. your heart had been steeling itself for this moment all week, and even then, you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

he didn’t have to do much. the way he leaned there, the way his voice curled around the words, the sheer nearness of him was enough to unravel you. you kept an arm’s length between you, refusing to let him cross that invisible line.

you dropped the shampoo and soap bottles into the bag with a heavy sigh, your hands trembling just slightly. "yeah, that’s what people do when they break up," you said, your voice flat, though the weight of the words nearly crushed you.

for a moment, the air stilled, heavy with unspoken tension. then you heard it—soft, deliberate footsteps closing the gap between you. you didn’t turn. you didn’t need to. you felt him before he reached you, his presence looming in the small space like a storm cloud.

his reflection joined yours in the mirror, his dark eyes fixed on your face. he could see it. your defeat, the way your shoulders slumped, the resignation etched into every line of your expression. you’d known, hadn’t you? you’d known exactly how this would go, as if it were scripted, as if you’d walked willingly into his hands.

his arms slid around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you into the warmth you’d been trying to escape. his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath soft, his voice softer.

"come on, we aren’t really broken up. are we?"

you swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sink as if it could anchor you. "yes, we are—"

"i apologized, didn’t i?" his words were gentle, deceptively so, the kind of tenderness you’d begged for in last week’s shouting match. but he hadn’t given it to you then. no, toji saved that tone for moments like this, when you were already teetering, already crumbling.

his ego was insufferable. a goddamned egomaniac, that’s what he was. fushiguro toji, the man who knew exactly when to break you down and when to scoop up the pieces, holding them just tight enough that you didn’t slip away.

just like that, you ended up in his bed again. the grey hoodie you’d worn lay discarded on the floor, forgotten, as cold unrelenting air seeped through the open window. it didn’t matter—not when he moved the way he did, reckless and punishing, slamming into you like he was trying to shatter something inside you.

as if he knew exactly what he was doing. as if he knew he was breaking your mind beyond repair.

and you’d gone back. over and over, swearing each time would be the last. it never was, though, was it? the only difference between you and toji was that you loved him for all his broken pieces, while he only cared for moments like these—animalistic, primal, and starving.

how many times had you come back to him? how many times had he been conveniently nearby when the weight of your breakdowns became too much to bear? you’d stopped counting after fifteen—somewhere between your pride and his grin, the numbers blurred together.

and now here he was again, in your room, in your bed. the very bed where you’d spent sleepless nights imagining him after you left. it was almost poetic, in the cruelest way.

you looked down at him, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you straddled him, your breaths still uneven. his grunts had quieted now, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his arms wrapped around you with a familiarity that made your stomach twist. you were bare to him in every way that mattered, as you always were.

"we can’t keep doing this," you sighed, slipping off of him and onto the bed to lay beside him. your chest rose and fell heavily as you stared at the ceiling, your thoughts spinning.

he tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he rolled his eyes. "ya say that, but then ya call me in the middle of the night for a quick fuck."

his words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. instead, you turned away, pulling the blanket over yourself as if it could shield you from his gaze. "i mean it this time," you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

he scoffed lightly, a sound that grated against your nerves, but you didn’t look back at him. instead, you closed your eyes, letting the silence stretch between you.

"when you leave this time," you said quietly, "you won’t see me again."

your words hung heavy in the air, the finality of them sinking in even as you felt the mattress shift under his weight. but whether he believed you or not didn’t matter anymore—you were done trying to convince him, or yourself.

"come on, seriously, not this again," he groans, dragging a hand through his hair, the exasperation in his voice palpable. "we had such a good time, and now you wanna dampen the mood with this shit—"

"fushiguro," your voice cuts through his complaint like a blade, sharper and more commanding than it’s ever been. it makes him pause, his spine straightening on instinct, his eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge whether you’re serious.

but you are. more serious than you’ve ever been. "i can’t keep doing this with you. it might be amusing for you, but it’s killing me. yeah? we had a good run."

those words—we had a good run—hit you as hard as they hit him. the taste of them feels foreign in your mouth, bitter and heavy. you never thought you’d say that to him. not to toji, not to the man you still loved with a depth you couldn’t articulate, more than you’d ever admit, more than he’d ever understand. your heart fractures as you sit there, each crack spreading deeper when you see his face harden.

he doesn’t say anything. not right away. instead, he gets up from the bed, the mattress shifting as his weight leaves it, and strides toward the desk chair where his clothes are piled in a careless heap. His movements are brisk, almost robotic, but the slight clench of his jaw betrays the simmering frustration beneath the surface.

"i’ll wait for yer text," he mutters, tugging on his tight black shirt in one swift motion. the fabric clings to his frame, the same way it did hours ago when you first saw him, but now it feels suffocating.

you turn your gaze away. you can’t watch him like this—not when the sight of him could undo everything you’d just resolved. "i blocked your number, remember?" you remind him, your voice flat but steady. "it’s why you came here today."

he freezes for a fraction of a second, the realization dawning on his face. "oh," he mumbles, his tone subdued. "okay. i’ll wait for you to unblock me, then."

"no, you won’t," you reply firmly, forcing yourself to look at him now. every word feels like dragging glass through your throat, but you press on. "this was the last time. it’s not happening again."

his eyes flicker, a brief flash of something you can’t quite place—irritation? disbelief? something deeper he’d never admit?—before he scoffs, shaking his head as if dismissing your declaration entirely. "whatever you say, doll."

"toji." his name falls from your lips with a weight that makes him stop. you sigh, sitting up straighter on the bed. the loose shirt you’d thrown on clings to your body in awkward folds, and your cheeks burn with an unwelcome warmth. you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to hold it this time. "close the door on your way out, yeah? and leave the spare key."

he blinks at you, as if processing the words takes more effort than it should. for a moment, his posture stiffens, his jaw tightens, and you think he might argue—but he doesn’t. instead, he nods. a single, awkward bob of his head, so uncharacteristic of him that it leaves you momentarily disoriented.

you watch as he moves toward the door, his steps slower now, almost uncertain. his broad shoulders seem to hunch slightly, his usual confidence replaced with something hesitant. when he reaches the corridor, his hand hovers over the gold-colored doorknob, suspended in mid-air.

he pauses there, turning his head to glance at your living room. it’s the same space he’s been in countless times, but now, it feels foreign to him—as if he’s unsure where to place himself, unsure if he’s allowed to linger any longer.

then he looks back at you, his dark eyes locking with yours. there’s something in them you don’t want to decipher, something too raw and too late. your mouth goes dry, but you manage a tight-lipped smile, awkward and full of finality.

he doesn’t say goodbye. doesn’t say anything. he just turns back to the door, his movements slow and deliberate as he opens it, the faint creak of the hinges cutting through the silence.

and then, without a second glance, he steps out.

the sound of the door clicking shut feels deafening. final. like the last note of a song you wish you could replay but know you never will.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[theonottsbxtch]

ALL I NEED | CS55

an: i dont know if ive done this correctly seen as i dont listen to radiohead but this was a request and i hope ive done it justice let me know por favor. also my bum hurts so much guys. ALSO THIS IS NOT PROOF READ GIVE ME A BREAK PLS

wc: 2.6k

THE CRASH OF GLASS AND LAUGHTER spilled out onto the damp Monaco streets, but he barely noticed. Carlos Sainz tugged his cap lower, keeping his face in shadow as he slipped past another group of revellers. The race was done, the podium champagne still sticky on his skin, but the thrill that usually hummed in his chest had long since faded. Victory felt hollow now—a shiny bauble he’d collected too many times to care for.

He didn’t know what he was looking for as he wandered the city, only that he needed to get away—from the cameras, the sycophants, the unrelenting machine of Formula One that consumed him day after day. His feet carried him down a narrow alley, past flickering signs and shuttered windows, until the low, mournful sound of a cello stopped him in his tracks.

The music bled out of a small, dimly lit bar, curling through the cool night air like smoke. Without thinking, Carlos pushed the door open, stepping inside.

She was there, on a small stage in the corner, cradling the cello as if it were a part of her. The light caught on her hair, her bowed head, and the slight furrow of her brow as she lost herself in the music. The melody was achingly beautiful, but there was something raw about it too—something fractured and unfinished.

Carlos didn’t sit. He stood in the shadows, transfixed, watching as she played. He thought about the way his car felt when it was right on the edge, how the world blurred and narrowed until only the next turn existed. That’s what she looked like now: completely untouchable, a force of her own.

When the final note lingered in the air, she lifted her gaze, scanning the room. Her eyes found him, sharp and searching. Carlos felt exposed, as though she could see through the carefully constructed armour of charm and bravado he wore.

But then, just as quickly, she looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear and retreating backstage. Carlos stood there for a moment, caught between the urge to follow and the sudden weight in his chest.

For once, he didn’t know what to do.

Carlos hesitated before finally taking a seat at the bar, his eyes still flickering to the empty stage. The bartender, a wiry man with a worn cloth slung over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow.

“You here for the music or the whiskey?”

“Music,” Carlos said, though it came out quieter than he’d intended. He tapped his fingers on the counter, the adrenaline from the race still buzzing faintly under his skin. “She—does she play here often?”

The bartender snorted. “Depends on her mood. Some nights she’s here until closing. Other times she vanishes for weeks. Why? She leave you breathless too?”

Carlos didn’t answer, just reached for the glass of water the bartender set in front of him. He wasn’t sure what had left him so rattled—her music or the way she’d looked at him, as if he were just another face in the crowd. He wasn’t used to that.

By the time he left the bar, she was gone.

The next night, he found himself back in the same place. The race afterparty roared on in the background, teammates and sponsors undoubtedly wondering where he’d disappeared to. But he couldn’t shake the memory of her playing, the way the notes seemed to carry pieces of her with them.

This time, when she stepped onto the stage, he felt the same pull as before. Her music wove through the room like a thread, binding everything together. Carlos barely noticed the other patrons, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation. He was pinned in place by her presence.

When she finished, she didn’t look his way. Instead, she slipped off the stage and into the back, the cello case slung over her shoulder. Carlos didn’t think—he followed.

He caught up with her just outside, where the alley was quieter, lit only by the flickering glow of a streetlamp. She was packing her cello into a battered case, her movements brisk and precise.

“You’re amazing,” he said, his voice breaking the silence.

She glanced up, startled. Her eyes, darker now in the dim light, narrowed slightly. “Thanks,” she said, but the word sounded flat, cautious. She turned back to her cello.

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer. “Your music—it’s…” He trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.

She straightened, looking at him properly now. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

It was the same question she’d asked the first night, and it stung more than it should have.

“Maybe,” he said, forcing a smile. “But I’m here.”

Her lips twitched—just barely—but the wall between them stayed firmly in place.

“You’re not the first man with too much money and too much time who’s wandered in here,” she said, slinging the cello case over her shoulder.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” Carlos said. “I just… wanted to hear you play.”

Something flickered in her expression then—surprise, maybe, or disbelief. “Well, you’ve heard me. Now you can move on.”

But she didn’t walk away. Not yet.

Carlos tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Names don’t matter.”

“They do to me,” he said softly.

For a moment, she just looked at him, as if trying to decide whether he was worth her time. Then she let out a breath, almost a laugh, but without any joy.

“Go home, Carlos Sainz,” she said, her voice laced with something he couldn’t quite place.

His heart kicked in his chest. She knew who he was.

And with that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Carlos alone under the streetlamp, more certain than ever that he wasn’t ready to let her go.

Carlos spent the following week bouncing between press events, team debriefs, and endless sponsor obligations, but his mind remained elsewhere. The memory of her—of her music, her sharp gaze, her dismissal—clung to him like the smell of burnt tyres after a race. He returned to the bar three times, hoping to find her again, but the stage remained empty.

It wasn’t until the night before he was due to fly out to Silverstone that he found her again. She was seated at the bar this time, a glass of red wine in her hand, her cello case leaning against the stool beside her. Carlos stopped in the doorway, thrown by the sight of her outside the sanctuary of the stage.

She looked up as if she could feel his hesitation, her brows lifting in faint amusement. “Lost, Sainz?”

Carlos grinned despite himself and slid into the seat beside her. “Not this time.”

Her expression didn’t soften, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. For a moment, they sat in silence, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space between them.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asked eventually, not looking at him.

He hesitated. “Because I can’t stop thinking about your music.”

She let out a low laugh, her eyes meeting his. “Flattering. But I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

Carlos opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. She was right, of course. It wasn’t just the music. It was the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to exist entirely outside the world he knew—a world that felt more hollow with each passing day.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” he said finally.

“Then what are you here for?”

The question hung in the air, and for once, Carlos didn’t have an answer. He was used to knowing exactly what he wanted, exactly how to get it. But with her, everything felt uncertain, unsteady—like the moment before a corner, when the car teetered on the edge of control.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

That seemed to catch her off guard. She studied him for a moment, as if trying to find the lie in his words. Then she sighed, taking a sip of her wine.

“Well, that’s honest, at least,” she said, setting her glass down.

“Stay,” Carlos blurted before he could stop himself. “Let me buy you another drink. Or talk. Or…” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… stay.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t hopeful either.

“You think I’m the kind of person who sticks around?”

He leaned closer, his voice low. “I think you’re the kind of person who surprises people.”

That caught her off guard again, and for a moment, he thought she might actually laugh. Instead, she downed the rest of her wine and picked up her cello case.

“Goodnight, Sainz,” she said, her voice softer this time, almost gentle.

And just like that, she was gone again.

The weeks that followed were a blur of races, podiums, and media appearances. Carlos kept telling himself to let it go. To focus on the championship, to push the memory of her into the background where it belonged.

But no matter how fast he drove, how tightly he gripped the wheel, he couldn’t shake the thought of her.

It was after a particularly gruelling race in Silverstone, where a mechanical failure had left him crawling to the finish line in seventh place, that he found himself staring at his phone. Without thinking, he searched the bar’s name. An event listing popped up.

She was playing again.

Carlos booked the first flight to Monaco.

The bar was quieter than he remembered when he walked in that night. She was already on stage, her eyes closed as her fingers moved across the strings of her cello. The melody was different this time—softer, slower, but just as heart-wrenching.

She saw him as soon as she finished, her gaze locking on him through the low light. She didn’t smile, didn’t nod, but she didn’t look away either.

This time, when he approached her after the set, she didn’t brush him off.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she said as he slid into the seat across from her.

“And you’re impossible,” Carlos countered, leaning forward. “But I think I’m okay with that.”

She studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, for the first time, she smiled—a small, fleeting thing, but it made something in his chest tighten.

“Alright, Sainz,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s see what you do with it.”

At first, their connection was tentative, like a melody slowly finding its rhythm. Carlos started flying to Monaco every chance he got, slipping away from the chaos of the circuit to find her. She never told him to come, never invited him into her life, but she stopped pushing him away.

They spent hours in quiet corners of the city—sharing stolen moments by the harbour, wandering narrow streets where no one recognised him, and sitting in her small apartment while she played for him. She told him stories about the pieces she chose, about the composers who lived and died with their genius unrecognised.

“Why cello?” he asked one evening, as she leaned over the instrument, her fingers gliding across the strings.

She glanced at him, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “It’s the only thing that made sense to me. I grew up in chaos, and the cello—” she tapped the curve of its body, “—felt like a way out. Or maybe just a way through.”

Her honesty stunned him. Carlos realised how little he’d told her in return—how carefully he’d avoided letting her see his own chaos.

“What about you?” she asked, leaning back and meeting his gaze. “Why Formula One?”

He hesitated. “Because it’s all I’ve ever known.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said, her voice soft but insistent.

“It’s the truth,” he admitted. “I started karting when I was four. My dad built my first car in our garage. After he died… it was all I had left of him.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes softened, the sharp edges of her usual reserve smoothing for just a moment. Carlos reached for her hand, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

For weeks, they existed in their own fragile bubble. Carlos began weaving her into his world—bringing her to quiet dinners with the team, introducing her to the mechanics who knew him better than anyone. But she stayed cautious, always keeping one foot outside the door.

It wasn’t until the Monaco Grand Prix that the cracks began to show.

She agreed to come to the race, though she made it clear she wasn’t there for the spectacle. “I just want to see what you’re running from,” she said, her words cutting more deeply than she realised.

On race day, she stood in the paddock, surrounded by the chaos of photographers, team members, and fans. Carlos was in his element—smiling for the cameras, joking with his crew, the golden boy of the circuit.

But when their eyes met, she looked out of place, as though she’d been dropped into a world that didn’t belong to her.

Later, when the race was over and Carlos stood on the podium, champagne dripping down his face, he scanned the crowd for her. She was gone.

He found her that night in her apartment, packing her cello into its case.

“You left,” he said, still in his race suit, his voice raw with disbelief.

“I stayed longer than I should have,” she replied without looking at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this,” she said, gesturing between them, “doesn’t fit. Your world—it’s suffocating. And I…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I can’t be part of it.”

Carlos stepped closer, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t even want to try. Every time I get close, you pull back. Why?”

“Because I’ve been here before!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I’ve been the girl who gets left behind when the real world calls. I know how this story ends, Carlos.”

“This isn’t just a story,” he said, his voice low, desperate. “It’s us. You and me.”

She closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his words. “I don’t know how to be part of your world. And I don’t think you know how to stop running from it long enough to be part of mine.”

Her words cut deeper than any crash ever had. Carlos stood there, silent, as she picked up her cello and walked out the door.

In the weeks that followed, Carlos threw himself back into racing, driving harder and faster than ever. The headlines celebrated his victories, his unrelenting determination. But inside, he was hollow.

He tried to reach her, but she didn’t answer his calls. He showed up at the bar, but she wasn’t there. She had vanished, leaving behind only the memory of her music and the ache she’d carved into his chest.

It wasn’t until he saw the programme for a symphony performance in Vienna—her name listed among the musicians—that he realised where she’d gone. But by then, it was too late.

The story ends with Carlos on the track, his car hurtling through the final lap of the championship race. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras—all of it blurred into nothingness. He crossed the finish line, victorious once again, but instead of relief, all he felt was loss.

Somewhere, she was playing, her music reaching places he couldn’t follow.

And for the first time, Carlos wondered if the chase had cost him the only thing that truly mattered.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby

[kiss-theggoat]

Okay it’s a sad request but you know the slashers reacting to s/o being hurt? Can you do a slashers reaction to s/o thought to be killed by one of their victims. Only if you are comfortable with it of course!

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! Some of these might be a little out of character, so I apologize, but I hope you like it! 🖤

Slashers if Their S/O Was Badly Injured

Slashers Included: Thomas Hewitt, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Asa Emory, Michael Meyers, Sinclair Brothers

TW: VIOLENCE AND DEATH

Thomas Hewitt:

When Hoyt and Thomas brought home a group of teenagers going through Texas, one of the men got free and ran into the kitchen where you and Luda Mae were preparing dinner. He stole a knife from Luda, shoving her to the ground where she hit her head and it left you, held at knifepoint. You tried to lunge at him, but the knife entered your stomach, twisting and gnashing at your skin and muscle.

Hoyt finally came in, shooting the man who held the knife. You collapsed with him, blood pouring from your wound onto the tile and soaking into your clothes.

Thomas shoved Hoyt aside, hands trembling and eyes already welling with tears. His chest felt like a black hole as he watched you grow more pale by the second. With shaking hands he rolled you over, placing your head in his lap. He reached down to put pressure on the wound, unable to stifle his cries as he watched blood gush from between his fingers.

You started to cough and sputter, blood leaking from the side of your lips as he leaned down, unclipping his mask. His pressed gentle kisses to your eyelids as they grew heavier, holding you in his lap as he watched you fade away.

Billy Loomis:

You’d been at Stu’s party, but you weren’t supposed to be part of the plan. Billy walked around the house, making sure that everyone was dealt with before going to find Sydney. He stopped in his tracks when one body looked familiar.

He dropped to his knees, knife clattering away from him as he touched your shoulders gently. He whispered your name, watching as you bled onto the floor. You could barely breathe, slowly taking in wheezy breaths.

“Billy?” You whispered in horror, realizing that he’d been the one involved with your death. Billy’s jaw tensed as he leaned closer to you.

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be here.” He whispered, placing his hand gently on your cheek for a moment before he stood, retrieving his knife.

Stu Macher:

Stu had let you in on his and Billy’s plan, and when Billy agreed to let you help, he was ecstatic.

But on the night of, everything went wrong. It was the time to give each other injuries, and you stood there, holding the knife nervously, hesitant to stab Billy. You moved forward and plunged the knife into him, but at the last second you closed your eyes, accidentally stabbing him too deep. Billy fumed, growling at you to give him the knife.

When it was your turn, you’d wanted Stu to do it, but Billy insisted. He shoved the knife into your stomach, not even trying to hide the fact he has bad intentions.

Stu yelled, shoving Billy away from you and hanging onto you as you fell to the ground. He apologized profusely for getting you involved, crying as he moved your hair gently out of your face, holding you as you closer your eyes even though Billy yelled at him to get up.

Asa Emory:

You’d probably be in the house of traps when someone got free from the red box. They snuck into the room that you occupied, at first thinking you were a victim. You played along until you tried to maneuver them towards another trap, and instead, they shoved you into it.

You fell onto the ground right on top of a two by two foot mat full of nails. They stabbed through your chest, and you screamed in pain, trying to push yourself up off the nails but the pain was too intense.

Asa heard you and immediately knew where you were, maneuvering through his house to get to you. The victim was long gone by now, leaving you and Asa in silence. He was full of rage, eyes twinkling with anger and sadness. There was nothing he could do now, except for take it out on the rest of the victims inside the house.

Michael Meyers:

You hadn’t seen Michael for a while, and it was making you nervous. He usually came by your house daily, but it’d been almost a week. You went by the Meyers house at night, slinking inside to try to find Michael.

A searing pain radiated through your back, and as you slowly turned around you saw Michael’s eyes through his mask, wide and could tell how heavy he was breathing. You looked back and saw his signature knife protruding from your back, warm blood soaking into your jeans. You fell forward, coughing as you felt your chest starting to tighten.

Michael looked down at you before kneeling, a large hand touching the top of your back softly. He didn’t know what to do. He leaned down and looked at you in the eyes, watching them go still. His grip tightened on your shirt. He didn’t know how to process the fact that he’d hurt the only person he’d actually cared about.

Sinclair Brothers:

A stray survivor escaped Bo’s basement, spotting you. They were so on guard they didn’t even bother to talk to you, instead, they grabbed a wrench from Bo’s work bench and hit you across the face, making you fall to the ground immediately.

You had no idea what happened next, but all three Sinclair brothers surrounded you, kneeling. Bo grabbed your face gently, inspecting your wound when Lester said something to him, sounding panicked. Your ears were ringing and your vision was blurry. Bo couldn’t panic. He had to be calm, but Lester started to shake at seeing you bleeding.

Your cheek and upper eye socket was cut open, a sizeable gash leaking blood down your face and neck. Your entire face felt like it was on fire and your vision was shaking, it felt like you couldn’t think straight.

Vincent leaned down closer to your face, inspecting the wound gently, knowing that it was pretty severe. With shaky hands he held your cheeks, wiping some blood away from your eye gently.

“Don’t worry, Darlin…we’ll get you all patched up.” Bo whispered.

[seungiesz]

yo yo yo yo yo, i’m like super happy cause i actually thought of something from ur prompt idea eve tho my brain is in reconstruction— anyways ANGST — 1. you can't change the past where the reader is like monster who was forced to have hurt and killed other ppl but know that she’s escaped an’ lives a normal life she has PTSD. The like one of the members (ur choice cause i have like no idea) is there roommate an’ helps them through episodes :D why do i always brainstorm like sad things? if u don’t wanna it’s fine, thank you for listening

— 🐣📎

omg wait i love this!

i def saw the reader as like an ex-mafia person and (i chose) hyunjin is a police officer who’s looking after them as they go through a court case.

lean on me!

police officer!hyunjin x ex-mafia!reader

genre: hurt/comfort , angst

word count: 768

Officer Hwang Hyunjin stood against the wall of the apartment, his back pressed against the open window. The air was cold, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed on the door he’d been watching for weeks—the one that belonged to you, the ex-mafia enforcer who now lived under his watchful eye.

You had walked away from a life of violence, but your past didn’t let go that easily. It haunted you, lingered in the corners of your mind, and often bled into the present. Hyunjin was the one who kept you grounded, even when your memories threatened to drag you under.

The door creaked open, and you stepped out into the living room, face pale and drawn. You pulled your hoodie tight around your shoulders, eyes distant, lost in something only you could see. Hyunjin had learned to recognize the signs—the tension in your posture, the slight tremble in your hands.

"Hyunjin," you called quietly, voice hoarse. "You here?"

"I’m always here," he replied, his voice steady.

You glanced at him, managing a small, tired smile, as if you wanted to laugh, but it faded quickly. Your eyes, haunted and wide, spoke volumes—you were in the middle of something, something you couldn’t explain but felt deep in your bones.

"You okay?" Hyunjin asked, taking a few steps closer.

Your jaw clenched. “I… I don’t know anymore. Some days are worse than others.”

Hyunjin could see it—the storm building behind your eyes. The memories, the trauma, were clawing at you. The people you had hurt, people who hadn’t deserved it. The past you were trying to outrun was never far behind. The nightmares, the flashbacks—they all bled together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He stepped closer, his voice gentle but firm. “Talk to me. What happened this time?”

Your breath hitched, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, as if bracing against an invisible force. "Earlier at the courthouse, it was just a door… Just a slam, but it sounded like gunshots. Like it was happening all over again." You closed your eyes, tears threatening to spill over. "I couldn’t stop myself."

Hyunjin’s heart ached. He knew the weight of your words. He knew the fight you were in, every day, to stay away from the monster you’d been—and the fear that you might slip back into it.

"You’re not that person anymore," Hyunjin said, moving closer, his voice soft. "You’re not."

You shook your head, your breath coming faster now. "But I was. I can’t just forget it."

“You can’t change the past,” Hyunjin said, his voice calm and sure. "But you can change the future. You don’t have to be that person anymore.”

You let out a shaky breath, chest heaving as you tried to steady yourself. Hyunjin reached out his hand, a silent invitation. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to him, searching for something—anything—to tell you it was real. That it wasn’t just words. Slowly, you stepped forward, your body trembling as you leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around you, holding you steady, his presence firm and unwavering.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. The weight of everything you had been, and everything you feared you might become, rested on his shoulders. But he didn’t move. He didn’t pull away. He simply let you lean on him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice breaking.

Hyunjin’s hand gently stroked your back. “You’re not alone. Not anymore. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

Your body relaxed in his arms, the tension slowly easing. "Thank you," you murmured, voice raw but grateful.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Hyunjin said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “We’ll get through it. Together.”

You wiped your eyes, offering a shaky smile. "I don’t know how I’d do this without you."

Hyunjin smiled at your words, squeezing you just a bit tighter. He knew he had helped you along the way. He just feared what he knew would be inevitable, the day you left him.

Once the court case was closed, you’d be off to a new life under the witness protection program, a new beginning. He’d be extremely happy for you, but he feared what would happen to you in times like this.

Who would be there for you?

He shook the thought from his head, deciding that’s an issue for the future. For now, he would continue to be there for you, even if it was just for a short time.

[sheisjoeschateau]

“Oh, so do WE love Steve…” | Part VIII

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

CHAPTER VII WARNINGS/NOTES: t.w.'s - strong language, more angst, mentions of death, injuries, Max in a coma, fearful tears, shared sadness, end-of-the-world terror talk, tough conversations and brutal honesty, jealousy and regrets. 18+

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not a super action packed chapter, but we unpack a lot in this one. Sh*t gets addressed that needs to be addressed. Dr. Owens delivers some hard news. Robin to the rescue, big time, for her platonic soulmate with a capital P. Platonic Stobin in full swing. Eddie still has no chill, but is the zany friend that everyone needed. Eddie & Robin bonding. Argyle becomes a therapist. Nancy faces some hard truth. Jonathan faces harder truth. Jopper being the ever-observant grandparents. Murray being Murray. Steve and Bauman Squared are more in love than ever. And the kids? Little legends.

ANOTHER LONG ONE. AGAIN: PROOFREAD UNTIL MY EYES BLED. IF THERE ARE STILL TYPOS, SORRY BOUT IT. 18+

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“Dislocated the shoulder, but no break.  Popping it back into place isn’t going to be a picnic, but it’s way better than a break.  So we’re off to a great start.  Let’s take a look at your ribs now…”

Dr. Owens had you seated on the edge of the bed in Joyce and Hopper’s room downstairs.  Murray, Steve and Robin all stood nearby, alongside them.  They all watched anxiously.

