#Not to mention with all of his suicide attempts and him not dying from the elevator fall

[writing-for-marvel]

The One That Got Away

Thunderbolts!Ex!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Bucky enters the void, he expects his memories as The Winter Soldier to haunt him, or perhaps even death itself, instead, he finds himself face to face with you the night you broke up.

Warnings: SPOILERS for Thunderbolts*, strictly 18+, talk of death & suicidal ideation, mentions of Bucky’s trauma related to Hydra/The Winter Soldier, angst, canon typical violence, reenactment of a breakup, Bucky being a sad boi™️

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: so I saw Thunderbolts, can you tell I’m obsessed?? Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

Stepping into the dark, cavernous void of nothingness, Bucky’s heart thumps rapidly, almost painfully, against his ribcage.

It’s not that he’s afraid of dying, in fact, during his seventy years as a captive, there were many times he prayed for the dark depths of death to swallow him whole, a sweet relief from the torture. He observed helplessly as crucial parts of himself were assassinated every time he was strapped to that memory suppression machine until after decades he was a fraction of the man who fought against Nazis.

Bucky Barnes knows all too well there are worse fates than death.

So no, he’s not scared that entering this void will be the last breath he takes. Instead, he’s more frightened of what entering it will entail if it doesn’t end his life. What kind of purgatory awaits him on the other side.

But Bucky Barnes is also the type of person who would do anything to help a friend. So with a deep, steadying breath, he plants his foot in oblivion.

In the blink of an eye, Bucky’s in familiar surroundings, though the air feels thick and stale, like it hasn’t been disturbed in a while. It’s an environment that brings both a comforting nostalgia that makes him long for a happier time, but also a heavy guilt at the reminder of the events that transpired the last time he was here, believing he would never return.

Has he died? Is this what heaven looks like? The place that felt most like home to him?

Who is he kidding, if there is an afterlife, James Barnes most certainly will be sent straight to hell for all the lives he’s ended, even under mind control.

For the span of a breath nothing changes - no movement, no sounds. Everything is perfectly still, as if he were living in a photograph.

Bucky takes slow steps around the room, observing all the small details of the home that he once shared with the person he valued as being the embodiment of the word safety. It’s exactly as he remembers when he left three months ago, as if he’s been taken back in time, even though he knows deep down that he isn’t physically in this space.

Steve took the infinity stones back to their respective timelines - this can’t be a trick with the time stone.

He smooths his hand over the counter in the kitchen he finds himself in, in attempts to ground himself in this new reality. The cool feeling of the marble reminds him vividly of the many nights the two of you shared right here together.

There’s a sharp, clenching pang in his stomach as all the memories he had worked so hard to suppress, locked away in the deepest corners of his mind where they couldn’t continue to hurt him, come flooding back like a monsoon.

Regret, guilt, sorrow, but most of all love.

There were good ones that were filled with pure happiness, smiles and laughter, tenderness and vulnerability with the one person he knew wouldn’t judge his past, first ‘I love you’s’, so much devotion that Bucky could barely keep his hands off you, pleasure beyond what he even imagined was possible.

But also the terrible ones, the arguments, raised voices, cold shoulders, nights on the couch, the slow descent into not recognising each other anymore, all which lead to a messy separation which Bucky didn’t even want. He wanted to fight for you. He should have fought harder for you.

Then, as if someone had pressed play on a remote, a scene Bucky is intimately familiar with roars to life in front of him and he instantly knows where he is.

Or more precisely when he is.

The night it all ended.

His stomach drops through the floor.

Bucky observes in an out of body experience as his own body unlocks the front door to the apartment as quietly as possible and gently shuts it behind himself. It’s such a strange sensation seeing himself perform actions he can remember from a different perspective, recalling his motives for every action.

He was sure by the time he got home from Capitol Hill you’d be snuggled in bed. Bucky had been consistently working late nights with the rest of congress, busy since President Ross’ resignation and dealing with the international fallout of the US President waging war against Japan.

Memory Bucky gently places his suitcase and keys by the front door, not wanting to wake you, but it’s at that exact moment you trudge into the room, seemingly having heard him arrive home.

Bucky steps in front of you, close enough that he could reach out and touch you, but you look through him as though he doesn’t exist. He tries to remind himself that’s probably just how the void works, submerging you in your most painful memory, cursed to watch on without effect. At least that’s what he tells himself because the alternative would be too painful.

He hadn’t appreciated it in the moment, but you look so exhausted. Not just physically, but as if you’re tired of always having this same conversation with Bucky.

And you had.

“You’re late.”

Hearing your voice again, after so long and believing he wouldn’t have the privilege again feels like a gift, but your exasperated tone slashes at Bucky’s chest like a knife.

“You know we’ve been slammed.”

Fuck, of all the things he could have said, he had to go and say that, putting the blame back on your expectations rather than just taking accountability. He hadn’t even apologised.

Bucky notices for the first time you rolled your eyes at his comment, and he can’t say he blames you. He was such a dickhead, treating the light of his life like you didn’t matter, taking for granted that you’d always be there.

“I didn’t mean it! I’m a fucking idiot, okay? You are my everything and you deserve so much better than this.” The real Bucky yells to drown out whatever memory Bucky continues to remark. Your eyes are vacant of any recognition that you’ve absorbed his words, in fact, they lack any kind of affection at all considering you’re looking at someone you had at one time described as your soulmate.

That more than anything is what brings tears to Bucky's own eyes.

Before he gets another second to study your features he has sorely missed, Bucky feels a strong hand on his shoulder that spins him around. He comes face to face with his twin, taken aback that the memory form of himself can actually physically interact with him and deviate from the events of the night in question.

With super soldier reflexes Bucky usually benefits from, but is now being used against him, his twin lunges towards Bucky, a blank stare that he recognises as the dead look in the eyes he gets when he became The Winter Soldier.

Bucky barely has time to block the attack as his double closes both hands around his throat. This memory version of James Barnes is somehow much stronger than the real him, or perhaps it’s Bucky’s inability to harm a figure that looks identical to him that prevents from being able to fight back effectively against the corporeal manifestation of his subconscious.

You stand by emotionless as Bucky splatters and chokes, trying to punish away his clone to no avail and which only becomes more difficult with a lack of oxygen in his brain. He wants to die if this is the existence he’s forced to watch for eternity.

The last sound he remembers is his windpipe being crushed.

All of a sudden he’s back standing next to the front door, the scene serene and still as it had been when he first stepped into the void, as if nothing had happened. The tape rewound to the start.

But with a sore throat.

The kitchen is empty, other than the plates of a delicious meal you prepared covered in foil, going cold in Bucky’s absence. Nothing is out of place.

He hears the front door open but he doesn’t look to where he knows he’s entering the apartment. Instead it’s you he keeps an eye out for, emerging from the bedroom with an aggrieved expression. Before you can even say a word, Bucky’s rushing to you, voice pleasing as he speaks.

“I’m sorry I was such a dick. I’ve always loved you, you did nothing but love me and take my shit and you deserve so much better than anything I’ve ever been able to give you. If I could go back in time and change it, I would in a heartbeat!” His mind is working a thousand miles an hour, trying to communicate how sorry he was he let it get to this stage, the words he should have said this night if he had any ounce of sense that you were so close to your breaking point.

Was this what he needed to provide the void? Working to amends for his wrongdoings? But it’s actions that show your true intentions, not frivolous words.

With a tilt of your head you step up to him, breaking out of the memory. For a prolonged moment you look up at him, gaze soft and loving as he remembered from the countless glorious days you had together, that little smirk curving on your lips which makes him completely weak in the knees.

God, he could never hurt you, at least more than he already has, not physically. If you attack him as the memory version of him had, he wouldn’t lay a finger on you, he’d rather perish.

Just when he thinks you might kiss him rather than strike him, Bucky involuntarily leaning closer, you plunge your hand deep in his chest. He can feel your cold fingers feeling around the cavity before they close over his heart and pull it forcefully from his body.

Uncontrollable dizziness overcomes him and he must collapse to the floor for his perspective looking at you changes drastically, your feet coming into view. Red confetti like splotches drip on the hardwood between you, and he realises before everything goes black that you’ve literally squashed his heart to a pulp.

Bucky’s panting breath fills the room.

The memory has reset again, but he wastes no time in searching for an escape, even though it feels like an anvil has just been dropped on his chest. There was one way into this void, so there’s most likely only one way out. He just needs to find it.

He can’t sit by and watch this play out when he knows exactly how this night concludes. He simply refuses to be witness to that again. But something in his gut knows that he can’t interfere with the memory. The void, whether sentient or not he hasn’t worked out yet, wants him to relive this wretched, miserable memory in full.

He tries exiting through the front door when his clone comes home at the start of the memory, however, he slams head first into what feels like a brick wall constructed purely to keep him contained in this hell.

“You’re late.”

“You know we’ve been slammed.”

Rubbing his nose, Bucky continues his frantic search, his heart beating in his throat which still throbs from earlier. He has to get out of here. He hasn’t even reached the worst part of the memory and he already wants to rip his ears off to prevent him having to process the hurt in your voice.

“I can't help that they need us working overtime after what happened with Ross.”

He sounds so indifferent to having clearly hurt your feelings that Bucky would punch his own head in if he didn’t know that would result in a painful death and needing to replay this memory over again.

Perhaps this is the eternity he deserves after how he treated you.

“Do you know what it feels like to not be seen as a priority by the person who claims to love you?”

“I do love you.”

The doorway to the bedroom that you emerged from also leads to a solid barrier and in all his frustration Bucky slams a vibranium fist into it. It doesn't crack, but instead the force travels through his arm and up to his shoulder and he recoils from the piercing pain.

“Well I don’t feel loved by you.”

But nothing could be more painful than that.

The words still sting like a knife puncturing his heart even though Bucky knew this time around they were coming. They’re the words that replay in his mind every night before he goes to sleep. No defences he could ever prepare would be sufficient to save him from the torment that he had not only broken your heart, but he had disappointed you, and betrayed your trust when he promised he would never be the cause of your pain.

“You could have texted, just to let me know you’d be this late, that you’d miss dinner. But instead I’m just supposed to sit around waiting, always doing things on your time, wasting my own. I feel like I’m forever making allowances for you, but you never do the same for me. A relationship is meant to be give and take from both parties, compromising for each other, yet it feels like I’m the only one sacrificing anything for this relationship.”

“You know I hate texting.”

Bucky slides down the barrier and covers his ears with his hands as salty tears flow steadily from the corners of his eyes. Back in reality he could pretend this night didn’t happen, place blocks in his mind to stop himself recalling these events, delude himself into believing he hadn’t used weak excuses and a lack of effort when you were so close to being done with him completely.

Imagine that you were still his.

Time had helped him forget the exact words used to implode your relationship, but this front row seat reminds him not only how dumb his responses sounded, but brings back the heavy sadness in his chest it took him months to learn to live with and the raw emotion he can feel tightening his trachea, making it hard to breathe.

“Is that really all you have to say?”

“No of course not - it’s just been a long day, can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

Bucky knew in the moment instantly he had said the wrong thing, but it’s even more obvious watching on from the sidelines. You’ve got tears brimming in your eyes as you attempt not to completely break down in front of him and all he did was dismiss the very valid concerns you had about the relationship.

He felt like a fool back then. Now, it’s shame and despair which fight for dominance in the pit of his stomach.

The volume of voices gets louder and he can’t bear to listen to anymore. But he knows he can’t interfere if he doesn’t want the memory to restart.

If the purpose of the void is to make you no longer want to exist anymore, it has certainly achieved its objective with Bucky.

“No James, for once I want to do something in my timeframe, and I want to talk about this now.”

“Fine. It’s not like we haven’t had this conversation before. I work too much. You don’t get to see me. I thought you were going to be supportive of me being in congress? Knew I wanted to help the same American people I fought Nazis to protect and provide freedoms.”

With a sniffle, and exercising a great deal of restraint to not bash the back of his head repeatedly against the barrier, Bucky stands with a quivering lower lip. He needs to stop feeling sorry for himself when his own actions led him to this situation and find a way out of here.

If there is anything worse than reliving this memory, it would be watching it on replay till the end of time. But it’s easier said than done when he also has to contend with overcoming the most horrible memory in his arsenal.

“Don’t you dare say I haven’t been supportive Bucky, you don’t realise what I’ve sacrificed so you can continue to pursue your career and we can stay together. You speak like you don’t even want to be with me. If I’m that unsupportive then why are you still with me?”

The silence is deafening.

Bucky wipes tears from his cheeks and tries his best to tune out what he knows are the exact words that come from your mouth as he looks around for any trace of a trigger to allow him to leave this moment in time.

“That’s all I need to hear.”

“No, darling please. I love you. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“If you can’t come up with any reasons why you actually want to be with me Bucky, then I think we need to admit that this isn’t working. We aren’t working.”

Bucky sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Knowing there should be nothing over by the other side of the room to where past him and you are fighting, he takes large strides over only to find nothing out of the ordinary, not a single item out of place. No clues as to how to get out of here - it was probably just a result of his eyes being filled with tears.

His fists slam down against the hall table, rattling a small vase holding flowers Bucky doesn’t recall buying for you, which tips on its side and tumbles to the floor, breaking into shards with a resounding crash.

But it doesn’t reset the memory.

“Not working?”

“You heard me James.”

“No… this can’t be it. This can’t be the end. I love you. You love me.”

Just as he’s about to give up hope, wanting to crash his head against the mirror rather than be forced to experience the worst day of his life yet again, he notices someone rocking themselves in the fetal position within the mirror who doesn’t belong in this memory.

Bucky hastily turns back to the room where memory you and him are still arguing to confirm he’s not just seeing things, and to his utter delight this person, who looks like Bob from the back, only exists in the mirror dimension.

He first attempts with a pointer finger, and where the mirror should be, solid and firm, instead his digit disappears inside, rippling like the surface of water. His heart skips a beat.

This is the way out.

“This is one of those times where love isn’t enough.”

For just a split second Bucky looks back, to get one last glimpse of you in the flesh before he makes his exit, even if you are visibly distressed, and it confounds him to see not one but two of you in the scene. He barely has a second to shake the confusion from his mind for the next moment he’s stepping into the mirror and the memory instantly changes into a room that appears to be an attic that Yelena and Bob have already made it to.

He could have sworn there was an additional version of you in that memory, but how could there have been? The two of you were alone the night you broke up. Bucky quickly comes to the conclusion it must have been the mirror playing tricks on him.

Even if he doesn’t fully believe it.

* * *

Once his newfound friends help rescue Bob from the void, it’s the brightness of the real world that strikes him first.

Bucky hadn’t realised how dim and void of light the memory he stepped into had become. He supposed there was meaning behind that if he tried hard enough to think about it, but he didn’t want to contemplate it at all.

There was still a hole burning in his sternum from having to relive his most painful memory.

Bucky Barnes had committed some truly heinous crimes while under the influence of Hydra. But the difference this time was he had been in full control of his actions. Him failing you, breaking your heart and your trust, that was all him.

There was no one else to blame this time.

Everyone else appears relieved, the darkness dissipated and where it had been, rays of golden sunshine and the camaraderie of being around those who have survived something otherworldly together in its place.

But Bucky’s pain doesn’t feel alleviated, not in the slightest. You still consume his thoughts, and clearly plague his memories. After three months of pretending to be fine, this was a severe reminder that he has been walking around with a fragmented heart, shards of which make each beat agony, since the moment he left your apartment three months ago.

Bucky can’t believe he let a job come between him and the only person who has ever made him feel truly seen and loved, but especially one in which bureaucracy and corrupt politicians prevent him from actually effecting change that makes a difference to the lives of the most vulnerable.

If today has taught him anything, it’s that the people you surround yourself with are what makes the biggest difference in your life. You came into his life when all he wanted was to be alone, isolated in his own despair, but you showed him how beautiful and vibrant this existence can truly be, even with mental demons laying dormant in his shadows. Much like how his band of misfits can hopefully now show Bob.

You are the one who got away.

And he’ll have to live with those choices for the rest of his life.

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[mitsulov]

Chapter 1: A New Beginning(?)

Trigger Warnings include: Depression, Suicidal thoughts / ideation, Mental health struggles, Family issues, Emotional manipulation, Violence (mild to moderate), Blood (brief mention), Strong language.

“This building is far too small for a suicide attempt, kid. At most, you'll end up with a few broken bones.”

The voice belonged to a woman with long white hair streaked with black, an eyepatch covering her right eye. She stood with her arms crossed, wearing a tight black and red outfit, staring straight at you with an intensity that made you shiver and furrow your brows. But before you could speak, she interrupted you.

“The name’s Rose Wilson. And I’ve got an offer for you. If you listen, it might just change your life.”

Years passed.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, retouching the dye on the left side of your hair—pure white. In the reflection, you saw Rose walking into the bathroom.

“For Christ’s sake, [name]! Every single time with this. Slade’s going to be back any minute, and you’re still at it!”

You rolled your eyes. You knew your mentor wouldn’t care. When he said he’d arrive at a certain time, it usually meant he’d be at least four hours late. Typical.

Placing the dyed section of your hair in the sink, you turned on the faucet to rinse it. That made Rose freak out.

“What the hell—no! Not in the sink—”

“Don’t worry,” you cut her off calmly while washing. “I’ll clean it up. Like I always do.”

After rinsing your hair, you grabbed the hairdryer. You could hear Rose leaving the room, muttering about how stubborn you were. You chuckled quietly to yourself.

Once your hair was dry, the sink cleaned, and your look finalized, you headed off to change. You chose something casual: a tank top, cargo pants, a leather belt, and combat boots.

Admiring yourself briefly in the mirror, you suddenly felt a presence behind you. Instinctively, you launched a front kick at the figure. A hand caught your foot—not without effort—and you recognized your mentor, Slade.

“You’re improving. But now’s not the time to fight.”

“Sorry, reflex.” You laughed awkwardly, lowering your leg and straightening up

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go. I’m on a tight schedule.” His tone made his impatience clear.

Where were you heading? Therapy, of course. Where else?

Nothing escapes Cassandra’s eyes.

She’d noticed Jason disappearing more and more around the mansion. He wasn’t in the library, nor his old room. It wasn’t something recent—this had been going on long before she’d joined the family.

One day, she quietly followed him, watching from a distance and choosing to confront him only after she knew where he was going.

He led her to the hallway where the four guest rooms were located—a section rarely cleaned, filled with cobwebs and layers of dust.

She saw him enter one of the rooms and slowly approached, opening the door carefully. Inside was a small room with faded walls, a neatly made bed, a shelf crammed with trophies of all kinds, and a small wardrobe.

Sitting on the bed, Jason was gently cleaning a first-place trophy. Cassandra had never seen him look so… vulnerable. So sad.

“Are all of those... yours?” she gestured toward the trophies.

Jason sighed, clearly aware she’d been following him, but for some reason, hadn’t stopped her.

“No. They belong to someone special…”

Cassandra tilted her head, puzzled. She wanted to ask who—but Jason spoke before she could.

“Come here. I’ll answer all your questions.” He patted the bed beside him, and she obeyed, sitting down, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

“Can you tell me who this special person is?”

Jason scoffed softly, but continued.

“Damian’s not Bruce’s first child. Bruce has a kid from his first marriage. Their name is [name].”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in shock. Bruce had never mentioned this. Not once.

Jason went on.

“You probably don’t know because Bruce avoids talking about it. I only know because I grew up with [name]...”

Cass began connecting the dots but sensed it went deeper. She kept listening.

“[Name] worked so hard to be recognized. But Bruce never even looked their way...” Jason gripped the trophy in his hands—not hard enough to break it, but firm enough that Cass noticed his anger.

“Even so... [name] was special. They’re my younger sibling. And I’m going to bring them back.”

“What happened to [name]?” Cass asked the question despite the fear in her chest.

Jason hesitated, then spoke.

“They disappeared. After I died... they vanished. No body, no trail. That’s why I believe they’re still alive. And I’m going to find them.”

Cass saw the fire in his eyes. She’d never seen Jason so determined—not even when he went after the Joker.

She couldn’t help but wonder what [name] was like. Would they accept her as a sister? Would they be someone special to her too?

“Just... don’t tell anyone about this. Especially Bruce. Please.”

Cass was surprised by his plea, but nodded without hesitation. If needed, she’d help Jason in his search—no matter what.

I wish I had made it longer😫, but besides my creativity having gone out the window🥲, I have so many mock exams to do😒, my brain is toast😭.

[iluminatka16]

"From beyond the stars" Chapter 3

Chapter 2 [Chapter List]

Summary: Why it's not worth insulting the Emperor and a conversation with the main culprit of the whole Heresy, Horus.

Tags: isekai, ending up in a fictional universe, primarchxf!oc, found family trope, emperor and horus make an apperance

Warnings: mention of failed suicide attempt, cursing, typical canon violence, mention of child abuse

Word count: 2773 Edit: FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHIG THAT IS HOLY AND UNHOLY, I ACCIDENTALY PUT FEW WRONG TAGS, AND TUMBLR ISN'T ALLOWING ME TO DELETE THEM (*screams of despair*). no, this isn't emperor x reader fic

Unfortunately, she was not given peace of mind this time either. Before either brother had time to answer her, heavy rhythmic footsteps sounded behind them. Yelena turned toward the sound and sighed quietly. It seemed that Custodian had returned to his post. But since he was walking towards them, it meant that either they were in trouble for talking to her, or the Neoth wanted something from her.

“The Emperor is expecting you.” briefly without explanation. Of course, she could have tried to inquire, but she knew perfectly well that it would have accomplished nothing. The bodyguard of the most powerful man in the galaxy probably didn't know himself what exactly was going on. Because why share his plans with anyone? What could have gone wrong? Let's think. Ah well! All this mystery led to a fucking heresy and Neoth looking like a zombie from The Walking Dead.

“Looks like I'm in trouble. Farawell gentlemen, if I survive then I definitely need to have a chat with you.” Yelena extended her finger in front of her and moved it to none other than the primarch, after whom the aforementioned heresy was named. “Especially with you Horus.”

“Horus? I thought most baseline humans call me My Lord.”

Yelena only smiled.

The road through the golden corridors was a torture. Lack of sleep, hunger, anxiety. All this made her think she was going crazy. She had barely been here, and she had managed to insult the fucking Emperor himself and break his ban. Three times! She was not supposed to talk to the primarchs, and she talked to three of them. And also with Curz. It's a good thing the Heresy of Horus hadn't happened yet, because if she had met that version of Konrad… well, she still remembered the passage in the book about him, where he decided to murder almost the entire crew of the ship and torture the only survivor. On top of that, there was still that fucking Custodian. Not only did he not react when the Night Haunter followed her footsteps into the garden, even though the primarchs were also forbidden to go near her, but he also walked away from the site of his post-

Wait a moment.

Custodian is no ordinary soldier who simply runs away from his post to go play cards. Even if his family was dying in front of him, he wouldn't move unless the Emperor himself gave the order… THAT BASTARD.

The door to the spacious study closed behind her, and Yelena was left alone with Neoth. The man was staring at a holographic map projector of some planetary system in front of him, not even raising his eyes to look at her.

“You set me up.” Yelena didn't care about the titles at this point, feeling her rage boiling inside her. She thought that she was indeed going mad from lack of sleep.

“You said they could be saved. Testing your words was the only option. Admittedly, my plans for your first confrontation looked a bit different, but you handled everything yourself by running out into the garden. It was a matter of time before Curze followed you. From what I noticed, you are like a magnet for my sons. I was honestly surprised that none of them broke my prohibition and entered the chamber I assigned to you. But I must admit that you have done remarkably well.”

“Talking to him was "doing remarkably well"? He didn't take anything from my words, an-”

“Konrad spent the whole night talking to you.” The Emperor interrupted her, finally lifting his gaze from above the map. “That's more than his brothers accomplished in their years of Crusade together. And you managed to get him interested in just a dozen minutes of discussion together.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Since you were able to get to Konrad, it should go easily with the other primarchs. You know their mentality, past and future. You know what awaits them.”

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Yelena slowly approached the table. She didn't even think about her next words.

“Let's say I'll stop the heresy, which might be difficult, because there's a chance I'll accidentally make things worse. Great, you have your generals, you're not trapped in a golden chair, undergoing torture for ten thousand years. You've conquered the entire cosmos. What's next? Are you going to get rid of them like you got rid of the Thunder Warriors?”

Neoth slowly straightened up. Probably it was the action of his power, but Yelena felt an unpleasant shudder run through her body under his gaze. She felt so small, so insignificant. Like a bug that he could trample with his shoe. Well, and here his was a mistake. She was so familiar to this feeling, that it only fueled her rage.

“Careful…”

“Because what? Are you going to kill me?” Yelena hissed, clenching her hands into fists. “Just like you killed those who opposed you? Because so far I am the only one who knows the exact course of events of the heresy. You don't know them, otherwise you wouldn't have ended up the way you ended up in the books with the whole Imperium going to shit.”

“Don't overestimate yourself. You are not as important as you think. The fact that you're still alive is due solely to my grace. One more word and you'll end up in a cell, where I'll extract this information from you with torture.”

“Even knowing the exact course of the heresy, you wouldn't be able to stop it. Do you know why? Because you are an bad father who sees, men who blindly obey you, as tools in your Great Fucking Plan.”

After that, there was only pain. Yelena felt like her body went up in flames. Blood gushed from her nose and filled her throat, running down her chin. Suddenly standing became too painful and before she knew it, she was collapsed onto the floor, convulsing in pain. She had no idea what was happening, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. It was hard to tell how long it lasted, but suddenly everything went quiet. She was still on the floor, choking on her own blood, and standing over her was none other than Neoth.

“Maybe the world you were born into is much softer and merciful, but there are different rules here. I have killed for lesser offenses than loudly insulting me. You are weak. You are a nobody. And killing you will be like squashing an ant with a shoe.”

As if to confirm her words, Yelena felt his boot resting on her head. She wasn't stupid. She knew that he could easily split her skull, mix bones and brain. One push. That was all it took. The fact that he hadn't done it yet meant that he was giving her a chance to apologize. For her to beg for mercy.

The problem was that she felt no fear. Only rage. It was as if she was again a child being beaten by her father using his belt, trying to break her. If he wasn't able to do it, she'd sooner die than let a fucking fictional character do this. Even if she was going to die for it.

