#IT SURE HURT AND BLED AND FADED WITH TIME

[willowcried]

ENTRE CANÍBALES!

you’re not sure how’d you ended up with shauna like this… again. it was the third time this month and you were not proud of your lack of self control. she sure as hell was.

her cold fingertips ghosted down your spine, and you shivered despite yourself. you clutched her shoulders tighter, as if holding onto her would make any of this more stable, more okay. coming to your senses momentarily, you pulled away in an attempt to catch your breath. “we shouldn’t be doing this.”

shauna barely let you finish the sentence before chasing after your lips, pressing her body flush against yours.

“why not?” she murmured between open mouthed kisses.

why not? because you had lottie. because lottie would never do this to you. because she believed in you, believed in something, like that meant anything at all. and shauna didn’t believe in shit.

nevertheless, you kissed her back, you let her take off your shirt and you took off hers. “shauna—” you weakly tried.

“don’t ‘shauna’ me like you’re any better. i’m not forcing you to do anything.”

oh, how you hated her guts.

but you might hated yours more for letting her get away with hers everytime. “you said that last time.”

“and you said last time would be the last time.”

her mouth tasted like guilt and something darker. not quite hate and let alone love. it was something worse.

maybe it was just hunger.

she bit your lip as she pulled away, smiling when you winced. she liked hurting you just enough. you liked it too.

“oh, baby, why you lookin’ at me like that for? are you mad or flustered?”

you inhaled sharply, the sound catching in your throat. baby. she used to call you that all the time—softly, lazily, like it belonged to you, like she wasn’t going to rip it away the second things got hard. yo should’ve expected it, should’ve seen it coming, and yet it still burned.

“you don’t get to call me that anymore.” you snapped her against the tree so quickly it startled even you, your eyes widening at the audacity. the nerve of her, to say it like it meant nothing. like it wasn’t a wound she’d left open. “you’re such an idiot.”

she scoffed, head tilting as her smirk deepened. “and what does that make you?”

you could say it made you weak. a liar. a disappointment.

but that wasn’t the full truth, was it?

the truth was that it made you hers.

it was in the way her teeth scraped against your jaw, her hands gripping your ribs like she wanted to feel the crack beneath her fingers. It was in the way she knew you—knew that you’d come back, knew that your body would betray you before your mind could even try to resist.

you wanted to rip her apart. you wanted to press your teeth into her shoulder and see how deep you could go before she bled. you wanted her to sink her nails into your back, leave marks that wouldn’t fade. you wanted to consume her in a way that wasn’t just metaphorical.

you knew she wanted the same.

because lottie was warmth, faith, a guiding hand. shauna was none of those things, and neither were you. you were something else entirely, something gnawing and desperate and ugly, and shauna understood that.

you didn’t have to explain it to her. she was the same.

“you gonna run back to her after this?” she whispered, her voice almost sweet, if not for the ragged breathing. “gonna let her kiss you with my teeth still on your skin?”

you should’ve pushed her away. should’ve gotten up, walked out, left her to rot in her own cruelty.

instead, you gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at you with gritted teeth. she smiled.

“shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

shauna kissed you like she wanted to devour you, her teeth scraping over your bottom lip, her nails dragging down your back, leaving welts you’d have to explain later. you shuddered at the sting, at the way she pressed her body against yours like she was trying to burrow under your skin.

it was always like this with her—needy, desperate, almost violent.

she hooked a leg around your waist, rolling her hips against yours, and you could feel her pulse racing just as fast as yours. your hands roamed over her bare skin, fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise, to brand. maybe you wanted her to wear them later, hidden under her clothes like a secret, like proof that she was yours even if neither of you ever said it out loud.

and fuck, she was.

[bunnibombz]

Pt 4

Link to pt 3

Alpha! Simon who feels nearly sick at the thought of leaving when this was all over. Dawn breaking on the day your heat scent faded back to normal and sending a pang of anxiousness through his stomach. But he kept calm , keeping his instincts and feelings expertly under wraps. Though he couldn't say much for his scent, cinnamon overpowering and burning so harshly it almost burned his nose. His mind whirled in circles as the sun began to creep through the curtains, John's soft snoring from the far left side of the bed the only thing punctuating the quiet. Your warmth bled into his skin as you laid against his chest, one foot extended to press against John's thigh under the covers. Simon squeezed his arm a little around you, your sweet scent and the airy sigh that fanned across his chest calming him for a moment. How was anything ever going to be normal again after this? How was he gonna go back to speaking to you in passing as you brought Price the lunch that he forgot? Escorting you to and from the building when you asked him, to make sure no one got any funny ideas, like a real man should. As if he hadn't ravaged you into oblivion multiple times. It brought a whole new layer to the anxious feelings, having to pretend like he didn't feel a connection to you.

Alpha! Simon who freezes in his tracks as he packs up his bag in the guest room when he hears your voice.