Argyle and Eddie were on kid/teen duty.  They made sure to keep them out of the room, which they managed to convince them of by going upstairs to sit with Max and read to her out loud. 

You hissed as Dr. Owens made contact with your ribcage, and he frowned.  “Possible fracture there.  Good news is, if they were broken, you’d be on the ground in pure misery.  They might even just be really badly bruised.”

You sighed.  “I’m good with that.

Murray felt both relieved and frustrated at the same time.  God, he hated doctors.  Especially ones who served as double agents for the government.  But Dr. Owen’s had more than proven himself to be trustworthy, so your uncle was putting up with him.  For your sake, especially.  You were basically the only kid he was ever gonna have.

“Best bet is to rest, ice them regularly and let them heal for about six weeks.”

You frowned.  “Not so good with that.”

“Welp, you’re gonna have to be,” your uncle told you.  Steve and Hopper nodded.  You huffed, and Steve was selfishly grateful to know that you would have no choice but to stay home and out of danger. 

“Alright, let’s check that heartbeat, shall we?” Dr. Owens asked with a smile.  He took out his stethoscope, placing the instrument inside of his ears and blowing hot air onto the cold circle that would be placed over your heart.  You brought the collar of your shirt down so that he could place it on your chest, and he listened closely while you waited. 

Dr. Owens' smile slowly faded, and a prominent crease began to form between his brows.  Robin clocked it, along with Steve.  Hopper tried not to react, but Joyce’s fidgeting definitely gave it away.

“W-what’s wrong?” Joyce asked, unable to help herself.

Dr. Owens just held up a finger, politely gesturing for them to wait.  You furrowed your brow, suddenly aware of the fact that something seemed to be the matter.

Steve swallowed, unblinking.  What now…

Murray was not happy at the tension in the air, looking over at Joyce anxiously. 

Dr. Owens eventually cleared his throat, pulling the stethoscope out of his ears with a deep inhale.  He looks at you kindly, eyes solemn.  You stare back, questioning. 

“Well, umm…it’s normal.  Not surprising, given the electric shock, but uh…your heartbeat’s not at its normal steady rhythm.”

Robin heard Steve suck in a breath, placing a hand on his forearm as they all looked at Dr. Owens. 

“Cardiac arrhythmias is normal in these cases,” he tells you. “A heart arrhythmia occurs when the electrical signals that tell the heart to beat don't work properly. The heart may beat too fast or too slow. Or the pattern of the heartbeat may be inconsistent.  A heart arrhythmia may feel like a fluttering, pounding or racing heartbeat. Some heart arrhythmias cases are harmless.  Most, in fact.”

“Well, what about this one?” your uncle asked, voice grave. 

Dr. Owens sighed.  “Too soon to tell,” he said apologetically.  “But it’s important that it remains monitored.”

“What do we do.” …Steve’s question sounded more like a statement, laced with worry and dangerously voice low. 

Dr. Owens looked at him sympathetically.  “I can get a prescription that will help.  An antiarrhythmic medication.  No surgery is needed unless it’s severe.  It might not be.”

“How can you tell?” Joyce asked, worriedly.  “I mean – what are the signs that we need to look for?”

“Fainting, chest pain, dizziness.”  Then, to you, “If you feel like the heart is fluttering, or leaping inside of your chest, definitely make note of it.  Scale it, 1-10, how bad it is.  Be honest with yourself.  Don’t tell yourself you’re more fine than not, and vice-versa.  Don’t let it panic you, but just…stay alert.”

Steve wanted to pull every single one of his perfect hairs out.  How the hell was that supposed to help?  What happens if you wound up passed out on the floor, dead before they would get you proper help?

“Yeah, but what if — w-what if —”

That's all that Steve could mutter.  Robin squeezed his forearm tighter, masking her own fear as she gnawed at her bottom lip relentlessly.  Murray stared at Dr. Owens, visibly upset.  Hopper looked pale, along with Joyce.

“How fast can you get us that medication?” Hopper asked, like a protective papa.

“I’ll get it to you tonight.  Maybe tomorrow morning,” Dr. Owens promised.  “I can bring as much as you may need.  Meantime, I’ll leave the stethoscope so that you can monitor the heartbeat.  Here, let me show you what to look for.”

Dr. Owens instructed Steve and Murray on how to monitor your heartbeat, and you ached as you watched Steve look consumed with dread as he did his best to keep it together and not freak out.  Hopper and Joyce took notes, too.  Everyone listened to your heartbeat, Steve most of all.

You took his hand.  “Remember, it’s still there,” you murmured to him softly.  He nodded, knowing you were right but still not content with the reality of things.  Robin gave you a sympathetic smile, grateful for you and your courage.

Then, you looked at Dr. Owens with gratitude.  “Thank you.  For being here, and…helping out.  I know you’re putting yourself on the line.”

Dr. Owens gave you a deeply appreciative look, along with Hopper.  He wrung his hands.  “Appreciate that, kiddo.  Truly.” 

Everyone went over the plans that would go into effect, given the mandate taking place in just a few short days.  Hopper mentioned that it might be best for Dr. Owens to seek shelter with them, if things went south for him — given his compromised identity as an accomplice to them vs. the government.  The doctor couldn’t argue that, saying he would think about it.  Steve and Robin mentioned to him that Eddie needed looking over as well, which he said he’d do before he left.

While the adults talked, Steve and Robin walked with you out the bedroom door.  You looked outside the living room windows, hating the thick cloud of infected air that had only gotten worse — seemingly overnight.  It was dense, congested with alternate dimension disease. 

“Seriously, hate that I can’t even get some damn fresh air,” you sighed.

“Last thing you need is bad air in your lungs,” Steve told you, his fingers reaching to massage the crown of your head.  You sighed, knowing that he was right. 

The kids heard you all walking out of the room, Mike and Lucas peeking their heads around the doorway leading into Max’s room upstairs.  They made for the stairs, followed by Dustin, Will and El, rushing towards you all.  Eddie and Argyle shouted after them, but they quickly rushed over to you. 

They swarmed you all with questions.  Is your shoulder broken?  What about your ribs?  Are you hungry?

“One at a time, kiddos,” Robin warned. 

“No broken bones,” Steve told them, “But possible fracture.  Ribcage.  So no bear hugs, no tackling, no…rough-housing.”

Mike cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Speak for yourself.”

Lucas smacked him.

“Thank you, Wheeler,” Steve said wryly.  Mike smirked.

“Also, we gotta keep watch over Bauman’s heartbeat,” Robin pointed out. 

El looked worried.  “How come?”

You gave her an assuring head rub before carefully pulling her in for a hug.  “Just a bit of an irregular heartbeat.  You know.  Given the shock and astral-planing and all.”

El held you tight, cautious of your ribs.  

“…guess this means no coffee then, huh?” you asked, depressed at the mere thought. Caffeine was no longer your friend.

“That is correct,” Steve told you with a light kiss pressed to your head, then El’s.  “Alright, kitchen everyone.  Breakfast.  Let’s go.”

“Bauman, we need to pop your shoulder back in place,” Dr. Owens hollered after you, and you dreaded the pain that awaited you.

Eddie made it downstairs with Argyle.  “I’ll fix up a feast, big boy,” he told Harrington, giving him a quick couple pats on the shoulder.  Then he squeezed your cheek.  “Keep that heartbeat in rhythm, sweetheart.  I’ll make you a sweet mixtape for inspiration.”

You chuckled deeply, appreciating his sense of humor deeply.  Even Steve did, shaking his head and grateful for the cooking assistance.  “Don’t kill my toaster, Munson.”

Steve walked back into the bedroom with you, holding your hand while you had your shoulder popped back into place.  It was gnarly.  Plenty of pain medication followed that, one that took your heartbeat into account.  It was bound to knock you out at some point, so Steve and Robin made sure to get you back into the kitchen for some food before you’d need to head back upstairs and knock out asleep.

Hopper and Joyce helped out by adding some pancakes, sausage and eggs to Eddie’s cereal bar.  Murray was already day-drinking.  Dr. Owens stayed behind to join you all, at the invitation of the adults.  Currently, he was going over notes that Hopper had given him in a seat next to Murray.

Argyle saw Jonathan round the corner – looking glum.  “Yooo, bro-cha-cho.  Purple palm tree delight?”

Jonathan blinked, slowly brought out of his trance.  He looked tired, head hung low.  Honestly, he looked like shit.  “Oh, uhh…maybe later.  Yeah.”  He gave Argyle a sad smile before sulking off towards the front door while pulling a bandana over his mouth and nose — leaving the house.

“YO, GIMME SOME.”  Eddie spoke with a mouthful of fruit loops.  “Air’s shit anyway.  Why not fry my lungs s’more?”

“Fry it with what?” El asked innocently.

Eddie swallowed the sweet cereal awkwardly.  “...candy.”

Steve rolled his eyes as he poured everyone a glass of juice, and Robin held back a snort with all the strength that she could muster while divvying out plates.

“Really lame, gross candy,” Hopper threw back over his shoulder while flipping pancakes.  He eyed Munson with a protective dad look on his eyes.

“The weird peanut butter smelling kind,” Murray added, reading a newspaper and gritting at the taste of his straight vodka.

“Thank you, Murray,” Joyce reprimanded him.

You were seated next to El and Mike, not allowed to help given your sharp shoulder pain and the medication beginning to sink in.  Steve placed your food in front of you, along with the kids’. 

“Fresh pot of coffee going on,” Hopper announced while cooking.

You sighed, turning to Steve.  “Baby, do you —”

You stopped, catching yourself.  But so did everyone else.  Too late now.

“...have…decaf…?”

Steve’s heart swelled, his cheeks flushing. 

Lucas and Dustin made eye contact, trying not to laugh or get giddy.  Mike and El did, too, along with Will.  All the kids were in on it now — thanks to last night’s impromptu sleepover in Max’s room, unbeknownst to the rest of the household.  The OG party knew the secret, but they also agreed (thanks to Dustin’s firm warning about Murray’s rampage last night) not to press either you or Steve about it yet.  Big emphasis on yet.

Robin poured syrup in slow motion, and Eddie bit back a shit-eating grin.  Argyle looked unfazed, though, dishing up a plate of food. 

Hopper was grinning down at the pancakes he was serving up, back turned to everyone still.  Joyce unabashedly looked like a very happy mama, as Murray’s eyes peeked over the newspaper gleefully.

“Yeah, baby, I do,” Steve said, shooting you a wink and moving to go get some.  You blushed at Steve’s returning the pet name.  Steve walked towards the large pantry, passing Nancy — who you saw was now standing in the doorway, having heard it too.  She looked tired, similarly to Jonathan.  You gave her a soft smile, which she reluctantly returned. 

Walking towards you, she asked in the smallest of voices —

“How're you feeling?...”

You could tell that something was wrong, wanting to ask but also not.  “Shoulder’s screaming, but not broken thankfully.  Just out of the socket, Dr. Owens’ popped it back into place.  I’ll be alright.  Thanks, Nance.”

She gave you a relieved, tight-lipped smile.  You gave her as soft a look as you could, and Mike chimed in to break the tension.

“Nancy, I swear, Jonathan’s gonna turn into a palm tree if he keeps blazing it up,” he snorts, the joke very ill-timed.  But Dustin’s chuckling, along with Lucas’s, keeps him in a state of oblivion.  Something flickers in Nancy's eyes, and to your surprise she chuckles too — humorlessly.  Darkly.

“Yeah.  You can say that again.”

…so she agrees with her brother’s joke?  Nancy moved to dish herself up a plate, expression bitter and her movements aggressive.   You felt bad and you didn’t even know why.

Mike definitely looked confused, along with his friends.  Will looked concerned, along with Joyce.  Mother and son made eye contact.

Steve returned, ready to make a pot of fresh decaf.  He brought an extra coffee pot with him.  Rich kid perks.

“Morning, Nance,” he acknowledged her, moving to make the coffee. 

Her heart seized, voice tight.  “Hey.”

Hopper made uncomfortable eye contact with Murray, who buried himself deeper into his chair with the newspaper.  He did not account for this sort of awkwardness when going on a rant last night… Hopper shot him a high-raised eyebrow while flipping another pancake.

Steve heated up the pot of decaf, taking a plate that Joyce dished up for him and moving to sit next to you.  Mike made room for him, not even questioning it.  That made Nancy scoop more than enough eggs onto her plate than necessary. 

Hopper clocked it.  “You, uhh…need some cheese, or…?” 

Joyce gave Hopper a disapproving look, old married couple behavior in full swing.  Nancy looked down at her plate, embarrassed.  “Oh…n-no, I’m —”

Nancy awkwardly moved to sit down at the table next to Dustin.  Robin gulped, knowing what this was all about.  Finally, everyone was seated at the table – aside from Steve, who stood to pour you a cup of hot decaf coffee before bringing it over to you.  You sipped it, eyes becoming hooded with exhaustion as the pain medication set in.  Steve scooted his chair closer so that you could lean on him if needed.  Nancy had to peel her eyes away, staring down at her food — playing with it, unable to stomach eating it now.

She couldn’t even be mad.  How could she?  What right did she have to be mad?  And who would she even be mad at?  You?  Steve?  Jonathan?

Herself.  She was mad at herself.

That’s what she realized last night, when she and Jonathan didn’t get a wink of sleep in their room.  They’d stayed up, hashing it out once and for all.  It was a hurricane of sadness, harsh truth and reality – all at once.  Words that had been left unsaid.  Feelings that had never been expressed.  Regrets, empty promises and words of disappointment.  All aired out like dirty laundry.  He had asked how long she’d been falling for Steve again, which she had countered by asking him how long he had been planning to dump her while he was in California.  Jonathan had been stunned into silence, asking how the hell she knew that and if she had spoken to Argyle.  Nancy’s eyes, filled with tears, had stared at him with the look of utmost betrayal.  “It was a hunch.  Until right now.”

Neither of them got closure that night.  Nearly 5 hours of back and forth, and it got them nowhere.  They went to bed angry.  Sad, heartbroken and lost.  But sleep didn’t find either of them.  Instead, they both stared in opposite directions — backs turned to one another in a shared bed.  The morning had re-ignited the argument whenever they heard Dr. Owens arriving, because when Jonathan had moved to get up, Nancy asked him bitterly: “need to go hide your stash?”  That started back up all sorts of hissed, whispered arguing.

“Nancy, where’d Jonathan go?” Joyce’s question, soft and a bit worried, rattled Nancy’s thoughts.

“He just…wanted to get some fresh air.”