“And you're an arrogant prick whose own personality made all the perpetuals run away from him, then his sons, who loved him above life, betrayed him, and his Great Plan went to shit.”

Yelena was panting like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her eyes were wide open, and although her view was partially obscured by the man's boot, she stared ahead with almost burning gaze. Her bloody face was contorted in a grimace that she had worn more than once when dealing with bad fathers.

“I can kill you at any second, and yet you are not afraid. All I can sense from you is rage. You are filled with hatred. You say I am arrogant, yet look at yourself. Too proud to yield even in the face of death.”

Yelena did not answer him. She merely clenched her jaw, waiting for a push to fix what should have happened when she jumped off that bridge. But to her surprise, no, shock, instead she felt the pressure on her head disappear and a strong hand grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. Oh fuck, how painful it was. Her muscles forced to move ignited, drawing a broken whimper from her mouth.

“The pain will go away soon.”

Easy to fucking say. Yelena had no idea what was going on until someone pushed her to sit on a armchair, clearly made for the measurements of primarchs, and a silk handkerchief was placed in her hand.

“Get yourself in order.” The Emperor muttered, resting his hands on the beautifully decorated table. “You mentioned two times that… how did you put it? The Imperium went to shit. What is the fate of humanity after my sons betrayed me?”

Yelena thought for a moment about telling him to fuck off after the way he treated her, but decided she didn't feel like testing her luck any further. “Ten thousand years have passed, you are immobilized on the Golden Throne, the Imperium is attacked from all sides. It is ruled by corrupt fanatics and the Inquisition… ah yes, the Inquisition are also corrupt fanatics.” With a quick movement, she wiped the blood from under her nose and moved her handkerchief to her chin. “Chaos is attacking with new power, on top of that new enemies have appeared - Tau, Necrons, Tyranids. You almost became the fifth god of chaos, and ten thousand years of constant torture probably destroyed your psyche to the point that you were probably no longer yourself. And also they made you into a god in whose name they kill others or even themselves.”

Fucking Lorgar.

Neoth nodded slowly. “What do you expect in return for your help?”

“Excuse me?"

“You don't want to help me kill potential traitors, so I expect you to help me stop them from descending into chaos. Death threats don't work on you, so I'm asking what you want from me in exchange for your help.”

Yelena thought for a second. “First of all, nothing will succeed without your help. Be their father, even if you don't see them as your sons. Teach them about the threat from the chaos gods, explain Warp to Magnus, help Konrad with his madness. Just… take care of them. Second - when the Great Crusade is over, don't kill them. Let them live in peace, in the way they choose. Third… if you decide to kill me after all this is over, I ask that you do it quickly. Don't send me to the Astra Militarum to die there, just kill me in my sleep. So that I don't have to suffer.”

“You're not going to beg for your life? You know that I am able to make you a lord of some rich pleasure planet, or give you a place in one of my offices. Why don't you beg for it?”

Yelena shrugged her shoulders. “You will do what you think is right. I only ask that if you decide you want to kill me, that you spare me the suffering.”

“It's a deal then. I will change my attitude toward my sons, and your death will not be painful. You have my word.”

She had no idea if he was lying. He had done it many times in the books, so she could expect pretty much anything. This time, however, she did not question him. If, after what she told him, he still decided, to be stubborn, there was nothing she could do. They talked for a good hour, where she briefly had to explain to him what tyranids and tau were, but in the end, perhaps seeing that she was actually barely keeping her eyes due to the exhaustion, he took pity on her, ordering the Custodian to escort her to her chamber. Unfortunately, she couldn't have a moment of peace here either, as she was caught on the way by none other than Horus. Primarch, of course, demanded an explanation, which she refused to give him until they were both in her chamber.

“Can you explain why you insist so much that we talk in private? You run like a rabbit from me.” Horus began, watching as Yelena sat down on the bed

“Because if anyone were to hear that you were responsible for the heresy named after you, which almost killed your father, placing his almost corpse on the golden throne and led to the death of most of the primarchs, one of us would be in a lot of trouble.” The girl fixed her green eyes on him, silently hissing in pain as she moved her aching body a little deeper into the bed.

“Oh”

“Oh, definitely. The corruption wasn't necessarily your fault, but what happened next… well. The death of trillions of people, with the Imperium in shambles. Also you killed Sanguinius.”

Horus stared at her in silence. She wasn't sure if it was due to disbelief in her words, or if he simply ran out of words.

“How do I know you're telling the truth? That sounds absurd. Even leaving aside my loyalty to my father, I would never hurt my closest friend.”

“The gods of chaos make mush out of your mind. And why would I lie? It was your father who first tried to boil my blood alive and then almost smashed my head with his shoe. All because I called him out and refused to give him your name, among other things, as a potential traitor.”

Silent footsteps sounded and after a moment the mattress next to her depressed downwards under Horus' weight.

“Why did you risk so much? And if it's true… what made me turn my back on my family?”

“Well… I think each of you has a chance to avoid this fate.” Yelena took one strand of hair between her fingers, trying to brush away the dried blood that was on the tip. “Your fall to chaos was the fault of Erebus and Lorgar. You were seriously wounded in battle and a ritual was performed on your dying body. Erebus appeared to you as someone you trusted, unfortunately I don't remember the name, and showed you a vision that after the Great Crusade was successful, the Emperor would rule as a god and kill the primarchs as soon as they were no longer useful. You believed this vision, and then after talking to Erebus, you joined the chaos gods.”

“Lorgar? How long has he been a traitor? Has he already become one?”

“Has the Monarchia been destroyed?”

“No.”

“So he hasn't become one yet. I have no idea exactly where in the timeline we are, but incydent in Monarchia was actually the beginning of what I know as the Horus Heresy. Erebus, on the other hand… well, he's been a pawn of the chaos gods basically since he was a child and is currently manipulating Lorgar.”

Another moment of silence from Horus. “We need to get rid of him, but we can't openly kill him without evidence. I'm guessing that father prefers that your… origins remain a secret, so I can't use your words as evidence. I also can't attack and kill him without reason, after all he is an acolyte of Lorgar.”

“We need to talk to your brother. And actually with all the brothers. If the original heresy can be stopped, there is a chance that another of its variants will happen. From what you said, Lion is already furious with your father for giving me so much freedom.”

“Don't worry about Lion, I'll talk to him.” Horus got out of bed and walked toward the door. “You'll have a chance to talk to the other brothers, because they're all coming together for the great feast father is throwing to celebrate the tremendous victories during the Great Crusade. I, Sangunius, Lion and Curze arrived first, but from what I've heard, Magnus, Guilliman, Vulkan and Perturabo should show up in a few days. The rest will show up within a month.”

“Oh Lord…” Bonus: The collage I created for Yelena. Yes, she was a singer and performed in the theater.

Author's note: I would like to apologize for going so long without a chapter and for this one being so short. A lot has happened in my life, and college has done to me what Vulcan did to Konrad using his teleporter, which was also a hammer. In addition, the writer's block is still biting me in the ass. The plot begins to slowly unfold, and I guarantee that not every primarch will be so friendly (calling Perturapo a “manchild”? what could go wrong). Tag list: @beckyninja @athenaremo @justfreakynothingelse @lukarus @synfiction @thatnightlamp @pirateshippers-first-mate @amoelcafe12345 @zyra-7 @walking-natural-disaster @vithralith @ihasnopen @mooniequeen @kit-williams @roxygobyebye

[clairewritesfanfics]

Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader Part 1

Synopsis: A depressed, transmigrated fan dedicates their life worshipping their favorite character. (Because not everyone can be a badass like MC.)

Trigger Warnings: depression, mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts

Imagine being a depressed and overworked person, on the brink of throwing away your life, when your attempt is interrupted by an ad of Sylus' voice saying, "I adore you. There is no love purer than mine." Broken and alone, the words of a fictional character sends you to tears and you stop yourself from doing the unthinkable.

Finding hope again, if only in the brief moments spent playing a dating sim, you decided to give life a chance. You continued with the same routine, waking up, going to work, eating the same cheap meals from the convenience store and finding happiness with your favorite character. You used any spare money you had to buy Sylus merch and get all his cards. Life wasn't perfect, but you were content.

Until one day, you were sucked into a mysterious wormhole that transported you to a familiar, otherworldly room filled with rare metals, sparkling jewels and all sorts of weapons. 

Lying on a bed of velvet is a back that is all too familiar.

You’ve taken over a hundred photos of that back and have memorized every vein, every muscle, even the way the spine dips oh so deliciously. 

Is this heaven? Paradise?

A place that grants all your hedonistic desires?

Did God take pity on your pathetic existence and decided to give you a second chance?

No, this is probably a dream–”Ow!” You pinch yourself a little too hard. Nope, not a dream.

You glance at your hands and body, you are still you. In the game, this part should be when the Main Character attempts an assassination, but you aren’t the MC here. There is a chance–no, the probability of you dying here is as good as 99%. You have no powers, no system, skill or cheat to help you here. 

But if you were going to die, at least you can go on your own terms.

“Um, excuse me? Hello?” 

The dragon says nothing and you opt to crawl towards him. “Mister Dragon? Are you awake?” Knowing that death is almost certain, you decide to throw away all inhibitions and reach out to trace the curve of his spine. “Hello–!”

His cold, spiked tail wraps around your waist until the tip rests on your chest. You cannot help but gasp when your favorite turns to face you.

No 3D rendered model or painting from your world could capture even a tenth of the true thing's magnificence. Official sources said he was 6'2", but the real thing looks like he surpassed two meters. He towered over you completely. Maybe it isn’t height alone but his very aura that makes you feel so small. 

He is so beautiful. 

“My, what do we have here? A stray puppy?”

That voice is as smooth and deep as melted chocolate. You want to thank God, Buddha, Satan and all other powerful entities for letting you witness this moment. 

He stares down at you, assessing everything. If you had known you’d end up here you would’ve taken a bath and worn something better. 

“How odd. You have no magic power and you lack any muscle that most assassins and warriors have. It’s almost as if you’re an ordinary person.”

Okay, ouch. But he isn’t wrong. 

You raise both hands. “You’re right, I’m as average as they come.” 

“Then tell me what an ‘average’ citizen such as yourself wanted with me.”

You tilt your head in thought before answering, “I wanted to meet you.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“You must take me for a fool.”

“No, I truly did want to meet you.” 

“Why are you here? Surely, you didn’t come here to die.”

“No.” Though you were prepared. “I just wanted to see you.”

The fiend watches you closely. His eyes can pierce through any lie, but your gaze is as clear as a cloudless sky and without a trace of deception. He is unsure how to feel about this.

“You’re quite bold. But an ordinary person wanting to meet me for the sake of it feels too odd to be true. Quite stupid, even. Did it ever occur to you that I may not be so polite and just end up taking your heart?”

You raise your head, steady and unfearful as you ask, “Will taking my heart make you happy?” 

You want to tell him that every part of you belongs to him now, but even you would cringe at such cheesiness. You decide to be normal about this. “If my organs will make you happy then take them, but I do have a request.” You wriggle closer. “When you take my heart, please look into my eyes until I die.”

You’ve met your favorite, your savior. In a way, Sylus gave you a second chance at life. It seemed only fitting to perish with him being the last thing you see. 

Sylus stares at you with guarded curiosity. “I’ve never met someone so eager to die before. Either that or you are an excellent liar.” Some humans are trickier than others, they will say anything to get the upper hand. 

“Don’t get cocky, human.” His tail tightens around you. “I don’t know what you’re planning but it’d be all too easy to kill you.”

He expects you to resist, to scream or cry or seduce him. 

Instead, you cover your mouth, the edges curling upwards despite your efforts to appear serious. But it’s not your fault, he’s so cute when he tries to be menacing! You have no doubt that he’d just kill an NPC, but he will always be attractive to you, even as he threatens to rip your heart out.

“This is no laughing matter. Dragons are territorial, you should’ve thought twice before trespassing into my domain.”

“Sy–ahem, Mister Dragon, please remember my request when you end my life.”

“... I’m really going to do it.”

“I know!” You nod your head vigorously, the grin you try so hard to suppress looks ridiculous to him. Compared to throwing yourself in front of a train or overdosing on pills, this is your ideal way to die.

“...” 

“...”

“... tsk.” He releases you and you can’t help but miss the feeling of his tail choking you. Oh, well. 

“Mister Dragon?”

He returns to lying on his treasures, back turned away from you. 

Not wanting him to think that you were going to backstab him, you get down on all fours and crawl towards the fancy bed. “Sir Dragon?” 

He remains silent.

"Amazing, extraordinary, most handsome and venerable Lord Dragon–”

"Enough. Don't call me those embarrassing titles." He sighs and proceeds to give you his name. In the game's canon, the MC couldn't pronounce his name properly and called him Sylus instead. But the MC and Sylus have yet to meet.

Before you are two choices: 1) use his proper name, or 2) pretend that you can't pronounce it and ask to use "Sylus" instead. With the first option, there would be a connection between the two of you due to being the only person alive who knows his name. With the latter, you'd be stealing a defining moment for the heroine. Either way, the consequences will result in you forming a bond with Sylus.

The dragon waits for you to reply.

There is no need to complicate things, so you beam stupidly. "Your name is kind of hard to pronounce... can I just call you 'Sylus' instead?"

"Do what you want."

"Thanks."

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He can’t believe he was teaching etiquette to a human.

“Er, right.” You give him your name. Though with that voice, he can call you whatever he wants.

“I won’t stop you so go back the way you came and leave me be.”

“I can’t.”

“This isn’t a request. Get out while I’m still being patient.”

“I mean, I literally can’t. I’m not from this place and I don’t know how to get back home.” To be frank, you have little interest in returning. Aside from the next LADS update, you aren’t going to miss anything. No friends, no family, only superiors who took advantage of you and a cold, barren apartment with a rent that was two months due. 

Sylus sighs and rolls over. He lays an arm over his torso, looking gorgeous as he looks at you with eyes full of disdain. “Trying to get me to pity you, isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not.” You don’t need his or anybody else’s pity. You are simply tired, and you were sick of pretending that you aren’t. When Sylus does lose his temper, then at least you could be honest in your final moments. 

Part 2: here Masterlist: here

Edit: Had to tweak the part where Sylus gives his name to Y/N.

[the-music-maniac]

I have so many thoughts rn about Ao Bing and Nezha. Specifically, the fact that, by virtue of choosing to love and care for the other, Nezha and Ao Bing have already saved each other from their own worst fates.

Specifically in context of the 1979 version of them, which gave me brain worms from this tweet. First of all, absolutely KILLER fanart. I'm aware people have likely already made these connections and they aren't new, but I just have to ramble.

Trigger warning: mentions of suicide (1979 Nezha) + gore (1979 Ao Bing):

I know Nezha 2019/2025 had already started off with different premises, specifically being that neither Ao Guang nor Li Jing are pieces of shit. So, we don't really have the plot of Nezha being forced to commit suicide, nor of Ao Bing not giving a shit about human life and having his tendons pulled out as retribution by Nezha. But, we do know the general lines of how Nezha's story usually plays out. Nezha dies and is reborn as a lotus. Ao Bing dies, as punishment for the atrocities he's committed. That doesn't really change all that much, from how I understand it. And it didn't necessarily change in Nezha 2019 either. Nezha and Ao Bing both still die.

The difference is that they saved each other from it being tragic.

Ao Bing does try to do something awful. His motivation for attempting to bury Chentang pass was somewhat understandable, because he was given an impossible choice between the village or the destruction of his species. But he still does it. And Nezha stops him. But even though Ao Bing tried to kill everyone, Nezha chose not to strike the final blow because he cares about Ao Bing. Keep in mind, at this point while they do know they are each half of the chaos pearl, they didn't have their memories until the lightning strike, so they hadn't known each other that long. But Ao Bing was still the first person outside of Nezha's family (or in the case of taiyi, someone assigned to him by heaven), to actually offer him friendship and understanding and comfort. Ao Bing gave him hope. Their fates as adversaries changed in the moment Nezha chose not to go through with the strike, which is why I adore the shot of Nezha stopping his attack to point his spear at Ao Bing's dragon form. It's like a message is being sent - this is where it could've ended. This is where they could've fallen back into the lines fate had carved for them to follow. But they didn't. It makes Nezha yelling about fighting fate until the end in their ensuing conversation even more significant.

And because Nezha chose not to hurt Ao Bing when he could've, when he would've arguably had a right to, Ao Bing chose him right back. He put himself in the line of fire to save Nezha from the heavenly retribution, because Nezha in turn, gave him hope too. A human that never showed him any sort of prejudice for being a dragon, that cared about him enough to spare his life, that showed him exactly how it's possible to defy fate, both in regaining control of his demonic powers and, unknown to Ao Bing, saving Ao Bing in this iteration of their story. And in doing so, Ao Bing also saves Nezha from a tragic fate of dying alone as a sacrifice for the good of others. As Shen Gongbao pointed out very clearly, Ao Bing's mission could've been accomplished if he had simply let Nezha die. Nezha's been told for the entirety of the movie by everyone outside of his family that the world would be better off with him dead. But instead Ao Bing had decided in that moment that Nezha was worth more to him than what the world had assigned him as - a necessary loss for the good of everyone else.

And then both Ao Bing and Nezha were reborn as lotuses in the second movie by Taiyi. Together.

They changed fate, merely by choosing to love each other. They're each other's salvation. I am actually losing my mind.

[thefavouritelamb]

GOLDEN CURLS and your BLOOD-STAINED KNIFE

premise . . . you should be terrified, you should be fucking horrified. all the annoying bitches around you drop dead like flies and the masked hottie man in front of you is about to kill you. and, oh my god, it's that nerd from chem

( requested by anon ! )

CAST virgin!slasher slutty!final girl TAGS plot with porn, murder and attempted murder, mentions of attempted suicide, crack treated seriously, possessive behaviour, light obsessive behaviour, light knifeplay, light femdom/dominant reader, light submissive slasher, brief breeding kink, creampie, unsafe sex done by unsafe people

affiliated links ─── pinned inbox requests (closed for now)

death clings to your scent—everywhere, it knows where you are. it started small, seemingly a one-time thing. some old hag dies and everyone assumes it was from old age. it wasn't. god forbid, it wasn't. whispers echo through the hallway and doesn't leave your ears; it was a murder. who the hell gave a shit though, right? you didn't. you couldn't care when that hag refused to give you the mark you deserved. fuck her.

then, mechanically, it comes after one another. you're starting to think of moving, really. like flies, your contact list fills with dead bodies. literally. name after name, vague description after just another number, the men you've slept with are all fucking dying. if you were superstitious, you'd think this was karma. yet, you're not. you're realistic. you know someone is haunting your trail and they aren't fucking stopping.

the world stops for a moment. the only thing you can hear is that repetitive bounce of some... fucking tennis ball or something. the house is dreary, the silence occasionally stabbed with the thrumming of the ball bouncing around. your heart pounds against your chest. you can't feel your fingers though they tightly wrap around the handle of the kitchen knife. you've been sensing you were next for a while. you just wish that it didn't end like this when you're half naked, a nameless man dead on the floor of your bedroom, and pussy out in the fucking cold.

it's getting closer. your hands are grasped in prayer as you pull it close to your chest. when the pounding stops, you know he's there.

quickly, you turn to face the man in the doorway. you raise your hand to stab yet he halts you by your wrist. fuck. all your anger and frustration bubbles into a punch but it comes out fruitless. his fist hammer to your ribs. you're promptly pushed down; weak, hurting, and pathetic. this was not how you wanted to die. the man towers over you as he drags you by the hair—a string of whines fall from your lips as you struggle out of his grasp.

"get the fuck off me, you sicko!" you scream, the sting at your scalp more painful than a knife stab. you think so, anyways. "i won't fucking report your ass just please! leave me the fuck alone!"

if he's been operating systematically, killing off your contact lists one by one, you just knew that telling him off wouldn't stop him. still, he drops you on the floor. you find yourself on your back, staring wide-eyed as the mask looks into your eyes. he has no eyes, not really. he has one mouth, a grin so wild. his entire body is cloaked and with it soaked in blood—you were too. both of you were bathed in the blood of some bloke you didn't even remember the name of. you hoped, just a little, you get to have one good fuck before you died.

"do you like pain?" he says your name, his voice unnatural and a deep monotone. "i know you do." fucking pervert, watching you getting your masochistic streak on. "you like inflicting them more than you receive them, though. i know you do."

"i don't know what you mean," your voice trembles. he slowly squats down to your level, his bloody gloved hands making a print on your cheeks. "j-just..." his knife kisses your jaw, "if i did something or i said something to you—... i'm fucking stupid. you can ruin my life however you want just let me live! wouldn't that be better? let me live with my own mistakes?"

his laugh comes out a growl through the voice changer. it's animalistic. "you have been living with your mistakes," he tells you, "everyday, every man you bring home. every single one of them is a man who doesn't even care for you. they're a mistake. you've lived far long enough with them, haven't you? i'm here to finally—" the edge of the blade traces a line on the bottom of your jaw, leaving a heated pain behind—"dissolve you from your past."

before you try to reason with him, he grips his mask. the white sullen face is pulled upwards revealing—revealing...?

him? "you?" this feels like a sudden joke. "no... oh my god, no fucking way."

you want to laugh; hat was, of course, your attempted reaction before you felt the blade go deeper in your skin. fucking ouch. the man above you is none other than that nerd in your chem class. you remember months ago how you laughed because he continuously tried to flirt with you. his attempts all but adorable with his soft face and thick glasses. it was endearing back then. you almost slept with him just because you thought he was cute.

but now? holy fuck. now, it's different. you almost couldn't tell they were the same person if not the mole on his lips, a gentle kiss from the gods that turned his mouth a shade of pink. the soft cheeks have slimmed into a distinguished jawline. strands of hair curl at the top of his head, almost shielding his watercolour eyes beneath those stupid glasses. you can't believe it. that fucking nerd, after disappearing for months, came back to do a killing spree all because... you didn't sleep with him?

"you embarassed me," he says, his voice almost whiny. "do you know how hard it was for me to go around school? everyone picked on me because you said that i was... i was a good for nothing fucking virgin! you made fun of me and the entir..."

it's odd how his words dulled into a muffled tone. from this angle, the cloak falls off a little and you see a glimpse of his collarbones. he lost weight, didn't he? that's slightly sad, you quite liked him in his softer body. you mourn it silently but you notice how his voice trembles into a deeper tone—had he gone through puberty again? jeez. he looks and sounds cute. you're smiling a little as your heart skips a beat from anything but fear.

"what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance. before you could notice it yourself, your hands already moved down to your crotch. you haven't even came yet, not even a fake orgasm. you're only slightly bit shameful that you're touching yourself while he's having his villain monologue.

you hum, spreading your legs. "look, i feel a bit bad and all, but you really caught me at a bad time." you see his eyes trail to your cunt, seeing where your fingers disappear between your legs and how he gulps down in want. "come on, he didn't even have his cock out, baby. i was just barely taking off my panties when you interrupted us. and... you're kinda hot."

"you're sick." hah! the irony in that. "you want to fuck me now?" he laughs, gripping your hair again which makes you moan this time. you can see how his face loosens for a moment at the sound. "y-you only like me now because i lost weight! i starved myself from the bullying, and planning on how to fucking kill those people!"

"but baby, you're cute the way you are," you pout. "the only reason why i didn't fuck you was because you were just kinda weird at times. it was cute how you thought flower facts were going to get you pussy. and it was going to give you pussy, baby. but i can't risk my reputation if i fucked a cute nerd like you. can't give it all up just for one dick, you know?

"but now...?" you gasp, reeling in his attention with how two fingers slip in with ease. "you fucking killed those dickheads, baby. i fake orgasmed with most of them. i don't need a reputation when you've killed my audience."

his face drops into one of shock. you're not surprised that he's surprised. you're a bit surprised too—hah, you're kinda going delirious, maybe you are insane after all. despite the festering pain on your face, the stickiness of blood, you curl your fingers perfectly into your g-spot that has you moaning. you admire the way his eyes are trained onto you, his desires unfulfilled coming back again like a pest. he's tried to get over you but he hasn't. you're not letting him. absolutely fucking not.

his knife moves and you stick your tongue out, chasing the tip of it. you moan, looking into his eyes as you lay your tongue flat against the plane of the blade. "co' fu'h me?"

the words "come fuck me" were muffled but it seemed like he got the gist.

like how it was meant to be, you lay on stained bedsheets. it's a bit disgusting but you're too distracted with how cutely he's hurrying to undo his jeans. the cloak is pulled apart and you see how his hands struggle to undo his belt. silly boy. you reach out, hands expertly taking them off as he melts in your hold. it's thrown away along with your underwear, wherever it may be, as his pants are roughly pulled down by him.

you can't help but tease him, "feeling excited, baby?" he moans, hips grounding against you with a sticky fabric bordering you two. "so cute. did you cum in your boxers already? why's it all wet, baby boy?" he blushes, silent as you pick him apart knowingly. your hands make it inside his briefs and both of you moan at the contact—he's fucking wet, almost gushing. you would think he already came with the pre-cum leaking at the tip. despite that assumption, his cock is an angry red demanding warmth. your warmth.

"such a pretty little boy for me. take that off," he does so obediently. his fat cock—and it is fat, the length of it just nice but the thickness of it makes you drool in want—slaps against his stomach and makes a patch on his happy trail. "good boy, such a pretty and good boy for me.

you ask, "wanna shove it in?" and he moans, an echo of agreement and pleas falling from his mouth. he's pressing kisses against the open wound, a silent apology as he begs to be touched by you. the pain doesn't feel that bad now. it's numbed as his cockhead presses against your wet heat, wanting an entrance. you can only hear his ragged breathing as his tongue laps up the blood. your heart races against each other, the two of it throbbing with only both your flesh and bones separating them from mauling each other.

it's a miracle how he hasn't combusted yet. however, you hold onto that as he shoves the first inch inside. you've barely stretched yourself with two fingers and you almost wish you took more. the stretch of his cock punches a moan out of you, unwilling. the little thing above you whines and moans, "so good, so good, you feel so fucking good." it's the only thing he can muster in his brain as your cunt grasps him in a tight embrace, slick gushing around it as it tries to ease the slide.