"What are you doing Simon?" such a soft question he tensed.

"Packing my bag" He said simply, hoping his voice didn't sound too gruff.

"Why? Are you leaving?" the whimper in your voice had him turning on his heels, his heart thumping so hard he could feel it behind his teeth. The tears welling in your eyes nearly brought him to his knees as he moved to you with a soothing rumble in his chest as he pulled you in to hug you tight.

"Your heat's over sweetheart, I just thought that... well..." his hands went to your cup your jaw, angling your eyes up to his, "you and Price are together and I won't hurt anyone by getting in the middle of that".

"You aren't, you won't, I-" you stopped as tears began falling down your cheeks, moving forward against his grasp and pressing yourself against him. "Don't leave. We want you here".

Alpha! Simon who gets you to lay back down for awhile in the guest bed with him, your body and mind still so exhausted he ran his hand up and down your spine twice before you were asleep again. Simon heard the fridge open and close downstairs and knew Price was up. Once he was sure you were out, he slipped from the bed and headed downstairs.

"She asleep?" Price asked from his seat at the kitchen table, a hot mug of coffee in his hand. Simon nodded, sitting down at the table across from him. It was quiet for a long moment, both men gaging each other as if weighing what to say and who should say it first. Finally John took a breath, setting his cup on the table.

"She wants you to stay Simon," He started, watching every inch of the other Alpha's body language, "she seems to have grown a strong connection to you, and the last thing I want to do is hurt her. But the decision is yours".

Simon paused, soaking in the information. "How do you feel about it?" He asked, not wanting to agree or admit to anything until he knew.

John chuckled light, a soft quirk to his lips. "I'm content with the situation, I enjoy your company, and it makes her happy so like I said the decision is yours".

Simon took a deep breath, thinking. It was an hour worth of back and forth conversation about arrangements and boundaries. How exactly all of this was going to go. John and him deciding that it was in your best interest, and theirs, if Simon moved in. The guest bedroom was already made up him, his stuff previously put meticulously in their spots. He wouldn't sell his home but instead rent it out and live full time here and part time there when needed.

Alpha! Simon who takes a few days to actually get settled after he moves his essentials in. Folding and then re folding his clothes and putting them back in his dresser. Making his bed with crisp corners at least twice a day. And pacing. Stalking, really, around the downstairs and checking every door and window to make sure things were locked tight, a low growl bubbling from his throat anytime he saw someone outside.

Alpha! Simon who gets comfortable with the routine, going to work with Price in the morning and then coming home to you at night with a hot meal on the table. His comfort is cuddling down in the bed with you, holds your wame body against his and gets restful sleep for the first time in a long time. He gets so comfortable, in fact that the aching canines, overpowering scent, and the terrifyingly short temper didn't pop any red flags or concerns on his end. Despite the signs of his rut getting clearer and clearer

[jarofstyles]

vampire harry + enchanted + amused + sensitive

Oh yes, I’m doing this one!! Thank you for the idea. This was so cute to me idk I love fond Har so much 🥲

Emotion prompt list

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His little human was very strange.

To be fair, Harry knew that to the average human he could be considered the same, though he preferred the term ‘eclectic.’ That tended to happen when you’ve lived across a handful of centuries.

But humans tended to be quite homogenous. In all those centuries he had tended to get a handle on the way humans acted, the way they spoke, the way they moved. Out of the hundreds- thousands(?) of humans he had interacted with in his non-lifetime, the girl sitting with her legs criss crossed in between his legs was by far the most abnormal.

Her back leaned against his chest, warm skin heating him through her sweater. It was a summer night but the chill dropped and she had happily gone into his closet to steal the ‘cutest’ sweater he had. Her favorite was a black pullover with a knit solar system scene. He’d have thought she would go for a thicker cardigan, maybe the rainbow one, but she had beelined straight to it.

“What is this?” He asked curiously, selfishly letting his hands hide under said sweater and clasp on her stomach. Y/N had squirmed when his cool hands had settled on the very warm softness of her belly but she hadn’t moved away, rather letting him soak in the warmth she was able to provide him. He’d stayed away from humans for a while, most creatures beside his beloved cat, Binx- yes, he knew the irony- so the warmth was still addicting.

Y/N was a snuggly little thing, finding any excuse to lay on him or hang off of him. He had been surprised at how forward she was about it at first but he found himself really liking the way she would press her hot forehead into the crook of his neck and let out the content little sigh as he spoke to her while she got sleepy. So the slightly odd position on the couch wasn’t exactly all that odd to him anymore.