Everyone was silent.  Dr. Owen’s looked up from his files.  “It’s really bad out there.  He really shouldn’t be breathing any of that in.”

Nancy grit her teeth, fork scraping across her plate and making Robin cringe at the jarring sound.  

Mike snorted as he ate more pancakes.  “His lungs are already in rough condition as it is.  Probably doesn’t even matter.”

Nancy narrowed her eyes down at her plate of toyed breakfast food, nauseas.  She nodded her head bitterly, speaking through gritted teeth: “Agreed.  What’s it matter?  Likely irreparable anyway.”

No one missed the double meaning behind that as she rose to stand and dump her plate into the trash.  She quickly made her way out of the room, knowing the damage was already done but not having it in her to care.  Nancy couldn’t get away fast enough.

Eddie looked so uncomfortable but also sympathetic.  He knew this was a result of last night, along with Robin.  They shared a quiet, concerned glance.  Mike and the kids were just confused.  What was her deal?

Steve’s brow was furrowed, along with yours — however, you were already feeling the medicine kick in so everything was starting to feel fuzzy.  Your fingers were wrapped around the hot cup of decaf, warming them.  You were wearing a few rings that Eddie had gifted you while in the upside down, and as Steve focused on them now he realized just how hot you looked wearing them.  He took in your slightly hooded eyes, moving to stand.  “Wanna go lie down?”

You nodded, excusing yourself and thanking Dr. Owens again.  He told you that he’d make sure to get the medication later today, then to Eddie — “Hey Munson, let’s go check on how those stitches are holding up, yeah?”

Eddie gulped.  He hated needles and doctor tools.

Robin smirked.  “Let’s go show him my handywork.”  They all moved off to the living room, followed by Hopper.

Joyce looked perplexed still, unsettled by Nancy’s exit.  She turned to Will, speaking softly, “Did Jonathan tell you anything?  Is something wrong?”

But Will shook his head, shrugging, just as confused and concerned.  “Nothing,” he whispered back. “I was gonna ask you that.”

The eldest and youngest Byers looked pensive, thinking.  Wondering.  Worrying.

Mike’s face was quizzical. “What do you mean?  Why would anything be wrong with them?”

An incredulous scoff from behind the newspaper made everyone turn in Murray’s direction.   The grouchy man just sipped on his morning cup of poison, minding his business — even though he stuck his nose in everybody else’s.  

Joyce’s eyes narrowed at the front page of the Hawkins Press.  Of course…

“Hey, Mur?”

Murray cringed at Joyce’s sugary sweet, all-knowing tone… Hesitantly, he lowered the paper by just barely an inch.  He internally winced at the motherly eyes that bore into his soul from the table.

“Wanna go help me start clearing out the basement?”

Oh my god, Joyce Byers is going to murder me in Steve Harrington’s basement.  

That’s all Murray thought while he set down his newspaper, swigged the last of his drink and followed her downstairs.  He began to mentally write his eulogy.

Hopper grunted, setting his fork down.  “Ahhh, geez,” he huffed, standing up to follow them.

The kids all eyed each other, left alone at the table — no adults or older teens in sight.  What the hell just happened?

***

Steve got you upstairs safely, tucking you into bed and making sure you had water at your bedside table along with a walkie so that you could signal for him if you needed anything.  It made you chuckle. 

“What?” he asked you, quizzically. 

You shook your head.  “Still wondering why you’re considered the mom?”

Steve shot you a wry look, no heat in his eyes.  You were already beginning to doze off, the better pain meds doing their thing – thanks to Dr. Owens. 

With a little shake of his head and fighting a smirk, Steve crouched to kiss your forehead, then your neck.

“Careful, Harrington,” you murmured sleepily.  “Don’t wan’g’my heart rate up.”

“Shush, I’m keeping it steady,” his lips murmured into your jaw.  You hummed in approval, feeling yourself beginning to drift off as his breathing tickled your neck.  Steve whispered that he loved you, and you faintly whispered it back as you fell asleep. 

Unable to contain himself, Steve placed his ear to your chest for a moment — listening to your heartbeat.  He frowned to himself, hearing the sporadic beat.  Thump.  Th-thump, thump.  Thump thump.  His throat started to burn, along with his eyes.  But your fingers gently scratching his head, ceasing as you finally fell asleep, kept his emotions at bay.

Steve reluctantly pulled himself a way, pressing a lingering kiss to your hand before making his way out of your bedroom door.

He jogged downstairs to meet with the adults again, checking on Eddie as he was finishing up with Dr. Owens.  The older man smiled at Steve.

“I gotta say, Harrington.  Your friend’s a natural caretaker.  Could be a nurse one day.”

Robin gave a smug grin.  “See?  I’m not just a band nerd.  Turns out, I’m a real geek.  A medical one, at that.”

Steve smirked back at her.  “Yeah well, hope you like blood and needles and guts.”

“Psh.  After the shit we’ve seen?” Robin scoffed.  “Think I can handle it.” 

“Touché,” Steve nodded.

“Speak for yourself,” Eddie grumbled.  “I never wanna see my own blood ever again.  I feel like a voodoo doll.  Vecna can suck my whole hairy ass.”

“Thaaaank you, Munson,” Robin cringed.  “Love that visual.”

“He can honestly suck mine, too.”

Dr. Owens muttering that was ten times more disturbing than Eddie.  The three teens were awkwardly quiet, aside from Eddie finally chuckling out of pity.  The older man didn’t even notice as he packed up his belongings.

“Alrighty then,” Dr. Owens said politely.  “Best be off.   I’ll be back tonight with the prescription for your lady.”

Steve blushed slightly at that, giving the doc a thankful nod.  

“Keep an eye on her,” Dr. Owen’s said kindly.  “She’ll be alright.  She’s a tough one.  Murray’s got one helluva soldier for a niece.”

“She’s bad to the bone,” Eddie reveled.

“Made of steel,” Steve agreed, fondly and voice soft.  But he nibbled at his lip, mind elsewhere.  He was still worried, and the doctor could tell.

“Just make sure she stays horizontal and lets those ribs heal.  That’ll do her heart some good.  And don’t fret.  I’ve seen way worse.”

Dr. Owens’ gave a firm pat and squeeze to Steve’s shoulder, hoping it would give him plenty of assurance. Steve gave him a quick, tight-lipped grin, pretending it helped.  Robin looked at her best friend worriedly. 

With that, Dr. Owen’s made his way out.  Hopper met him at the doorway, walking out with him.

“STEVE, WHERE’S THE PUDDING?”

Dustin’s sudden shouts from the kitchen made everyone jump.

“Jesus H. Christ —” Eddie hissed, clutching his heart.

“Henderson,” Steve exhaled, raking a hand through his hair as he turned to march towards the kitchen.  “I swear to god.”

“Lemme handle it,” Eddie huffs.  “Yo, BUTT MUNCH.  WE JUST HAD BREAKFAST.”

Stepdad of the year.

Steve would normally wave off the offered help, being the assigned mother of the group.  But even as the kids all made noise with Eddie, he found himself just…letting him take care of it.  He needed a break.  Needed to think.

“Steve, Joyce is asking where the keys to the basement breaker are,” Erica was asking him as she rounded the corner.

Steve blinked, nodding and wrapping his head around the request.  But Robin stepped in, sensing his internal overwhelm.

“I’ll get them,” she told Erica, shooting a quick look at Steve.  “Kitchen drawer, yeah?”

He nodded, sighing with relief.  Robin made her way there with Erica, and Steve took that as a chance at escape.  He could feel his chest tightening, breathing constricting a bit.  Yikes, he needed some air.  But that wasn’t an option either.  Best bet was the nearest empty room.  Max’s room was closer than his.  Steve quickly bound the stairs, pinching his nose and slipping into the room quietly — needing a moment, just a moment.

El walked out of the hallway restroom, right after Steve had closed the door.  She made for the stairs, heading down to find Hopper.  When he walked back inside from his chat with Dr. Owens, the two of them made for the basement — telling the kids to follow, while Robin told Lucas she would handle replenishing Max’s feeding tube upstairs.  She knew how to, since Dr. Owens had given strict intrusions to not only the adults but also to her.  She, along with you and Steve, knew how to handle it thoroughly.  Robin found herself oddly keen on helping people with the medical stuff.  It gave her a newfound sense of purpose.  She headed upstairs, pep in her step — who knows?  Maybe she’d found her calling, she wondered to herself.

She opened Max’s door, freezing when she found Steve on the other side of it.  Her heart sank.

Her best friend stood leaning against the wall to the right of the door frame — facing Max’s bed.  His face was scrunched, pained.  

“Steve…” Robin murmured, heartbroken.  She quickly shut the door, locking it and placing a hand on his shoulder.  The sight of a tear-track on his face, glistening in the gloomy natural light of the room, made her frown.

Steve looked at her for all of a millisecond, feeling caught but unable to stop now.  His emotions were definitely catching up with him, and Robin wasn’t surprised — given just how long he’d been keeping shit in.  She’d known for a while now: Steve Harrington needed a good, long fucking cry.  She watched him pinch the bridge of his nose, his pretty face crumpling even more and shoulders shaking as he bit down on his lip hard. 

“Steve, hey, it’s just me,” she whispered kindly, hugging and rubbing his shoulders while resting her chin there.  He kept as much noise trapped inside of his throat as possible, mainly just letting it all come out through a quiet flow of steady tears as he stood tensely.  He gratefully clasped onto one of Robin’s hands — with the one hand he wasn’t holding to the bridge of his nose with, willing the tears to stop.

“You’re really overdue for this,” Robin nudged him gently, squishing her cheek deeper into the curve of his shoulder.  “Seriously, I’ve been wondering when the hell you were gonna let it all out…”

Steve coughed on what seemed to be half a laugh, half a sob.  He was frustrated with himself.  With everything.  Your heart is failing you now and maybe forever.  Max is still in a coma.  His loved ones are all in danger.  His kids can’t catch a break.  His parents left.  Hawkins is basically dead.  And the upside down just gets closer, no matter how many gates they’ve closed over the last 3 years.

SO YEAH.  Robin was right.  Steve needed to fucking cry.

She stood there with him for a little while, letting her presence comfort him and not pushing.  Steve really did hit the jackpot with her in the best friend department.

“Sometimes, I wonder if she’s still there.”

Steve’s voice was thick, low and vibrating the room.  Robin knew who he meant, following his gaze.  Max.

Robin hummed.  “Trust me.  That little firecracker is very much alive and can’t wait to tear into all of us with her redheaded temper and sarcastic wit.”

If Robin had been looking at him, she would have seen the corner of Steve’s lips quirk up briefly in amusement.  She was right, of course.

“Think she knows?” Robin asks softly, still leaning onto Steve.  “About…anything?”

She felt Steve take a deep breath, exhaling deeply as he rubbed his face.  “M’not sure,” he murmurs, thoughts grim.  “Honestly, I hope not.  That’d mean she’s still trapped in there.  Somewhere dark.  Vile, and awful.”

Robin shuddered at that, hating the thought.  She decided to ask something different.  Lighter.

“Think she knew you were head over heels for a girl you swore you couldn’t stand?”  She turned her head on Harrington’s shoulder so that she was looking up at him with teasing eyes and a wiggling brow.  “Vowed to hate, forever and always, cross your heart and hope to die?”

Steve shook his head, beginning to grin.  He looked at Max the whole time while doing so, imagining his little sister/daughter figure giving him hell for falling for you but completely loving it.  Because while he knew that Max loved him — that little shit loved the hell out of you.

Steve’s frown suddenly returned, face crumpling all over again.  It broke Robin’s heart as she watched fresh tears fill his eyes, which he trapped from falling by quickly scrunching his eyes shut again and digging the heels of his palms into them.  It made Robin want to bawl.  But she held it together for Steve’s sake, lifting her head to turn and hug him tight.  She shushed him softly, desperate to calm him.  Comfort him, assure him.

Steve sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, forbidding his cries to make noise.  He couldn’t.  Not right now.  He could scream into a pillow later.  Right now, he just let Robin hold him until he got it together again.

Eventually, Steve pulled back — swiping at his eyes and nose, sniffing hard.  Robin looked at him sadly, rubbing his arms and letting him steady his breathing.

“Jesus, Robin, a heart arrhythmia…”

Robin had a feeling that was what was weighing heavily on Steve’s mind.  You, and your newly failing heart.  It made her upset, too.  Deeply upset.  It worried her sick.  But she couldn’t let Steve sense that.  Not right now.  She needed to be there for him — and by extension, you.

“We’re gonna steady it, Steve,” Robin promised, voice low but fierce.

Steve shuddered a sigh, eyes downcast and mind racing as he carded his fingers through his hair.  “It’s the end of the fucking world and all our heart rates are already on edge as it is —”

“So we keep her here,” Robin interrupted, gently.  “Out of harm’s way, as best we can.  We don’t let her put herself in a position to freak out.”  She paused, thinking.  “Yknow, come to think of it, Bauman’s probably the coolest outta all of us big kids.  Pretty sure that chick has freaked out the least.”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly.  Oh, you.  “Yeah, because she’s a fucking sociopath like her uncle.”

Robin genuinely laughed at that, unable to help it.  Steve smiled, too.  But a few tears met the smile and the breathy laugh he let out.  Robin thumbed them away sweetly.

“She’s great,” Robin told him.  “Really great.  Stupid great.  Maybe my favorite lady I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.  Aside from Vicki.”

Steve sniffed.  “You tryna steal my girl?”

Robin cocked an eyebrow, happy to hear him teasing.  Good, it’s working.  “Oh, so she is your girl now, huh?  Exclusive, off-limits?”

Steve bit back a big, bashful smile — looking at her almost shyly and nudging her foot with his shoe.  He turned to look at Max, nodding in her direction.

“Think she’d approve?”

Robin looked at the sleeping girl, too.  She smiled sadly.  “Depends.  Of you two as a pair?  Yeah.  You’re mom and dad.  As far as she’s concerned, neither one of you has anyone else out there deserving of you both.  So I’d assume she feels you guys deserve each other more than anyone else deserves either of ya.”

Steve actually smiled at that, eyes sparkling as he looked at Max.  He took a minute to take in her still form, thinking back to when he first met her with the kids.  She was a badass.  You’d have thought she’d been fighting monsters all her life.  She actually took better to the whole upside down shit than he had, whenever he went over to Jonathan Byers’ house to apologize then got roped into all the madness.  He had to give it to her: Max was hardcore.

“I really need this shithead to wake up,” Steve chuckled humorlessly.