"so good," he draws out in a tight moan. "i've never... you—i can't fucking believe it." you almost forgot the nerd was a virgin. "you feel so good around me. your pussy is so tight but it's, oh my god, it's opening up so nicely. so nicely for me."

your hands tangle itself in his hair after you pulled his hood down. "yeah, is it how you imagined? how does my pussy feel in comparison to your hand?" he's barely understandable with how fast he repeats so good so good so good. without prompting, one of his gloved fingers reach down to play with your clit. mostly the men need a signal or even a guide to do that. the leather is an odd feeling against such a sensitive area. still, it's not unwelcomed. you moan freely, your legs moving to wrap itself behind him. you want him to start moving. you need him to.

"come on," you goad, "need your fat cock inside me. you gotta start fucking me how you did in your fantasies, baby." then, that he does. he pushes inch by inch in, making you moan with the delightful and painful stretch. it's a feeling you're never going to tire yourself from. his cock splits you open more than anyone ever could. he presses it nice and deep, the tip kissing your g-spot gently. he doesn't move his hips, the vice around his cock too tight. he understands immediately and flicks your clit, a rapid motion that has you grinding against his hold.

that gets him to move. he starts to fuck his cock in and out of you. it's slow, pulling out until the tip is left just for him to fuck it deep again. his playful hand gets distracted but it's okay. every thrust you're groaning, your head having swivelled backwards from the pleasure. it's getting your legs to numb out. his balls slap against your ass and there's lewd sounds of skin slapping with echoing moans from the both of you. it's textbook erotic. you crave his cock just as much as he's craving your pussy.

"faster, come on." he's a show dog who's memorised all his cues. he moves his hips faster, opting for a more chaotic pace to chase both of your orgasms. he moves his hand again, a slower and more gentle act of circling in contrast to the impaling of his cock. your cunt is leaking in wet arousal as your breath is stolen from you. you can barely feel your legs when he's going ballistic. he mouths delightfully at your face now, just shy of kissing you.

you don't let his fantasy go to waste. eagerly, you tilt your head so your lips meet in unified desperation. he's moaning into the kiss. his pace stutters as he loses himself to the pleasure of being kissed. you're not surprised if you took all of his firsts tonight. in eager motions, he's chasing his orgasm orgasm. his first orgasm inside a cunt raw. you don't really mind that he's without a condom. you know you're safe when you've made everyone who tapped to wrap it up. this little killer of yours is, of course, a special exemption.

"'m gonna cum," he whines, dick hammering into your cunt. "gonna cum inside your pussy. gonna make it mine. gonna breed your pussy and you're gonna be all mine, all mine, all mine."

his free hand goes to grip your waist with one final thrust, both of you pulled into waves of orgasm. he's cumming inside of you and you mirror as you squirt all over him. the orgasm is intense as he gently plays with your clit, easing it with a slow lull. all of it becomes just a bit too much and you're writhing beneath him. he gets the point and moves away, carefully moving out of you.

in between the post haze, you feel the sheets move beneath you and you lay on the mattress. he wraps you in his arms and you're being embraced by the warmth of his body and the feel of his tongue against your lips. his kissing could be improved, you think with a laugh. that pulls him out of his cocoon-like touches. an insecure question of, "what are you laughing at?" has you smiling a little.

you answer him truthfully, "you fuck like a menace and kiss like a virgin. it's cute though, don't get me wrong." he blushes like a virgin too. you can't help but squish his cheeks. "gosh. you're adorable," the fog thins and you smell the corpse rotting at your feet, "and... you're a serial killer. how are you going to get rid of that dead fucking body?"

he looks down, almost surprised that there was a dead body there. "oh," he says, quite dumbly, "i actually don't know. i really did plan to kill you and then kill myself afterwards. i don't want to go to jail."

oh. o-fucking-kay.

you two sit up and you pull at your hair. the golden curls fall in front of your face in anger. "why the fuck would you go through all this just because you couldn't get some pussy?" he's about to answer you and you know he's going to repeat his monologue. "no, no. okay, i get it. i'm sorry. but seriously, i don't want to die and i don't want to go to jail because i fucked the murderer." this is bad. his knife is on the bed and you're thinking about just stabbing him.

wait, that could work. you grab the knife quickly and stab him. that immediately gets him to yelp, "what the actual fuck!?" he glares at the knife in his stomach then at you, "why would you do that?" he's looking at you like he's about to cry. you actually feel a little bit bad.

"sorry," you say, letting go. "i just needed to come up with a story." you pull your hair back, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "so, you were fucking me. he came here and tried to kill the both of us. he's all jealous that i was fucking other people—sounds familiar? yeah, well, this time, i kill him with this knife and now he's framed for the murder. assuming, of course, you don't have any incriminating evidence inside your house."

"no," he groans, hands hovering above the handle in wanting to get it out but knowing it should be stuck in. "your cameras are all dead too, by the way. it's been dead for a few days and no one saw the two of you when you sneaked inside from the back door. no one saw me too."

"great!" you promptly pull out the knife and he screams. "sorry! sorry! i just need to stab it inside of him and then call the cops." you put the knife right where he put it in earlier, right between his crotch. if this all goes well, you all go home without a worry. if it goes bad, well, you could always run away, right? you look at the killer bleeding, cock out and cum dribbling down his thighs and squirt on his stomach. you don't think both options are that bad.

"the costume?" he asks, looking down head to toe at himself. you're about to undress him gleefully and play dress-up with a dead body.

written and posted by thefavouritelamb

[narcjsistx]

— YOUNG TO BE DESTROYED, OLD TO BE SAVED

ও kaiser michael x fem!reader

ও warnings: small age gap between characters (reader 16 and kaiser 17) ; mention of domestic abuse ; mention of attempted suicide ; mention of teen pregnancy ; mention of burns caused by a fire ; mention of a sex scene. nothing is described in detail, but if you think you can't read it don't worry :) stay safe!!. the kaiser at the beginning of the story is the same as the one at the first meeting with ness, without tattoos, the story will also follow them as adults after

ও 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

Sixteen is not the right age to start stealing to survive. If you have to steal to live, it is better to start when you are young, so that you never know the feeling of having a warm house with food always on the table. Starting at sixteen means overturning all the principles that until a minute before had been the pillars of your life, rules that your parents had taught you since your first breath. Stealing is wrong, but dying of hunger is more wrong. You don't have much choice when your parents refuse to look you in the face. Berlin has always been cold, since you were born you never felt the heat of the sun on your skin for more than a few hours. You love Germany but hate the city you live in, which you never had the chance to escape. The last time you tried it got you into this shitty situation you're in now, with the misery all around you

You look up, the light from the distant field lamps faintly illuminating the messy place that has been your new home for weeks now. The sound of the whistle echoes in your ears, as if the soccer field were just a few meters away from you and not at least one kilometer away. You hear the screams of the players, the curses, the laughter, everything that comes out of their mouths as if you were there with them and not lying on a mattress recovered from a bin. You observe their blurry silhouettes, the balls that whizz through the air, all as a silent spectator. They don't know you've been watching them for days, ever since you found this shelter while wandering. It would be weird to know that someone you don't know has been watching you for so long, watching your movements, the way you train and joke with your teammates. Hell, it would be scary for you too to know that they're staring at you from afar. But watching them is the only human contact, if you can call it that, you have with civilization. It seems like the whole world has turned its back on you, but you're not completely homeless. You are, yes. But you get a shower every day thanks to the same players who leave the locker room door open

You've learned some of the names of the players, at least the ones who are most often praised or accused. You still can't tell the difference from their tone of voice. The most called is a certain Grimm, who does nothing but make assists that then take him to the net without a striker who can score. Another who is called often is a certain Alexis, who however seems more useful than the other. You didn't know the rules of soccer, but since you camped here you're suddenly an expert

Your father had shown you some soccer games when you were younger. He didn't like sports, but watching his national team play in anything important was a kind of pride for him, even though he had been beaten up as a child by some kids who were now part of the team. He told this story with a pride that often made you doubt his sanity. When moments like that happened, the house became even quieter than it already was, with you crushed on the couch between the bodies of your parents. The smell of cigars filled the air and the only acceptable noise was that of the television. You didn't enjoy watching the games, but as long as you had the opportunity to go to bed an hour and a half later than usual, you were fine with it. It was kinda a transgression, but you were proud of it

Your father was not a big fan of Bastard Munchen, one of the most exclusive sports clubs in the entire country, if not the most important. Yet for days now you found yourself staring at them, the club's players and their cannon shots on net. This too was a transgression, probably the second most important in your entire life after the suicide mission that was supposed to lead you to run away from home. More than once you had approached the campus, going past the fences less than two meters high. The locker rooms were attached to the fields, you didn't have to go over the fence to enter and use the showers, but curiosity had pushed you to wander a bit through the team's territories. The dormitories were south of the field, the cafeteria connected to them and you counted at least ten fields from the bit you had managed to explore, when no one was around or the team was away for some match. Security was not doing its job as it should have done to protect future German prodigies, and so sneaking into the camp to steal something from the mess bins was quite easy

You didn't go every day, that would have been too dangerous, but every time you went you made sure to take at least a week's worth of supplies. Sometimes the food ran out early, sometimes you didn't get past the fence for two weeks. But now, with your stomach empty for two days, you think it's time to go. You should have done it a few days ago, but due to some stomach pains you couldn't. This had delayed the arrival of the new food and consequently you were on an empty stomach. You have to wait for their workout to finish and maybe go after dinner time, hoping to find something that can ease the pain. They usually never eat much, lucky for you

You wait for the right moment before starting to walk, a ruined sweatshirt that protects you from the cold of the night. You go beyond the fence and hide in the half-light that the dumpsters give you, waiting patiently for the time when you know the maids will throw out the garbage bags. You hear the voices of the women and the players through the open windows, and the familiarity with which everyone seems to be in the canteen environment doesn't particularly affect you. You've never had the chance to experience something like this, a normal dinner with your parents or the simple pleasure of staying home to rest, so you don't know this feeling that was so described in the books you were forced to read. It should be reassuring, but the only reassuring thing you've ever had in your life was a caress years ago that a woman at the supermarket gave you, mistaking you for her niece, who was accidentally next to you

It's cold, but the sweatshirt seems to warm you a little as you rest your chin on your knees, warming your hands with the little warm breath you manage to create. Your stomach is hurting like hell, but the hope of being able to put something under your teeth pushes you to resist, even if the maids are delaying their usual time to put out the garbage bags. You haven't known what time it is for several weeks now, but it's probably well past midnight already and the garbage bags are not yet in the drawers, while you feel like dying. You tremble, trying to make as little noise as possible, because you know that if they discovered you they would call the police. The police have never helped you, and they wouldn't if they found out you were doing something like this. The only solution is to wait and hope you don't die here tonight, even if under current conditions it would be possible. It will probably happen, sooner or later, but you want to hope that later is as far away as possible. You're still too young to go away like this

As you close your eyes, you hear the sound of metal doors slamming. You hear the chatter of women throwing out garbage bags, filling the dumpsters that slam into your face. Blood starts to drip from your nose, but that's not the main problem when the smell of burning meat finally reaches your nostrils. You struggle to wait for the women to come back inside, but as soon as they disappear behind the door, you rush to the dirty bags to open it as if it contained the most beautiful Christmas present in the world. You voraciously start throwing pieces of meat into your mouth, also taking some tomatoes and some yogurt sauce that is stuck to some bitten bread. From the emotion small tears form at the edge of your eyes, but you can't help but let them out as you fill your stomach after days of panic. This is the first time this has happened to you since you became homeless, but it feels so good to finally have a full stomach again

"A dog? A stray dog?"

You freeze when you hear a male voice outside the dumpster. The food gets stuck in your throat, while your agitation starts pumping through your veins again. You tremble uncontrollably, almost unconsciously, as you turn your head towards the presumed voice. There is definitely someone here, and it is a man. You hear footsteps approaching the dumpster you are locked in, and in a last ditch attempt to save your skin you hide under the bags, at the bottom of the metal container. The stench burns your lungs, but you hold your breath while you trying to move as less as possible. If they catch you now, it's over. This is definitely trespassing, and it's punishable by jail time. In prison they would kill you for your weakness, or probably use your body only for personal purposes. Both options would kill you anyway, and you still have so many things to do before you leave this world

A hand slips through the garbage, feeling the bags covering your stomach. You hold your breath, even when the hand accidentally lands on your breast, squeezing it. You feel the hand disappear above the surface, then grab the bags that cover you. You remain paralyzed when not even a bag has the possibility of covering you, thus marking the end of your hiding scene. You no longer feel air in your lungs due to the anxiety of having been discovered, and you look up where the dumpster has its opening: a pale face, vaguely illuminated by the street lamps, appears in front of your vision. You notice a young man, with blond hair and a light red eyeliner, with eyes too blue to be human. Some of his long, messy hair falls onto your face, pinching your face, which is stained with something wet from the garbage. His eyes are a little surprised when he notices you, but he doesn't seem that surprised either. He raises an eyebrow, grabbing his hair and putting it behind his shoulders "What the fuck are you doing here?"

You don't know how to respond, the words that don't want to come out of your mouth and create a remotely convincing excuse. You stammer something, but that only seems to annoy him, as he looks at you questioningly "Are you a woman? I assume... oh. I touched your breasts, earlier. While you were hiding" he says maybe a little guilty, but you wouldn't be able to tell from his confident tone of voice "I thought you were a damn stray dog. Even though it smells the same" he says chuckling, but you don't share his irony while you're still figuring out if he'll call the police or not. He seems to notice your silence, taking your arm to at least make you sit up "I was joking, don't take it personally. Not that I care about your perfume, I don't know you" he says shrugging. He then seems to remember something "Get out of the way. I have to check if they threw away something I need" he says, pushing you aside, picking up a bag and placing it on the floor, disappearing from your view. His attention shifts completely to the object, as he opens it and throws out the waste, swearing something under his breath in a thick Berlin accent

You get down on your knees, resting your hands on the edge of the dumpster as you watch him, still scared "You… you’re not going to call the police?" you ask, stammering, but he huffs, not even turning around "I don’t care. You can just walk away" he says throwing the garbage around him, but suddenly he turns, looking at you in the face "Indeed. Come here, if you don't want me to call it. You have to help me find something" he says smiling victoriously, and you stand up, following his order. He seems satisfied when he sees you at his side "You have to look for the drawing of a blue rose with thorns along the arm. Like... a tattoo sketch" he says looking, and you remain a little perplexed, but you nod. In the middle of the night you start looking for this sketch, an almost holy silence that holds between you. You search without asking questions, without attracting more attention than you already have. You drop your conditions to help this stranger who seems to be able to give you freedom, if you help him. With shaking hands you search for at least ten minutes, until you turn around noticing that he hasn't been searching for a while now, more interested in studying you "How young are you?" he asks bluntly. You press your lips together, moving your gaze back to the envelope, still searching for "Sixteen" you say a little uneasily, but he nods "I'm seventeen" he says confidently

You think the conversation is over, but less than ten minutes later, you feel his eyes burning on you again "Why were you here? I won’t call the police. But answer me" he asks, and you feel a little uncomfortable answering without sounding like a criminal. You think about it a bit before telling the truth, lying to him would make him angry and he might change his mind "I needed food. Opening the bags and eating the scraps was the only option" you say a little embarrassed by your own words, but your words don't seem to surprise him "I understand"

After almost half an hour of searching, a small ketchup-stained piece of paper pops out of the mass. You grab the sketch, handing it to him "Is this?" you ask uncertainly, and he smiles at it "It's this" he says taking it, looking at it proudly. You stand up from the ground as he seems too happy to pay attention to you. You clasp your hands behind your back, looking down. Thanking him would be better, showing respect is always appreciated "Thank you... thank you for not calling the police. I will never come back here again" you say promising something completely false. He looks up, getting back on his feet. Only now do you notice the difference in height between you. He nods, chuckling to himself "At least make promises you know you can keep" he says, but you have already run away behind the fence

Running back to your shelter, you can't help but think that luck has saved you. If he had called the police, you would probably be in a cell in any police station by now, awaiting legal proceedings. Yet you found someone whose only interest was himself and his desperate need to find that drawing. It was probably a staff member or a player, but you're not sure about either possibility. It's enough to know that for tonight you're still alive and with a full stomach. You have taken less food though, which you will probably finish earlier than expected due to your stomach pain. Your return there will be much closer than you want, but as long as you live you're happy. You curl up on the mattress, still chewing a piece of bread. You fall asleep sooner than expected, still thinking about today's luck. When you wake up you notice with regret that it snowed during the night, and that your sweatshirt is completely wet because of the loose flakes on your body

You stand up from your hiding place, looking out at the distant campus now completely covered in snow. You're cold, but your sweatshirt was the only long-sleeved thing you had left. You go back to the hideout, taking off your now completely soaked sweatshirt, remaining in your bra. You light a small fire with some paper, closing the exit of the hideout with the mattress turned over. You pull your legs to your chest to save heat, but the shivers don't seem to go away even as you're about to fall asleep again. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is the calm flame of the fire in front of you. The first thing you see when you wake up is the shelter completely in flames. You wake up because of too much heat on your body, especially concentrated along your left leg, finding yourself surrounded by flames. You regain alertness almost immediately, looking around for an escape route while your heart risks coming out of your rib cage, and the only option seems to be the exit which however is still partially blocked by the burning mattress. You tremble looking for a solution, and the only option seems to be to move the mattress with your bare hands. You take a generous dose of snow that you put on your hands before grabbing the edges of the object to move it

The pain of the flames immediately reaches your hands. You scream in despair, feeling your whole body burning, but you don't let go. You try to move the mattress and only succeed after a few attempts, not daring to look at your hands that you can no longer feel because of the pain. When you finally move the mattress you fall to the ground, onto the cold snow. The cold hits your bare, burned skin, causing a sensation you would compare to the hell your mother said she feared. If this isn't dying, you don't know what is. With your knees planted in the snow you look down just to take a look at the state of your hands, but you are disgusted to see only burned and bloody skin. Looking down you also notice a large burn on your left leg, the same one where the heat was concentrated. You try to calm yourself down with deep sighs, but all you really do is scream at the top of your lungs in pain. You cry as you look at the burns, barely walking away from the shelter that is now completely destroyed. The cold is killing you as is the pain, giving you a headache so bad that you pass out a few meters away from the fence of the Bastard Munchen campus

The last thing you see, blurry, before passing out, are the soccer players training on a nearby field. You're afraid of dying, either from the cold or the pain. Maybe yesterday's luck was just a last favor. Maybe dying young is the only solution, if the pain will stop. You breathe loudly, but your eyes close

The first thing you see when you wake up is snow. You move slightly, brushing away the snow that has fallen on you. You don't know how much time has passed, if even a day, but the sun is setting. You sit up, your head is pounding and a bad general discomfort throughout your body, but the pain has disappeared in all places except those where there are burns. You look at your hands and leg, where scabs now cover the skin: you shiver at the sight of them, but you are alive. Your body is completely frozen and you're still in your bra and pants, but you're alive. You try to stand up, but you fall almost immediately; you try again until you can stand up with some difficulty, but strong enough to walk a few meters. You look at the nearby fence, and turn towards the shelter: now only a pile of black ash covers that area. You almost want to cry, but you're so dehydrated that you don't even have any body water to use. You look around, seeing how the showers aren't that far away: you walk towards them and when you notice that no one is inside, you close the door behind you heavily. You let yourself fall along the metal of the door, feeling the heat of the showers, probably recently used, finally warm you up

You find yourself sitting on the floor, your body warm and your burns a little painful from the sudden heat. You shiver as you stand up, walking towards the showers to turn them on and drink, even though you don't know if your hands still work. You limp to the shower hallway, but are frozen when you find the same blond boy at the end. He turns instinctively when you let out a gasp, and you look into each other's eyes: he seems surprised to see you here, while you're just scared to see him. You remain silent, and only then you realize that he is naked except for a towel covering his lower waist. He seems to notice your eyes moving, but it doesn't seem to bother him "Aren't you cold like this?" he asks casually, but you shiver as you don't know whether to go out and run away or stay here. He raises an eyebrow at your silence, taking a few steps forward while you take a few steps back. Your back hits the wall, and his fingers find their way to your chin, grabbing it to look up at you. You close your eyes, opening them only when you don't notice any annoying hands on your body: you find only his blue eyes staring at you, studying you

"You smell like something's burning" he says, looking you up and down, then focusing on your hands, which he grabs. He deliberately presses his fingers against the scabs, making you scream in pain. He does it again, and you notice a small smile on his face "You have a low pain threshold. You wouldn't resist a tattoo under your eyes" he says proudly, and from your teary eyes you can tell that the red eyeliner he has is actually a tattoo. He chuckles at your confusion, letting go of your hands but not moving away from you "You’re here again, you know it’s forbidden to enter a sports campus? Or did you want help?" he asks, smirking. You avoid his gaze, stammering something "I know it’s forbidden… but… I…" you say, confused, but he shakes his head "It’s okay. I like stray dogs" he says reassuringly, and even though the comparison he just made between you and such dirty animals bothers you, you remain silent. Your silence seems to amuse him, to the point of patting you on the head "Do you want something? I can give it to you, I won't call the police. If you want to take a shower, go ahead, I'll wait here" he says walking away, sitting on the bench in the locker room. You look at him a little perplexed, but you run towards the showers and lock yourself in one, turning on the water. As you wash yourself quickly you hear him humming, and this makes you a little nervous "Are you sure... are you sure you won't call the police?" you ask, rubbing soap on the scabs, which make you grimace in pain "I don't feel like it. I don't particularly like cops" he says, and you breathe a sigh of relief "You don't even like them, do you?" he asks, and you sigh "No..." you say while washing yourself, and your answer amuses him "We have already found something in common between us" he says, and you remain silent again

"I left you a shirt behind the shower door" the boy says, and after drying yourself off, you put on your bra, your panties from before, and the shirt that turns out to be your team's. It's big on you, and when the boy pops up near the showers to look at you, he nods in satisfaction "It's a little long, but I think it's better than the way you were before. You're hungry, too, I guess. And those nasty burns need some dressing" he says, looking at you, and you don't know how to reply "Wait here" he says, leaving the locker room before putting on a sweatshirt. You hadn't noticed him, but he seems to have dressed while you were cleaning yourself. You haven't looked at him much, but he seems to have a very trained and toned physique for a simple member of the staff, he's definitely a player. You could run away now that you're finally alone again, but this undue kindness from a stranger is making you soft. He probably doesn't want to bother you, otherwise he would have done it already. But you're not used to kindness, especially if you haven't done anything for him, besides helping one time

He returns shortly after, with a container with meat and a bottle of disinfectant. He bends over next to you, while you have sat on the floor near the sinks. He passes you the container, which you open with difficulty because of the burns, while he soaks some bath paper with disinfectant. You bite the meat, and let him take your hand that he soaks with the liquid "Shit!" you scream in pain, but he doesn't stop, almost making you cry. He continues for a while before wrapping your hand with bandages, doing the same thing for the other hand and leg "It should ease the pain a little. I don't know honestly, but they do that with the injuries we inflict on ourselves on the field" he says resting his head against his palm, and you look up from your meal just to stare at him for a few seconds "Thank you" you whisper, but he shakes his head "This time a thank you is not enough. I want to know your name" he says, and you answer even though you don't want to "My name is Y/n. Can I know yours?" you say, and he smirks "Michael. Kaiser Michael" he says putting his palm in front of you, but you look at him and a small smile forms on your lips. He seems to understand that because of the burns you can't shake his hand, but it doesn't seem to bother him "My mistake" he says, and you chuckle "Don't worry"

The two of you sit in silence, next to each other. You look at your bandaged hands and wonder why he’s been so nice to you. His blonde hair hides his face from your view, so you can’t see if he’s thoughtful or calm, but you assume he’s okay with not talking. He turns his head slightly toward you, tilting his head "Do you have a home?" he asks "No" you answer without regret, and he looks even more amused "So you’re homeless. Why did you run away? Didn’t mom and dad give you enough sugar?" he asks, laughing, but you look down, remaining silent "I touched a sore spot. Nice" he says, but you turn away "It's not a sore point. I... I just don't want to talk about it" you say shakily, and he nods "Okay, stray dog" he says, but you glare at him "I don't like that nickname" you say pouting, but he shrugs "I like it. Make up one that bothers me, so it's fair on both sides" he says, and even though he doesn't want to stop calling you that, you're interested in how to resolve it "Umh... dog... Berlin dog" you say, but he bursts out laughing "Calling me a 'Berlin dog' when my favorite animals are dogs and I'm from Berlin is not a very smart move on your part" he says, and you prick up your ears "Are you originally from here too?" you ask, and he nods "Since birth" he says, and you seem more interested in the discussion "Which area?" you ask but his mood changes slightly, less funny "I don't remember. I haven't been home in a long time, I'm basically always on campus" he says, but you look at him puzzled "You don't remember the area where you lived for years? I have to call you 'stupid dog', then" you say, and his mood seems to return "I can accept this" he says, again amused. Things seem a little less awkward now that you’ve finally joked around and talked a bit. Michael stands up, offering you a hand "Do you want to sleep here for the night or do you have a shelter to go back to?" he asks, and only now do you remember what happened to your shelter. You purse your lips, standing up on your own "Umh… if it’s okay I can sleep here" you say, and he nods "Don’t worry, the campus is completely player-controlled after 10pm. We can bring whoever we want into the rooms" he says, and you look at him in surprise "You didn’t mean here in the locker room?" you ask, and he seems amused by your stupidity "Of course not. If you have to stay, at least use the comfort services. I don’t know how long you’ve been homeless, but I bet you miss sleeping in a warm bed" he says

You haven't slept in a real bed in far too long, and if he gives you the assurance that the surveillance won't tell you anything, you can accept it. You nod, taking a step forward "Okay... thanks" you say, and he leaves the locker room as he begins to walk towards the dorms. The two of you remain silent, until he reaches the entrance "You still haven't told me how you got those burns" he asks, and you cross your arms "Fire" you say, and he seems to accept it. You enter the dorms, where you can hear people chatting and laughing through the doors, much like they do during the training sessions you've been watching so much. You enter his room, where you find a boy sitting on one of the two beds in the room "Oi, Ness. We have guests" the boy says closing the door behind him, letting you in. A boy with brown and magenta hair looks up from his book, watching you curiously but not with a perverse look "Hello. Do you know her?" he asks straight to Kaiser, and he nods "Kinda. She'll be sleeping here tonight" he says disappearing into the kitchen of the room, returning with a pair of round glasses that he puts on "This is Alexis Ness. He is my roommate and teammate. Don't worry about him, he's a good guy as long as you don't insult me in front of his eyes" he says, and even though Kaiser's description reduces the boy to a loyal dog, he doesn't seem to mind too much "My pleasure" he says, and you shake your hand with a nervous smile. You realize now that Alexis is a name you've heard before, and that makes you curious "You both play for the Bastard?" you ask, and Kaiser sits on his bed "On the pre-adult team, at least until we both turn 18. But yeah" he says, and this makes you curious "Which roles?" you ask, and Ness rubs the back of his neck "He's a striker, I'm his midfielder" he says, and you nod "Cool"

A few hours later, with another meal in your stomach and a generous helping of water, it’s time to go to sleep. You’re left in Kaiser’s shirt, and he signals you to lie down next to him. Normally you’d refuse, but you have plenty of reasons to accept: you’re sleepy, you miss having a bed to sleep in, Michael is kind, and you really don’t have the right to refuse. You take a few steps forward, lying down next to him with your body pressed against his, while Ness is already asleep in his bed. You both remain silent, but you know he isn't sleeping even though his eyes are closed "Weren't you sleepy until just now?" you whisper, and he opens one eye "I can say the same thing about you. I'm not sleeping because I'm used to having more space in my bed" you say, and you look at the ceiling "I can go sleep in the showers or on the floor, you know" you say, but he shakes his head "It wouldn't be polite of me to let a young lady sleep on a dirty floor" you say, and you stifle a laugh "Young lady?" you ask, and he nods "You're one year younger than me" he says, and you realize it's true "Oh, I told you the first time we met" you say, and he nods "When you looked for the sketch in the garbage" he says, and you think about it "But why do you need that drawing, in the end?" you ask curiously, and he smiles "That's the next tattoo I want to get. When I turn eighteen... the first one I got was done illegally. I want the two roses on my neck, the thorns along my arm and the crown on my hand" he says, and you're shocked "That would be really cool. But why do you want to do that, any particular reason?" you ask, and he smirks "I've known you too little time to tell you. Become my trusted slave first and I'll think about it later" you say, and you giggle "Really funny, hope so Micheal. But at least, can I know when you'll be eighteen?"