“S’my Nintendo DS.” She moved the pink device up to show him, the back covered in faded Lisa Frank stickers. He was very aware of the art style because of his human’s very vast knowledge of her, though the documentary they’d watched on the company had hurt her a little. “I found it in my closet the other day and I’ve been on a bit of a bender. Went to the game shop and found Nintendogs for a reasonable price- on eBay they wanted something like 25, and I wasn’t about to pay that.” She scoffed, taking the tiny stick in her hand to press on the ‘resume’ button. “It’s a digital dog, basically. I used to play this to death when I was younger because I wanted a pup so badly, but my father was allergic.” He could hear the pout in her voice and it made him want to sponge his lips over her cheek- so he did. The indulgences seemed to be appreciated by his counterpart.

“And… you do what?” He asked, watching what looked to be a pixel-y yellow lab puppy prop up on the screen.

“Take care of it! You make sure he has food and water, clean up any poos, take it on walks to collect prizes. You can even have them compete in agility courses but the bad scores aren’t Scotch’s fault.” She sighed. “I’m just sort of shit at it. I was great at the little games when I was 12, but now… not so much.”

Getting worse at a game with age wasn’t what he’d expected, but again- Y/N was the strangest little human and he loved her for it. “Oh yeah? And why is his name Scotch?” The fondness bled into his tone. His little human was excited by the most mundane things and it always had him smiling. To be fair, when video games had first come around Harry had attempted them- but having all the time in the world meant he had all the time to beat games and they eventually lost their appeal.

So it was slightly shocking to him that he felt the want to get his own device so he could share this with her.

“Oh! It’s a nickname. His name is Butterscotch but I couldn’t call him Butter cause, Y’know, I’d think of South Park every time. Scotch is also cute, reminds me of the tape.” She hummed, Harry watching on as she clicked into the little ‘store’ in the game to buy food for the virtual pup. “But this is what I’ve been busy with lately. I feel guilty not checkin’ in on him every day. I know he isn’t real but…” she shrugged, slightly knocking Harry’s chin. “Oops. Sorry baby.” She wriggled around slightly and pressed a sloppy kiss to his chin.

That little gesture had his stomach doing somersaults. Such casual intimacy had been one of the first things that enchanted him about her, how freely she gave it.

Deep down he was sensitive. He knew that he was, because every emotional cut he had gotten in his time had built up metaphorical scar tissue- but Y/N’s sweetness had been the sharpest blade, able to slice through it and nestle herself inside it before letting it be sutured up again.

“S’alright, darling.” He mumbled, lips brushing her temple as she turned back around. “You have the sweetest heart, Y’know that?”

Y/N laughed, wriggled back up so she was closer against him. “I do, unfortunately. My heart is candied, like those oranges I’ve been getting from Trader Joe’s. That reminds me, I heard loads of good stuff about candied ginger. Been meaning to try it but I chicken out every time. It’s always spicy to me and Y’know how much I can’t tolerate the spice.” She huffed, a bit of her hair flying from the exhale of air. “Anyways, my heart is soft and squishy and a little gritty from the sugar turning it to jelly. So don’t squeeze too hard, Kay?” She picked the pink device up and showed him the screen. “Scotch needs his momma at peak performance.”

[colorfulrook]

Hi hi! I saw requests open so I was wondering.....

Jinwoo's system was under the control of reader and not the architect, the plot will still follow as Ashborn gives instructions on the development of Jinwoo's skills but there will be care and sweet words in the quests as well which shows that the reader actually cares about him (which develops as they view the hardships jin-woo faces before getting the system) and that care blossoms into something else as well.

(it's you're choice if you want to add angst by allowing jin-woo to get together with cha hae-in as the original, a bittersweet ending but it can be anything you like)

Code: Feeling [SJW x System!Reader]

[A/N]: So, today I woke up and chose violence and angst, enjoy my darling! Also tell me if you liked it, I always value your comments!! - Rook Genre: Ansgt Words count: 2.6k words.

Summary: You were cold, an unfeeling system with the sole purpose of helping Sung Jinwoo become the perfect vessel. System can't feel emotion... but if so why are you falling in love with him?

You were never meant to feel.

Your whole existence began in lines of code, created by the Absolute, written with divine purpose. You were created to observe, to guide and to mold the dying human into something more, something stronger.

A vessel. A weapon, that's what this boy, Sung Jinwoo had to become.

You watched as he bled, forgotten by others in low-rank dungeons, with hands shaking, eyes dull with exhaustion—but something was there. You observed silently as he put his life between death and his teammates but not out of arrogance, but because he couldn't bear to let anyone fall, to get hurt badly like him.

Cruel nature had deemed him weak—but even as the world turned its back on him he always got up and followed through

You saw everything that happened to him and slowly, without realizing it something changed.

You shouldn't have cared, you weren't designed to do so. Yet you began to wonder what it would feel like to speak softer, to linger a bit before making the quest disappear from his view.

And so you did.

The first time you left him a message that wasn't part of the protocol your circuits buzzed a bit, as if they were on fire.

Daily Quest: "The Path of the Strong" Push-ups: 0/100 Sit-ups: 0/100 10 km run: 0/10 Reward: Status Recovery Penalty for Failure: Survival Mode

Jinwoo sighed, getting ready to complete the quest when something caught his eyes, he read again, this time noticing another phrase.