Robin did, too, squeezing his arm as she shook her head at Max’s sleeping face hooked up to a breathing tube.  “When she does…it’ll be a helluva reunion.”

Steve liked that.  When.

“And whennn your girl gets her strength back,” Robin continued, “along with her ribs back in tact, you know…given you, Byers and Munson took her to pound town…”

Steve made a face.  “Gross.  Don’t say that, no.”

“Damn, Harrington, get your head outta the gutter,” Robin popped her hip into Steve’s side.  “Even when I’m being serious, talking about resuscitation — not sex…you’re still jealous…at a hypothetical.”

Steve gave her a wry look, but then placed his cheek on top of her head as he looked at Max.

“As I was saying…” Robin murmured, a smile in her voice.  “When your girl is back up to speed, she will give you all the heart attacks to make up for it.  You won’t be able to stand her guts but you’ll be so in love with her it won’t matter.  And then Max will wake up…give you two shit for it…then be a mess of joy because the two babysitters turned enemies have suddenly become lovers.”  Robin paused, smiling to herself.  “And I’ll be the happiest, proudest, most sappy-go-lucky best friend in the world.”

Steve breathed a sigh at that, content.  It brought him peace in this moment — the idea of you, perfectly fine and all in one piece.  The idea of his kid waking up, her memory still intact along with her sarcasm and quick wit.  The idea of his best friend being so happy to see him so happy.

He threw an arm around her, and the two best friends just stood there for another several moments to revel in the quiet of it all — allowing themselves to dream.  Allowing themselves to believe.

***

Meanwhile, Eddie definitely did not feel guilty for having eaten the last 3 puddings that Henderson had selfishly stashed for himself.  Little bro’s just gonna have to cope, he thought to himself as he jogged up the stairs.  

He almost broke into song, Master of Puppets rambling on inside his head -- but stopped himself when he heard voices.  Tense voices. 

Eddie’s pace came to a slow, and he became not only more aware of his steps — but the voices, too.  Where they were coming from…to whom they belonged…

"So he was then. He was going to break up with me."

"Listen, I...I realllllllly don't wanna...speak outta term here..."

Only one guy under this roof talked that slowly, and only one lady under this roof spoke with that crisply.

Argyle and Nancy.

"Look, just -- tell me exactly what he said."

"That is what he said, man, I swear..."

Eddie could hear Nancy huffing exasperatedly. For a rich family, Steve's parents' house had some really cheap, thin doors...

He crept closer, still standing a few paces down. Just in case he needed to bolt, should someone catch him listening in -- or in case one of the two speaking on the other side of the door barged out of the room. Eddie listened, his senses on high alert and his curiosity burning.

"Then he was going to break up with me -- God, I knew it. I just knew it!"

Wait, Eddie thought. Jonathan was going to break up with her...? And Argyle knew...? But then...wait, then how did Nancy...?

"Look, Nancy," Argyle was sighing, sounding pretty worried despite his usual lackadaisical tone. "He didn't want to, alright? I'm a bro. I know when a brother's down bad, he was just freaking himself out, you know -- because of where you wanna go to college...where he wants to go to college..."

"Oh, that is so NOT an excuse."

"Which is whyyy I told him to talk to you --"

"Then why didn't he. Huh? Why didn't he??"

Eddie gulped. He could hear the genuine hurt and betrayal in Nancy's voice. Sheez, Byers was in for one helluva fight...

"Honestly, I'm asking myself that too, Nancy," Argyle was huffing this out, matching her energy. Even he sounded exasperated with his best bro. "But I'm also remembering that...like...that creepy Vecna dude kinda threw off everybody's groove. I mean -- I came to pick them up from the house and it was all getting shot up and stuff, liiiike...shit kinda hit the fan...you know...?"

"That's...still, that's not..."

"Annnnd you guys were all caught up in the shit going down back in Hawkins, man...you know? Chrissy, and...that coworker of yours, annnnd...that other random dude who hung out with... shiiiit, what was his name...? Jake...?"

"Jason," Nancy muttered lowly.

"That guy."

"Look -- Argyle." Nancy huffed again, flustered at life but regaining her edge. "Upside down stuff aside, Jonathan still took the time to talk this out with you. Not me, you. For weeks."

There was an awkward pause before Argyle spoke.

"...yeah, that's pretty bad..."

"He could have called. He could have written me. He could've, he could've, he could've. But he didn't."

"Why didn't you tell him that?"

"...what?"

Oh shit, Eddie gulped.

"Whenever we all got back here," Argyle explained. "Back in Hawkins. Why didn't you confront him about it?"

Another awkward silence.

"...I..." Nancy stumbled.

"Why didn't you go up to him, call his ass out, and call him out for not talking to you?" Argyle was suddenly sounding pretty sure of himself. It was out now character for him. Oddly? It suited him.

"I...I..."

Meanwhile, Nancy was uncharacteristically not sounding sure of herself.

Argyle gained speed.

"Think about it! You say you knew something was off...you say he was giving you mixed signals...you say he got back and suddenly acted like everything was fine, but that you sensed things still were not fine...so then why let it go? Why not tell him yourself? You're a loud woman."

"Whoa, what?" Nancy stuttered.

"You are!!! That's a compliment! You're loud and proud. You wear the damn pants. You have a gun collection. You don't hold back, even if you don't say fully what it is that you mean. Your poker face is shit."

"Argyle...!"

"You've been avoiding it too, Nancy," Argyle cut her off.

At this point, Eddie was frozen as he listened. Damn. When did Argyle become a therapist?

Clearly, Nancy was asking herself the same thing. Because it was quiet. Severely quiet.

Eddie started tracing shapes into the carpet with his mind while he stared at the ground, waiting to hear more dialogue. But it was crickets.

Finally, he heard Argyle sighing deeply. "Maybe if you both just...I dunno, man...listened to each other. Like...heard one another. You both just keep using whatever it is that you ask each other to like...one up each other...and it doesn't get either of you anywhere, man... Just hear each other out."

A tap on Eddie's shoulder made him flinch back, nearly jumping out of his skin. He whipped around to see Robin, staring at him with wide eyes. She held a finger to her lips.

Eddie couldn't believe that he managed to keep the scream trapped inside of him. He sagged with relief, heart pounding and silently pantomiming strangling her. Don't scare me like that. Her head bobbed back and forth as he shook her by the shoulders, and together they realized that they were both in on the secret:

Nancy and Jonathan are not alright.

Together, they softly crept down the hallway into Steve's bedroom. As Robin closed the door, Eddie whirled around to speak in a hissed whisper.

"Holy shit, what the fuck, this is like a soap opera --"

"Shhhhh," Robin hissed back, swatting at him to keep quiet.

"I'm literally whispering."

"And spitting."

"Sorry."

They continued whispering through gritted teeth, relieved to have each other to confide in. Eddie and Robin were beginning to feel like the zany aunt and uncle of the group who knew too much about everything going on around the house. It bonded them for sure. They knew about you and Steve, which also became a topic of whispered conversation right now as they sat cross-legged on the floor of Steve's bedroom.

"Sorry, but can we talk about how off we were trying to push Wheeler back on Harrington?" Eddie's eyebrows were raised practically to the top of his hairline.

Robin scoffed at themselves, shaking her head. "I'll say..."

"It was right there under our noses and we just..." Eddie moved his hand in a straight line, "...breeeeezed onnnnn past it."

"Yeah, but honestly?" Robin whispered eagerly. "I thought Bauman hit a sore spot that could never be repaired. Steve seriously was in love with Nancy. Like, really in love."

Eddie chuckled lowly, shaking his head. "Trust me. I said the same thing. To his face directly, while we were in the upside down. Told him that what Wheeler did -- diving into the lake after him -- was the most unambiguous sign of true love I'd ever seen in my life." He paused, thinking. "But what I failed to realize was that...it was Bauman who freaking lunged for him first on the boat. And the way he clung to her hand, despite also looking mad at her for doing that --"

Eddie was reliving the memory, realizing something. Robin was, too.

"He was mad that she put her life on the line," Robin nodded along, slowly stitching together his thoughts.

"But it was just so fast," Eddie pointed out as he agreed. "Literally, one moment Harrington's back to the surface, getting ready to hop back on the boat. Next, he's being tugged down by that -- that thing... And Bauman just -- lunged for him. And he grabbed her hand, but the look he shot her?... It was so...conflicted..."

Robbin nodded, swallowing hard. "Like he grabbed her hand back gratefully, but also hated what she'd just done to herself by putting her life on the line."

"Which is whyyyy," Eddie continued, figuring it all out. "Whenever she got dragged underneath with him, and the two of them went at it -- bickering like crazy when we all got down there with 'em and fought off the bats...he was so mad at her. And she was mad that he was mad."

Robin scoffed a laugh, pace palming. "And all we saw was Nancy diving in after him --"

"After Bauman already beat her to it," Eddie muffled into his palms. “Duuuuude, they’re so in love. Been love. Unambiguously in love.”

"We are idiots," Robin giggled, face palming.

"Not as big as they are, though," Eddie corrected, snorting. They both snickered like big kids into their hands, trying to keep quiet.

Eddie finally sighed, thinking fondly. "Those two are actually stupid fucking adorable."

Robin smiled wistfully. "Yeah. Yeah, they are." She bit her lip, thinking. "Honestly, I've...I've never seen Steve this torn up."

She told Eddie how worried she was for her best friend. How worried she was for you. How desperately she wished that all of this would go away. How she prayed that Max would wake up, and that Vecna would choke on his own guts and that the upside down would cease to exist.

Eddie nodded, eyes solemn as he gnawed on his cheek. "I wish I could've known Chrissy better."

Robin's brows pinched together. She could see the genuine remorse -- maybe even regret -- in Eddie's eyes. Had there been...feelings there...?

"Wish that I'd..." Eddie mumbled, eyes on the ground searching for the words. "That I'd just...I don't know. Tried to notice, or care about something other than living in my own world all the time."

Robin gave his hand a squeeze, shooting him a synaptic tight-lipped smile. Eddie squeezed her hand back, gratefully.

"You're doing that now," Robin reminded him softly. "Chrissy sees that."

Eddie looked at her, his eyes going glassy. He looked like a sweet puppy when he got emotional. Robin noted just how wholesome that was as she placed her other hand on top of theirs.

"We seriously need to kill this son of a bitch," Eddie whispered, angered anguish briefly flashing in his dark eyes.

Robin nodded fiercely. "We will."

They took a few moments to just be in silence, letting it all land.

A light knock at the door broke through the tranquility of the silence, concluding the tender moment. Eddie and Robin looked at Steve's bedroom door, taking a second before Robin rose to answer it. Eddie figured that was best, given she is the platonic soulmate of the room's owner.

Neither of them were sure what to expect exactly, as far as who was on the other side of the door. Robin half expected it to be Steve himself. Eddie's expectations looked a lot like one of the kids.

So when they saw Jonathan standing on the other side, that made them all go stiff.

He still looked awful. Eyes rimmed red from exhaustion, a little bloodshot. His hair was messy, not sure how to sit on his head. These days, Jonathan looked haggard. While he was never the pretty-boy type, Jonathan was always good looking in a moody, brooding sort of way. The unconventionally attractive type. Lately? He just looked worn down, tired and a little bit like a bum. Definitely not the type of guy you would expect Nancy Wheeler to be going steady with, given how polished and precise she is. Opposites attract, but at this rate the two of them were becoming contrasts of one another.

"Hey," Jonathan said softly, timidly. He looked caught, but so did Robin and Eddie as he looked at both of them.

"Hey," they awkwardly repeated.

After a long, awkward, pregnant pause, Jonathan finally cleared his throat and gave his legs a little pat -- as if that might help break the tension.

"Is uhh, is Steve here?"

Robin shook her head. "No, he's with Bauman. I told him to go take a nap, since Dr. Owens got her so early and I know he's not sleeping."

Jonathan's eyes softened, looking sympathetic and giving her a light nod. He scratched his neck. Eddie clocked some weird sort of guilty glint in his eye. Like something was really on his mind and he needed to get it off his chest. There was almost an anxious twitch to him.

Eddie began to realize that he knew what this was about. About why Jonathan was looking for Steve, and why he looked so glum. So anxious.

Because Eddie was there that day. When you fell. When you died. When Jonathan tried to step in and bring you back, before Steve was finally able to step in. Eddie was there, watching it all happen. He watched Steve fall apart, fraying at the seams. He watched Jonathan exhaust himself with the attempted CPR. He watched how it completely exerted him, no doubt thanks to the lack of decent nutrition and lung damage that was due to the purple palm tree delight. That had to have to have set Jonathan's lungs on fire, as he desperately tried pumping air back into your lungs. Eddie had watched Jonathan lean back, only for Steve to verbally tear into him.

DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING STOP.

IT'S NOT WORKING, IT'S TOO LATE.

NONE OF US GAVE UP ON YOUR BROTHER. FUCK YOU, BYERS. FUCK YOU.

The storm of words between Harrington and Byers was no doubt long overdue. That was evident with every single word that Steve spat at Jonathan, and every word that Jonathan bitterly wept. Both men had shrieked at each other, shrill and angry and hurt.

Eddie had watched as they both went at it, Steve lashing out and Jonathan feebly fighting back. He might not have been close with them in high school. He might have run in completely different circles than them. He might not have known anything about the two of them, or what sort of crucial role they played in each other's lives, or how the upside down not only existed but also forced them to merge worlds. But fast forward to yesterday, when you were dead at everyone's feet and no one knew if they would save you -- Eddie saw 3 years of unspoken words go flying between Steve and Jonathan. He watched it all unfold, ugly and loud and anguished.

Because while Steve might have found some sort of silent (albeit avoidant) peace that he inwardly had made with Jonathan Byers, his bitterness was still there. Festering, festering, festering...never truly unloading itself whenever he projected onto you.

Because you hadn't taken Nancy away. Jonathan had.

Maybe that's partly why Steve got so livid with Jonathan. Because he could now. Now that you were gone, or so they'd thought, he had no choice but to scream at Jonathan. To finally let him have it.

FUCK YOU BYERS. FUCK YOU.

Steve had screamed that in Jonathan's face, voice wrecked from angry tears and shrieks of pure fear. It was fucking personal.

And Jonathan had taken it. Like he deserved it. Because maybe a part of him did. Maybe, just maybe, a big part of him did. Not because he wasn't a decent guy. Hell no, Byers was a great dude. He had just...lost his way. And that was fine. But really, he wasn't as present as usual -- given his more frequently ~high~ state, and his newfound friendship with Argyle. That wasn't a bad thing. It just...changed things.