"Christmas day" he says, and you choke on your own spit. Kaiser looks at you puzzled, making you sit down on the warm mattress "Does Christmas disgust you that much?" he asks ironically, but you shake your head "I was born on December 25th too" you say, and this time it's you who sees him completely surprised, even his frown is replaced by a little smile "This is unexpected. Another thing that unites us, then"

You spend the rest of the night joking around, trying not to wake Ness: he tells you about the team, about his role as a striker, about how he's been living in the Bastard Munchen dorms for at least a year, and you tell him about your burning hideout. Before you know it, it's dawn. You stay in bed, while Kaiser gets up to go to the bathroom, Ness who has just woken up. You watch the two boys in silence, watching them wander around their small apartment undisturbed, as if you were not there and could not see their bare and toned chests as they put on their sports uniforms for their morning workout. This is also a transgression, your parents would go against everything you have done in the last 24 hours. But for the first time ever, you are having fun with someone who is actually quite simple. With Ness already gone to breakfast and Kaiser still in the room, the boy approaches his bed, sitting on the edge "You can sleep, we don't have room service unfortunately for us. If you're hungry eat, make yourself at home. I should be back by lunchtime" he says, and you nod with half your face covered by the blanket. He chuckles at the scene, walking out of the room and leaving you completely alone. You spend the morning sleeping, eating a bad brand yogurt and watching the boys team up out the window: Kaiser stands out among the members, with his fast movements always followed by Ness. He scored without showing too much effort, demonstrating a resistance to the duration of the training that honestly surprised you for such a young boy

At lunch time the door opens, and Ness comes in leaving you a tray full of food "Kaiser couldn't come. I hope you like our canteen" the boy says, and you can't help but show your disappointment at the lack of the blond boy. You take the food and eat alone, staying like that until dinner time when the door opens again, this time with Kaiser carrying the tray. You get up from the boy's bed, walking towards him "You said you'd be back at lunch time!" you say taking the tray, but he sighs amused "My mistake, miss. I had to check something. Let's have dinner together, shall we?" he says, taking a bowl of soup. You don't ask yourself many questions, taking the soup and starting to eat. Kaiser tells you about his workout, as if you hadn't been watching him from the window of the room all day. He dresses your wounds again and gives you a taste of a dessert that the campus cafeteria gave to the players this morning, after the breakfast. Before Ness goes back to the shared room, you're both back in bed, almost asleep

For the next month, you find yourself spending your days like this. You rarely leave your room, walking the dorm hallways late at night with Kaiser. You’ve occasionally come out of the fence, but you don’t like walking near the pile of ash that the fire has destroyed. You try to stay as far away from the black on the snow, which even after weeks has not disappeared. Your stomach hurts when you think about it, but the uneasy feeling goes away when Kaiser is next to you. Some players have noticed your presence on campus, but no one dares to tell the directors: Michael said that you are a childhood friend of his, and that you only occasionally sleep in his room. You don't think that the other players want to talk behind his back, once he happened to tell you about how he beat up one of them when he first arrived at Bastard Munchen for a relatively stupid reason. You spend your evenings in bed with him, playing board games, reading Ness's books, or watching the TV he had installed in the kitchen just for you. He tells you about amazing things like special training sessions, the times he took planes, or what it's like in foreign countries like England, Italy, and France. He tells you so many interesting things that you almost feel guilty for being able to tell him only about your strange experiences as a homeless person. You haven't told him about your past, about who you were before you were a tramp, just as he hasn't told you anything about Michael Kaiser before Bastard Munchen called him. You never talk about topics from the past just because you don't want to run the risk of having to talk about them: it's a limit that you've put on yourselves without telling each other, a barrier that still can't be overcome even after all this time of synchronicity. You're not big fans of physical contact, you see how he often reject even Ness's high fives. But when you're alone in the room, in silence, his arms almost spontaneously find space around your waist, while you're lying on the bed with his face in the crook of your neck. Without speaking to him you stroke his hair, and you feel at peace with the whole world but above all in perfect connection with the boy who apparently saved you from humiliation. Often you don't need words to communicate, often you just need to look into each other's eyes and read the soft and real meaning you mean

Despite being locked up most of your time inside four walls, you have never felt freer than this: free to eat what you want, to talk to whoever you want, to hug whoever you want, to be faithful to whoever you want. In sixteen years, you have never had so many possibilities. Now that you have it, for the first time you feel like a normal teenager and not an idealized perfect model who tried to kill herself. You're grateful your parents kicked you out of their house if it resulted in you meeting your savior, that in less than a month he will finally be able to get the tattoo he so desires. While you wait, you try to be as faithful to him as possible: you eat the food that only he brings you, you wear only his shirts, you keep your hair loose just because he once mentioned that he thought you looked good with your hair like that. They are small gestures that want to show him how much you owe him, even if you can't repay him properly. But you will, one day, you absolutely will

It's Christmas Eve when you hear Kaiser knocking on the door. You run to open it, noticing the tray full of chicken soup "It's so much" you say, letting him in, and he nods, placing the tray on the coffee table between the two beds. You go to his side, first grabbing some spoons from the kitchen "Ness? Dinner with the players?" you ask, and he nods "He'll probably be back after midnight. He said he wanted to go to some kinda party they're throwing in the main room. Usual shit" he says, starting to eat, but you tilt your head "You're not going?" you ask, and he turns around, raising an eyebrow "Why should I?" he asks questioningly, and you put your elbows on the table, stirring the soup "You're part of the team, you should. It's a party" you say, even if you never had a concrete definition of a youth party, accustomed to elegant balls "You're here, why should I go?" he says, and for the first time, his words have an effect on you. You smile like an idiot, choking on your soup. Kaiser grabs a handkerchief, rolling his eyes in amusement as he wipes your mouth "You’re acting like a dog. You’re going back to your old ways, like a stray dog again" he says teasing you, and you take the handkerchief to clean yourself "I'm not a stray dog. Not anymore" you say defending yourself, but he snorts amused "You're not anymore, I know. Thanks to me. I tamed you"

The handkerchief remains against your mouth, but his words seem to enter your head like missiles. Involuntarily, you let yourself go into the care of another person as soon as you had the chance to do so. Even if by running away, or trying, you had promised yourself not to do it again, now the situation is as before. Kaiser is kind, though. Kaiser does not force you to drink your own saliva when you spit out the bitterness of the poison. Kaiser does not force you to remain with a bloody face for days just because the blood makes them happy. Kaiser doesn't make you sleep naked when it's cold just because you talked back to your mother. Is it really that bad to be tamed by your savior, in this case?

"You don’t like soup?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, and you snap back to reality. You shake your head, pushing the handkerchief aside and smiling sheepishly at him "No, no. It’s good. I was just thinking about… have you booked your tattoo appointment yet?" you ask, making up an excuse, and he seems to believe it "Tomorrow morning. I had to pay triple the price to book an appointment on Christmas Day, but I know it’s worth it" he says proudly, and you agree with him "It definitely will be. You'll finally have what you want" you say, placing your face in the palm of your hand, but he shakes his head "Just a part. The rest I want I can't get yet, but that will come too. Also, I added a small modification to the tattoo, but nothing too big" he says, and you connect his words to his desire to be the best striker in the world "Really?" you ask, and he nods "Exactly. But it's so small that I don't want you to see it, I'll show it to you directly tomorrow" you say, and you nod

A few hours later you find yourself on his bed, his arms around your waist tighter than usual and his face more hidden in the crook of your neck. You caress him trying to stay awake to wish him a happy birthday, even though you know it's yours too. But he's your savior, and it's the first one you've spent together, in each other's arms. You can ignore yourself for this year. Before the alarm can ring, you're already squeezing his hand. "Happy birthday, Michael" you whisper, and he looks up only to meet your eyes. He smiles tiredly, resting his face on your chest"Thank you. You too, Y/n" he says, and you almost get emotional in front of his enormous kindness of having even remembered the right date. You smile at him kissing his forehead, but only afterwards do you realize that you went a bit too far. You pull your head back embarrassed, but he tilts his, probably amused and tired from the little nap he had taken on you "If only this was your gift, I'm totally fine with it. But I would have preferred the kiss lower down" he says in a low voice, and it gives you the shivers. You press your lips together not knowing how to respond, but he seems to want to tease you a bit "I have to give you the gift, mh?" he says

Involuntarily or perhaps not, your eyes fall on his lips as his on yours. The caresses become slower and the grip on your waist more possessive. His face slowly approaches, and this time you don't take steps back like your second meeting in the locker room, this time you are the one closing the distance, letting your plump lips end up on his. You both remain still for the first few seconds, but he is the first to reply, pushing them more voraciously towards yours. Instinctively you tighten your arms around his neck, enjoying the sensation of a kiss you have always dreamed of but never received. It is your savior who gives it to you, that's why it tastes so sweet. Kaiser gets on top of you, kissing the edges of your lips, and when you pull away you can't help but laugh both of you. This time it wasn't words that were needed between you, but gestures, and you like this new way of communicating, if it makes you so happy. Michael just leans down to rest his forehead against yours, and you both close your eyes "Give me one more year, just hold on one more year. After that we could be anything you want" he whispers against your lips, and you nod, you would do it even if they were insults if they came from his mouth. He kisses, you kiss him, this all night until your lips hurt. When you fall asleep, a trickle of saliva still connects you, but the trickle and his body are not there when you wake up

Ness wakes you up and shakes you, while you are still in the world of dreams "Get in the closet, run. The directors are checking the rooms, some players brought drugs into the party last night... some went to the hospital" says the boy lifting you up, and before you can even reply, you are locked in the closet. Waking up you realize the gravity of the situation, and a hole in your stomach starts to eat you slowly, understanding that if they find you it's over. Kaiser wasn't next to you, is he still on campus or has he already gone to get his tattoo? You need him, you're dying of anxiety and he's the only one who can defend himself in case the directors find out about you. You need the kisses he gave you last night again, the reassuring way he made you feel even if you weren't anxious. You need your Michael. You think this, but you hear Ness opening the door and the footsteps of at least three people in the room. You hug your legs to your chest, holding your breath as you watch them wander around the room through the crack, checking their clothes or the kitchen. You don't see Ness, you don't know if they've thrown him out for inspection. You try to think clearly, but when the closet door reveals your hidden figure, the world falls apart

"And you? I don't think the team has any female players. Miss, I kindly ask you to follow us" a man says, grabbing your arm and throwing you out of the closet, making you fall to the floor where all the other directors are watching. As you are dragged out of the room you hear Ness talking to the directors, but they tell him to go back to his room or risk having his contract annulled. Like a humiliated puppet, the directors drag you to the main office of the campus, dragging you as if you were unable to walk independently. You cry silently without realizing it, but this does not stop them from locking you in the room with them, starting to write a report of the discovery "Miss, your name? Where do you live? Why were you in the room? Do you have any contact with Alexis Ness or Michael Kaiser? Do you know it is illegal?" they ask, but you, sitting on the plastic chair, cannot even compose a complete sentence, trembling and with a probable attack of mutism. You look around confused, biting your nails in nervousness. This doesn't seem to stop them from asking you more questions, but after what seems like an eternity but was probably less than an hour and a half, the door is opened by someone else

You turn around, and Kaiser appears in the room. He closes the door behind him, walking straight to the director’s desk, slamming his hands on the wood "Is that a fucking way to treat a young lady, dragging her across the campus without even giving her a chance to explain?" Michael barks, and you look at him like he’s given you a drink after walking across the Sahara. The director swallows a lump of saliva, avoiding the direct gaze "She had a chance to sp-" he excuses himself, but Kaiser slams his fist on the wood "Are you kidding me? The players made videos of her being dragged" he says, continuing "If they make videos of you doing something like that, you'll be prosecuted right away. I'll make up some other bullshit to defend her and you will end up in prison" he says, and the director looks up "Are you kidding? Why would you?" he asks anxiously, and he laughs "Because then you'd lose me too, and your fortune with the campus. And that chance of us having Noel Noa train us? Nuh nuh, no way" he says, and the director clenched his fingers into fists "I... I won't do anything to her. But she has to get off the campus, it's against the rules" he says, but he shakes his head "If she gets off campus, I'll get off with her. But off the team. I'm going to ReAl" he says, and the director stands up "Don't you dare threaten me, Kaiser!" he shouts, but Micheal remains calm "I didn't say anything too absurd. It's your decision" he says crossing his arms

In your eyes now Kaiser is like water: necessary, destructive, perfect. He lets himself go without fear of breaking something, and he's doing it for you, for the same girl he kissed last night as if his life depended on it. The freshly inked tattoo flexes against his skin stiff from punching the desk, but that only gives it an even more suggestive look of perfectionThe blue roses, the thorns, the crown: finally everything he ever wanted is engraved on his body. It's damn beautiful, he is. You are proud to be faithful to him and only him, to be tamed by this very human being

"She can stay, she can do it, damn it, okay?" he says, reaching the limit, and Kaiser raises an eyebrow "And?" he asks, and the director glares at him, but lowers his gaze "And have dinner, lunch, do whatever she wants" he says exhausted, and he nods. He nods at you, the first since he came in, and takes your hand as he leads you out of the room. You don’t talk along the corridor, but in the open air you stop. Kaiser turns, not letting go of your hand "Does something hurt?" he asks, and you shake your head "Why did you do that?" you ask through tight lips. It’s cold, your breath condenses as it leaves your lips. Kaiser looks at you surprised by your question, taking a few steps back "Why wouldn’t I have done that?" he asks, and you want to answer him but you can’t find the right words. He remains silent, and only when he notices that you’re not angry, he comes closer, closing you in a hug. His hands rest on your waist, while you press your face against his chest "I want you to stay with me. I want you by my side, at least until you turn 18 and I can buy you an apartment of your own. I want you here" he whispers to you, and you feel the blood rushing through your veins again. You let out a loud sigh, looking up. "I want it too. But I don’t want you to have to change something in your life just for me" you say, and he chuckles at your words "But I’m okay with it. I’m okay with it if I do it for you" he says cupping your face, placing a light kiss on your lips "This is the last one. I want to give you the next one as a present for your eighteenth birthday" he says, and you frown, saddened by his statement but okay "Also" he says, moving away from you and lifting the sleeve of his shirt to better show the part of the tattoo with the thorns "I didn't show you the tattoo or the modification. But you can look for it" he says, bringing his arm closer to your face. Questioningly you take his arm in your hands, examining the complicated tangle of thorns that now surround his arm. On the thorns, in a point parallel to his heart, you find a small writing. You take a few steps back, looking up at him who is already looking at you smiling "Happy birthday" he whispers to you, sweetly

In a handwriting similar to yours, the name 'Y/n' stands out among the thorns. You open your mouth in shock, not believing it "You can’t really have done that" you stammer insecurely, but he runs a finger over the tattoo "It’s permanent. It’s there and it’ll never come off"

"Stop doing things for me when I can't repay you" you say with tears in your eyes, still emotional. He shakes his head, taking your hands and kissing your knuckles "Repay me by continuing to be just the way you are. Devoted" he says, and you can swear that right now you feel in love with him. In love with Michael Kaiser. In love with your savior, your God, your only rock. It's not just pleasure, it's love and only love

Almost two months after that Christmas, you find yourself sitting on the benches of the soccer field for practice. Kaiser chases the ball, his hair now also blue that flutters in the cold wind of mid february. It is a change in his appearance that he has made recently, and yet you have already gotten used to the idea of this new haircut that Ness made under your and Michael's advice. It sets him apart, more than it already did before, even just his charisma. You read a philosophy book that Kaiser lent you, but you're not that interested. You look up from the pages only when you see him approaching: you lower the canteen to him, and he sits down next to you, drinking greedily. He puts the empty canteen on the grass, wiping the light sweat from his forehead with a towel "Do you have anything else to do?" he asks, and you look at him puzzled "No? Do you need something?" you ask, closing the book

Kaiser looks around, but you've been alone for hours now. He looks at you for a bit, before looking down "Have I ever told you about myself before the Bastard?" he asks, and you stiffen, shaking your head and realizing that it's finally that moment "I was different, I was born different and still am. But now I don't have to deal with my father anymore" he says, and you move closer. Kaiser looks up, he takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers "My mother is an actress, I think. I never really wanted to understand it actually. She worked with my father when she wasn't famous yet, she got pregnant and right after giving birth to me she realized she could be someone if she left me to that lout of a father of mine. She was my father's muse, a director famous only thanks to her. He went crazy when he found out she was gone, maybe I was still too young to remember the slaps and punches he probably gave me. So I never went to school, staying in the criminal area of Berlin. I stole to support the family, maybe I learned to steal even before I learned my name... but that didn't stop the slaps. My father always thought that I was the problem of his breakup with my mother, the reason for his failure. He never changed his mind as I grew up, getting used to making me almost a dead corpse every chance he got. But then I met soccer... I bought a ball, I gave myself a gift for the first time. I held that ball as if my life depended on it, as if it was the only thing that made sense to me. I got pretty good at it without knowing a single damn rule of the sport, but then I got caught in a theft. The police arrested me for something other kids in the neighborhood had done, but I rebelled so much that they took me straight to jail without a legal trial. I thought about killing myself for a few days, I won't deny it. I was fourteen or fifteen years old... but someone saved me. A very powerful man in soccer found out about my story, paid to have me thrown out of prison and entrusted me to the care of Bastard Munchen. I had to go through a selection, there I met Ness for the first time, but from that moment the real part of my life began" says Kaiser, and every word sticks in your mind as if it were sacred. You try to stay strong, but it hurts to think of all the pain he had to endure just because he was born, just because his mother decided to run away and not take her responsibility. You squeeze his hand, letting yourself go against his shoulder "Thanks for telling me. I know how much you hate being pitied… but you already know that no matter what, I’m here for you, even if it’s something huge. I want to be as kind to you as you’ve been to me from the very beginning" you say, and his arm tightens around your shoulders "I know. Thanks. Just saying... only you and Ness know about this" he says, and you nod "I understand"

You’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so Michael and not Kaiser. You think about him as a child, about everything that happened, about everything he thought during prison. It’s something so intimate that he only told you and Ness, which means he wouldn’t judge you if you told him about your past. You’re a little unsure, but you try to relax your muscles "Do you want to… do you want to hear about my past?" you ask, and he takes a moment to you can nod "I'd like that" he says, and you take a long preparatory sigh. He's the first person you've ever told about your life before, when you were still someone

"I am the daughter of my mother's betrayal, I don't know who my real father is. The man who raised me never particularly loved me, but he gave me a more than dignified life... it's complicated to explain. Since my mother fucked another man, he did everything to become the man she loved again, giving her and me everything that could be called rich. But the extra work stressed him, and the constant arguments led them to hit each other... and when I was old enough, their slaps also reached me. They introduced me to the upper class of Berlin at a young age, making me frequent circles where I didn't really belong, like private schools or classical ballet classes... I never liked this stuff, but the first time I disobeyed them, I found myself drinking rat poison for days, without food. Following their rules to perfection meant I would get slapped less, but I swear, I just couldn't do it... the looks of others... the whispers... they terrified me. I was afraid of everything and everyone, and at fourteen I thought about committing suicide"

Your hands are shaking, it's a sensitive subject for you. But you want to talk about it, if he's listening to you

"I just thought that I had no reason to live if I was suffering even just to breathe. One night I gave myself an almost lethal dose of antidepressant drugs, my mother's, and I waited to die. But it didn't work, they admitted me to hospital but I was still alive. When I came home a month later, my parents locked me in the house for almost a year, making me self study so as not to give me the chance to be influenced by negative thoughts... they always thought that my attempted suicide had been caused by others. One night I took some clothes and ran away from home, I wanted to leave Berlin and take the first train to Belgium, but they discovered me at the station. They told me that they didn't want me at home anymore, and that they had already disinherited me. From there, my being homeless began" you tell trying to avoid some painful parts, but then you realize there is no point in not telling 'em "Also... I almost died once. They beat me so bad that I went into a coma, but only for a few days. They justified everything to the police by saying that I had pushed myself too hard in dance and the stress had done this to me. The police ignored the bruises on my body" you say with a shaking voice, remembering how you had burst into tears in front of the police but to no avail, still forced to live in your golden prison

The two of you remain silent for a few minutes, probably processing each other's stories. The cold wind corrodes your skin, but you feel warm at the same time: it is a warm sensation that comes from knowing the truth about the past of the boy who saved you. Of all of them, he chose you, not another person. You have never been chosen by anyone, and yet he had no problem telling you such an important part of himself, so intimate, so vulnerable. You try to shake Kaiser's hand, and when he notices, he returns the squeeze, kissing your knuckles. You smile at him, and his arm spontaneously finds space around your shoulders: he pulls you close, leaving a kiss in your hair before getting up to go back to training. From afar, now, Micheal seems to shine even more than before. If you were devoted to him before, now you know you are dependent on him. You don't want change all this

A year later, you are in exactly the same situation. The days on campus are going by peacefully, you have started to earn some money by cleaning the cafeteria, even though Kaiser has always insisted on not letting you lift a finger. Since he came of age he has started to earn a much higher salary, which gives him the possibility of having lots of money: as vain as he is, his money often ends up in clothes for you or makeup, or in any case in things to give you. He has told you several times that he has no problem spoiling you, if you continue to be as in love as you have been for a long time now. The money often ends up in an extra ticket when the games are abroad, and for the first time you have taken a plane and left Germany: you were not afraid of flying, even less of talking to the people you met in the new country, in Italy. You were finally able to see him play seriously and cheer for him, and the result of your screams was a kiss in the locker room at the end of the game, with a cup won and the shortness of breath for his hungry lips on yours. You had the chance to spend time together on your days off from the foreign match, days that you spent on each other's lips, even though he said that your next kiss would be on your birthday. At the end of the soccer season he spent more money to take you on holiday to Spain, where you had the chance to swim in the sea thanks to him. It's always thanks to his affection for you that you've had so many opportunities in such a short time that you're surprised that you were his choice, you who are mediocrity personified compared to someone as fantastic as him. He loved you, he spoiled you, he gave you the love you had sought but never received. He knew how to make you feel good when you didn't even know how to feel, when your thoughts became too big. He had saved you and continued to do so every day, and you weren't afraid to admit it: you showed it with your loyalty, with your sweetness, with your dedication towards him. It was the least you could do before you found a way to pay him back in full

Dedicating yourself like this to someone was dangerous, you knew it perfectly well: you knew you had changed a lot from who you were before the fire, losing traits of your personality that you had previously thought were unique. But he had lost himself to find you, to help you, to give you a life. Losing yourself couldn't have been such a bad decision, if he had done it for you too. You didn't worry that he might get tired of you, you wouldn't have allowed it, you would have stayed by his side forever, as he wanted, he would never have chased you away. You didn't risk your life when you sacrificed yourself for him, it was all due. You were happy and that was enough for you, you just needed to know that Kaiser was there

"The room is huge" you say looking around, putting your bags on the floor. You walk towards the walls made of glass, which show the great city of Munich. Kaiser nods, sitting on the edge of the bed "Yeah. If you like it, it's money well spent" he says, and you roll your eyes, moving closer "You shouldn't have. I would have liked to stay in the dorm room too" you say positioning yourself between his open legs, and he smirks at you, pulling you close to him putting his arms around the lower part of your waist. He rests his face against your stomach, looking up "It's an important date, in a few hours you'll be an adult" he says, and you huff "It's no big deal. There was no need to organize all this" you say caressing his face, and he rests his face against your palm "Let me spoil my beautiful girl" he says in a low voice that makes you shiver, making your knees weak and your mind stupid

