#and almost died drowned by his own blood | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollgxtz · 5 months ago

Text

Shattered Birdcage

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Sylus loses control due to the Frenzy Enhancer and you don't find the activater in time...causing him to become sexually aggressive and desperate to claim you for himself :3

Tags: praedator!Sylus x fem!reader, predator x prey, noncon, intense choking, rough sex, forced orgasm, degradation, biting, blood, injury, cunnilingus, creampie, threats, mentions of breeding, nicknames like little bird, near death experience (no one actually dies don't worry!!), fluffy ending to soften the blow :33

Taglist: @magpie-the-goblin-girl @sxremmie @lem-hhn @silverbrain @sizzlingtigerkitten @msslytherin00 @letharue @yu-irene @poptrim @monster-effer @ditsynddotsy @size0forhollywood @its-regretti @queenofstresss @reiheis @valentinared

AN: Hiii guys!! Are we enjoying the new banner? I AM! This is literally a dream come true for me. So I decided to write a fic based on it with a little twist hehe. Please heed the warnings guys, this is a very intense fic and I tagged it accordingly. This is legitmately straight up noncon, not cnc. If you asked for a tag and weren't tagged its cause I couldn't find your age on your profile anywhere, sorry! Enjoy!

You exhale slowly, fingers brushing over the edges of the movie tickets still tucked in your pocket before letting them go. The paper crinkles softly, a fragile reminder of something almost normal. But it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did.

Then, the world shatters.

The fire alarm shrills, a piercing, agonizing wail that erupts through the hospital like a banshee’s scream. Panic spreads instantly, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave crashing over an unprepared shore.

The chaos begins.

Screams.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thunder down the halls. The sterile walls of the hospital, once cold and quiet, now tremble with the desperate energy of fear. The mechanical beep of heart monitors, the faint hum of fluorescent lights—all of it drowns beneath the raw, unfiltered sound of survival.

Somewhere outside your room, a woman’s voice splinters the air.

"Fire! Help!"

Her cry is swallowed by the deafening roar of the alarm, by the clatter of overturned medical carts, by the stampede of bodies flooding the halls. A shadow streaks past the glass window of your door, her silhouette vanishing into the growing plumes of smoke curling along the ceiling.

Then—movement behind you. You turn, locking eyes with Sylus. He doesn’t flinch.

He leans casually against the wall, utterly unbothered by the pandemonium unraveling around you. Smoke licks at the edges of his leather top, but he remains still, red eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing, entertained. The ghost of a smirk plays at his lips.

"They’re right on schedule," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unaffected, like this is nothing more than a carefully executed performance.

He extends his hand toward you, as if inviting you into a dance.

Your pulse kicks up, but you don’t hesitate. You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours—strong, steady, warm despite the growing heat. With a single pull, you propel yourself forward, slipping past the threshold of the hospital room and into the chaos beyond.

Smoke greets you first, thick and curling, its acrid tendrils slithering into your lungs like a living thing. The air is already changing—heat warping it, bending it, making it heavier. The moment you inhale, your throat burns. You clamp your sleeve over your mouth, but the effort is futile. The stench of burning plastic and antiseptic chemicals invades your senses, clawing at your eyes, your nose, your lungs.

Outside, the scene is worse.

Patients in hospital gowns stumble through the smoke, their movements disjointed, frantic. Some clutch at IV stands like lifelines, others trip over their own feet, disoriented by the blaring alarms and the thick, suffocating haze.

Doctors and nurses shout over the chaos, their voices lost in the hurricane of fear. Someone grabs your arm—a patient, her face streaked with sweat and panic, begging for help—but you pull away. You don’t have time.

You aren’t here to run.

You and Sylus move against the current, pushing past the flood of bodies surging toward the exits. The sheer force of them is overwhelming, a sea of desperation crashing around you, dragging you under. A body collides with yours their fingers tangling in your sleeve—but you break free, heart hammering as you surge toward the stairwell.

"We’ll lead them to the rooftop!" you yell, the words raw in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but he’s right beside you, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

The stairwell looms ahead, doors thrown open as black smoke pours inside, bleeding into the emergency lights like a living shadow. The second you reach it, you don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two, three at a time, Sylus still close behind you.

The heat is worse here. It rises from below, clawing at your legs, your back, the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, your lungs searing, aching, screaming for fresh air. Each step feels like an eternity, each turn of the stairwell winding tighter, suffocating.

But you don’t stop.

Then—light.

A final shove against the rooftop doors, and you break through.

The moment you stumble outside, the temperature drops violently.

The cold slaps you across the face, stealing the breath from your lungs, shocking your overheated body into momentary stillness. The wind howls, slicing through the thick sweat on your skin, tangling through your hair, but it does nothing to mute the screams below.

And these screams are different.

Not panicked. Not desperate.

Dying.

A sickening weight drops into your stomach. Sylus steps up beside you, his stance tense, rigid, watchful. He doesn’t need to say it. You already know.

Ever’s assassins are here.

Your skin prickles as you scan the rooftop, the smoke too thick, the night too quiet. You can feel it in your bones—something is waiting.

Then—a shadow moves.

Then another.

Then—

Gunfire.

The first shot splits the air like a knife through silk.

You react instinctively, twisting your body out of the way as the bullet slams into the concrete near your foot, sending a sharp spray of dust and shattered stone into the air.

Another shot.

Sylus shoves you sideways, his movements lightning-fast, the force of it throwing you just out of the bullet’s path. Another impact—a bullet embedding itself into the rooftop behind where you had been standing only seconds before.

A crack split the air, followed by another. Sparks erupted as bullets ricocheted off metal pipes and rooftop vents, spraying embers into the night. Instinct kicked in before thought—you dropped low, rolling to the side just as a round zipped past your ear, embedding itself in the wall behind you.

Sylus moved with effortless precision, dodging fire as if it were choreographed. His jacket billowed as he twisted, reaching for his blade. A flash of steel. A wet gurgle. One assassin crumpled before he even realized he was dead.

You pivoted on your heel, raising your own weapon. A pull of the trigger—a sharp crack through the air. The man before you barely had time to react before the bullet found its mark. His body jerked violently, blood misting into the wind before he collapsed.

Another shot. Another fall.

They kept coming.

More shadows emerged from the darkness, gunfire tearing through the night in an unrelenting onslaught. You both wove through them like ghosts, striking fast, striking first. Your heart pounded as you ducked beneath a swing, countering with a sharp jab to the ribs, twisting your opponent’s wrist until his own weapon turned against him. A single shot. A final breath.

Sylus barely broke a sweat, his movements fluid, brutal, decisive. He drove his blade into one assassin’s chest, twisting just enough to make it agonizing. The man gasped, a short, choked sound before Sylus wrenched the blade free and let him drop.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stepping over the body without a second glance.

More gunfire. More bodies dropping.

Silence.

The last assassin twitched once, then stilled, his fingers curling in the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The night was thick with the scent of gunpowder, metal, and death.

And then—sirens.

A chorus of wailing alarms grew louder in the distance, flashing red and blue bleeding into the night sky.

The battlefield of bodies lay still, the chaos settled into an eerie quiet. The stench of gunpowder and iron filled your lungs, coating your throat with the acrid tang of death. The last spent cartridges hit the concrete, rolling in slow, uneven circles before finally resting among the carnage. Smoke lingered in the cold night air, twisting in delicate tendrils around the lifeless figures strewn across the rooftop.

You pushed out a slow breath, feeling the adrenaline still burning in your veins. Your fingers flexed around the grip of your weapon before you finally holstered it. The police would be here soon, their sirens growing louder in the distance, but they weren’t your concern. These bodies—the nameless, faceless pawns of Ever—would be cleaned up. Their presence erased. Their deaths categorized as classified in some sealed document, buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense.

"Sylus, we're clear! Let's move!" your voice came out sharper than you intended, urgency overtaking you.

He didn’t respond right away.

He was standing unnervingly still, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with something unreadable. His expression was neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a glint of something dark that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His movements were slow as he wiped away the smear of blood on his cheek, his fingers leaving faint streaks of red against his skin. The way he stood—too relaxed, too quiet—set off alarm bells in your mind, though you couldn’t yet pinpoint why.

Something in his expression made your gut clench. His usual amused arrogance was absent, replaced with something darker. His pupils were slightly blown, the faintest edge of something feral lurking in his gaze. The air around him felt charged, electric. Wrong.

Then a sound.

A wet, strangled cough.

You both turned.

The last assassin—one you had assumed was already dead—was still moving. Barely. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm stretched toward you, his fingers twitching, curled like claws. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath rattling, wet, his lungs failing him.

But his lips—coated in blood—were curled into a grotesque smile.

"Even though..." he wheezed, a broken chuckle rattling out from somewhere deep in his ruined throat. "We can't kill you or him..." He spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground, his grin stretching wider, his yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog. "Both of you...can rot in hell!"

His fingers twitched, curling weakly around something small, something you hadn’t noticed before. Then, in one sharp motion, his fist clenched, and a sudden crack rang out. Glass shattered, the sharp snap almost lost in the cool air, but the moment you heard it, your stomach dropped. A dark, viscous liquid seeped between his fingers, mingling with the blood pooling on the rooftop floor.

Then you caught the scent.

It was faint at first, nearly masked by the coppery stench of death, but the moment it hit the back of your throat, your entire body locked up in realization. The chemical tang was sharp, bitter, something that curled into your lungs like acid. It was distinct. Familiar.

Your body reacted before your brain fully processed the danger.

"No—!"

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The Frenzy Enhancer.

A biochemical compound designed for one thing: triggering an uncontrollable transformation in Praedators. The LCBI had confiscated hundreds of these vials from underground labs, tearing them away from illegal deals before they could be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter how much of it was taken off the streets, more always surfaced. It was unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

It worked fast—too fast.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest. Sylus had gone rigid, his muscles locking as though every nerve in his body had seized up at once. His breathing was deep, too deep, pulling in the scent like his body was craving it against his will. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, a shudder running through him from head to toe.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, barely human.

Your blood turned to ice.

His pupils dilated until the irises nearly vanished, red pools swallowing the color in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, sharp, elongated canines catching the dim rooftop lights. He was salivating. A slick sheen of moisture gathered along his lower lip, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.

But he was losing the battle.

The Frenzy Enhancer wasn’t just a stimulant—it was a detonator. It bypassed control, restraint, morality. It didn’t just enhance what he was—it unchained it.

And right now, it was unraveling him.

"Sylus," you said carefully, your voice firm but measured. He twitched at the sound of his name, his head snapping toward you with a sharp, unnatural movement. His muscles trembled as if barely keeping himself together, but his gaze was locked onto you now—not as a comrade.

As prey.

You had seen this before as an Enforcer, watched it unfold in others who had been exposed to the drug. The Frenzy Enhancer didn’t just bring out what they were—it unchained them. It severed the link between logic and instinct, driving them into a state of raw, uncontrolled bloodlust. But this wasn’t just any Praedator—it was Sylus. He was already dangerously close to the edge even on a normal day, always teetering between control and destruction. Now, with the drug coursing through his system, you weren't sure how much time you had before he lost himself completely.

You had to move.

Reaching forward, you grabbed his arm, fingers locking tight around his wrist. His skin was hot, too hot. His entire body was trembling with need, his breath shuddering against his clenched teeth. The growl rumbling in his chest vibrated beneath your palm, every muscle in his arm wound taut like a spring waiting to snap.

"Come on," you gritted out, pulling him forward with force. He resisted, his stance firm, as though something inside him was battling whether to follow or attack. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Then he staggered.

It was slight, barely a misstep, but you used it. Yanking him forward, you dragged him across the rooftop, forcing his unsteady body toward the stairwell. His breath hitched in a ragged snarl, his movements twitchy, erratic, but he followed.

For now.

Each step was a battle. He stumbled against you, his balance skewed, his instincts fighting him at every turn. By the time you both reached the underground corridors of NightStrix HQ, his breathing had become ragged, his body burning up from the inside out. His restraint was slipping fast.

You shoved open the heavy steel door, dragging him inside. Deep within the base, hidden away from the rest of the world, the reinforced cage ready to hold the beast that was about to be unleashed.

Sylus grunted against you, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts as you dragged you both into the containment cage. His body was burning up, his muscles twitching violently under your grip, every fiber of him trembling with the overwhelming need to break free. Each second that passed was a countdown to catastrophe. The Frenzy was about to take full hold, and if you didn’t restrain him now, you might not get another chance.

You fumbled with the heavy iron chains, fingers slick with sweat as you worked to loop one around his thrashing limbs. The muzzle. You needed to get the muzzle on first. Your heart pounded as you grabbed it from the steel hooks on the wall, forcing it over his mouth while he snarled, his body lurching violently against you.

"Sylus, stop—!"

He thrashed hard, nearly knocking you to the floor. His strength was unnatural, monstrous, and it was only getting worse. With a final shove, you managed to secure the muzzle around his face, locking the metal straps tightly at the back of his head. But before you could reach for the second chain, he bucked with terrifying force, sending you stumbling backward. You barely had time to clasp the restraint around one of his legs before you were forced to scramble out of the cage.

The second you slammed the heavy door shut, he lunged.

The impact rattled through the metal bars as his shoulder slammed into them, the force sending vibrations into the floor beneath you. You jumped, heart hammering in your ribs, your breath coming too fast. He slid down slightly, panting, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven gasps.

Then, without warning, he laughed.

A dark, guttural chuckle, low and mocking, twisted through the air like poison. His pupils were blown slightly wide now, black swallowing the color of his irises as he tilted his head toward you. Even through the muzzle, his teeth gleamed, sharp and lethal.

"Won’t you help me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something twisted—half-growl, half-seduction.

You froze.

He was still partially unrestrained. That single remaining chain wasn’t enough—if the Frenzy fully took hold, he could snap it in seconds. If you waited too long, he would be too far gone.

You had to finish restraining him now.

Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, you slowly stepped forward into the cage. Your pulse roared in your ears, your body screaming at you to run, but you forced your limbs to obey. You kept your eyes on him, watching every twitch of his muscles, every flicker of movement. You knelt, reaching for the second chain, moving with deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t startle him.

"I’m not going to watch you turn into a monster, but I—"

You never got to finish.

Sylus lunged.

A blur of motion—heat, strength, raw power.

You barely had time to react before white-hot pain exploded in your neck.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your flesh, piercing deep, his jaws locking down like a predator making its first kill. Agony shot through your nerves, the sharp burn of torn skin flooding your senses. Your vision whited out for a second, pain so intense it nearly stole your breath.

Then instinct took over.

You snarled, swinging your fist up hard, your knuckles cracking against his cheekbone with enough force to send his head snapping sideways. The impact jarred his teeth free, a sharp burst of pain ripping through you as he tore away from your skin. Blood dripped from the wound, warm and wet, seeping between your fingers as you clutched your neck in blind panic.

For a moment, all you could do was breathe through the pain.

The air was thick with the scent of your own blood, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sweat and heat that clung to you both. Your hands trembled as you pulled them away from the wound, your fingers smeared crimson. The realization sent a sickening chill through you.

He had bitten you.

Not just attacked. Bitten.

Your gaze shot back up to him.

Sylus was licking his lips.

He ran his tongue slowly over the blood staining his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as though savoring it. Then his pupils snapped back open, razor-sharp hunger gleaming in them.

"You taste delicious." His voice was thick, dripping with need, his words slurred with the edges of something inhuman. His breath came in heavy, fevered bursts, chest rising and falling as his restraint frayed further.

A shudder ran through his body, muscles twitching beneath his skin. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the concrete floor as his entire frame shook with the need to consume more.

"Come...just a little more..." he purred, voice dropping to something low and lethal.

Then he lunged again.

You dodge just in time, barely avoiding the brutal force of his lunge. The heat of his breath scorches the space between you as he snarls, his entire body moving like a coiled beast just barely restrained by human skin. The instant he gets too close, you strike—your fist colliding with his cheekbone in a sharp, jarring impact that sends a jolt of pain radiating up your arm. The force of the hit knocks his head to the side, his body twisting under the sudden blow, but even as he stumbles, something in your gut tells you it isn’t enough.

Your heart pounds wildly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. But Sylus doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even cry out. Instead, he slowly turns back to face you, a sluggish, almost lazy motion, as if he’s savoring the sting of your hit. And then—he smiles.

“Oh…I like when my prey puts up a fight,” he purrs, his voice slithering through the air like something alive. His eyes gleam with raw, unhinged hunger, pupils swallowing what little color remains. The way he tilts his head, the way his lips curl over the metal of his muzzle—it sends a sickening chill down your spine.

The Frenzy has him now. Completely.

You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to wrack your frame. Every inch of your body is screaming at you to run, but you plant your feet firm against the cold concrete, refusing to let fear consume you. If you let him see weakness, if you let him smell it, you’ll lose control of the situation entirely.

"Sylus! Stop it!" you shout, willing your voice to be strong. "Please, I know you're in there somewhere! I just need to—"

He lunges again.

The movement is blindingly fast. One second he's still and the next, he’s twisting, lunging toward you with a violent, predatory force. You barely manage to throw yourself to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as he snaps at the space where your throat had just been. You seize the opening, grabbing hold of the second restraint with trembling hands and slamming it onto his other wrist. The sharp clank of metal follows as his chains yank him back, keeping him from reaching you—but only barely.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. If you don’t finish this now, he will get free.

His body writhes violently in front of you, hot with fever, drenched in sweat, trembling with animalistic hunger. He’s caught. Fully restrained now, arms suspended in place, unable to do anything but snarl and thrash.

Your arms shake as you stumble backward, breath ragged. You barely register your own hands drifting to your neck, fingers pressing against the torn skin where his teeth had sunk in only moments ago. The wound is deep, hot, raw, but you won’t die from it. Your body is immune to a Praedator’s venom—it’s one of the only reasons you’re even still alive right now. But that doesn’t stop the sick wave of nausea that rolls through you as your fingertips come away stained with more blood.

Sylus laughs.

The sound is low, rough, and dangerously amused.

"You scared?" he murmurs, voice still ragged with the aftershocks of his transformation, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His eyes flicker over you, roaming your body from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every tiny tremor in your stance.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t answer.

His gaze lingers at your neck, at the place where his teeth had torn you open. His lips part slightly behind the muzzle, and his tongue flicks out, running along the bloodied edge of his mouth as if tasting the remnants of you still clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if trying to restrain himself, but there’s something else lurking behind his eyes. You watch as his eyes roam up and down your body, seemingly lost in thought. He's thinking about something.

Something dark.

"Your idea of help is heartwarming," he muses as he staggers towards you a bit, his voice softer now, mocking, but no less dangerous.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breathing refuses to steady. Even as something deep in your gut tells you that Sylus isn’t as trapped as he looks.

Because despite the chains, despite the restraints keeping you apart, he’s still in control.

And he knows it.

"When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this, Sylus."

Your voice is calm, controlled, but the pain radiating from your neck betrays the lie. Each breath you take feels like a blade dragging against raw flesh, a sharp pulse of heat throbbing beneath your skin. You try to ignore it, pushing past the discomfort, pushing past the rising tide of fear that threatens to anchor itself in your chest. There’s no time to waste. You need to find the activator—now. It’s buried somewhere in his body, a trigger designed to override the Frenzy and pull him back from the brink. If you don’t locate it soon, he’ll break free, and there will be no reining him in after that.

Sylus lets out a low scoff, but there’s no real amusement behind it. His breathing is heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he’s barely holding himself together. Sweat beads at his temple, strands of hair clinging to his skin, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if there’s any part of him left fighting from within, if the Sylus you know is still buried somewhere beneath all that raw, seething hunger.

"Prey?" he murmurs, rolling the word slowly across his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. His voice is hoarse, thick with something not quite human, something that sends an instinctual shiver down your spine.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The way he said that definitely indicated that he is not the prey here.

Instead, you move carefully, methodically, circling behind him. His arms are still suspended above his head, iron restraints locking him in place, but you know better than to let yourself feel safe. Chains mean nothing to him. They’re a hindrance at best, a mere delay in what will happen if you fail. Even now, his muscles flex, the sharp ripple of movement beneath his skin a silent warning of what he’s capable of. The heat coming off him is unnatural, feverish, almost suffocating.

You steel yourself, steadying your breath as you press your fingers lightly against his back. Your touch is slow, deliberate, barely there as you search for the small, embedded activator. It should be beneath the skin, nestled somewhere between the shifting planes of muscle. But finding it means keeping your composure, means moving carefully enough that you don’t trigger a reaction.

Your fingers glide along the ridges of his spine, trailing lower, feeling for anything out of place. Every shift of your hand feels like balancing on a razor’s edge. Sylus flinches under your touch, his body tensing hard before he exhales, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. You feel it under your fingertips, the tremor of restraint, of struggle.

A bead of sweat slips down your temple. Nothing. No scar tissue, no ridge of foreign anything beneath the surface that you can find.

“It’s not here…” you murmur under your breath, your stomach twisting as unease settles deep inside you.

Sylus lets out another breath, but this time, there’s something different about it. A chuckle—slow, deliberate, curling like smoke in the thick air between you.

"Do you think I’m putty in your hands?" he asks, his voice low, teasing, laced with something dangerous.

The sound sends a flicker of unease racing up your spine. He’s getting antsy. The patience he had been holding onto—if he had any at all—is unraveling quickly. His muscles are shifting beneath his skin again, his fingers twitching, testing the strength of his restraints. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

Your heart stutters. You need to hurry.

Just as you reach toward his ribs, he jerks violently.

A metallic snap rips through the air.

One of the restraints—one of the goddamn chains—breaks free.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping up just as Sylus rolls his newly freed wrist, fingers flexing as if he’s testing how much control he has left. Slowly, his head tilts toward you, his eyes burning like fire in the dim lighting.

The smile he gives you is chilling.

You don’t think. You react.

With a burst of adrenaline, you tackle him, shoving him hard enough that it sends you both tumbling to the ground. A low, reverberating growl rumbles through him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as his body tenses against yours.

The struggle between you and Sylus is a mess of tangled limbs and desperation, your bodies locked in a frantic battle against the cold, unforgiving floor. Every shift of his body beneath yours is like wrestling with something barely restrained, a predator on the verge of breaking free from its chains. Heat radiates off his skin, far too intense, far too unnatural, as if his entire body is burning from the inside out. The feverish warmth seeps into your own skin, making it harder to focus, harder to breathe.

Your hands move over his chest, urgent, searching, pressing against the hard muscle beneath you in a frantic attempt to find the activator. It has to be here somewhere—it has to be. Your fingers skim the ridges of his abdomen, feeling for anything out of place, a small foreign lump beneath his skin, a sign that the override switch is still there. But the longer you search, the more panic digs its claws into your ribs.

Your wound throbs, a dull and persistent ache pulsing from your neck, sending sharp spikes of pain through your senses with every movement. The smell of blood—your blood—is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and something deeper, something primal that radiates from Sylus like a caged animal ready to tear through steel.

"Tell me—" You swallow hard, ignoring the dryness in your throat, trying to suppress the fear that’s creeping into your voice. "Is the activator here?"

Sylus doesn't answer immediately. His breath is coming heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled bursts beneath you. Then, slowly, he grins.

The sight of it sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

"Don’t…" he growls, his voice low and guttural, slipping between clenched teeth. His body tenses beneath you, coiled muscle flexing, veins prominent beneath the sweat-slicked skin of his arms. His hands twitch rhythmically, fingers curling like claws ready to rip you to shreds.

"Don’t press it."

You ignore him.

You have to.

You shift, dragging your hands lower, pressing over his ribs, smoothing your fingers down the hard planes of his stomach, searching for any change in texture, any break in the muscle that could indicate the activator. Your fingertips glide over his skin, past the deep ridges of his abdomen, dipping lower—

A sharp, ragged exhale.

Sylus’s entire body jerks beneath you, his spine arching suddenly, pressing into you before falling back against the ground. His breath stutters, his hands clenching into fists as a sound rumbles deep in his chest—low, guttural, something between a moan and a growl.

Your movements falter for the briefest second.

Did you find it? Did you hurt him?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. Your hands remain pressed against him, frozen mid-motion, fingers still splayed across the hard muscle of his lower abdomen. You can feel the way his body shudders, tense and coiled, every fiber of him locked in place, the warmth of his skin searing against your palms.

You don’t know if the reaction is pain or something else, and the uncertainty sends unease coiling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales another uneven breath, his chest vibrating beneath you. His head tilts slightly, red eyes flickering open, dilated again and dark, and he looks straight at you. Not through you, not past you—at you.

The grin he gives you is slow, deliberate.

"That-," he murmurs, voice edged with something dark, something lustful. His lips curl at the corners, his teeth flashing between parted lips as his gaze flickers lower, trailing over the places where your hands are still pressed against him. "That feels...good".

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit you like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Your eyes widened as you lowered your head and took in the unmistakable bulge of his erection, straining against the confines of his pants, a tangible proof of the pleasure you were unwittingly providing.

This isn’t pain.

The second he senses your moment of shock, Sylus strikes.

With terrifying ease, he yanks you upward, your feet leaving the ground for a brief, weightless second before he drives you downward. The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as you’re thrown forward, your body twisting midair before—

Impact.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as you hit the cold, unforgiving floor, your stomach smacking against the hard surface with enough force to send a sharp shockwave through your ribs. Your arms instinctively splay out, palms slamming against the ground to steady yourself, but the weight that follows keeps you from moving.

Sylus presses down against you, his entire body covering yours, his hands locking around your wrists before pinning them flat against the floor beside your head. His hips press firmly into yours, locking you in place, trapping you beneath him.

Panic seizes your chest.

You try to twist away, to jerk free, but his weight is unmovable, pressing down hard enough that every shift only grinds you further against the floor. The heat of his body seeps into your back, feverish and all-consuming, the ridges of his toned chest molding against your spine.

You thrash, breath coming hard and fast, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even react—except for the slow, deep inhale that shudders through his chest.

Then, he breathes against your skin.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs, voice low and silken, curling around your ear like smoke.

Your entire body locks up.

His lips are too close.

The warmth of his breath ghosts along the side of your face, his nose grazing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, hovering over the sensitive skin of your throat. Your pulse races, hammering so violently beneath your skin that you know he feels it.

His grip tightens.

"And something...sweet," he muses, dragging the words out slowly, tasting them like something decadent.

Your struggles escalate, knowing exactly where this is going.

"Sylus! Stop! No!"

Your fingers claw against the floor, legs kicking, desperate to throw him off, but Sylus doesn’t move an inch. If anything, his hold only grows firmer, heavier, more absolute. The pressure of his body against yours makes it impossible to move, to breathe properly, to think.

Then—he lowers his head.

The brush of his lips against your ear is featherlight, teasing. A sharp contrast to the overwhelming, inescapable strength of his grip.

And then—his teeth sink in.

A sharp, precise nip to the outer shell of your ear, quick and fleeting, followed immediately by the slow, deliberate glide of his tongue. He slides all the way down to your neck, lapping up the still dripping blood from your wound. He alternates between licking and nipping, as if feeding himself and claiming you all at once.

You flinch violently, a shudder ripping through your limbs as heat explodes beneath your skin. Your breath catches, fingers digging into the cold floor as a rush of pure, primal panic flares through your nerves.

Sylus hums. A deep, satisfied sound.

"Something very sweet," he repeats, his voice edged with amusement, hunger, something else entirely. His fingers flex against your wrists, nails pressing into your skin—not enough to break, but enough to remind you of the power imbalance.

"Makes me want to devour you whole."

A violent shiver wracks through you, your entire body locking up in terror.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Desperation surges through you like wildfire. You snap your leg back, aiming a blind, vicious kick toward his leg, his thigh—anything that will make him falter, make him let go—

But he’s faster.

Before you can even make contact, he moves. His weight shifts, his grip flexes, and suddenly—you’re being crushed, pressed even harder into the ground.

Your breath chokes in your throat as his body presses flush against yours, one of his hands releasing your wrist only to grip your hip, pinning you down even harder. His fingers dig in, securing his hold, ensuring you have nowhere to go.

"Nice try," he murmurs, voice dipping into something thick and sultry, rich with amusement. The warmth of his breath trails lower, sweeping along the side of your bloodied throat, down to the nape of your neck.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and you feel it—feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way he’s drinking in every panicked breath, every tremor, every racing heartbeat.

"You should know better," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing growl. "Prey that struggles only makes the hunt more exciting."

His fingers flex against your hip, nails pressing in just enough to send a sharp, prickling sting through your nerves.

"Why resist me now? You made your choice when you stepped inside," Sylus taunts, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. Tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as the harsh sound of ripping fabric echoes ominously in the confined space. Your skirt! You cry out, trying to lunge forward, to escape, but his grip is relentless, fingers suddenly tightening around your throat with a firm command.

"Stop. Moving." His growl is a sharp command in your ear, his weight pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground with an unyielding force. The air is forced from your lungs in a rush as he yanks the remnants of your skirt away, tossing it aside carelessly. The room's cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your legs, and you shiver, fear and vulnerability intertwining as you plead with him.

"Sylus...this isn't you. Please—" Your words are abruptly silenced as he tears your underwear away, his actions speaking louder than any words could. The chill against your bare skin draws a sob from your lips, a desperate sound swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.

He's going to take you right here on the cage floor. Claim you. And there's nothing you can do. This isn't Sylus you know anymore.

"My my...this was what you were hiding underneath that skirt?" he growls, a feral edge to his voice. He leans forward, trailing his tongue along your back, the sensation a disconcerting mix of heat and cold that leaves you trembling beneath him.

"Please...snap out of it! Don't do this...!" you scream, your voice raw and desperate as you squirm helplessly beneath him. Your pleas are met with a soft, almost soothing "Shhh..." as if he's trying to calm you, but the sharp sound of his zipper coming undone is a jarring counterpoint, a grim reminder that he's too far gone.

This is it, you think, swallowed by a tide of helplessness. It could be worse...right? A gasp escapes your lips as you feel something large, hot and throbbing press against the middle of your ass. Sylus moans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you, sending shockwaves of dread and involuntary ache coursing through your veins. He spits, the wet warmth landing on your skin, slicking the path as he rubs his cock between your cheeks, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

"You looked divine in that uniform when we met again," he murmurs, his voice a silken thread of temptation and threat. "Would it be awful of me to say that I've been wanting to tear you apart with my cock ever since I saw you again?" His words are accompanied by a deep chuckle, a sound that seems to vibrate through your bones.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting against the warm, wet sensation that overwhelms your senses. No...this isn't the real him, you remind yourself, clinging to the hope that somewhere beneath the Frenzy Enhancer's influence, the true Sylus still exists. He's still in there, right? The question echoes in your mind, a desperate mantra as you hold onto the sliver of hope that the man you know will resurface, that this nightmare will end.