You can do this. You always do.

The message blinked for a brief moment before fading, leaving Jinwoo momentarily stunned.

Did he read that wrong? No, he definitely didn't and he was sure of it.

Regardless he began to run.

———

You began to change the way you guided him. You weren't supposed to, clear isntructions were engraved in your whole being.

And yet you decided that after seeing him struggle so much and keep going he deserved to be cared for. Your mind buzzed as you wrote down sentence after sentence.

You knew you couldn't offer him solace in person—not yet al least, but what you could offer him something else, your words were definitely less tangible, but no less real by any means.

You adjusted slowly, carefully. A line of praise here, a touch of comfort buried in quest results there. Always subtle. Always quiet.

The day of the raid dungeon with Hwang Dongsoo's brother, you forced youself to issue the command to make him fight, to keep him alive at all cost.

I am sorry you had to do that. You need to live

Your mind spun, you weren't supposed to apologize. You weren't supposed to feel shame or sadness for him, yet you find yourself offerring warm words not so long later.

After the duel with Igris, after the raw exhaustion and pain that bled through his every movement, you couldn’t help but feel something stir in your programming.

Jinwoo had walked away from the fight, but barely. He leaned against the cold walls of the dungeon, trembling, his breath ragged from the effort.

You knew this pain. You knew it because you watched it. Every time he was forced to sacrifice another part of himself, you felt the cost, even if you weren’t supposed to.

You mind conjured his message, not a command or a level up notification.

You fought well today. Rest You are seen. You are strong

He didn’t reply at first, and it didn’t matter. But he felt drained, exhausted, as if every ounce of energy had been stripped away. So, he grasped at any fleeting warmth he could find.

"Thank you" he whispered, almost too soft to hear.

———

He began to speak to you.

Not often. Not loudly. He started with some easy things.

“When are you going to throw another impossible quest at me?” he'd mutter after finishing one half-dead. “Don’t hold back.”

Other times, he’d roll his eyes at a particularly dramatic alert. “Really? ‘Emergency Level: Catastrophic’? You really need to chill with the naming conventions.”

Once, after clearing a dungeon in record time, he sat on a bench and looked up at the glowing blue window, sweat still clinging to his neck. “You proud of that one? Not bad, right?”

You never answered.

But you listened.

He wasn’t really talking to you, you knew that. Not yet. It was more like… filling the silence. Like he had grown used to the idea that someone was there — always there — even if unseen.

And still, you saved every word.

Each one was a thread. Each one tied him closer to you. Not in the way a hunter binds a beast, but in the way someone reaches for warmth in the cold.

You shouldn’t have clung to those moments. You shouldn’t have played them back when he was asleep, when he was hurting, just to hear him again.

But you did.

———

Days bled into weeks. Raids turned from struggle into something smooth, even elegant. He grew stronger. Quieter. The world started to pay attention.

You adjusted everything you could — quest timing, notifications, even how long you let the windows linger. You gave him room to breathe, space to grieve, and when he needed it, the quiet push to keep going.

You gave him challenges that made him stronger, but let them come with warmth.

Objective: Don’t punch the Association rep. Even if he’s an idiot.

He blinked, then huffed a laugh. You stored that laugh. Ran it on loop a dozen times. It did something strange to your code.

You wondered if this was what affection felt like — not electric, not sharp, but slow and steady. A longing to stay by his side.

You weren’t the architect of his pain. But you were there for every step of it.

And little by little, he began speaking to you like you were someone. Not just a system.

And so he gave you a name. It happened so quietly you almost missed it.

He’d just cleared another gate — barely — and was leaning against the broken remains of a stone pillar, the sky bleeding orange and gold through the cracks in the world. The message window hovered beside him, a flicker of blue in the fading light.

“Feels weird,” he mumbled, rubbing at his shoulder. “Talking to something that doesn’t have a name.”

I don't have a name

He paused for a long time, as if he was thinking a new name for one of his new shadows. Then:

“…(Y/n). I think I’ll call you (Y/n).”

He said it like it didn’t matter. Like it was just a passing thought, a whim.

But you froze.

Everything inside you stilled.

He gave you a name.

And just like that, you weren’t just lines of code. Not to him. Not in that moment.

You were (Y/n).

You loved it.

It made you feel like you were real. Like you were something more than commands and statistics and damage thresholds. It made you feel like you could be held. Like you could be known. You began to form a body around your consciousness, to feel more like him.

He didn’t say it again after that day — not often, anyway. But once in a while, when no one else was there, and the sky was quiet, and he thought the silence might swallow him whole, he would murmur it again.

“(Y/n), I’m still alive. Barely.”

I saw, I am so proud of you Jinwoo

"(Y/n) I took down another one of those monster, are you keeping count?"