It was Christmas Eve, in less than an hour it would be midnight, and that meant both of your birthdays. Kaiser had surprised you this afternoon with a flight to Munich just for the two of you, in one of the most luxurious hotels in the city, with a reservation for a whole week. The flight lasted a few hours, and now that you are in the hotel it is almost time to celebrate your birthday. In fact, you would have officially become an adult, far from your parents and close to the boy who considers you his girlfriend, even if in fact you have never talked about what your relationship is really like. You love each other and kiss each other, you consider each other's partner, and you are both jealous as hell of the other. But neither of you has ever talked about making the relationship concrete, about putting a point and calling it 'dating' and no longer something random. It's something you've wanted to do for a long time, but you don't want to push Michael into it. When he thinks is good talking about it, you'll do it too. Waiting is the only choice

You look at the clock, noticing that while you were putting your clothes away in the closets, the minutes separating you from the age of majority have now become five. You turn to Kaiser who is lying on the bed, climb on the bed and crawl towards him, catching his attention "Impatient to become an adult?" he asks massaging your back, and you giggle sitting on his stretched legs "Not too much. I'm curious to see you nineteen, what will be different from the normal Kaiser?" you ask, and he snorts amusedly "I think absolutely nothing. Maybe just a few more bucks spent on condoms, what do you think?" he asks, and you are surprised "OH" you say embarrassed, imagining things you shouldn't be imagining. He seems to notice your behavior, and it amuses him "Did I overdo it? I thought you'd thought about it. But I can wait" he says, massaging your thigh, and you glare at him, your cheeks still red "I thought about it... but... god, this is embarrassing" you stammer embarrassedly covering your face, but leaving his hand on your thigh. Before he can reply, his phone rings: you both turn towards the object, and you automatically move off of Kaiser, who stands up "Give me just a second" he says, taking the phone. You sit on the soft hotel mattress, watching him walk towards the glass door of the room

He answers the call, putting the phone to his ear. You see him listening to someone's words for a while, until a smirk appears on his face, as if he is finally satisfied. He lowers his face, as if some sort of shadow is covering his eyes. You tilt your head to listen better, but the only thing you hear coming out of his lips is "Get on your goddamn knees, Blue Lock". You remain confused, but the ringing of your alarm makes you understand that it is midnight: it is your birthday and his. Normally you never bother him during his calls, but this time you get out of bed, walking towards him on tiptoe: arriving at his side you hug his waist, standing on tiptoe to reach his neck, where you leave him a light kiss "Happy birthday, Micheal" you whisper, making him look down at you. He smirks at you, pulling the phone away from his ear before ending the call. He wraps an arm around your waist, kissing your forehead as he pulls you close "Happy birthday. You’re an adult too now, liebe" he whispers to you, and you nod, pushing yourself against him "Impossible to believe, right?" you ask, ironically, but he kisses your lips, holding your face with his tattooed hand

You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck, smiling "Was this the famous kiss you said you’d give me when I turned eighteen?" you ask between the pauses between kisses, and he nods, not stopping "I want to give you so much more than this. I want to show you how important and amazing you really are to me" he says kissing you again, and you feel a slight need in his words, in the way his hands hold your hips as if he were afraid of making you run away. You respond to his kisses trying to keep up, but the more time passes the more your knees become weak from the passion with which he is torturing your lips and your neck, where there are already some hickeys. A slight knot forms in your stomach, and involuntarily little moans escape your lips that make Kaiser stop "Can I?" he whispers to you, and at the same time his hands end up on your thighs, picking you up. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, letting his face end up on your breasts, giving you the chance to look at him from an angle that makes him so damn handsome. A stupid smile forms on your lips, as you lean closer to his ear, a little awkwardly "Do what you think is best" you whisper, and that's enough to make him start his long torture. You end up with your back against the mattress, him on top of you with a visible desire to ruin you, with a face that makes you dumb. Before you know it you're naked with him, wrapped in his arms as a new sensation is created between your thighs. Kisses turn into hickeys, his hands on your hips in signs of love and his back full of scratches as he starts moving inside you. When you are already destroyed, you finally feel a feeling of satisfaction in your stomach, as if a weight has gone away. Kaiser ends up at your side, wrapping his arms around your waist, a peaceful feeling on his face "You were gorgeous. You always are" he whispers to you, and you can swear that the tear that just fell is one of pure happiness, pure love for him

A week later, sitting on a flight back to Berlin, you find yourself thinking about what happened during the vacation: beyond the nights of sex, the walks through the city and the dinners in the nicest restaurants in the neighborhood, you involuntarily ignored one thing: the call from the night before. At the time you didn't think about it, but now thinking about it it sounds a little suspicious, even if Kaiser has never actually hidden anything from you: for some unknown reason, however, you think you should ask more. You can't explain the feeling you have, but you prefer to eliminate it in the moment

"Hey" you whisper, and he looks up from his book "Liebe? Tell me?" he asks, and you swallow a lump of saliva "Listen... do you remember the call you received the night before the Eve? I was wondering... who was?" you ask, and imperceptibly you notice Kaiser annoyed "Nobody important, team related matters" he answers you, and you nod, even if the answer doesn't satisfy you. You spend the rest of the trip in silence, and when you get off the plane, Kaiser doesn't take your hand. It makes you sad, and you think it's your fault that he's rightfully angry with you now, you didn't trust his answer and obviously he understood it. Back on campus you lock the door, and everything seems to go back to the way it was the night you lost your virginity, with him inside you and your nails on his pale back. The following days pass peacefully, but you have the feeling that there is still an unresolved situation that you don't have the courage to face, because you don't like seeing him angry with you. You'd rather ignore the problem than find the love of your life against you

A month later, you're on your knees in the hallway of the campus rooms. Your fists clenched on the carpet, tears now flowing freely "What do you mean you're leaving for Japan?!" you ask in shock, seeing the suitcases at his sides blurred by the tears. Kaiser looks at you indifferently, then looks at his cell phone to check the time. You are alone, the entire campus is already inside the buses headed to the airport, and you only discovered it when, a few minutes ago, you returned from your walk in the city. You knew absolutely nothing about all this, no one and especially Kaiser had told you anything about this sudden transfer of at least six months to Japan, on the other side of the world. You ran into the room to see if Kaiser was staying, but you found him in the hallway with the suitcases in his hand, as if he wasn't forgetting you here. When you threw yourself at him to hug him he shook you off almost immediately, and you inadvertently ended up on the floor

"What, what's going on? Micheal? What's this all about?" you ask stammeringly, taking a few steps forward, but he takes a few steps back to avoid contact. He looks you up and down, judging you for the first time in the years you've known each other; in his eyes you don't recognize the same boy who fucked you shamelessly for many nights, whispering the sweetest phrases you've ever received. In his eyes there is not your savior. You tremble without being able to control it, and when you finally grab his hand, you squeeze it tightly "Micheal, why? What did I do, why didn't you tell me?" you say sobbing, but he doesn't bend down to kiss your knuckles, one of the gestures he has always made. He looks at your hand, perhaps disgusted "I didn't have to tell you anything, why do you expect this? Isn't everything I've done for you enough?" he says harshly, and the world of certainties you've built for yourself falls miserably. You let go of his hand, looking at him without knowing what to say: you've always been grateful for him saving you, but in fact, you've never done anything to repay him, and you haven't even tried. You look at him with wide eyes, your lips trembling and shiny "I... Michael, I am..." you say, but he interrupts you "Don't you dare tell me you're grateful, what I do with it? I spent money, a tattoo, my feelings for you. What did I get out of it? Nothing" he says disgustedly, and his annoyed look makes you feel so small and useless. You try to take his hand again, but it's him who grabs your wrist and blocks it, forcing you to look him in the eyes "I'm not forgetting anything here in Germany, nothing and especially no one. I no longer want to waste my strength on someone who doesn't know how to do anything but be a pig, an animal that follows its owner without personality, and who actually has the courage to say that I'm forgetting an important part. Go away, Y/n, I don't want to see you anymore, until my last fucking breath" says Kaiser, and leaves you like that, still, in the middle of the corridor while he disappears into the elevator

Standing in the hallway, you feel like dying would be a lot less painful now. Your breathing is blocked, and your ability to move has stopped the moment he made it clear that he wants you dead. His words start to spin in your head, spinning so much that your vision blurs and everything around you goes black. Your god doesn't want to be worshipped by you anymore, your Michael Kaiser doesn't want to have you around anymore. Everything you shared with the same person for more than two years has now been thrown in the trash, along with all your hopes for a future with him. Are you really a useless pig? Is it true that you no longer have a personality? But really, why did he do it? Was it a particular behavior of yours that hurt him? Why did he throw you away so easily?

The world no longer exists, you no longer exist. He took your life with him, on the bus, on the plane and in Japan. He threw you away when he had the chance, and what are you left with now but a blurry memory of yourself before you met him? What are you now that he, your sense, is no longer there?

What are you now? A pig? Alone?

He is not here, he will not be here as long as you live, but you already know that you will not live anymore. How can you continue to live when all your certainties are gone, leaving you like a fool? Do you really still have any sense? Are you still you?

Even before the time is up, the stick already has two clearly visible pink bars. You stare at the stick speechless, feeling a general feeling of unease throughout your body after realizing what I have suspected for a month now. Your hands start to shake, causing the test to fall to the floor, which however does not change the result at all. The room, even though empty, suddenly seems so narrow, the more you look at that stick the more you realize how deep in shit you are. It wasn't supposed to happen, not now with you in this condition, but he never took precautions even once, and you let him do it because there was no point in telling him to do something else

The pregnancy test comes back positive, even after you've been staring at it for a whole hour. You're pregnant with Michael Kaiser's child, now the star of the Blue Lock TV

But you and him haven't spoken in three months.

Today is a beautiful sunny day in Berlin. You woke up early to go running, meditated and took some supplements that the doctor prescribed you last week. Berlin has had a huge boom in sunny days lately, but that's probably because it's almost spring, and that means more time for your skin to be kissed by the sun. Warm light also comes in through the window of the room, from where you see outside a beautiful garden that you've already stared at a thousand times. You turn to Ines, who is still coloring her book: you should do her ponytails like this more often, now that you look at her, because it makes her blonde hair look better. Maybe you too should start wearing your hair tied up again and no longer loose

"Miss, it's always the same story. You shouldn't take your medication with coffee, don't ruin all the work you've done with another addiction" the doctor says, looking up from your clipboard and directing her gaze to you. You chuckle nervously, playing with a lock of hair as you lean back in your chair "You're always so funny, Dr. Horwell. You always know how to make me smile" you say, and she huffs, probably as tired as you are from this session. The two of you have a staring contest for a few seconds, but the psychologist seems to be winning "Really, Y/n. You’re such a nice girl but often… often you get lost in useless memories. In stupid things. It makes me feel like you want to continue therapy just to meet me" the woman says, and you raise an eyebrow at her comment "Not that I like spending 100€ every time I come here, but yes, I enjoy your company" you say giggling, and this makes the other woman chuckle too, but she looks at you with a serious look of displeasure. She sighs, placing the folder on the table "If you enjoy my company that much, I’d be happier to see you in another context. Not in therapy, like the last three years" she says, looking down

You don't react, they keep smiling. You don't like to admit that you're not healed yet, and that since the last thing happened, it feels like you've wasted years of therapy. But now there's no point in showing sadness, the psychologist knows how much you're still tied to your trauma, to the reason why you decided to start the sessions years ago. You don't need her words to realize how much you pretend to have overcome the situation, when instead you still feel like you're in that corridor in Berlin. Even though you want to move on, you feel like if you do, you'll be taking away your last chance to be whole in the way you want to be and not the way the psychologist intends. You're fine with this, you've been used to being in this condition for years now. It would be strange to change, even if this would probably lead you to be able to start living for yourself again and not for the sixteen-year-old you

"I think seeing him was the icing on the cake, really… tell me again, how are you?" she asks, and you smile "Great. I’m still shaken up, but I think I can handle it" you answer, but for the umpteenth time you are lying to yourself. Seeing him after five years was harder than you want to admit, more destructive than his words left to you years ago. But it happened

You still remember how Ines complained about having your hand too tight on yours, which you were involuntarily squeezing tightly. You still remember perfectly how he turned towards you even before you recognized him. You still remember how you felt like a pig again, as if you were watching your master taking you to the slaughterhouse. You still remember how smelling his smell again after years made you cry without you even realizing it. You still remember when, few days ago, you saw Micheal Kaiser again after years, and you with his daughter, whose existence he doesn't even know

"Do you at least regret what you did to me?"

"I regret you, not the situation"

"I know when you lie to me, I know you. But you still have the same problem as when you started therapy..." says the psychologist, and you tilt your head, waiting for an answer "You still chase the problem, rather than accept the end. You gave so much to him that you didn't realize how little you had become for yourself" says the psychologist, knowing full well how to stab you without making you bleed "Accepting that it's over for you means accepting that he only wanted you from the beginning for one purpose. But accepting it would make the sixteen-year-old you suffer, even if it would mean bringing the you of now to finally be free. You're afraid, you're afraid to see yourself happy because you still think you haven't repaid him for saving you" she says, and the room becomes quieter than you can stand. You look around, avoiding direct eye contact now that you're in the corner. Your hands start to sweat, and you try to take deep breaths to regain some clarity. You look up a little, lips trembling "Did he ever love me?"

The psychologist smiles at you, perhaps a little to reassure me "I can only give you my personal opinion, but for me, yes, he loved you. But he was broken, just like you, and he blew it all when he realized that the situation could hold him back from becoming the best in the world. He loved you, but he did it as a consequence, not as an initial goal. At first he helped you only because he needed another support, someone he could give everything to fill the holes he had. But something broken can't try to fix itself using something else that's broken. You were simply too young to be destroyed, but too old to be saved"

word count: 15,696

[osamucide]

⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right.  He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe. 

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next  to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there. 

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water. 

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile. 

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake. 

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him. 

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope. 

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck. 

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.” 

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.” 

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it. 

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding. 

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.” 

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.” 

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now. 

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean. 

[pretentious-blonde]

the talk

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the talk

warnings: death, crying, arguments, descriptions of dying, st lore, panic attacks, grief, therapy mention, yelling, suicidal tendencies???

a/n: i finally had some time to myself after getting accepted into my postgrad! also this was sad to write, i struggled with it, but i hope either way that it meets expectations.

series masterlist

Steve is trying not to crumble—something he’s horrifically skilled at by now. He attempts to cling to the details of the room.

The couch, the wooden floor, the secondhand rug—

Your bedroom door.

Everything suddenly feels so fragile, as if it’s all balancing on a precarious edge. He draws in a measured breath, chest so tight it makes him think of grief. Like trying to breathe through water, its thickness catching against his throat. 

He hears a drawer slam shut in your room, your footsteps hurrying back and forth. And it hurts.

Hurts more than he ever would have expected. Because you didn’t know. And part of him almost envies you for that—envies the naive curiosity that led you here, not realising how deep the roots went. Not realising what you’d uncover.

There’s nowhere to go from here.

No smooth lie that can paper over what you’ve found. 

He’d been so stupid. 

Letting this spin out, never suspecting you’d pry in ways that cut this close.

His palms start to tremble, the betrayal sliding through his veins. Betrayal, yes—but not only yours. His own, too. 

You both played a hand in this.

A door hinges open; you step out of the bedroom. Even that small shift in the air jolts him—reminds him he needs to act normal, though he knows he can’t.

Your presence usually stirs up tenderness inside him. Normally, his arms would ache to hold you, to keep you close.

But now they ache with something else entirely—something restless, hollow.

He’s not sure where to put them.

He’s not sure what to do.

Like the part of him that knows how to reach for you has been carved out, leaving only the wanting behind.

His gaze is stormy, and you’re standing only a few feet away, wearing one of his jumpers like it still means something—like this isn’t about to fall apart, and it’s not helping at all. 

You’re wrapped up in this.

In him.

All he can think is how your curiosity dragged both of you into the fire. You barely notice the tension in his posture as you come over, the way his whole body looks ready to snap.

“If they’ve already run out of those hazelnut croissants, I swear to—”

You pause mid-thought.

He’s not even looking at you. Just standing there, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles look bloodless.

“Steve?”

Your voice is soft, uncertain, not at all what he expected to hear moments before. He doesn’t respond, can’t respond. He’s got that haunted, distant stare, like he knows a single wrong move might crack him open.

“Are you alright?” You step closer, caution in your voice. “If you need a moment, we can—”

“How long?” he cuts in, blunt and cold.

You freeze, attempting to decode his words.

“What?”

His jaw goes taut; you see the muscle twitch. When he speaks, his tone is low, like he’s forcing each word out through sharp edges in his throat.

“How long have you been—” He swallows, staring at the floor, too afraid to look at you. He doesn’t want to see your face right now. “How long have you been… keeping tabs on me?”

It sounds awful, but that’s what it was.

He lifts the notebook from the coffee table, like evidence presented in a trial. Pages flutter, showing the scrawl of your notes, the newspaper clippings. His fingers truggle to hold their weight. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.” 

His voice cuts across the room. Harsh.

“Don’t you lie to me right now, alright?”

The situation’s already too fragile.

The notebook trembles in his grip. He stares at it, as if waiting for it to burst into flames.

“You need to tell me—right now—how long this has been going on.”

Your stomach lurches. His voice is so cold it hardly sounds like him at all. Gone is the gentle man who held you so close last night. Now he’s distant, like he’s bracing for something he can’t bear to face.

You can’t recall the last time he looked like this, body rigid, posture screaming that he’s holding himself together by sheer will. 

One wrong breath and he’ll shatter.

Instinct tells you to reach for him. But this conversation is a landmine—one wrong word could blow everything apart. 

Not just him; both of you.

You should’ve been more cautious. You knew this would hurt him, but not like this. Not to this extent.

“Not—not long, I swear—” you try, your voice stumbling.

He exhales raggedly, drags his hand through his hair. 

“That’s not good enough.”

You’re not sure who he’s addressing—you or himself. His knuckles bleach around the notebook. When he finally meets your gaze, there’s no tenderness left.

“How long,” he whispers, laced with anger barely contained, “how fucking long have you been spying on me like this?”

Your stomach twists. He looks so pale. You can’t hold his gaze, so you stare at your socked feet, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

“A few months,” you manage.

“A few months?” he echoes, voice climbing an octave in disbelief.

That long?

You nod again, your throat tight. 

“Y-yeah, well, I don’t have an exact number—”

"You don't?"

He lets out a choked sound, halfway between a scoff and a sob. 

“Because from the looks of it, you’ve been keeping a pretty good fucking track.”

His voice cracks on the last consonant, betraying him, and you see the glassiness in his eyes. 

He’s on the brink of losing control.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t know what I was looking for—”

“That’s not the fucking point!” he roars, a sudden burst of rage that leaves you reeling.

You still did it. 

In tossing the notebook aside, he feels as though he’s casting away the last shred of trust he had. It lands with a thump on the table, pages splaying out like an ugly secret finally bared. His face looks hollow. You watch as the devastation settles, and you realise how deep you’ve cut.

“You looked anyway.” His voice hitches, a painful break. “You—you let me pour my goddamn heart out, and you never once mentioned this?”

His accusation lingers in the air. The weight of your betrayal strikes you like a blow. Your eyes well with tears, but you stand rooted to the spot.

“It was just curiosity, Steve, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Curiosity?” he repeats, bitterness sharp as glass. “That’s your excuse?”

He’s so tense, you’d swear his heartbeat alone could crack bone. 

“You—you weren’t telling me anything, Steve,” you say, trying to keep your own tears under control. You take a hesitant step toward him.

He flinches—barely, but enough to stop you cold. 

He’s never flinched from you before.

“And—and I thought if I knew more,” you continue in a smaller voice, “maybe I could help.”

“Does this look like helping?” he snaps, voice scaling with every syllable.

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“No, but—but it doesn’t matter anymore, right?” The words tumble out too quickly. “We’re—we’re gonna go away, and—" your hands lift in a silent plea, "and you can tell me all of this yourself. I’m sure I’m wrong, and you can—”

You stop because he’s not even looking at you now. Just staring off at the wall, body taut with fear.

He can’t fucking do that. 

“You let me talk last night,” he mutters, pained, “knowing what that meant. How much it meant.”

“I do know,” you insist, desperate. “I do know what it means—”

But you didn’t. 

Not really. 

Not the way he lives it, every day.

“Then why?” he demands, voice piercing.

“I… I needed something. Anything. I thought if I understood you better—”

“Yeah?” he sneers. “What do you understand now, huh?”

He raises his voice, but the anger barely holds. It wavers, thinned out by something far more fragile.

He’s being cruel now, and he knows it. Throwing your mistake back in your face, twisting the knife. 

But how can he not?

He loves you.

Told you so. Showed you last night in every word, every touch.

It wasn’t his choice to keep this from you. It never was. But he had to. He had to protect you—protect both of you.

And now here you are, standing in the wreckage with shaking hands and tearful eyes, threatening to bring the whole thing down.

To destroy everything—including yourself—in the process.

He can’t let that happen. So he goes back to what he knows. What always works.

Push.

Make it hurt. Break something if he has to, just to figure out what you know.

And if it turns out to be too much—if you’ve already seen too far into the darkness—then he’ll have no choice.

You’ll have made it for him.

And he can’t afford to let you stay.

“No, seriously,” he presses. “What did you learn?” He steps closer. “Because I need you to say it. Out loud. What do you think you found?”

He needs to know how dire this truly is.

You hesitate, heart hammering like a drum. 

“...I know the mall was a cover-up.”

He flinches, like you physically struck him. Old memories tear across his features.

“Carry on,” he grits out, jaw muscle jumping.

“Steve…” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s making you uncomfortable—”

“Is it?” He laughs—short, harsh. “Didn’t stop you before.”

Panic tangles with anger, lacing his words until they’re as sharp as needles.

“Anything else?” he demands. 

Let him see just how far you went.

“What. Else?"

His voice dips, low. You can feel the tension like an electrical charge in the air.

“You’re… scaring me.”

Good.

“Well, you should be scared!” His voice rings out. “This is fucking scary! Don’t you get that? You need to tell me what else you know.”

You’re shaking as you answer, but his guilt is drowned out by his need to know. 

“The earthquake wasn’t what it seemed.”

He closes his eyes momentarily, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose. He motions with a hand for you to continue, fingers jittery with panic. You draw in another unsteady breath.

“… you had something to do with Eddie Munson.”

The name is a lightning strike. 

He jerks back, colour draining from his face. The entire world seems to tilt around him.

His face drains of colour. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Eyes wide. Staring straight through you like the world’s dropped out beneath him.

Not that name.

It hurt when he read it in your handwriting, but nothing would have prepared him for the sound of each syllable filling the charged room. 

Grief and terror merge violently, rising so fast it makes him nauseous. Every carefully built wall, every coping mechanism, every stupid little trick he’s used to survive the years since—gone.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

“I—I can’t do this,” he stammers, voice barely more than a breath.

He turns without thinking, his body moving before his brain catches up. A blind, desperate need to get out.

“What?” Your voice spikes in alarm. “Steve, no, wait—”

"I can’t fucking do this.”

Way too fucking close. 

His words are slurred with the rush of adrenaline, the absolute need to flee. 

Shoes. 

Where are his shoes? 

He stumbles over the edge of the rug, trying to reach them, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a siren.

He’s jamming them onto his feet, grabbing blindly for his jacket. Each movement is frantic, borderline clumsy. He mutters under his breath, breath hitching as he tries to keep from hyperventilating.

“No, wait—please!—”

But he’s already bolted, crossing the living room in uneven strides. You follow him, tears welling uncontrollably, fear lacing your voice. You call after him, your pleas echoing off the walls as he pounds down the stairs to the bookshop.

“Steve!”

Your voice rings out behind him, but he doesn’t stop.

He reaches the bottom step, rushing toward the exit, fingers fumbling with the door. He yanks it open like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Morning sunlight floods the shop, and it stings his eyes.

It’s too bright.

Too fucking normal for what’s happening right now.

His heart hammers against his ribs, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Each breath is a gasp, caught up with emotions he can’t pin down.

He has to get out. He has to—

“Steve!”

Without warning, you lunge forward, arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

The impact jars him, halting his steps as your body crashes into his.

His hand clenches around the doorframe, white-knuckled. Your arms are desperate, shaking, locked tight around his middle, not letting him take another step further.

“Please—please don’t go.” Your voice breaks, high and wrecked. “I—I can’t do this again.”

You don’t know if you could survive him leaving like this again. The last time nearly destroyed you, and this time would be worse.

Because this time, it’s your fault.

If he walks out now, you won’t be able to reach him afterwards. You’ll have burned that bridge with your own hands.

You had one thought.

Don’t let him leave.

Because if he walks out that door, there’s a terrifying certainty in your gut.

He’s not coming back.

The sound of your voice splits something in him, yanks him back to the present, with only one word echoing around in his mind. 

Again.

There’s a sob rattling in your throat—completely terrified. 

He’s never heard you like this. 

So utterly desperate. 

“Please—I’m sorry—” You manage to get out. “I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, you sound young. 

Like a kid who’s broken something important and doesn’t know how to fix it. Like you’re bracing for him to bolt.

He stares ahead, jaw tight, vision beginning to blur.

How did he let it get this far?

You’re trembling against his back, body convulsing with quiet sobs, and he can feel the weight of your collapse. It’s his fault he let it come to this.

Come to this again. 

He’s doing it again. 

His nostrils flare, and a tear slides down his cheek before he can stop it.

Were you like this the last time he ran?

He wants to scream. Or throw up. Or fall to his knees.

To be loved this much—and still be capable of hurting you like this—he doesn’t know how to live with it.

Even if what you did was wrong.

Even if it shattered something.

Even if he doesn’t know how to forgive it yet.

You’re not the only one breaking.

“Please don’t—don’t run away.” Your voice cracks in half.  “Please— don’t leave me.”

Oh, angel.

That—that—is what finally does it.

His lungs seize. His vision goes white at the edges. And something inside him just snaps.

He chokes on a breath, spins around in your arms so fast your hands scramble to keep hold—and then you’re in his chest.

He wraps you up with everything he has.One hand cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into him, sobbing like your heart’s falling out of your body.

You’re both shaking now.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, like he can physically stop the flood rising inside him. His lips find your hair, as his arms tighten around you with a desperation that borders on panic.

Panic over how he’s supposed to keep you afloat, how to stop you from slipping under.

“I’m not gonna leave,” he manages, barely.

You sob harder at that, a broken sound from deep in your chest, and your arms cling tighter like you think he might disappear anyway.