The moment of hope you had was shattered in an instant as you felt a sharp, piercing pain between your folds as he grips the skin of your ass, a large intrusion attempting to force its way inside you. You screamed, your voice raw with agony, as you tried to pry his hands away, your nails digging into his skin. "It hurts! Stop, please!" you begged, your pleas desperate and frantic.

Sylus grunted and moaned, his body a contradiction of pleasure and annoyance as he struggled to push his cock deeper into your tight folds, his tip breaching your entrance only to retreat, the pain searing and hot. "Hmm..." he growled, his voice a mix of frustration and desire.

You shook, your body trembling from the pain, your lower half throbbing, the intrusion gone but the ache still spreading. Suddenly, your hips were gripped and your lower half was raised up, your ass raised in the air, your hands bracing against the floor, your body now positioned for his taking.

"You just need a little...preparation," Sylus whispered, his voice low and dark, belying the wicked intent behind his words. Before you could protest, his hot tongue was sliding down your cunt, his skilled mouth working to prepare you, his touch both electrifying and unwittingly arousing, a wicked precision that left you trembling, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

"Mghn! S-stop...please, Sylus!" you pleaded, your voice hoarse and desperate, your fingers clawing at the floor as you tried to escape the pleasure-pain he was inflicting. But his death grip on your hips was unyielding, holding you firmly in place, his tongue a relentless force, licking and slurping at your folds with primal hunger. Like a beast that hadn't eaten in weeks.

If he doesn't stop soon you'll definitely-

"Those cute noises you make drive me wild" Sylus growled, his voice a low, guttural sound. You can't see his face, but you can feel his eyes roaming up and down your now soaked cunt, no doubt wishing he was deep inside you right now. "Reminds me of the sound a rabbit makes just before its eaten."

You gasp and shiver at the depraved sentence that leaves his mouth before something wet and long enters your hole, making you cry out. Sylus's tongue, hot and insistent, buried itself deep within you, his mouth working in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through your core.

Sylus's grunts and moans escalated into a primal chorus as he delved deeper into your folds, his tongue a relentless force, his hands digging into your hips with increasing urgency. Your body was a tempest of sensations—pain, pleasure, and ecstasy—a melting pot of conflicting desires. You tried to hold on, to keep yourself from succumbing, but your body had a mind of its own, and you went limp, surrendering to the pleasure he was delivering.

"Mghn!" you cried out, your body shaking, your hands gripping the floor as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure. "Don't cum... don't cum..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your lips bitten to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

But Sylus found that sweet spot, that spongy part inside you, and twisted his tongue, sending you over the edge. You bit down harder on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds of your climax, but it was no use. The pleasure was too much, and you came undone, your body shaking, your cries echoing in the cold cage as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sylus lapped up your essence, his tongue working feverishly, his grunts and moans a testament to his own pleasure as he reveled in the taste of your orgasm, his primal satisfaction evident as he continued to lap up your juices like a thirsty dog.

"This taste..." Sylus groaned, his voice thick with greed, as he brushed his tongue against your inner thigh, catching the drippings of your pleasure, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You gasped for breath, your body still trembling from the orgasm, your mind racing for a way out of this predicament.

"Your scent has filled the room now...its driving me mad. I can't wait any longer".

Your thoughts turned to the activator, the key to your freedom. You needed to get turned around, to find it somehow. "Sylus, w-we should—" you started, but your words were cut off by the sudden, sharp intrusion of his cock slamming into your cunt with a force that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Agh!"

The initial penetration was rough, but easier than before, his cock sliding into your wet hole, stretching you, before he pulled back slightly and sheathed himself completely inside you, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to thrust, his hips pistoning in a relentless rhythm.

"Ahh...it hurts..." you whimpered, your body writhing in his grip, trying to escape the pain of his thrusts. But Sylus chuckled, his voice dark and amused. "Keep squirming, little bird. It only makes it feel better."

His words were a taunt as he continued to plunge into you, his cock pistoning in and out, his body a cage of pain, his grip on your waist unyielding, his thrusts relentless, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and agony, your cries and moans filling the cold cage with a symphony of raw, primal sex.

You begin to try and dissociate from everything by focusing on the concrete floor, but Sylus primal grunts and growls as he slams into you, using your body for his own pleasure, makes it hard to escape reality. Think! Just think! You've been in worse situations before, what can you do to get turned around?

A lightbulb goes off inside your head. Its risky, but at this rate...

"F-for a Praedator...I honestly expected this to be much better. A little disappointing after waiting all these years Sylus" you spat, trying to sound more confident than you truly felt. Sylus momentarily slows his thrusting, not completely stopping but definitely enough to ponder your words. You shiver as you hear a deep chuckle.

"Is that so?"

Your entire world flips around as he grabs you, spins you around and pushes you roughly against the concrete floor. Before you can continue speaking, his hand slams into your throat, squeezing slightly. Not enough for serious harm, but its a clear warning.

Sylus's gaze is dark, beastly and terrifying as he leans down to your face, as if trying to look deep into the depths of your soul. Your heart aches as you recall your last encounter with him earlier that day, when he gave you the movie tickets. He had looked so soft...unlike the beast that was in front of you now.

"I can give you rougher, if that's what you crave," Sylus purred, his voice laced with dark humor, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "I quite like you in this position, that look of fear in your eyes turns me on" He began to laugh, a low, menacing sound, as he pushed his still-hard cock back into your aching hole, his hand never leaving your throat.

Sylus's other hand, strong and sure, reached out, tearing your top with effortless ease, the fabric ripping as he exposed your breasts to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened in response to the sudden exposure, the cool air on your sensitive skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

Your breasts bounced with each powerful movement of his hips, the motion causing a mix of pain and fear, your body a canvas of sensations, your mind struggling to process the whirlwind of physical reactions.

You whimpered as pain, pleasure, and fear mingled within you. His hand squeezed harder with each thrust, cutting off your air supply, and you clawed at his fingers, desperate for breath, your nails digging into his skin.

"C-can't...breathe..." you gasped, your voice hoarse, your heart hammering in your chest, sensations blurring together. Despite your struggles, your body began to respond to his relentless thrusts, your muscles squeezing around his cock, a reaction you couldn't control.

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Gonna cum while you can't breathe, little bird? I could've given you this pleasure sooner if I'd known. I'd have gladly delivered your demise, one way or another."

His words sent a shiver through you as your body betrayed your mind's resistance, succumbing to the pleasure he was inflicting, your climax building despite the pain and the fear, a testament to the twisted game he was playing with your body and mind.

Were you truly going to die this way? After everything, after fighting for so long to see him again? This is how things end between the two of you? You look into his eyes. His rabid, feral eyes and feel tears begin to prick them. You look past him, your eyes resting at the revolver still strapped to your leg.

You still have one more option.

"I-it won't be me succumbing to my d-demise" you choke out, staring into his eyes. He doesn't stop thrusting into your body, but his eyebrow does raise. "Even if you make it out of here, what do you think they'll do with you when they realize the only immune person is also pregnant with a Praedator's baby?"

Your eyes widen at his words, your brain barely processing their meaning as your vision begins to blur. No! No! You begin to thrash as the sounds of his evil laughter fills your ears, and his thrusts pick up relentless speed.

"D-don't cum in me! Please!" you choke out, your voice hoarse and gravely as your forced to continue take the relentless pounding of Sylus's cock. He's ignoring you, he doesn't care. He only has one goal now. You feel your lower half begin to ache and pulse, evident that you just orgasmed beneath him. But you barely register it, as your top half begins to hurt.

Your lungs burn as if set ablaze, the oxygen in your body dwindling, your chest seizing with every desperate attempt to inhale. A thick, suffocating haze fills your head, making your thoughts sluggish, disjointed, slipping between the cracks of fading consciousness. Your body betrays you, limbs losing strength, muscles growing weak as an unbearable heaviness creeps into every inch of your skin. Your fingers, once clawing at the iron grip around your throat, are failing you now, slipping away, no longer able to fight against the pressure stealing your air.

A dull ringing overtakes your ears, growing louder, drowning out the world around you. Your vision narrows, dark spots creeping into the edges, threatening to swallow everything whole. A strange lightheadedness overtakes you, a weightless, dizzying sensation that makes it hard to remember where you are, what you’re doing. Your body is shutting down, giving up, preparing to surrender to the void clawing at the edges of your mind.

No. No, no, no. It can’t end like this.

A spike of panic jolts through your fading awareness, but your body refuses to listen, sinking deeper into helplessness. You strain, forcing your head up just enough to look at him, to plead, to beg, but the words won’t come. Your throat is locked, crushed beneath his grip, and no matter how much you try, no sound escapes past your lips. Sylus barely seems aware of you now, his expression dazed, half-lidded, his breath uneven as he lingers on the edge of his own orgasm. His fingers twitch slightly, tightening then loosening, but he isn’t paying attention, isn’t thinking, isn't entirely here. He’s too close to the edge, too lost in wanting to finish inside you.

That’s when you see it.

A flicker of red, faint but undeniable, flashes in one of his eyes. It’s barely noticeable, a fleeting pulse of color in the red of his irises, but it’s there. Your slowing mind struggles to process it, to make sense of what it means, until the realization slams into you like a shock of ice water.

The activator?!

Adrenaline floods your veins, shoving back the creeping darkness threatening to pull you under. The sheer, primal will to live surges through you like a lightning strike, reigniting every dying nerve, forcing your limbs to respond even as they scream in protest. With the last of your strength, you move.

Your fingers twitch, barely managing to form a fist. Gritting your teeth, you summon every ounce of energy left in your failing body, pull your arm back, and slam your thumb directly into his eye.

A guttural, animalistic roar rips from Sylus’s throat as his grip on your neck vanishes, his entire body jerking back in raw, instinctive pain. The instant pressure is released, air floods your lungs, rushing in so fast that your entire chest seizes from the force of it. A sharp, shrill gasp tears from your throat as you suck in a desperate, wheezing breath, the burning relief almost as unbearable as the suffocation had been.

Your vision, once clouded and swimming, sharpens in an instant, the murky haze lifting as the world snaps back into terrifying clarity. Every nerve is raw, every muscle trembling, but you’re alive. You can breathe.

Sylus's eyes widened for a moment, a brief flicker of surprise as all the Frenzy enhancer seemed to leave his body, and then, just as quickly, the feral intensity left his gaze, his face softening. But it was too late for his body to catch up, as his hips froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you, releasing a hot flood of cum against your womb.

You gasped, your body trembling from the unexpected climax, the sensation of his release filling you, an intense mixture of warmth and fullness.

Sylus’s eyes met yours, the fire in them flickering unsteadily as the weight of what just happened crashed over him. The frenzied hunger that had gripped him moments ago had drained away, leaving behind something raw—horror, confusion, and something close to regret. His breath came fast and uneven, chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what he had just done to you.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. His red eyes, now normal, darted across your face, lingering on the deep red imprints, blood, and bruises his fingers and teeth had left on your throat. His grip, once unrelenting, had been torn away, but you still felt it there—the phantom sensation of his hands crushing the air from your lungs.

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, like it physically pained him to speak. “Are you okay?”

You coughed, your throat burning, the rush of oxygen still too sharp, too overwhelming. But you managed to nod, your limbs still weak, your entire body trembling from the shock. You could feel the marks he had left, the lingering ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you were alive.

Sylus was still staring at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now—guilt, realization, something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“Why didn’t you press it sooner?” His voice was quieter now, filled with something vulnerable, almost desperate. “The activator… you could have stopped me before—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, frustration with himself evident in the tightness of his jaw. “Before I did this to you.”

The look on his face—haunted, shaken—was so unlike him, so different from the Sylus you knew, that something in your chest ached. He wasn’t just horrified by what had happened. He was horrified by himself.

You forced a small, reassuring smile, even though your throat still ached, even though your entire body was still reeling from the ordeal. “Because I couldn't find it. But I knew you were still in there,” you whispered, voice raspy but steady. “And I was right.”

Sylus let out a slow, uneven breath, his gaze locked on you like he was trying to convince himself you were telling the truth. Then, without another word, he moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a way that was nothing like before. This wasn’t dominance or power. This was desperation. He was still inside you, but neither of you cared to address it at this moment.

His grip was strong, but careful this time. His hands, which had moments ago been your greatest threat, now held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His fingers curled against the back of your head, as if grounding himself, as if he needed to feel that you were real, that you were still here.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough, low, and laced with something unspoken. “I wasn’t…I couldn’t—” He exhaled, tightening his hold. “I didn’t want our first time to be like this.”

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the embrace. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped to the concrete floor. Your hands gripped the leather of his top, grounding yourself in him, in the fact that he was back now. His heartbeat, still fast, thrummed against your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty.

“It’s okay,” you whispered finally, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re back now.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, hesitant, but the second your lips met his, Sylus shattered.

His grip on you tightened even more, arms pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back like he had been waiting for this, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. There was nothing controlled about it—it was desperate, messy, full of every unspoken thing he couldn’t bring himself to say over the years. His fingers slid up your back, then tangled into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to claim more of you, to drown in you.

You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, still racing, still alive. You weren’t sure who was shaking more—you or him—but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together. His lips hovered just over yours, his hands still holding you like he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

It was all going to be okay.

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Sylus let himself believe it.

5K notes · View notes

noonecareslol · 6 months ago

Text

𒀯𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚

Anaxiphilia: love for or attraction to unsuitable mates; an act of falling in love with the wrong person

Hwang In-Ho x Fem! Reader

wc! 7k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After you move away from your childhood best friend (and first love), the last place you expected to see him was stuck with you as a “player”.

TW: Violence (duh its squid game), cursing, smut 18+ pnv, unsafe sex, probably pregnant lol

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Classical music filled your ears as your eyes adjusted to the bright lights. It played throughout the room as you woke slowly and attempted to make sense of your surroundings. But, as you looked at the number placed on your tracksuit you remembered where you were.

Or at least why you were there.

You were never uncomfortable growing up. You were actually quite wealthy. Your father owned a very successful company, your mother invested money intuitively, and life seemed to improve daily. That was until you were 17 and news broke that your father’s company was a front. A money laundering business that cleaned his filthy money from years and years of fraud. When they died, they left you a monumental amount of debt. And when a suspiciously attractive guy handed you a little brown card, you couldn’t help but call the number on the back.

You knew the games were too good to be true. And you realized you were right after the first one. It took you 30 minutes to wash the blood off your face and out of your hair.

Now you were standing next to a girl with the number “222” written on her tracksuit, watching as an older lady and her son begged the guards to let them go. You fiddled with your hands, flinching at the rawness after scrubbing them relentlessly. Your attention was grabbed when another person stepped through the crowd.

“Clause three of the consent form!” Your eyes trained on him as he spoke angrily, “The games may be terminated upon a majority vote.”

Your heart stopped. You could go home and be safe. But you would still be drowning in debt. You bit your lip, remembering about the share of money you would receive. Would you have enough to cover it?

As if the guards could read your mind, a large piggy bank lowered from the ceiling, “The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated.” Every eye watched as the piggy bank began to fill, “If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

Another man shoves past the crowd, “And how much is that?”

“Each person’s share would be 24,931,500 won.”

Exasperated sighs and annoyed words broke out amongst the crowd. But your eyes stayed trained on the man who first spoke, “456” written on his chest.

The pink guard spoke loudly, “The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

The crowd stayed silent, “The total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won.”

The crowd erupted again, full of enthusiastic words and motivated cheers. The girl next to you placed her hands over her stomach, almost cradling it closer to her body.

If you went home now, you wouldn’t even have enough to cover a third of your debt. But if you stay and continue the games, you could die.

The doors opened and two guards wheeled out a metal podium with two buttons, a red X and a blue O. “Now, let’s begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers.”

“Player 456.”

The same man from before stepped forward without hesitation. As he walked to the podium his stride was filled with wrath and as he slammed his palm against the X, his eye contact didn’t break with the guard.

The voting continued, each person stepping forward to decide whether to live or die. Each time either button was pressed you silently celebrated, still not sure if you should stay or go.

“Player number two.”

Your face fell as your eyes centered on the podium. And with each slow step you took, you became more sure of your decision. And as you reached the podium, you had made up your mind entirely.

A high beep rang through the room as your face reflected the blue button. You decided to continue. Flinching at the sound of defeated sighs from behind, you took the patch embroidered with an O and joined the other voters.

“Player number one.”

You hadn’t cared to look at the man when he was standing next to you earlier. But now that he was about to break a tie, your eyes were locked on him. You didn’t catch his face but you studied his figure. He had a tall frame and dark brown hair that seemed to be styled perfectly. He walked with a thick sense of confidence and you hadn’t failed to notice how his tracksuit clung to his biceps.

You watched intensely as he lifted his hand and hovered between the two buttons. The room held suspension and your eyes were locked on his hand. He hesitated for a few more moments before pressing his hand down. Blue light illuminated his face and the surrounding crowd cheered as he walked from the podium.

He had selected to stay. To play another game where you, or him, could die. You voted for that too. So why aren’t you happy about winning?

Because he’s turned around now and you’ve seen his face. And you would recognize that face anywhere.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“I don't understand, you’re moving?” He grasped the sides of your face, afraid to let go.

You looked at the boy in front of you who’ve you known your whole life. You went to private schools together, fancy parties together, and you shared your first time together. And now you’re leaving.

You placed your hands over his, “I don’t understand either In-ho. I want to stay, I don’t want to leave you.” Tears fell down your rosy cheeks as In-ho placed his forehead gently against yours.

You ignored your mother’s frantic yells for you to come and pack your things. You didn’t want to leave him. You loved him, and you knew if you left now you wouldn’t just be leaving your house. You’d be leaving your life behind. Your father would be arrested and your mother would have to work while taking care of you herself. You would move from Gangnam to Daegu. And you would have to start a new life. You just didn’t understand why In-ho couldn’t be a part of it.

That was the last time you saw him.

Well, until now.

You kept your distance, watching him talk to player 456. You recognize him from before as the man who’s already played.

You observed intensely, not bothering with your food. You watched how he exchanged words with 456. How his hair moved slightly as he used his hands to talk. You didn’t understand why he was here. The last you heard about him, he was married and his wife was expecting.

What could’ve gone so wrong for him to be here?

The girl next to you shuffled in her seat, setting her empty dosirak-tong on the ground. You knew she was pregnant just from how she walked uncomfortably with her hands supporting her back.

“Here, take mine. I don’t like dosirak.” It was a lie, dosirak is one of your favorite meals. But she was eating for two, and you didn’t have an appetite.

She looked up at you before gently taking the metal box from your hands, “Thank you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and you smiled in return.

Your eyes searched for In-ho again to find him walking towards a fight you hadn't noticed had broken out. His frame was large and towered over the boys as he approached them, “Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime There are elders present, mind your manners. Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“You’re lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” In-ho’s jaw clenched as he tilted his head at the boy, “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You knew where this was heading, In-ho always knew how to fight. You smirked as he grabbed the boy, turning him around and twisting his arm behind him.

Forcing him to the ground with a thud as he whined, “Wait! I’m sorry! Please, let me go!”

He let go of his arm and stood up straight, adjusting his tracksuit. As he looked around the room while walking back toward player 456, his eyes suddenly met with yours. And he froze as he scanned your face. He was so caught up in Gi-huns plan that he had failed to realize you had entered the game. The girl he fell in love with. Who he shared his first kiss with, who he has thought about every day for 20 years since you were 17.

Your heart ached as old feelings rushed over you, watching as his eyes softened slightly before player 390 dragged him over.

You couldn’t sleep that night. You were too busy trying to figure out why he was here. Plus, you caught word of the next game being Dalgona. Which worried you because you had always sucked at cutting out the tiny shape, always giving in and eating the cookie whole.

You spent the night staring tiredly at the piggy bank, the soft yellow light casting across your face. What you didn't know is that 50 feet away, In-ho watched you. His mind also trying to understand why you were here. He stared at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, remembering when he would trail kisses on your pretty little face.

When he met your eyes earlier, he froze. Not because he didn't expect to see you, which he didn't, he froze because his heart did. He marveled at your beauty, and you took his breath away. Just like the first time he saw you all those years ago.

And now as he lays in his bed, his pillow propped up on the opposite end so he can see you, he can't help but address the elephant in the room. You know his name. You know his identity. You could ruin everything, his plan that he had focused solely on for the past three years.

As the lights turned on and classical music rang out from the speakers, his eyes stayed on you and only you.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Welcome to your second game. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of six in the next ten minutes. Let me repeat."

Sand kicked behind you as you walked into the room. The speakers repeated the instructions as you whispered to the girl next to you, "Is Dalgona played in teams?" She shook her head and her hand caressed her belly. You've grown somewhat protective over the girl, whose name you learned is Kim Jun-hee.

You take her hand as you look to find a team and your eyes try to pick out In-ho from the crowd. You think you spot the back of his head and start to pull Jun-hee towards him when she makes a be-line to a group. Your protests go ignored as she reaches them. Your eyes still search for In-ho as she inquires about joining their group.

"Of course, you can join." The voice snaps you from your search as you meet familiar piercing brown eyes with your own. Your breath hitches in your throat as he doesn't break eye contact.

"Time for team selection is up." The PA system breaks your stare, but In-ho holds his. You look around the room, scanning over the tall blue walls and the rainbows painted on the floor, "The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the minigames: Number one, the Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gonggi. Number four, Kendama. Number five, Spinning Top. Number six, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide on players for each minigame."

Your team divides the games between you. You get stuck with Kendama, a game that is played by tossing a ball into the air and attempting to catch it on a wooden stick point. You're fairly confident in yourself. You and In-ho grew up playing games like these.

You sit with your group as each team competes. You sat at the end next to Jun-Hee, checking on her every once and a while. You flinched every time a gunshot rang out, anxiety bubbling with every elimination.

In-ho could not stop looking at you. It was as if you had a magnetic pull, and he couldn't look away. You were a piece of art, crafted with the hands of God himself. And he was jealous of God's hands, wishing it had been his very own that created such beauty. Every time you looked his way, he looked elsewhere.

"Final two teams, please get ready." You help Jun-hee stand up, 390 stepping in place next to her. Standing on the other side of 388 as you all line up at the start. You lower your gaze as In-ho steps in line next to you. He's always been intimidating, especially with his large frame towering over yours.

390 chuckles, "It's weird to be the only ones who don't get an audience, isn't it?" His attempt to lighten the mood works a little, a small smile forming on your lips.

"I think it will help us focus more!" You rub 388's shoulder in comfort while he repeats the motions of throwing and catching the Gonggi.

The guard finishes locking In-ho's and 456's shackles before you feel an arm snake around yours. In-ho's bicep compresses your own as your face heats up. You glance up daringly meeting In-hos sharp gaze. You should say something. Anything. Ask him why he's here, or where his wife is. But before you can speak, 456 starts the chant and steps forward.

"Hana dul! Hana dul! Hana dul!" You chant as you approach the first game. Jun-hee slams the red ddakji down, successfully flipping the blue one on the first try.

As you chant and walk to the next game, 388 breaks the pace and steps forward quickly. Without hesitation In-ho's hand moves from your arm to your waist, effortlessly steadying you "Hey! Keep the pace!"

388 steps back into pace as we reach the next game, "Back when I used to pitch, I never threw very fast, but the ball always went where I wanted." 390 steps one foot back before aiming and throwing the stone precisely, hitting the target on the first try!

You all cheer before continuing forward, quickly approaching three minutes. As you sit on the ground you feel In-ho steadying you again, allowing you to lean slightly against him to give 388 more room to play his game.

"Okay, just take your time. You got this." I reassure 388 as he grabs the gonggi. With a quick hand, he tosses one in the air before collecting them one at a time. Then two at a time, Then three and one. Then all. He flips them on the back of his hand before catching them effortlessly.

Your cheers were quick as you stood up and rushed towards the fourth game. The guard hands you the Kendama and you can feel In-ho's gaze on you intensely. You held the Kendama out in front of you, tossing the ball up, quickly moving your hand to catch it. You close your eyes as you feel the ball land on the spike.

"Yes! You did it Y/N!" In-ho grabs your shoulders and shakes you, you shake his back as he beams a smile at you. And for a second, you forget about the timer and you're both 17 again, in love.

He wraps his arm around your waist again as you move to his game. He takes the spinning top in his hand and begins to wrap the rope around it, confidence radiating from him. We have this in the bag! -oh.

The rope fell off.

You feel his body tighten as stress began to build. He wraps the rope around once more before tossing it, praying that the top spins. It falls to its side and In-ho curses under his breath. You remember him using his left hand when growing up to play this game. You wondered why he was using his right, but you didn't ask him. You could tell he was getting annoyed at himself.

"It's okay! Just try again!" You let go of In-ho's arm to give him more room. He flings the spinning top with too much power and it flings backwards.

In-ho freezes, too embarrassed to move. The man next to him, 456, grabs his shoulder firmly, "It's okay, we'll get it. All right, backwards. Ready, set."

In-ho holds my waist tightly as we walk backwards in step, "It'd be boring to win everything fast." The group nods in agreement at 390's words, " 'Cause if you're ever gonna grow, you need to fail first, right?"

In-ho picks up the spinning top and we trek back to the line. He wraps the rope around successfully, "Okay now take it slow, wait- no don't rush it!"

In-ho interrupted 388's instructions by quickly, and messily, throwing the top. It falls to the side and you feel In-ho throw his head back and laugh. You quickly remove your hand from his waist, knowing what's about to happen.

"You piece of fucking shit! You ruin everything! You're worthless!" In-ho drops the piece of rope in his hand as he hits his head against his hands. "You're so pathetic!"

The group stands shocked as he hits himself angrily, stomping in the dried blood below him. You bend down and pick up the rope, glancing at the clock.

50 seconds.

"Hey!" You slam the rope against his chest and pull his face to look at you, "No one's blaming any of this on you! Now, take a deep breath, okay?"

In-ho nodded slowly, the feeling of your touch burning on his face as he placed his right hand over his chest, something he would do when you were younger. As the group shuffles to pick up the top, you place one of your hands over his and slow his breathing, "You can do this In-ho. Use your left hand like you did when we were kids. And if I die because of this I will kill you myself."

In-ho gave a small smile at your sarcasm as he wraps the rope around the axel, then the top. He places it in his left hand and looks at you quickly before throwing the top.

It spins.

You erupt in cheers as In-ho succeeds! He gives a quick hug to you, that you wished had lasted longer, and your group moves to 456's turn. In-ho's gaze darkened as he focused on 456, and you failed to notice it, still flustered from the quick hug.

"One! Two! Three! Four!" You all counted as 456 bounced the jegi on his foot, watching him and the clock as it counts down. For a split moment it seemed that he wouldn't be able to get the last hit in, but suddenly In-ho swoops in and reaches with his foot. "Five!"

You all cheer as you practically run to the end, crossing right as the timer hit zero. The heavy shackles get removed and you are immediately engulfed in a bear hug from In-ho. His arms wrap around the small of your back as he pulls you closer to his frame, if possible. He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you stay frozen. Not from the near- death- experience you just had, but because you realized you had forgotten what his hugs had felt like. You threw your arms around him in return, deepening the hug you have longed for every day for 20 years.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You sat closely next to In-ho as the group chatted and complemented each others moves from the game. You were looking forward to catching up with In-ho, but you were too engrossed in 388's retelling of 390's stone toss, "And, sir, you were incredible at Flying Stone!" He proudly stood up and pretended to throw a stone, "You just lined it up and... Boom! First try!"

You giggled as 390 proudly shaked his head, and In-ho turned to look at you. God, that laugh. He had forgotten what it sounded like, and he frowned when you stopped, "I was thinking, what if we go around and say what our real names are? I'll go first, my name is Kang Dae-ho. Dae as in 'huge' and ho as in 'tiger'!"

390 laughed as Dae-ho gave himself tiger fangs with his fingers, "Now that's a cool name. My name is Park Jung-bae. It means 'righteous' and 'double.' So, I should be living twice as righteously."

"My name is Kim Jun-hee. I don't think I know what it stands for." Jun-hee smiles as she pushes a stray hair from her face.

"Jun means 'talented' and hee means 'star'. You are a talented star Jun-hee!" You ruffle her hair as she beams at you, "My name is Y/N. L/N, Y/N."

You can feel In-ho's stare as he watches your lips move, "My name is Young-il. You know, like 'yeong il.' 'Zero one' in Korean." You whipped your head towards him. Was there a reason he was hiding his name? Did he not trust anyone? He gave you a reassuring look, you'd just ask him later.

"My full name is Seong Gi-Hun." You looked away from In-ho's gaze as you watched 456 introduce himself.

"Seong Gi-hun. Like our un-'Seong' hero?" Everyone laughed but you. You were still pondering about In-ho. There were so many unanswered questions running through your mind. In-ho must have noticed your distant look, because he gave your hand a squeeze. A promise that he'll explain everything.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

After another failed vote to go home (you had voted to leave this time), Gi-hun warned about the possibility of an ambush. It plagued your mind with worry as you laid on your mattress. Another night of no sleep adding to the eyebags growing under your pretty E/C eyes.

Gi-hun stood from his watch as In-ho took over, and headed to bed. Now was your chance to fully reconnect with In-ho, "Can I sit here?"

In-ho turned to you, "Cant sleep?" He asked as he scooted over a tad, making room for you. He didn't make a whole lot of room though, which you didn't mind.

Your thighs touched as you sat next to him, "No, never could when my mind is running like this." You dusted off your pants as you placed your legs out in front of you, fingers avoiding the blood that plagued your bottoms.

"You shouldn't be anxious about the game tomorrow." He watched your face intently, trying to read you. You were always so easy to read.

You stifle a small laugh, "Oh i'm not anxious, 'Young-il'. " You tilted your head towards him as you dragged out his "name", smirking as he nodded defeatedly.

"Ohhh, okay." He leaned in close, making your heart flutter, "I just don't want anyone to know my name yet. In a game like this there's a lot of... betrayal."

Your spine shivered as his words tickled your ear, "Oh, I guess I didn't think about that..." You turned to look at him but failed to realize how close he was.

Your lips were now inches apart, barely. You could feel his breath fan across your lips and his eyes remained focused on yours, "It can be our little secret? Hmm?" You found yourself nodding before you could even process what he said.

You didn't move, instead, you tested the waters. You leaned in closer, tilting your head slightly, "Last I heard you were married?"