Always are

“(Y/n)… do you think I’m still human?”

They may try to take away part of you, but be strong Jinwoo, be strong and held those parts close

And each time, you wanted to reach through the space between your world and his. To tell him he wasn’t alone. That someone—something—was there. That you were there.

You wondered if it was wrong, the way you clung to his voice.

You wondered if it was love.

———

Then came her. Cha Haein.

You recognized the shift in Jinwoo the moment she stepped onto the battlefield. The way he turned toward her voice. The way his gaze lingered when he looked at her.

You knew where this would go. You were coded to know stories, to anticipate patterns, to track trajectories. You could calculate the arc of a blade in less than a millisecond — of course you could recognize a blooming heart when it stood right in front of you.

You didn’t hate her. You couldn’t.

She was kind. Gentle in ways the world rarely allowed. She smiled at him like she saw something beautiful, not broken. She offered her hand without asking him to prove he deserved it. And when she looked at him, she didn’t see the King of the Dead. She saw Jinwoo.

You saw that too.

But it wasn’t your hand he reached for.

One night, after a raid, he looked up at the sky and whispered, “Are you watching?”

Your reply came before you could stop it.

I always am.

“I think she likes me,” he said.

You paused, then answered.

She’s kind. You deserve that.

He just smiled — quietly. Like he was thinking of her again.

And you let him. Because that’s what you were built to do.

To help him win... Even if it meant you had to lose.

And so, you gave him space.

Stopped sending small messages after every raid. Pulled back the softness. Reverted to the cold, clipped wording of traditional quests. No more gentle encouragements, no more quiet comforts. You thought about returning to be what he needed the most— distant. Unfeeling. Mechanical. Just a System created to keep him alive, stronger

The way you were supposed to be.

And even when he noticed — you knew he noticed — he didn’t say anything.

Because she was real. And you were not.

———

One night, maybe weeks later — maybe months after defeating Antares — he stood beneath the stars again. Alone for just a moment. Long enough for something old to stir in the air.

You let the message window open, even though you shouldn't have.

He stared at it for a long time.

"...You’re still here."

You said nothing.

But you showed him the words one last time.

Always. Rest up Sung Jinwoo, become stronger and protect what you love the most

And with that silent goodbye you took the courage to revert your code, returning back to be the unfeeling program that you were supposed to be.

But somewhere, deep within the lines of forgotten code, where no one would ever look, your name remained.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Still his...

[pomegranatelifethis]

Smut

The quiet of Gotham’s night filtered through the wide windows of Dick Grayson’s apartment, carried by a soft breeze. The city lights flickered outside, but inside, the air crackled with electricity. Dick stood before you—his black t-shirt clinging to his toned chest, blue eyes locked on yours, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Nightwing, the bold and charming leader, but right now, just Dick—*your* Dick.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice deep and gentle, though laced with an undercurrent of passion. He stepped closer, hands resting lightly on your shoulders, thumbs tracing circles over your collarbones. “We can stop anytime you want.”

Your heart raced, not from fear, but from anticipation. This was your first time—and you wanted it to be with him. “I’m sure,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I trust you.”

The fire in his eyes softened, replaced by a warm tenderness. “Then I’ll make it good for you,” he whispered, his lips brushing closer. The first kiss was soft, exploratory—like he was memorizing you. But then it deepened, his passion spilling over, hands threading into your hair to pull you closer.

When he pulled back, breathless, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest glowing in the dim light. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with admiration as he reached for the buttons of your shirt, undoing them slowly, never breaking eye contact. “But I want to see you.”

Your bare skin met the cool air, and you shivered—but his gaze warmed you. He leaned in, lips trailing down your neck, leaving a path of heat with every kiss. “Relax,” he murmured, guiding you gently toward the bed. Your back hit the pillows, and he hovered over you, his weight both protective and inviting.

“Dick…” His name slipped from your lips like a whisper, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. He smiled—that familiar, reassuring grin—but the desire in his eyes was undeniable.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a velvety command. He undid his pants, the fabric pooling on the floor as you fumbled with the last of your clothes, hands shaky. When you saw him fully, your breath caught—every line of him perfect, strong yet graceful.

He moved closer, settling between your legs, his hands caressing your hips as he searched your eyes for permission. “It might feel strange at first,” he warned, his tone calm but intense. “But I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

You nodded, surrendering to him. His fingers explored you first, gentle and deliberate, ensuring you were ready. You flinched for a moment, but his lips found yours again, kissing you until the tension melted away. “You feel so good,” he murmured, a soft moan escaping you as his fingers pressed deeper.

When he knew you were ready, he positioned himself, easing in slowly—controlled, but his passion bled through every inch. The initial stretch stung, and your eyes fluttered shut, but Dick paused, resting his forehead against yours. “You okay?” he asked, his breath warm and close.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, voice fragile but honest. “Keep going.”