You’re petrified. 

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here—it’s alright.”

But how could it be?

His own tears fall freely now, slipping down his cheeks and travelling toward his jawline. His chest jerks, uneven and laboured, each inhale snapping him in half.

He kisses the top of your head again, again, like repetition might make it real. Might fix it.

You’ll fall apart if he lets go.

He almost let go.

Your breath stutters, hitching in your throat. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “I know—I know you are.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do next—only that he can’t run. 

Because he loves you. 

God, he loves you.

And that love is carved into the way your fists are still gripping the back of his jacket. He pulls back just enough to see you, to cradle your face in both hands. His thumbs sweep gently across your cheeks, catching the tears even as his own keep falling.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers.

You’re swollen-eyed and blotchy, lips quivering, barely holding yourself together. He gives a wet sniff, the corner of his mouth twitching with tenderness, but nonetheless broken. He leans in and rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m not mad, angel.”

He means it. 

He’s not mad—he’s fucking terrified. But you didn’t deserve his anger. Not when it pushed you past your breaking point. Not when you were just trying to understand him. 

To love him better.

Even if it was misguided.

It spills out of him in a shaking breath. His body sags with the weight of it, and more tears slip free. You lift a trembling hand to his cheek, brushing his tears with soft fingers. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

“I didn’t mean to—” your voice catches, wrecked and tiny, “I just wanted—”

“I know.”

He knows. 

His voice is thick. He’s never felt so emotionally raw, like every nerve ending is on fire. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your hair in a repetitive motion.

He knows what he has to do.

He hates it.

He hates being forced into a corner like this—into a choice that feels more like a noose than a path.

His whole life has been made up of risks—always choosing the uncertain route, the one that might lead to something better but usually led to something worse.

But this time, he knows what happens if he doesn’t act.

There’s no alternative. If he doesn’t tell you now, it’s over anyway. 

And worse, you’ll still be in danger.

He loves you too much. That’s the truth of it. And some selfish, stupid part of him just can’t leave. Not when your body’s still vibrating in his arms.

You wouldn’t survive it, and he wouldn’t either, knowing that he did that to you. 

You love him. That’s what makes it so impossible.

You’re both fucking fools.

It took him months to tell his therapist. To unravel the truth in pieces, to hand over the trauma one cracked fragment at a time. But he doesn’t have the luxury of time now. Not after what you’ve uncovered, with everything now at stake. 

You need the truth. His truth.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. 

He starts to pull away, hands careful, movements gentle. You resist instinctively, your grip tightening.

“I’m staying, sweetheart,” he assures, leaning in to press another trembling kiss to your temple.

He closes the door like it’s sealing off the rest of the world.His back rests against it for a second too long before he moves back to you.

“We…” he swallows, glancing up. “We need to have this talk.”

You nod, still crying, though your breathing has steadied enough to move. You hate that it’s come to this. That you pushed him here. That it hurts this much.

But you understand.

You let him guide you.

He leads you through the quiet bookshop, hand still wrapped around yours. Past the bright sting of morning light pooling in the windows. Past the shelves stacked with stories that suddenly feel too far away.

He takes you to the old couch in the back, tucked in a pool of shadows where the world feels slower. Where he helped you unpack your order all those months ago. He hopes the happier memories will help with the more raw ones he has to reveal.

His steps are shaky. He keeps glancing back like he needs to make sure you’re still there. When he finally sits, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You’re already too close.”

You blink at him, lashes still wet with tears.

“I—I can’t have you digging into this stuff anymore,” he says. “It was… it was stupid of me to let it get this far.”

He scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve, breathing hard through his nose. He’s a mess—red-rimmed eyes, flushed skin, chest still heaving. He reaches for you again, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. He needs that contact, needs to feel you still here.

The silence stretches, brittle and loaded, and he’s steeling himself for the worst. 

No more running.

No more hiding.

His fingers find yours again, and he holds on tight.

And now, his real story finally begins.

He exhales, shifting his weight on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t make him feel like he’s collapsing in on himself. He glances at you, begging for some kind of absolution he’s almost certain can’t exist.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, raspy with all the tears he’s been holding back—unsuccessfully.

“It started in junior year….”

He’s never forgotten those days. Never truly left behind the basketball courts, the letterman jacket, the face he saw in the mirror each morning—the King Steve facade. 

He swallows, it’s been so long since he started from the beginning and now, saying it out loud, he realises something.

He really was just a boy when it happened.

“It started small.” He begins quietly. “Kid went missing—Will Byers. He was the first.”f

His gaze drifts down, searching the dusty floor for the memories. 

A missing kid—hardly the biggest news story in small-town Hawkins, but it would shape everything.

“We didn’t think anything of it—I didn’t think. I was—”

He was busy throwing parties, failing class, cruising around town with the latest fling on his arm…

Only Nancy was not a fling.

She was special to him. 

He grimaces, the weight of regret has settled behind his eyes. 

Nancy. 

The name still makes his chest tighten, even if the heartbreak has long since turned into something softer.

“I—I had a girl at the time, her name was Nancy. I didn’t think it was anything special, but…”

“But it was?”

It was. 

He nods, pressing his lips together, remembering the nights he spent losing himself in those big eyes of hers, the way she made him feel for the first time. Like she wasn’t with him for the reputation alone. It wasn’t like she stuck around for it anyway.

“Yeah… yeah, it was.” His voice softens, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “I was so caught up in her, I didn’t even notice what was happening.”

A bitter breath. A pause.

“Her best friend disappeared next... right outside my window.”

He hadn’t given a shit about Barb when it happened. More concerned with what his dad would say about him throwing a party. 

She was just Nancy’s weird friend. Too quiet, too awkward, too out of place. Invited out of politeness, not because anyone actually wanted her there.

And he let her leave alone. Didn’t think twice.

Didn’t care.

She died scared. Alone. In the dark. And he was upstairs—only thinking about getting a pretty girl into his bed.

Fucking idiot. That’s all he was.

He cringes at the memory, shame burning through him like acid. 

She’s dead because he was too busy being a selfish piece of shit.

“I think that’s why it didn’t work out.”

His laugh is wet, choked, and bitterness lines the edges of it.

“That’s what Rob said, anyway,” he murmurs, voice thin. “Every time she looked at me, I could see it—what she was thinking. If she hadn’t listened to me… Barb would still be here.”

He swallows hard.

“And I get it. I do. I understand why she believes that.”

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

She was his first love. His first real everything. And you don’t forget someone like that.

“Will came back,” he says quietly. “But Barb didn’t.”

His fingers tighten around his knee.

“But where he went… it wasn’t just some missing kid story. It was something else. Something wrong.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s no turning back once he jumps.

This is the part he’s never let anyone close enough to touch. The part he’s fought to keep buried. He’s never wanted to put this weight on you. Never wanted you anywhere near this.

But you’re already in it.

And he can’t keep pretending you’re not.

“The old lab opened something,” he says, voice low and tight. “Something really bad.”

His hands flex in his lap, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“They were messing with this shit for years, without even knowing what they were doing. They—” his throat bobs. “They took kids.”

He pauses. His jaw clenches as his mind spirals—trying not to, but failing anyway.

What kind of life was that? 

He thinks about El. About the pain in her eyes. She never told him the details and they weren’t always close, but they trusted each other in the way soldiers do—when you’ve seen the same kind of ruin and made it out alive.

She was just a kid.

They all were.

His chest tightens. He thinks about his students now—their crayon drawings, the way they laugh at silly stories. How small their hands are.

He can’t imagine one of them in a place like that. Used, then broken.

It made him sick.

“There were experiments,” he finally says, voice shaking. “They opened a gate. To another world.”

He looks up at you, and his eyes are haunted.

“One just like ours… but off. Alive, somehow. And it didn’t stay contained. It started to leak into our world.”

His hands curl into fists.

“It was hell,” he says. “And it came here.”

Hell. 

That’s the only word that fits.

So many people gone. So many lives lost.

And somehow he’s still here. And most days, he doesn’t understand why.

“The things that came out of there…” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “They weren’t normal.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“Dogs that—weren’t dogs. Their heads would open up, and it was just teeth. Rows and rows of ‘em.”

Demo-dogs. The sanitised name for what they really were. 

“I was the oldest. I had these kids with me—Dustin, Lucas, Max… they were just kids. They couldn’t fight those things off.”

His jaw clenches. 

“I told them to stay back. And they did, they listened.”

A pause. 

“But sometimes I just wish…”

The words trail off, lost somewhere in the weight of everything he can’t say.

His eyes drift, unfocused, filling with something heavy and distant—memories.

Memories of running. Of screaming. Of blood on the floor. Of holding the line so they wouldn’t have to.

They got out.

He didn’t.

Not all the way, because he’s still in it.

Still sees it when he closes his eyes. Still hears the growls. Still wakes up some nights expecting something to tear through his door.

His hands start to shake and you reach for them again without thinking, folding them between yours. Trying to anchor him, to say you’re there without speaking.

He flinches at first. Then lets you hold him.

Even though it breaks your heart to see him like this—to know you pushed him to this point—there’s no going back.

“We thought it was over after that,” he says, “but it never was. I graduated—barely. Didn’t get the grades for college, and my dad cut me off.”

It dawns on you then.

His parents didn’t know.

Because if they had, there’s no way they’d have cared about grades, not when their son had been fighting for his life.

He hadn’t told them.

You’ve always known their relationship was strained, but this must have torn whatever was left even further apart.

“Took the first job I could find… and that’s how I met Rob.”

You nod. That part you do know.

The stupid sailor uniform. The Scoops Ahoy jokes. The unbearable summer heat. The friend who became family. You know the version he’s told before—the warm, funny pieces, the lighthearted edits.

But you also know where this is headed.

The blueprints. The tunnels.

“The mall,” you say quietly.

“Yeah... The mall.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck at the ends.

“I was such an idiot,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Thought it was over. That we’d won. That we could move on.”

But the past claws its way back too fast. Even now, years later, just thinking about Starcourt makes his stomach turn.

“Dustin came back from camp, excited about picking something up on the radio waves. Said it was gonna be big, so I went along with it. Rob did, too. We thought it’d be—like the movies, y’know? Some big scavenger hunt we could brag about. Something exciting for once.”

He starts to tear up at the memory. The meltdown of that summer is etched into him like his scars.

“Turns out the government weren’t the only ones interested. The mall was a cover-up—you got that part right. Some Russian organisation had picked up where they left off… only bigger.”

His breathing grows laboured, and you see him fighting the panic in his eyes.

“It was bad, so fucking bad, angel. I—god, I even got another kid involved. Couldn’t have been older than nine.”

He buries his face in his hands, shame radiating off him. He teaches kids that age now—thinks about how small they are, how trusting.

“We got underneath it,” he says quietly. “Me and Dustin. The others had no idea. We found this elevator that went down—way down. Like, military base deep.”

He swallows. You can hear it.

“They got out, thank God. But me and Rob… we got caught.”

He doesn’t look at you as he whispers the next statement. He doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

“I don’t remember how long they tried to get information out of me.”

Your stomach twists at his insinuation. 

Torture.

Not a fight. Not a scuffle.

Torture.

And he was just nineteen.

Barely out of high school, still half-boy, thrown into something no one should ever see.

What the hell did they do to him?

“I came to,” he continues, voice a little distant now. “And Rob was there. She was… not fine. But she was breathing. We both were.”

He runs a hand over his face, dragging his palm down.

“She told me about high school. How I was this total dick. Said she sat behind me, and I didn’t even know her name.”

Now, it’s the name written on his emergency contact. 

“I didn’t even remember her. I was that guy.”

Your fingers brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere far off.

“We made it out,” he says. “We were so high we could barely walk—God knows what they injected us with. I don’t remember much, just pain. And the lights. And… Rob’s voice. Sometimes that’s what pulled me back.”

His lips press together. 

“The kids had to rescue us,” he says quietly. “They saved me. When I should’ve been the one saving them.”

His whole body tenses, a tremor running through him as the image surges. Sterile halls. Screaming in a language he didn’t understand. Blood. Cold restraints. The sting of a needle.

And fear.

Not just for himself—for Robin. For Dustin. For all of them.

Still fresh, years later.

“It came back this time, stronger than before. The thing was two stories high. We made it out with the help of El—you don’t know her, but she was one of the kids. The experiments they did on her… she could do things. With her mind.”

“We got out, and the mall came down too. A cover-up for the cover-up, the perfect story.”

He shakes his head, a wry twist to his lips. Then his expression crumples.

“But the worst was the summer after…”

He doesn’t want to talk about this part. You can see it in the way he stiffens, in the tremor of his jaw. This is where his scars come from. You’ve felt them under your fingertips, wondered at their shapes.

“Kids started dying again. In ways that were… too familiar. We knew what it was. Knew it was back.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and a tear slips free. His shoulders tremble, and you tighten your grip on his hands.

“Eddie was who they blamed for it—town freak, Satan worshipper, all that bullshit.” He releases a shaky breath. “He was Dustin’s best friend. Looked out for him when I couldn’t. Made high school easier for him.”

He grits his teeth.

“We all knew we had to fight it again—El wasn’t there. We’d done it before, so… maybe we could again. But it was bad. Worse than before.”

He’s reliving the terror in real time—the helplessness that gnaws at him still.

“It was so painful, angel. We got dragged under at the lake. I went first, because—I don’t know, I could? I thought if it was me instead of them, then maybe they’d be all right. Maybe I’d make up for it somehow.”

He’s openly crying now. Tears slip down his cheeks in steady streams. All you can do is watch, your own throat closing with grief you don’t fully understand but ache to share. You stroke the back of his hand, feeling how futile the gesture must seem.

“It didn’t stop.”

 Those three words fall like stones.

“There were bats—I think. I don’t even know what they were. Just… wrong. They kept coming. Tearing into me.”

Too fast to fight. 

Too many to count.

“They latched onto me like—like they knew where to bite.”

Ribs. Side. Neck. 

“I—I can still feel them sometimes. Even now. Like they’re still under my skin.”

He grips his side reflexively, as if the wounds still throb beneath his skin.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

A twisted kind of admission. One that suggests a terrible resignation.

“And in a way…” His voice tightens. “It felt right.”

Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Maybe that was easier than surviving again.

“It made sense,” he breathes. “I mean—I was the one who stuck around. Maybe that was the end I was supposed to get.”

Then the sob rips out of him—harsh and sudden, like it’s been living just beneath the surface.

“But they got to me,” he forces out. “In time. They pulled 'em off me, and I was still breathing.”

Barely.

He swipes an unsteady hand across his face, blinking fast against the tears.

“We thought that was it," he says in a voice so hollow it almost doesn’t sound like him. "But it wasn’t—it was just the beginning.”

He can barely meet your eyes now. Won’t let himself see the fear and pity etched in your expression.

“There was someone else—another one of those kids from the lab. Stronger—smarter. He was behind all of it.”

His knuckles go white.

“He had this… world. A whole world that moved for him. Vines crawling through the ground. They were watching us. Telling him where we were.”

No plan worked.

“We tried to fight. Tried to run. But—but we didn’t stand a chance. It grabbed us. Around our chests, our—”

He stops, breath catching.

“It got me again. This time around the neck—tight—so fucking tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Again.

He mimics the motion briefly, a reflexive wince at the memory.

“I tried to yell—to tell them to go. But it was too late.”

He stares at the floor now, voice hollow.

“They got Max.”

She screamed. And then she didn’t. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

The sob that follows is deep and shaking, your hand is still in his.

“Eddie was gone by the time we got back. Played the goddamn hero.”

Another tear rolls down, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

“I told him not to. I fucking told them.”

His voice cracks—shattered glass.

“I was supposed to protect them.”

That was the whole point.

“I was supposed to be the one who could handle it..”

That was why he stayed behind.

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and bloodshot.

“I couldn’t save them,” he whispers.  

Always one second too late. 

“It caused the earthquake. Him. All of it was because of him. We never found a body. Never knew if it was over. So they left. Every single one of them, as soon as they could.”

Gone. 

He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, useless against the tears.

“And I—I stayed. I don’t know why. I fucking stayed.”

He breaks then, openly and fully. His chest spasms with heavy sobs. Watching him fall apart like this is agony, but you can’t not watch. You can’t tear your eyes away from this man who’s spent years fighting alone.

“I can’t move past it,” he gasps. “No matter how hard I try.”

Why did he?

When none of them are?

His voice is totally wrecked. You reach for him again, hands unsteady, tears streaking your own cheeks. You're afraid that holding him might pull him deeper into it—this bottomless grief—but you hold on anyway.

Because someone has to.

“That’s—that’s the basics of it all—fuck—that’s all I can do,” he manages between sobs. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. I just—that’s—”

He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the pain, but it tears out anyway—raw and guttural, a sound like a wounded animal.

It shreds through the room. Shreds through you.

You break, too. A soft sob escapes your throat as your hand tightens around his.

“That’s all I can give you right now,” he whispers.

And God, does he hope it’s enough.

He’s inconsolable. Stomach dropping. Eyes fixed on a patch of sunlight filtering through the bookshop window, like it might offer him a way out.

But there isn’t one.

There never was.

You sit there in silence, your chest hollowed out by everything he’s given you.

This poor man—battered, scarred, not just physically but soul-deep—who’s lived through horrors you’re only just beginning to grasp.

He’s still here.

He stayed. He survived.

Even when it would’ve been easier not to. You can’t imagine it. You can’t take it away.

But now, finally, you see him.

Every broken, ugly part.

You see all of him.

The only sound in the room is your sobs. His sobs. The line between where you end and he begins blurs, because the grief is so palpable it seems to swallow you both.

He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and trembling, and you realise just how small a person can look when the weight of the world has nearly broken them. The world has been unfair to him—so unfair. 

And now, it’s your turn to figure out what to do.

Because this isn’t a wound you can bandage with a few kind words. This isn’t the kind of trauma that has neat stages you can work through, step by painstaking step. And it sure as hell isn’t the sort of mess any textbook could solve.

A part of you sees the outlines of truth now. The pills in his bathroom. The flinches when someone claps a hand on his shoulder too hard. The nightmares and the shadows under his eyes. Suddenly, so many pieces click into place.

This explains everything.

Then why doesn’t it feel better?

You’re scared to speak, but you know he needs something. Everyone else is gone—scattered in the aftermath of what’s happened to him. 

“Can—” Your voice breaks. You pause, inhaling shakily to steady yourself. “Can I… hold you?”

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a sob—like he’s been waiting for you to ask, yet it pierces him all the same. There’s a vulnerability in the question that knocks the wind from both of you.

“God—yes.”

Please.

No sooner does he say it than you’re scrambling onto his lap. He clings to you with a force that almost hurts, but you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You guide his head to your chest and hold him like you can piece him back together. 

Like a parent would.

Like his parents didn’t.

You press your fingers into his hair, sliding them through the strands slowly, trying to calm the raging storm inside him. And still, he cries. Deep, shuddering sobs that jolt through his entire body. You can feel each one vibrating in your bones. Each one feels like a testament to how much he’s been carrying alone.

But you don’t know what to do.

All you can do is cradle him, let him unravel against you. Let him press his face to his borrowed jumper as his breath catches again and again. You whisper soothing things you won’t even fully recall later, meaningless words in the language of warmth and touch.

Your thoughts drift to Robin. 

You wonder if she’s seen him like this—held him the way you’re holding him now. If she’s had to stitch him together each time the memories tore him apart. 

The respect you already had for her grows fiercer, more profound. You owe her everything for keeping him safe long enough for you to stumble in and set off this emotional landmine.

Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? 

You wanted answers, you wanted to help. 

But in chasing those answers you pried open something he wasn’t ready to face—something you weren’t ready to face. 

And even though you understand him more than ever now, it feels like a hollow victory. The cost is too high.

He rests against you, breath hitching. You want to tell him it’s okay now—that he’s safe. That this is the last chapter in some terrible book he can close forever and leave to collect dust. 

But you can’t. 

Because it isn’t over. 

There was never any real closure, never a neat solution, and probably never any permission to share what happened in the first place.

The world kept spinning, and he’s stuck carrying secrets nobody else dared to shoulder, in a town that refused to see the truth. That’s the cruelest twist of all—he’s been trapped in silent torment, never allowed to speak. 

Never allowed to heal.

And so, you hold him tighter, your arms a makeshift sanctuary in the face of everything that’s broken him. If you can offer him just one moment of peace, you will. 

You will do whatever it takes, no matter how small, no matter how fleeting.

His sobs begin to slow, each breath growing more subdued as exhaustion pulls him under. You can feel the change in the tautness of his body, how the strength in his grip fades as if some internal dam finally burst and took everything with it. 

Even so, you don’t stop combing your fingers through his hair, not for a second. There’s a desperate hope in your touch—that maybe, somehow, it soothes him. 

It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He doesn’t speak first, he’s already said so much. Let out so many words that weighed on his heart like anchors. When his weeping quiets to unsteady sniffles, you're the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice quivers, the question tasting flat on your tongue. It’s a meaningless thing to say in a moment like this. 

Of course he’s not alright. 

No one would be, after that. 

But he feels a hint of gratitude that you asked anyway. Because you care enough to ask. That alone is worth everything to him.

He gives a slight nod against your chest, face pressed to your shirt as though letting go would mean losing whatever fragile tether he’s holding onto. His lashes are damp, sticking together every time he blinks. 

He wants to say no, but words fail him. Nodding feels safer.

He feels a lot calmer than he expected, lighter, somehow. Free in a way he hasn’t been for longer than he cares to admit. It shocks him. 

Somewhere deep down, a small part of him had convinced itself you would leave. 

Everyone does. But you’re still here. 

You’re not so easily frightened away.

He finally manages to lift his head, and the movement is tentative. A wince tightens his features when a dull ache throbs behind his eyes—headaches are the inevitable fallout of tears this heavy. But that’s a small price to pay. The real weight has been lifted from his chest, at least for now.

You look at him, eyes wet with sympathy. He hates it, hates seeing pity aimed at him; he’s never been good at being vulnerable like this. But at the same time, he can’t resent you for it. You’re only reacting to what you see.

Loosening his grip on your waist, his hands drift to rest on your hips, then your sides, drawing gentle circles through the fabric there. It’s instinctive, a way to ground himself in the moment. He ducks his head, letting out a shaky exhale that carries something like relief.

“I’m guessing we aren’t going to the coffee shop anymore,” he says, forcing a weak attempt at humour. It’s brittle and halfhearted, but it’s all he can manage right now.

Your laugh breaks through his gloom, watery and tender. 

“I have coffee upstairs,” you say, eyes glistening as you try to steer the conversation toward something resembling normalcy. “But I don’t think we need any more caffeine today.”

He nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat, because that’s fair. His nerves are already shot, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, voice wavering. “I never would've dug if I’d known…”

He looks up, surprise flickering across his still-blotchy face. 

“I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t,” he murmurs, and there’s a note of truth there that resonates in the quiet of the bookshop. 

There was no easy way for this to come out, perhaps it was inevitable.

“Are you angry?” you ask, softly, like you’re afraid of his answer.

“No,” he says, more firmly this time. “I said I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been lying.”

“I wasn’t.” His gaze flicks to yours, and he almost manages a faint smile. 

He’s done with lying—for now, at least, with you.

He looks at the light streaming through the window behind you, how it outlines your form in a gentle glow. 

Like a halo. 

An angel. 

The corner of his mouth lifts just a little, and he closes his eyes when your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck again.

“What do you want to do now?” you whisper.

If that isn’t the question of the year…

What does he want to do? 

Does he have to do anything? 

His mind swirls with the aftermath of what he’s just revealed, the emptiness that comes after a storm. 

Maybe he just wants to exist with you, quietly, for as long as the world will let him.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, voice nearly a plea.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, and you shake your head in affectionate exasperation. 

“You don’t have to ask,” you tell him gently. “You know that.”

He nods, because he does. But still—he wants to be sure. He’s never liked assuming you’d just say yes, even when it’s obvious.

“Do—do we have to talk about this anymore?” he asks carefully, the question trembling on the edge of his breath. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Do you want to?” you counter, eyes searching his.

“No.” It spills out of him faster than he intends, but it’s honest. 

He’s relived enough horrors for one day.

“Then we won’t,” you say simply, tracing the line of his jaw with a touch so light it makes him shiver. “Thank you for telling me,” you add, voice dipping, “even if I didn’t give you much of a choice…”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you see the conflict in his eyes. 

“It’s alright,” he manages. His breath hitches in his chest, but no more tears fall. “It’s better this way.”

He never thought he’d believe those words, but somehow he does now. Having you here, knowing you know—it’s one less burden on his shoulders.

“Okay.” You sigh, a rush of air that sounds like relief. “I’ll make dinner tonight—my apology.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head.

You grin, a wry little smile through the tears. 

“I can make pancakes again?”

A grin tugs at his lips in response, the memory stirs something bright in his chest. He tilts his head, pretending to mull it over. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he replies, matching your playfulness. And then there’s that giggle again—boyish, warm.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning down and pressing your lips to his. 

The kiss is gentle, a lingering brush that sends a surge of heat and safety through him. He curls his fingers around your back, returning the affection with soft desperation, reluctant to let you pull away.

But eventually, you do. You slip off his lap and stand, offering him your hand, and he takes it. Your fingers thread together as you lead him across the bookshop floor, steps echoing softly, then up the stairs to your living space. A small ripple of relief settles into his heart. 

Tonight, he’ll let you fuss over him—the way you do when you’re loving someone through their worst moments. 

Not the overbearing, pitying kind that he’s used to, but your gentle brand of affection, full of small touches and sweet words. 

He’ll try to help with dinner, even if you bat him away, rolling your eyes at his attempts. And he’ll let himself smile, because you smile back.

He imagines sitting across from you at the table, nudging your foot under it just to make you laugh. 

He can already see you washing his hair in the shower, your fingers massaging his scalp. Maybe he’ll do the same for you, a soft sort of trade-off that seems impossibly intimate. 

You’ll see his scars and he’ll let you touch them without shrinking back, even though it stings to think how they got there.

He’ll try not to feel guilty when he falls asleep on your chest for a change, instead of the other way around. He’ll let your warmth lull him into a gentle slumber. Sure, he’ll have to wake up earlier than you tomorrow for work, but he knows you’ll be the first one up to keep him company if he just asks.