Eddie had watched Byers go from the super observant, introverted wallflower to a nonchalant, low-key absent-minded, slightly lazy guy. Not nearly as driven as before. Not that he was ever this super academic, wildly driven type to begin with. Still, there had been something more to Byers prior to now. Something alive. Lately? Byers looked like he was simply surviving. Doing just a bit more than the bare minimum to get by.

Meanwhile, Steve had grown exponentially. He'd gone from being an entitled, snobbish rich kid who made C's and D's to a street-smart hero who knew how to protect and care for both kids and his friends, along with being trusted by the adults involved in all of these terrifying circumstances. He wasn't the teacher's pet growing up, but he certainly was the favorite now. He was Steve Harrington: bad boy turned supermom/superboy. He wasn't quite superman. He'd lost the girl, because Lois Lane had chosen Bruce Wayne over him. But along the way, he'd unexpectedly fallen for Gotham City's badass princess who floated under the radar until she found her way into the circle of Hawkins Heroes -- the upside down underdogs. Steve was strong, he was loyal and he was true.

So that afternoon next to the electric fence, those two men were having a 3-year standoff without even truly acknowledging it. It was bound to blow up in their faces at some point. And you had been the catalyst.

Eddie took all of that in by looking at Jonathan Byers as he stood in Steve Harrington's doorway, looking into the eyes of the former jock's best friend and his new unexpected friend of a metalhead.

"When he's up...I need to speak with him."

Jonathan's voice shook a bit, nervously. But he made eye contact with both Robin and Eddie. His eyes were sincere, remorseful and eager. "Please."

***

:) thank u all for reading. thoughts on this chapter? guesses as to what might go down? TAGLIST: @xprloki @erastourvip  @get0ut0fmyr00m @Eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog00  @poppet05 @wiltedflowersundertowers  Originalthingparadise Pleuviors pumpkinonice Ihaveproblemsihaveproblems Brinleighsstuff Definitelynotherr sucker-4-angst notlilyyyy

[hxney-lemcn]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 2K FOLLOWERS❤️

Could i request a 🌹🥂😳 with Rook please?

a/n: I struggled with this one and then it ended up being my longest one yet...idk how to feel about the ending. Also I suck at writing kissing scenes so sorry about that 😭 (I also used the forbidden google translate so apologies for any mistranslations (feel free to correct)).

tw: none.

wc: 0.6k

2k follower event | master list

It was just a joke. You had to keep repeating that to yourself. Oh silly, foolish you made one joke and now Rook was taking it and running. You had merely offhandedly called him your husband, a joke about how he always seemed tied to your hip, willing to help you with your troubles. Of course he’d find it amusing, running around and calling himself yours, singing your praises and how lucky he was to have you by his side.

And now everyone actually thought you were together. Like for real. You weren’t sure why everyone seemed to take Rook for his word now, of all times, but it seemed that everyone collectively agreed that you both were a thing. You tried to point out how he treated Vil similarly, but no one saw it, saying that he seemed to be more tender with you, whatever that meant. 

Well, you think you understand now. You had gotten hurt. Barely. It was just a scratch. You had tripped and fell, palms scraping the concrete ground and turning red. You hadn't even bled, but Rook had swept in, coming from seemingly nowhere, and gently grabbing your wrists, he inspected your injury.

With a small tsk, he mumbled, “Even in pain, you still manage to look elegant.” “I’m okay,” You replied, already knowing Rook was going to take this out of proportion. 

“Non, ma chérie,” Rook shook his head, his hair swaying with his movement. “We must treat this with haste. You don’t wish to get an infection, right?”

With a sigh, you gave in. It was clear with the determined shine in his emerald eyes that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Bringing you to his room, he gathered his first aid kit and tended to your wounds. The alcohol stung, but you found yourself easily distracted. With a close up view of the man that’s been haunting you. There were freckles that dotted his nose, but they seemed faint, almost like they were fading. His eyes were focused solely on your hands, making sure he attended every one of your tiny scratches that littered your palms. Then your eyes landed on his lips, a soft pink that stretched into a small smile. It wasn’t those grandiose ones he showed whenever he was singing Vil’s praises, or the sharp one of a hunter watching his prey. No, it was softer, tender, just like how others told you. 

He finished quickly, there wasn’t much to clean in the first place, but that meant he had caught you staring. His grin turned sharper, amused he had caught you.

“How bold, mon cœur,” Rook murmured, eyes glistening with amusement. Bringing his face closer, you felt his breath fan over you, causing your face to warm. 

“Wha-” You watched him with wide, unsure eyes. “Are…are we about to kiss?”

“It depends,” He responded, staring at you with half lidded eyes. “Are you serious about your feelings?”

Thinking it over, you nodded. It was silly, how this all started with a small joke, but looking back, you had always liked him. He was like a puzzle with missing pieces. Mysterious and elusive. You could never get the full picture without taking time to find those pieces and putting them together, and in that time, you found yourself shaping into one of those pieces, a possibility to be a part of the beauty that was Rook Hunt. 

Your lips met in a slow, gentle, yet passionate kiss. Your heart was beating so loudly, your hands shaking slightly, you felt yourself melt into Rook. And as you pulled away, your gazes met in awe and admiration of the other.

“Merci pour la beauté de votre amour.”

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

KINKTOBER DAY 4 | Billy Loomis x Reader

Kinktober day 4: knife play

Warnings: 18+, knife play, mention of murder and blood, fingering

Timeline and age accuracy is something we don’t look at on this blog

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

All your life you tried so hard to act nice like a lady, but you met Billy and he taught you that it was good to be crazy. 

You sat on a chair in the Loomis’ kitchen, watching Billy methodically take off his black robe and mask after returning from killing Maureen Prescott. He moved to the sink and cleaned his knife, the sound of water running filled the room as the clear water turned red from the blood.  

Your heart raced as you realized just how crazy Billy Loomis truly was. He murdered someone tonight. He snuck into the Prescotts’ home and stabben Maureen multiple times with a knife. 

Once it was rid of all traces of blood, Billy set it on the kitchen table. 

A dark smirk formed on his lips. ‘’She screamed like a pig in the slaughterhouse,’’ he said, his voice devoid of remorse. ‘’Bled like one too.’’ 

Although you didn’t participate in the murder, you were Billy’s accomplice — and alibi. When you arrived at his house, you made sure his neighbors saw you so you could be his alibi in case the police suspected him. There were very slim chances for that to happen though. Billy had been extra careful to leave no traces behind. Not even a single hair. 

‘’That’s what the bitch gets for ruining my family and robbing me of a father,’’ Billy muttered bitterly, his eyes filled with a chilling mix of anger and satisfaction. 

You stayed silent while he finished cleaning up. 

You didn’t understand why Billy wanted to kill Maureen so bad. He wanted revenge, but wouldn't revealing her hidden romance with her secret boyfriend be a more fitting way of revenge? It would have ruined her family the same way she had ruined Billy’s.

The sound of sirens in the distance snapped you out of your thoughts, and you raised your eyes at Billy. ‘’Did anyone see you on your way back?’’ you asked, suddenly nervous.

Billy shook his head, setting down the — now clean — knife on the table. ‘’I went through the alley and came to the backyard through the bushes,’’ he explained, taking your hands in his and making you stand up as his eyes met yours. ‘’They’re not gonna get to me.’’ Sensing your worry, Billy wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him. ‘’I promise.’’ 

You nodded against his flannel shirt, taking his words. Everything’s gonna be alright.

The sound of the sirens faded away as they neared Sidney’s house, making you breathe of relief. One of your hands reached behind Billy’s neck to pull him down for a kiss, igniting a fire in both of you. A kiss was rarely just a kiss with him.  

Your lower back hit the edge of the table, Billy’s tongue swiping into your mouth while he undid the buttons of your shirt, eager to get you naked and pressed against him, but you grabbed his knife and broke contact. Billy gave you a confused look. A mischievous smile drew on your lips and you stepped back. 

‘’Careful with that.’’ 

Ignoring his warning, you dragged the knife between your breasts, the dull side of the blade brushing against the delicate lace of your bra very slowly. ‘’Knives don’t scare me,’’ you said.

Before you, Billy was biting at his bottom lip, his dark eyes fixated on the knife in your hand. He felt himself grow stiff in his jeans, turned on by the sight of his girl playing with his knife. The same knife he used to kill someone half an hour ago.

You felt him take it from you and he angled the blade up towards your face. The pointed tip got flipped around now. He gracefully pressed it against your bottom lip, careful not to hurt you. 

Billy looked down at you. ‘’Are you sure? Because I could slice your throat with one easy swipe,‘’ he whispered into your ear and you felt your knees go weak. ‘’Or I could tear your clothes off with one easy swipe.’’ 

Your breath caught in your throat and your stomach burned. Do it.

Slowly, Billy pulled the knife from your lip and gently slid it down your neck and sternum until he reached the gore of your bra. He cut the fabric with one swift movement, letting your breast naturally fall from the bra. He circled one nipple, then the other. The cool metal made them harden and left you even more turned on.

‘’I didn’t take you for a freak,’’ Billy pointed out with a soft laugh as he watched you react under his knife. 

You looked down at the blade over your nipple, then back at your boyfriend. ‘’Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this too.’’ Without taking your eyes off his, you cupped Billy’s cock over his jeans, making him groan.  In the next ten seconds, both your pants had joined the floor. It was a mess of rush and shuffling on one leg to get the other out, but once they were off, Billy’s hand found your aching — and so wet — pussy and slipped two fingers in with ease, eliciting a relieved moan as you clung to his shoulder.

—

Scream taglist: @misfityanii @beautybyfire @iluvscream191 @mariposa555 @bella7866 @o638 @lulubelle14 @luvvtxinityy @frasersgf  @Eddiefrickenmunson @jasperr-the-friendly-ghost @ghostf4cee @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom @wandaswigglywoos @xjennyx2 @jennasslut @thatonesblog  @mikaelsonsstuff @icarly23 @tcddszn  @bt.oliana  @skyesthebomb @a1mzcruml3y @red1culous @iluurmom @popeheywardssecretgf @michaelangdonsslut @byhrxb @kamthecoolest @kattybug @ravenstrueluv @landryslxys @die4niyahhh  @sl4sh3rfuck3r @radiant-whore  @Meadzy21 @luci1fer @nomorespahgetti  @bloodyhw  @depthsofdespairr  @bellysbeach @wilmalovegood @loupiotesworld  @wenvierismycomfort @t-candy  @s-al-em  @darylscvmdumpster  @tommysaxes  @adaydreamaway08 @johannelis2302nely  @aqshua @lynbubble  @luiise  @planetkt  @vampyrgoff  @adrluvh  @mymultiveres  @miqi-16 @not-liah  @lovenats01  @doestalker  @lonelywitchv2

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[phantomwithbreakfast]

༺ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 ༻

×͜×

One-shot.

⟢ Danny Phantom Phan Fic • Genre: Angst / No Comfort / Horror • AU • TW: Strong Language — Emotional Distress — Dissociation — Identity Conflict — Self-destructive Tendencies? — Violence — Harassment? • T+ rate

Summary: Danny couldn’t take the burden anymore.

Post Scriptum: this is @ghostlyglimmer her Phantom design appearance. (I made some kind of fan art hehe)

♫ ▸ Fear, hear. Close, stars. Dream. Tell me what you want, I know the truth. Tryin’ my best to get approve. It hurts so bad, so why I still. You think I’m not right for you. — Akiaura, Olya Holiday

Danny could still feel it.

The icy, metallic bite of the scalpel, the sharp sting as it tore him open—body and soul—while he lay there, restrained, helpless, watching her face. That expression she had… it had been so calm—so determined, as though he wasn’t her son anymore.

Just another specimen, another project, another ghost to vivisect. Something that she thought was broken and needed to be fixed.

The memory had burned itself into Danny’s consciousness, a nightmare that replayed every time he closed his eyes, a memory refusing to fade.

Because you are broken. You always have been. She knew it. That’s why she cut so deep.

But the worst part wasn’t the memory of her hands or the instruments.

No, it was that feeling.

She didn’t just cut flesh. She took what was left of your whole being. You felt it, didn’t you? How empty you are now?

And the nightmares—God, those fxcking nightmares—they never stopped. They twisted and writhed in his sleep, warping the familiar into something monstrous. He would wake up gasping, his heart pounding in his chest, drenched in sweat. But lately, the nightmares weren’t just confined to the hours of darkness. They bled into his waking moments, seeping into reality like poison. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if he was awake or still trapped in the dream—no, the nightmare where his mother’s hands cut him apart, piece by agonizing piece.

Because you’re not her son. You never were. You were always just… a thing, a specimen, a ghost to rip apart molecule by molecule, something to be dissected, to take out the part of your whole existence, something to be controlled.

Some part of him wished he hadn’t retained the memories. That they had been lost with the ectoplasm and blood that pooled beneath the table that day. It would’ve been easier that way.

Forgetting would mean freedom.

But no.

He remembered every god damn thing. Every fxcking second of pain, every scream that got stuck in his throat, every look of indifference on her face as she cut deeper and deeper and deeper… reaching for something inside him that she could or would never understand.

You’ll never be free. These memories are a part of you now, carved into you. You can’t escape what you’ve become.

He had tried to forget. Tried to drown out the voice that whispered relentlessly in the back of his mind, reminding him of that moment. But it clung to him like a shadow.

It was always there, always lurking.

It followed him in every quiet of every fxcking moment, in every breath he took.

You’re not her son anymore. She made sure of that, didn’t she?

The voice wasn’t wrong.

He wasn’t sure if he was even Danny anymore. That boy, the one who laughed with his friends, who dreamed of going to space, who loved his family—he had died on that table, didn’t he?

He had been replaced with something hollow, something that didn’t belong anywhere, not in this world or the next.

A ghost.

A freak.

Something no one will ever understand. They’ll never see you as anything else but the monster you are now.

Danny had felt it—his essence, his very being—pulled apart.

And for what? To save him?

No.

To rip him from himself. To tear Phantom from Danny.

She didn’t want her Danny back. She wanted the ghost that lives in you. The weapon. She wanted Phantom—ME. Not you. You’re nothing without my power, and you know it.

The boy she had wanted to save was gone.

And now, what was left?

A hollow shell. A creature caught between two worlds, not welcome in either. She’ll never love you again. No one ever will.