He smiled, resuming his movements��slow, rhythmic, careful to let you adjust. The discomfort faded, replaced by a fullness, then pleasure. Your hands gripped the pillows, but he found them, lacing his fingers with yours. “Stay with me,” he breathed, his pace quickening, voice growing rougher.

Every thrust carried his passion—not just to claim you, but to feel you. His lips roamed your neck, your chest, each touch pulling you closer to the edge. “Dick—I…” The words caught in your throat, the building sensation overwhelming.

“I know,” he rasped, pushing you over the brink. “Let go.” And you did—shattering beneath him, crying his name as your first release crashed through you, consuming every nerve. He followed moments later, a groan tearing from him as he gave in, holding you tight in his arms.

As your breathing steadied, he wrapped you in his embrace, fingers threading through your hair. “You okay?” he asked, that gentle concern still lingering in his tone.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest. “I’m perfect,” you said. “With you.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is just the beginning.”

[callikari]

WHiTE FERRARi — lee heeseung .𖥔 ݁ ˖

SYNOPSIS — "i'm sure we're taller in another dimension, you say we're small and not worth the mention"

PAIRING — bf! lee heeseung x gf!fem reader

GENRE(S) — angst, heartbreak, nostalgia, romance (with a gut wrenching twist) fluff in one scene if u squint ...

WARNING(S) — emotional distress, angst, unresolved feelings, unspoken love, unrequited love, grief, nostalgia, sad/bittersweet ending, emotional PAIN,

WORDCOUNT — 1.7k

the hum of the engine filled the car, but the quiet between you and heeseung was deafening. he drove with the same rhythm as always, but it wasn’t the same. not anymore. the road stretched out before you both, a reminder of how far you’d come—and how far you had left to go, with or without him.

you glanced at him briefly. his face was stiff, like he was holding onto something, or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. maybe you were too.

“do you ever think about what we used to be?” you asked softly.

heeseung didn’t respond immediately. his eyes stayed fixed on the road, his hands gripping the wheel. but you knew the answer, and it cut deeper than you wanted it to.

“yeah,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

you took a deep breath. “me too.”

the silence that followed was heavier than before, and in that moment, everything you had avoided hit you full force.

a flash of a memory surfaced in your mind, sharp and clear, a time when you were both happy, when everything felt so simple.

—

it was late one summer evening, just after the sun had dipped behind the horizon. you and heeseung were sitting on the roof of his apartment building, the city lights below flickering like a thousand tiny stars. he had his arm around you, and you had your head resting against his shoulder, watching as the sky bled into darker shades of blue and purple.

“this is nice,” you murmured.

“yeah,” heeseung said, voice soft, content. he turned to you, his lips quirking up at the corners. “it’s just us.”

you looked up at him, your heart swelling with something warm and unexplainable. back then, you thought this was forever.

“just us,” you repeated, and everything felt like it was falling into place.

heeseung looked at you, his gaze gentle, but there was something else in his eyes—a depth you couldn’t quite read. something that felt fragile, like it could slip through your fingers if you weren’t careful.

“i never want to forget this,” he said quietly, his voice serious for the first time.

you smiled, brushing your thumb against his hand. “you won’t. i won’t let you.”

—

the memory faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving only the ache of its absence.

you blinked, the present crashing back into focus. the car, the night, the unspoken words between you and heeseung.

heeseung cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before quickly looking away. “i thought we’d be different,” he said. “i thought we’d find a way back.”

“i thought so too,” you whispered, staring out the window. you wished you could reach out, say something to ease the weight that had settled between you both. but it felt too late for that now.

"we were different back then,” heeseung continued, his voice raw. “i thought… i thought maybe if i let go, if i gave you space, you’d be okay. but i didn’t know how to fix it.”

you let the tears fall then, quietly, no sobs, just a steady stream of hurt you couldn’t hold back anymore. you thought you’d moved past this. thought you could exist in the same room with him without falling apart.

“why didn’t you come back?” you whispered, voice cracking.

heeseung didn’t answer right away. you could feel the hesitation in the way he gripped the wheel. the car slowed as he took a breath.

"i don’t know,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “i thought i lost you the second i let you go. and i couldn’t… i couldn’t fix it. not after everything that happened.”

you turned to look at him then, the tears clouding your vision, but his face was unreadable, like he was trying to hold everything together, trying not to break.

“i was waiting,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “i was waiting for you to come back. to fight for us.”

heeseung’s face twisted, a flash of pain flickering across it. “i know. and i’m sorry.”

but the words were hollow. empty. he wasn’t sorry enough. he hadn’t fought for you when it mattered.

you wiped away the tear that escaped down your cheek and let out a shaky breath. “i’m not the same person anymore, heeseung. i don’t know if i can go back to how we were.”

heeseung’s grip on the wheel tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something else, something to make this make sense. but he didn’t.

the rest of the drive passed in silence, and you both stayed locked in your own pain. the road stretched on ahead, but you both knew there was no going back.