And maybe you’ll drive him, so he won’t have a car, so he’ll have to call you when he’s done. A part of him wants that.

He knows he can ignore the old stresses for a little while—until the next weekend, at least. 

He can’t miss therapy. 

That would be a dead giveaway.

He’s dreading how he’ll need to dodge and weave around certain truths there. He hopes he’s good enough at lying, but at least he won’t have to lie to you anymore.

And that’s the part that makes him feel lighter than he has in ages.

No more secrets. 

No more walls. 

No more hiding this battered, bruised history from the girl his stupid heart beats for. 

Because, for once, he’s not running from the truth.

And for once, he’s not running from you.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleyeswithgoldensparkles @keerysfolklore @carlyferrell 

[mearchy]

On my rewatch of TLOU I realized there were some details that I missed before that help to paint this huge picture about the importance of the preceding Tess/Joel relationship. The first and most obvious is that Joel mentions passingly that he and Tommy met Tess pretty early on, and it sounds like she stayed with him when every other group they were in fell apart, and even when his own brother left. So they’ve been surviving together for at LEAST 15 years, probably longer than his daughter was even alive, which is a length of time I just didn’t fully process before.

We never hear the full goodbye/suicide letter from Bill, but a lot of people have pointed out that over Joel’s shoulder you can see Tess’s name mentioned at least twice at the end — including something about her deciding what to do. We know that basically every time we saw Tess directly interacting with Joel before she died, she was the one giving him directives and making the final decisions. She says outright that he listens to her. This is not a man who trusts fucking anybody after everything he’s been through. But he trusts Tess. She comes up behind him in bed while he’s sleeping, and in a world of raiders and robbers where hypervigilance is a necessity, he barely even stirs.

Now, one of her last lines before she dies is “I never asked you for anything, not to feel the way I felt—“ and he tries to say something and she shuts him down. But here’s what gets me: before that, before they realize she was bit, she turns around and in her dying frantic anger she yells “that is NOT MY HOME!” about the QZ. And it’s like okay… where else could she be thinking about, if she’s spent all these years on the road with different groups, with Joel, and then at least a decade in the QZ? What is she defining as home right now? Why is this correction so intense? And it could be about Detroit, about where she came from and isn’t (apparently) attempting to go back to. But then. But then she turns and she looks directly at Joel. And she’s got the most tragic expression on her face. And I wonder if in that moment Joel knew she meant that he was her home, even if she had never said it that openly before. Wherever he went, she would go. Haring off on a wild chase after his brother across the country? She’s there. She’ll do anything to make it happen. She’ll beg and barter and kill for this truck battery, for a mission she doesn’t even have half the same stakes in. She was his direction and his driving force and a safe place for him, but he was her home.

Thinking about this almost changed the tenor of the remaining story with Joel and Ellie to me. The hospital massacre felt perfectly in character the first time I watched, but when I rewatched with both the Sarah and the Tess story in the forefront of my mind it felt even more fucking inevitable. Joel is Orpheus. This couldn’t have gone any other way. He could never have done anything else. He has failed the two most important women in his life. He has failed a daughter, and he has failed a partner twice over- first by letting her die, and second by letting her die believing she was unloved. How can he fail Ellie now? He has to burn the entire world, tell any lie, just to keep her alive. There is no other option, no other outcome. There is no living Joel post-canon without the hospital massacre.

And the revenge for it will be what kills him.

[cwwv9]

"Silence heard"

— without gender!depressive!reader x Isagi Yoichi, Meguro Bachira, Hiori Yo, Karasu Tobio, Michael Kaiser, Alexis Ness, Mikage Reo, Hagi Seishiro, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Shidou Ryusei.

Warning: depression, emotional detachment, mention of apathy, inner pain, attempts to cope with mental difficulties, passive suicidal behavior (hint), obsessive behavior.

mailbox open for queries!!!( I need it )

Isagi Yoichi

He notices it from the very beginning - how you hold yourself apart, how you keep silent at times when others are laughing. Isaiah is lost at first: he can not cope with the pain of others, because he always made up for himself at the expense of the goal. But one day he will just say:

- If you’re sick, I won’t distract you with happiness. Just... let me be there. Even if it’s silent.

And it really stays - quiet, attentive, not pressing.

Meguro Bachira

His first reaction is an obsessive positivity. He thinks that he can "spin" you like a toy. He dances, jokes, wears stupid glasses.

But then he realizes: you don’t need funny clowns. Then he begins to share his loneliness - about the imaginary friend, about the silence in his head when there is no football.

- You don’t have to laugh. I know what it’s like to live in your own world. Just... let me in for a second, and I won’t tell anyone what’s inside.

And you believe.

Hyori Yo

He can immediately feel the familiar sadness in your eyes. He doesn’t ask questions - he just starts making you tea, leaving playlists, sometimes writing short messages: "Did you eat today?"

His care is unnoticeable, almost imperceptible. But at one point you catch yourself waiting for him to walk down the corridor with his hands on your shoulder.

Hyory never demands changes from you. He just exists as a warm room in a cold house.

Karasu Tabito

At first he gets irritated. Like, "Why are you being so pushy?" - but it’s a defensive reaction. He can’t say "I’m worried".

And then you start noticing - how you’re slouching, how your eyes are slipping away from the light. And it becomes cautious, almost careful. He will start calling you to the gym, explaining:

- Exercise helps. Seriously. I’m not a doctor, but when I have shit in my head, I run. We can run together.

And you run. Be quiet. This is also a form of closeness.

Reo Mikage

He wants to "fix" you. Right away. Money, gifts, trips, everything to make you smile.

But when he sees that it doesn’t work, he breaks himself. He sits down next to him and says, almost whispering:

- I can’t love any other way. But if you just need to be held by your hand in the dark, I’ll learn.

And it holds. Long. Until you want to come out - yourself.

Nagi Seichiro

He’s not very emotional, but even he can feel the weight you’re carrying.

- It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Living at all.

It will not make you feel. Just lie next to it, plug in headphones, throw a gamepad:

- Let’s just not think. Together.

You don’t have to "be better" with him. He accepts your apathy as something natural. And this, surprisingly, heals.

Michael Kaiser

His first instinct is to ignore. He doesn’t have time for other people’s pain.

But you hold him in your detachment. And one day he comes up, looking straight into his eyes:

- You look like you’re already dead. Do you know what I do when I’m dying inside? I look in the mirror and remember who the hell I am.

He is provocative. He is stiff. But then he hugs - suddenly, firmly.

-And you won’t die while I’m around. Remember that.

Alexis Ness

He feels more than he understands. He looks at you and squeezes his lips.

- I want you to see yourself with my eyes. There’s so much beauty.

He starts doing little things: folding origami, leaving candy, telling stupid stories.

He doesn’t expect a reaction, he just hopes that one day you will smile. Even for a second. And that will be enough.

Rin Itoshi

Rin thinks you’re weak for a long time. He doesn’t understand why you can’t just stand up.

But then one day he sees you crying quietly at night, thinking no one notices.

He hasn’t said a word to you since.

- You hold on. That’s enough. I’ll take care of the rest.

He can’t be soft, but he stays. Every day. No explanation.

Sai Itoshi

He frowns. Not because you’re sad, but because he hates that the world made you do it.

- If someone hurt you, I’ll find them. I’ll break them.

But on those rare evenings when you’re just sitting next to him, looking at one spot - he’s stroking your hand, barely touching it.

The room does not demand, does not ask, just gives you the right to be who you are. And then quietly adds:

- If you want to feel alive, I’m here for you.

Ryusei Shido

He’s laughing in your face. Literally.

- Oh, the dark girl! Let me fuck you - maybe you’ll come back?

But then he sees how you tremble at night, and all his pofisticism flies away.

He is angry. At himself, at you, at the whole world.

- You don’t have to be funny. But you do have to live. I won’t let you disappear. Not you, okay?

Becomes aggressive in caring. It annoys. But saves. Because he is always near - like a storm, like a fire. Like life.

[jenniferpendragon]

Listening to "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?" and I wondered why on earth I connected so deeply with Odysseus here when I've been connecting with Penelope so much, and then it clicked.

Massive spoilers below the cut, and also mentions of sexual assault and image issues.

Odysseus has become the monster, that's what "Odysseus" is about, his final culmination. He is everything he's fought and hated and killed. He has murdered a *baby* at the command of a god who told him if he didn't, the gods would have the child destroy his family. His best friend died because Odysseus, out of extreme guilt, indulged his ways too much. His own desire for a better world and to give mercy, fueled by guilt, caused his mentor to leave him and left an opening for future pain. His pride turned his cunning into dust. He watched men he had fought for ten years to save from dying in war be drowned in a storm because of his damn pride (and his brother-in-law and second-in-command's greed and mistrust). He then nearly lost all of his remaining men at the hands of an enchantress. He is forced to hear the screams of his dead comrades and come face to face with his dead mother in the Underworld who died waiting for him.

Odysseus then murders gods know how many sirens (rightfully so, but still), and then sacrifices six men to a sea monster for safe passage. His remaining men mutiny against him (understandably on the crew's side, not so much for Eurylochus) and then decide to eat the sacred cattle of Apollo, which gets the wrath of Zeus down upon them.

Odysseus then decides that his wife and son are more important than his remaining men and lets them be killed for their misdeeds. He is then trapped for years (and possibly sexually assaulted, reading between the lines) by a woman who wants to replace his wife while the demons of his past and his guilt and trauma cause him to nearly commit suicide. Once freed from the island and Calypso, he fights another sea monster with just his wits and then nearly dies by a god before torturing Poseidon until he gives Odysseus the safe passage he wants. After all that, he (rightfully) slays the suitors who were planning to rape his wife and attempting to kill his son. They beg for mercy, but the Odysseus that gave mercy to the cyclops that murdered his best friend is dead. Only a monster remains. A man who tortured gods stands before them and judges them for their crimes.

And his son is ecstatic to have him home, is wondering if Odysseus would accept him as "weak" as he is, as if Telemachus isn't the perfect "warrior of the mind" Odysseus always wanted to be, a combination of Athena and his younger self's viewpoints. Odysseus, the monster, sees one of the two things he still loves in the world and exercises those open arms because this is his son. His love for him is unconditional and unchanging.

Athena, beaten and recovering and full of empathy for the first time in the ten years since she left him, sees the Odysseus before her, the monster and cunning warrior she was attempting to turn him into, and accepts what he is, what he's become because of her. And while she loves him, she doesn't show him love. Just acceptance and quiet friendship (which is more than fine, but it does nothing to his heart about his monstrosity).

And then he comes to Penelope. The woman he has turned into someone unrecognizable for. Someone even the goddess of wisdom regrets. His son loves him, but it's because of the monster he has become. His son never knew him, never knew who Odysseus was at his core. Athena did, and she regrets what happened to him, what he became. But Athena wasn't who he was fighting for. He wasn't the one thing that kept Odysseus alive for twenty years of hell.

And he comes to Penelope, heart on his sleeve and says "I'm not the man you knew. I have done terrible things. I have become a monster inside and out. Would you fall in love with me again?"

He doesn't ask "do you still love me?". He doesn't think it's possible. He is a monster. He not only signed the death warrant of his sister's husband but threw a child, a baby, off of the walls of Troy. Odysseus doesn't believe himself worthy of the love he is asking for. He needs it with every fiber of his being because that is what he has craved for two decades, but he is a monster. He is not the kind and gentle husband who carved a wedding bed into an olive tree so it would be a living reminder of their everlasting love. He is a man who sold the souls of his men to a monster to get home.

Odysseus is amazingly, beautifully human, but by many metrics, he is a bad man. His actions can be justified and rationalized, but he has committed atrocities or allowed them to be committed (Achilles' desecration of Hector's corpse, opening the gates of Troy for the people to be slaughtered in their sleep, sentenced men to death so he could go home, throwing a baby off the walls of Troy) and he can't be called a good man (his actions in "Odysseus" aren't monstrous but they reveal his mindset) in a measurable way.

I wouldn't go so far as to call him evil like I would Antinuous, but would Odysseus? Yes. He believes he is a monster. Monsters are something to kill, not worthy of love.

But he asks. He asks Penelope if she would fall in love with him again. Not if she still does, he doesn't ask for that. He has loved no one else in these last twenty years, but he doesn't ask for that from Penelope. He's asking for a chance. Would she be willing to love the monster that has come home in her husband's place? Would she be willing to look upon him, with the blood of an infant on his hands, with the blood of an entire people on his hands (they would never have sacked Troy and committed genocide without him), and choose to fall in love with him anyways? That is what he is asking. Could you love me, as evil and monstrous as I am?

And what does Penelope do? She asks him to move their marriage bed. He's not her husband? He's a monster? Fine, a monster wouldn't care about destroying their wedding bed, the symbol of their marriage, to get what he wants, a new start from her. A monster wouldn't care that he would have to tear out the roots of their eternal love to have her now. A monster wouldn't have second thoughts.

But Odysseus is hurt and angry at her essentially asking for a divorce from the man she married, revealing the secret of their marriage bed in his shock and rage. A monster wouldn't give it a second thought, but the man she married could never move that bed for anything.

And she tells him that only her HUSBAND knew that, so that makes this monster he claims to be her husband. Penelope doesn't just agree to fall in love again, but that she doesn't care how, where, or when, because he is HERS. He isn't a monster that has replaced her husband, he IS her husband.

She does not look at him and see his sins. She looks at him and sees someone she has loved and waited for for twenty years. Someone she was ready to die a violent death rather than live without.

Odysseus believes himself to be a monster, to be evil. And Penelope says he is her husband. He is hers. He is not some evil monster, he is her husband who would never even think about moving their marriage bed. He thinks he is evil, too much, too monstrous, and she says no, you are MINE.

I've always felt like I'm a horrible person and worthy of the pain and punishment I get. But hearing someone love someone else unconditionally, looking upon them and saying "I don't see your sins; I only see you" is incredibly healing to me. Penelope hears his list of his sins and straight up IGNORES them. It's almost as if she has forgotten them. She loves Odysseus, period. She does not see the vile monster that Athena sees and accepts and regrets. She sees her husband.

Love is the greatest power in the world.

[theother-victoria]

all hearts as one beneath the sun

SYNOPSIS: before kakavasha dissolves into the nihility, there is one hope he has to let go of. may you meet again in a kinder world and under a warm sun.

CHARACTERS: kakavasha, aventurine, dr ratio, aventurine's family, sunday

TAGS: angst, no comfort, established relationship, mentions of suicide, 4k+ wc

TAGLIST: @mitsvriii, @harque, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore, @moineauz

NOTES: sobbed to "had I not seen the sun" the entire time I was writing this I love making myself cry w my own work

special thanks to @akutasoda, @tragedy-of-commons, and @https-sourlimes for proofreading this! love u all <33

link to the playlist

Aventurine was mildly surprised when he received word that he would be handling the Penacony mission. Why him, of all the Ten Stonehearts? Surely someone more capable such as Opal would be trusted with a mission of this caliber. 

He only realized why when he pried further into the details. 

Penacony was a death trap. With so many powerful and important people gathered in one place, one wrong move on his part would spell his end.

He chuckles sardonically. Figures. They’re sending their most suicidal employee out for a suicide mission.

As if to rub the situation into his face, he finds out they’re pairing him with Dr. Ratio. What purpose is he supposed to serve, suicide prevention? Too little, too late, in his opinion. 

The doctor doesn’t look too thrilled about the fact either. It makes Aventurine feel somewhat better about this whole situation. 

“You’d best get your affairs settled before we leave, gambler. The odds that you make it back alive from this mission aren’t as high as you’d hope they’d be.”

“Ooh, well I do like the sound of that.”

A glare sent his way makes Aventurine roll his eyes, but he shuts up anyway. Plans are made and discussed for what role each of them will be playing before it’s time to leave. 

“Well then, I look forward to working with you in Penacony, Doctor.”

“Just don’t act like a complete idiot and we’ll be fine.”

The two men head their separate ways. Ratio’s advice to settle his affairs lingers in his mind, though. That means there’s a will he has to sign, assets he has to distribute, funeral arrangements to be made, and more. Of course, most, if not all of it, will be going toward you. You’d be set for the rest of your life, never having to work a day again if you so chose. 

He heaves a sigh. Ah, it’s all so tedious. It was all so much easier before you came along. He had no will to worry about. He’d toss caution to the wind every mission and wind up sorely disappointed when he returned, still alive. If he did end up dying, his assets would end up being pawned off and most likely make their way back to the IPC somehow. So what even was the point then?

With all that being said, he didn’t mind putting in all that extra work for your peace of mind and so you’d continue to benefit, even after his death. 

Still, the stakes this time around are higher, and he has you to consider now before placing his bets. One wrong move and you’d be left without someone to welcome home. And then there’s the consideration of whether he’d be willing to die when the moment came. Sure, he’d attempted several times before but they’d all failed. Would he be able to take the plunge this time, should the opportunity present itself? 

“Hey, Doc?”

Ratio is about to leave, but the uncharacteristic hint of hesitation in his voice makes him stop and look over his shoulder.

“... How can you tell if you’ve lived a life worth living?”

Ratio stares at the blonde in silence in disbelief over what he’s hearing. Aventurine chuckles, trying to dispel the awkwardness that’s settled in the air.

“No answer? Never mind-”

“That answer will vary from person to person. However, if you were to ask me personally…”

The doctor’s ruby eyes flit over Aventurine’s frame, narrowing in contemplation- and perhaps a hint of resignation. 

“Ask yourself this question: can you die today without any regrets?”

“Can I die today without any regrets?” Doctor, what were you thinking when you posed that rhetorical question on me? Obviously the answer would be no!

Expensive leather shoes click against stone as Aventurine hurriedly makes his way through the Dreamscape. The weight of having mere hours left to live looms above his head like an anvil, leaving him scrambling to figure out how to cheat death- not for the hope of living to see another day, but so he can carry out his mission. 

When confronted with death, even a suicidal man will cling to the urge to live for one reason or another. 

He’s hardly paying attention to where he’s going, muttering out half-hearted apologies to those he bumps into as he stumbles through the Dreamscape before he ends up in a secluded area. The kaleidoscopic iridescence in the corners of his vision makes him stumble and he audibly groans when a searing pain flashes through his temples, the Harmony’s brand on his mind assailing him again. 

Dammit… am I really at the end of the line now? And before I could do anything meaningful either…

He hears the sound of a… child humming some distance away? That’s strange, there’s no one else here. 

“Mister, are you lost too?”

That voice. 

He turns around slowly, as if that would change anything. Aventurine’s eyes dart across the boy standing before him, with rags for clothes and scraped knees. The child in front of him is everything he is not- or rather, what he was, but is no longer. Optimistic, with bright shining eyes. Hope still exists for him. 

Those eyes. Oh, it’s himself. 

Aventurine thinks he’s about to be sick. 

“Woah, you have such pretty eyes! Can I call you Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

Aventurine stiffly nods. 

“Sure. Call me whatever you want, kid. What’s your name?”

“It’s Kakavasha. Nice to meet you!”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin confirming his suspicions. 

Kakavasha looks around nervously.

“I was searching for my family, but I got lost. This place is so much bigger than home… Mister, do you think you could help me find them?”

Aventurine shakily extends a trembling hand out.

“Of course. Lead the way. How about you hold onto my hand so you don’t get lost anymore?

Kakavasha latches onto it and begins wandering around, calling out for his parents and big sister. Every unanswered call feels like a punch to the gut but he has a faint flickering of hope that he’ll be able to see them.

“You really love your family, kid,” remarks Aventurine in an attempt to keep some conversation going. 

“Of course! I do!”

Kakavasha pauses in his steps and thinks for a bit, eyes wandering skyward and free hand resting on his chin.

“… Do you have anyone you love, Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

“Yes, I do. Their name is (Name).”

The boy’s eyes light up, sparkling in curiosity.

“Woah, really? What’re they like?”

A light chuckle escapes Aventurine’s lips as he crouches down to Kakavasha’s eye level and ruffles his hair. 

“They’re the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“Wow, they must be a really amazing person for you to say that…”

“They are. They're incredible.”

I don’t deserve them.

He chuckles and stands back up again, hand reaching for Kakavasha’s. The little boy continues to lead the way, until he suddenly stops and turns. 

“Would you like to meet my family? They’ve been gone for so long I think they went back home. You can introduce (Name) to them as well!”

Panic wells up inside him. Seeing his family? In this state? After all he’s done? No, he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Not under these circumstances!

“Kid, I don’t think-”

“It’s ok if (Name) shows up late. They’re nice people and they’ll understand.”

“No, I-”

“Come on, let’s go! They’re already waiting for us!”

Aventurine feels himself being forcefully pulled under and he instinctively closes his eyes. A blast of hot, sandy air hits him, making him shield himself. When it settles down, he opens his eyes to a familiar sight. Sand stretches as far as the eye can see. There’s minimal vegetation and he can feel the sun beating down on his back already.

Sigonia-IV. He’s returned home. 

Kakavasha eagerly tugs on his sleeve. 

“This is my home! I know it’s not much, but everyone I know and love is here. I think you’ll like it too.”

Still holding onto Aventurine’s hand, Kakvasha begins running toward the horizon. Aventurine, meanwhile, feels numb all over. 

There’s no way this is happening. Is this some sort of cruel prank? What did that chicken-wing boy do this time? But if this is just a cruel prank…

He looks around at the yellow sand stretching as far as the eye can see and the mountains in the distance.

… Then it’s far too realistic. How is this happening? If I filter out the memories of the massacre, then everything is the same as I remembered it. 

“We’re almost there!” calls out Kakavasha. “Just a little longer now!”

Three familiar figures stand in front of a tent some distance away and Aventurine feels his heart seize up in his chest. He’s long forgotten their faces, but he instinctively recognizes them.

Mom. Dad. Big Sis. 

Kakavasha lets go of his hand and sprints toward his family. He leaps into the arms of his big sister, who spins him around giddily while his mother plants kisses over his face and his father holds his tiny hands. 

As he approaches, he realizes they have no faces. Where there are supposed to be eyes, a nose, and a mouth, there is nothing. A blank canvas with dents and ridges where the features are supposed to be greets him and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in warning. 

The only exception to this is his sister, with her grinning mouth and her long blonde hair billowing in the wind- the only feature he remembers clearly about her. She takes notice of him and tilts her head curiously to the side. 

“Kakavasha, did you br▇ng a f▇▇▇d of ▇urs?”

Her voice comes out scratchy and distorted with only a few syllables recognizable. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he realizes why.

He can’t remember her voice anymore. Or the voices of his parents, for that matter. He’s forgotten what they look like, and now what they sound like. What’s been forgotten can’t be restored. 

“Yeah!” exclaims Kakavasha nestled safely into his sister’s arms now. “Everybody, meet Mr. Pretty Eyes!”

They greet him with friendly waves and scratchy sounds that he thinks are supposed to be words of greeting. He almost chokes on the guilt and regret building up in his throat

“▇▇ look just like ▇▇ Kakavasha over here! ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ his long-lost b▇▇▇▇r or something?” 

Aventurine forces out a laugh as the others join in. 

If only they knew…  

The sun is going down now, and the solar winds that blanket the planet grow harsher. They quickly usher him into the tent, telling him to make himself at home and inviting him to stay for dinner. There’s no way out as far as he can tell, so he obliges.

 It’s smaller than he remembers, he thinks as he ducks to avoid hitting his head. There’s a rudimentary kitchen setup in the back that Kakavasha’s mother is tending to as she begins preparing dinner. Kakavasha hops into his sister’s lap and shakes the sand out of his hair and gets it everywhere, to which she lightly scolds him with a tug on his cheek. 

He takes a seat on the fraying rug in the center and rubs a brightly-colored teal tassel between his fingers. The sand is already starting to seep into his clothes. He feels grains of it in his shoes and it pools onto his pristine white dress pants. Grains of it are nestled deep into the fur collar of his coat from the harsh solar winds outside that even vigorous shaking won’t dislodge.

Kakavasha’s sister smiles at him. It’s a bit unnerving, just seeing a smiling mouth with no other features.

“So, Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes, w▇at 's your ▇▇▇ ? At least, I’m a▇▇▇ ming Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes isn’t yo▇▇ r▇l name.”

“It’s Kaka-”

He swallows hard and kicks himself. He’s not Kakavasha. Not anymore.

“It’s… Aventurine.”

The very act of saying that name makes him feel like he’s betraying his family, stabbing them in the back. 

“A▇▇▇▇▇ , huh? What an in▇▇▇ing and pretty name!” remarks his sister. He feels the air rush out his lungs and almost coughs up a sardonic laugh from the sheer irony of it all. First his family, then his language, then his body, and now even his name? Is there anything left that he can truly call his from his culture? 

Thunder distantly rumbles overhead. Kakavasha and his sister peek their heads out curiously of the tent. She gasps excitedly and points to the darkening clouds overhead. 

“Hear that? ▇▇ sign ▇▇ your birthday is ▇▇▇ ▇!” she exclaims as she holds Kakavasha’s hands in hers.“▇▇▇ ▇▇ excited?”

… His birthday? 

Thunder rumbles overhead again and he hears the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the tent. 

His birthday. The Kakava Festival. 

His heart sinks into his stomach as his family chatters around him. They talk about birthday celebrations and what they’ll do that day, but it’s a muffled mess in his ears. Is it really almost his birthday already? Sigonia-IV followed many beliefs that were independent from the rest of the universe, namely the Aeon belief system, and that also extended to the calendar system. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure what day his birthday was in the Interastral Standard calendar system. He usually just flipped a coin and that was if he even bothered to celebrate, which he hadn’t done in many years. 

Aventurine does some quick estimating and realizes that yes, it’s almost his birthday. But how would he celebrate his birthday in this world, where all was good and he still remembered their faces and voices? 

Aventurine closes his eyes and thinks. His mother would be overjoyed to know that her beloved son finally has a lover now. She’d make him clean the tent from top to bottom in preparation for your arrival, even though the sand would find its way back inside again within a matter of a few hours. His parents would cook up a feast for your arrival while his sister would pester him to tell more stories about you- as if there were any left that he hadn’t. When the time would come and you’d nervously step through the tent flap with one hand holding his tightly and another clutching some gifts, his mother would rush forward and greet you with a kiss to the cheek, having already accepted you as family. His sister would steal you away from him to dote on you, much to his half-hearted chagrin. His father would tell corny jokes that you’d cringe at, and his mother would teach you recipes that had been passed down for generations, her warm, weathered hands resting atop yours and lovingly guiding your movements in the kitchen. 