He shook his head no, not caring to explain as he quickly licked his lips, his eyes now focusing on your own. Your breath caught as your heart beat at an unearthly rate, he was so close. If either of you moved your head even a centimeter, his lips would be on yours.

But you weren't able to find out. The small metal door slammed as Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, and Ae-sim walked in, and you pulled back quickly. "I should try and sleep."

In-ho nodded as you walked away, his eyes trailed the curve of your ass and he adjusted his pants slightly before going back to his watch.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Players, welcome to the third game. We will begin momentarily. The game you will be playing today is Mingle." The beady-eyed horses caught your attention first. The black, soulless, painted eyes boring into your own as you followed behind In-ho. "I will now explain the rules of the game. All players will step onto the platform in the center of the arena. Once the game begins, the platform will spin. Shortly after, a number will be called out. You must then form a group that matches this number, enter one of the surrounding rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds, or be eliminated."

You stopped in front of the red platform, In-ho stopped next to you, "The real crucial thing for us to do is to stay calm and don't panic. Trust each other. And we'll all get out of here in once piece." He looked down at you, a need to protect you suddenly clear, "Deal?"

You looked up at him, "Deal." And he took your hand as you both stepped on the platform.

"With that, let the game begin!" The woman over the PA system was replaced with a nursery song, "Round And Round". The platform jolted before starting its spin, and you grasp onto In-ho for support as he steadies you.

"Ten."

The lights were replaced with flashing red as In-ho pulled you close. Gi-hun grabbed a group of 3 people as you searched for an open door, "Room 44!" You pointed to the light green door before dragging In-ho and Dae-ho with you. Hyun- ju grabbed a stray woman while running through the green door, barely making it.

In-ho placed his hands on the sides of your arms firmly, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." You breathed out, trying to catch your breath.

He took one hand and cupped your face, "Just stick with me. You'll be okay." You nod as the door unlocks and he grabs your hand, leading you back to the platform.

You spin for another few agonizing seconds with your hand still firmly grasped in In-ho's. "Five."

Your face fell, there were six of you. Who was going to leave? In-ho quickly pushes you into Jung-bae's grasp, "Watch her, i'll go! Hurry!" In-ho takes one more glance towards you as he runs through the crowd.

Jung-bae drags you with the others as you call for In-ho, "Young- il! Young-il!" The door locks behind you and you break from Jung-bae's hold.

"Im sure hes okay. He's smart Y/N." You press your face to the door, peering out of the small window, searching for his tall frame. You know he's smart, but you were so scared of losing him again you couldn't even register the other players getting shot in front of your door.

It unlocks and you push it open, rushing out and onto the platform. You whip your head around as you scanned for In-ho. When you lock eyes with his brown ones you make a beeline towards him, pushing past other players as you jump into his arms, "What ever happened to, "Stick with me"?"

His hand wrapped protectively behind your neck, cradling you in his arms, "I know, im sorry. But i'm okay." He pulled your head away to look at him, a small smile resting on his face.

The platform began to spin as you and In-ho stood next to Jun-hee, "Attention, players. The final round will now begin." The God forsaken nursery rhyme plays again, and this time, your eyes were glued to In-ho.

"What do you think the number will be?" Jun-hee asked curiously while clinging onto Dae-ho.

"It will be two." In-ho looked towards her.

"Wait, why?"

He squeezes your hand, "We're at 126 people, and there are 50 rooms. Even if there's two in every room, then there's still only enough for 100 of us. If you don't find one fast, you're done for."

The platform comes to a halt. "Two." The lights flash again and In-ho pulls you on instinct, running to a yellow door.

In-ho was going to keep you safe, at any cost.

You look back towards the group for a split second when your body meets the ground, you look up in slow motion as the man who pushed you runs to the door. You took a staggered breath before grabbing onto his ankle, slamming him to the ground and buying you enough time to run in behind In-ho and close the door.

Relief washed over you only momentarily as your eyes met with a third person in the room. In-ho steps in front of you, "Out."

"But, we were here first. Why don't you put her out and I stay?" In-ho tilts his head at his last remark before wrapping his biceps around the man's head.

The door behind you shook as the other man tries to push it open, you are quick to press your body weight against it to hold it close, "In-ho, what do we do?" Your voice was frantic as the countdown continued.

In-ho's arms tighten around the mans neck as he pulls and pushes at his grasp, but In-hos eyes never faltered. Not once. They stayed piercing yours, full of determination.

"Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two..." The cracking sound of the mans neck made you flinch, his lifeless body hitting the floor with a thud.

I did say in-ho would keep you safe. At any cost.

"One."

The door locked behind you as you pressed your back against it, In-ho's stare stuck on you as he stepped over the man's body and towards you. He pushed your body against the door, his hand finding the flesh of your waist as his other hand pulled your neck into a desperate kiss. You became putty under his touch as he dug his fingers into your skin, he craved your touch as much as you did. And it was taking every muscle in his body not to take you and fuck you right now.

Your hands traveled from his chest and up to his neck, pulling him closer. A small whine escaped your pretty lips as he slid his hand up and under your shirt, the same hands he just used to kill for you.

For you.

You felt the door unlock with a click behind you. And In-ho pulled away reluctantly as your head fell back against the door, "I need you Y/N." He brushed his thumb over your red and swollen lips before taking your hand, and leading you out of the door.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Attention, all players. Lights-out will be in approximately 30 minutes. With the remaining half hour, please disperse, and prepare to return to your beds for the night."

You sat next to Jung-bae who was excitedly talking about the next vote with Dae-ho as you watched In-ho move your mattress next to his. You hadn't dared to tell a soul about what happened in the yellow room, the kiss or the dead guy.

And you weren't going to tell anyone.

You should be concerned, right? Concerned over how easy it was for him to snap a guys neck without breaking eye contact? He was emotionless, cold, really attractive. You had witnessed many fights between him and other men while growing up, especially when it came to fighting over you.

But he never once killed for you. Until now, at least. Were you wrong to think it was really hot?

"Once the lights go out, the ones who wanna stay are gonna come for us." Gi-huns voice broke you from your thoughts, "Killing us would mean they win the next vote. It would also increase the prize money."

In-ho sat down next to you, his hand immediately finding your back, "We have to attack first then, it's our only chance. Those guys assume we're just waiting it out till the next vote. When the lights go down, we should hit them first since they won't expect it." He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, watching is you nod in agreement.

Gi-hun shook his head and leaned in closer to the group, "No, we can't. We'd be playing right into their hands if we did."

"Who is 'they'?" You tilted your head as you asked, failing to notice In-ho's gaze darken.

"The ones who built this whole place. The ones who created the games and who watch us play." The group listens closely, "If we're gonna try and fight anyone, we should be going after them instead."

"Sure, but where are they?"

Gi-hun looks up, "They're up there. At the top of the staircases. They keep everything here running from up in their central control room." He looks back at the group, "There's a man in a black mask who's the head of the operation. If we can get to him, we finally can end this."

In-ho sighs in disagreement, "It's too risky. Even if we manage to get a few guns they'll outnumber us when we try to get out." You feel his hand slide from your back and wrap around your waist.

"What are you suggesting? That we fight the other group through the whole entire night, and hope that we all make it? Is that it, Young-il? Do you really think that's a good plan?" Gi-huns voice is a little raised and you feel In-ho's grip on you tighten.

"Do we... stand a chance?"

"If we can manage an ambush, yes. Those bastards up there, they'll never expect our side to attack. They'll be focused on other things. This is it." You nodded with Dae-ho, ready to fight, "This is our last chance to put an end to these games and make sure they never happen again."

"Lights out in ten seconds."

"Once the lights are off, we have to get under our beds as quietly as we can. We can't afford to get caught by the other side. And we know they'll be out for blood." Gi-hun whispers as he slides under his bed.

You and In-ho follow suit, laying on your stomachs as you peer out from under your bed. You feel the contrast between your shaky breaths and his own steady breathing, and you can't comprehend how he could be so calm.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

"I have a plan." In-ho's voice was barely above a whisper, and a shiver runs down your spine at the sound of a woman yelling.

You look at him, "But, what about Gi-hun's plan?"

You didn't miss the small smirk that played on his lips, "Just stay by my side." Without a word In-ho swiftly moves from out of his bed, pulling you with him.

"Wait! What are you-" His hand came to your mouth as you both hugged the wall while discreetly moving towards the small metal door.

In-ho removed his hand to place a short knock. The small window opened, a guard peering through the flap. Without a single question, the door opened, and In-ho was quick to push you through.

You watched as the guard swiftly opened the bathroom door allowing you and In-ho to enter. You turned to the door as it shut behind you before looking at In-ho, "How did that guard just let you through? I don't understand, we have to go back In-ho."

"Or we can stay. We're safe here- you're safe here." He stood on the opposite wall in front of you, watching as you rested your hand on the doorknob.

He knew you were thinking about going back. But he also knew you weren't going to. He had you wrapped around his finger, just like all those years ago. And you knew it too.

You dropped your hand from the doorknob, biting your lip as you feel him slowly stalk towards you. Need courses through your veins as his hand comes from behind and wraps around your neck, his other hand pulls your waist against him. His lips find your neck and you've melted instantly.

His bulge presses harshly against your ass as he sucks and bites your neck with unhuman desire. This wasn't like when you were younger, when you were flustered and shy. No. You were hungry with want and your eyes were filled with lust.

He whips you around, lips on your own now as he moves you backwards to the counter. Your knees go weak and he lifts you with ease, as if you weighed nothing, and places you on the counter. Your fingers dug into his back, desperate for more. Hungry for him.

In-ho bites your lip roughly, and you give him what he wants, opening your lips wider and letting his tongue fuck your mouth. You were intoxicated, In-ho was the man you thought of each night as you fucked yourself, screaming his name into oblivion. And now here he was, hiking your shirt over your head.

"Y/N." Your name slipped from In-ho's mouth swiftly as he lifts your shirt over your head before his lips find your exposed skin. A small whine escapes your lips as his hot mouth gives your cold skin goosebumps.

It was like that small little noise ignited something animalistic within him, a grunt fell off his tongue as he bit your skin. He loved the way you squirmed as he dipped his tongue into your collarbone, his eyes looking up at you.

Sweat slicked your forehead as your head throws back, your bra falling from your tits, landing on the floor. How did he take it off? His hand didnt even-

oh.

Oh.

You looked at the bra, the back was still clasped.But the straps, the straps were ripped. He had ripped your bra off of you with hunger. But, you couldn't focus on the bra anymore as a moan escaped your mouth, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as In-ho rolls your nipple under his tongue.

He trailed sloppy kisses up to your mouth before stepping back, observing you. He pulls his shirt of with ease, "Take off your pants." It was demanding, and you obeyed. Your fingers trembled as you slipped off your bottoms and panties.

In-ho presses his tongue against his cheek, cocking his head as he takes you in piece by piece. You were sprawled out on the counter, your back resting against the mirror and your chest heaved, "What. What are you looking at In-ho."

"I'm thinking about all the bruises your pretty body is going to have after I fuck you."

He sinks to his knees in front of you, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he delves his tongue into your folds. You gasp, your legs involuntarily locking around his head. His tongue laps as he looks up at you. His nose perfectly brushes your clit, and he knows it as you rock your hips, "Oh, f-fuck. In-ho please."

He smirks against you as you sputter his name. He feels himself growing harder each time you whimper under his mouth. He drinks you up, your taste slicking on his face as you his tongue finds your clit.

One of your hands remove from the edge of the counter and find its way to his hair, "In-ho please," You pull his hair up to make him look at you, "If you stop now, I-I will kill you."

A small chuckle vibrates through your core as his lips latch your clit, rolling it under his tongue. Your legs pull him closer, if possible, and you feel your climax building. You arch your hips, rolling against his mouth as the need to cum grows louder. In-ho roughly laps on your swollen clit, desperate for your release.

And suddenly the earth stops spinning as you dissolve into pleasure, letting yourself unravel under him. Your body jerks as shockwaves move throughout your body, and you let his name roll of your tongue.

"Scoot down." You do as you're told and wiggle your ass until its slightly off the counter. In-ho watches as you still attempt to steady your breathing, smirking as he dips the waist of his pants down.

Your eyes widen as he places one of his hands on the side of your body, letting him tower over you. Your eyes trailed to his other hand that was busy lining his dick up with your core, but his eyes are on you. Waiting to watch your reaction as you take his cock.

He sinks into you, your breath catching and your eyes closing as he doesn't ease you into it, stretching you out. A grunt escapes his mouth at your reaction, you were so beautiful like this.

In-ho leans back and takes a hold of both of your ankles, holding them above you as he sets the pace. Your knuckles turn white as you grip the counter with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.

In-ho quickens the pace with each thrust, pounding into you like a toy. Animalistic grunts escape his mouth, "Y/N, you're so good for me. I've missed this so -fuck- so much."

You whine at his words, desperate attempts to buck your hips failed. He had you pinned down under you, controlling everything. He can feel the way you grip him, lustful tension building in the air, "Atta girl."

Oh fuck, he feels so good. He fits perfectly in you, just like all those years ago. The passion was still there, and god, he made you know it. You're drunk with desire, clenching around him as the pace picks up. His thrusts are sharp, deep, and you can tell he's close.

Your hands find his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes met yours as his cock hit every. right. spot. His eyes softened, a contrast to his pornoraphic thrusts. In the middle of everything, all the death around you, you rekindled a love you never thought you would experience again.

Your eyes stay locked as the grip on your ankles tightened, In-ho's head dropping slightly as he came, time slowing as waves of electricity engulfed him. Warmth flooded over your body as he pulsed inside of you, gently laying your legs back down before leaning forward.

He pulled you close to him, his hands cupping your face and his thumb gently lifting your chin, "I love you Y/N." A smile displayed on his lips as he kissed you softly.

You bit back a sob, "In-ho... I never stopped loving you. You've been my person, even when you weren't mine."

He kissed you again, this time with promise. A promise of making it out of the games, a promise of love, a promise of hope.

In-ho never thought much of a future. He always saw himself living for the games. He expected to die as the front man, he didn't have anything to lose. But now he does. He has a future now, and it's you. He is not living for the games anymore. He is living for you.

Would you still love him when you find out the truth?

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

A/N: Hey pookies!! Tysm for all the love recently it's definitely motivated for me to come out of retirement. Pls lmk who I should write for next! I'm in a squid game mood so maybe Gi-hun?

@tsarinaaaz @flowersbloom8787 @vixtyhu @dottoremybbg @fnl9zer @cdej6 @galadoesart @watasinekoru @icantcryicantstopcrying @seasaltrasp @pepsicolacoochie @lily-ann-b @gurjxxpp11

#hwang inho x reader #in ho x reader #young il x reader #hwang in ho #in ho #front man x reader #front man #001 #001 x reader #squid game x reader #squid games x reader #squid game #smut #i love old men #im pregnant

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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

Text

In another universe again

Promise?

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.

You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.

The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.

Then came Lila.

She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.

Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.

You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.

The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.

The kidnapping was almost a relief.

It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.

The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”

You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.

“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”

The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”

You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.

When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.

“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”

Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.

“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.

The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.

They’d chosen her.

The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.

The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.

“Goodbye.”

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.

The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.

“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.

Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.

Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.

Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.

Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.

The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.

Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”

Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”

Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.

Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”

Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.

The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.

And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night

Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.

“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”

Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”

“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.

“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”

Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.

“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”

Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”

“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.

“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”

Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.

Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.

Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.

The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.

Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”

Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”

Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.

She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.

“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.

She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”

Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.

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kabuki-writes · 7 months ago

Text

An Entertainment For The Gods

chapter: 2 chapter 1 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: Through an invitation from the Emperors themselves General Acacius and his daughter attend one of the bloody Gladiator fights at the Colosseum. But this time it is not only the brutality of the arena that encaptures Geta and Caralla.

Note: -

word count: 2.5k

There was no bigger temple in Rome than the Colosseum. A monument to the Roman Empire, an architectural masterpiece as well as a slaughterhouse for humans and animals. They had to die for the amusement of the masses in the pale white sand and under the eyes of the Roman citizens as well as the Emperor's. You've never visited the arena before, it just wasn't the entertainment you usually seeked as you fancied the amphitheater and stage plays of comedies or tragedies. No one really died from a well-spoken dialogue and the stages weren't drown in blood afterwords. Your father was a similar soul with this. As someone who had seen war and death countless of times, Acacius developed a distaste for the useless killing, which he argued was the mere core of the collosseum's existence.

But while one would despise this form of humanity at its core brutality, other's simply loved it. First under Commodus the fights in the arena became more frequent, while Septimius Severus after him didn't change anything in that matter. Under Geta and Caracalla however Gladiator fights reached an all time high, especially those 'special' spectacles with exotic animals or ships. They themselves had an own Gladiator school under their wings, which was due to their wealth filled with the most skillful warriors and the best equipment, that it was almost unfair.

Given the fact that both twins enjoyed the performance in the arena and the bloody outcome, it wasn't surprising that they were frequent visitors. For the Emperor the colosseum had an own arena box with the best view over the inner pit and with two throne like chairs for each one of them to sit comfortably. It wasn't unusual for them to have guests here either and this time it was a special one. The moment Geta and Caracalla stepped out, the masses greeted and cheered for their Emperors, who - at least in Rome - offered them bread and games to forget the common sorrows of life. Both of them were dressed in the finest, colorful fabrics, while their golden laurel crowns throned on their heads. They waited for General Acacius at the balustrade to come forward, join them and speak to the people. He was still their celebrated hero, their triumph card, so to speak. It was an easy way to win the hearts of the people through a figure like Acacius, who was the ideal Roman.

After your father held a small, yet powerful speech about the braveness of the Gladiators they'll see today, a slave went forward to place a cushioned chair between the thrones of the Emperors. You hesitated a second, since usually you would be seated at the side of your father. "Since we've heard that you had never witnessed a fight in the arena befoe, we thought you might like a good view", Geta suddenly explained to you, before he sank into his own chair. "Please, sit down."

Your eyes went to your father for a quick exchange and you saw in them how he displeased this way of treatment, yet he nodded and you sat down. More and more you understood that the situation had a differnt tone in it. It wasn't mere courtesy why the Emperors treated you like that and given the way you'd read their eyes, it was more than clear that you've captured their interest. Usually any woman of the realm would fight for that privilege, but you had seen how your father acted in front of them, how worried he was when you first made your way to the palace - something was off. You knew you needed to pay attention and be cautious.

"Citizens of Rome, the arena welcomes you! Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, we the people bow to your greatness and the mighty of our beloved Empire! Under the eyes of the sun the colosseum presents to you a spectacle like no other!", the high-toned, yet thunderous voice of the richly decorated announcer set the beginning of the show and drew all eyes on the white sand down in the arena pit, where a group of men in armor but with a limited equipment of weapons entered through a door from the Colosseum's catacombs. "First we present to you the brave Gladiators that will be our Theseus' today! They may not need to save their Ariadne, but they'll still have to face horde of Minotaurs today in an attempt to safe their own lives!" With those words a couple of other doors opened and six wild bulls entered the arena. Their massive and strong bodies stirred up the sands with every step of their big hooves. They may've been animals, but they had terrible weapons on their head with sharp horns that grew out of their heads.

Caracalla clapped with a joyful laugh. "Oh i love mythological pieces, even though they forgot the labyrinth!"

Your fingers nestled with the fabric of your dress in nervousness as you watched the men prepare themselves for the attack of the angry bulls, which were already pawing with their hooves. More than one set off to ran towards the Gladiators and given the fast but powerful movements of those animals, it didn't take long until the first fighter got overrun by them and another one faced the horns that drilled themselves like spikes into his torso, where blood spilled like a waterfall. The other fighters tried their best to ran or face the bulls with the few weapons they'd been given. One of them even striked down a beast by pressing his sword into its neck, when it was running towards him. You watched the spectacle with a neutral, yet pale face, while the Emperors seemingly enjoyed the show. Geta quickly noticed the way you followed the happenings down in the arena and leaned towards you.

"Are you not entertained, y/n ?", he asked you in a low voice, still loud enough to overcome the cheerings of the crowd. Your eyes went to him, facing the deep blue of his own, while you tried to put on a mask of apathy. "It is hard for me to understand, why useless killing is viewed as entertainment, I'm afraid," you answered, but it just got you an amused smirk in return.

"Oh it is not useless. You see, nothing is as entertaining as humanity itself. What lies more in our human nature than violence, power and the survival of the strongest? Without that, your father wouldn't be able to win all his great victories and our father would not have been able to secure the Roman Empire after the weak reign of the senate."

"And yet Emperor Marcus Aurelius believed that true strength isn't born in violence, but in mindfulness and kindness. The ability to speak, think and therefore to thrive for something higher than mere survival, is what distinguishes us from animals," you responded in a clear, settled tone. This sudden response surprised Geta clearly as his eyes widened and his fingers tensed up. Even Caracalla's eyes had left the arena for a moment and were locked at you. Even though he followed the fight down there, one of his ears had catched every word you'd said. What a sweet, naive woman you were... it made this whole moment even more interesting.

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched and at first you weren't able to tell if he found your words disrespectful or not. In fact, he'd not expected such a bold answer from a woman, especially not against an Emperor. And even though he wouldn't agree with you, it proved him right, that you were not a simple-minded girl. Naive maybe, but not dull.

"Interesting thought, my dear. But would you recite the words to one of these brave warriors down there too? Who will ll earn their freedom, if violence keeps them alive long enough? We offer them a precious gift, and in return they entertain us."

Your eyes went to the pit again, which was mottled in deep red blood now with only one man and one bull remaining. The moment was intense as both animal and human watched each other with intensity, before the bull stormed forward and the speer of the Gladiator, who waited for the perfect moment, hit his opponent. The massive body fell to the ground and the people cheered in Ecstasy. Geta and Caracalla clapped with admiration for the celebrated Gladiator, as he sunk to his knee and bowed to them.

The next round began after the exhausted and wounded 'hero' stumbled through one of the doors, back into the darkness of the catacombs, before he was replaced by a bigger group of Gladiators, who now had to face armed chariots. Their opponents wore the armory of old Sparta while they teared down one after one with their arrows. You leaned back in silence, watched by Caracalla, whose eyes were taking in her side profile for quite a while now. Even though he loved the fights down there, the blood, the violence... you encaptured him more right now. Your stern face, which carried a deep displeasure for this, while you tried so hard to hide it, it was captivating.

Everyone, even his own twin tend to underestimate Caracalla. Even though he was born a couple of minutes earlier than Geta and was therefore technically older than him, his stature was smaller and he wasn't as tall as his brother. This was accompanied by the fact that he enjoyed the pleasantries the god Bacchus had to offer him: wine, music, arts and sex - even more than Geta did. Together with his rather impulsive way of acting, it often led to the false thought that the more capable brother of them was Geta. Oh, Caracalla hated this, it was a misinterpretation weaved like a thread through his whole life. Because he had a gift, he could read people and together with his extensive web of information sources and spies within the city of Rome and beyond, he had a power that lied in the dark. And it was a preparation he did on purpose after he'd learned about the plot that was once set against Emperor Commodus. Some would've said it was paranoia, maybe it was, but he would call it 'preparation'. Nonetheless it came with the pleasant side effect of knowing a lot about the people around him.

"I've heard that you rather choose the theater over the arena", he said with a soft, yet unreadable smile on his lips. "You're a dreamer, aren't you?"

As you heard his voice next to you, your eyes quickly turned to him. "There is nothing wrong with dreaming, my Emperor...", you answered and he nodded quickly as if he'd hoped for that answer. Caracalla even grinned, his golden tooth gleaming in the light. "No, not at all." My Emperor. The way you've said it with your eyes looking at him. It electrified him, so much so that the cheers of the crowd almost faded in the background. You'd faced the pit and the fighters again, but he was still staring at you.

"Which play?"

"Octavia," the name almost shot from you mouth.

"And you consider yourself to be?"

"Octavia. And you?" You didn't even expected him to give you an answer on that, but meanwhile Caracalla's grin grew wider.

"Nero," he said just as fast as you'd answered before.

Your eyes instantly went back to the Emperor, whose eyes were now focused on the deadly fight between a Gladiator and a chariot rider. He couldn't hold back a chuckle, while he watched how the man pushed his sword through the neck of his opponent, ripping off his head.

Nero.

"Why?", you suddenly asked, this time it were your eyes, that watched him.

"I cannot blame him for setting himself free." His answer was almost like a whisper, yet you heard every word. It was a very unconventional way of interpreting the mad Emperor, one she herself would even despise, if he wouldn't seem to be so certain of it. It meant something more.

The arena fight slowly came to an end, when only to oppontents were fighting for the right to claim the victory. Nearly all of the Gladiators and chariot riders were dead, their bodys laying in the pale sand and drowining it with their blood, a weird composition of death that accompanied your questions about Caracalla's answer.

After a final hit, one of the men went down on his knees. He was wounded, severely, and he now felt the tip of a sword against his neck. He surrendered and the gods had to decide what will happen with him. One of the Gods was Geta, who stood up from his chair and approached the balustrade, while the crowd called for a decision. The Gods need to decide, yet Geta suddenly turned his head to you. "What do we say,...? y/n, should he live or die?"

Your face grew even paler than it already was, your fingers were almost digging themselves into the armrests of your chair. You felt a thousand eyes on you, even though it was only Geta and Caracalla watching you, as well as the eyes of your father from behind. The Gladiator waited, while his opponent's arm was cut off and his head was bowed down as if he awaited death. And the crowd screamed and screamend. Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

It rang in your ears, you didn't want to make this decision. But the moment you faced the Emperor, just as you opened your mouth, Geta simply bowed his thumb down - Death.

And the sword went down. Death.

The head dropped in the sand followed by the body, the cheers errupted in the arena, screaming the name of the victorious Gladiator. But you just stared into the nothingness that was in front of you, while you bit your tongue to the point of pain. "Don't pain yourself about this, my dear. There was only one answer anyways," Geta said while he suddenly reached out for your hand and kissed your knuckles, before he took his glass of wine. You didn't move, you couldn't.

Caracalla stared at this scenery and his fingers were shaking as his eyes darkened. The intense urge came up his mind: To simply take his brother and throw him from this box into the pit, his neck breaking from the impact. Those thoughts sometimes came and went, but they got more intense every time he saw Geta interacting with you. And this interaction hit a new high point in him that was only interruped by your form the moment you stood up.

"My Emperors, it was a pleasure to join you, but i need to leave now...", you said in a tone that tried so hard to be polite and not carry any emotion, before you turned your back and quickly stepped out of the imperial arena box, followed by your father General Acacius, who bowed and excused himself in an equally neutral tone.

Both Geta and Caracalla watched them leaving, before the taller one of the twins took a deep sip of his wine. "She'll learn to love it sooner or later."

______________________________

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@barcelonaloverf1life @naysha140 @shinnerslighttt @mmkkzz @ange-olras @earfq0ake @honey-eyed-munson @koshkahhh

Please leave a comment, if you want to be tagged in the next chapter.

If you liked my fic, please feel free to like, reblog and leave a comment. I am always happy to hear your thoughts <3

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fic #kabuki writes

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wendichester · 2 months ago

Text

⊹ ࣪ ˖ bait²,

summary. sam lost his soul and you finally had enough.

pairing. soulless!sam winchester x reader genre. angsty

wordcount. 708

notes / warnings. trauma aftermath, PTSD-ish vibes, guilt, references to past injuries.

ᯓ★ read part 1

You don’t expect him to knock.

But he does. Two soft raps, like he’s afraid the sound might break you.

You open the door because you’re tired of running from ghosts. And because, even now, he’s still wearing the same face.

Sam stands there like a shadow. His eyes are red-rimmed, his shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a hit. You’ve never seen him this small. Not even when he died. Not even when he came back wrong.

“Hey,” he says.

You don’t answer.

He looks down, sucks in a breath like it hurts. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate, then step back. Not because you want him here—but because you need answers. And closure. And maybe some kind of justice, even if it’s just watching him squirm.

He walks in like the floor might disappear beneath him. You stay by the window, arms crossed, pretending it doesn’t shake you to see him again.

Pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something.

It doesn’t take long.

“I remember everything.”

You nod once, slow. “Good.”

“I shouldn’t have—” His voice cracks. He tries again. “I shouldn’t have done what I did to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

He looks at you, and it’s different now. His eyes aren’t cold anymore. They’re alive. Haunted. Full of too much. Like he’s drowning in it.

“I didn’t feel anything back then,” he says, stepping closer. “I thought I understood what that meant. I didn’t.”

“Yeah?” you bite out. “What does it mean now?”

His throat works, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a scream. “It means I hurt you and didn’t care. And now I can’t stop caring.”

You flinch.

“Do you know what it’s like?” he asks, voice rising. “To look at your own memories and want to claw your own skin off? To watch yourself leave someone bleeding, knowing you loved them once—and did nothing?”

“Yeah, Sam,” you say. “I do. Because I lived it.”

He nods, eyes shining, but the tears don’t fall. Not yet.

“I used you,” he says. “I used you like you were a tool. You almost died because I couldn’t feel. Because I made a call like I was a—like I was a computer running a fucking simulation.”

You stare at him. “You’re not saying anything I don’t already know.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m saying it because I need to hear it.”

Silence swells between you, heavy and raw.

He looks away. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“Good,” you say, and it lands like a slap.

He flinches. Deserves it.

You swallow hard. “You left me in that clearing to die, Sam. You didn’t even hesitate. You said I was the best option. Like I was a pawn.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You meant every word. You just didn’t care then.”

He nods again. Looks like he’s barely holding it together.

And for a second, you almost want to close the space between you. Reach out. Touch him. But your fingers remember the blood. Your ribs remember the ache. Your heart remembers too much.

“I can’t just forget what you did,” you whisper. “I don’t know if I should.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You study him. He looks older. Not just tired—wrecked. Like he’s been clawing through every bad memory trying to erase what he can’t change.

“I loved you,” you say. The words come out cracked, fragile.

His eyes finally spill over. Quiet, trembling tears that streak down his face like penance.

“I still do,” he chokes. “God, I still do. But I don’t know how to deserve you again.”

You close your eyes.

That’s the worst part.

Because some traitorous part of you still loves him too. And it hates you for it.

You open your eyes. Look at him. Really look.

And you say, “I don’t know if you can.”

He nods, accepting it. No protest. No begging. Just that hollowed-out pain that sits in his chest like a confession.

“I’ll go,” he says.

And you let him.

Because you don’t owe him anything.

Not now.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But after the door clicks shut, you lean your head against the wall and cry.