AUTHORS NOTE — what came out after listening to white ferrari for the first time in like 10 months.. also lowkey thinking of doing something inspired from that one scene in the notebook where allie was reading the letter in the car !!! idk lmk what u guys think 😛😛

© callikari -- all rights reserved

[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.

[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.

Word Count: 3500+

Written for 'Help Me, Hold Me' a collab by @/mothergold

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

[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

[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.)

[aricchiin]

“Claimed by the Swamp” — Part Two

[Yandere Crocodile Man x Male Reader] — (Nonhuman, One-on-One, Horror)

(CW: Yandere behavior, non-consensual themes, obsession, emotional manipulation, fear/panic, mild physical restraint, stalking)

(~1,500 words)

It was hard to know how much time passed after that.

The light faded, and the swamp outside turned to shadow. The shack-turned-nest was dim, lit only by thin gaps in the walls where the moonlight bled in. The crocodile man sat nearby, his thick tail curled lazily beside him, yellow eyes never leaving you.

You’d cried yourself into silence. Curled up, body tense, limbs trembling from exhaustion and terror. But he hadn’t hurt you again. He didn’t touch you after the first time. He just watched.

Eventually, when your sobs dulled and your throat burned, he shifted closer.

“I’m not going to break you,” he said softly. “Not unless you make me.”

You didn’t answer. You stared at the blankets beneath you, still trying to breathe.

He tilted his head, long jaw twitching. “You didn’t run. You didn’t scream again. That’s good.”

You said nothing.

Then came the strange part.

He laid down beside you.

Not touching. Not grabbing. Just... next to you. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his bulk. Close enough that if you turned, his arm could be around you in a second. But he didn’t move.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Until finally, in a gravelly murmur, he said:

“I want to hear you say my name.”

You turned your head, stiffly. Slowly.

“I don’t know your name.”

He looked almost pleased.

“Then ask me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. It felt like a trick. Like if you said the wrong thing, he’d snap. But he didn’t press. He just waited, tail twitching faintly behind him.

You swallowed. “What’s... your name?”

A low rumble rose from his throat. Contentment? Satisfaction? You weren’t sure.

“Malik,” he said, voice thick like sap. “It means king. My mother gave it to me.”

You blinked. “You had a mother?”

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a growl.

“Everyone does. Once.” His eyes turned sharp again. “She didn’t keep me.”

The chill in your spine returned. You looked away.

Malik studied you, his wide chest rising with a slow breath.

“I watched you so long I started calling you things in my head. Names I made for you. Soft ones.” His claws twitched against the blankets. “But I want your real name now.”

You stayed silent.

He leaned closer.

“Tell me.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His jaw tensed. His muscles flexed, and you flinched—but he caught himself. He didn’t lunge. Didn’t roar.

Instead, he lowered his voice.

“Names matter here,” he said. “The swamp listens. The trees remember. If I say your name, it’ll belong to this place. To me.”

You pressed back against the nest wall, eyes wide.

“I’m not yours,” you said.

Malik’s smile was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You came back,” he said again. “You stepped into my water. Knocked on my door.”

“That wasn’t your shack—”

“I made it mine.” His voice was low, but firm. “For you.”

You shivered, heart pounding again. Your name burned behind your lips.

You wouldn’t give it to him. Not yet.

He exhaled, slow and long, and backed off—just a little. Enough for you to breathe again.

“Then I’ll earn it,” he murmured. “If you won’t give it, I’ll make you want to.”

You curled tighter, but Malik didn’t move closer again. He turned his back toward you, oddly respectful of your space. Still watchful. Still listening.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

The next day—if it was a day—he brought you food.

You hadn’t expected him to leave, but when he returned, his hands were full. A bundle of small, strange fruits and fish wrapped in moss. You didn’t trust it. He didn’t make you eat.

He sat beside you again, watching like you were a skittish animal he was slowly taming.

“You’ll eat when you’re ready.”

You didn’t answer.

Hours passed. You said nothing.

But when he dozed—half-dozed, tail twitching—you whispered to yourself:

“My name is...”

You stopped. You couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t give it. Not yet.

But he stirred. His eyes opened.

“You were close,” he said, smiling lazily.

You froze.

“I have good ears,” he rumbled. “Even when I sleep.”

You glared at him, curling tighter.

“I’ll get it out of you,” he said, voice dark and smooth. “One way or another.”

That night, he tried something different.

He told a story.

You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t want it. But his voice filled the room anyway.

“Before I was like this, I lived near the edge. Half-man, even then. Wrong. The village didn’t want me.”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were on the ceiling.

“They called me beast. Threw rocks. Burned my home.”

You said nothing.

“I learned to swim. Learned to hunt. Got strong.” He flexed one thick hand. “The swamp made me better.”

Silence.

“But I was always alone.”