A monster. A freak. A ghost masquerading as a human being, torn between worlds, torn apart by the hands that were supposed to love him.

Nobody understands you—us. They never will. You’re not just Danny anymore. We are something else entirely.

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UUUUPPPP!”

Danny’s voice cracked, trembling with desperation as he yanked at his pitch black hair. But the pain barely registered. His hands clutched his head, trying to suffocate the voice, trying to tear it out of his mind.

But it wouldn’t stop—it never fxcking stopped.

He had enough of it.

The whispering—the venomous, incessant voice crawling through his skull—it was driving him mad.

He wanted silence. No, he needed silence.

Danny clenched his fists, his nails stinging into the flesh of his palms as a raw scream tore through him. A flash of light enveloped his body, blinding and electric, as he transformed into his ghost form.

He phased through his bedroom floor, his movements frantic and unsteady, like a man running from his own shadow, heading for the basement lab. It loomed cold and dark, but his eyes zeroed in on the Ghost Catcher, sitting untouched like a forgotten object, coated with dust and neglect.

Danny grabbed it, his hands trembling.

He didn’t stop to think.

He couldn’t think.

Flying back into his room, his chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths.

Without hesitation, he hurled himself through the glowing green wires of the device.

The pain hit like a lightning strike. Danny collapsed onto the wooden floor with a loud thud, face down, his limbs heavy as if weighted with lead. Every nerve in his body screamed as he rolled over, gasping for air, his vision swimming with dark spots.

And then… he saw it.

Illuminated in an unnatural white glow, was Phantom, floating above him.

But…

It was not the Phantom he knew, not… him.

This was pure. Unrestrained. Horrific.

Its glowing green eyes were sunken deep into hollow sockets, smoldering like toxic embers. Its snow-white hair hung loose, disheveled, and eerily bright. Its ashen, deathly skin stretched taut over black bones that jutted sharply beneath. A jagged, Y-shaped scar tore across its chest, oozing faint streaks of ectoplasm. Its left arm was marred with a lightning-bolt pattern that seemed alive, sparking faintly with energy. Shark-like teeth protruded from its grotesque grin, glistening with green slime that dripped to the floor in viscous splatters.

Danny’s heart pounded violently against his ribs, his breath came in shallow gasps as he scrambled backward on trembling arms, his back slamming into a corner of his room.

“What the fxck?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What the fxck? What the fxck?”

“Don’t you worry, my human being,” Phantom drawled, its low voice a chilling echo, soft yet venomous, curling around the dim room like a noose. “I’m not going to kill you.”

It floated closer, its eerie glow casting fractured shadows over Danny’s trembling body.

A cruel smirk tugged at Phantom’s lips as it stared into Danny’s eyes.

“I am—you, after all. And… oh, well,” it leaned in, its voice dropping to a hushed, sinister whisper, “you are MINE.”

Danny shuddered, his knees drawn tight to his chest, his body trembling as Phantom’s icy presence seeped into the air.

There was no escape.

Nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

Danny sat motionless, paralyzed. His body trembled, his mind spiraling as the cold realization clawed its way through him.

“What… what the fxck have I done?” Danny croaked, barely audible, like a broken suffocating whisper.

Phantom chuckled, low and guttural, echoing through the quiet air.

In an instant, its cold, clawed hand shot forward, seizing Danny by his throat.

The icy grip tightened, cutting off his breath, crushing him beneath its suffocating strength.

Shadows crept in, stealing the edges of Danny’s light, until all blurred into a boundless black void.

There were no screams, no sounds anymore.

Only the silence Danny longed for.

⟢ Inspiration sources: S01 • EP06 — What You Want + S02 • EP08/09 — The Ultimate Enemy.

⟢ I can’t see my Phantom as some kind of monster—a creepy little fella. So instead, I drew someone else’s, which gave me an idea to write another one-shot. Which! Has nothing to do with the original backstory of this Phantom.

⟢ Eventually, while I was drawing this, I learned about the human skeleton, lol.

[prplepeony]

In the Line of Duty

Kate Stewart x Reader

Summary: You and Kate confess your feelings for each other after she gets injured

Words: 1072

Working for UNIT, no two days were ever the same. There were alien threats, unexplained phenomena, and secrets that the general public could never know about. But beneath the surface of all that danger, something else was happening—something a little more personal. You’d been working with Kate Stewart for a while now, and over time, your admiration for her sharp mind and dedication had slowly transformed into something deeper. But she was your superior, and more importantly, a friend. It felt impossible to cross that line.

Still, the way Kate would catch your gaze across a room during meetings, the subtle touches of her hand on your shoulder when you were having a bad day, the warmth in her voice when she spoke to you—it all made you wonder. Did she feel the same?

Today had started like any other. The briefing room buzzed with activity as UNIT personnel prepared for an operation. A distress call had come in about a rogue alien entity in a small town not far from the city. You and Kate stood near the projector screen, going over the mission parameters.

Kate was as composed as ever, her hands clasped behind her back, a serious but calm look on her face. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet, but we can't risk letting it escape into a populated area," she said, her gaze drifting briefly to yours. "We'll be taking a small team in. Minimal force, maximum efficiency."

You nodded, trying not to let your admiration for her distract you from the task at hand. "Understood. I'll take care of the logistics."

"I'll be leading this one myself," Kate added.

That caught your attention. Normally, she preferred to coordinate from a distance, letting the field agents handle the danger. You frowned. "Are you sure? It could be dangerous out there."

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. "Dangerous is part of the job, isn't it?"

You sighed, not entirely convinced, but you knew better than to argue with her when her mind was made up.

The mission was supposed to be routine—analyze the threat, neutralize it, and contain any damage. But when you arrived at the scene, nothing went as planned. The alien entity, a shape-shifter of sorts, was far more volatile than anticipated. As you and the team moved in, it began wreaking havoc, shifting forms and attacking with unexpected force.

"Get everyone back!" Kate shouted, her voice rising above the chaos.

You stayed by her side, adrenaline surging as you worked to coordinate the retreat. In the distance, you saw the shape-shifter targeting Kate. Your heart jumped into your throat.

"Kate, look out!" you screamed, but it was too late.

The entity lunged, knocking her off her feet with a brutal force. You ran to her side, fear gripping you as you knelt beside her. She was hurt—her arm badly gashed, and she winced as she tried to sit up.

"Stay still," you urged, your hands trembling as you pressed down on the wound to stop the bleeding. "We need to get you out of here."

But Kate, stubborn as always, shook her head. "I’m fine," she muttered through gritted teeth. "Focus on the mission."

"Damn it, Kate!" you snapped, your heart pounding. "I'm not leaving you like this!"

Her eyes softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away. The chaos, the danger, the alien threat—it all faded into the background. All that mattered was the way she was looking at you.

"You're always so stubborn," you whispered, your voice cracking as the fear and worry bled into your words. "I can't lose you."

Kate's gaze softened further, and for the first time, you saw something flicker in her eyes—something vulnerable, something real. "I’m not going anywhere," she said quietly, her hand reaching up to grasp yours. Her fingers were cold against your skin, and you clutched them tighter, as if you could will her to stay safe just by holding on.

"I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now," she murmured, her voice shaky but steady enough to cut through the chaos around you. "But I never found the right moment."

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew exactly what she meant, but you couldn’t quite believe it. "Kate…"

She nodded slightly, her hand still holding yours as if she couldn’t bear to let go. "I care about you—more than I should, more than I ever meant to. But this job… it’s complicated. There’s always something getting in the way. But I…"

The world around you felt still, even as the battle raged on in the distance. It was just the two of you, in this quiet, raw moment where everything else faded into insignificance. Your breath hitched as you stared down at her, the weight of her confession sinking in.

"I feel the same," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didn’t know how. And now, here we are…"

Kate smiled weakly, her thumb brushing against the back of your hand. "Seems like a terrible place for confessions, doesn’t it?"

You let out a soft, nervous laugh, tears welling in your eyes despite yourself. "Yeah, not exactly how I pictured it."

Her eyes flickered with warmth, even as the pain from her injury clouded her features. "When we get out of here," she said softly, "we’ll talk properly. About everything."

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. "Yeah. We will."

The moment was broken by the sound of an explosion nearby. The rest of the team had managed to contain the threat, and reinforcements were moving in. You didn’t want to leave Kate’s side, but you had no choice.

"I’ll call for a medic," you said, your voice steadier now, though your hands still shook as you helped her up.

She winced but allowed you to support her as you moved toward safety. "You’ll stay with me?"

"Always."

Later, in the med bay, after the adrenaline had worn off and Kate’s injury had been treated, you sat by her bedside. The room was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier.

Kate looked over at you, her eyes softer now, free of the usual guardedness she kept in place. "About what I said earlier…"

You smiled, leaning forward to take her hand again. "We’ll figure it out. We’ve faced worse together."

She chuckled lightly, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "I suppose we have."

The silence between you was warm, comfortable. For the first time in a long while, you felt like everything was going to be okay. And as you sat there, holding her hand, you knew that no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

[habibi-bambi]

The Fall of The First Man [ADAM]

Adam dies,,, but the story does not end.

PART ONE.

“Nifty?!”

Charlie and her father had won the battle when Lucifer had defeated Adam by beating him up to a complete pulp with nothing but mischief and bare hands. No angelic powers, or devil powers. Just bare hands and the fury of a dad reigning hell on the scum who dared to hurt his daughter. Just when he was about to use his powers and end the First Man for good, Charlie intervened. Adam would deserve it but there was no need for further violence and death. They had won, and if her dad killed the guy, it could escalate the fighting between Heaven and Hell which was the last thing Charlie wanted. 

And then Nifty, who had appeared out of nowhere, grinned like a maniac and let out a deranged laugh as she kept stabbing Adam “Blood!” 

Everybody was staring in complete silence. Completely dumbfounded and stunned, all except Vaggie who was smiling with joy as if it was Charlie’s anniversary present for her. Nifty then returned to looking like an innocent, sweet dwarf sinner and merrily hopped to the ground as if she hadn’t murdered the leader of the murdering angel bastards who terrorized the Pride Ring for thousands of years.

“No!”

Right on time because Adam’s lieutenant rushed to the first man. She was all bruised and injured, with one arm torn. She bled gold blood, but she didn’t care as she fell to her knees and cried. Turning the first man over, she cried.

“Sir?! Sir!”

Adam looked at the furious red sky of Hell. It was ugly as fuck. The only beautiful looking thing in this shithole was the sight of Heaven. He could feel his strength and lifeforce draining away. Lute came over him, crying and screaming. Silly girl, wasn’t she already too big and strong to weep like a baby? She’ll be fine, Adam knows it. 

Adam was going to die.

Fucking finally, was all he could think of.

He let out the smallest briefest sigh. 

What was that saying again? The one from the Harry Potter books? Ah, yes. 

Death is just another great adventure, one that Adam would happily welcome because honestly? He was waaayyy to old and tired of this shit. And Heaven is just way too fucking- Heaven, for him.

“Sir, Stay with me!” Life fades away and leaves behind dull, gold eyes.

Adam smiles peacefully. 

“NO! ADAM!”

From the dust and dirt of the earth you were made of.

To the dust and dirt of the earth you will return.

In the beginning, on the ‘Sixth Day’ of Creation, Man and Woman had been created by God. He created them with the rich and blessed earth from the paradise on Earth, the Garden of Eden. God then sculpted the dirt into a shape, one that was beautiful and wonderful, because humans were to be created after God’s image. 

When he was all said and done, the Creator of everything then split the shape into two. One was a ‘man’, and the other was a ‘woman’.

God breathed life, and from then on, ‘Adam’ and ‘Lilith’ came to life. 

Lilith eventually left and was replaced with Eve, but that was a story for another time.

All that was important was that Adam knew he was created from the dust and dirt of the greatest paradise on earth. Adam also knew, and had expected, that he would return to the earth when his time had come. 

It had been 300,000 years ago since he was made. He died nine hundred years later after his creation, and ascended to Heaven. 50,000 years before now, he became the leader and head of the Exorcists and would come down to Hell’s Pride Ring every year on the eve of Jesus Christ’s birth to kill every sinner they could find. From day one, Adam had been obedient and loyal to God and to Heaven. From day one, Adam had been a faithful servant. From fucking day one, Adam had done nothing but did everything for God and Heaven.

He died from some fucking coward sinner. It was surely a no-name sinner, all of them were lowly scums who deserved to rot. But angelic steel is angelic steel. He might be Adam the First Man, but he was stabbed by some psycho from the back over and over. The knife went past his chest. It was the end. Pathetic, yes.

But it was an end.

His end. 

He should be fucking dead. 

So why the fuck isn’t he dead?

Lucifer Morningstar lets his daughters and her sinners go to the ruins of her hotel, and stays behind to watch the sobbing exorcist hunched over the corpse of Adam.

He was keeping watch, to make sure no crazy bitch tries anything funny. That was all. There totally wasn’t a small part of him waiting for the angel to just fuck off to heaven like the rest of the other exorcists did so he could come close to the corpse of Adam. 

Yup. Totally keeping a close eye on that angel for his daughter. It was totally just Lucifer keeping watch to make sure the angel finally leaves! Why the fuck would he want to see Adam? The First Man was dead, and good fucking riddance!

His tail flickered and snapped to the ground in impatience. A vein popping from annoyance.

…Just how long is that angel going to keep crying like a baby and fuck off to Heaven? For fucks sake, it been almost an hour already! It’s surprising that a woman would actually cry over Adam (Adam no bitches, ha!) but Lucifer just wants her to be gone already. God, what a stupid bitch, crying over a man like Adam. His eyes narrowed at the albino angel. Look at her, looking like some poor wife whose husband was just murdered in front of her. He could puke. If she doesn’t fly up to Heaven, Lucifer’s going to send her to where her precious ‘Sir Adam’ is-!

! Lucifer’s train of thought is stopped suddenly when he hears a quiet, but sharp inhale for air.

“S-Sir?” 

He looks over in confusion, and then shock.

Adam sits up. His big gold wings twitching weakly at his side. There was gold blood everywhere. Holy blood of the angels who served God and Heaven faithfully. It was fucking everywhere.

And Adam… was still alive? Lucifer’s red eyes zeroed on where Charlie’s little crazy sinner had went all crazy on Adam. 

There was nothing but a scar. 

Huh. 

Seems like no matter how garbage Adam had become, he was still Father’s most beloved human. 