Because it still hurts.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester angst #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx

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chvoswxtch · 5 months ago

Note

Romcom - with Hotch ? 👀🫶🏼

Girl i’ve been waiting for the right time for you to hopefully take this and do your thing with it cuz you’re amazing. I know it’s specific and long so pls feel free to do with it what you like. Also I’m not sure it fits your movie night theme, so then maybe just keep it for when you maybe do wanna write it???? Here it is, whatever….

K so like hotch and reader are like couple goals, been married long, working through everything and are just downright adorable BUT THEN hotch nearly dies…like for real gets shot in the stomach or something - something real scary. And aaaaall the time he’s mumbleling stuff, reassuringly or scared like: you cant tell my wife she’ll end me or tell her I’m fine, gonna be home for dinner…

But maybe she’s there and she’s trying her hardest to make everybody move, but Morgan is just not having it, making her stay tf back…

When she finally sees him she’s s c a r e d…so terrified of might having actually lost him, of it happening again cuz he will be in these situations again and who is she if not supportive and understanding…just scared and hopelessly in love. bye.

honey you essentially just wrote a whole ass masterpiece on your own

but you asked for my dramatic flair & I am nothing if not a dramatic bitch that lives for the ✨ t h e a t r e ✨

headcannon below the cut

if i stay starring aaron hotchner

derek knew you would physically fist fight him in the middle of that hospital hallway if he even dared to try and keep you out of hotch's room. he kept trying to reason with you, that you wouldn't wanna see him in that state, but you were not in a state of mind to be reasoned with

when you got the call from rossi that your husband was in the hospital, that familiar stone of dread sank in your stomach, nearly sending you through the floor. he didn't say what had happened, not over the phone, but you could hear the fear in his voice, which terrified you

the solemn faces of his team didn't help ease your anxiety, and the grisly details sent your nervous system into a full on meltdown. you could only pick up bits and pieces of what the surgeon explained

gunshot. loss of blood. critical condition. touch and go.

being in the bau was a dangerous job, and hotch had gotten hurt a few times over the course of your marriage, but it had never been this bad

nothing could've prepared you for the sight of hotch bruised and bloodied, laying in a hospital bed, connected to a bunch of wires that were keeping him alive, with an oxygen tube in his nose to help his weakened lungs do the most basic of human subconscious functions

panic, fear, anger, hopelessness, desperation, sadness; all of these emotions were crashing over each other like perilous tides and you were drowning beneath their tenacity

hotch was the strongest person you knew, physically and mentally. he was your rock. to see him reduced to something so fragile and broken shattered something within you. it wasn't like you were foolish enough to think your husband was invincible, but he was smart and cautious, he knew what he was doing. but today reminded you just how human he was

all you could do was sit there by his side and hold his hand while you fluctuated from silent weeping to full fledged sobbing. it didn't feel like enough, but it was all you could do. you couldn't help but replay this morning over and over in your head, analyzing every frame. had you told him you loved him? had you kissed him before he left? had you savored the few seconds before he walked out the door, not knowing that he might not walk back through it?

"don't tell my wife."

you'd been sitting there for what felt like an eternity in silence with nothing but the haunting background noise of beeping machines and chatter in the hallway. it was so faint, you almost didn't hear it. hotch still looked like he was sleeping, and you weren't sure if you'd imagined it or not

"what?"

you leaned in a little closer, and when he let out a deep exhale, the first sign of life you'd seen since you stepped into this room, you almost burst into tears

"don't tell my wife."

his speech was slightly slurred as he mumbled, and you weren't sure if it was due to the blood loss or the anesthesia that was wearing off from surgery

"why not?"

he was so out of it he didn't even seem to recognize your voice

"because she'll kick my ass."

you couldn't stop the laugh that escaped your lips at that, covering your mouth with your hand while the most imperceptible of a smile tugged at the edge of his lips

"I promised i'd be home for dinner."

giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you sniffled and wiped at your damp cheeks with a sad smile

"i'm sure she'll understand if you're a little late."

a sound that was a cross between a snort and a scoff left hotch as one of his thick dark brows subtly arched

"you haven't met my wife."

brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, you reached out with your other to gently push his hair back

"maybe this is a cosmic sign it's time for a vacation."

in the midst of gently carding your fingers through his hair, the next words that left his lips caught you off guard and made you go still

"maybe it's time to retire."

a full minute of silence passed, and then slowly, hotch's eyes opened, and as if drawn by some invisible magnetic force, the immediately found you

the pressure of him squeezing your hand, a silent gesture of not just reassurance, but also his strength returning, had tears welling up in your eyes all over again

hotch slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wandering over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail, and then a gentle but weak smile graced his mouth

"I won't be late for dinner ever again, honey."

I made myself emotional and now i'm gonna go cry excuse me

#court's 5k followers celebration #court's 5k friends celebration #movie night at mine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x f!reader #aaron hotchner headcannon #criminal minds #criminal minds headcannon

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train-wrecc · 11 months ago

Text

Waiting. Lee Eun-Hyeok.

(This picture was all I could find y'all 😭 +from Safari)

word count: 1.8k

warnings: The use of "Oppa" (I know some people don't like it or think it's cringey so here's your warning.) Unrequited love? Mentions of blood.

summary: Lee Eun-Hyeok's return.

pairing: Lee Eun-Hyeok x Fem!Reader

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had felt like an eternity since you had been able to meet his dark brown eyes with those of your own. They looked exactly the same, dark brown, yet they weren't your Lee Eun-hyeok's. They were the brown eyes of a stranger.

He stood in front of you appearing as the same man you had been waiting for, longing for, surviving for. His shoulders no longer held the weight of the world on them, which that you were grateful for. To those who didn't know him, his eyes had always lacked a warmth to them; but to you there had once been a small tinge of lightness in them. Now, they truly held nothing but indifference.

As you took in every inch of him, desperate to familiarize yourself with the sight of him once again, he stood looking at you. He wasn't analyzing your every move like he used to, he was simply looking at you. Nothing more and nothing less.

Your arms itched to wrap themselves around him but you refrained from doing so. The air felt tense, not much could be heard aside from your slight uneven breaths. He turned to walk away, "Are you really leaving me again?" His steps slowed to a stop. From his reaction alone you first thought he didn't recognize you.

His back stayed facing you, "Lee Eun-Hyeok, you've been alive all this time, and not once did you try to look for me?" He couldn't even turn to face you. "Why would I?" You could feel the tears begging to spill from your eyes, but you blinked them away. "Because you love me. You love me like I love you." You reached for his hand but stopped midway fearing that he would pull away.

Just how you feared he'd pull away from your touch you feared his response to your words. "Because I waited for you and I lived for you, I almost died searching for just a glimpse of you..." You quietly let out, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "I never asked you to do any of that." He finally turned toward you. His face was void of emotion, "Do you know the way to the stadium?" His eyes once again met yours, and you looked away not being able to gaze into their emptiness.

"Why are you being like this?"

"So, you don't know how to get to the stadium?" This time you turned your back towards him, trying to catch your breath, because each word he said continued to feel like a punch to the gut, another finger around your throat.

A stray tear stained your cheek, your hand flying up to quickly swipe it away. You faced him once again, "Is that all you care about, huh? The stadium?" You let out a dry laugh. "No," and for a second you had hope, "I don't care about anything, just curious." There he went shredding every ounce of it.

It broke you out of your trance for a second, turning to look at the bus your brother Cha Hyun-Su was trapped in. You were overwhelmed and not sure what to do, various emotions drowning you. "Help me get Hyun-Su out." You nodded to the bus, not wanting to speak of your feelings for him any longer.

"No, this is his test." He said taking a seat on some steps. You huffed, irritation flooding you. It was as if you were speaking to a wall. "Yah! Lee Eun-Hyeok do something!" You yelled at him. He simply stared at you blankly. "He's a neo-human. He can get himself out."

"What if he can't? I just found him again, please, Lee Eun-Hyeok..." You whispered shakily, sniffling. "Then I guess you're both useless to me." You didn't ever think you'd hear Eun-Hyeok say something like that to you. The last words he'd said were a promise of love and that he would return to you.

Now he sat in front of you not because he had returned to you, but by chance, because he didn't willingly seek you out. "Don't say that. Stop being like this!" You cried out. "I waited all this time for you, just for you to— to what? Hate me? You said you loved me! You promised me you'd come back and you never did! And now you're— you're acting like this!" You gave up on trying to match his nonchalance, you couldn't take it, couldn't stand the sight of his lips in that straight emotionless line. From his unfurrowed brows to his dry eyes, they all led you to the conclusion that he didn't care.

"I don't hate you, and I don't love you." You couldn't even feel your nails digging into the palm of your hands leaving deep crescent marks.

When did he stop loving you? Why did he stop loving you? You didn't want to know. You just wanted to feel his warm embrace around you. What he should've done when he first saw you. Yet here he was calling you useless, another finger tightening around your throat. You weren't sure when you had started crying but there was no stopping the tears now.

You wanted him to see that he was hurting you, you wanted him to stop. Maybe he could see it in your eyes, your desperation to see a glimpse of the Eun-Hyeok you knew because his next words were "I'm not the Eun-Hyeok you remember." Not even flinching at the sight of your tears.

He used to kiss those same tears away, and now he was the cause of them, the fuel that aided them.

"I'm a neohuman, the next step in human evolution."

"I don't care, Hyeok!" He almost flinched at the memory of your nickname for him. Almost.

"I don't care if you're a neohuman or a monster, all I care about is you! But you don't care about me, you don't love..." you didn't finish your sentence, you couldn't. You could no longer hold your body up, falling to the rough tar of the street. You felt a warm liquid against the skin of your knees due to the fall. That pain was nothing compared to the wound to your heart.

Your chest felt as if it was on fire. "Why are you doing this to me?" You sobbed, your hands coming up to cover your eyes.

"Oppa..." you cried for Hyun-Su. Suddenly Eun-Hyeok was crouched beside you as shards of the bus burst through the air. You uncovered your eyes, tears still falling as you looked at Eun-Hyeok.

"If you got hurt he would never agree to help me." You bit your lip to hold in the sob.

You looked past him to see Hyun-Su standing in front of the remains of the bus. His brown eyes made you cry harder. He was back. Eun-Hyeok stood up, as Hyun-Su made his way toward the both of you.

Once he stood in front of you he pulled you to your feet, before his arms tightly embraced you. "Oppa...you're back." You couldn't help but cry, causing him to gently rub your back in an attempt to calm you. "It's okay." Another attempt to soothe you. You hugged him tighter, begging the ache in your heart to go away. He slightly pulled away as your breathing evened out, but tears still raced down your cheeks. He wiped the tears, "I'm sorry." Escaping his lips.

It felt as if he was apologizing for letting dark Hyun-Su take over but also for Eun-Hyoek's actions.

"It's okay, Hyun-Su." You struggled to put a smile on. Eun-Hyeok began walking off toward the way he assumed the stadium was. You squeezed Hyun-Su's hand, "Thank you for coming back to me." You gently said before letting go. You caught up to Eun-Hyeok, grabbing his wrist to stop him. "I'm not letting you leave again. You can hurt me all you want, I don't care how much more pain I have to go through or how long I have to wait for you, I'll wait." You sniffled.

He turned to face you, "I have my memories, but I don't have any emotions." It felt as if this was his way of apologizing. "That's how it is for us, and we learn fast." He pulled your hand off his own wrist. "If you're fast learners, you can learn emotions. I'll love you... love you until you learn to love me again." You said in an even voice. He remained silent, turning to walk off again.

Another tear slipped from your red eyes. Grabbing his wrist once again you turned, pulling him in the opposite direction, the correct way to the stadium. Your hand clasped his tightly not allowing him to let go. As you reached Hyun-Su your other hand finding his as you continued to make your way to the stadium. Hyun-Su threw a glare at Eun-Hyeok, infuriated that your tears were his cause.

Hyun-Su squeezed your hand in his pulling you more towards him, "You shouldn't wait for him, he doesn't deserve it." He said as if Eun-Hyeok wasn't even there. If it weren't for your hand tightly gripping his cold one, you'd forget he was even there. "I know, but I—I still love him." You stuttered and glanced at Eun-Hyeok whose sharp eyes never strayed from looking in front of him.

You turned resting your head on Hyun-Su's shoulder, "You don't know how much I missed you, Oppa." Eun-Hyeok's eyes cautiously glanced your way as you weren't looking.

"Me too," Hyun-Su replied glancing toward you, placing a kiss to your forehead. A small smile painted your lips. It was your first genuine smile since he had returned. Lee Eun-Hyeok gazed ahead once again, not wanting to stare at your smile for too long. Something about it caused a stir deep within him.

You had grown used to waiting, almost numb to the feeling. You had waited for Lee Eun-Hyeok, for your brother Cha Hyun-Su, if you had to wait a little longer to truly be united with the man you loved then that is what you will do. You refused to believe that the Eun-Hyeok you love was no longer within the man beside you. You knew deep within him he was there somewhere. Although Eun-Hyeok had crushed all your hope, the return of your Hyun-Su reignited it. You had Hyun-Su now, and that would be enough.

You will ignore the ache in your heart and wait for Lee Eun-Hyeok's return. You will gaze into his dark brown cold eyes with the warmth of your own. Meet his emotionless face with your own filled with desperation, love, any other emotion you could muster. You will love this shell of a man that used to be your Eun-Hyeok. Because it's all you could do.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A/N: Is this my first post in like over a year? Yes… 😭😭 Did I write this at like 4am after I finished watching season 3? Yes.

Also I was v disappointed with Lee Eun Hyeoks return or how it was written I guess, like why was he more loving toward Cha Hyun Su than his sister? 😭😭

+Also where are all the sweet home fics? I’ve read like all of them already 😭

#lee eunhyuk x reader #lee eun hyuk #lee eun yu #cha hyun soo x reader #cha hyun su x reader #park chanyoung x reader #sweet home #lee eun hyeok #angst fic #sweet home netflix

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mystic-writings · 7 months ago

Text

forgiven

PAIRING — ex!dean winchester x fem!reader

SUMMARY — two years after you broke up, dean convinces you to let him help you with a hunt.

WARNINGS — angst, hurt/no comfort, major character death, torture, reader and dean ‘hate’ each other

WORD COUNT — 6,610

SONG — my tears ricochet - taylor swift

NOTES — writing this fic almost killed me. why does dean winchester turn me into an anguished poet.

masterlist | taglist

Regret.

Dean was a man with a long list of them, but as he stood in a field, watching the pyre burn alongside his brother and Bobby, he found himself placing you at the very top. You were the biggest regret of his life, and he hasn’t even made it to his thirties. He regretted shutting you out. He regretted letting you walk away. He regretted not looking for you when he finally came to his senses. He regretted not being fast enough.

He regretted letting you die.

Sam and Bobby had told him one too many times that it wasn’t his fault, but wasn’t it always? Wasn’t it always him making the hard choices, only for them to be wrong, in the end? Wasn’t it always him who had the blood of innocent people staining his hands? Wasn’t it always him that isn’t fast enough, isn’t strong enough, isn’t good enough?

Wasn’t it him that got you killed?

He’d heard things from other hunters after you broke things off with him. How bloodthirsty you’d become, always working alone, working efficiently, working ruthlessly. He’d hated it, deep down. How you dug yourself deeper into the hunting world when all either of you ever wanted was to get out. It killed him inside, knowing you were still in the business, even if a larger part of him carried hatred for you, albeit misplaced. Dean would never admit it aloud to anyone, though. Sam was often on the receiving end of his outward projections and rants at how much he hated you, and so was Bobby, on the rare occasion he saw the Winchesters. But the inward reflection of his soul was full of hurt; pain and grief and regret buried deep, dug up when Sam was asleep in the Impala and Dean waited for you to start some kind of weird conversation — only to remember you weren’t there anymore.

It came back to him every once in a while, the memories Dean never wanted to relive. They were too domestic (at least, as domestic as they could get in their line of work), too happy. But they were always hidden, waiting for Dean to be at his weakest. In an old mixtape, in a certain Zeppelin song that would play on the radio, in the crappy diner meals he would eat late into the night, in the glint of light off the silver ring you gifted him on his last birthday with you.

He wanted to hate you. He wanted nothing more than to hate you. But all you wanted to do was help him. His dad just died, of course all you wanted to do was help him. Dean was just too busy spiralling and drowning in his own grief to see it. That’s what he liked to tell himself. It was the grief that pushed you away. Just another thing his father wouldn’t let him keep to himself, to enjoy and cherish. He put the blame on his father, because why wouldn’t he? John Winchester was responsible for just about every other bad thing in his life thus far, why wouldn’t he be responsible for pushing you away, too?

So, like you, Dean hardened himself, diving headfirst into the very next case Sam was able to find. He ignored the pain, closed himself off, and got back to doing what he did best — hunting.

It was easy enough most days. In fact, it made him just that much better at what he did. It should’ve been concerning, at the very least, but Sam knew better than to step in Dean’s path. So, he watched silently as his brother, slowly but surely, crumbled beneath the weight of his own steeled emotions. But it didn’t show; not really, not beyond the occasional breakdown or bender, not until Sam and Dean arrived in Chicago.

The case itself was mostly cut and dry, they could see that before they even reached the city. Bobby had offered it over to them, a suspected shapeshifter that enjoyed preying upon people by taking on the faces of their ex-boyfriends and torturing them to death. It was gruesome, to say the least, but it wasn’t anything the Winchesters hadn’t seen before. In fact, it practically solved itself, save for the fact that the locations didn’t quite line up with the sewer system, and therefore, they had to take their time in locating the shapeshifter’s lair.

Their first clue that something was wrong was when they interviewed the first victim’s best friend.

“And you’re sure Katie was fine when you left?” Sam asked.

“Yes! Katie doesn’t— didn’t drink. She hated the stuff. We thought Matt was already gone, I mean, he said it himself. He was about to move to Boston.” The girl — Ashley, Dean thought her name might’ve been — reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “Why are you asking all this again?”

“Again?” Dean stiffened.

“Yeah, again.” She scoffed. “Another agent was here yesterday. A woman, I can’t remember her name. Mick? Something like that?”

Sam’s face dropped. “Agent Nicks?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Look, she already asked me all this stuff before, can’t you guys just leave me alone?”

Dean and Sam shared a quick glance before the latter closed his notebook. “Of course, we’ll get out of your hair.”

Neither of the brothers spoke until they were in the Impala, Sam reaching for his phone while peeling away from the curb, dialling Bobby’s number and putting him on speaker.

Bobby didn’t have the chance to breathe on the other line before Sam was speaking. “She’s here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise we were playing a game of Guess Who.” Bobby snipped. “Who the hell are you talking about, boy?”

“Y/n. She’s in Chicago. We just talked to the first vic’s friend, she said another agent already talked to her. Agent Nicks.”

Bobby cursed under his breath. “She ain’t gonna like you two bein’ there.”

“Well that’s just too bad,” Dean piped up, practically white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We’re already here. And I’m not leaving a case behind just because little miss wants to pitch a fit about it. We’re finishing this hunt whether she likes it or not.”

“On your head,” Bobby conceded. “Just be careful, boys. She ain’t the same girl she was two years ago.”

“We will. Talk to you later, Bobby.” Sam huffed as he ended the call, eyeing his oddly silent older brother as they headed back to their motel room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice was sharp, laced with anger directed at a pair of haunting green eyes.

“Working the case, sweetheart,” Dean smiled condescendingly, leaning against the bar. “You know, you should try to be a little less conspicuous next time, Agent Nicks.”

Damnit.

“And which conspicuous name are you using this time?” You tilted your head, chest already filled to the brim with barely contained rage. “Johnson? Perry? Oh, maybe it’s Plant! You always did have a hard-on for Zeppelin.”

“Would you—” Dean cut himself off with a heavy sigh. “God, you’re so— You know, I don’t know how the hell I put up with you for so long.”

“I guess I was just really good in bed,” you shrugged, a coy smirk playing on your lips. If this had been some post-hunt pub night years ago, Dean would’ve kissed that smirk right off your face. But it wasn’t. It was now, in Chicago, in a hotspot for shapeshifter activity and you hadn’t seen Dean’s face in so long that the presence of it now only made your blood boil.

“Whatever. We’re both in this now, whether you like it or not.”

“Like hell,” you nearly spat, finishing off your beer. “I work alone, Winchester. Or haven’t you heard?”

“It’s funny that you think I still think about you.” Dean scoffed a laugh. “We might as well do this together. Shapeshifters, they’re tricky business.”

“For you, maybe. Besides, taking on a shapeshifter in a group practically spells trouble. Ever since I left you guys, I’ve had no trouble taking them out on my own.” You shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Dean huffed, suddenly frustrated at your vehement refusal to work together. “Look, if we don’t work together, we’re only gonna get in each other’s way. And you and I both know neither of us are just gonna give up the job. That’s not how we work.”

“Why are you so insistent that I be anywhere near you, Dean?” You asked, dropping your angry mask and giving into the slight heartache behind it. “Because if I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted me gone.”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his mind fumbling for any response that he could save face with. His green eyes flashed with hurt, only to be swept away by his tired, nearly pleading puppy dog eyes — nowhere near as convincing as Sam’s, but you were the only person he was ever able to charm with them, anyway. “Because it’s safer, and you of all people should know that I’d never hang a hunter out to dry like that. Especially—”

Dean cut himself off, his heart aching as he seemed, just for a moment, to forget what you two really were. Bitter exes with a taste for violence; proximal bombs so close to going off. If only you weren’t just that, then Dean would’ve said what was on his mind. Especially people I care about. Especially you.

You eyed the elder Winchester wearily, his words scratching at the crumbling walls around your heart. You hated to admit it, but maybe, just this once, Dean Winchester was right. These past few years had been wearing you down, stripping your resolve down to nothing more than a single, solitary wall protecting the worst thing you could think of from reaching your heart. You were tired. More so than you were when Dean first suggested getting the hell out of hunting. Back when he suggested it for the both of you, and ideas of an apartment and a dog and a normal fucking job were included in hushed conversations before bed in a crappy motel.

And then John Winchester sacrificed himself to save his son, and everything slipped out from underneath you. Because you knew the truth, long before Dean ever figured it out. John had told you himself — his final act, the only selfless thing he’d done for his boys. He begged you to get them out, told you that killing yellow eyes didn’t matter anymore. He just wanted his sons safe. And you couldn’t even do that.

With a final sigh, a too-long look into Dean’s eyes, and the echo of John Winchester’s final words to you ringing in your ears, you conceded. “Fine. But if anything happens, Winchester, so help me—”

“I know, you’ll kick my ass.”

“Actually, I’ll key your car, but that works too.”

Once you finally put all three of your heads together, it wasn’t difficult to find the shapeshifter’s central hiding spot. All of the locations it’d attacked at were no more than a 15-minute walk from an abandoned factory, which seemed to be the perfect spot. It irked you that you still didn’t know exactly how the shifter was picking and choosing its victims, but as long as it was dead before dawn broke, you would be content.

So, loaded up with silver — a knife tucked up your sleeve and some handy silver bullets loaded into your pistol, you joined the Winchesters in hunting a monster for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Your reunion with Sam was much more pleasant than your encounter with Dean, as the younger of the brothers had always had a soft spot for you. He considered you family well before Dean had even had the guts to ask you out, and he was just glad that you’d been staying safe during the years you spent apart.

“So, what exactly are we doing?” You’d asked, leaning over the Impala’s front seat, eyeing both Winchesters like it was any other hunt. The ride up until then had been eerily quiet, no one speaking a word and no music playing, which was unusual for Dean. But that was only because the last cassette mix you’d made him was still in the player, and he refused to show any kind of weakness. To show you that he still kept some parts of you around.

“Factory’s pretty big, so we might have to split up for a bit, see what we can see.” Dean reminded you, sending you a cursory glance in the rearview mirror.

You grimaced. “I don’t like the sound of that. A shifter could do anything with that kind of vulnerability between us.”

“And it’ll take hours for us to find the damn thing and gank it if we all stick together,” Dean argued, gripping the wheel a little tighter. A sliver of moonlight glinted off a ring on his right ring finger, and you noticed absently that it was the one you’d gifted him for his birthday just before you’d broken up.

“And we won’t be able to gank it at all if it looks like one of us and then we all die, Dean!” You shot back, voice rising in volume. “I’ve done this enough to know that if we stick together, our chances are better.”

“We’re splitting up and that’s final. I don’t like it either, but it’s our best shot at finding this thing. From what I know, it’s quicker than most shifters, and that means it’s more dangerous.” Dean reasoned, and you knew better than to keep fighting him on it.

“Look,” Sam stepped in, turning to catch your gaze as you slumped back against the backseat. “It’ll be a lot quicker, but just in case something goes wrong, you shout. If you come across one of us and think it’s the shifter, pull your knife. It’s not the best, but Dean’s right, and it’s all we’ve got.”

You merely huffed, silently conceding to the brothers’ plan and ignoring the twist in your gut. Your mind was practically screaming at you, begging you to get away from the Winchester brothers and complete this hunt on your own. You would’ve made an exception for them in any other case, if it has just been any other monster. But shapeshifters relied on groups. They relied on the connection between mimic and victim. And your connection to Dean alone was too big of a risk to take just to kill one stupid monster.

But that monster had killed three people in the span of two weeks alone, and you would be damned if you let it kill anyone else.

So, you tamped down the anxiety brewing in your gut and let the lull of the Impala bring you a comfort you’d been sorely missing over the past few years. Despite what you led others to believe, hunting by yourself was lonely. There was never any backup, and you could die at any given moment, but it was all you had left. You, your weapons, and the faith that you’d get lucky enough to live another day.

You were living on luck, really. Luck and grit and hustling drunk guys at pool or poker. Always on the road, never sticking around, and never letting anyone get close. You’d tried it once with Dean, and all it got you was heartache. Hunting was the only thing left, and after all, violence was your preferred method of distraction. You remembered one of your first hunts after you and Dean had broken up — a particularly rowdy vamp nest in southern Oregon, hell bent on wreaking havoc on an entire town just to quell their bloodlust. You’d been too blinded by the idea of releasing your anger on them that you failed to see how big their nest truly was. All of them younger, more energised vampires than you were used to. They were quick, but you were far more skilled, and you’d almost had them all when one of them sideswiped you with a knife of its own, jamming between your ribs and leaving you nearly too weak to finish the rest off. But you’d done it anyway, before collapsing in the dirt outside. You thought you were going to die that night, bleeding out under a beautiful canopy of bright, white stars and a silver moon. And you would’ve gone willingly, with Dean as your last thought. Your last, heart wrenching, regretful thought. And then, with all the anger and willpower you could muster, you got back up. Because if there was one thing you would not do, it was die so young. So young and so unaccomplished and so unloved. And you would not let your last thoughts be of the man who so willingly pushed you out of his life to succumb to his grief, when all you had wanted to do was help him through it.

The cut of the engine turning off pulled you from the depths of your mind, darkness enveloping you as the headlights ceased. Turning to the window, you glanced at the distant, towering factory. It was decrepit; all shattered windows and crumbling brick. Graffiti covered almost every surface, and you could see how it was the perfect space for a shapeshifter to lay low.

Stepping outside, you re-checked all your weapons. The silver knife, still tucked in your sleeve. The gun, its magazine still loaded with silver bullets. Another knife, made of regular steel, tucked into your boot. It was an old switchblade, and had seen its fair share of kills over the years. One of the few things from Dean that you refused to part with, mostly due to how well it had served you in tight spots.

The walk into the factory, armed to the teeth with knives and flashlights, was silent. You all knew the plan, what was to be done. Nothing else needed to be said. With a few nods and nudges, Dean directed you all to different areas of the sprawling, decrepit building. The top floors were mostly gone, and you could see right through the holes in the concrete above. It was mostly a maze of heavy machinery and different rooms, and before you knew it, you were walking carefully, all on your own, toward the backend of the building. You could no longer hear either of the Winchester brothers’ footfalls, and the lack of noise within the building put you on edge. You kept your eyes and ears sharp, ignoring the chill in the room and the way your heart hammered behind your ribcage. The last thing you needed was to slip up. To let the shifter get the jump on you in some way.

Your movements were precise as you swept through each room, gun in hand and flashlight sweeping across the dark factory, searching for any clue that could lead you closer to the shifter. It felt like hours had passed until you stumbled upon a mound of flesh and liquid, gagging as your light glinted off it. It seemed fresh, too, and you briefly wondered if the shifter was off torturing someone else in the city and this plan was now a bust.

Then something scraped behind you, and you turned quickly, only to meet Dean’s squinting eyes. He was in different clothes, lacking a flashlight.

“What happened to your clothes?” You asked, tone tight.

“Covered in shifter juices. I had to change.” He huffed, already fed up.

“Your flashlight?” You asked again. “Where is it?”

“Battery died. I went looking for you when I got back inside. You were right, we should stick together.” Dean relented, and wearily, you nodded and lowered your gun, your grip on it still tight. You didn’t want to trust him, but it was Dean.

“Let’s go find Sammy and sweep back around. I think this thing’s bedroom might be nearby. If these things even have bedrooms.”

Beside you, Dean scoffed a laugh. “Doubt it.”

You eyed him again, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. “Since when are you so chipper, Winchester? I thought you hated the sight of me.”

“I don’t,” Dean shrugged simply, eyeing you quizzically when he caught your gaze. “What? I may not like you, but you’re right. Shifters ain’t fun going after alone, especially in a group.”

“I know.” You said, your voice tight. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. But you kept yourself level. “That’s why I didn’t want either of you coming with me. But you just had to be persistent, didn’t you?”

“Well, you know me,” Dean shrugged casually, turning down a hallway.

“Yeah, I do know you.” You said, walking a bit faster to stop Dean in his tracks. Your eyeline lined up perfectly with his chest, and you did your best to remain calm as you gripped your gun tighter. “And I know damn well you wouldn’t go anywhere without your necklace. Not even if you changed your clothes during a hunt.”

Dean looked down at you as though you were crazy, a hand coming up to grasp gently at your bicep. “What are you talking about? I left it in the car, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” You snipped, glancing down and finding the ring you gave him to be missing as well. “And your ring? The one you promised me you’d never take off? Where’s that?”

Not-Dean’s grip tightened on your arm, almost unbearably strong. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Now why would I keep wearing my ex-girlfriend’s ring after not seeing her for two years, hmm? Did you really think you meant that much to me, sweetheart?”

This wasn’t Dean. You knew it wasn’t. But the look in his eye was eerily similar to the one he gave you the day he forced you out of his life, and the words he spewed twisted the knife you didn’t know was still lodged in your beating, bleeding heart.