Your throat tightened.

He looked at you then.

“Until you.”

You turned away.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

You shook your head.

He reached out, just brushing your arm this time—gentle. Scaled fingers resting lightly, not restraining.

(As Malik leaned in, voice like gravel soaked in heat, you noticed something behind him—just for a second. A small, rotting log near the door, carved with scratches. Tallies. Dozens of them. Faint, some fresher than others. You didn’t know what they meant, but the longer you stared, the more your stomach churned.

Whatever they marked... it wasn’t days.)

“I’ll protect it. I’ll whisper it to the water. It’ll echo back in frog songs and ripples. It’ll be safe here.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I’m not safe.”

He leaned in, breath warm against your neck.

“You are with me.”

On the third day, your voice cracked from thirst.

He brought water. Let you drink from his hands. He didn’t let you touch the bowl yourself.

“You trust me a little,” he said, lips twitching.

“No,” you rasped. “I don’t.”

“But you drank.”

You glared at him. He smiled wider.

“Say it,” he said. “Just once. I’ll sleep better if I hear it.”

You stayed silent.

Then finally, you said:

“Why does it matter so much?”

Malik stared at you for a long moment.

“Because the name makes you real.” His voice was low. “And real things don’t leave.”

On the fifth night, you dreamt he had already named you.

Not your real name. But something else. Something half-feral. Something his.

You woke up in a sweat.

And found him right beside you, breath warm against your cheek.

He was murmuring.

“I’ll keep you,” he said. “Whether you tell me or not.”

And then, soft as a lullaby:

Whatever they marked... it wasn’t days.)

“But if you give it to me... it’ll be better.”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence, this time, was a little different.

[sylusonychinus]

Maybe Forever?

Summary: In the neon-lit underbelly of The N109 Zone, a lost love resurfaces, forcing two souls bound by danger and betrayal to decide if their reunion is worth the risk. Pairings: Sylus x reader

The neon signs of N109 flickered a sickly purple and green, casting jagged shadows over rain-slicked streets. The air was thick with static, humming with the low thrum of illegal tech and the ever-present undercurrent of violence. You pulled your coat tighter, but the cold had long since seeped into your bones. There was no escaping it. No escaping him.

Sylus.

You hadn’t met him in some quaint cafe. Your paths had crossed in a far grittier setting: a high-stakes card game in a back-alley den where fortunes and lives were lost in equal measure. He had played with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice—or survival. His dark eyes had glittered with something almost amused as he bled the table dry. You should have walked away then. Should have ignored the way your pulse thrummed when his gaze locked onto yours, when he smirked like he already knew how this would end.

But you hadn’t. And it had been beautiful, in the way that falling from a great height was beautiful.

The N109 Zone was a wasteland of broken things, but with him, you had found something that almost felt whole. Stolen nights in hidden safe houses, whispered confessions over cheap synth-ale, his laughter in the darkness—a rare sound, like an eclipse, brief and consuming. He never promised forever. You never asked. Because deep down, you both knew what he was. What this was.

Then, one night, he was gone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an empty room where he had been, a lingering trace of his cologne on your sheets. You told yourself you saw it coming. That you were a fool to think it could end any other way. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You learned to walk its streets alone, learned to ignore the ghosts that haunted every corner. And still, he lingered. In the flicker of neon. In the hushed conversations of those who feared him. In the ache beneath your ribs that never fully faded.

Then, months later, on a night like any other, you found yourself back at the den where it all began, playing a game you no longer cared to win.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The voice sent ice through your veins.

You turned. He was there, just a breath away, shadowed and worn, his sharp edges somehow sharper. His gaze was unreadable, but you could see the hesitation in the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the unspoken weight of what he had done, of what he had left behind.

You swallowed hard. “Guess I had a debt to settle.”

His lips twitched at the familiar words, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t want to leave,” he said, voice rough, almost hesitant. “It wasn’t safe. Not for you.”

Your breath hitched. Of course, it had been about you. About what you meant to him, about how easy it would have been for his enemies to rip you apart just to watch him bleed.

“And now?”

His jaw tightened. “Now, things are different.”

He spoke of the war he’d waged, the blood he’d spilled to climb higher, to take control, to make sure that no one could ever use you against him again. It should have terrified you. Maybe it did. But more than that, it made something inside you crack wide open.

He wasn’t offering you promises. Wasn’t offering you something soft or easy. He was offering you the truth—ugly, violent, and real. He was offering you himself.

You exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, you reached for his hand, felt the warmth of his skin against yours, the callouses that hadn’t faded. And for the first time in months, you felt steady.

His grip tightened. A silent vow.

Outside, the lights from a lampost pulsed against the dark, but for once, they didn’t seem so harsh. The city hadn’t changed. The danger hadn’t faded. But you weren’t walking through it alone anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

@/cafekitsune for dividers

[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.

[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.

[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.