“Adam! Sir! Your alive, thank fucking god!” The exorcist that was by Adam’s side let out a big sigh of relief. Gold eyes lit up in joy.

Adam ignored her though, terribly rude that man (no fucking surprise, this was Adam after all) just to look at Lucifer dead straight in the eyes. 

“Stay there Lute. I need to have a chat with this God Damned asshole real quick.”

Blessed gold eyes of an angel at Damned red eyes of the Devil.

(bright brown eyes of Man meeting twinkling gold eyes of the Morningstar.)

Adam stood up. He was a big guy, and Lucifer was as short as ever. So if if it were anyone else, the sight of Adam hulking over them in fury would make any sinner tremble and bolt away. But not Lucifer, whose eyes never strayed away from Adam. 

He could see how Adam was still weak and vulnerable despite having a divine intervention equivalent to a bandaid slapped on him by God. 

“I’m surprised you could survive that, Adam.” Lucifer says, smiling coldly. His red eyes were sharp, but he stayed at ease and unwary as Adam the First Man approached him, ignoring his lieutenant for Lucifer “But I guess you could survive anything if you are God’s ‘perfect’ creation.”  

“You fucking asshole…!” 

Lucifer wasn’t surprised when Adam grabbed ahold of his collar with his one hand to pull him closer and pulled the other hand to punch him

(If Adam wants another round of being a loser, then Lucifer will give him one. He always strived to give what Adam asked for after all, lol.)

Adam gritted his teeth, his hands shaking. His every cell in his body aching to fucking rip the head of this smug asshole who ruined his life and the entire humanity, and just beat up the headless body to the ground. 

But killing Lucifer was his second greatest wish. What he really wanted was-

“Kill me.”

Cricket Noise.

Lucifer stared at him as if he lost his mind,

“Adam what the fuck???”

“The fuck?” Lucifer’s smarmy smug smile was gone, and stared at Adam with big wide eyes, his red slit pupils becoming round again from how he was taken aback by Adam’s sudden loss of sanity “Are you okay? Did that munchkin sinner also hit your head or did Dad whacked your head so hard from healing you that you suddenly lost sense?”

“I’m serious, Lucifer. Kill me. Do whatever you want with me. Just make it quick, because you owe me you asshole. Kill me and let’s be done with it. Hurry the fuck up Lucifer. It shouldn’t be a problem for you since your the Devil and you hate my guts, so just fucking do it already you goddamn asshole!” 

Adam was yelling and shaking Lucifer so hard, his voice growing louder and louder. Growing more manic and desperate as he tugged Lucifer back and forth. Adam roared “LUCIFER!-” but was cut off.

Lucifer pulled Adam’s hands off him easily, and instead, gave him a slap so hard it would leave a mark.

Adam was stunned to silence, face still turned to the side. A red slapmark bright on his face, with four gold scratches that were left behind by Lucifer’s claws.

Good.

 A slap that hard and painful should be enough to put some sense back to him!

 “Adam! What has gotten into you?!” Lucifer snapped.

The angel, Lute (a name he would continue on ignoring and forgetting  as the woman herself) steps forward to pull Adam back, who only shook her hand off and grabbed Lucifer’s wrist.

Adam’s hand was much bigger than Lucifer’s thigh, so his wrist was easily wrapped around as if Adam was just holding a stick. A pasty, white pale stick.

If Lucifer wasn’t who he was, and if only Adam could, Adam would have snapped the wrist in his hand a long time ago.

“I’ve been stabbed to death by a psycho sinner of yours, Lucifer. Why the fuck am I still alive?!”

“Not my fault, Adam! That would be God’s and Heaven’s or a You Fault!” Lucifer pulled his hand away, shaking his hand as if Adam really did hurt him “For fucks sake, one would think you’d be thankful and swear revenge on us or some shit, instead of this crazy crap your pulling on me right now.”

“Kill me!” Crazy Adam yelled.

“Get a fucking grip, Adam!” Lucifer yelled back, pushing Adam from him “I am not doing that!” 

“Of course you wouldn’t help me out. Of course. You’re Lucifer. A fucking asshole who hates me to the core. You'd rather have me suffer eternity than kill me! God, you are such a fucking asshole! You wife-stealing, garden killing, God damned devil asshole!” The look of rage and insanity in Adam’s eyes with his words made Lucifer flinch “You ruined my life. You ruined humanity. You ruined Eden! You owe me Lucifer! You fucking owe me but once again, you proved yourself to be the same fucking asshole who can’t do anything right! FUCK YOU LUCIFER!” Adam screamed.

Adam stepped back, and stopped looking at Lucifer and instead, at his own hands. A haunted look in his eyes and a look of horror on his face. 

"Three hundred thousand years.” Adam whispered, staring at his shaking hands “I’ve been alive and existing for three hundred thousand years since God created me and Lilith-” Lucifer flinched at the mention of of his estranged wife “and I’m still not dead. Why am I not fucking dead?”

“shit.” Lute cursed quietly, eyes focused on her leader and the shitshow was happening. She looked around, and it was still only them. But that will not last for long “Sir, we have to go. Heaven is calling us back.”

“Shut the fuck up, birdbrain. Can’t you see he’s having a breakdown? I don’t know what’s his problem but help for fucksss sssake!” Lucifer says, angry.

“I’m trying!” Lute snapped back at the King of Hell. Lucifer Bristled at the rude impertinent useless wench for having the gall-!

“I’ve spent my entire fucking life, afterlife included, being good and obedient and all that shit for God and Heaven. I listened to every single fucking thing they said, and did whatever I was asked to do! I did nothing wrong! Even when I have to be responsible of shit, of garbage, that wasn’t mine to be taken care of, I still did it. Because it was asked of me!” 

Adam stepped away from Lute’s carefully reaching hands, far away he stumbled on a broken construction of the Hazbin Hotel, and he leaned against it. Hunching over, his wings drawing closer to him, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“I did nothing wrong. I did everything right. Everything they asked me. Everything.” was all Adam said, losing more sense and becoming more emotional and irrational in his grief “Why am I still alive?”

Adam looked up at the shy. Up at Heaven. He looked up and hoped that the goddamn Big G was up there wand listening to him at this very moment.

“I did everything you wanted me to do. I did everything for Heaven. I was a faithful and obedient servant of yours. So fucking tell me why in the fucking Lucifer shitstained face did you bring me back you b-” Lucifer’s eyes went wide at Adam finally losing all sanity. Did this idiot want to Fall? He was definitely going to Fall with how he was cursing God “I’ve done EVERYTHING! I’VE BEEN PATIENT AND STEADFAST AND STEADY IN MY FAITH AND SERVICE. I DID ALL THAT WAS ASKED OF ME SO WHY DID YOU BRING ME BACK?! WHY WHY WHY WHY-” 

Adam collapsed on his knees. 

“Just let me return to dust and be at fucking peace, please…” Adam dropped his face in his hands. A small muffled sob escaped. He looked small and weak. Pathetic. 

He looked miserable.

Lucifer feels a discomfort in his heart at the sight. He tries to swallow the hard lump in his throat.

And then Heaven’s light reached down to Hell and touched where Adam was kneeling. Gold, holy divine light that would turn any sinner and overlord and Sins to ash, and give Lucifer a big fucking nasty ass burns if the light were on them.

That wasn’t just Heaven.

That was God. 

(Fucking hell. You ignore your black sheep of a son who tries to talk to you for thousands of years , but you respond to the crazy mental breakdown of Adam at once? Way to make your favoritism obvious, Dad!)

Adam’s eyes are big and round glimmering gold in that light. 

“IT IS NOT YOUR TIME YET, ADAM. LIVE.” 

And the light fades away, leaving behind a dead-eyed, empty looking son of a bitch who has gone all lifeless and colorless. 

“Adam?” Lucifer hesitantly reaches out, concerned.

Lute steps in front of the King of Hell with a steely look in her puffy, red rimmed eyes. She looked pathetic with her wounds and one arm missing. But despite her sorry appearance, she was still blocking Lucifer from Adam.

“Lute, stop fucking asking for a quick death by pissing off the shitty Devil and lets fucking go.” 

“Wait, Adam-” 

“I have nothing to say to you other than your a fucking useless asshole. I hope I never see your ugly face again.” Adam says.

With that, Adam then just ignores him as if he’s wind, and with Lute’s aid, flies back up to the portal to Heaven. 

Leaving Lucifer looking up at the sky where the portal Adam had been with a strange knotted feeling in his chest. His hands were curled tight and shaking.

What... What had just happened?

PART ONE END.

[myymi]

If you had asked Sonic how he felt about being alone four years ago, he would've told you it was the most freeing feeling in the world.

It's not that he disliked people or didn't want to be around anyone. He had plenty of friends.

But there was something special about being able to run away from everyone and everything. He loved being able to disappear in the blink of an eye without worrying about someone trying to keep up with him.

He got to live his life the way he wanted. It was his favorite thing.

And then he met Tails.

He's always thought he wasn't fit to be part of a family. He had never been able to find someone who could even remotely keep up with him, so he didn't bother trying to find a family.

But Tails was able to keep up. And he did so without ever asking Sonic to slow down so he could. He was fine running on the hedgehog’s time, no matter how tired it made him.

And now, as he watched the red echidna bury the small coffin that held his little brother, he couldn't help but hate how alone he was now.

The guardian had been the one to offer a place on Angel Island for him. A small, secluded area that he had previously decorated for when the kid decided to come visit.

Of course he wasn't literally alone. Knuckles, Amy, Shadow, and the rest of their friends were all there to say their final goodbyes to the little fox. But that didn't change the fact that it felt like a part of himself died.

He didn't know it when he first met the fox, but it truly felt like Tails filled in a hole in his heart that he hadn't known was missing. But now that the piece was ripped out of him, it was easy to notice.

He wasn't sure how much longer he'd last without that fox. Everyone knew it, there was no Sonic without Tails. They were inseparable.

But they had been ripped apart. Whatever tether that held their unbreakable bond had been snapped, forcing them to go their separate ways.

He just wishes it was him who was forced to lay in a grave too soon rather than his baby brother.

Tails didn't deserve it. The poor kid had been fighting every sort of battle imaginable since the moment he was born and he was only eight.

The universe had no right to take him now. Not when he fought so hard to survive. Not when he gave every last piece of himself to protect it.

He could still feel the phantom traces of his brother's blood soaking into his fingertips. He could still see the way the life inside his big, blue eyes faded.

He could still feel the way the little strength that Tails held left his body, forcing him to let go of the person who promised to keep him safe as he bled out in his arms.

This was Sonic's fault.

—

Sonic wasn't sure why he ran.

To be perfectly honest, he hadn't even known he ran until he nearly greeted the Tornado with a very aggressive accidental kiss.

He wasn't sure what to do with her now. He could never be able to take care of the Tornado half as well as Tails did. And while he wasn't a bad pilot by any means, he knew he wasn't the best either. (That title went to the fox that now slept in the ground, his cold body protected by the dirt surrounding his coffin.)

He'd need to figure out what to do with the Cyclone as well. He didn't have a clue on how to pilot that one, it was quite a bit more complex than the Tornado.

After he was done sadly staring at the red biplane, Sonic hopped into the cockpit.

The lingering smell of mint is what finally broke him.

One of the few ways he could tell his brother was sneaking up on him was the way he smelled. It was always a migraine-inducing minty aroma, the scent of his favorite candy clinging to the fox's fur.

As strong as the smell was, it was comforting. It was how he reminded himself of the day he'd finally got that kid to believe he wasn't going to hurt him.

The first time that Tails ever had mint candy. Or, well, candy in general.

Sonic will never forget the way his eyes lit up, shining practically as bright as stars do when he put that first piece of candy in his mouth. And even though he was offered sweeter candies that kids his age normally enjoyed, he was firm in only eating the mint ones.

It was strange, but it was such a small thing then that it didn't really matter to Sonic. He didn't care what the kid liked to eat as long as he ate something. Even if it did have a painfully strong smell.

Sonic didn't bother with trying to wipe away his tears. Why should he, anyways? It was his brother's funeral for Chaos’ sake. He should be allowed to cry. (That didn't erase how pathetic and disgusted he felt. Did he really deserve to mourn his brother when he's the reason there's a funeral in the first place?)

He didn't get long to ponder it when something gently touched him.

It admittedly scared the shit out of him, but he knew exactly who it was before even looking towards them.

“I don't mean to interrupt your grieving,” Knuckles said guilty, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I wanted to let you know that you're welcome to stay on Angel Island with him.”

Sonic's not really sure if ‘staying with him’ is the right way to word this situation, but he's also not sure what the correct wording is so he decides to settle on a numb nod. He doesn't trust his voice to carry any sort of conversation right now.

Knuckles didn't say anything after that, but he also didn't move from where he was crouched atop the Tornado’s wing. The silence wasn't necessarily awkward, but it kept Sonic on edge.

“I know I'm not the best to talk to about emotions,” The echidna mumbled, running a paw through his quills as he spoke, “but I know what it's like to lose family. If you need help with grieving, you can ask.”

Despite the situation, Sonic managed to smile at the older mobian. He appreciated the offer a lot, and he knew he'd probably take him up on it whether he actually wanted to or not.

“I'll leave you be now.” The guardian said quietly before jumping off of the biplane’s wings. “If you wish to be alone from everyone, you can go into my cave.”

Sending the echidna a thumbs up made Sonic want to die. He was assaulted by the memories of when he and Tails first met the echidna. Back when he was unable to verbally speak, forced to hold conversations through expressions alone.

He wanted to scream, but his throat was throbbing from all the crying. He knows he should at least go see his friends, but he can't bring himself to look at any of them right now.

He decides to leave for Knuckles’ house when he feels his communicator buzz.

He gets to the cave on muscle memory alone, his mind occupied by playing the past four years on a sped up loop.

He felt insane. He would tell someone without a doubt that he's known Tails for forever, but it had only been four years since they met.

It wasn't until he collapsed on Knuckles’ bed that Sonic decided to check the message he received, not surprised to see it from Amy.

He didn't have it in him to fully read through the heartfelt message, but it was easy to understand from just skimming through it.

He figured responding to her message was the least he could do to keep her and the other from worrying about him right now.

He wasn't fine, and everyone knew that, but being around his closest friends and family wouldn't help right now.

The only thing that could help him was his little brother, but that wasn't in the cards for him. Not anymore. It's warm in the small cave, but Sonic still shivers as he curls into a ball.

He doesn't think he'll ever be warm again. Not when he felt his baby brother's body slowly grow cold.