In an instant, you raised the gun and attempted to step back, trying to aim and shoot as quickly as you could. But it got the jump on you, first, gripping the pistol’s barrel and striking your forearm, wrenching the gun from your grip and tossing it down the hall behind it. Immediately, you slid the knife out of your sleeve and into your palm, raising it to strike. The shifter blocked that movement, too, grabbing at your wrist as it began to arc downard, squeezing so hard that the knife clattered to the ground. You tried to fight back, but with its grasp on your raised arm and now the hand twisting painfully into your hair — a familiar feeling, now tainted with fear and pain and panic — made you practically useless.

“Oh, sweet thing, I am just gonna love tearing you to pieces.” Not-Dean snarled, its sadistic smile churning your gut. You inhaled sharply, about to cry out, when it tugged on the roots of your hair, forcing a whimper from you, instead. “Not so fast, darling. We’re gonna have a little fun, just ourselves, before either of your boys can join in.”

His voice was what you couldn’t comprehend. Sure, that last fight before you broke up was brutal; shouting and cursing each other out and saying things you weren’t sure either of you had meant to say, but this? Hearing him so easily speak about hurting you, like it was nothing, that was what you couldn’t bear. Even if it was the shifter.

You looked around, finding quickly that you were in a rather secluded part of the building. The far right corner, judging by the window placements. There were beams and trolleys and pieces of equipment laying everywhere, coated in rust and god knows what else. Not-Dean guided you easily to an oddly clean chair in the room, and you sat down willingly, hoping and praying that one of the brothers would stumble upon you sooner rather than later.

“Tsk, you’re such an obedient girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Not-Dean smirked.

“Don’t call me that,” you growled, watching him lean down beside you and grab a long rope.

“Right, because Dean was the only one you let use that nickname,” he nodded sarcastically. “Does it bother you? That I’m in his head, that I know what he thinks. That I have his face.”

You shook your head as he wrapped the rope tightly around your wrists, pinning them behind the chair. “No. You’re just as big of an ass as he was. But you probably know that already, don’t you?”

“I do,” not-Dean chuckled, tugging on the rope with the final knot to secure it before heading to your ankles. “In fact, I know everything he’s ever thought about you, sweetheart. And boy, you should hear some of the things he used to think about you.”

“I’m good, actually. Thanks.” You grimaced, meeting not-Dean’s eyes as he smirked. He placed both hands on your knees, the warmth spreading through your jeans as he pushed himself up and dragged a trolley over to you.

“Are you sure?” He asked, skimming over the items on the table. “He’s had some very naughty thoughts about you, Y/n. And recently, too. The things he wants to do to you…” Not-Dean tsked and shook his head, finally picking up a knife.

“Gonna cut me up with that little thing?” You smirked, watching the shifter consider it for a moment before putting the knife back down.

He smirked and walked the short distance to come and stand before you, crouching to meet your eye level as he said, “I had something a bit more… tantalizing in mind.” Reaching into your boot, the shifter pulled your switchblade from where it hid. “Now this seems like a much better weapon, don’t you think?”

You stared at the folded switchblade, your heart thumping rapidly in your chest. Even after you and Dean broke up, that knife made you feel safe, tucked away in your boot. It had seen a lot of action since then as well, effectively protecting you from both monsters and drunkards on more than one occasion.

The shifter opened the blade slowly, sliding it into its final position with an echoing click. He ran his finger across it first, examining its sharpness before turning his — Dean’s — emerald eyes to meet yours. Something sinister brewed among those sharp irises, teeming with hatred and some sick, twisted kind of pleasure.

“Dear old Dean gave you this, didn’t he?” The thing smirked. “I’m sure you know why, right?”

“To protect me.” You growled, shifting helplessly beneath the ropes. “From things like you.”

“This?” He scoffed a laugh. “No, this won’t hurt me. But I can’t wait to see what it does to you.”

Not-Dean dug the tip of the knife into the space above your collarbone, hard enough to draw blood and drag it down your chest. You struggled to bite back a scream as he worked the metal down your skin, leaving behind a stinging gash when he finally pulled it back, his eyes shining with some sick sense of pride as he stared at it, at the blood dripping down into the valley of your chest.

“I know you wanna scream, sweetheart,” Not-Dean taunted, his voice syrupy sweet and dripping with sadistic joy. He dipped his head closer, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke. “From what I’ve seen up here in this pretty little head, you’re quite the screamer, aren’t you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” you spat, face hardening as the shifter pulled back and stood to his full height.

He wore the same, simmering rage that Dean often had before he ended things with you. The face he wore when you confronted him about his behavior, the one he wore before he punched Sam for bringing John up in the first place. It sent a strike of fear through your chest, barely concealed behind your hardened features.

You watched it turn into a smirk as he twirled the blade expertly between his fingers, lips pursing and eyes squinting as they raked over your form, as though deciding what to do with you next. Like he had all the time in the world to figure out how to hurt you the most.

“You wanna know something?” Not-Dean asked suddenly, throwing you off. “Something… secret?”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me no matter what I say?” You glared.

Not-Dean laughed. “Smart girl! Right on the money.” He smiled, resting his palms on his knees as he bent slightly to reach your eye level. “See, I know something you don’t,”

You remained quiet, hard eyes watching his every move.

“Remember all those naughty little thoughts I said Dean has about you?” He didn’t wait for a response as he sighed and straightened up. “Well… he has them all the time. In fact, he pretty much thinks about you 24/7. It’s… well, it’s pathetic.”

Not-Dean spat, his face turning hard and angry again as he sighed. “It’s like you’re on a loop in his head. Everywhere poor Dean looks, there’s something to make him think of you. Such a shame he was the one to push you away, isn’t it? I mean, you are quite the looker.”

You growled as he whistled lowly, his grip tightening on the knife as he stalked closer to you. He brought it to your cheekbone this time, smirking to himself as it dug into the flesh and sliced quickly. You hissed at the sting, feeling the blood trickle down to the corner of your mouth, the cool air of the factory soothing the cut slightly.

“It’s quite a shame that I want to ruin that pretty face of yours so much,” the shifter pouted mockingly, rearing back and landing a punch to your already injured cheek, throwing your head completely to the side. It took you entirely by surprise, a small grunt falling from your lips as you clenched your jaw and tried to hide the pain.

You swallowed hard when you hung your head and saw your blood staining his knuckles — Dean’s knuckles. And then he laughed, the way Dean used to when you’d make some corny joke that caught him off guard, and your throat went dry.

“Tired already, sweetheart?” Not-Dean chuckled, gripping tightly to the hair at the back of your scalp and pulling hard, forcing a yelp from you as he forced your gaze to meet his. “Better make this quick, then, shouldn’t we? After all, those Winchester boys can’t search this building and not find us. And I want you looking nice and broken when they do.”

You swallowed down as many of your cries as you could for the following beat down you received. Slashes with your own knife across most accessible expanses of skin, punches and hits everywhere else. Your lip was split open, tinging your spit with the never-ending taste of copper.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, chest heaving as blood trailed down the side of your neck. “Just fucking get it over with.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Not-Dean pouted with a shrug. “Besides, it’s not just you I want to hurt.”

Hurt pulled at your chest as your eyes met his, the realization swimming behind your wide eyes. He didn’t just want to hurt you, to break you however else you could still be broken after everything else you’ve been through. The shifter wanted to hurt Dean. It wanted to break him.

“Hurting me won’t do anything to him.” I scowled despite my bruised and bloody face. “He’s the one that pushed me away, remember? You saw that, didn’t you? In his head?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?” The shifter scowled back, his voice low and rough, the way Dean usually sounded during hunts. “Dean still loves you. Hell, he never stopped, sweetheart. He’s too headstrong to admit it, but he is. And seeing you like this, all broken and bloody because he didn’t listen to you, because he just couldn’t stay away… that’ll kill him from the inside.”

“You’re wrong,” you rasped, swallowing your tears with a pained gasp. “Dean Winchester doesn’t love me anymore. And killing me sure as shit won’t do anything to hurt him.”

The shifter growled, the sound low and deep in his chest as he gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him as he inched closer. For a moment, his attention was caught by something else, and then his lips upturned in that sadistic smirk. “Looks like we’re about to find out, sweetheart.”

With swift movements, the shifter cut your ties and hauled you from the chair by your forearm, his solid, familiar chest pressed to your back and his own forearm pressing you to him by the neck. Your hands came up to claw at his arm immediately, digging in but getting nowhere as you squirmed against his tight hold.

Almost instantly, Sam and Dean charged into the room from the door you stood parallel to, guns and knives drawn, pointed at you and the shifter.

Dean’s wide eyes looked from the shifter, the spitting image of himself, then to you. He hoped you could see how sorry he was. The plea to forgive him for not listening to you, for letting you get hurt because of his stubbornness filling his beautiful green eyes to the brim.

And you did. You forgave him the moment he first pushed you away, even if you didn’t want to admit it for a very long time. You made sure to tell him that with a single nod, just as the shifter adjusted his hold on you and smirked.

“Well, well, just in time, boys,” he said, pressing his arm a little further into your neck and forcing a choked sound from your throat. “So glad you could make it for the main event of the night.”

“Let her go.” Dean barked, adjusting the hold he had on his gun and aiming it right at the shifter.

Not-Dean scoffed. “Please, Dean, put that thing down. I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I have her in my way. She’s very useful, you know. Human shield, a fun little plaything… I can see why you kept her around for so long.”

When no one spoke, not-Dean hummed approvingly. “Exactly. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with.”

Your mind didn’t process what happened until it was already over.

A small flash of steel below you, cutting into your tank top and piercing up through your ribs, digging deep into your flesh. The release of your body from the shifter’s hold, and the way your body immediately crumpled to the floor. One shout and three shots ringing out above you, the shifter falling in a heap no more than five feet from you.

You coughed, sputtering, as you lay there on the concrete. Something dug into your torso with every breath, filling your chest with pain and warmth and something you couldn’t breathe through.

Dean was at your side in an instant, one hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you into his lap, shushing the pained groans and whimpers that fell from your lips with a shaking voice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes flicking to the knife — the knife he gave you — wedged under your ribcage, blood already pooling out of the wound. “Hey. You’re gonna be alright, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”

“Dean,” you choked out, breaths rasping and wheezing and taking more effort than they ever have before. Something copper coated your lips, your teeth — it was everywhere. You knew what it meant, and from the look on Dean’s face, he did, too. “I’m s— I’m sorry,”

“Hey, hey, don’t,” Dean shook his head, his beautiful emerald eyes filling with tears. “Don’t say that. This isn’t your fault. You’re gonna make it out of this.” His head snapped up for a moment, eyes catching on something you couldn’t see. “Sammy! Help us!”

“D—” you cut yourself off with another cough, blood pooling in your mouth and splattering all over your lips. Glancing down at the knife, you reached with shaking fingers to grasp at it, to press your hand over whatever part of the wound you could reach, coating your palm with blood. “Dean,”

His eyes snapped to meet yours in an instant. “Yeah? Sweetheart, what is it?”

Grunting, you moved your hand to the handle of the switchblade, Dean protesting above you as you shakily removed it with a pained sound, the metal clattering to the floor beside you. Dean’s hand covered the wound as it poured blood, the liquid coating his hand almost immediately. It stained the hem of his jacket sleeve and spilled between his fingers as they clamped over the wound, tinging his silver ring red.

“‘M gonna be okay,” you wheezed, nodding slowly as you kept your gaze on Dean.

“I know,” he nodded back, his voice tight with emotion as he locked eyes with you. “I know, sweetheart.”

“I…” you gasped, finding words harder to speak, your body harder to move. Your mind swam, and you knew your time was limited. “I love you.”

Dean made a choked sound as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, tears sliding down his cheeks, and all you wanted to do was wipe them away.

With the little strength left in you, you reached your bloody palm up to his cheek and did exactly that. The featherlight touch forced Dean’s eyes open, his body shuddering as he breathed in and you forced your hand to stay on his warm cheek.

“This isn’t…” you choked, and Dean shushed you.

“Save your energy, sweetheart. Help’s coming any minute now,” he nodded softly.

You pushed, anyway. “This isn’t… not your fault,” you shook your head, the movement jerking and slow as you practically forced breath into your lungs. Each new breath was unsteady and wheezing, harder to take in than the last.

Dean choked out a sob, leaning over your body and pressing a kiss to your forehead as your hand fell from his face. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You can let go now. You’re safe.”

“I…” you rasped, the words dying on your tongue as the last of your fight dissipated, leaving Dean on the floor of the factory to cradle your limp body close to his as he finally broke, his sobs and cries echoing around the room.

Sam arrived moments later, his shoulders deflating and his heart aching at the sight of Dean. He’d never seen his older brother so broken, so willingly displaying his emotions as he held you, your body cold and pale in his arms as he rocked you.

The shifter had, in the end, succeeded. Part of Dean died with you that night, hatred and regret filling the gaping hole within him. He knew nothing else would ever try to fill it again, and a large part of him never wanted it to be filled. He wanted to sit with the hurt for the rest of his life, because it was what he believed he deserved.

You had gone willingly in his arms, a final admission of love dying on your tongue, leaving behind an ache Dean knew would never be soothed. Because, despite everything he’d done to you, somehow, you still loved him.

If there was one thing Dean Winchester was full of, after all, it was regret.

everything taglist: @mazerunnerrose @theboldandthebootyful @miraclesoflove @heliads

dean winchester taglist: @theweasleyslut @johnmurphyisqueer @thanossexual @dryyoursaltyoceantears @prettypychoinpink @whitemanshoe19 @allinfangirl @sunsetcurvej @killerqueenfan @justthatfangirloverthere @cadencebeat2662 @jamespotterslover @yagorlemmalyn @mariecoded @aunicornmademedoit @bloodyxheaven @weasleystwinswife @mrspeacem1nusone @jessimay89 @supernaturallydc @navs-bhat @xoxabs88xox @unic0rntaking0ver17645 @adhdhufflepuff @erospecies @imabee-oralizard @ellablossom @ajordan2020 @lunepoesie @multitasking44 @alexxavicry @avabh12

(taglists open!)

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester angst #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader

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forestshadow-wolf · 2 months ago

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Ao3 link

the night was quiet as Soap watched Ghost flick his lighter on. it took half a dozen tries for Soap's shitty old lighter to hold a flame enough for Ghost to light his Cigarette. Soap sat on the ventilation box a handful of steps away from the half wall marking the building's edge that Ghost looked out across the base from.

he laments how long it's talking to come back. he's been 'dead' for months if the reports are correct, awake for only a few weeks of it. he should be saving his strength, trying to remold himself, shouldn't have died in the first place. but he can't seem to say away. he can see the days getting heavier for Ghost the longer this goes on, and it's his fault. he wished he could stay longer. more often. around more eyes of witness. maybe Ghost wouldn't think he's gone mad with grief, then.

he's used to this by now. he follows Ghost when the chance arises, when he's strong enough, as less than even his callsign. a whisper of a breath as he 'helps' Ghost on his paperwork, writing reports, counting days. it's going on almost six months now, and he's not entirely sure how much longer they can keep doing this.

the old hag had been right when she'd said there were things worse than death. not that he'd ever doubted. and he's felt the pain of it — torture, sickness, drowning, burning — all the typical things, but maybe this is what she'd meant. the witch had been merciful enough to let him age to his end but; knowing the nature of his personality; had ceased to allow him the privilege of a true death before his predestined time.

he'd been young then. thought it to be a gift, a non-curse. to be unkillable. of course, he learned pretty quickly that pain was still pain no matter if it ended in death, or was only meant to. the first time he found himself at the center interest of a sadist, he'd thought that was what the witch had meant. it all felt just as intended to, as sinister as its dealer. and immunity does not mean he gets to forgo nature, he must still heal, and he bends the scars cast upon him. sicknesses were worse; the high mortality ones anyway; unable to eat, unwilling to drink, wrecked with muscle spasms, and choking on blood and mucus . asphyxiation was a beast all on its own — dying, and coming back, and dying again, and no reprieve with no injuries to come back from; put a little air back in him and bring him back to life, watch him die over and over. the worse the injury, the longer it took to come back; suffocation took almost nothing, blood loss a day maybe two, worse things took longer, infection, missing limbs, whatever else. he doesn't know how it works, most of the time it was a coin toss between a few days, and a few weeks. but this one, a shot to the head, it shouldn't be taking this long. it's never taken more than a month. he doesn't know what's broken, how he broke it, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

this was worse. so much worse than he could have ever imagined. and she couldn't have known. could never have known, not in a million years, that there would be someone, anyone that would make him feel this way. there was know way she knew that meeting Ghost would make him feel like he was different. and she couldn't have known he'd get so addicted to the feeling that he'd never be able to keep away, even in death. but maybe this is what she'd meant all those years ago. because she was right, there are things worse than death. and he's found the worst one.

He tries to tell him that he's alive, but Ghost only seems to think he's gone off the deep end; refuses to get help either. he wants to show the others, but this strange non-death makes it hard to orient without a tether. up is east, down is left, inside is quadimenasional; nothing is anything, and everything is nothing without a tether. the night only makes is harder, blinder, scarier. and the day burns away his attempts like a midsummer's morning dew.

Soap stretches to perches on the wall in front of Ghost instead of where he'd sat on the ventilation unit, as he reaches out for his first breath of smoke, twists it around his grasp like rope, and lets it fill his being like water. with the second breath he plucks the stick from his mouth.

"smokin' again, L.T?" he teases, finally material enough to fill himself with Ghost's cigarette between his lips.

"should have known you wouldn't give me even a moment of quiet tonight," Ghost crosses his arms, appraising him as smoke fills his body.

"and yer as happy to see me as always," Soap crosses his ankles, rocking them lightly.

"you're not real, Johnny," Ghost huffs, reprimanding himself. and not for the first time Soap regrets what he's doing, loathes himself for not letting Ghost let go, for not being able to stay away.

"told you. I'm no' dead," he takes another drag of Ghost's cigarette and blows it in his face. Simon closes his eyes against the breath, denying Soap, denying himself.

"I don't deal in ideology," Simon tells it plainly.

"keep my memory alive; keep me alive," Soap muses.

"real 's real."

"real is real, L.T," soap tells him. the amber shades in Simon's eyes have long since dulled into burning ash, and the bags under his eyes seem to be endless when Soap looks into them. he can't help but reach for his mask, and Simon lets him easily enough. "and I'm right here"

"I hate when you do this," Simon seems to sag with the breath he leases, though he doesn't move an inch when soap sweeps a soft finger below his eyelash; not quite touching him, hasn't wanted to see his touch break on Simon's skin, hasn't in all the weeks he's been here. "wish you'd come back."

"I will, Si, I will," he caresses his hand along Simon's jaw as close as he dares without touching.

"please, Johnny," Soap lets out a surprised gasp as Ghost grabs his wrist and leans into his hand.

and it stays firm.

Ghost seems to startle too as Soap's heart stutters in his chest. he jolts back, and would have tumbled over the edge if Ghost hadn't caught him and dragged him back onto the roof.

"you're real," Ghost whispers in awe, holding Soap's face in both his palms.

"I'm here, Simon. I'm here," Soap affirms, holding him steady just above the elbow. and he squeezes just as tight, burying his face into Simon's neck, when he wraps him in a hug and buries his face in his hair.

"how are you real?" Simon whispers into his hair; it's grown longer in the weeks that soap's been following him. "I spread your ashes." and Soap can't help the tears that well in his eyes as he pulls away, just enough to see his face.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Si- I'm- I should have come back sooner. or- or stayed away. I'm sorry, Simon, I'm so sorry. I should have stayed away." it's a feedback loop that he can't break; of sorrys and sobs and regrets; and he buries himself back into Simon, holding him so tight like he's the one that left and not Soap. tight, like he can hide from what he regrets. tight, like he can make Simon save him from his own actions, again.

Simon holds him like he knows. like he knows soap can feel the weight of the world crushing him to death. like he knows Soap feels like he might float away again. and he doesn't let go. not when Soap's legs crumple and he drags them to the ground. not when soap grips him so tight it hurts his own fingers. not when the sun starts to peak over the horizon.

"you came back to me." Ghost murmurs into his temple, right into the scar marking him a dead man. he rocks them gently, soothingly. soap should have stayed away.

"I couldn't stay away," and Soap hates how true it is as it leaves his mouth. he should have. should have stayed dead. let Ghost move on instead of this. instead of torturing them both for weeks and weeks. he should have let go; moved on. but he couldn't.

"I couldn't let you go," Ghost says it like he's confessing a sin. like he thinks he's been the one teasing them all this time.

there might be more of this later

#el rambles #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw3

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fromtheashesofhate · 2 months ago

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The air in The Rusted Nebula was thick with the tang of alien spirits and the low hum of discontent. Valeyar Koschei lounged in his chair, clawed fingers drumming a lazy rhythm against the grime-coated table, his blood-orange eyes glinting beneath the saloon's flickering neon lights. Around him, three Icksessian gamblers—scales iridescent with frustration—glared at their dwindling stacks of credits. Koschei’s inky-black fur, silvered at the underbelly, seemed to swallow the light whole as he leaned forward, his bat-like head tilting in mock sympathy. “Another round?” he purred, fangs flashing beneath a pair of jagged tusks. The green sweater with its hand-stitched yellow question mark stretched taut over his chest as he swept the latest pot toward him, the clink of chips almost drowned by someone’s hissed “Cheat.”

He sighed, swirling the murky dregs of his drink—something local, bitter, and mercifully free of frog slime. Me time, he’d told himself. A blissful hour without Naxar’s chaperoning while Roak was handling drop-off duty for Roe; insisting that going via their own volition would avoid any "temptations" to go anywhere except school. Koschei wondered if maybe he should've pressed to go with, but with how much time he spent with them already, perhaps it would be healthier to give the two of them some space and enjoy some well-earned father-daughter bonding. Besides, if there was anything he could reliably thrive on to pass the time, it was this—the thrill of outthinking, outplaying, outlasting. “You’re shuffling the deck sideways,” snarled the largest gambler, claws scraping the table. Koschei’s silvery horns, etched with that cryptic symbol, caught the light as he shrugged. “My friend, if I cheated, you’d be thanking me for the lesson.” He took a slow sip, the calm in his voice a blade sheathed in velvet. “I just know how to play the game.”

The saloon's ambient chatter died. Four sets of eyes—three livid, one amused—locked in a silence sharper than Koschei’s claws. He could taste the violence brewing, sour and electric. Typical.

"He didn't cheat." Came a slurred voice.

"I've calculated thirty-two billion different possible outcomes for your game. This was one of them. If he'd cheated, the outcome would be duffer...differend."

The cybertronian stood up, swaying slightly on his feet.

"He may be bending the rules, but he didn't cheat."

The mech lifts his energon cube to his mouth, seemingly surprised to find it empty.

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epicbuddieficrecs · 10 months ago

Text

Favorite Season 6 fics

So these used to be called "Fic recs for my BFF", but unfortunately I was unable to sway her to buddie, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ these are just for me now (and you guys too I guess 😅)

Season 6

🔥Curl Up in My Heart and Let Me Keep You by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Animal Transformation | 10K | Teen): When an orange tabby cat starts hanging around the Diaz house, Eddie doesn't think anything of it. The little guy's cute and cuddly, and seems to always know when Eddie's having a bad time. Weird how the cat's never around when Buck is, though.

🔥let the world have its way with you by fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Post-Coma AU | 54K | Explicit): “It’s just that—I died,” Buck continues, voice unsteady enough that Eddie wonders if this is the first time he’s acknowledged that out loud. “I died, and there’s so much more. There’s so much more I want to do, things I don’t even know I want to do yet, and I almost had the chance to have and live them taken away. I don’t want to die and regret missing out on everything else, Eddie.” “So let’s make a list,” Eddie says. “Let’s do them.” or, a bucket list that’s really about buck needing to make a change and an eddie who’s ready to do anything to see him fall in love with life again. it takes some crossing off for eddie to realise—the thing at the top of the list in his own heart? it’s been right here all along

🔥like a dog with a bird at your door by fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Post-S6, Getting Together | 51K | Explicit): The kid with blood pouring down his shins is not so far from the dog lonely enough that he thinks breaking his housetraining is worth it for the ten minutes of berating that come with it, the ten minutes of undivided, if reluctant, attention. Buck thinks, sometimes, that at least he wasn’t the kind of puppy that gets put in a sack and drowned at birth. He wasn’t always unwanted. And he isn’t anymore. or, evan “i love you like a dog” buckley has only ever known how to love like, well, a dog, but maybe eddie diaz is the kinda guy to give a flea-bitten mongrel a forever home

🔥Something Dumb to Do by glorious_spoon/ @glorious-spoon (Post-S6, Getting Together | 8K | Explicit): "Too bad we can't just date each other." Eddie laughs. "What?" "No, I'm serious!" Buck sets his beer down, the better to gesture with both hands, face lighting up, and Eddie just—he really loves the guy, okay. Ridiculous as he is. "It would be so much easier! You wouldn't have to introduce a new person to Chris—he already likes me anyway—and you could tell Pepa so she'll stop setting you up on dates that don't go anywhere—" "And what would you get out of this?" Eddie asks, grinning. — Or: Buck and Eddie try something out together. (Part 1 of homeward bound)

🔥find a way to you (if it kills me) by foxwatson/ @eddiediazes (Post S6E13: Mixed Feelings, Pining | 19K | Mature): It’s something about the way Eddie phrases it. Something about the combination of his words and the way he’s staring down at the floor, and the flush in his cheeks and the way he’s fidgeting. Buck thinks, abruptly, he’s going to ask me on a date. “Well I - wanted to tell you first, and I need someone to watch Chris, anyways - I know he’s getting old enough now he doesn’t like feeling like he’s got a babysitter, so I was hoping - sorry. Not the point. Uh. I have a date on Saturday.” Just as abruptly as his own hopes had come soaring up above the cloud cover of his own unawareness - they go crashing back down to the floor - to the basement, and into the mud. “A date?” Buck rasps out. — the one where eddie decides to start dating again, buck figures out his own feelings just a minute too late, and then he spends a week going through the five stages of grief

🔥Being Eddie by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Time Travel, Post-S6, Getting Together | 80K | Teen): When Eddie starts seeing a new therapist, he’s presented with the opportunity to revisit several days from his past and right regrets that still bother him. OR: Eddie goes through the time travel therapy process of the 2009 Canadian TV show Being Erica.

🔥 Evan Buckley & The Coma-Verse of Madness by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Coma AU, Multiverse | 58K | Teen): After being struck by lightning on a call, Buck experiences a plethora of alternate realities showing him different directions his life could have taken. Fighting hard to get home, Buck learns what, or who, is important to him in every lifetime.

🔥 Both Blade and Branch by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S6 | 62K | Mature): The chances of being struck by lightning twice are incredibly minute, but Buck still manages to pull it off. During a double date with Marisol and Natalia, nonetheless. Eddie manages to resuscitate him, but as Buck recovers from yet another trauma, Eddie can’t help but notice there’s something very different about him. He’s not quite sure what version of Buck he got back.

🔥 where all of the people dancing and clapping would greet me with such warmth by trysetmeonfire/ @try-set-me-on-fire (Season 6, Magical Realism | 15K | Mature): In the fall, Buck begins to disappear. (or: Buck can see that people become transparent when they're about to die) (Part 2 of All I Am, All That I Am)

🔥 Ace of Hearts by glorious_spoon/ @glorious-spoon (Post-S6, Getting Together | 9K | Teen): "I've been wondering…" Maddie pauses, watches Buck make a face like he's bracing to be smacked. "What happened with Eddie? You two were dancing around it for so long, and then… what, it just didn't work out? Was the date really that bad?" She's expecting another wince, or even for him to duck out of the conversation entirely, but instead Buck is staring at her like she's grown a second head. "Maddie. I've never been on a date with Eddie." Or: the poker game was a date. It takes Buck a while to catch on, though.

🔥 situations, circumstances, miscommunications ( i just may like some explanations ) by heartbeatdiaz / @lonelychicago (Didn't Know They Were Dating | 4K | Teen): "You didn't know?" Eddie asks, calmer but not less confused. He frowns. "How could you not know?" "You never said anything?" Buck tilts his head to the side. "We were dating?” “I guess not,” Eddie sighs. His heart is beating a little faster, an unpleasant buzz beneath his skin as he all but chokes on a feeling he can’t quite name— it could be hurt or disappointment or maybe a mix of both. In that moment, he knows three things very clearly. 1. Buck is going to be the death of him. 2. He is in love with the most dense, most oblivious man on planet Earth. 3. He is too gay and, honestly, too old for this shit.

🔥listen to you breathing (is where I wanna be) by Yavilee/ @theladyyavilee (Presumed Dead | 41K | Teen): The thing is – and Eddie should have known this, has been taught this cruel lesson over and over and over again – the thing is most of the time the worst day of your life will start like just any other day. A million small moments, so familiar and mundane you almost don’t even notice them slipping by - until you would give anything to go back and get just one more. (You can’t.) — Or the one where Buck is presumed dead after a building collapse and Eddie has to live through the reminder that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone

🔥Eddie Diaz vs The Feelings by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Season 6, Sexuality Crisis, Demisexual Eddie | 62K | Explicit): Eddie dives into the mysteries of attraction, romantic love, and asexuality because there's a good chance he's fallen in love with his best friend. AKA demisexual!Eddie figures out he’s demi and finds the happily ever after he’s been longing for

🔥tomorrow will always and forever now be today (tomorrow is our always and forever) by withmeornotatall/ @chronicowboy (Post-S6, Time Loop | 43K | Mature): "Think I can get a hug from my best man on my wedding day?" he asks, quietly hopeful in a way that makes Eddie want to tear off his skin. "Sure," Chris replies with a shrug, turning to throw Eddie a cheeky grin. "Dad, Buck needs a hug." Two things happen at once then: Eddie has to plaster on a smile authentic enough to convince the one person on this planet that knows him inside out—except he doesn't really have to fake his smile, not at first, because of number two—he sees groom-Buck for the first time. And groom-Buck is every bit as beautiful as Eddie might have imagined him over the years. For a moment, Eddie falls into the greatest betrayal his brain has ever laid out for him, imagining that he might have got to see Buck like this for the first time from the other end of the aisle— (OR: eddie gets trapped in a time loop on the day buck marries natalia)

🔥 Muscle Memory by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S6, Amnesia AU | 40K | Teen): After a disappointment in his personal life, Buck wakes up one morning to find everyone he loves has forgotten him completely. No memories. No recognition. Almost like he was never really there.