The five of you, safe, warm, and alive under the sun. 

Hours after the rest of his family had gone to sleep, you’d lie side by side outside, watching the stars drift on by. Sigonia-IV is nothing like Pier Point. Free from light and industrial pollution, you’d have a stunning view of the cosmos every night. Twinkling stars shine overhead, so close you could practically pluck them out of the sky. Multicolored clouds of gas and stardust bathe the sky in their shifting hues as he tells you stories that have been passed down from generation to generation with the occasional shooting star passing by. You’d stay like that for hours on end, content to just listen and watch, until you were lulled to sleep by his voice. 

It would be cold, as all desert climates are at night, but it was nothing he couldn’t bear with your warmth nestled into his side. 

In the spring, or around now, he’d take you to celebrate the Kakava festival under the stars with a roaring bonfire. The festival itself would be a solemn and silent celebration with people murmuring prayers to the Mother Goddess and tossing sacrificial vessels into the fires, but the celebration of his birthday afterward would be loud and joyful. Bonfire sparks would rise up into the sky, carried by the hot solar winds and the rich sounds of his people’s songs. His mother would drape you in turquoise jewelry and gift you traditional clothes that she would’ve spent hours beforehand making by hand, every stitch a labor of love. He’d teach you to dance to the cheers of his family and the familiar tunes he’d hum under his breath. His movements would be fluid and graceful as he spins and twirls you around, while you stumble and flail along. He’d enjoy every second of it- even if you step on his feet the whole time. 

He would be kinder in this world, he thinks. He’d still be Kakavasha. Aventurine would be an unknown man to him. He’d wear his heart on his sleeve and his eyes would still have life to them. He’d never have to hide his left hand. 

And you’d be happier too. You wouldn’t have to sift through the layers to find the true self underneath the act he puts up. He wouldn’t be so hot and cold- practically love-bombing you one moment and then disappearing without a word for weeks the next. He wouldn’t be a dirty gambler, a two-faced businessman, a disinterested womanizer, cheating scum, an IPC mutt, a corporate bootlicker, a worthless Sigonian slut or who knows what else you’ve heard about him–

In this world, there are no Katicans. The Avigins and his family are still intact. His neck is unmarred and he speaks the Avigin dialect fluently, instead of the halting and choppy cadence that's even worse than that of a child’s. Syrupy, honeyed words spill from his mouth as he teaches you common words and phrases in his mother tongue. Have you eaten yet? How did you sleep? How was your day? I missed you. Mother. Sister. Father. Lover. Goddess. I made you something. I saw this today and thought of you. Be safe. Sweet dreams. Goodnight. I love you. He chuckles when you parrot them back to him haltingly, with your accent mixed in. The notebook you keep with various phrases, their meanings, and their phonetics grows every day. The most worn out page was the one crammed full of declarations of love that sound more akin to poetry as your mastery over the dialect grows. The ink is smeared from how often you’ve run your fingers over them, murmuring them under your breath until you’d committed them to memory. In your arms is the safest I’ll ever be. I’m lucky to call you my lover. I sleep better when I’m with you. I secretly name stars and constellations after you. I’ll kiss the weariness away from your face every night. I pray to Mama Fenge every night for your safety. I imagine her hands and embrace to be as warm as yours, and it reassures me somehow. I’ll miss your warm hands when that day finally comes. Goodnight, I love you.  

We’ll be together even in Kakava’s next aurora. 

Aventurine jolts forward with a start. His eyes search around frantically, instinctively searching for his family and you, only to be greeted with a familiar sight that isn’t his home. Bright flashing lights, the sound of cars honking and speeding by, muffled pop music playing in the distance, and the sugary scent of SoulGlad greet his senses instead of arid hot wind that howls in his ears and endless seas of sand. You and his family are nowhere to be seen either. 

Oh. Right.

The Dreamscape.

His clothes stick to his skin drenched in a cold sweat and his glasses are resting lopsidedly on his face. His whole body is shivering uncontrollably, as if he’s been plunged into ice-cold water without warning. The world is going white before his eyes and all he can hear is the loud thump of his pulse in his ears that suddenly drops. He thinks he’s about to pass out again. This is the end, he thinks. Aventurine leans against the side of a wall again, taking deep, heaving breaths to steady himself and quell the nausea swirling around in his stomach. 

When it subsides and he doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of death (sadly), he sits back up and forces out a laugh in place of a sob. First forcing a religious consecration onto him, then dangling his family in front of his face? How much crueler could the head of the Oak Family get? 

His heart sinks and an overwhelmingly bitter feeling engulfs him. It was just a dream all along. A dream within a dream, really. Was he really that desperate for something familiar again?

(And just like that, the mask known as Aventurine is back in place.)

(But he couldn’t even say goodbye or apologize to his family one last time, even if it wasn’t them.)

It was a pleasant dream, he’ll admit. How nice it would be to live in that world forever. But he knew it was a dream because it could never happen, as much as it pained him. 

Aventurine hears the voice of Kakavasha drifting along from further up ahead and knows he’s nearing the final leg of his plan. With what little time he has left, he takes pictures with the boy for posterity and buys the child all the treats his eyes rest on for more than a second. Aventurine delights in the way his eyes light up at the first taste before he eagerly digs in for more. 

It’s cathartic, in a way. 

Before stepping on stage, he looks up at the sky. It’s perpetually nighttime in Clock Studios Theme Park, but he knows the sun is shining elsewhere in the Dreamscape. Is the sun shining where you are back at home? He thinks it’s morning for you. You must still be asleep with the cat cakes curled into your sides, blissfully unaware of the news you’ll wake up to. 

Get onstage. Fear not. Never look back. 

One last thing to do.

He sends a final text to you.

Aventurine: I love you.

It stays on delivered when he puts his phone away. It’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up, and that’s more than enough for him. 

It’s time for the curtain call.

The feeling of Kakavasha’s tiny body in his arms won’t be enough to chase away the grief. Nothing ever will be. But this’ll be the closest he can get.

Aventurine hugs the boy close, squeezing as hard as he can without hurting him. He feels how he’s nothing more than skin and bone beneath the oversized rags. No child should have to be this thin, he thinks, and he’s even more glad he treated Kakavasha to his heart’s content earlier. 

This is the end. He gives Kakavasha one last squeeze to imprint this memory into his mind and gets up, waving goodbye over his shoulder all the while. 

He never looks back. 

In a shower of light, Kakavasha dissolves into the Nihility, and with him, Aventurine’s hopes for the ideal future- the one that you deserved. The Horizon of Existence is finally devoid of all color save for himself and the dark sun beckoning him forward toward the event horizon.

He takes a step forward, and then another. The sound of his footsteps against the surface and liquid splashing echo loudly in the empty space. 

The Nihility is beginning to slowly engulf him. He feels it encroaching at the edges of his mind, eating away at his thoughts one by one until nothing remains. A hollow, empty feeling settles into his heart that weighs him down. Aventurine looks down at his hands and realizes the color is beginning to seep from his vision until he, too, would become one with the Nihility. The point of no return beckons to him like a moth to a flame. Nothingness, emptiness, worthlessness. There’s nothing left for him to do. 

“Can you die today without any regrets?”

Aventurine finally has an answer to that question. The past is gone and he’s walking toward no future.

Yes. I finally can.

enjoyed this? my taglist is open!

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[cloversplace]

TW: Suicidal thoughts/self-harm, brief mentions of an eating disorder, very brief (and non-graphic) mentions of vomit

All of the Curtis brothers have attempted to kill themselves at least once.

Darry’s tried the most, at 13, 15, and then at 20, a few days after their parents died. If Pony and Soda had gotten sent away by the state, he would’ve gone through with it. When he was younger, his parents brought him to the hospital, and made up a story to tell the rest of the gang. None of them found out until years later, after their parents had died. Darry hides all the scars on his arms and wrists.

While Pony and Johnny were missing. Soda spiraled into depression, Steve had practically moved in with them. Soda could barely get out of bed in the mornings and almost collapsed several times on the job; he wasn’t allowed to work on the cars that week. Right after Sandy left, when everyone else had given up hope on finding the boys. When they had basically been pronounced dead, Soda tried to die the only way he knew how to. On the train tracks. He didn’t have a car, so he walked out onto them, standing there as the train grew closer. Steve stopped him before he could go through with it though. Soda now has to live with the eternal guilt that he was possibly the one to give Dally the idea of dying via train.

Ponyboy also tried multiple times. Right after Johnny and Dally died, he tried to hang himself, though Steve entered the house unknowingly just in the nick of time. Pony tried again a few months later, right before what would’ve been Johnny’s 17th birthday. Two-bit found him and managed to get Pony to spit the pills out before he swallowed too many. He still took him to the hospital just to be safe. After that, all the pill bottles (especially the Aspirin) were locked away in Darry’s room.

The brothers had a long talk with each other after that. They agreed they couldn’t afford to lose any one of them. Slowly, the self-harming stopped, no more cuts, no more attempts. They stuck together. It couldn’t erase the scars on Darry’s wrists, the ones on Pony’s fingers, from forcing himself to vomit. Or the thin lines on the back of Soda’s thighs. But they could make the mental image of them begin to fade.

[libraryraccoon]

I was wondering how a Dazai!Reader from BSD (preferably 15 year old Dazai) would interact with the HH crew

Btw, I love your stuff sm, have a lovely day if you see this!

Gender : GN

Pronouns : None

Info : I haven't watched BSD for a long time, so it's probably wrong/inaccurate, sorry. Reader have 15 years old.

Message fom Raccoon : What ? Dad!Lucifer ? Dad!Alastor ? Okay, take that Dad!Husk !

TW : Suicide (mentionned); SH (mentionned)

General Headcanon

Finally.

After all this years of trying, after all this attempts, you were finally dead !

And what do we do when we have achieved such a feat ? We drink until the morning !

As you drank, you recounted your feat of finally dying to the bartender, some sort of cat-bird demon.

He gave you a judgmental look when you told him you were 15 and died of suicide.

But you were used to it, people often judge you while you were alive and was trying every second to die.

After a few hours, you were drunk and followed the bartender back to his place, a small apartment in a quiet corner of Hell.

You shouldn't follow someone to their home, you know that, but for your defense, you were drunk and he was a cat. And you have a weakness for cats.

Two things making it impossible to refuse his invitation.

And, if anything ever went wrong, you always had your gun with you, which had appeared at the same time as you in Hell.

The bartender's name was Husk and he kind of adopted you ? You weren't even sure if one sinner could adopt another sinner.

Life was calm with Husk, and you somehow helped him with his work.

By that I mean you were stopping the powers of other demons with your power, so you used it to kick out all the assholes who attacked him from the bar.

You and Husk had this dynamic of "Father who will kill for his child & Child who will sacrifice themselves for their father."

And then, one day you had to move to the Hazbin Hotel because Husk find a work there.

Alastor was surprised to see that Husk now had a kid–he didn't think it was possible for an alcoholic like him to have a child.

And he learned that Husk had cut down on his drinking, so he could be a better father.

*very kindly and not at all suspiciously notes this fact in the back of his mind.*

The hotel was quite shocked to know that you were a child from a fucking mafia and that you had died of suicide at 15 years old. If Husk hadn't informed them about that, they never would have suspected it.

Your humor worries them more than anything else.

Charlie is worry every time you make jokes about suicide while your dad rolls his eyes at it.

Husk was used to your jokes after a few months of living together.

The hotel wasn't.

Charlie is like your older sister, optimistic and a little naive at times.

She always tries to make you see the bright side of things and to make you forget this idea of double death.

Spoiler : it doesn't work.

Lucifer sees you like one of his children.

He spoils you like he spoiled Charlie when she was just a child.

Husk often makes side eyes at him, accusing him of trying to steal his child.

And that was true.

Lucifer, Charlie, Husk and Angel Dust are the ones who are the most concerned about your mental health.

Alastor wanted to make you sign a contract "I become powerful and Alastor releases my father from his contract in exchange of stopping trying to kill myself."

You didn't sign it.

Alastor tried to use you to spy on Vox and the Vees because he was bored and wanted some entertainment.

It worked.

Alastor do radio shows with you sometimes, you two are called "The RadioDuo".

His audience LOVES you.

You gained Alastor some listeners btw.

You help Niffty with her work at the Hotel.

Even if Charlie said you didn't have to do it, you do it anyway.

Vaggie take all your guns because you apparently “didn’t need” them.

You managed to recover them with a little manipulation.

Angel Dust could see himself in you.

You reminded him of his little human self, Anthony, broken by the world and wanting to end it. A family running the Mafia and forcing him to join it.

You're a bit like him, but compared to him, who fought to survive, had a reason to survive, you had nothing, no reason to fight, and you gave up.

When Angel Dust isn't working, he usually stays with you and Husk.

He doesn't want to abandon you, leave you alone in such a rotten world. He wants you to be protected and to be the child you never could be.

He will never let anyone touch you, never.

Husk and Angel Dust are usually the ones who bandage you after SH, Angel Dust doesn't say anything as he does it, because he understands. Husk doesn't speak as well, but you can see that by doing so he's blaming himself, making you instantly regret it.

Don't try to kill yourself in front of them, please. They're already worried enough, don't add more.

Hotel Hazbin was, in a way, your family.

And you would kill everyone in this room before killing yourself before anything happened to them.

[namelessgakusei]

Noi! The Clara Dolls!

All Hail The Nutcracker Witch!

Mark Grayson x reader

Warnings: Death, Violence, mentions of suicide, Blood, Invincible War, Gaku's attempt at writing PTSD and Body Horror, Reader crashing out, another one of Gaku's looong posts

Mada Dame Yo (prev)

Sis Puella Magica! (cont.)

Notes: Just came home from school and Gaku's really, really tired. Nearly fell asleep before even writing this. Might proofread and edit when I wake up tomorrow. Angst first, fluff later. (Gaku, in fact, gave up and went to sleep)

Add. Note: Gaku of the next day here, still tired from uni, but I got home earlier than expected lmao. Accidentally posted this while incomplete OTL. I initially wanted this as an interlude but crammed the witching out by the end. Gaku's too tired.

@weaponxgames @sweet77kellia @starlightchildsworld

"Goodbye, hill of punishment."

Mainstream!Mark is kind. He's a bit shy but it's evident that he genuinely loves you. You bit your lower lip and forced a smile whenever he looks at your way. It was hard, at first, as you always remember him.

At first it was peaceful. Debbie's safe, which you noted that was quite rare, given the amount of times you saw her decayed corpse in the previous realities. Oliver's here too, a surprise that nearly broke you down. You only met him less than a handful of times, with him not even existing in the others. He's still the same kid that you grew to love and was your constant ally in every timeline that he's in.

William, Amber, Rex, Eve- Oh, god. Eve. You missed her. There were only a few realities that you were able to be friends with her. Mark kills her too soon, or she dies protecting Earth with you. You remember her being the first person you confided about your experiences, and when you thought to have hope when she expressed her understanding and desire to help, a version of Mark beheads her in front of you.

The memory makes you sick. You didn't dare to tell anyone about it after that, opting to work alone and involve little to no people with your business. You agreed to work with multiple Cecils just for a chance to wipe of the existence of Mark Grayson off the planet. But, alas, you end up dying or resetting time in the end.

Mark gets fidgety whenever you get too quiet, hanging into your every word like an overly eager child, desperate for acknowledgment. You let yourself wonder if he'll even kill himself if you asked to. At least then, maybe you'll be able to escape this nightmare.

But you're too in love with him to even live a second without him.

Maybe you had gone crazy too.

A sigh and a chuckle escapes your lips, confusing Mark, who was reading the newly released Seance Dog volume. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just, everything is peaceful. I like it."

This world isn't entirely without its own fair share of troubles and aliens and villains, but compared to the shit you've been through? This is fucking nothing.

You managed to help the Guardians in the nick of time when Omni-Man turned on Earth, revealing your abilities in this world for the first time. While the heroes were saved, you were not-so-subtly recruited by Cecil to join the Teen Team. You know how the man operates, having met at least a hundred different versions of him. You suppressed a laugh when he looks like he got his head running with contingency plans about you. Never change, Mr. Stedman.

Mark was amazed and invested in knowing more about your abilities. Trying to study you and "help" you understand your powers more. Why didn't you tell him? How long did you have it? How were you able to control time like that? You were so cool back there!

You want to tell him that you got experimented in Viltrum on the one time you told him about these strange abilities of yours. But you settled for saying that it's a long story and that you recently acquired them, not wanting to scare him off.

You think that he was simply ignoring what just happened with his father, opting to choose you over him in his mind. Coward.

It makes you sick.

You lay on his bed, rolling to the side while Mark went to get snacks. He seems a bit clingy in this world, or maybe it's because you look like you're on the verge of slipping away with how exhausted you always look. You sigh.

Your soul gem always look murky whenever you check on it.

It's an artifact that came with the ring on your middle finger, and appears at the back of your hand whenever you use your powers, with your clothes changing alongside the shield appearing on your arm. You don't know how or why, but even if you were beaten to a pulp, you don't feel anything. You're not even injured at the slightest. You know this, because you tried to take your own life once. Your body still functions even when your neck was bent, making you think that you were also immortal.

You weren't and you thanked your cursed fate that you weren't. That small gem you have in you was were your soul is at. You get hurt when it's touched the wrong way, and while you don't bleed, you feel excruciating pain. Your body is merely a meat sack now.

Does it matter?

No. But it sure came in handy when you were fighting against Mark after you figured it out, at least then, you don't have to worry about broken limbs.

You kept racking your brain about the cause of your situation, your powers and the looping timelines. You barely remember. Mark came back, pouting about the crease on your brows, before slipping in bed burying his head on your neck.

"What are you thinking about?"

"...Do you know an animal who can talk?"

Mark snorted and said a parrot but you shook your head, saying that it looked more like a white cat with red markings. He hugged you closer and mentioned that it might've been an alien.

Huh. Perhaps it was an alien. You remember it asking if you want to make a contract with it. Did you? Is that why you're trapped in this hell?

...Is it really one now?

For all it's worth, everything has been going smoothly in this run. Sure, Nolan's gone off the rails, but you saved the Guardians of the Globe! Oliver exists! Debbie's safe! Eve's alive! William and Amber are living normally! The Teen Team, sure still has problems, is still functioning! Cecil might still be a pain in the ass but with how many variants of him you spent time with, you consider him an old friend and even appreciate how he checks in on you.

Earth is not destroyed.

Isn't this the ideal world? Did you finally arrived at the best possible version? Will this finally end?

You look down and see the familiar tuff of black hair. The urge to run your hands through it is always within you, no matter if he's killing people or you, you really can't seem to loathe him enough to remove your feelings for him.

Will you finally be able to be happy?

You hugged Mark, burying your nose to his hair and inhaling his scent, earning a surprised sound from him. He doesn't protest nor ask, only reciprocating with a mumble of "Finally.", before humming in content.

This world, this Mark, they may not be the one you started with, where you originated and first loved, but it's slowly stared to grow on you.

Mark doesn't question it when you started interacting with everyone on your own accord. Initially, you only talk to others when it's necessary, making them hunt you down if they so want just a small conversation with you. But now, you're discussing something with Robot that made them back away from your smirking face. You're teasing them??

He thinks it's cute when you barely mask your excitement when you tell him that you'll be out with Eve and Amber for the weekend. You're even laughing with Oliver over some shows you two watch whenever you're babysitting him. He caught you and his mom gossiping about something that he apparently wasn't allowed to hear??? The hell?? He's the boyfriend here! He's happy you're finally getting out of your shell and not shutting the world out but he has his needs, mom! Boyfriend needs! Hugs and kisses!

He barely got you to agree to go out with him in the first place! You looked so disinterested and detached when he asked you out that he was so sure you didn't even want to be with him, it was only when you kept fussing and saving his ass that he figured out that you're really just the quiet type. But this?? He's hearing you laugh everyday! That's usually once every three months! (He is exaggerating.)

Though, he isn't complaining, smiling to himself even, as he watches you from across the room, fighting the urge to come over and cling to you. Your eyes met and you're... smiling at him. Not the forced ones that look too soulless to be convincing, you're genuinely smiling at him.

Mark buries his head on his arms and giggles, ears going red as his leg bounces excitedly.

The sight made you laugh at the other side of the room. It was... something. He's adorable. You don't know why you were so distant back then. He is nothing like them.

Nothing's like back then. Not anymore.

Not anymore. The thought still makes you nauseous, too reluctant to start hoping for the best. Who would blame you? Every time you start to have faith that everything will be better, that you'll finally have peace, you see his face—

No, this one isn't like that. Mark isn't like that. This is the one who quietly waited for you to open up. This is the one who never pried too much and lets you let him in at your own pace. He's the one who sat beside you when you wake up in cold sweat, riddled with nightmares. He's the one who let you use his shoulder to rest your head when you can't seem to sleep at night, who tucked the both of you to bed when you fell asleep.

He's kind. You give him that. Everytime you look at him, you slowly start to forget the bad memories associated with that face.

You don't see him anymore.

You see Mark Grayson.

...That is until Cecil called you.

Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson.

Everywhere you look, it's that damned face.

One with a yellow cape, one with a mohawk, one without goggles, one who wears the white Viltrumite uniform, one who looks like Omni Man, one who was a prisoner, one who hide his face with a hood, one who—

It's him.

Him again! Why? Why is he here? Why did he have to appear now?! Why? Why?! You... you just accepted your life here! You moved on! You have a life here! You...

Cecil orders you to subdue the Variants.

Subdue them. Subdue him. Can you do that? Can you even fight him? After all those times— Can you—?

They're everywhere. All over the world, bringing destruction with them. Showing you the same scenario that you lived through in all those realities.

Earth's destruction.

Mark tries to snap you out of it, telling you to go hide with Debbie and Oliver, that he'll handle it. He gave you a kiss before flying off to the Penitentiary. You saw a similar situation before. One where Mark told you that he'll fight off the Viltrumite Empire but ended up as a mangled corpse not a minute later.

Everything's going wrong again.

Cecil bark orders at you from your earpiece, but you can't hear it. Debbie's calling you from your phone, but you don't move to answer it. You move past the fleeing civilians, past the rubble and fire, and towards the veiled Mark in the middle of the street.

He's fighting off the heroes that surrounded him. He's all bloody but from how it looks like, with the heroes falling down the ground, it's not his.

"Mark."

Sheisty!Mark brightens up at the sound of your voice, despite the lack of visual on his face. Before he can zoom in front of you, you activated your ability and stared at his frozen form. His form looks like he's about to punch someone, taut muscles that peeks through his skin tight suit and the veil flew just the right way for you to have a glimpse of how flushed his face is. A lovesick expression is evident on his face.

Will you not be able to escape this fate?

You're tired.

When will the destruction and screams stop?

When will this end?

Your power runs out, continuing the flow of time. Sheisty!Mark pulls you to his bloodied chest, muttering words too fast for you to hear, all while running his hands around your body, like you aren't real.

You hoped you weren't.

Your use of power must've alerted the rest of the Variants, with them immediately flying to where you are, hovering just above to drink in the sight.

You were the sole reason as to why the eighteen Marks made a deal with Angstrom, after all.

And now, they can finally have you back.

Damned bastards.

You hear your named being yelled, but you don't know who it came from. You don't care anymore. Why should you? It all ends the same.

You're tired.

You're tired. You're tired. You're tired. When will this end? Stop this. Someone, anyone—

Save me, Mark.

The you in Sheisty!Mark's arms dissolved into a puddle, momentarily stunning the Variants around. Said puddle now expands throughout the asphalt road, coating everything in black until it reaches the sky. No more are the sounds of buildings crashing down from being destroyed nor are the sounds people who cry for help. One might say that the world became akin to the Shadow-verse. Until colorful shapes start to appear in the darkened world.

Buildings started emerging from the ground, destroying the roads and initial constructions. Laughter ran around the streets as paper doll-like creatures frolicked the desolate area, pointing and taunting the Variants.

Multiple arms reach out from the murky darkness, each out for a Mark. They can't fight it, no, they're incapable of doing so. They're in your world now.

With gentle hands, you cup his face and smiled. Wearing an expression so soft and speaking in a tone that he hadn't heard in a long time, Mark can't help but lean in, expecting something even in the middle of uncertainty.

How pathetic.

Your lips but ghost his', leaving him confused.

"I realized something during our time together." You started, still holding his face, eyes right into his own.

"You were always there for me, for better and for worse. You loved me throughout it all. It was always me and you."

"Oh, how I loathed that."

"How I hated you with every fiber of my being."

Your gem breaks, and your smiling face exploded on their faces, coating it with red.

Reality seemed to wrap around, changing the surroundings like how a theatre changes the set. Some of the Marks screamed in terror upon your "death" while some wiped the blood off and prepared for battle.

He once said that you were always full of surprises.

And now, you give them your final one. The blood from earlier suddenly shot out of them, forming something midair while a march is heard in the distant direction, heading to their direction. When your body was reformed, the small humanoid soldiers took aim and hit at you.

Your body convulsed from the barrage of bullets and promptly fell to the ground. Even as the Variants pummeled the soldiers down, their numbers doesn't dwindle, and soon what was left of your body is mutilated beyond recognition. FullMask!Mark and NoMask!Mark rushed to your side, and with trembling fingers, reached out on your remains.

Your head snapped to their direction, riddled with bullet holes, before your jaw snaps open and another you climbs out of it. With only half of your body out, you suddenly faced the sky and forced your jaw open, enabling another you to be able come out. The process repeats until a tower of your own body stands tall in the middle of the dark city.

The remaining soldiers ignored the Variants that still fought them, opting to march towards the grotesque tower, surrounding it.

"(Y/N)!"

You know only one who would call out to you like that.

"Ah... Mark..." You looked down at Mainstream!Mark and smiled longingly.

The last body to come out of your mouth screamed bloody murder, before being torn in half. Like a curtain being opened, a giant creature emerged from the bloodbath.

Bearing a likeness to you, with half of their head filled with red spider lilies and their wrists bound together like a prisoner, the Nutcracker Witch finally appeared.