🔥 but i can see all along, love (it was you all the way down) by diazchristopher/ @captain-hen (Post-S6, Time Loop | 28K Mature): He puts his laptop away after a bit, and paces the length of his apartment as he tries to take stock of the situation at hand. One: The date is March 22nd, 2024. Two: It has been March 22nd for 3 days now. Three: Buck is trapped in some kind of time loop that is forcing him to relive this day. Four: Eddie is, apparently, in love with him. And. And. Five: Buck doesn’t feel the same way.

🔥 a blaze in the dark by woodchoc_magnum/ @woodchoc-magnum (Post-S6, Eddie Coming Out | 117K | Explicit): Set post-Season 6, where Buck has inadvertently sacrificed his friendship with Eddie in order to focus on his new relationship with Natalia, and is shocked when Eddie comes out to the team and subsequently reveals that he is dating a guy.

AUs

🔥Nothing Left But You by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars ("Blip" AU, Post-S4E13: Suspicion | 27K | Teen | Warning: MCD): In May of 2021, 25% of Earth's population suddenly disappears. Including Eddie. In May of 2026, they all come back. Eddie finds himself suddenly in the middle of a world he doesn't recognize, where the people he loves most have changed significantly.

🔥 Your Love is an Oil Slick (It Glows like Rainbows, It Stains My Soul) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Canon Divergent - Supernatural Elements, Ghost Buck | 67K | Explicit): When Eddie's son claims he has an imaginary friend, Eddie doesn't think much of it. Christopher is seven, it's what kids do. But then weird things start happening around the house, and Eddie starts dreaming about a handsome blue-eyed man. Turns out, Christopher's friend isn't so imaginary. Their house is haunted.

🔥like when the sun came out by spaceprincessem/ @spaceprincessem (Canon Divergent, Ghosts | 39K | Mature): He completely pulls the charger from the wall as he fumbles to put in his passcode. He doesn’t know who to call first. Everyone is busy, carrying on with their lives and Buck is stuck here in the loft with the terrifying ghost of his childhood like an omen. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the Crooked Smiled Man now standing in the dark entrance way to his bathroom. He swallows around the taste of blood in his mouth, hands shaking, useless as his list of contacts blur beneath the burn of tears. Eddie Eddie Eddie. He doesn’t know where the feeling comes from, but it’s sudden and sharp and excruciating. Eddie is the first name at the top of his list, his most recent calls and texts, and he doesn’t hesitate to hit the call button. [or buck can see ghosts au]

🔥All My Shattered Oaths by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Vampires AU | 107K | Explicit): Eddie wants to stay away from his family’s legacy and give his son a normal life. Buck’s desperate to find a way to get over the love he lost. Fate has other plans for both of them.

🔥 Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Vampires AU | 50K | Explicit): Once, Eddie chose to save a newly turned against his better judgment. Five hundred years ago, Buck was saved by a rescuer he thought was a hallucination. Now they're together again and about to find out just how far either of them will go to try and deny what they are to each other.

🔥 let it pour out of your soul series by Rianne/ @rianneeyre (Magical Realism AU, Witch Eddie | 3 works | 71K | Complete):

collectively unconsciously composed (S4E6: Jinx | 46K | Explicit): Or: in which the author re-watched Buck Begins and Jinx and thought: what if this was gayer and had actual magic?

that systematic drug (PWP | 5K | Explicit): Eddie’s mouth goes dry when he opens the door and sees Buck. He’s clean-shaven and with his hair carefully styled back, smiling at Eddie sweetly and a little teasingly. Buck is wearing his dark jeans and his light blue v-neck polo shirt, the one that’s tight enough that it shows off the bulge of his biceps and the definition of his pecs and abs. Eddie knows this shirt. Buck's favourite, because he knows he looks good in it.

something binding us together (Established Buddie | 20K | Teen): Or: Eddie plans a long-avoided visit to his parents, discovers some things about his magic, and begins to build his family a home in LA's witching community.

#buddie #epic buddie fic rec #favorites #buddie fanfic #buddie fic #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfiction

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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

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I don't want to die, I want to live

The wind tore through the jagged cliffs overlooking Gotham’s coastline, a mournful wail that seemed to carry the weight of the city’s sins. You stood at the edge, toes curling over the crumbling lip of the rock, the ocean below a churning abyss of ink and foam. The waves roared, their violence a mirror to the chaos that had festered in your heart for years. Your hair whipped across your face, sticking to the tear-streaked skin, but you didn’t brush it away. There was no point. Not anymore. You were done—done with the pain, the silence, the endless, aching loneliness that had carved you hollow. This was your ending, written in salt and shadow, a final chapter no one would read.

You were a Wayne. The daughter of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding savior, the Dark Knight who held the city’s fragile hope in his iron grip. But the weight of that name had crushed you long before you ever understood what it meant. In the cavernous halls of Wayne Manor, you were less than a shadow—a whisper of a presence, unnoticed, unmissed. Your siblings—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cassandra, Stephanie—were the true heirs to the Wayne legacy, each one a vibrant thread in the tapestry of Gotham’s vigilante crusade. They were the Batfamily, bound by blood and battle, their lives a whirlwind of purpose and pain. And you? You were the afterthought. The forgotten daughter. The one who didn’t fit.

It hadn’t always been this way. You remembered, vaguely, a time when you were small, when Bruce’s rare smiles felt like sunlight, when Dick would ruffle your hair and call you “kiddo.” But those moments were fleeting, swallowed by the endless demands of Gotham’s darkness. As the Batfamily grew, so did the distance between you and them. Bruce became a fortress of silence, his attention consumed by the city’s criminals or the training of his vigilante children. Dick was always moving, a blur of charm and leadership, too busy to notice the sister fading into the background. Jason, when he wasn’t raging against the world, was too lost in his own resurrection to see your quiet collapse. Tim’s mind was a labyrinth of data and deductions, no room left for the sibling who didn’t make waves. Damian’s sharp tongue cut you down with surgical precision, his disdain for your “weakness” a blade you couldn’t dodge. Cassandra, who saw everything, somehow missed the way you were unraveling. And Stephanie, bright and fierce, was too caught up in her own fight to notice the girl drowning in the same house.

Wayne Manor was a mausoleum of your isolation. Your bedroom, tucked in a quiet corner of the sprawling estate, was your only sanctuary—a small space filled with half-finished sketchbooks, dog-eared novels, and a guitar you hadn’t touched in months. You’d stopped playing when you realized no one listened. Your laughter, once a bright trill that echoed through the halls, had died years ago, replaced by a silence that no one questioned. You ate alone, studied alone, cried alone. The rare family dinners were a performance, your presence barely acknowledged as the others traded stories of patrols and villains. You’d tried, once, to join in, to tell them about the short story you’d written, but Damian’s scoff and Tim’s distracted nod had silenced you for good.

School was worse. Gotham Academy was a gilded cage, its polished halls hiding a cruelty that thrived in the shadows. The students saw you as prey from the moment you stepped through the doors, the Wayne name stitched onto your blazer like a target. It began with whispers—snide comments about your quiet nature, your lack of the Wayne charisma, your failure to live up to the family’s towering reputation. “She’s not even *really* one of them,” they’d say, loud enough for you to hear. “Just some charity case Bruce picked up.” The words stung, but they were only the beginning.

The bullying escalated with a precision that felt almost choreographed. Your lunch money vanished from your bag, replaced with mocking notes. Your books were tossed into puddles or shredded in the locker room. They tripped you in the halls, your knees bruising on the marble floors, their laughter a chorus that followed you everywhere. Once, they’d pushed you down the grand staircase, your backpack splitting open as you sprawled across the tiles, papers scattering like your dignity. The teachers watched, their eyes sliding past you, their silence louder than the taunts. You were a Wayne. You didn’t need help. You had resources, privilege, a father who could ruin their careers with a single call. So why were you always so *weak*?

It got worse. They cornered you in the bathroom one day, their leader—a girl with a smile like a razor—brandishing a pair of scissors. You froze as she grabbed a fistful of your hair, the blades glinting as she hacked uneven chunks away, her friends holding you still. “Not like anyone’s gonna notice,” she’d sneered, and the laughter that followed burned into your memory. Another time, they’d held a razor to your arm, carving shallow lines that stung more than they bled. You’d stopped wearing short sleeves after that, hiding the marks under long sweaters, even in the stifling Gotham summer. The worst was the closet—a cramped, dark supply room where they’d lock you for hours, your fists pounding the door until your knuckles were raw, your voice hoarse from screaming. The janitor found you once, but he only sighed and muttered about “kids these days” before letting you out.

You tried to tell someone. You went to the principal, your hands shaking as you laid out the evidence—photos of your ruined books, the bruises on your arms, the clumps of hair you’d saved in a plastic bag. She’d given you a tight smile, her voice dripping with condescension. “Kids can be cruel, dear. You’ll grow out of it. Have you considered… toughening up?” You left her office feeling smaller than ever, the weight of her dismissal crushing what little hope you’d had.

You tried Bruce, too. You stood in his study one evening, the fire casting long shadows across the room, your heart pounding as you poured out everything. The bullying, the violence, the way you dreaded every morning, the way you felt like you were disappearing. You told him about the scissors, the closet, the bruises you hid under your clothes. You begged him to listen, to *see* you. He’d looked up from his files, his face etched with exhaustion, and said, “We all have our struggles. You’re a Wayne. You’re strong enough to handle this.” His voice was firm, final, like he was closing a case. He didn’t ask about the cuts on your arms, the way you flinched at loud noises, the way you hadn’t smiled in months. He turned back to his work, and you stood there, invisible, until you finally slipped out of the room.

That was the moment you stopped trying. You stopped talking, stopped reaching out, stopped believing anyone would care. At home, you were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s endless rooms, your existence barely a ripple. At school, you were a punching bag, a canvas for their cruelty, your pain a game they never tired of playing. You were worthless. Nothing. A speck of dust in a legacy too vast to notice. Every morning, you woke up wishing you wouldn’t. Every night, you went to bed dreaming of a world where you were seen, heard, *loved*. But dreams were for people who mattered.

You started planning your escape, though you didn’t call it that. It wasn’t a plan, not really—just a quiet certainty that grew with each passing day. You’d leave. You’d find a way to stop the pain, to silence the voices in your head that told you you’d never be enough. You stopped eating much, your appetite replaced by a gnawing emptiness. You stopped sleeping, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in your resolve. You stopped caring, your heart a hollow shell that no one noticed was breaking.

The cliff was your choice. You’d found it on a rare day when you’d slipped away from the manor, wandering Gotham’s outskirts until you reached the coastline. The rocks were sharp, the drop steep, the ocean below a churning beast that promised oblivion. It felt right. It felt final. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You didn’t leave a note. What was the point? No one would read it. No one would care.

That night, you walked to the cliff alone, your sneakers crunching on the gravel, your breath steady despite the tremor in your hands. The manor was miles behind you, its lights a distant glow you’d never see again. You thought of your family, briefly—Bruce’s stern face, Dick’s easy grin, Jason’s clenched fists, Tim’s furrowed brow, Damian’s sharp glare, Cass’s quiet intensity, Steph’s bright laugh. You wondered if they’d notice you were gone. You wondered if they’d care. The thought didn’t hurt as much as it used to. You were too tired for pain now.

You stood at the edge, the wind stinging your cheeks, the salt of the sea mingling with the tears you hadn’t realized you were crying. You thought of the dreams you’d once had, small and fragile things you’d buried long ago. Painting murals that stretched across Gotham’s gray walls, each stroke a burst of color in a city that devoured light. Writing stories that made people feel less alone, their pages filled with the hope you’d lost. Laughing with a family that saw you, not as a Wayne, but as *you*. Those dreams belonged to a girl who no longer existed, a girl who’d been chipped away by cruelty and neglect until only this moment remained.

You closed your eyes. The ocean roared, a siren call that promised peace. You didn’t want to hurt anymore. You didn’t want to be nothing anymore. With a final breath, you let go, your body surrendering to the pull of gravity, the world fading to a quiet, endless dark.

---

The manor was too still the next morning, a silence that gnawed at the edges of Dick’s instincts. He knocked on your door, his usual teasing tone absent. “Hey, kid, you up?” No answer. He frowned, pushing the door open to find your bed empty, the sheets untouched. His stomach twisted, a vague unease he couldn’t name. He called for Alfred, then Tim, then Bruce, his voice sharper with each unanswered shout.

Tim was the first to act, his fingers flying over the Batcomputer as he checked your tracker. “It’s offline,” he said, his voice tight. “Last ping was near the cliffs, ten hours ago.” The words landed like a blow, and the room went quiet. Jason stormed in, his eyes blazing, already grabbing his jacket. “What the hell do you mean, offline?” he snapped, but the fear in his voice betrayed him. Damian stood frozen, his usual scowl replaced by something raw, something scared. Cass stared at your empty chair at the dining table, her hands trembling. Steph’s face was pale, her usual spark snuffed out. Bruce didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight, his eyes distant, like he was already bracing for the worst.

They searched for you. Gotham’s streets, the rooftops, the docks, the cliffs. They called your name into the night, their voices hoarse, desperate. Tim hacked into the school’s security footage, his heart sinking as he watched you being shoved, taunted, locked in that damn closet while the world looked away. Jason punched a wall until his knuckles bled, cursing himself for every time he’d ignored your quiet presence. Dick clutched your favorite scarf, one you’d left on the couch, tears falling as he remembered brushing you off when you’d tried to talk to him. Damian found your sketchbook, open to a drawing of a girl with hollow eyes, and his chest tightened with a grief he didn’t know how to name. Cass traced the lines of your handwriting in a journal she found under your bed, each word a dagger: *I’m not enough. I’ll never be enough. I just want someone to listen.*

Bruce read every page of that journal, his hands shaking, his stoic mask crumbling as he realized how much he’d failed you. He saw the bruises you’d hidden, the cuts you’d bandaged alone, the pain you’d carried in silence. He saw the girl he’d dismissed, the daughter he’d told to “handle it,” the child he’d let slip through his fingers. He saw you, too late.

They found no trace of you at the cliffs. The ocean was vast, its secrets buried in the depths. The Batfamily returned to the manor, each carrying a piece of the guilt that would never fade. Your room became a shrine, untouched, your sketchbooks and novels left exactly as you’d placed them. The guitar sat in its stand, strings gathering dust. The manor’s halls echoed with a loss that seeped into every corner, a weight they’d carry forever.

Dick started checking in on the others more, his smiles forced, his laughter hollow. Jason took to the streets alone, his rage a shield against the grief he couldn’t face. Tim buried himself in work, his eyes red from sleepless nights spent searching for answers that never came. Damian stopped mocking, his sharp tongue dulled by the realization that he’d driven you away. Cass and Steph held each other, whispering apologies into the dark, their voices thick with regret.

Bruce stood at the cliffs sometimes, staring into the ocean, his mind replaying every moment he’d failed you. He saw your face in every shadow, heard your voice in every gust of wind. He’d saved Gotham countless times, but he couldn’t save you. The Dark Knight, unbreakable, unyielding, was broken by the loss of a daughter he’d never truly known.

Gotham carried on, as it always did, its pulse unbroken despite the fracture in the Batfamily’s heart. But the manor was heavier now, its grandeur tainted by the absence of a girl who’d slipped through the cracks. Somewhere, in the vast, unfeeling ocean, your dreams drifted, forever out of reach, a quiet requiem for a life no one had seen until it was gone.

The Batfamily stood at the edge of the cliff, the same jagged outcrop where you’d last been, though none of them could bear to say it aloud. The ocean churned below, its waves a relentless reminder of what it had taken. It had been three months since you vanished, three months since the manor became a tomb for the living, its halls haunted by the ghost of your absence. The wind carried a bitter chill, slicing through their jackets, but none of them moved. They were here for you—or what was left of you. A memorial, Alfred had called it, though it felt more like a confession of their failures.

Bruce stood at the forefront, his cape absent, his face exposed to the elements. The lines etched into his skin seemed deeper now, carved by guilt as much as time. He held a small, framed sketch—one of yours, found tucked in the back of your closet. It was a pencil drawing of a family laughing together, faces blurred but unmistakably the Batfamily. You’d never shown it to anyone. He clutched it like a lifeline, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He hadn’t spoken much since that night, his silence a punishment he inflicted on himself.

Dick was beside him, his usual vibrancy dulled, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights. He held a single daisy, plucked from the manor’s garden—your favorite flower, he’d learned too late. He kept replaying the last time he saw you, a fleeting moment in the kitchen where you’d been stirring tea, your shoulders hunched, your smile absent. He’d meant to ask how you were, but a call from Blüdhaven had pulled him away. Now, that missed chance gnawed at him, a wound that wouldn’t close.

Jason stood apart, his back to the others, staring at the rocks below as if he could will you back into existence. His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, hiding the tremble he couldn’t control. He’d found your journal after the search ended, read every word, and burned with rage at himself for not seeing the pain behind your quiet nods. He’d been too busy fighting his own demons to notice yours, and now he carried your loss like a second scar.

Tim was crouched near the cliff’s edge, a laptop balanced on his knees, still scouring data—traffic cams, school records, anything that might explain how they’d missed you slipping away. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, his mind a labyrinth of what-ifs. He’d hacked into Gotham Academy’s servers again, watched the footage of you being shoved into that closet, your face blank as you stopped fighting back. He’d failed you, not as a vigilante, but as a brother. The laptop screen blurred as his eyes stung, but he didn’t stop.

Damian was rigid, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He held a small wooden carving—a bird, one you’d made in art class, left on your desk. He hadn’t known you whittled, hadn’t known you were good at it. He hadn’t known *you*. His insults, his dismissals, echoed in his mind now, each one a dagger he’d plunged into you without thought. He wanted to apologize, to take it all back, but the ocean didn’t care for his regrets.

Cassandra sat cross-legged on the ground, her fingers tracing the outline of a Polaroid she’d found in your room. It was you, younger, maybe twelve, smiling at a carnival with a cotton candy stick in hand. She hadn’t been there that day, but someone—probably Alfred—had captured the moment. Cass had studied it for hours, searching for the girl she’d overlooked, the sister she’d failed to see. Her silence was louder than words, her grief a weight that pressed against them all.

Stephanie stood next to Cass, clutching a worn paperback—a copy of *The Secret Garden*, one you’d annotated with tiny notes in the margins. She’d found it on your nightstand, the pages dog-eared, your handwriting a map to a mind she’d never explored. Steph kept thinking of the times she’d breezed past you in the manor, too caught up in her own chaos to notice your quiet pleas for connection. She wiped her eyes, the wind stealing her tears before they could fall.

Alfred was there, too, standing a step behind Bruce, his face a mask of dignified sorrow. He held a small velvet box containing a locket you’d worn as a child, one he’d given you with a photo of your mother inside. He’d been the only one to notice your fading presence, the only one to ask if you were alright. But even he hadn’t pushed hard enough, hadn’t seen the depth of your despair. His hands trembled as he held the box, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he’d failed you, too.

The memorial was simple—a plaque embedded in the cliffside, engraved with your name and a single line: *“In memory of a light that burned too briefly.”* No one had known what to write. How do you sum up a life no one truly understood? The words felt hollow, a pale echo of the person you’d been, but they were all they had.

Bruce stepped forward, his voice low, rough, like gravel underfoot. “This is for you,” he said, addressing the ocean, the sky, the void where you should have been. “We didn’t see you. We didn’t listen. And I—” His voice broke, a rare crack in the armor of the Dark Knight. “I failed you most of all. I’m sorry.” He placed the framed sketch against the plaque, his fingers lingering as if he could reach through time and pull you back.

Dick followed, laying the daisy beside the sketch. “I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been your big brother. I’m so sorry, kid.” His shoulders shook, and he turned away, unable to face the others.

Jason didn’t approach the plaque. He couldn’t. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a trembling hand, and muttered, “You deserved better than us. Than me.” The smoke curled into the wind, disappearing like his words.

Tim closed his laptop, his voice barely audible. “I keep looking for you,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. “In the data, in the footage, in… everything. But you’re gone. And I don’t know how to fix that.” He placed a small USB drive next to the plaque, a digital archive of everything he’d found about you—school projects, art awards, things he wished he’d celebrated when you were still here.

Damian knelt, placing the wooden bird beside the other offerings. “I was cruel,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “I saw weakness where there was strength. I won’t forgive myself for that.” He stood, his fists clenched, and walked back to the group, his eyes glistening.

Cass set the Polaroid down gently, her fingers brushing the image of your smile. She didn’t speak, but her thoughts were loud enough for anyone who knew her to hear: *I should have seen you. I should have known.* She pressed a hand to her chest, a silent promise to never miss another cry for help.

Steph placed the paperback next to the Polaroid, her voice thick with tears. “You left stories behind,” she said. “I’m reading them now. I wish I’d read them with you.” She stepped back, leaning against Cass for support, her sobs quiet but unshakable.

Alfred was last. He opened the velvet box, placing the locket beside the plaque. “You were my joy, my dear,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “I will carry you with me always.” He straightened, his posture impeccable, but the weight of his grief bowed his shoulders.

They stood there for a long time, the wind carrying their apologies, their regrets, their love—too late, but real all the same. The ocean offered no answers, no forgiveness, only its endless, unyielding roar.

---

In the weeks that followed, the Batfamily tried to move forward, but the manor was a different place now. Your absence was a presence, a shadow that lingered in every corner. Bruce changed first. He started spending less time in the Batcave, more time in the manor, checking on the others, asking questions he’d never asked before. He funded a mental health program at Gotham Academy, anonymous but aggressive, ensuring no student would slip through the cracks again. He read your journal every night, memorizing your words, your pain, your dreams. It was his penance, one he’d never escape.

Dick became softer, more present. He started calling the others daily, checking in, making sure no one felt alone. He visited your room sometimes, sitting on your bed, talking to the empty space as if you could hear him. He kept a daisy in his wallet, a reminder of what he’d lost.

Jason stopped running. He stayed at the manor more, his temper quieter, his walls lower. He started helping Alfred in the kitchen, something he’d never done before, and found your old recipe cards tucked in a drawer. He cooked your favorite meal one night, and the table was silent as they ate, each bite a tribute to you.

Tim built something—a digital memorial, a private server where they could upload memories of you, things they learned too late. Your art, your stories, your quiet kindnesses. He shared it with the others, and it became a space where they could grieve together, something they hadn’t done at the cliff.

Damian started creating. He took up whittling, carving birds and flowers in your honor, leaving them around the manor like offerings. He stopped snapping at the others, his arrogance tempered by a humility born of loss. He wore your locket sometimes, the one Alfred had placed at the cliff, a secret he kept from the others.

Cass and Steph became inseparable, their grief a bond that made them stronger. They volunteered at a crisis hotline, listening to strangers the way they wished they’d listened to you. They read *The Secret Garden* together, taking turns with your annotated pages, finding pieces of you in every line.

Alfred kept the manor running, but he added something new—a small garden in the back, filled with daisies. He tended it himself, his hands gentle in the soil, and it became a place where the family gathered sometimes, sharing stories they hadn’t dared to voice before.

Gotham noticed the change, too. The Batfamily was fiercer now, but not in the way they’d been before. They targeted bullies, abusers, anyone who preyed on the vulnerable. They saved kids who reminded them of you, their missions driven by a desperation to atone. The city whispered about the shift, about the way Batman’s eyes lingered on the faces of lost children, about the way Nightwing’s voice softened when he spoke to victims, about the way Red Hood’s fists stayed steady until the innocent were safe.

But no matter how many they saved, they couldn’t save you. Your absence was a wound that never healed, a scar they’d carry forever. The cliff stood as a reminder, its plaque weathered by the elements but never forgotten. They visited sometimes, alone or together, leaving daisies, sketches, carvings, words they wished they’d said when you were still here.

Somewhere, in the vast, unfeeling ocean, your dreams lingered, a quiet melody no one could hear. But in the hearts of the Batfamily, you were finally seen, finally known, finally loved—too late, but forever.

The Batcave was a cathedral of shadows, its silence broken only by the hum of the Batcomputer and the faint drip of water somewhere in the depths. Five months had passed since you’d vanished into the ocean’s embrace, and the Batfamily had become archaeologists of your memory, sifting through the fragments you’d left behind to understand the girl they’d failed. The discovery of the silver digital camera in your closet had been a revelation, a Pandora’s box of moments that cracked open their grief and let a sliver of your light shine through. The folder labeled “Moments” held videos of a you they’d never known—a you who laughed, who loved, who lived with a vibrancy they’d never seen in the manor’s suffocating halls.

Tim had called them all to the cave, his voice taut with urgency, and now they gathered around the Batcomputer, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen. Bruce stood at the center, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the monitor like it was a lifeline. Dick leaned against the console, his usual ease replaced by a quiet intensity. Jason sat on the edge of a table, his hands gripping the metal to hide their tremble. Damian stood rigid, a small wooden bird carving clutched in his fist. Cassandra and Stephanie sat close, their shoulders touching, Steph clutching your annotated copy of *The Secret Garden* like a talisman. Alfred was there, too, his presence steady but heavy, his hands clasped behind his back.

Tim opened the folder, and the first video loaded. The cave filled with the sound of your laughter—bright, unrestrained, a melody that felt like a punch to the chest. The screen showed you at fourteen, in a sun-drenched park, the grass vivid green against the gray sprawl of Gotham’s outskirts. You were with your friends—Ezra, Nora, Samir—kids you’d met at the community center before Bruce enrolled you in Gotham Academy, before the bullying turned your world into a battlefield. You’d skipped school that day, the prestigious academy Bruce had chosen for its optics, not your happiness, and traded its sterile halls for a day of freedom.

Ezra held the camera, his voice teasing as he zoomed in on you. “Y/N, c’mon, show us the *legendary* dance moves!” he called, his tone dripping with mock grandeur. You were in the middle of the park, your sneakers scuffed from running, your hair loose and catching the sunlight. You spun around, hands on your hips, and flashed a grin that was all mischief.

“Only if you admit I’m the queen of this park, Ezra!” you shot back, your voice playful, confident in a way the Batfamily had never heard. You grabbed Nora’s hands, pulling her into a goofy twirl, both of you stumbling as you tried to mimic some pop star’s choreography. Nora, with her braided hair and paint-splattered overalls, laughed so hard she nearly fell over, clutching your arm for balance.

“Queen? More like court jester!” Samir yelled from behind, juggling three apples he’d swiped from a nearby vendor. One slipped, bouncing off his knee, and you darted forward, catching it mid-air with a triumphant whoop.

“Bow to my reflexes, peasant!” you declared, tossing the apple back to him with a flourish. The camera shook as Ezra cackled, zooming in on your exaggerated bow, your hands waving like you were addressing a royal court. The others joined in, Nora curtsying dramatically, Samir dropping to one knee with a fake swoon. You collapsed onto the grass, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, your friends piling on top of you in a giggling heap.

Dick’s hand tightened on the console, his eyes stinging. “She’s… radiant,” he murmured, the word barely audible. He’d never seen you like this, not in the manor where you’d been a quiet shadow, your smiles rare and fleeting. He remembered you at that age, sitting alone at the breakfast table, your eyes downcast as he rushed through to grab coffee. He hadn’t stopped to talk, hadn’t noticed the light you were hiding.

The next video played, and the scene shifted to a skate park at dusk, the sky streaked with orange and pink. The camera was propped on a bench, capturing you as you balanced on a skateboard, your arms outstretched, your face scrunched in concentration. Ezra’s voice came through, loud and teasing. “Y/N, you’re gonna eat pavement if you keep wobbling like that!”

“Shut it, Ezra, I’m a pro!” you called back, sticking out your tongue. You pushed off, attempting a kickflip, but the board flipped too far, clattering to the ground. You stumbled, landing on your knees, and burst out laughing, the sound so infectious that Nora, sketching on the bench, dropped her pencil to clap.

“Pro, huh? Pro at falling!” Nora teased, her eyes sparkling as she waved her sketchbook. “Want me to draw you in all your glory, Skate Park Queen?”

“Do it, and make me look epic!” you replied, scrambling to your feet. You grabbed the board, undeterred, and tried again, this time managing a half-flip before wiping out. Samir, lounging nearby with a soda, cheered like you’d landed an Olympic trick.

“That’s my girl!” he shouted, tossing you another soda. You caught it mid-air, popping it open with a dramatic flourish, then took a bow, your grin wide enough to light up the darkening park. The camera caught the moment perfectly—your hair messy, your cheeks flushed, your laughter a beacon in the fading light.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on your smile. “She was fearless,” he said, his voice rough. He remembered you at the manor, always so quiet, so careful, like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d thought you were just soft, too fragile for the Wayne legacy. But here, you were a firecracker, unafraid to fall, to laugh, to be *you*. He wished he’d seen it, wished he’d told you he was proud.

Another video loaded, this one at a small carnival on Gotham’s outskirts, the kind that set up for a weekend and vanished by Monday. You were holding the camera now, panning it across the neon-lit stalls, your voice narrating with a playful, mock-serious tone. “Welcome to Y/N’s Carnival Adventure, where I, the fearless explorer, will conquer the ring toss and probably lose all my money to a rigged claw machine!” You turned the camera on yourself, winking, your face lit by the flashing lights of a Ferris wheel.

Ezra snatched the camera, spinning it to show you clutching a comically oversized stuffed bear you’d won at the ring toss. “Behold, the champion!” he announced, zooming in as you struck a heroic pose, the bear propped on your shoulder like a trophy. Your laughter was loud, bubbling over as Samir appeared behind you, wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat he’d won at a shooting gallery.

“Y/N, trade me the bear for this fine hat!” Samir said, tipping the hat with a grin. You shook your head, hugging the bear tighter.

“No way, cowboy! This bear’s my new best friend!” you teased, dodging as Samir lunged for it. Nora, eating cotton candy, laughed and threw a piece at you, which you caught in your mouth, cheering like it was a gold medal moment. The camera wobbled as Ezra ran to join the chaos, the four of you a whirlwind of jokes and joy, the carnival’s noise fading behind your laughter.

Bruce’s hands trembled, his eyes locked on the screen. He remembered that summer, remembered signing the papers for Gotham Academy because it was “the best,” because it burnished the Wayne name. He hadn’t asked you where you wanted to go, hadn’t noticed how you’d gone quiet when he mentioned the school. He hadn’t known you’d skipped it to steal these moments, to find a family in Ezra, Nora, and Samir when your own had left you adrift. He hadn’t known you’d transferred out later, forging his signature to escape the torment that followed. He hadn’t known you at all.

The next video was quieter, set on a rooftop overlooking Gotham’s skyline, the city’s lights a glittering backdrop. You were sitting cross-legged, a book of poetry in your hands, reading aloud while your friends listened. The camera was steady, probably Nora’s doing, capturing you as you recited a poem about hope, your voice soft but sure. “And when the dark comes creeping in, you hold the light inside,” you read, your eyes lifting to meet your friends’. Ezra was sprawled on a blanket, his head on his arms, watching you with a rare, quiet smile. Samir was sketching, his pencil scratching softly, and Nora was filming, her soft hum of approval audible.

When you finished, Ezra clapped, slow and dramatic. “Y/N, you’re gonna be famous, reading poems to the stars,” he said, gesturing grandly at the sky. You laughed, tossing a pebble at him.

“Only if you’re my manager, Ez,” you replied, your grin teasing. Samir held up his sketch—a quick, rough portrait of you, your face lit by the city’s glow.

“Look, I captured the poet laureate,” he said, and you leaned over, gasping at the drawing, then tackling him in a playful hug. Nora zoomed in, catching the way your eyes sparkled, the way your laughter seemed to make the night brighter.

Damian’s grip on the wooden bird tightened, his knuckles white. He hadn’t known this you, this poet, this sister who could command a rooftop with a book and a smile. He’d mocked you, called you weak, when you’d been carrying a strength he couldn’t fathom. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, to hear your laugh again, but the screen was all he had.

Cass leaned forward, her fingers brushing the monitor, tracing the curve of your smile. She saw the way you moved, open and free, so different from the guarded girl in the manor. She’d missed you, missed this, and the ache in her chest grew sharper with every video.

Steph’s tears fell silently, the paperback trembling in her hands. “She was a whole universe,” she whispered, her voice thick. She thought of your notes in *The Secret Garden*, your dreams of a place to belong. You’d found it here, with these friends, in these stolen moments. And they’d never been part of it.

The final video was the one that broke them. It was just you, in a small, cozy room—probably at the school you’d transferred to after escaping Gotham Academy’s cruelty. The camera was propped on a desk, and you were looking at it, your expression soft, your eyes bright but tinged with something deeper. “Hey, future me,” you said, your voice steady but intimate, like you were confiding a secret. “I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re still laughing, still dancing like an idiot in the park, still reading poetry to the stars. I hope you found people who see you, who love you for you. Because you deserve that. You deserve the whole damn world.” You paused, your smile faltering just a fraction, then added, “Don’t give up, okay? Keep going. For Ezra, for Nora, for Samir. For me.”

The video ended, and the cave was silent, your words hanging in the air like a ghost. They’d seen you now, seen the girl who laughed until she couldn’t breathe, who danced without fear, who loved with a heart too big for the world to hold. But it was too late.

Bruce’s voice was raw when he spoke, barely above a whisper. “We didn’t deserve her,” he said, his eyes on the frozen image of your face. “But we’ll honor her. Every moment, every laugh—we’ll carry it.”

Dick nodded, his throat too tight for words, his mind replaying your twirl in the park, your grin at the carnival. Jason stood, pacing, his anger at himself a fire he couldn’t douse. Tim saved the videos to a secure drive, vowing to protect these pieces of you forever. Damian clutched the wooden bird, his resolve hardening—he’d be better, for you. Cass and Steph held each other, their tears a quiet vow to see the unseen, to listen to the unheard.

Alfred stepped forward, his voice gentle but firm. “Miss Y/N was a gift,” he said. “These moments are her legacy. Let us live in a way that makes her proud.”

The Batfamily didn’t leave the cave that night. They played the videos again, memorizing your laughter, your jokes, the way you made the world brighter. They grieved the sister they’d lost, but they found you in those fragments of light—a you who’d fought to shine, even when no one was watching. And though the ocean had taken you, these moments were theirs to keep, a bittersweet reminder of a girl who’d been everything, and who they’d love forever.

"She was a wound no one noticed; she bled in silence, disappeared in silence. And the silence she left behind was louder than any scream."

#the neglected reader #batfamily x neglected reader #batfam x neglected reader #batfam x reader #neglected reader #bullying x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #cassandra cain x reader #stephanie brown x reader #dick grayson x reader #batfam x batsis #batfamily x yn #batfam x you

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alittlegiraffe · 1 month ago

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heyyy, how do u do?

I love your stories, u make my days better, hope u never stop 💓

Anyway, do u have any ideas for new stories? I loved drowning, its my favorite, do u think ur going to do smth like that soon?

Hugs

Title: “What Ifs”

You didn’t remember the sound of your own voice much these days.

Only the sounds that haunted you: the sharp beeping of machines, the hiss of oxygen, the coded phrases doctors used when someone was slipping away. They played on repeat in your mind like a lullaby written by grief itself.

That night was a blur—your fingers clumsy as you dialed 911, your voice breaking as you begged them to hurry. The image that never left was the way he looked slumped over in the bathroom. Lifeless. Blue-lipped. Cold.

They said it was close. Too close.

He came back to you.

But something inside you never did.

At first, you held it in. You smiled when the girls came home. You washed the blood out of the bathroom tiles before he ever saw it. You curled into his side in the hospital bed when he was lucid enough to know you were there. And you whispered, “Don’t you ever fucking leave me again.”

He promised he wouldn’t.

But now… weeks later… maybe months? You weren’t sure anymore. The days blurred. The promise didn’t silence the fear.

You couldn’t stop imagining it happening again. Every time he was late getting home. Every time you heard a siren in the distance. Every time you walked past the bathroom door and had to breathe through the memory of him on the floor, pupils blown and pulse fading.

You were stuck there. Still there.

You didn’t tell him. You couldn’t. Not when he was trying so hard. Meetings. Therapy. Sober. Focused. Present.

Everyone was so proud of him. You were proud of him.

But you were also terrified. And so, so tired.

Some nights, you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced on the counter, eyes shut tight against the crushing silence. The kids were asleep. He was working late. And the house felt like a tomb filled with echoes of almost.

Almost lost him. Almost widow. Almost gone.

You hated yourself for it—how you’d sit on the edge of the tub, shaking, your mind whispering things you didn’t want to hear.

He’s going to do it again.

You’ll find him again.

You’ll be alone.

The thoughts circled like vultures. You couldn’t outrun them. Couldn’t talk them down. You just let them whisper. Because fighting took too much energy. And honestly… part of you didn’t want to fight anymore.

Whitney was the one who cracked the surface.

Marshall had been gone for twelve hours—late session, he’d said. You knew he was probably just tired. Probably sober. Probably fine.

But that didn’t stop you from sitting on the couch in the dark, biting the skin around your thumb until it bled.

When he came in around midnight, Whitney was still up. She’d been sleeping poorly lately, climbing into your bed more often. You hadn’t questioned it.

But that night, she tugged on his hoodie and whispered, “Daddy… why does Mommy cry when you work late?”

He froze.

He told her he’d be right back. Kissed her forehead. Tucked her in.

And then he came into the living room and looked at you like he was really seeing you for the first time in weeks.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even look at him. Just stared at the turned-off TV screen like it might offer an answer to the ache in your chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low.

You flinched. Your voice was hoarse. “Tell you what?”

“That you’re not okay.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. “Would it have helped?”

He sat beside you. Not too close—like he was scared he’d break you if he did. “I almost died,” he said slowly, carefully. “But I didn’t. I’m here.”

“And what if you hadn’t made it?” Your voice cracked. “What if next time you don’t? What if I walk in and find you again? What the fuck am I supposed to do then, Marshall?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Because there was no answer. Not one that could make this okay.

You shook your head, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. “I can’t breathe when you’re gone. I can’t sleep. I can’t function because I keep seeing you like that. And I know it’s selfish. I know you’re trying so hard. But I’m not... I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since they put you in that hospital bed and told me you might not wake up.”

He looked like he wanted to reach for you. Like he wanted to fix it. But he couldn’t.

You stood up before he could say anything. “I don’t need a speech. Or more promises. I just need… I need space to be fucked up about this, okay?”

He stood too. Hesitant. “You’re not alone.”

“I feel alone.” The words sliced the air between you. You didn’t mean them to hurt. But they did. For both of you.

He stepped closer. “Then let me help.”

Your eyes met his. And for a moment, you wanted to believe he could.

But that weight in your chest—the one that had settled in the night of the overdose—it didn’t lift.

You let him pull you into a hug. Let yourself cry into his shoulder. But even as he held you, the thoughts were still there.

Still whispering.

What if he relapses.

What if he dies.

What if you can’t survive it next time.

You wanted to believe you’d be okay. That you would heal the way he was trying to. But the truth was you didn't know if you ever would be again.

---

The house was quieter without him.

Marshall had flown out to L.A. to work on a new album—only for a week, maybe two—but it felt like months were being carved out of your chest with every hour that passed.

You told him you were fine. That you were managing. You kissed the phone camera when he FaceTimed you and said all the right things: The girls are great. We miss you. I'm proud of you. Just focus on the music, baby.

He believed you. Or maybe he wanted to.

You were getting better at lying. Smiling with dead eyes. Keeping your voice steady. Laughing just enough.

The girls didn’t notice.

Or maybe they did and just didn’t want to say anything.

You packed their lunches every morning, double-checked their homework, asked about their friends. You braided Whitney’s hair before school and helped Alaina pick out outfits for her internship. Hailie texted you often from campus: Love you. You okay?

You always replied: I’m good, promise.

But underneath it all, the what ifs were eating you alive.

What if he didn’t come back?

What if something happened to him out there?

What if he relapsed and no one saw it coming?

You didn’t sleep anymore. Not really. Maybe two hours a night if the fear didn’t spike hard enough to pull you out of bed. Sometimes you wandered the house like a ghost, sitting on the stairs until dawn, just to hear the girls breathing in their rooms.

They were your reason to stay. They had to be.

But some nights, even they couldn’t silence the scream inside your skull.

On the sixth day, the house felt wrong. Like it had been hollowed out and filled with fog.

The girls were at school. The morning sun was pouring through the windows. You stood barefoot in the kitchen staring at a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, hands trembling slightly.

You couldn’t remember if you’d eaten. Or if you’d showered. You looked down and realized you were still in the same clothes you’d worn yesterday.

The silence felt louder than your thoughts.

You couldn’t call Marshall. Couldn’t text him this. What would you even say?

Hey, I’m falling apart again and all I can think about is dying while you’re out there building a new chapter of your life.

No. You wouldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t drag him down with you.

You went outside instead. Let the sunlight hit your face. The pool shimmered in the backyard, reflecting a sky that was too blue for how numb you felt inside.

You sat at the edge of the water, fingers ghosting across the surface. It was cool. Calming.

And for one long, breathless moment, the thoughts grew louder than ever.

What if you just let go?

What if you slipped in and didn’t come back up?

It would be easy. So quiet. So peaceful. No mess. No pain.

The girls would be okay. They had Marshall. They had each other.

They didn’t need you. Not really. You were just the one holding it together by bloody fingernails. You were the one who couldn’t sleep. Who couldn’t breathe. Who kept picturing the worst case in every moment, every phone call, every silence.

You stood up.

And stepped into the water.

The cold shocked your skin, but you didn’t flinch. You kept walking. Deeper. Until your toes lost contact with the floor.

You sank.

Eyes open. Hair fanning around your face like seaweed. Sunlight shimmered above, but you let yourself float down until it all blurred.

And you thought—this is what peace feels like.

The splash was loud, but you didn’t hear it. You were already fading out.

Then: a second, heavier splash. Strong hands grabbed under your arms. You broke the surface coughing, choking, flailing weakly until a voice grounded you.

“What the fuck—what the fuck are you doing?!”

Nate.

His voice cracked with panic as he dragged you toward the edge of the pool. You tried to speak, but water and shame clawed up your throat. You collapsed against him, gasping.

He pulled you up onto the pool deck, chest heaving, his hands shaking as they hovered over your soaked clothes, your wide, dazed eyes. “Jesus Christ. Jesus. I thought you were fucking dead.”

You blinked up at him, trembling. Your lips moved, but no words came out.

“I—I just…” You shook your head, voice barely a rasp. “I didn’t mean to.”

But you did.

God help you, you did.

He cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his wet hair. “Marshall told me to check on you. Said he had a bad feeling. Fucking hell, he’s gonna—” He stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “Let’s get you inside. C’mon.”

You didn’t fight him when he wrapped a towel around your shoulders. You didn’t speak when he sat you down on the couch and handed you a glass of water with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

You just stared at the floor.

The silence stretched too long. Until Nate finally said, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle, “You gotta tell him. You can’t hide this anymore.”

Your throat closed up.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t cry. You just stared at the wet footprints across the floor and thought about how easy it had been to start sinking.

And how close you’d come to not coming back.

---

Your skin was still cold, even wrapped in the towel Nate had thrown around you. The chill wasn’t just from the water—it came from somewhere deeper. Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

You sat curled on the couch, dripping onto the hardwood floor, your fingers white-knuckled around the glass of water in your lap.

Nate stood across the room, pacing. Cursing under his breath. His soaked clothes clung to him like guilt.

Then he pulled out his phone.

You knew what he was about to do. Knew the name he was about to tap.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, water sloshing in the glass as it hit the floor. Your hand lashed out and snatched the phone from his fingers.

“No!”

He stared at you—stunned.

You held the phone against your chest, breath ragged, your voice rasping and broken from the water still burning in your throat.

“He can’t know, Nathan.”

Nate’s brow furrowed, hardening with disbelief. “You almost drowned, and you don’t want me to tell your husband?”

Your voice cracked as you forced out, “You can’t tell him.”

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head, frustration flaring behind his eyes. “You think he won’t notice you tried to kill yourself? Jesus, he sent me here because he knew something was wrong.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” You stopped. The words caught in your throat like thorns. “I just… I just wanted it to stop for a minute. The noise. The fear. I wanted to feel nothing.”

Nate scrubbed a hand over his face, turning away for a second like he couldn’t stand to see you like this. “That’s not better, [Y/N]. That’s not something you hide from him.”

“He’s working,” you whispered. “He’s doing better. He’s healing. I can’t—” Your voice broke completely, your knees starting to tremble again. “I can’t be the reason he falls apart. Not now.”

“He won’t,” Nate said sharply. “He’d fly back tonight if he knew. He’d drop everything for you, and you know that.”

You closed your eyes, a tear rolling down your cheek and slipping into the corner of your mouth, still tasting like chlorine. “Exactly.”

That silenced him.

Because you didn’t need to explain it any further.

You were afraid that if he came back and saw what was really left of you… it would break him.

He was still holding his sobriety together with raw hope and new habits.

He needed distance to stay strong.

He didn’t need to be dragging your dead weight with him.

“I’ve already taken enough from him,” you whispered. “I can’t be the thing that ruins his recovery.”

Nate stared at you for a long moment. The fight slowly drained from his face, replaced by something heavier: sorrow. Helplessness.

“I get it,” he said finally. Quiet. “But what if next time I’m not here in time?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

You held out the phone to him with shaking fingers. “Please… don’t call him. Just… give me time. I’ll fix it. I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t take the phone.

But he didn’t call Marshall either.

He just sank down on the arm of the chair across from you, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the damn floor if I have to.”

You didn’t argue.

You just sat there, soaked and silent, shivering in a towel that didn’t warm you.

Because the truth was: you were afraid of being alone.

You were afraid of what your mind would do with the silence.

---

The plane touched down just after noon.

Marshall hadn’t planned on coming back early—but something hadn’t felt right for days. Your texts were short. Flat. Off. Nate had been oddly cagey too, even through phone calls.

Marshall had a sixth sense for this kind of shit. And when he didn’t feel you at the other end of the line anymore, he packed his bag and got the next flight home.

The house was quiet when he got in. Too quiet.

You weren’t at the door.

The girls weren’t home from school yet.

But Nate’s car was still in the driveway.

Marshall frowned, dragging his bag inside and kicking off his shoes. “Yo?” he called.

No answer.

He found Nate in the kitchen—leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow. The moment he looked up and saw Marshall, his face dropped.

“Shit.”

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Marshall asked, eyes narrowing. “You were only supposed to check in. That was six days ago.”

Nate didn’t answer right away.

That hesitation was enough.

Marshall’s stomach dropped. His heart started to pound.

“Nate.”

Nate looked like he was chewing glass as he put his phone down. “She told me not to call you. Begged me not to.”

Marshall’s voice sharpened. “Why? What the hell happened?”

“Something bad.”

Marshall moved so fast the chair scraped behind him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“She walked into the pool.”

Silence.

Just��dead, suffocating silence.

“What?” The word came out like a whisper, like the breath had been punched out of him.

Nate swallowed hard. “I found her floating. Unconscious. Half-drowned.”

Marshall staggered back a step, eyes wide. “You—You didn’t fucking tell me?!”

“She made me swear. She was a wreck. She thought if you knew, you’d drop everything and relapse or spiral or—hell, I don’t know, man! I didn’t know what to do. I stayed. I didn’t leave her alone once. I slept on the goddamn floor like a watchdog, but I couldn’t call you. She wouldn’t let me.”

Marshall’s hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking. His jaw was tight enough to crack a tooth. “And you listened to her?”

“I thought it was one-time. An episode. She said she’d be okay. I believed her.”

“You lied to me.” His voice was low, guttural. Dangerous.

“I did,” Nate said quietly. “Because she looked me in the eyes and said she’d kill herself if I made that call. What the fuck would you have done?”

Marshall spun away, running both hands over his face, tugging at his hair. His entire body was vibrating with tension, with rage and panic and grief. “I would’ve come home. I would’ve come the fuck home, Nate.”

“She didn’t want you to fall apart, man.”

“I am falling apart,” he snapped, turning back toward him. “You think I can breathe knowing I was across the fucking country while she was drowning in our backyard?!”

Nate didn’t speak.

There was nothing else to say.

You heard the yelling before you saw them.

Your heart dropped as you descended the stairs, still in the hoodie you hadn’t changed out of since yesterday, sleeves pulled down over your wrists like armor.

Marshall saw you the moment you stepped into the hallway. The look on his face made your breath hitch—anger, fear, betrayal all crashing together in one devastating storm behind his eyes.

He stepped toward you.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You froze.

“I—I couldn’t,” you said, voice rough. Raw. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I needed to see you like that!” he shouted, chest heaving. “You think protecting me means hiding the fact you were ready to die? You think I’m so fragile you’d rather drown alone than pick up the fucking phone?!”

Tears hit your eyes instantly, hot and blinding.

“I didn’t want to break you,” you whispered. “You were finally doing okay.”

“And you’re not!” he exploded. “Jesus, [Y/N], I almost fucking lost you. You think that helps me stay clean? You think knowing you were ready to let go while I was in a studio thousands of miles away keeps me steady?! It makes me wanna fucking crawl out of my skin.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, barely standing. “I’m so fucking sorry, I just—I didn’t see any other way out. Everything’s too loud. And I was so tired of pretending to be okay for everyone else.”

His eyes glossed over. He stepped forward again, slower this time, the fury in his face giving way to something softer—more shattered.

He reached for you. You flinched.

That killed him.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t pull away. Not from me.”

You let him touch you this time—let his arms wrap around you and hold you like he’d never let go again.

And maybe he wouldn’t.

But you didn’t feel saved. Not yet.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that hurt even more.

---

The house was silent now.

Marshall had closed every door behind him like he was afraid the noise might break you. Like even the slam of a cupboard might shatter what little was holding you together.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a different hoodie now—his. You couldn’t look him in the eye. You hadn’t since he pulled you into his arms hours ago and realized how thin you’d gotten, how distant your skin felt.

He was pacing in the bedroom, slow and tight, arms folded across his chest like he was holding himself in. He hadn’t raised his voice again. He hadn’t accused you. He hadn’t even looked angry—at you.

But every time the floor creaked in the hallway, every time Nate’s footsteps moved downstairs, something in Marshall twitched.

You finally spoke, voice barely there. “You’re mad at him.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah.”

You nodded like you understood. Because you did. But also… “He kept me alive.”

Marshall ran a hand over his face, sighing hard. “He shouldn’t have had to.”

You looked down at your hands. “He was scared.”

“I’m scared,” Marshall snapped, more bitter than loud. “I’ve been scared since the second I walked in this house and realized something was wrong. But you don’t lie to someone about that kind of shit, [Y/N]. You don’t sit there texting me ‘everything’s fine’ while you’re drowning in the fucking pool.”

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping a sliver of space between you—like he was afraid to crowd you, but more afraid not to be close.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again, but gentler this time. Softer.

Your throat ached. “Because you were happy.”

“That doesn’t mean I stop loving you.”

You didn’t realize tears were falling until he reached over and brushed them from your cheeks, his fingertips careful, like you might bruise.

“I love you when it’s dark too,” he said. “Don’t shut me out when you’re hurting. That’s when I need to be there.”

You leaned into his hand, your body giving in even if your mind still wanted to run.

After a moment, you whispered, “Don’t be too hard on Nate. Please.”

He pulled back slowly, jaw clenching. “He should’ve fucking told me.”

“I begged him not to.”

He shook his head. “He could’ve told me without you knowing. He could’ve lied to you and told me the truth. Hell, I would’ve lied to you, if it meant keeping you safe.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He wasn’t wrong.

He stood again and crossed the room, tension radiating off him as he stared out the window. “He’s sleeping here again tonight?”

“Yeah. He said he’s not leaving until you’ve calmed down enough to punch him or forgive him.”

Marshall scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shifted slightly, voice softer now. “He sat by the bathroom door every time I took a shower. Slept downstairs with one eye open. Took the knives out of the kitchen. He didn’t just keep a secret, Marshall. He kept me. Here. Breathing.”

He didn’t say anything, but you saw his shoulders dip. Just a little.

“I’m still mad,” he muttered after a moment.

“I know.”

“But I’m… grateful, too.”

“I know that, too.”

He turned back toward you, eyes tired, face worn. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

You nodded. “Just don’t yell.”

“I won’t.”

“...Don’t hit him.”

He almost smiled. “I probably won’t.”

You breathed out a weak laugh. It hurt, but it felt good, too.

He crossed back to you, pulled you in with one arm and kissed your forehead. “We’ll get through this,” he murmured. “Okay?”

You nodded into his chest, letting yourself believe it. Just a little.

Even if the shadows still pressed close.

Even if the ache didn’t go away overnight.

Even if you didn’t feel fixed.

At least now—you weren’t pretending anymore.

---

The house was quiet again by midnight. You’d fallen asleep—finally—curled up in the corner of the bed, wrapped in one of Marshall’s hoodies like a blanket made of memories. He’d watched you for a long time before leaving the room, the sound of your breathing anchoring him to the floor.

Now he stood in the kitchen, jaw tight, fists looser than before but still not fully unclenched.

Nate sat at the table, arms folded, like he’d been waiting all night for this.

“You lied to me.”

Marshall’s voice wasn’t raised.

It was worse than that.

It was quiet.

Nate let out a long breath. “Yeah.”

“I needed to hear it from you. Not walk in on it days later like a goddamn stranger in my own life.”

“I know.”

Marshall moved to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water just to give his hands something to do. Something that wasn’t breaking a wall or slamming a door.

He unscrewed the cap but didn’t drink it.

“Why?”

Nate’s jaw twitched. He looked up finally, and his eyes were already red. “Because she asked me to.”

Marshall’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “And that was enough?”

“No,” Nate snapped, louder than he meant to. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, it wasn’t fucking enough. I’ve been sleeping with one ear open for six days wondering if she was gonna disappear between breaths. Do you know what it feels like to check if someone’s still alive every hour?”

Marshall’s spine stiffened. His anger started to simmer again, but before he could say anything, Nate stood up.

“She’s not just your wife, Em,” he said, voice low, but full. “She’s—she’s the first person who ever gave a shit if I was okay. She used to sneak me out of school when our mom forgot to pick me up. She used to buy me birthday presents when Deb forgot. She’s the first person who made me feel like I was part of a family and not just some extra piece of trash left behind.”

Marshall stared at him, stunned.

“I was a kid, man. And she didn’t treat me like a burden. She let me tag along on your dumb-ass dates, she taught me how to use the washing machine. She parented me more than our own fucking mother ever did.”

His voice cracked.

“I watched her come apart in that house and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I kept thinking, ‘How do I save the person who always saved me?’ And I thought—I thought maybe if I just kept her breathing long enough, you’d come home in time.”

Marshall felt his throat tighten.

“I didn’t tell you,” Nate said, voice smaller now, “because I didn’t know how. Because I was afraid saying it out loud would make it real. And I couldn’t handle losing her. Not her. Not like that.”

Silence fell over the room like fog—dense, inescapable.

Marshall sat down slowly across from him, eyes still locked on his brother.

“You should’ve called me,” he said again—but there was no venom in it now. Just pain.

Nate nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I know.”

Marshall swallowed hard. “But I get it.”

That landed like a weight in Nate’s chest.

“I get it,” Marshall repeated. “Because I would’ve done the same thing.”

His voice dropped.

“She’s more than just mine, man. I forget that sometimes. But I get it.”

Nate’s shoulders sagged, finally releasing tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Marshall looked away, throat working like he was fighting something back. “I’m sorry I yelled. I was scared.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind only brothers can share. Where every unspoken thing is heard anyway.

Finally, Marshall sighed. “You still sleeping on the couch tonight?”

“Unless you’re kicking me out.”

“Nah. But I’ll take first watch.”

Nate looked at him.

Marshall gave a small, tired smile. “Old habits.”

Nate nodded once, lips twitching upward for the first time in days.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

Because between them stood the same truth:

You had held both their broken pieces once.

And now, it was their turn to hold yours.

---

It had been three days since Marshall came home.

Three days of too-quiet breakfasts and awkward silences and forced smiles that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.

Nate still slept in the guest room.

You still barely left the bedroom.

And the girls—God, the girls were watching everything.

You could see it in Hailie’s long glances, the way she lingered in doorways like she was waiting to overhear something. In Alaina’s soft reassurances, her too-casual questions like, “Do you need help with dinner?” when she never used to ask. And Whitney—she was the sharpest of all. Small but perceptive. Quietly confused.

It was a Saturday morning when the question came.

You were all sitting in the living room, scattered in loose, unspoken formations—Whitney curled beside you on the couch, Alaina thumbing through her phone on the floor, Hailie helping Marshall fold laundry across the coffee table, and Nate in the kitchen nursing his third cup of coffee like it was penance.

The tension felt like old paint—cracked and visible if anyone looked too closely.

But it was Whitney who said it first.

“Why’s Uncle Nate still here?” she asked, head tilted. Her tone was innocent. Curious.

She was always good at asking the questions no one else dared to.

The room froze.

Every muscle in your body stiffened beneath the hoodie you’d barely taken off all week. You stared at the television, watching a cooking show neither of you were really following.

Marshall looked up from a towel he was folding, his expression faltering. “Uh…”

Hailie shot him a glance.

Alaina looked at you.

Nate didn’t even pretend to be casual—he just stared into his coffee mug like he wanted to fall inside it.

Whitney blinked, oblivious to the panic fluttering beneath everyone’s skin. “He used to only stay when Daddy was gone. But now you’re back. So… why’s he still here?”

Silence.

Marshall cleared his throat. “He’s just helping out, bug.”

“With what?”

Another beat of hesitation.

Then Nate muttered, “Just… being around.”

“Okay,” she said, dragging out the word slowly. “But—is Mommy sick?”

You flinched. Your heart stuttered.

Marshall looked at you.

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

“Mommy’s just tired,” Hailie said, gently. Too gently.

Whitney narrowed her eyes. “Is it because she was crying when Daddy was in California?”

That silenced the room completely.

Marshall's hands stilled. Alaina’s phone slipped from her fingers. Nate froze in place.

You couldn’t breathe.

Whitney looked around at all of you. “Did she cry because he was gone? Or because she was scared?”

No one answered.

She was only ten. But she knew. Kids always know more than you think.

After a moment, Marshall got up and crossed the room, sitting on the armrest beside you, his hand resting lightly between your shoulders. “Mommy’s going through a hard time right now,” he said softly. “And sometimes hard things are easier to handle when there’s family close by. So Uncle Nate’s here to help us for a while. That’s all.”

Whitney stared at you, like she wanted to ask more. Like she already knew more.

You managed to whisper, “I’m okay.”

She didn’t believe you.

But she didn’t say anything else.

Later, after the girls were upstairs and the house had gone quiet again, you stood in the hallway near the stairwell, arms wrapped around yourself. You didn’t hear Marshall come up behind you until he placed a hand on your waist, anchoring you gently.

“She knows,” you said, not turning around.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

You exhaled slowly. “What if we already broke something in her?”

“You didn’t,” he said, firm but soft. “She’s not broken. She’s just… watching us survive. And maybe that teaches her something, too.”

You didn’t reply.

You didn’t believe him yet.

---

It took two weeks for the noise to come back.

The house was asleep.

You weren’t.

You hadn't slept in what felt like days. Not really. Maybe you'd drifted, maybe you’d pretended. But real sleep—the kind that reached down and held you—hadn’t touched you in weeks.

You walked barefoot through the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. The floors creaked under your weight like they were warning you not to go.

But you went anyway.

The back door slid open with that familiar sound, the one that used to mean summer and laughter and splashing. Now it just felt like a memory you couldn’t crawl back into.

The night air kissed your skin. Cold. Unforgiving.

The pool glowed faintly under the moonlight, a rippling mirror that looked too calm for what it had done. Or what you’d done. Or almost done.

You stepped closer.

You told yourself you just needed air.

Just needed a second.

But your eyes wouldn’t leave the water.

It looked like peace.

Like silence.

Like a way out.

You stood at the edge, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, the chill seeping through your hoodie, your breath fogging faintly in the air.

Your mind was screaming again.

What if he leaves? What if he relapses? What if the girls see you fall apart for real this time? What if this never gets better? What if you’re broken forever? What if they’d all be better off if you just—

You choked on a sob, biting it back into your teeth like it had no right to escape.

You took one step closer.

The edge of the concrete dug into your toes. You could almost feel the weightlessness of letting go, the rush of cold. The instant relief that might follow. Or not.

You don’t have to do this, a voice whispered somewhere faint in your chest.

But it was quiet. And the louder voice—the one that said you’re a burden, you’re unraveling, you’re too much—was screaming.

Your foot shifted.

And then—

“Don’t.”

The voice stopped you cold.

You spun around, startled, nearly slipping, heart hammering.

It was Hailie.

She stood in the doorway barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, her hair a mess of sleep and worry. Her eyes weren’t angry. Just wide. And scared.

She looked so much like Marshall in that moment it broke something in you.

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered.

She didn’t say anything. Just walked over, slowly. Carefully. Like you were glass.

When she reached you, she took your hand. No force. Just warmth.

“Come back inside, Mom.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t know how,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to come back.”

She squeezed your hand tighter.

“Then I’ll stay with you out here until you do.”

And she did.

---

The chill of the night pressed down like a second skin, but you didn’t feel it.

Not really.

Not with Hailie beside you.

She didn’t let go after she pulled you down into the old wooden deck chair, the blanket she’d brought barely big enough to cover you both. Her arms wrapped around your middle like she was afraid you might slip through the cracks of the world and vanish. You held her without thinking, instinctively, like muscle memory. Like breathing.

And she just… stayed there.

She didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t tell you it was okay.

Didn’t try to fix you.

She just held on.

And after a while—after the sobs stopped and your heart stopped racing, after the pool stopped looking like an answer—her grip loosened, her body relaxed, and she fell asleep with her head tucked beneath your chin.

Your fingers moved slowly through her hair, the way you used to when she was little. When monsters still lived under beds and you were her shield from all of them.

Now she was yours.

And that broke you more than anything else ever could.

You didn’t sleep. But you didn’t move, either. Couldn’t.

Because she was warm. And real. And here.

And even though your mind still whispered what if, what if, what if on a loop that never ended, her breathing gave you something to hold onto. Something to stay anchored for. Even just for one more minute.

The sky turned gray behind the trees.

And then light crept into the yard, soft and golden and undeserved.

You didn’t hear the sliding door open, but you heard the gasp—sharp, strangled—followed by fast footsteps across the deck.

“Oh my God—”

Marshall.

You looked up, blinking blearily, eyes raw and aching.

He was already crouching in front of you, hands gentle but frantic, touching your face, your arms, Hailie’s back.

“Jesus, babe, what—what the fuck—why are you—”

“She’s okay,” you rasped, voice hollow. “She found me.”

Marshall stared at you, at Hailie curled against you like she was still ten years old and scared of thunderstorms.

“She wouldn’t let me go,” you added.

Behind him, Nate stood frozen at the edge of the deck, his face pale, eyes wide, like he’d just walked into a funeral.

Again.

You looked at them both. Couldn’t find words. Couldn’t even lie.

Marshall knelt there for a long moment, trying to gather his breathing. Trying not to yell. Trying not to cry.

He looked up at you, eyes shining.

“I thought we were past this,” he whispered.

“So did I.”

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You leaned your head back against the chair, eyes slipping shut. “Maybe we don’t. Maybe we just… get through one more night.”

He nodded slowly.

Then, gently, he brushed the hair from your forehead and leaned forward to press his lips to it.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Hailie stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

No one said it out loud, but you all felt it:

You were still not okay.

Not yet.

Maybe not for a long time.

But this time, you weren’t alone on the edge.

---

By noon, the pool was already halfway drained.

You heard the whirring first—low, mechanical, relentless. Then the footsteps. The scrape of boots on the deck. Male voices outside. Something shifting, water gurgling like a wound being opened.

From the bedroom window, you watched a man in overalls feed a wide hose into the deep end, water rushing up through the pipe and out into a truck parked on the side of the yard. The blue glow of the water darkened as it lowered, leaving behind slick tiles and echoes.

You didn’t ask.

You already knew.

Marshall stood by the pool, arms crossed, jaw tight, a phone clenched in one hand. His posture was a storm held just beneath the surface. A storm that had nowhere to go.

You opened the sliding door slowly, stepping out barefoot. The deck boards were warm under your feet now, touched by the rising sun.

He didn’t turn around.

“How long have they been here?” you asked, voice hoarse from the night before.

“Hour and a half,” he said. “They’ll be done by four.”

You looked past him to the water, still draining, still shifting.

He finally turned, eyes shadowed, voice low. “I’m not leaving that thing full another goddamn day.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not the pool, Marsh.”

“I know,” he said. “But it doesn’t get to stay. Not after that.”

He looked at you then, and something in his face made your throat tighten. Not just anger. Not just fear. But helplessness. The kind that lives in a man who’s already watched someone flatline once.

“I can’t watch you go under,” he said. “Not again. Not even in my fucking dreams.”

You stepped closer.

“I wasn’t trying to die.”

He let out a rough breath. “Then tell your face that. Tell your fucking eyes.”

You blinked hard, fighting the sting.

“I didn’t know how else to make it stop,” you whispered. “I just wanted quiet for five minutes. Five.”

He nodded, swallowed, nodded again.

The water behind him kept draining.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I’m mad at the part of me that missed it. That left you here thinking you had to hold all of it alone.”

You didn’t reply.

There was nothing to say that could undo it.

He closed the distance between you and pulled you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you with that same urgency as the night he found out. Like he still didn’t trust you wouldn’t slip away if he blinked too long.

You let yourself be held.

The draining continued.

Later, Hailie asked if something happened to the pool.

Marshall just said, “Yeah. It stopped feeling safe.”

And she didn’t question it.

---

After the pool was drained you tried harder. Determined to fight alongside Marshall and your family. You were trying to not just act better but feel better.

It was supposed to be a good day.

The first one in a while.

The sun was out, a soft spring breeze threading through the trees, and for once, your body didn’t feel like it was trying to collapse in on itself. Nate had suggested the walk—just around the neighborhood, just to get some air—and somehow, you’d said yes.

Hailie and Alaina walked ahead, earbuds shared between them, bickering quietly over a playlist.

You stayed behind with Whitney, who’d brought her favorite stuffed unicorn along for the ride, its sparkly horn bobbing in rhythm with each of her skips. Nate walked beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie, glancing over every few steps like he still didn’t trust you not to disappear.

It was peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened in a blink.

The unicorn slipped from Whitney’s hands, bounced once on the curb, then tumbled into the street.

“Oh no—Starbeam!” Whitney squeaked and darted forward before you could stop her.

Nate lunged instantly, calling her name, grabbing her arm just in time to yank her back to the sidewalk—but the toy was still out there.

“I’ll get it,” he said, already stepping toward the road.

Time slowed.

You didn’t hear the car at first—just a dull hum, distant. But then it turned the corner too fast. Too fucking fast. And Nate didn’t see it coming.

You did.

Your throat ripped open before you even registered the scream.

“NO—!”

Your body moved on instinct.

You didn’t think.

Didn’t weigh the consequences.

Didn’t hesitate.

One second you were on the curb, the next you were shoving Nate with both hands, hard, out of the car’s path.

Then—

Impact.

Sound exploded. Bone met steel. The world spun.

You didn’t feel pain at first. Just a jolt. A cracking thud. Your body flung sideways, weightless for a second, then slammed into the asphalt like a dropped puppet.

Everything went quiet.

You tasted blood.

You couldn’t breathe.

You stared up at the sky, blue and impossibly bright, and the only thing you could think was, At least Nate's okay.

“MOM!”

“Oh my God—”

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

“Don’t move her! Don’t let her close her eyes!”

“Why is there blood—”

The voices blurred together.

Whitney was screaming.

Alaina was crying.

Nate was already at your side, hands shaking, face white as paper, voice cracking as he begged you to stay awake.

You blinked up at him, vision swimming.

“I’m okay,” you tried to say. But nothing came out.

Just more blood.

And then—blackness.

---

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #gracie answers #reader requests

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idkaguyorsomething · 20 days ago

Text

Targaryen monarchs compared to Roman emperors

this started as a half-baked shitpost at midnight but took on a life of its own, and the wonderful @winterstarfall bullied me into posting it, so.

AEGON THE CONQUEROR and TRAJAN OPTIMUS

first of his name and of his dynasty/the man whose name was invoked as a blessing

considered the gold standard of their nation's leadership, both were considered foreigners despite being raised in the land they would come to conquer thanks to their parentage (of valyrian and hispanic descent respectively), and they expanded their empire's borders with almost shocking ease. pragmatic and less prone to egomania than the average member of their profession. overseeing a long period of peace and prosperity to accompany their asskicking, they also both happened to die of a stroke.

AENYS THE FIRST and ALEXANDER SEVERUS

the abomination king/the last of the severans

rulers who were better suited for more peaceful times, ultimately both wound up being seen as weak-willed due to showing reluctance in battle. they wound up defined more by their mothers than their fathers (aenys taking after his in personality and alexander having his mother do most of the ruling) resulting in assassination (probably in one case, definitely in the other).

MAEGOR THE CRUEL and COMMODUS

he who tried to drown the land in its own blood/the slayer of the golden age

the son of a highly competent father, neither of these men thought it beneath them to do their own dirty work committing mass slaughter and ruining a perfectly functional nation. they also made sure to have a lot of sex and torture plenty of people along the way before their premature, if not predictable, violent deaths, leaving everyone else with a massive mess to clean up.

JAEHAERYS THE CONCILIATOR and AUGUSTUS CAESAR

the architect of the golden age/the gravedigger of the republic

the other gold standard of leadership for their nations! both wound up involved in a massively bloody civil war as a teenager and came out victorious despite being more of an intellectual figure than a straightforward warrior. despite this, they were able to use their great political savvy to usher in an era of peace and prosperity, eschewing the ornate imagery of their predecessors in favor of a more humble, but effective propagandistic image. yet for all their accomplishments, they couldn't stop their preferred heirs from dying off before them unexpectedly. on top of that, they got pissed at their daughter for having sex and wound up kicking her off the continent, then grew depressed at the death of most of their loved ones before dying of old age.

VISERYS THE FIRST and CONSTANTIUS CHLORUS

the young king/the midwife of christianity

two men who you'd struggle to call bad leaders. their administration was competent in the face of adversity, if not genius, and in some ways they could even be considered to have progressive values. the successor they wound up choosing and the civil war that followed wound up overshadowing everything else they ever did, however, and so they are often left as a side character in another's story rather than a protagonist in their own right.

AEGON THE USURPER and VITELLIUS

the man who lost everything for the throne/third of the year of four emperors

rulers whose reigns existed entirely within a civil war, they still managed to stand out on account of their pointless violence even for an extremely violent era. too cunning to be content, too cruel to loved, and too incompetent to be respected, ultimately their own followers became their downfall.

AEGON THE BROKEN KING and VALENTINIAN THE SECOND

dragonsbane/the caged bird

¿what other word can you use for them besides puppet? maybe sorrowful. elevated at a young age and talked over by their advisors, they lived isolated lives and died lonely deaths (possibly the result of what little agency they were granted in their lives). their lives can also be seen as the end of an era of greatness that had once defined their nation (the death of the dragons and the rise of the puppet emperors).

DAERON THE YOUNG DRAGON and JULIAN THE APOSTATE

would-be great conqueror/would-be great reformer

after unexpectedly proving their competence in battle, these men's promising starts to their reigns were cut off by a surprise attack. one of the great what-ifs of history, the legacy that they wound up stuck with was "won some fights before starting a pointless war then left us up shit's creek with no paddle".

BAELOR THE MOST BELOVED and THEODOSIUS THE GREAT

the blessed king/the last ruler of a united empire

two monarchs with a surprisingly high-quality reputation despite all the cruelty and religious zealotry they wound up participating in. their impulses overrode commitment to their duties and common sense at key moments, leaving their nations worse for the wear, yet they remain beloved.

VISERYS THE SECOND and CLAUDIUS THE FIRST

the hand of the king who bore the weight of the crown/the conqueror elevated from behind a curtain

both men who were never particularly well-liked, they found success after being elevated at a surprisingly old age after a life of surviving their predecessor's bizarre excesses. they were both scholarly and very likely disabled (viserys with a spine condition and claudius with something like cerebral palsy).

AEGON THE UNWORTHY and HONORIUS

a vacuum of excess/the emperor more interested in chickens than the sack of his city

two pathetic excuses for a head of state, offering less help than a screaming toddler in a dirty diaper during an era when the people really needed not that. the only thing worse than their constant lack of action was the astoundingly terrible decisions that they did manage to make. two morons so useless that nobody even bothered to assassinate them.

DAERON THE FALSEBORN and HADRIAN

the good bastard/the bloodthirsty peacemaker

a pair of rulers who were unconventional for their era, disappointing many of their peers by sorting out several crises peacefully and introducing much-needed reforms to the state that undoubtedly preserved it. this didn't stop them from coming down hard on rebels, with their foreign policy defining conflict for centuries to come. although their rise to power was of dubious legitimacy, both are generally considered quite good at their jobs, even if many of their peers hated their obsession with a foreign culture (dorn and greece). they also both died of illness.

AERYS THE FIRST and HOSTILIAN

two idiots who accomplished basically nothing and then died.

MAEKAR and DOMITIAN

the anvil of summerhall/the damnatio memoria'd

the unfavorite sons who were never expected to take on the throne, they still rose to the occasion and proved themselves to be competent, even if they were never good at gaining the respect of others or predicting other people's moves. military men at heart, they were passed up for a promotion often enough that the fact that they didn't do as much murder as expected is surprising.

AERYS THE MAD KING and CALIGULA

he who would burn his own kingdom to ash/the conqueror of neptune

when they ascended to the throne, everyone was fairly optimistic about their prospects. any hope they had evaporated after a close encounter with death escalated these men from "impractical" to "batshit murder-happy clowns", resulting in a reign of terror that ended in their assassination. also they had surprisingly goofy nicknames (scab and baby boots).

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aspenmissing · 4 months ago

Note

Hello! Lately I've finished an really emotional book and since then I'm in the mood for another angsty story ~

Reader is Viktor's baby sister and the wife of Jayce. During Jinx's attack she was with them in the councilor hall. Viktor and Jayce are safe, but Reader got pretty bad injured. Viktor desperately tries to wake her up, while Jayce is in pure shock. The medical team rushes in the hall and take her with them.

A little bit later Viktor and Jayce get the message, that Reader barely made it and is now in coma. The chances of her to wake up are to small, to give them any kind of hope.

Viktor is in pure grief, but he also feels so much hate about hextech after hearing the news, that Jinx used a hextech weapon. Meanwhile Jayce desperately tries to find a way to keep his wife alive. He tries to convince Viktor that the hexcore might be the solution.

Viktor is in pure rage and both of them having a really big argument, full with emotions. Within the argument Viktor saying things like "I wish, that you have never met my sister" or "If she dies, I'm over with hextech and you". He only wants his baby sister back and Jayce don't know what to do anymore.

Shortly after that, Reader passed away.

Soooo it's really emotional and angsty, but...well...I can't help it :3

ʜᴇʀ ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ʙʀᴏ!ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ) || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ? || 3666 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴇ…ɪ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ. ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡɪꜱʜ ꜱᴀᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀɪᴅᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ, ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜱᴘʀɪɴᴋʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴘᴇ… ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ, ᴅᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ <3

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ/ᴘᴀʀᴀᴍᴇᴅɪᴄ

The world had turned red. Not just from the fire or the chaos left in Jinx’s wake, but from the blood pooling beneath Y/N’s still body. The air was thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning metal and flesh overwhelming Jayce’s senses. Flames flickered along the grand tapestries that once symbolized progress and unity, now reduced to charred remnants of shattered ideals.

Jayce could barely hear anything—his ears were ringing, drowning out the panicked voices around him. His breath was ragged, his chest tight, his heart hammering so violently he feared it might burst. His hands trembled as he reached for her, barely registering the sensation of warm, slick blood coating his fingers. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.

"Y/N!" Viktor's voice cracked, his hands shaking as he pressed against her wounds, desperate to stop the bleeding. His golden eyes, usually so sharp with intelligence, were wild with fear. "Wake up, sestra, please!" (Sister)

Viktor was always the logical one, always the one to approach situations with a measured mind. But now? Now he was frantic, his own injuries forgotten as he clutched at his sister, his face twisted in anguish. His cane lay discarded beside him, abandoned in favor of cradling Y/N’s battered body.

Jayce's breath came in short, shallow bursts, his mind refusing to accept what was happening. His wife—his light—was unresponsive, her usually warm skin turning cold beneath his touch. A deep gash ran along her side, blood seeping into her torn clothing. Bruises were already blooming across her delicate features, and her chest barely moved with shallow, struggling breaths.

"She—she’s breathing," Jayce rasped, as if saying it aloud would somehow make it more true, more solid. But it was barely there, the rise and fall of her chest so faint it was almost imperceptible.

The medical team swarmed around them, their voices urgent but distant, as if they were speaking through water. A medic pressed two fingers against Y/N’s throat, searching for a pulse, their expression grim.

"She’s critical. We need to get her stabilized immediately!" another barked. "Move, now!"

Someone pulled Viktor back, forcing him away from his sister as she was lifted onto a stretcher. He fought against them, his limbs weak but fueled by desperation. "No, no, I need to stay with her!" he shouted, but the medics ignored his pleas, ushering him out of the way.

Jayce barely registered the movement, his entire body frozen as he stared at Y/N’s still form. Her hair was matted with blood, strands clinging to her pale skin. Her fingers, once so full of life, so warm whenever they entwined with his, now lay limp.

"We need to move her now!" one of the medics shouted. The urgency in their voice shattered through the fog in Jayce’s mind.

His legs refused to cooperate, as if they had turned to lead. He swayed slightly, dizziness clawing at the edges of his vision. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "She’ll be okay, right?" His voice was barely above a whisper, broken and weak, his question directed to no one in particular.

No one answered him.

They didn’t need to.

The silence was suffocating. The sterile walls, the distant beeping of machines—none of it felt real. Jayce stood beside Viktor, both of them barely holding themselves together as they listened to the doctor’s verdict.

"She’s in a coma. The damage was extensive... It’s a miracle she’s still alive, but the chances of her waking up are—" The doctor hesitated. "Slim. We will do everything we can, but..."

The rest of his words faded into nothingness.

Jayce felt like he was drowning. His entire body ached, but nothing compared to the pain in his chest, the way his heart threatened to shatter completely. Viktor hadn’t spoken in minutes, staring blankly at his sister’s unconscious form. His hands, usually steady despite his condition, were trembling violently.

"This is because of hextech," Viktor finally muttered, his voice hollow. "She was caught in an explosion from a hextech weapon."

Jayce swallowed the lump in his throat. "Viktor, I—"

"No!" Viktor snapped, whirling on him. "Don’t you see? We created something that led to this! We thought we were saving the world, and look what it has done! Look at her!" He gestured sharply at Y/N, his voice thick with rage and grief. "I hate it. I hate hextech!"

Jayce didn’t respond. His throat tightened, and any words he might have had withered before they could leave his lips. Instead, he just stood there, his body tense, his eyes fixed on Y/N.

Viktor turned back to her, his fingers tightening around her limp hand as if he could anchor her back to life by sheer will alone. His grip was firm but gentle, his thumb absently brushing over her knuckles. He was trying to hold onto her—trying to hold onto what little hope remained.

Jayce’s breath caught as he took in Y/N’s still form. She looked so peaceful—too peaceful. He had seen her asleep countless times, her lips slightly parted, her face serene, but this wasn’t sleep. This was something far worse, something unnatural, something slipping further from his grasp with every passing second.

His jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. The despair was crushing, wrapping around his chest like a vice, suffocating him. But beneath the pain, beneath the helplessness, something else flickered to life—determination.

He couldn’t just stand here. He couldn’t do nothing.

His mind raced, clinging desperately to any shred of hope, any possibility that he could still save her. And then it struck him.

The hexcore.

Jayce sucked in a sharp breath, his decision solidifying as he squared his shoulders. He turned abruptly, his movements rigid with resolve, and strode out of the medical wing without another word.

Viktor barely registered his departure, too lost in his grief to notice. His focus remained on Y/N, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he whispered to her, voice barely above a broken murmur.

"Please... just come back to me."

Jayce moved quickly through the halls of the Council building, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. His mind was clouded with thoughts, with possibilities, with risks. He knew what the hexcore had done to Viktor—but it had also kept him alive, made him stronger. If there was even the slightest chance it could do the same for Y/N, he had to take it.

The lab door slams open as he stepped inside. The air was heavy with energy, the hexcore pulsing with a faint, eerie light. The room smelled of metal and ozone, the very presence of the device humming in his bones. Jayce hesitated only for a moment before stepping closer, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He stared down at the device with a mixture of fear and hope, the soft glow of the hexcore reflecting in his desperate eyes.

His hands hovered over it, shaking. Could he really do this? Was this the right choice? Was this the only choice?

A sudden voice shattered the silence.

"Don’t."

Jayce turned sharply, his breath hitching in his throat. Viktor stood in the doorway, his expression twisted with rage and anguish, his eyes burning with unfiltered hatred and sorrow. His breaths were uneven, his body shaking from exhaustion, fury, and grief.

"You don’t know what you’re doing, Jayce," Viktor spat, stepping forward with unsteady but determined steps. "You think this will save her, but you have no idea what it could turn her into. You saw what it did to me."

Jayce’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I can’t just let her die, Viktor. I won’t. I refuse to stand here and do nothing."

Viktor’s face contorted, raw grief flashing across his features. "And you think this is the answer?! The hexcore is not salvation, Jayce! It is corruption! It does not heal—it twists! It takes! It makes monsters!"

"You’re still alive!" Jayce shot back, his voice rising in desperation. "It kept you alive, Viktor! You were dying, and it saved you! What if it can do the same for her? What if this is the only chance we have?"

"And at what cost?!" Viktor’s voice cracked as he took another step forward, his entire body shaking with barely contained emotion. "You think I don’t wish to save her? You think I haven’t thought of this?! Every moment since she fell, I have been fighting the thought of bringing her back with that accursed thing! But I won’t! Because I know what it does! It does not save, Jayce—it steals! It took something from me, and I can never get it back! What will it take from her?"

Jayce faltered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "She wouldn’t want to die either," he said, his voice breaking. "I can’t sit here and do nothing, Viktor. I won’t."

Viktor let out a hollow, bitter laugh, one that carried no amusement—only pain, only loss. "You think you’re the only one suffering?" he sneered, his accent thick with anger. "She is my sister, Jayce! My blood! You think your love for her outweighs mine? You think I wouldn’t burn this entire city to the ground if it meant saving her?!"

Jayce’s breath caught, his resolve wavering. He had never seen Viktor like this—so raw, so furious, so close to the edge of complete collapse.

Viktor took another step forward, his hands trembling at his sides. "I wish—I wish I had never introduced you to her!" His voice broke, but his gaze never wavered. "Maybe then she wouldn’t be in this bed, fighting for her life! Maybe then she wouldn’t be lying there, slipping further and further away!"

Jayce flinched like he had been struck, pain flashing across his face. "You don’t mean that."

"I do," Viktor growled, his grief turning venomous. "Because if she dies, I am done—with you, with hextech, with all of it!"

The words crushed Jayce like a hammer to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. His hands trembled at his sides as he took an unsteady step back, his heart racing, his entire world unravelling. He wanted to argue, to fight, to make Viktor understand—but the look in Viktor’s eyes made it clear. There was no reasoning with him. No argument would change the depth of his grief.

Viktor’s breath was ragged, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, the handle of his cane gripped like a lifeline. His entire body was shaking, but it wasn’t from anger anymore. It was grief, raw and unbearable, threatening to break him apart. His voice was hoarse, cracked, barely more than a whisper when he spoke. "I just want my baby sister back, Jayce. That’s all. I just want her back... but not if it means she becomes something we won’t even recognize. Not if it means losing her in another way."

Jayce’s throat closed up, his own grief clawing at him. He wanted to say something, anything, but no words came. He was a man of action, but what was he supposed to do when the one thing he could do was the one thing Viktor couldn’t accept? He swallowed, his hands balling into fists, his mind screaming for a solution—any solution—but coming up empty.

He turned back to the hexcore, its eerie glow casting long shadows across the lab, pulsing like a heartbeat, a cruel mockery of life. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, suffocating. He had always been able to fix things. He had built weapons, tools, machines capable of changing the world. But now, standing here, he realized with chilling clarity that there were some things he couldn’t fix.

Viktor let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his sorrow. He looked so tired, so lost. He adjusted his grip on his cane, his fingers trembling as he leaned on it heavily, his body betraying just how much this moment was draining him. "Please, Jayce... let’s just go back. She needs us."

Jayce hesitated, staring at the hexcore for a long, aching moment before exhaling a heavy breath. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining from him. He didn’t know what to do anymore.

Without another word, he turned away from the hexcore, following Viktor as they left the lab behind. The rhythmic sound of Viktor’s cane striking the floor echoed in the hallway, each step slow and unsteady but resolute. The door slid shut behind them, sealing away the temptation, the questions, the uncertainty. All that remained was their grief.

Back in Y/N’s room, the rhythmic beeping of the machines filled the silence, a cruel reminder that she was still here, but barely. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, suffocating in its emptiness. The weight of the moment pressed down on both men as they stood at her bedside, looking at the woman they both loved in their own ways.

They knew what had to be done.

Viktor turned to Jayce, his throat tightening as he forced himself to meet his friend’s eyes. The fight, the anger, the accusations—it all seemed so pointless now. His voice was rough when he finally spoke. "Jayce... there’s something I need to tell you."

Jayce swallowed hard, nodding.

Viktor’s lips trembled as he exhaled shakily. "I didn’t mean what I said before. About wishing I never introduced you to her." He looked down at Y/N’s face, the corners of his lips twitching in the faintest, most broken ghost of a smile. "She loved you. You made her happy. And despite everything, I am grateful for that. I am grateful for you."

Jayce’s breath hitched, emotion thick in his throat. "Viktor..."

Viktor shook his head. "No, let me finish. I am glad you were in her life. And I am glad to have a brother-in-law like you." His voice wavered, but his sincerity was unwavering. "She wouldn’t want us to part with anger."

Jayce felt his chest tighten, his vision blurred with tears. He reached forward, squeezing Viktor’s shoulder, a silent understanding passing between them.

Viktor gave a weak nod before stepping back. "I need a moment alone with her."

Jayce hesitated for a second before giving him space, stepping outside and leaving Viktor alone with his sister.

Viktor sank into the chair beside her bed, his trembling fingers brushing over her hand as he exhaled shakily. His grip was weak, but filled with a tenderness that spoke of years of love and protection.

"Sestra..." His voice cracked, the grief swelling in his chest until it was unbearable. "I am so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have done more. But I know you—" He let out a weak, breathless chuckle, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "You would tell me to stop blaming myself. That it wasn't my fault. That it was just the world being cruel. But I don’t know how to live in a world without you in it."

He swallowed thickly, his thumb tracing slow circles over her cold skin. "You were always stronger than me. Smarter than me. Kinder than me. You had so much ahead of you, and it’s not fair that this is where your story ends. If there is any part of you left, if you can hear me, just know that I love you. I always have. And I always will."

A single tear slipped down his cheek, and for the first time in his life, Viktor felt truly powerless. His hand lingered for a moment longer before he slowly pulled away, his chest rising and falling with deep, shuddering breaths. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second, memorizing her warmth, before standing up. He wiped his face, steadied himself, and walked to the door, pausing for only a moment before nodding to Jayce.

Jayce inhaled deeply, composing himself before stepping inside as Viktor left.

Jayce hesitated, his hands shaking as he stepped forward. He looked down at her, his wife, his everything, and felt his heart shatter all over again. He had fought so hard, clung so desperately to hope, but now there was nothing left to hold onto.

He took her hand in his, pressing it against his forehead as he let out a choked sob. "God, Y/N... I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to say goodbye to you. We were supposed to have more time. We were supposed to have a family. We were supposed to grow old together. You were supposed to be with me, always."

His grip tightened, as if holding onto her a little harder would somehow make her stay. "I should have protected you. I should have done more. I failed you. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep going without you."

His breath hitched, and he forced himself to look at her face, to memorize every detail, every line, every feature that he loved so much. "You were the best part of me. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again without you."

A tear slipped onto her hand as he kissed her knuckles, his lips trembling against her skin. "I love you. I love you more than anything. And I will carry you with me for the rest of my life."

The room was unbearably silent as he finally let go, his entire body shaking with grief. He stepped back, unable to look at her any longer, because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to leave.

Outside the room, Viktor was waiting. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. Instead, he simply reached out, placing a trembling hand on Jayce’s shoulder, grounding him in the only way he could.

Together, they stood there, two broken men saying goodbye to the woman who had been their heart.

It was time.

Days passed, and the world moved on, but for Viktor and Jayce, time felt frozen.

It was a warm, bright day when they laid Y/N to rest. The sun shone down on the gathered mourners, its light mocking the heaviness in their hearts. A soft breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the scent of fresh flowers placed around her resting place. The sky was impossibly blue, unmarred by clouds, as if the universe itself refused to mourn her loss.

The service was small, intimate. Friends, family, and colleagues stood in solemn silence as words were spoken in her honour. Viktor stood at the front, his hands clasped tightly together as if holding himself upright was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, were fixed on the casket, his mind racing through memories—ones filled with laughter, with childhood mischief, with the way she had always believed in him even when no one else did. Now, she was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

Jayce stood beside him, his shoulders squared, his expression a mask of grief and exhaustion. His hands trembled as he held a single white rose, staring at the casket as if willing it to open, as if refusing to accept that this was truly goodbye. He had built so much, created so much, but nothing he had ever made could undo this moment. Nothing he had ever built could bring her back.

When it came time, Viktor was the first to step forward. He looked down at the grave, his heart in his throat. "Sestra," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know how to do this without you. But I will try. For you."

He knelt, placing a small mechanical piece beside her headstone—something they had built together in their childhood. A part of their bond, a part of her legacy. His fingers lingered over the cool metal, tracing the edges of it as if committing it to memory. He closed his eyes, willing himself to hear her voice one last time, to feel her presence just once more. The wind carried the faintest whisper, and for a fleeting moment, he swore he could feel her warmth.

Jayce took a deep breath before stepping forward, his fingers tightening around the rose in his grasp. He knelt beside Viktor, placing the flower gently atop the casket. "I love you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Always."

And then, as if summoned by their sorrow, a single white butterfly fluttered into view, dancing on the breeze. It drifted between them, its delicate wings catching the sunlight, glowing like something ethereal, something impossibly beautiful. Viktor and Jayce both froze, their eyes locked on the fragile creature as it hovered near Y/N’s resting place.

Neither of them spoke, but in their silence, they understood. It was her. It had to be. A final goodbye, a last reassurance that she was at peace.

The butterfly lingered for a moment longer before it floated away, disappearing into the sky, its journey endless, unbound. Viktor inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists as he fought against the weight pressing on his chest. Jayce let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his gaze following the butterfly until it was gone.

As they stood, the wind carried their grief into the sky, the sun watching over them as they said their final goodbye. They weren’t sure if they would ever truly heal, if the ache in their chests would ever fade, but they knew one thing—Y/N was still with them. Not in body, but in the memories she had left behind, in the love she had given them, in the small moments that would remind them of her forever.

It was time to let go, but neither of them knew how.

Yet, as they walked away, side by side, they carried her with them, always.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #jayce talis x reader #viktor x platonic!reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane angst

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